Hills 'n' pills 'n' Turkish thrills

In May 2009, just as I was about to set off on a bike ride from the Isle of Man to Spain, my head popped. I don't mean it went bang and whizzed around the room like a balloon or anything, but something leaked that shouldn't have leaked. I'd been very lucky. My condition can often be fatal. The source of the problem was my blood pressure, and it was high, so high in fact that worryingly it shot off the top of those little graphs that hang from hospital beds. I was the first person in history to have his blood pressure expressed in exponential notation. (That's a maths joke, by a way. Enjoy it, there aren't many.)

I had to go to a brain unit in Liverpool, a setup line so obvious that you can fill in your own punchline. In order to see what was up with my noodle, they carried out a cerebral angiogram. This involved sticking a strange tube thing into my groin. Who'd have thought there was a connection between my gentleman's area and my brain? In the end they discovered I'd had a brain bleed. This is just like a haemorrhage except that it's easier to spell. In fact, I'd had three. To prevent this from happening again I had to lie flat and stay completely still, like a Victorian on her wedding night. After pumping me full of drugs, the doctors managed to reduce the blood pressure, which was nice, but the resulting dizziness meant I passed out every time I tried to stand up. But thanks to the medication, that chart on my hospital bed now looked remarkably similar to an recent LibDem popularity graphic.

The problem with taking blood pressure medication is that once you start you tend not to stop. In addition to the laptop and the tent and the saddle-sore-relieving Vaseline and all the other bits and pieces I'll be carting up and over the mountains of Europe, I also need to take six months' pills. And I'm supposed to take six different tablets each day. You don't need a maths degree to work out this is over a thousand pills. I'm hoping that if decanted into little bottles this won't take up too much space. The problem then comes when I'm crossing an international border and the customs official wants to know why I have enough pills to host a party at Pete Doherty's. I could be hearing the thwack of a rubber glove quicker than you can say Midnight Express. Luckily, in Schengen-flavoured Europe, the only time I should need to show my passport in 2011 is when leaving the UK and when entering Andorra. But if you're still following this journal in 2012 when I travel to Turkey, and 2013 when I reach Russia, that's when the fun will begin. If I go quiet all of a sudden, please give Amnesty International a buzz.

So the moral of this week's blog is that you should get your blood pressure checked. It might save your life. Or I suppose it might mean that, a few years from now, when you go off on a bike ride of your own, you get your bottom felt up by Turkish border guards. Then you'll really be glad of that Vaseline.

Dog food 'n' chips, please!

As well as the 31,000 kilometres and all the Open University courses I need to pass, friends are setting me other challenges for this ride. My favourite one so far is to try something I've never eaten before in each country I cycle through. I assume this refers to food rather than, say, dog shit or traffic lights.

I had a similar experience on a previous ride when, as part of a list of 28 tasks, my girlfriend Nina challenged me to hunt out morteruelo, a dish from the Castilla-La Mancha region of Spain. The closest literal translation I can find for morteruelo is 'pox death' but I'm sure that can't be right. On a menu it might describe itself as game paté but that oversells it to me. If you want to know what it tastes like imagine two Weetabix in a bowl, add lashing of hot milk and leave until the 'bix have gone soggy. Now stir in a tin of dog food. Yep, that's about it.

So in order to optimize my culinary adventure I thought I'd do a bit of research to find out what sort of interesting tasties might await me abroad. It's better to go into these things with your eyes open, like a sheep's head on a Norwegian dinner table.

France is known for its fine food but out of sheer curiosity I'm tempted by something that when cooked supposedly has the subtle aroma of urine and faeces. Yummy! This is andouillette, a tripe sausage stuffed with chitterlings, onions and pepper. I have to admit that it was Mr Google who told me what chitterlings are, or maybe what chitterlings is - I'm still not sure whether it's singular or plural. Apparently it's (or they're) the small intestine of a pig. Now, I've never liked tripe but I thought if it was combined with something even more disgusting then it might slip down more easily. It's the same principle that a quick visit to Basingstoke will make it easier to spend the rest of the afternoon in Slough.

