staines

Unsurprisingly, the Dove didn't fall for my 'I'm moving to Guam' bullshit, and the colleague didn't want to adopt a kangaroo my on behalf either.

This really didn't matter. I had a hearty whale of a time creating the aforementioned bullshit especially for their prospective inboxes.

So I went through Staines this weekend.

Staines is known for two things.

1) being the fictional home of Ali G;
2) being the biggest shithole west of London.

So you can imagine how keen I was to spend 3 hours waiting for the next train down to Bournemouth to join my boyfriend over the weekend.

This is Staines, the pop culture version:


This is Staines, the real version:


In all seriousness, I thought, "I'll wander around and find an Ali G memorial."

Jumped onto the train, fresh out of southwest London, and got off, wearing a red polka dot summer dress (this is important) and double-breasted blazer (even more important), and navy neckerchief (probably the most important thing in this entire story), to this:

The only thing around was a highway and five tyre shops.

I walked down the street in search of something, anything, and was accosted verbally by a group of 12 year olds in lumo shell suits and waterfall mullets.

Something about my blazer and neckerchief didn't quite fit into the local scene. Must try better next time.

I was pretty much convinced after 5 minutes of walking that this, was on the scale of Shit-as-Scunthorpe on a wet day, when I turned a corner to find this:

What could that be, in this hiatus of hell? Why, a blerrie Saffa winkel.

And even better still, it sold fuckloads of wine.

To set the context right: I haven't seen a bottle of Diemersfontein since I stepped foot on this island 10 months ago. That's a long time to be thirsty for, sistah.

And hark! In the middle of Staines, El Sheethole Del Mundo, was a dude called Ross who sold gallons of the stuff.

I bought three bottles. I found Diemersfontein in Staines.

And threw in a bottle of Mrs Balls for good measure.

Howzat hey.