Carl has broken some integral part of my body and having lunged like I'm supposed to I'm knackered again. Not being able to walk, on top of my recent head trauma, things are starting to get worrying. However, as I will likely die in India because I can't get an appointment for my vaccination requirements just now, why don't I just let nature fulfill her destiny for me and I'll fall apart right here. I have found some rather fine motocross pants to go with the boots so at least I will die with dignity.

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On BBC 2 on Sunday evening there was a documentary about the train from Shimla to Kalka, which is the train that we will be taking to get to our bikes. Shimla has a very interesting colonial history and the buildings are close replicas to British buildings of the same time period. The amazing thing was the way in which the people thought about themselves, their jobs, the things that happened to them. There seems to be a very gentle way with which they face the world and interact with it which is beautiful. I hope it rubs off.

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More kit! Check out these bad dudes...

They are No Fear Tank Trousers, and on the left, on the carpet, is a stain from when I dropped a pastie about 2 months ago. I haven't actually tried these mo'fo's on, but they're looking pretty tasty.

In an unrelated story I didn't get promoted. Most people probably think that's pretty fair as I am regularly told what a skiver I am. However, the committee, in their finite wisdom, don't give you any feedback, so it is impossible for me to know what I would need to do to get promoted. That's seems fairly stupid to me. Fingers crossed this trip will be so fabulous that I won't bother coming back but rather will spend my time doing catwalk shows in my tank trousers and off-road boots.

In another unrelated story, research became exasperating beyond the limits of normal men. It's considered unhealthy and illegal to buy a baseball bat, paint someone's head white, and then examine fundamental laws of physics, so instead, taking inspiration from Robert Downey Jr's rather fine album of jazzy tunes, I wrote a little song. It's not great, but it made me feel better.

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In February Dan sent me a great picture of a tax disc holder that politely suggested that now the tax had been paid, perhaps it was time to fill in some pot holes. I might have written at the time that around these parts there are some holes which would have me off my bike. Well, a pothole in Romford had a 25stone man out of his mobility scooter and injured in the road. Ouch. But he had just finished a burger and chip breakfast so it wasn't all bad.

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I was looking for a book describing the powerful brakes on the Kawasaki Versys...

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What a stunning day the 7th has been. So much sun that I had to break out the aviators only to find that they don't fit inside a full-face helmet, so thank god for air-johnson's. Another big plus was discovering that my leathers slid on a lot less cosily than usual so my efforts to have Kate Beckinsale's body are failing miserably, but in the meantime I must have lost a whole millimetre of waist. I could be in one of those Men's Health stories, from Lard to Lad. It still managed to be buttock-clenchingly cold and even with the handlebars on 3/4s I had to stop after about 30 miles to try to get some feeling back into my finger tips. It's a bit of a shame really because it would have been a great day for the A5 and going up to the coffee shop at the top of the mountain.

A friend of mine has quit her job which, even with 4 possible new ones, is quite a courageous thing to do. Wish I was that brave.

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The nurse told me that after the injections I might feel a little like I walked into a door. She wasn't wrong. She didn't tell me that I would spend the next 24 hours feeling like I was oxygen deprived and hardly capable of stringing a sentence together. Unless that's the effect of carrot soup, which is entirely possible. Only two more injection sessions to go, unless I opt for Rabies and Japanese Encephalitis (Mike assures me that this is only a problem if I plan to hang about in paddy fields in the monsoon), so only 2 more doors to walk into.

There was some interesting psychology on the ITV news tonight where a Prof. said that there is a strong correlation between the kinds of abusive images an individual looks at (presumably "kind" is a substitute for "severity" here) and the likelihood of becoming a contact offender. If there is I haven't come across it. The TV also said that he'd been doing research into that very area, which is interesting because if you look at his areas of research this is not one of them. Absolutely possible that there is research and that he has done it on this, but it just feels a little worrying if people working in the area, both in research and with clients, don't know about this stuff then it's not getting out, or worse, if there isn't, people can say things which then play into the views of the public. Anyway, I have asked if he'll point me towards the research and if it's out there, cool, I will be wiser (and more worried about the risk some people pose).

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Dan was in town for an interview so he forced me to go to The Tavern and drink Samuel Adams and eat burgers. He's possessed by satan. He's also trying to force his potential new employers to pay him 60K. All I want is a little respect. Maybe cash is easier to come by. Anyway, no point in wanting the things that you can't have.