But it's not all poop-flavoured treats. Ukraine actually sounds like fun. Salo is the name of its smoked and aged pig fat. So what, you're asking, loads of countries make greasy crap like that. But what makes it unique in Ukraine is that it's chocolate-coated. Genius! As someone who loves the combination of sweet and salty that sounds like heaven to me. Duncan Bannatyne's already organised a boatload as the centrepiece of next month's Scottish Health Week.

There are tons of other colourful things that might appear on my plate. In Hungary there's the delicious-sounding pig's blood and eggs - not a hundred miles away from a typical breakfast round at Fred West's gaff - and Poland's nozki or jellied cow's foot. In Italy there's even cibreo, a dish of cocks' combs. By the way, that's the flappy bit on a rooster's head and not a grooming aid for blokes with pubic lice. It's hard to imagine eating much of this without Ant and Dec standing by urging me on to win another dinner for camp.

The hardest part of the challenge will be finding something I've never eaten before in the UK. Maybe something that's not over-priced would be a good start, or a supermarket sandwich with the flavour of something other than soggy bread. It doesn't bode well that London's was recently voted the worst cuisine in Europe. Maybe I'll just have to settle for those traffic lights in dog shit sauce.

In bed with Osama Bin Laden

I'm writing this at Liverpool Airport on my way back to Spain to see the lovely Nina for a couple of months before the ride starts in March. I hate Liverpool Airport. It feels like its managed by two competing teams from The Apprentice, each trying to outdo the other in finding the most depressing way to winkle cash out of me. A series of visits to its check-in area is like a very slow game of Musical Chairs. Each time you turn up, yet another one of the seats has been removed. There are now six left in the whole of Arrivals. The other chairs around the place are in restaurants or bars where you're supposed to be spending. The management don't realise it's just a transport hub. Their vision for the future is Bluewater run by Donald Trump and Al Capone.

No money making scheme is more sinister than its priority security service. For four quid you can bypass their seventeen mile long queue to get speedier access to the airport's high security fondling department, a queue that's only as long as it is because of the extra measures since 9/11, and their only employing about three staff. By charging for queue-jumping, Liverpool Aiport is in effect profiting from the effects of terrorism. It's not quite as in your face as an organised suicide bombathon but it still leaves a bad taste in the mouth. Which, incidentally, is what you get if you do decide to take a seat at one of their restaurants.

In 2008, when it was the European City of Culture, Liverpool traded a little too enthusiastically on its connection with The Beatles. You would have thought that aside from the Fab Four nothing of cultural value had ever happened there. But wait, there's Stan Boardman from the 1980s, a man whose comic repetoire consisted entirely of mispronouncing the word Germans as Jaymins, there's Scouse foghorn Cilla Black and not forgetting Stock, Aitken and Waterman's fuzzy ginger shite-puppet Sonia. If all a city needs is a half-decent band, singers you'd rather not hear again and a dodgy comedy act, then Inspiral Carpets, Mark Owen and Cannon & Ball should ensure that 2012's European City of Culture is awarded to Oldham.

So, given Liverpool's dependence on all things moptop, it was inevitable the airport would also be given a Beatles flavour. In 2002, it was renamed John Lennon International Airport, which comedian Ed Byrne reckons is ideal because "that's the first place Lennon fucked off to once he'd made some money". There used to be a Lennonesque white grand piano in the departure lounge but it was taking up good space that could be better served with yet another chain selling coffee at four quid a cup and so it had to go. Besides someone had prised one of the keys off it. And it may have been up on bricks at one point but I could just be infusing past memories with Liverpudlian stereotypes. But the biggest reason for moving it was its piano stool. It might have given me the chance to sit somewhere for free.

Smell My Finger, and other Christmas games

Christmas has been a mixed bag as far as preparation for the ride is concerned. On the one hand I received my own portable library in the form of a Kindle but on the other hand my foot nearly fell off.

