Well nobody joined me in my room last night. I leave my boots at the door. Anyone brave enough to go past those is welcome to sleep next to me.

Sunshine. Again. This trip has been notable for the weather amongst everything else. Every day bar 2 or 3 has been sunshine. The days are growing noticeably shorter as I head north though.

In my experience, Russia was at the back of the queue for natural beauty. It’s largey flat and dull. I sat on a terrace last night listening to a combine clanking its way through the sunflowers. The fields here are absolutely vast. But while Russia lost out on the landscape, someone knocked over the bottle of feminine beauty and it got flooded. I was in Saratov the other night and found myself on my back on the pavement seeing stars after being hit with just one look from a tall blonde with 2 small kids. It’s rediculous. Loads of countries have good looking people though. America has some very fine looking examples, but, I’m convinced they’re all born with incredibly tiny heads. The doctors have to stick an airline in their ears and inflate them so as they appear normal, even though there is absolutely nothing inside. Ho hum..

I wanted to stop and take a picture of the Moscow Region sign but it was in some roadworks. I was fucking about for ages tryng to get the bike to stand up and not fall over. Then I get off and there is a police car parked behind me. Fantastic. Luckily he just motions through the windscreen at me that I’m not allowed to stop there. I put my hands up. He just pulls out back into the traffic. I walk slowly back to the bike and wait for him to disappear, then I take the picture anyway.

I wasn’t planning to ride into Moscow this trip but as I’m riding I get a text. ‘Jason. Would you please stop by for a chat if you can. Thanks. Vlad’. An offer I’d better not refuse.

I don’t have roaming when I’m away. I don’t want to be connected to home when I’m out in the road. I don’t want to know that Lidl is selling wellies for cats, or that Dominoes is doing a special offer where you only pay 100 times the cost of the ingredients instead of 200. I don’t want to hear people trying to be funny or adding lines or emojis and kisses to some inane and vacuous comment someone has made. You can all FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE when I’m out on the road. So anyway, I don’t have Vlad’s home address. I pull into a fuel station and ask a nice lady to help me. She downloads google maps and has a play, gives me what I need with a smile and I’m off.

As anyone that has done it will tell you, riding a bike into and around Moscow is quite an intimidating and navigationally challenging experience. There is also a shit tonne of extremely expensive metal that you absolutely do not want to come into contact with. I must have seen more Maybachs today than I’ve ever seen in my life. But anyway, we found our way to the big man’s gaff.

He greets me and sits me down at the other end of the long table. He seems friendly enough. He wants to see my photos, and he shows me some of his. He has some nice ones of Donald Trump with a hooker squatting over him, pissing on his head. Apparently, in his defence, Trump says she was only dying his hair. Sounds reasonable to me. Good job it wasn’t brown though

As we chat I can’t help noticing that he’s continuously popping what look like blue pills. Shit.. I hope that thing doesn’t reach down this end of the table.. but on close inspection they’re not Viagra at all. They’re blue smarties. Fuck! That’s the problem. He’s been on 100% blue smarties diet for the last 5 years. No wonder he’s causing chaos. I tell him ‘Vlad. You’re being a very naughty boy. Now give me that big pile of smarties and calm down before any people get hurt’. That should sort it. You’re welcome.

On which note. The war, though not immediately obvious, is very much front and centre. e.g. This promotion at a fuel station.

And everywhere you go there are billboards trying to recruit for the army. I was coming cross country this evening after making another navigational fau paux, and I saw flags flying in field. As I got closer it’s the same story. A new graveyard full of fresh wreaths and headstones. Then the same again about an hour later. Seems to be the poorer towns are suffering the most.

Another random low rent hotel where the reception area is so dark I have to do everything by touch. I can hear a voice but can’t see anyone. A clean basic room, with a key not a card, and a transport cafe across the road. This is what I’m going to miss the most. I’m already feeling a bit sad about it TBH.

I go out for a quick walk. It’s a very small town. A beaten up school. Old houses and flats. And there are a lot of people walking about in their fatigues. Discretion being the better part of valour I decide to show some respect and hang low, keep out their way. I’m finding I’m really reluctant to relinquish Russia. I was going to do a short day today and stay near the border, but, as I sit in the dark in reception this morning and plug ‘home’ into google maps it tells me there are still 3000km to go. So I’m really going to have to get on with it.

It’s an easy ride. Lovely and warm, a good road and I’ve got it mostly to myself. I will miss Russia but it’s easy to become complacent about my situation here. Everything is absolutely fine, until it’s not. My travel insurance is invalid here because  gov says not to go, so I’m riding commando and trusting to luck. It’s a risk, and not one I’m entirely comfortable with, but no risk no reward.

I need to buy a souvenir, for myself. There is only one small town left before the border so I divert in looking for a taxi. I see a row of them, go to the front, jump off the bike and get my spanners out. He’s got the door open and he’s sprawled across the seats. I point at the spanner and ask where there is a shop. He just picks his nose and points. There is a tool shop directly behind me. Tool heaven.

