Der Himmel über Berlin

...and, surviving a late assault by Cedric, HUGO is the winner!

Hurrah!

Thank you all for voting. Hugo and I appreciate it very much.

We have been spending a lot of time together recently, and are beginning to understand each other quite well. Yesterday we covered almost 50km, today around 20km and tomorrow will probably be about another 20km.

My legs feel like lead sausages, but it is definitely worth it.

At John Lennon airport last Monday, after I said my goodbyes to sweetymon (which, for some reason, attracted the ire of some onlookers - I can't imagine why...) I had some spare sterlings to get rid of.

Cheese, of course, was the highest priority on my shopping list, closely followed by crisps. Yes, yes, I know, even after a weekend of the most preposterous indulgence imaginable, I was still thinking of eating. You'd understand if you lived in the cheese and crisp desert that is Germany. And were a glutton. And had no shame whatsoever.

Anyway, there was no cheese to be found, so I stocked up on crisps. A quick check of my remaining funds (it wasn't quick. It was a prolonged examination. I find it impossible to count sterlings quickly, the stupid tiny 20p always throws me, as does the stupid enormous 10p) indicated that I might have enough to purchase a book. I like books. Maybe not as much as cheese and crisps, but I definitely like them.

Deciding that I wasn't really interested in Victoria Beckham, Charlotte Church or Jade Goody's autobiographies (at least one of them is definitively conclusive...), the 'Classics' section caught my eye. Excellent, I could use some Wilde wit at the moment. Or maybe I could try (again, and most likely, vainly) to like Dickens.

But no. The Classics in Liverpool airport are Maeve Binchy and Danielle Steele.

Is this the end of society as we know it?

This blogger fears the worst.

So, Liverpool. Was very nice to actually get to see some of it this time, and what I did see was impressive. Like Manchester, there was a lot of outstanding food on offer, especially Portuguese cuisine - some cooked by real Portuguese people and some by spotty, lisping Liverpudlians who really should have come with subtitles. Sunday afternoon strolling around town really made me feel that some of the stereotypes about the islands that I have cultivated are completely untrue - the atmosphere was one of jovial tranquility and, even with a belly fit to burst with glorious Italian food (and, for the record, I am VERY upset with you Brits for never having told me that your country has consistently excellent food on offer), was very, very pleasant indeed.

The increasingly amazing sweetymon and I rambled vaguely around town, terrorising Liverpool's seemingly endless supply of interesting little shops that sell both nothing in particular and just about everything imaginable. One of them produced Misfile Of The Century in their bizarre record collection:

But I appear to be forgetting Saturday. We went to Goodison Park (disclaimer: I am NOT an Everton fan, I just wanted to see some footy) and saw Manchester City do something completely irregular and win a game outside Manchester. The atmosphere was disappointingly subdued, with only a few disinterested attempts to chant by the Everton fans, most of which occurred in the thirty seconds between their late consolation goal and the final whistle. Still, the footy nerd in me was very pleased with adding another stadium to the collection, as well as the chance to display my latest sexy jersey. What did impress me though, was how football in England is definitely a sport for all the family,regardless of social status. In Germany it is very much the dirty little secret of the lower classes, frowned upon by all others until a World Cup or European Championship allows it to enjoy a brief flirtation with mainstream acceptance.

After the game, sweetymon, rowtheboat and I met up with the one and only Juzzzy, whose arrival is enough to make people's glasses spontaneously break for no apparent reason. He's obviously used to this though; his sprint to the nearest shop to get sellotape was positively MacGyveresque. The mini blogmeet was complete with Mizá's (see what I did with the á) arrival, and some deliciously spicy Portuguese grub.

On the way to the airport yesterday, the (very Scouse) taxi driver told me I look like John Lennon (and he didn't even know that there's really only a spare a 'G' in the difference).

The evidence, by all accounts, is compelling:

I like Liverpool. And can't wait to repay all the hospitality I found there. Thanks y'all.

I have so much to blog that thinking about where to start almost makes me blibber. Luckily, I have McCoy's crisps to ward off the onset of incoherence. Unluckily, the supply is finite, so I'd better get this done quickly.