The Kindle is mightily impressive but it's not without its problems. The screen with its magnetic ink is absolutely gorgeous and the clarity is amazing. But it has to be. The text within Open University PDF course books has a font size of about five points. Honestly. I was trying to work out what a word said the other day and it turned out to be a dead ant. If this blog suddenly dries up halfway around Europe, it's because I've gone blind. And although most pages turn in a second or so, page 32 of S283's An Introduction to Astrobiology took over four minutes! Now, page 32 is a lovely page but it's not worth waiting that long. Admittedly, without it I'd have no idea what a bilayer vesicle is but, now that I come to think of it, I'm still not entirely sure. But, on the plus side, the battery lasts for ages and if it can even temporarily replace my laptop for reading OU stuff then that means less time recharging batteries in one-star hotels and more time wild camping. So the Kindle may work wonders for my pocket, although perhaps not for my body odour.

The foot incident came about as a result of my family's ridiculous competitiveness. Christmas Day isn't a time for telly in our house. No, it's a time for games, and lots of 'em. Both my brother Dave and I had organized our own family Christmas quizzes. His was a straightforward question and answer game whereas mine included rounds such as Smell My Finger and another based on a former Lloyd Grossman show, which I called Through The Bumhole. The rules of Smell My Finger were easy; each contestant had to tell me what my hand smelled of. Despite familial concerns that loading my fingers for this round was going to involve sexually abusing my brother's dog Britney, in the end I plumped for the less deviant odour of salami. My dad went first, took a deep sniff of my forefinger and decided that it was aftershave, which is a bit worrying but at least explains why Britney loves him so much. Through The Bumhole involved identifying celebrities by photos of their arses. Unsurprisingly, everyone correctly guessed J-Lo's, but Ann Widdecombe's was more of a challenge. Next year I'll have to make it harder and make sure that they're clothed instead.

Anyway, after our two quizzes, and following in the footsteps of his dad, my twelve year old nephew Conor decided to do a gameshow of his own. This involved everyone thrusting his or her hand into the Bag of Doom and pulling out a number. Whoever selected the unlucky number three was then forced to undergo some stupid challenge. I lucked out and was the first to receive trial by snowball, right down the inside-back of my new Christmas jumper. This was pretty tame stuff compared to later items on Conor's deathlist. Dave was next, and his involved lying in the front garden for thirty seconds stripped to the waist in the snow. He took his position and started counting. Surfing a wave of Jack Daniels, I decided that what Dave needed more than anything in the world right then was to have extra snow kicked on top of him too. (Around here they call that "teabagging" but I'm pretty sure this means something else entirely where you are.) In my haste to cover him, I stood awkwardly on a rock, heard a tearing sound in my foot and then danced around the garden like a Native American. The game was abandoned after that. It was just as well because the third challenge involved a bear trap and a can of petrol.

So, for the rest of Christmas, I'll mostly be confined to the sofa with a swollen foot, but at least I have my Kindle to entertain me. Well, I will if it ever finishes loading page bloody 33.

Norman Wisdom's Role in Communism

How many facts can you tell me about Albania? I bet it's not many. Before I started to research this trip all I could have told you is that the capital is Tirana, that Norman Wisdom was popular there, and that they once came last in the Eurovision Song Contest with a ditty called "Goats Aren't Just For Kissing", and I'm pretty sure I've made up at least one of those. Y'see, it's a mystery is Albania. I don't know anyone who's been there. Maybe that's not such a big deal. I don't know anyone who's been to Ipswich either.

The reason Albania is such a mystery is because it was closed to the outside world from 1944 until 1991, which means that they missed all the decent Only Fools and Horses episodes and only caught those shite Christmas specials. But, on the other hand, this also means that Albanians inhabit a universe utterly devoid of the concept of Jive Bunny. So perhaps forty-seven years of communism isn't as bad as it's often made out to be.

