The 1,000 Mile Sausage: Prologue

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Not to be confused with a prolapse, this prologue introduces a truly sausage-shaped adventure of monumental proportions. Not sure I’ve cleared that one up.

The Holy Motorcycle News has, for some time now been sending undercover reporters out across the Unified Kingdom to sample, review and, most importantly, rate biker cafes. Each week a new greasy emporium is uncovered – each nominated by its fans (a clever system designed to naturally exclude those establishments that, whilst offering tasty morsels, fail to avoid serious poisoning).

I have been reading the reviews with great enthusiasm and then, a couple of weeks ago, the TOP TEN list was published!

An interesting list – surprisingly nothing made it in there from the infamously fry-happy Scots. Similarly the plane-dwelling Lincolnshire folks appear to have missed out too, content only that their eponymous sausage lives on in the better quality establishments. At least, that is, until climate change brings a swelling of the seas and causes the Lincolnshire Sausage to sink, Atlantis-like into the grey/brown East Coast sea. East Coast Farmers will be gone forever. Swings and roundabouts I suppose.

For Archie Crack there was only one thing to do. The words of the late, great, mean-spirited and ruggedly handsome Norman Tebbit rang in my shell like – I needed to get on my bike. Get on my bike and try each and every one in a non-stop 1,000 mile long orgy of offal.

And so it begins, 1,000 miles, at least four days, and ten cafes sprinkled with mountain passes, rolling hills, twisty lanes and taking in the beauty of HMP Dartmoor, the East End of London what I was born in, and Peterborough.

Before I slip into a processed-meat-induced coma and die I will attempt to document, for future generations, what I discover (on the plus side I will have consumed enough preservatives that my shiny pink body will out-last Trump Towers on Mars) .