Lower England

Sometimes Johnny likes to take the Boxter for a canter. You know,
there's no point attempting this in Southeast England. When you get a
clear road, there's some plod to stop you taking it out of third, and
let's face it-what's the point having a serious car if you can't ton it
up hills.

When I was dealing, I always fancied me a Beemer 'cos that's what the
Main Men drove. If some cunt was driving one of those, you knew he was
more than sorted for E's. No fucker ever touched a Beemer on the
estates where the gear was kept. Know what I mean!

Anyway, I'm away from that shit now, the proof being I drive a Porsche.
I drive it properly in the only country in Europe that respects these
sorts of speeds - yes, Deutschland.

They have the same Euro-directives there as here. Only we waste our
time arguing over the small things like pounds and the right to kill
ourselves with CJD. The Germans on the other hand ban our beef and
ignore EU-wide speed laws. Sure, you may see 130km/h on the sign
welcoming you to The Fatherland and the whole country does behave like
it's still at school. However, when you get down to it, the country
that produces Mercs, Beemers, Golf GTI s and Porsches likes taking them
out for a canter too and more often, a sprint. These cars also have an
automatic right of way on the A-Bahn and fuckin right too. Should some
fuckwit in a Nissan block the fast lane and not move over, well, Helmut
and the gang can just pass him on the inside and watch his balls
shrink.

The trouble with this trip is that I went on the ferry. I mean,
hobnobbing with the poor is all right in theory but it can be a bit
depressing sometimes. I knew it was going to be bad when I parked her
behind an E-reg Sierra. I thought that E-reg cars had been discretely
towed to China or somewhere, but no, they still exist and come out en
masse for the cheap booze trip to Calais.

So the ferry-parking-weedy-cunt-in-an-overall guides my bumper just
short of the off-yellow peril just mentioned and hey-ho, I've
crash-landed into the middle of Lower England, in a sea of maroon,
white and other early eighties car colours. Where Tony and Peter's
focus groups fear to tred and Porsches live in magazines.

The kind of England where a trip to 'The Continent' means go to a
Warehouse called 'EastEnders', load up your E-reg Ford with Carling
lager and come back. The kind of England where it is acceptable to put
on your newest, cleanest and thus best shell suit to go on an outing.
The kind of England that puts up with 740 s on piss-smelly housing
estates and doesn't set fire to them, like they fuckin should do
because they're fuckin sheep and sheep get fuckin slaughtered. Fuckin
Losers.

My concern about the company I'm about to keep turns to full-on
loathing when I hit the Upper Decks. Usually, I would buy a Sun, laugh
at the ranty editorial then turn to the real news-the sports pages. But
they're already sold out. The same with all the other proper papers
like the Mirror or Sport or the Star. Even the friggin Guardians are
gone. I face an hour with nothing to distract me from Lower England. I
make my way over to the Bars and there's even more of it- a nightmare
flashback in towelling trouser suits smoking Super Kings. It's enough
to get me back smoking again. Unfortunately, it'll take more than
nicotine to blot out my fellow passengers.

Aha&;#8230;..The thing about this lot is that they stay hidden from
view most of the time watching satellite TV and breeding six-toed
babies. None are out on deck to spoil the view. Result!

I do like travelling. I'm not sure that I would agree that to travel is
better than to arrive. (Some real fuckup thought that one up). So while
Lower England misses another beautiful day, I'll marvel at how many
colours chalk cliffs can achieve without the aid of chemicals and only
sunshine as a mood-altering stimulant. Well nice!

Unfortunately Calais isn't at its best when approached by sea. Venice
it aint! Worse, France doesn't improve outside Calais towards the
border. It may only be 30km to Belgium and the view doesn't alter much
till you're past Oostende and nearly in Brussels but the only way to
cope with that is floor it and see if the Belgian police are awake this
morning, which they aren't!

I'm sure that Belgium has much to write home about; fine beers,
medieval town architecture, excellent food, beautiful people etc., but
I don't write to anyone. In my opinion, the best thing about Belgium is
that it takes no more than three hours to travel through it to get to
Germany, two if you're Johnny Bastard Cunt.

Aachen, now there's a fine town, the first one you get to past the
border. Tallest Cathedral in 11th Century Europe, Charlemagne's
capital, so fuckin what! Once past Aachen, Johnny's doing 200 in fifth
and waiting for Mrs Hausfrau to get the fuck out of his lane so he can
hit 220 and more. Past the Polish reg hairdryer, the English caravaners
and onto Koln (Cologne), bombed shitless by our grandfathers and as far
as I'm going today. Yey!