During this period of closure, religious organisations were banned as was the private ownership of cars, which presumably spelled the demise of the Albanian travel sweet industry. I assume that's true. I mean, you never hear about it, do you? Most homes didn't own a TV and those that did had the choice of a single, black-and-white channel. It must have been like living in that town in Footloose without even the excitement of Christian fundamentalism to keep you occupied at the weekends. To make matters worse, this one channel seems to have featured an endless, back-to-back Norman Wisdom-a-thon. With the Communists in charge, Albania certainly put the 'grim' in Mr. Grimsdale.

Want some more facts? Go on, it's free. Not long before the Communists, Albania had a beautifully alien-sounding monarch called King Zog. The Zogster was famed for smoking 150 cigarettes a day. Assuming he got a decent night's sleep this means he puffed his way through one cigarette every six minutes. Or maybe he just smoked a handful at a time, I don't know. This all seems a tad excessive until you learn that during his life he survived over fifty-five assassination attempts. It must have been hard to take seriously the doctor's health advice about cutting down when someone's permanently trying to pop a cap in yo ass. In one famous attempt on his life he survived by shooting back at the wannabe assassins, the first modern Head of State to do so. I can't imagine the Queen whipping out an Uzi and letting rip. Prince Philip maybe, if the assailant was from an ethnic minority, but not the Queen.

But if their human leaders are superheros, their superheros, especially their divine superheros, are more human, and Albania seems to be a strong advocate for excessive political correctness and positive discrimination in the heavenly selection process. For starters, there's Verbti, the god of storm and fire, whose name translates as 'the blind one', and Shurdi, the weather god whose moniker means 'the deaf one'. There's also a minor deity with a club foot, a stammer and a bit of a bad back but he doesn't get much of a mention.

One last nugget of useless information: Albania is also home to the Cursed Mountains. As tourist marketing board disasters go, the name of these hills is up there with Galicia's unwelcoming Coast of Death and Llandudno's ill-received but astonishingly accurate brochure "Welcome to Shitsville". The Cursed Mountains are home to wolves and bears and, come 2012, one very nervous cyclist pedalling faster than he's ever pedalled before. Still, it could be worse. With a heavily French accented 'nul points' still burning our singer's disappointed but horny, little ears I could be being led backstage dressed in a goat costume.

Toodle pip!

The Open University and Tracy Jackson's Bra

Today is Open University results day. With passes in S282 Astronomy and MS121 Exploring Maths, I edged a little closer to getting those OU degrees. How much closer? Well, if I'm represented by me, which seems fair, and my degrees are represented by the surface of Pluto, I've moved from the living room into the kitchen. There's a long way to go.

I may have mentioned it before but I love the Open University. And I think most OU students do too. It consistently comes top of university student satisfaction surveys. That's quite an achievement when you consider that they have more students than the population of India. You would think that with all those people to organize something would go wrong occasionally, but apparently in forty years of operation the worst thing to happen was when, during a residential course in 1985, a Mr Barry Mansfield of Oswaldtwistle, Lancashire snapped his favourite pencil. It was a black day for everyone involved.

But maybe I'm looking at it all through too rosily-tinted a pair of spectacles. Maybe question papers don't turn up in time for examinations, or perhaps people register for courses and then slip out of the system, or maybe maths tutors routinely machete tutorialfuls of students for failing to grasp calculus. But it's never happened to me and so it doesn't count. Allow me to adjust my glasses. Yes, it's all very nicely pink, thank you very much.

But what's really great about the OU is that it gives you a second chance. You may have messed up at school, spending more time trying to catch a glimpse of Tracy Jackson's bra than knuckling down to your GCSEs (or O-levels as it was when I was at school back in 1741) but that doesn't mean you have to consign yourself to the academic dustbin along with things like board dusters and canes and pupil discipline. No, you can reinvent yourself. You can become a scientist, or a linguist, or a philosopher. You could even become a trawlerman, but I'm not sure the OU has a course for that. Maybe next year.

