Caught a cheap as chips connecting flight to Heathrow yesterday.
Was getting sick of vasectomy music and the livestock fannying about willy-nilly in the streets.
Shit on a shingle.
Camels are but demanding in Istanbul.
They kept trying to take a bite out of my bottom every time I turn around.
Hooked up with a sheik and after a gargantuan breakfast of poppadums and cucumber raiter, while watching a scintillating rerun ofTurkey Alive, I thought it best to get the fastest fucking camel out of there.
Once in London, I hijacked a car and flew down the M5 at a rate of knots.
Seems Gay Londres was waiting for my arrival. They even welcomed me in with this dashing little sign:
All this tubing around the city and dodging feisty chavs is getting rather exhausting.
So, today I head via overland train to the exquisite location of Shepton Mallet.
To find inner peace, because I'll be fucked if I'm going to feel like a dead man's scrotum forever.
Will sit in a poob and justify why I completely lost my rag last Friday night. I don't lose my temper often, but when I do, it's a wrath most foul. And in hindsight, it was completely 100%, without a question, justified.
That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
I'll contemplate all this over a plate of spotted dick and a tumbler of frothing cranberry juice.
A shout out to Phil for the picture.
Although my brain is on vacation, my body still sits in this here shithole. By the way. I shall be back in action in the Burg of Johannes by the weekend.
PS: I'm getting my groove back, even shaved the old legs and creamed them up. This is big. In Turkey, they like their women hairy.
PPS: On chatting to my mate Doc: I'm loving being single. I've found myself to be most confident about myself when I'm guy-free. I'm destined to be a happy spinster! This is frightfully good news!
Say it isn't so.