Now this this one is REALLY strange

Sorry but the blog might not go in order for the next week or so, but I had to pen this dream.
Can't really remember the start but it was like being in a Singaporean gangster flick. Bearing in mind I had been in the country about four hours, that is odd in itself. Harry, the chap I'm meeting out here seemed to be some mob boss and tere were a couple of others, and they all owned restaurants, apart from one that had a pub. I slept with most of their wives, one of whom started off like a girl called Juliet I went to school with, but then sorta changed into an ex called Sarah. Thinking about it, Lynsey was her little sister! I met thi wirey bloke who was a bit like Jef, and we ripped all the gangsters off, and then he shot them all with a Ingram Mac 10, but he spared me and wished me luck. I went to the pub that the boss-blike owned to find Barney's brother sat at the bar waiting to be served, and went and let myself into his flat. Just before I woke, my Aunt Rosemary popped her head round the door to comment what a bad business it had all been. I would like to mention that I had taken no drugs or alcohol for this one!

Totally fucked up!

I'm on my boat, sat on the top deck, getting some sun, just to make you jealous, and the scenery is just weird. Right in front of me is a building site, but to my sort of right is the most amazing sight of a huge cable car about thousand mile in the air and the tower holding part of it up descends into palm trees and shit! Unfortunately we are just sat here rocking back and forth waiting to disembark, slowly being poisoned by diesel fumes. Bit concerned that they appeared to be loading my suitcase onto another boat, but I could be wrong.

Just spent ten minutes photographing stuff. In fact, for the majority of those ten minutes, I have said nothing other than 'fuck me!' this place is simply unbelievable, especially when you are flying past it on a boat the size of a seacat, but doingabout three hundred miles an hour, as there are probably no speed limits, like on the roads here, only speed suggestions. We just whipped round a marker buoy like a jetski, and you could see the singapore eye, a blatant ripoff of the london eye.
Just had to put my watch back an hour. Everyone seems to want their own time zone, sort of as a mark of their individuality. Tossers!

Why, in the name of .....

Why is it that all methods of travel require you to hang around for fucking hours? All I want to do is get on a ferry, and they go every ten minutes, so why should I have to turn up at least an hour in advance.
Sorry, my apologies. I am at a ferry terminal in Singapore waiting for a boat to Batam, and its as bad as the fucking airport. I did warn you that these might be done in the wrong order, but due to my liver faillure, lack of sleep, plus the jetlag, I don't feel particularly in order myself. Hang gotta go and check my bags in.
Right, despite what I had been told, the immigration fee is not 20 Usd it's 25! You have to have US notes and they have to be clean and tidy else they cause problems. I just happened to read my immigration slip, and I didn't have enough money! So I had to eg it to find a currency exchange to get a five spot! Then when I got to the full mmigration check, I couldn't find my immigration form from singapore, so that took me away to an office. Luckily I found iton closer inspection. I am just about to board the Ocean Raider for forty minutesof throwing up over the side!

Wasp shock

Disturbing a wasps nest without getting more than a couple of stings is no impossibility. If the wasps findyou unattractive enough, only a couple of wasps will actually 'take one for the team' and try to sting you. Because of your immense repulsiveness, the wasp would have difficulty 'getting it up', sting-wise and all the other wasps would be helping to fluff the fated wasp's sting up to penetration hardness and would be so caught up with this activity that there would be no possibility of receiving more than a couple of stings. Scientists made this miraculous discovery after one of my very weird mini dreams involving wasps with erectile dysfunction. Hey ho.

Peace out

A bit more normal

The first part of the night I was leading a crack team of robbers in a dirty dozen style 'being the good guys' sort of mission to stop some random bloke from stealing 100 million pounds of summat or other. We ended up swimming along a huge dock in this really slimy water until we could get up onto what I think was a manmade concrete spit. There was some sort of gun battle in which the bad guy got caught and we took him back to Winchester bus station where I was informed that my mother had died and I'd inherited 100 million pounds! Got disturbed by the cat, but when I got back to sleep, there was something about a motorhome that I can't really remember, but I think we drove it to a Roadchef where it turned into my Vectra. Whilst waiting for burgers, it became night, and there was a man looking out the window at some sparkly type affair in the sky. We talked about it being some sort of astronomical display, and I went to get my camera for the car. While I was getting my camera, I bumped into my aunt Jenny who was a supervisor at the services and she was shouting at a subordinate. When I go back to the restaurant area, the bloke had a tripod set up, and I realised I would need one too, so I went back to the car where I saw Jenny again, with her daughter and a baby, who kept trying to steal my keys. Walking back to the restaurant, the sky was bright with stars, that started to change colour, and looked a lot like those films of weird deep sea animals, all tentacley and flashy and shit. When I tried to setup my tripod, however, the legs would not stay together, so I had to keep adjusting the settings and trying again, but every time I pulled the legs out, they spread out a couple of metres and the tripodwas only about three foot off the ground.
Then I was woken up by someone trying to sell me a car!