Get near the border and fill up with the last of the cheap fuel. I’ve still got a shed load of Rubles that I can either use as toilet paper, or spend in the garage shop. So I buy 200 air fresheners, some plastic cutlery, 3 cans of random sprays because I like the colours, and 3 sets of windscreen wipers. Front and back obviously. Perfect.

Get to the border at 3. I’ve been through here before and it was quite quick. But that was before. That was before they decided to turn it into the C&*TIEST FUCKING BORDER IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD. Seriously, this border is manned solely by C*^T high fliers. The C&@TIEST OF THE C^*TS. The creme de la C&&T. AHHHHHHHHHH

There are only 4 cars outside the gate. As I arrive they let a couple of cars in. After 2 hours they let me and one other in. And the C*^TFEST begins. I have been through a lot of borders in my time and this one takes the C*^TING biscuit. I’ve got to go through customs. There is some fat trollop in the booth and she is NOT interested. The people that were let through before me 2 hours ago are still waiting here. Nothing is happening. At all. For hours. The trollop has had at least two 20 minute fag breaks and her mate goes in for frequent chats too. There are 3 cars here and me. Just 3, and nothing has happened. For hours. Then some other little snivelling C*%T comes to look over the bike. Usually takes 30 seconds. But no. ‘Open’ ‘what? The fuel cap?’ ‘Open!’ And then he points at the seat. ‘Open’. ‘What? I motion that’s going to take ages’ because I’ve got to unload the rack and unbolt it. He smirks, shrugs his shoulders and fucks off. And doesn’t come back. CUIUUUUU*T!!! Another hour goes past. Nothing. A Volvo randomly pulls up with  plates, entering Russia. It’s a Russian that lives about 5 miles from me in Southampton. He says people wait 2 or 3 days here. He’s really happy because he only waited 5 hours this time.

As he’s standing there the trollop comes over and starts ranting and pointing to my tyres. The Russian starts interpreting for me. ‘This fat mingmong C*^TESS says there’s a problem with these tyres. They’re illegal and must not have been imported to Russia’ I may have to pay a fine, and I must take them out. ‘WHAT EXACTLY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I’M DOING YOU USLESS MOUND OF QUIVERING FLESH!’. He tells me I need to wait. They will need to write a special ‘protocol’ to let me take them out. FUUUUUCK THIS SHIT. Get me Zelensky on the phone. NOW. I want to make a donation.

So, after another 30 minutes they wheel out yet another from their never ending supply of massive CU*TS to weigh my tyres, photograph them, and write the protocol. As we speak I’ve been waiting another hour already. It’s gone 9pm and I’m STILL FUCKING WAITING. CUUUUUNTTTTTS.

It’s nearly 10 now. I did wonder why “knackered uncomfortable wooden bench at Russian customs” appeared as an option on Booking.com this morning. I read one review. It just said “BUNCH OF C*^TS!”

11pm. The chief C&£T took me outside 30 minutes ago. Used translate to tell me he’s going to write the protocol now. What? What was that document that took you an hour to write and I just signed then? ‘The legislation has changed. It may take some time. An hour or two’. Just dipping your toe into Russian bureaucracy shows exactly how shit things can get, and how quickly. This isn’t going to be over any time soon

12:30am …. Forget Putin. I’m thinking of starting WWIII. Right here. Right now

2am. I’m wishing there was a WORSE WORD THAN CUUUUUUUUUU*T for this fucking giant KNOBBER. He’s still not finished. And now he’s disappeared somewhere. Probably to send his wife a 3 word text that he’s going to CHECK AND RECHECK AND RECHECK AND PRINT OUT AND RECHECK THEN CHECK AGAIN AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I WANT TO CRY 

3am. He’s printed it out. It’s 2ft thick. He gives me two pens. ‘Two pens?’ “Da. You’ll see”. Not even a Russian ballpoint is up to signing one of these documents. I’m in purgatory. Almost every page, often 3 or 4 times, the pen nob is overheating. I’m signing “William Wlberwank”, “Trevor Tosshandle”, “Yuri Youreacint”, “Benjamin Buttonpenis”. “Idont Giveafuck”.

3:15. It’s done. I’m through. “Niet my friend. Now we go to bank”.

I’m beaten. I’m submissive. I let him drag me across the room and through to the bank to pay a fine. A nana with one finger and one eye hits the keyboard like an old clock ticking..

3:30. “Can I go now please? I’m done. Finished. Take me round the back. Pick a hole. Any hole. Just let me go. Please.”

“Niet. Photo”. So now they bundle me into the back of a wankered 4×4 with no exhaust and we wake up everyone in a 50 mile radius to drive out the border post and back into Russia. He motions to me to get out. Him and his mate make me walk away from the car up the road. This is it. This is where I die. Or get all my holes filled with baby gravy. But he just makes me hold the tyres and takes a picture. Then he wants me to turn round and photograph me from behind for his person album. I don’t fucking care by now. .

They take me back to the bike. A beaten man. I do some more paperwork checks and finally they point to go. To the Latvian border.

The scores today.

Russia: 12 hours 40 minutes

Latvia: 10 minutes.

A freezing, foggy 40 mile ride and I have to ring the hotel bell and wake the night porter at 4:45am.

I’m still planning to come back next year though.