Sweetymon (who, on an aside, justifies her username more and more with every second I spend with her) lent me a book called The Zombie Survival Guide, a title which doesn't require any further elaboration. It contains everything you could possibly ever want to know about zombies, but one section in particular stuck out (and the more feeble-stomached amongst you might want to look away now):

Autopsies conducted on neutralized undead have shown that their "food" lies in its original, undigested state at all sections of the tract. This partially chewed, slowly rotting matter will continue to accumulate, as the zombie devours more victims, until it is forced through the anus, or literally bursts through the stomach or intestinal lining. While this more dramatic example of non-digestion is rare, hundreds of eyewitness reports have confirmed undead to have distended bellies. One captured and dissected specimen was found to contain 211 pounds of flesh within its system! Even rarer accounts have confirmed that zombies continue to feed long after their digestive tracts have exploded from within.

What the heck does this have to do with my weekend trip to Manchester and Liverpool?, I hear you holler.

Well, anyone present in The Great Kathmandu last Thursday evening would have seen a display of gluttony to match that of any zombie. A certain someone recommended the ordering of two mains each, as well as tons of rice. Some sort of culinary entrapment, in hindsight wholly to be expected considering that person's ten-year crusade to inform the world that the best curries outside India are to be found in that finest of fine establishments.

Provided you can finish all four that you ordered, that is.

The trucks of Guinness must also be mentioned, as must the excellent, excellent National Football Museum in Preston. On display included Maradona's jersey, in which he scored (and the more feeble-stomached England fans amongst you might want to look away now) this goal, followed by this one, as well as a jersey from the first ever game of international football, the two footballs from the 1930 World Cup Final, and many other things that appeal to the true football nerd, the history buff and even those whose volition might have been suppressed in order to get them there.

That's it for Manc, but there's still so much more to report. But it'll have to wait til tomorrow. But my thanks to rowtheboat won't - thank you, I had so much fun.

While googlechatting with a friend moments ago, he told me that he nearly cried with joy because of these mudguards. He, like me, is a big bike fan, but is far more interested in the individual physical components of bikes than I am - I just want to get up on the machine and cycle it as fast as possible until my leg muscles finally complain loudly enough for me to begin to consider listening to them.

But his enthusiasm about such utterly random things is the reason why he is such a valued friend - he get similarly excited about cranes and trains and pretty much anything mechanical, big or small. When it all comes down to it, we actually have quite little in common, aside from this incredibly nerdy passion for bizarre things that could never invoke anything other than careless ambivalence in others. Mine, as you probably already know, are things like dative prepositions, map contours, the various materials football jerseys are made out of, accents, oh! the prepositional pronouns that only exist in Irish, the list goes on and on and, probably, on. Ah, I am also getting increasingly interested in tea.

It saddens me when people look upon us as oddities for our nerdy interests. Imagine how interesting the world would be if everyone had some unknown and quirky area of interest that they could speak about for hours on end.

Anyway. What's yours? The inside of a golfball? The effect of paint thinner fumes on Algerian bumblebees? The use of the number fourteen in twelfth century Finnish poetry? Regional differences in the sizes of cartons of orange juice in Russia?

I want to know.

Many thanks for all the suggestions. I have picked out my favourites, but cannot decide on one.

So the only logical course of events is to draw this debacle out even further. Hurrah!

I am hoping that you all can see how excited I am about my bike, and that this will help you to forgive how cringingly self-involved this post is.

First there was Paolo. We were only together for a month when he was taken from me.

Then came Arthur. Our relationship was, at times, quite strained. But it was one of deep mutual love and respect disguised beneath a layer of faulty brakes, temperamental gear changes and nights spend locked outside u-bahn stations when certain people were just too tipsy to bike home. But what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, so all of these factors only served to make the blow even harder when he disappeared one chilly October evening a year and a half later.

But now, there is a new man in Rampie's life. He's got attitude. He's got a new chain. He's got white spots. But he hasn't got a name.

(Yes, he is on my sofa, we're spending our first night together)

There have been a few decent name suggestions, but I need more. The frontrunners are Gustav, Egon and Sergio. None of them really grasped me like Paolo or Arthur.

So, let's name my bike! All suggestions welcome!

It's been positively ages since 1) I posted 2) I posted a meme.

So this post shall try to speed up the life cycle of as many winged creatures as possible with a single projected piece of masonry.