Peace out!

Stripping for fun

 

A couple of weeks ago, I had the honour of visiting an old friend of mine in Bristol for his birthday. For the sake of protecting the innocent, I will call the birthday boy Wes, and his girlfriend, I dunno, Jodie. Having arrived in Bristol after a fairly torturous two and a bit hour drive where my sat nav (a homicidal item of electrical hardware that is repeatedly trying to kill me, or at least make me attempt suicide by driving off a cliff), took me the majority of the way into Somerset, before finally heading north through country lanes so thin that even the badgers have to pull in to let each other pass, Jodie and I went to buy some Champagne and went off to meet Wes. Incidentally, when we left their flat, I had left my car keys on their table only to come outside and discover that I had left my windows wide open. Trying to do them up only set off the car alarm, which, of course, I could not switch off due to my keys being in their flat! I mention this, as it was sort of typical of the day thus far. Getting a bus into Bristol was an education for someone who had not set foot on public transport for quite some time. Did you know that you don't even get your own driver! Having leapt off the bus at some suitable point, totally lost, but assured by Jodie that we were still in the same county, despite having travelled for forty or fifty generations, we wandered into the centre of Bristol. Now I would be the first to admit that I am a country lad by heart, and not mad keen on cities, but Bristol was pretty cool. We had not walked more than two hundred yards before seeing a fox wander across a roundabout, where it had been hiding and living off the homeless and hopelessly drunk for years. It looked fat!

Having met Wes in some sort of pub, and shouted at each other for quite a while over the noise, we wandered off to have a crack at the champagne that was nestled discreetly in Jodie's bag. Sat somewhere near water of some genre, we reminisced and drank the fizzy giggle juice until we had to move on: bladders were being worn very full this season. Having got the idea into my head, it was decided that a strip club was definitely in order, as neither Jodie nor the birthday boy himself had ever set foot into one before. Having found a place, that may or may not have been called 'Wildcats' that did a fantastically reasonable twenty quid nude private dance, we sauntered in and took up some drinks. How fucking expensive, talk about a cash cow, and I don't mean the bird in the waistcoat who had a face like it had caught fire and someone put it out by dropping a building on it. Over the whole weekend I spent more money on drinks in that bar than anything else. Still, nice collection of poon, and just as we collected our drinks, a table freed itself up next to the pole and dance area. Wasn't the biggest table in the world, but then again, the dance floor was no leviathan either, being, as it was, just about the right size for someone sat at said table to catch a tantalizing stiletto heel in the eye. From this point on it was difficult to work out who looked more disoriented, Wes or Jodie, although the smart money was on Wes.

During the first young lady's attempt on the pole to slash me across the cheek with a perilous 'cross knee release', a move that even the South African police have banned, citing that it was 'a touch out of order', poor old Wes didn't even have a look at what was on offer. He occasionally glanced up, but seemed a little disorientated to find what was there when he did. Meanwhile, I was trying to find out from them both what sort of girl would be appropriate, both for Wes's enjoyment, and Jodie's satisfaction that he wouldn't be so enjoyed that he would flee Bristol with a dancer and live on Fiji raising squirrels and existing off the land. Eventually, after probably another round of drinks, they had both decided on the girl that was gonna be obligatory for the continuation of the strippy type ritual. Now, unfortunately, we had got ourselves stuck on a table that was to all intents and purposes, under the stairs. We were not getting the attention we deserved as any lass wanting to approach us had to either bend double, or kneel on the floor.

Wes's dancer of choice was free, available, and looking for 'mister right'; at least 'mister right amount', and, using a trick picked up from Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, I invited her to join us. Incidentally, not really much of a trick, and it works with all whores gooks
gold diggers ladies looking to easily manage their careers in an easy-going manner that doesn't interfere with the intangible flow of the evening: you simply pop a folded twenty/fifty in the palm of your hand, clearly displaying the fact that it is a twenty/fifty and shout 'hey there, would you like to join us!'. Works a lot better than its predecessor: 'hey bitch, you dancing, or fucking, or just plain fucking right off?' which doesn't always have the same positive effects. Although fuck me it's funny!