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Very cool day spent at the Crown Court sitting at the bench with the judge and hanging out in his chambers. Seeing the legal system at work from there does give a whole different perspective and being able to speak with a judge about the decisions made provides some interesting insight. Then in the evening, Tommy Emmanuel, who is an extraordinary musician. Bit of a gurner, but if I could play like that I would gurn too. A lot more probably.

One of the greatest mysteries is why people who are expecting you to do stuff for them haven't got the ability to display some degree of manners. It's not really asking a lot. Maybe what we have to do is rather than seeing it as a slight, see it as some fundamental flaw in their microbe-sized brains. There's also a good lesson to learn, namely that don't expect people to treat you decently just because you treat them decently and don't feel obliged to keep helping people out if they are a turd in human form.

Humanists. A bit like nihilists, but slightly less extreme. That's an opinion by the way, not a statement of fact. But don't let that prevent you from having them hold ceremonies with you, because they are quite low key and allow for people to be more heartfelt than a lot of other philosophies.

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It turns out that satan (when he's not possessing Dan) is doing business in the Vatican, according to the Catholic church's chief exorcist. This explains, so we are told, why some priests have succumbed to sexually abusing children. From now on I shall be blaming satan for anything untoward I might think, say, or do, as it saves the stupidly impossible chance that I could be responsible for my own behaviour.

In a sort of related issues, it turns out that the House of Lords not only behave like a bunch of fraudulent arse-baskets, but they have passed a rule that lets them get away with it, but then also lets them blame the behaviour on the rules, rather than on their own inability to prevent themselves having lavish lifestyles at the tax payers expense. I plan to pass a raft of laws, that will be collectively known as Duff Proclamations, allowing me to do anything I want. Sweet.

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Chess. I suck at chess. A writer has suggested that the basic principles of chess are true in life. I must suck at life. I am finding it impossible to find upper-body armour that fits. It's quite important so that when I fall off my bike, down a cliff, and into a truck, my upper body will be ok. Similarly it is turning out more difficult than imagined to do a passible version of Avril Lavine's "Keep Holding On". I would do Defying Gravity, but the same fate would befall my high F as did Kurt's and no one should have to live through that shame. If only the basic principles of Glee were true in life I'd feel like I have a fighting chance.

Supposedly men need help in making the right choices. Maybe it's the case that whoever is deeming things to be "right" needs help in defining their categories. As long as you're prepared to take the consquences the line betwen right and wrong can get a bit blurry.

Dogs produce nose-glue, which makes it impossible to walk away when they are sneezing. You thought it was because a sneezing dog was cute.

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There is an exercise called something like a Russian Twist, which hurts a lot. I know this. Probably not as much as child birth, but at least with child birth, one assumes, there might have been a smidgen of pleasure at the very start of the whole reproductive process. Ok, not for everyone, but that's why we invented averages, so that it's not necessary to face up to the individual who found the whole thing to be without joy. Joy appears in a scene from The Big Lebowski. The dude. I am an ordained minister in dudeism, along with being ordained in the Universal Life Church. I am pretty holy when it comes down to it. Along with occasional Buddhist retreats the resemblance between me and Richard Gere is almost scary, especially when I am in full naval whites. Joy also appears in My Name is Earl, and you wouldn't want to mess with Joy. That could well be a useful lesson, do not mess with joy, just accept it for what it is, and try to get some. However, don't expect it to be a frequent visitor. Sometimes the bear eats you, sometimes you eat the bear.

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Body armour. Mesh or non-mesh is the question. Mesh is armour attached to a long-sleeve t-shirt, a bit like the chain-mail vest that the psycho-baddie in Commando called Bennett wears.

The pluses are that it allows your skin to breathe and the the padding is in the right places. The cons, well, if you don't want to look like a camp American ex-special forces person that could be a con.

Non-mesh looks a bit like a bib, or tabbard, made of hard plastic. You'd look like you were appearing in Tron if it was day-glo. Pros, you look like you're in Tron (and so can continue to live your life with a soundtrack by Journey), cons, you look like you're in Tron.

Which way to go...Mike tells me that it is important to look good, but looking good is relative and I am not sure that whichever way I decide it's going to get me in line for rear-of-the-year.

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Down by the Sea must be one of the finest songs of atmosphere ever written. I think it's about pirates.

