Since travel is hard, very hard; the crucial moment is that one must make a start
Anyone can mark a trail, only a man can pave it.
Paving the earth ~ shaving the balls.
Engine size = cock size.
Underneath the pavement, the dirt. I say, let the commies play there if they want.
The Town Planner is the greatest man; he does the one thing even I cannot manage: burying the past (and all through his own ignorance - what bliss).
I would rather keep bees than listen to the sound of a road near my house: I am the vocie of the sickening middle class.
The Town Planner takes a hint from Hitler's Germania, only without the ornaments.
To paraphrase Freddie N., "Maps are an obstacle to be overcome."
I learned more playing OUTRUN than sitting my driving test.
My name is WainwRIGHT. My car stereo is always filled with filthy hip-hop.
There is just too much traffic.
It numbers them now, like a bureaucrat with his 'A' roads.
No matter how tempting the tractor may be in countryside situations, I still prefer the casual use of the tank.
Satnav: the oedipal dream. Momma speaks, and, for once, she tells the truth with her directions.
Still, you will pay the cost of refuelling. And it is not the petrol which is expensive.
The cow catcher expects the cow; but it requires an expert driver to actually 'catch' one.
The cow catcher expects the cow, the Social Democrat expects the poor; neither has saved a single soul.
The cow catcher has now become an obsession with marginalised white Australian men. They should embrace it more literally.
Under the pavement the beach: let the commies dig even deeper if they want. In the sewage pipes they will find their paradise.
The beach? They are secretly thinking of a child's sandpit.
The Town Planner is a rare breed. I propose we hunt him, just like the tiger and the panda.
I don't like hydrofoils. I prefer a deep keel.
The quad bike. What is wrong with two wheels?
To judge the merits of a town multiply its drydock capacity by the size of its stadia. Then you will know how ready it is for war.
A Town Planner's task should consist solely in maximising the production of quickly drying concrete, to remedy any shortcomings to the above rule.
A German in a sports club is a fascist, an englishman in a sports club is a failure. Either way, both were born several decades too late to shine.
What about pedestrians you ask? All I care for is the bulldozer's free passage.
The forest's potential is its capacity for accommodating the chainsaw and other heavy machinery. Much like women in the workplace.
Is the gap year supposed to fill this hole in these idiots' heads? As far as i can tell, it exacerbates it. Send them to me in the rainforest, we will play a few games, they will learn a few things.
Women accuse me of insensitivity to their 'condition.' If only they knew of my love for the power drill, they would know better than to confront me.
An idiot travels with a typewriter, a Havisock with a Guidebook (even when not travelling); a man travels with a rifle, or, where illegal, a pistol.
A Havisock can also be recognised by his tail, even when mixing it up with the monkeys. All one needs is a steady arm to take them out.
Comprehending womankind is like taking a camper-van to the summit of the Puy-de-Dome. Only possible one day in seven, and then at some considerable difficulty.
Camper vans are the vehicle of choice in the Ardennes, or any other area of juvenile watching.
The camper van is the ultimate illusion: to appear externally to go somehwere, while nothing changes internally.
The camper van and the concentration camp - long before anything is laid out, the rules are in place.
First rule of the camper van: celebrate every 1000 kilometers.
Second rule of the camper van: children on the outside, perverts on the inside; fortunately there are always ways to join the two.
Third rule of the camper van: campers are not for pleasure, only for business. Travel business is hard.
Fourth rule of the camper van: a man is only worth his weight in material, nothing else. Whether this material comes from munificence or ignomy makes no difference.
Fifth rule of the camper van: You will only want to celebrate after the first 1000kms. After that you will want to run home to mamman.
Sixth rule of the camper van: Monday, no pants day (trousers); tuesday, no pants day (underwear); wednesday, no pants day (both) thursday, bathing suits only inside the van (save bed-areas). Other days, anything goes.
I don't travel by camper van, only on Mondays and Tuesdays. There must be limits.
I don't travel by camper van, but they give me a pretty good idea where to aim.
Seventh rule of the camper van: You will end up in Berlin. Everything before is just foreplay.
Travelling on the German Autobahn is supposed to be fast; I considered it to be just another battlefield.
Travelling on the autobahn tests three things: speed of the car, the drivers ability, and finally his disregard for the locals. I have only ever been found lacking on the first count, and every time I have demanded full reimbursement.
Wherever I travel, I apply the following universal rule: no road is inherently slow, it is only the lack of knowledge of speed that should be punished.
I made the mistake of returning to Berlin recently. There was nothing left for me. In '84 it cost me eight pairs of pristine blue jeans to do so much as spit on Karl-Marx Allee. Nowadays I could piss right up the middle and only be rewarded by the alacrity of some clueless hipsters.
Dresden has been rebuilt by the commies - one more reason to 'repeat history.' The firestorm has an artistic quality which is not fully understood.
"I think we probably should stop there": a sentiment the true traveller will understand, but possibly only in retrospect.