1. My ex... is decreasing in relevance.

2. Maybe I should... get (yet) another job.

3. I love... rarely.

4. People would say that I am... mostly reliable.

5. I don't understand... people who make conflict.

6. When I wake up in the morning... I grumble before remembering that things are actually pretty OK.

7. I trust... enough people to employ both hands when counting them.

8. Life is full of... smiles.

9. My past taught me... full stop.

11. Parties are... uncomfortable at the start, then suddenly over all too quickly.

13. Dogs... bark and make me happy.

14. Cats... miaow and annoy the shit out of me.

15. Tomorrow is... going to be football and music filled, and great.

16. I have a low tolerance for... things that require patience, rude people, people who walk slowly, bureaucracy, the list goes on and on.

17. If I had a million pounds... I'd change it to €uros before starting to panic.

18. I'm terrified of... the point in the future when my parents aren't around any more.

19. When I look at the night sky I think... gotta count 'em all!

20. If I could be anyone it would be... Stephen Glennon

21. God is... n't, probably

22. One thing I want to do before I die... Nothing, I pretty much do whatever I want to do pretty soon after I think of doing it

23. I hate... nothing and no-one

24. If I had a superpower it would be... dunno, either incredible footballing abilities or incredible language abilities, but they are not really superpowers. Umm, ability to fly would be handy, even though I don't like flying. But I think Ryanair is more to blame for that than any actual dislike of flying.

Hurrah! Good to be back.

I am halfway through the two weeks of camp.

I usually never dream, (or at least never remember the dreams) but I have been having vivid and memorable dreams on a nightly basis over the last week. Two of these dreams were about bloggers, so I think it is only fair that I share them.

Night #1: A film of sweetymon's life, in which I featured. Bizarrely, it was set in a dump and we were played by the kids from Slumdog Millionare. There were, erm, other bits to it, but I won't share them...

Night #2: I get lured to a small island somewhere with some other unidentified people. The island is inhabited by a group of rich people who are tired of hunting animals, and trick people onto the island so they can hunt them. It's more fun hunting humans, you see. The other people are quickly killed off, but I manage to survive. In doing so, I have to kill two of the hunters.

Night #3: After going bodyboarding with my sister, I go into a newsagents and start reading the Sunday Times Magazine. I recognise pretty much everything in it, because it's an adapted version of rowtheboat's blog. The whole magazine is dedicated to her, and I am really pleased for her. And then am very annoyed with reality when I wake up and find it to not be true.

Night #3: I attend a film about how shit Newcastle United are with some family members. Suddenly we're outside my childhood house and my uncle and cousin are shot in a drive-by shooting. Suddenly I am in the drive-by car, and an old Polish lady, also in the car, shots the two guys who carried out the drive-by. She points the gun at me, I cower and then she turns the gun on herself. I wake up, very disturbed indeed.

Night #4: Dreams interrupted due to bratty teenagers needing a ticking off at 0400.

I am especially bothered by the wild veering between dreaming about people that I value very much to dreams of incredible violence.

So now I have twenty-four glorious hours to myself until the next group arrives.

Can't wait to see what next week's sleeps throw up.

The other day, I went to a large auction organised by the Berlin police to sell off all the stolen bikes that they had recovered over the course of the year.

Being rather a lazy lump, I managed to show up only ten minutes before the large warehouse where the bikes were being stored was closed, signalling the end of the viewing and the start of the auction in an adjacent building. Still, I managed to scribble down the numbers of a couple of very attractive looking old style racers, ones with the gear changer down on the frame rather than on the handlebars. Very cool indeed.

As soon as the auction started, my head began to itch uncontrollably. There were also millions of invisible flies buzzing around my face, just begging to be swatted at. 'Swat us, Stephen!', they shouted, 'Swat us and accidentally buy a pink ladies bike for €170!'

So I sat on my hands, afraid to move until my bikes were up.

And got sold before I barely even had a chance to realise.

Feck. I was determined, however, not to leave the place without a bike, any bike, don't care.

So when the auctioneer introduced a men's mountain bike (didn't want a big clunky heavy mountain bike, but whatever) which was about to go for €10, my right arm shot up quicker than Lance Armstrong's going around the last corner of the Tour de France.

€15 for a bike! Bargain! And being the foolish optimist that I am, I was certain that it had been decreed by the gods that it would be the greatest bike ever made, and that we would live happily ever after.

So the bent handlebars pointing wildly in different directions came as something of a slap in the face from the well-used hand of reality. As did the completely bald rear tyre. And the absent front brakes. And the punctures. And the puke-green colour of the frame.

Still. Might be able to pimp it a little and sell it on for a small profit to someone even more impulsive and naive than I am.

And so the Search For The Two-Wheeled Soulmate continues.