22.06.2011, John O Groats, Bonny Scotland; 0500 AM (and it's fucking freezing!) Accompanied by his support team of a toothless, chewing Shetland pony, several horny Highland cattle, a force 8 gale and buckets of rain, Jaggedone set out on the first leg of the "Spoof charity bike run from John O Groats to Lands End" and he even remembered to apply his bike clips before leaving.
There was no option of heading northwards. While many of Jaggedone's enemies would have enjoyed the scene of him copying a certain "Mod" scooter writer ending it all in Quadrophenia, he nevertheless decided to head southwards towards Thurso.
The horrific wind hindered a speedy progress and the rain was appalling, but many natives turned out to offer their hard-earned pittances or condolences to this pathetic lunatic in the form of pointing their middle fingers skywards, pointing with their fingers to their temples or lifting up their rain-drenched kilts showing their ginger bollocks. Typical Scots humour.
After an hour, Jaggedone approached a sheep barrier which barred the way forward and operating the barrier was a tight-fisted, ginger headed, kilt-clad sheep-shagger called Enoch. He raised his right hand and ordered JO to stop, "fucking pay or go back to where you came from (which seemed quite inviting with the wind blowing in his back) you daft Sassenach bastard", he denied the kind offer, paid the Troll the toll and called him a Scottish wanker as he passed.
Jaggedone believes in upholding healthy relations between the Scots and English, but wishes secretly he had been at Culloden, many years ago (sorry Scots, just joking).
Two hours further and two miles further (it's the wind) an accompanying Spoof vehicle driven by that universal and very social Spoofer, QM (who couldn't hack the run because she couldn't remove her head from between her legs in time), arrived with the first nourishment of the day: A bowl of lumpy freezing cold porridge, a dram of thinned out whisky to wash it down and a pot of fresh Scottish highland goats milk for energy: Jaggedone puked the whole lot out, but continued bravely.
4 hours into the first leg seemed like a Spartan marathon between Thessaloniki and Athens with a slightly different reading on the thermometer and JO's legs were feeling the pressure, so he unsaddled, had a quick piss, got blown over and ended up lying in a muddy ditch with his legs kicking, OUCH!
A passing veterinarian called Jock McAllthingsgreatandsmall offered his assistance and pulled JO out of the ditch with his "willy" shrivelled to a wee stump, so it didn't shock the Doc. Jock the Doc removed his secret leather pocket bottle filled with home brewed Whisky, malt, or whatever was available; gave JO a quick swig, pushed him down the hill and the race was on once more.
After several more hours in the leather saddle (Mark partly sponsored the bike and saved on every attachment possible, hence an 1830 leather saddle instead of a modern-day comfort, gel filled one) JO's arse was burning (it had nothing to do with the porridge causing major intestinal eruptions and combustible ejections) because he had forgot his flashy padded bike trousers and made the common mistake of wishing to respect local traditions by wearing a kilt on the bike without anything between?
Approaching the second meeting with QM sitting in the accompanying car, heating blasting and drinking incessantly out of a bottle of Famous Grouse mixed with hot tea and grog; Jaggedone asked painfully: "QM I need something for my buttocks?" QM replied, "Sorry I am the wrong sex, and there are no sheep-shaggers out in this weather today!"
"NO, no, just a cream QM"
In the first aid box, which Mark also coincidentally sponsored was a pot of horseradish wound crème guaranteed to make you pedal faster. QM refused to apply the crème so JO took it upon himself to apply, obviously sticking his fingers too deep in the pot and then covering his rear-end with an over-generous amount.
It took roughly 10 seconds for the horseradish crème to work its wonders and it was certainly a sight to behold watching JO steam off, literally! Wind rushing through his bald-head towards the destination for today, Thurso.
Footnote: Horseradish cream burns like the fuck and no fucking wind could stop JO achieving Tour de France standards on the final miles, in fact Lance Armstrong would have been proud.
06.00 PM, Thurso, Scotland: A bedraggled, bald-headed figure on a rusty, cheap bike (sponsored by Mark, "thanks Mark we are most grateful") was seen rushing towards the town centre this evening with his arse end actually on fire it was so red. He jumped into the mediaeval, cracked fountain, rear-end first, and screamed, "hoots man I fucking made it, laddies!"
The disinterested accompanying Spoof special car was tied up outside the local saloon and several, very drunken, familiar Spoofer voices led by our Queen M could be heard speculating, and "who the fuck is next?"