Some people are nervous about returning to education but the OU eases you in gently with its Level 1 courses. And Level 2 builds on Level 1, increasing the complexity and preparing you for the big stuff. It's not until Level 3 that they hit over the head with concepts that makes your brain want to leak out of your ears. But it's a degree. It shouldn't be easy. If you didn't want to work for it, you may as well have bought your certificate on Ebay. (Speaking of which, if you've got twenty quid I've just uploaded a lovely PhD in Molecular Engineering. First come, first served.)

So I'll keep at it, taking those little steps each year heading for my final destination on the surface of Pluto. And - who knows? - perhaps next year you might find I've got as far as the garden.

Toodle pip!

Sex-Trafficking for Beginners

As part of this pan-European adventure I'm hoping to have a bash at the mother tongue of each country I'll cycle through, even if it's only something superficial like asking for directions or delivering an astrobiology lecture. Unfortunately I decided this before I'd counted how many languages are en route. There are more than thirty. Bugger.

The good news is that I'm already sorted for fairly large chunks of Europe. My schoolboy French should get me through Gaul as long as everyone's called either Jean-Paul or Claudette. And working in Graz for five years has given me enough Deutsch to survive Austria and Germany, which basically just involves memorizing the names of at least twelve different types of sausage. And I've spent enough time in Spain to stumble through there. Now that I've learnt the Spanish word for tripe I'll never have to eat it again, which is the main thing. So the first major and unknown language I'll come across is Polish. If you don't already know, let me tell you that the Polish language is a complete and utter arse.

So far I've had ten half-hour lessons and I'm still trying to negotiate my way out of a virtual restaurant in Warsaw's Piękna Street. I can ask for a beer or a coffee but I can't order any food yet. I think I might lose some weight on this trip. I can tell you - vaguely it seems to me - that I'd like to do something ("Chciałbym coś zrobić") but if you ask me to specify what exactly then I'm limited to suggesting either eating, drinking or buying. Unfortunately, I don't know the vocabulary for anything I might want to eat or anything I might want to buy. So it's back to drinking again. I wonder if I'll also learn the word for 'cirrhosis'.

The language learning comes courtesy of Pimsleur. I've got a few of their courses and they all have the same structure. Basically you are an American male trying to chat up a native-speaking female. I think it's really designed for gigolos or international sex traffickers. There's one section where you ask the woman if she'd like to go for a drink at one o'clock. She declines. So you suggest two o'clock. She turns you down again. You continue to repeat the question for every hour of the day with her steadfastly refusing to budge. Get the message, knobhead, she's not interested! My American's behaviour was getting worrying. I thought our next move would be to pop to the chemist's next door and ask for some chloroform.

Polish is a difficult language for tons of reasons. Pronunciation is your first problem. Most Polish words look like the work of a typist using only her nose and a keyboard with drawing pins glued to its vowels. I thought a quick google for a particularly unpronounceable Polish phrase would illustrate this but all I turned up was "w Szczebrzeszynie chrzaszcz brzmi w trzcinie". Simple. This, by the way, means "Szczebrzeszynie the beetle is in the reeds". That's not so much an example of difficult Polish as it is a warning about giving your pet a bloody silly name.

Polish loves nothing more than a good, old-fashioned declension. For some unfathomable reason the Polish word for 'two' has seventeen different forms depending on things like case and gender and whether or not it's a Tuesday. Seventeen! If you know seventeen words in English, you can get a job at Currys! And it gets worse. If you wear beige in March you have to reverse every third word and sing the rest in a squeaky Orville the Duck voice. OK, I made that last one up.

But I won't give in. I have ten more hours of lessons to go. It's bound to get easier. And my American will get his own way. By the end of the course I'm sure I'll be able to book a cheap hotel room at an hourly rate and negotiate a decent price for Rohypnol. It's just a pity that I still won't have the vocabulary to ask for a sandwich.

Do widzenia!