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If there is anything more soul destroying than interviewing I don't want to do it. This year the questions are particularly rubbish, and, as usual, in order to keep things fair, we ask the same questions to everyone, regardless of what they might have said, and never really find out anything about them. How can asking everyone the same questions be fair? Wouldn't it be more fair to think of questions that are responsive to the candidate? Anyway, the world isn't fair. I've still had no feedback from the promotion committee, which makes the whole process of annual reviews a bit of a farce. Your boss says go for promotion, based on what s/he understands as the criteria, but the committee, clearly, use other criteria. If they don't let anyone know where you slipped up, your boss can't recalibrate. So year after year hopeless twits will go for promotion, and year after year the committee will have to sit, read through forests of paper and waste their time too. So there is something more soul destroying than interviewing, committee work. Bring in another interviewee!

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Dissertation drafts are lining up like jumbos at Gatwick so there's a strong chance that between now and June I will have read more words than one should in a whole lifetime. Maybe I'll go word blind and written stuff will become a perceptual soup so my comments will have to be carefully crafted, a bit like Psychic Sally's (who's on the road) contacts with the dead, so they don't really say enough to be seen as plainly wrong, and are so general that they could apply to any situation. That would be fine, as that's what I do anyway, applying a template to anything I read. Slightly more worrying is that I am sure already that I won't be able to read road signs if they are in the local script in the Himalaya, but by the time of the trip I may be word blind to English too. "Danger, Overhanging Rocks" will only make any sense once I have bounced off them into a gully, the same gully where a 16-wheeler is about to rumble over. I always wanted a flat stomach. Just didn't know that it would only come with a flat head.

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Sunday has been the best day of 2010 so far, although Saturday I did have a bacon sandwich, which was very nice too. The sun was up, the roads were dry, so I took the tractor up to Southport. Summer gloves, shades, and the new Sidis. No idea what it was, but my confidence was high and I probably hooned a little more than I should and a little more than the bike is intended for. What a gorgeous day. The last bit of the coast road to Southport, along side the dunes, is fabulous and it was early enough that there wasn't a line of cars to try to sneak past. It was tempting to stop at the chip shop up there and grab a cuppa but discretion and a full bladder pretty much demanded a return home.

The new boots are great, but either not designed for road bikes or, after having slightly knackered the gear shift in France when I fell under my bike in a port car park, there isn't enough room to get the boot tip under. It's a bit of a faff to change up, more so from 1st to 2nd, than in the HGs, but that's the price we pay for looking like something from The Twilight Saga. I'm probably going to have to get a new pair of textile pants. Already blessed with calves like boiled chickens, the current ones don't zip up with the boots on, which probably isn't ideal.

Once I am all armoured up I expect to look a lot like this.

If I am really lucky.

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Early morning trips to a 24 hour supermarket are essential for those with an interest in people. Today was slow-motion day; a woman looking at lipstick very gently kept hitting herself slowly on the side of the head as she looked at the startling array of colours, almost as if she might dislodge the irritating idea that blue lips would look good, from her consciousness. At the self-checkout counter a man was concentrating so hard on scanning his items that he was unaware of the mucous dripping, like treacle, from his nose, forming an increasing line of body fluid, connecting him in some mysterious way, to ASDA. If he were a dog then he'd still be in ASDA trapped by his own nose glue (but probably not looking quite as cute as a puppy).

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The Journal for the Academic Study of Magic - ever heard of it? Well, it exists (which might be more than can be said of magic). I am hoping that somewhere there is The Journal for the Academic Study of Unicorns, Elves, and Fairies. I'd love to read, "Buffy and Beyond: Language and resistance in contemporary teenage witchcraft". One reviewer wrote, "Don't be put off by the academic titles". Excellent.

As the sponge-faced puppets in the pasta sauce advert say, today is the day. Armour time. Doesn't require the same trousers as Hammer time, but in a small way it is a fashion statement.

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Sweet mother of god - the pounding has stopped, but now there's the gnawing of a blade through concrete. Why not blow the sodding thing up and be done? If a decidedly unlemony lemon cheesecake and Finn finding out that he's not the father of Quin's baby weren't enough. It's a lot like having a large dental drill and suction pipe going off beside my head, without the distraction of the pain. If someone gets a shitty CSRI mark then this might be the explanation (but best to reflect, it is the noise that's done it, or is it a shitty CSRI?). Apparently receiving feedback is just a sign of people being picky.

A poor man's version of "My Life Would Suck Without You" now exists though whether it will see the light of day is another thing. If I could persuade a crowd of teens to lark about in front of a camera I could put it to video, or maybe end up with 5 years in the big house and being confused for a doctor whose specialism is the diseases of children.

Any day now the armour will be here and I am going to wear it everywhere. It'll still be the same me underneath.