Walking with the Big Dogs

So preparations have bobbed along in the usual way - Jo getting everything lined up, locked down and triple documented, I've stuck largely to pointing out that there is such a thing as being too organised. This is, of course, complete bo**ocks, but does allow one to put off until tomorrow what should have been done last week.

My one useful contribution has been to flex my Westwood game and put those hours of subliminal absorbing of Quest and Dave to dubiously good use by pimping our ride in a long distance stylee. Wielding Crayolas, colouring pencils and felt tips for the first time since the early '80s I blazed away like a vicar's son as the newly crowned Big Dog of the rikshaw game.

Once the photos filter back to Blighty, those of you au fait with Pimpin' will see a few departures from the son of a vicar man's usual offerings. There is, for example, no flat screens, no hopelessly shoddy MDF based interior trims and no mad rims. There isn't even any phat bins in the boot. Come to think of it, there isn't a boot. There is however some oh so wacky eyeballs, big cheesy grins and primary colours. That's the way we roll. The bomb's about to go off baby.