Having lured the girl into sitting cross-legged on the floor under the stairs with us, we all explained by shouting, and undoubtedly spitting on her, that it was Wes's birthday and that Jodie was his gf and wanted to join them. The tits and arse wrangled them the price of thirty for the pair of them and led them off to their private room!

Now, being left alone at the table gave me a chance to properly take in my surroundings and explore the whole idea of the pole-dancing/stripping experience. Now, from what I know from strippers that I knew in Southampton, they actually pay to come to work, and keep the money that they make. Some places charge them a percentage of their evening take, and some don't. Each of the girls there had a look in their eyes that you only usually see in the eyes of starving Indonesians, hopeless salesmen (like Gil from the Simpsons), and crack addicts. The main difference was that in there as well was a spark of intelligence, almost without fail missing from the above list. The look is one that you can see when the owner knows that they have to make the money, or they will have to put up with a lifestyle change. When you are talking about a starving person, then often the money is the difference between life and death, with a crack addict, feeling like life or death, and for a shite salesman, the difference is having a wife and house and not. Now I don't by any means believe that any of them would starve to death if they didn't flash their twats at people three nights a week, and I'm certainly not suggesting that they are crack addicts, so that kinda leaves the shite salesman metaphor. The distinction being the lifestyle change would probably not be as dramatic, but nobody likes having the nice stuff taken away. Now there are people out there who would say that the girls are motivated by many different and admirable things, such as it makes them feel sexy and appreciated, or it keeps them fit, or that there is a shared sense of femininity, but my guess is that it is all bollocks. The girls never want to be on the podium, as that keeps them from earning a quick twenty quid in a private room. They have the hungry look of a cat in a room full of infirm overweight gerbils carrying little rucksacks full of whiskas jelly. This is why lap-dancing places can become boring very quickly if you are too sober or too cynical. As a bloke there, you are the piece of meat, and although you think that you are being the hero, sitting enjoying a cold beer, having a cigarette (bollocks, alright, no cigs. Fuckers!), watching some young lass parading her spadge for your delight and delectation, you are being fucked yourself, paying for something that if you weren't such a loss, you'd be getting for free somewhere else.

Luckily, before this line of thought could get too depressing, Wes and Jodie returned from their dance. Laugh, I thought I'd piss myself! Jodie was pretty cool calm and collected, as was Wes, except that he had, what they call in Full Metal Jacket, the thousand yard stare. He downed his drink pretty swiftly, and didn't make eye contact for a while, as if his mind was elsewhere. He looked like someone who was trying to remember if he had left the gas cooker on with a candle in the bedroom, with a hard-on. Jodie obviously enjoyed the experience, and Wes certainly looked happy, if not just a little shell shocked. Sadly, it took me quite a while to find the lass for me. I have extremely high standards, as I feel that it is a disgrace that I should have to stare up their cock pocket whilst they relieve me of my hard-earned, when surely it is more logical that they should be paying me for the privilege of checking that they are not diseased. I turned down an eight foot black Amazonian warrior on the grounds that...well, shit, gross! Although, didn't phrase it like that. As everyone well knows I am no racist and a lover of everyone, no matter the creed or colour. But shit man, nasty! If I stood on tiptoes, I could have just about sniffed the fluff in her belly button. Besides, last black girl I went down on was a little on the hairy side: it looked like a kebab dropped on a hairdresser's floor. That experience probably tainted me a little to lean away from the jungle fever. When I finally found a young athletic lassy who I felt would be acceptable to allow her to rub her nipples across my mouth, we disappeared off to our room. I have to say, she was quite delightful. I would have quite happily invited her home to meet my mother. Ten minutes and twenty quid later I adjourned back to our table, overall pretty happy with my choice. Fantastic little pair of teenage thrusters, looked like they were held up with hooks, and a panty hamster like a mouse's ear, with not a trace of muff fluff to spoil the view. I returned to our table and supped away at the drinks in the same fashion that the club supped away at my wallet, but on the plus point the bouncer gave me a cap which he then refused to let me wear?!? I wore it backwards on the journey home though, as one more drunken chav tosser didn't really stand out too much in Bristol!

I did have some pictures to post with this, but I can't find them, which is probably good. The rest of the evening was a blur, as was the journey home the following day, apart from racing a Range Rover Vogue SE down the 303 then the 34 at about 125 MPH. Fuck me those things can certainly move when they want to. He didn't dip below 110 the whole time I was behind him, and that was about forty miles. Oh yeah, and when I got home I realised that I had a flat, so while I was a woodlouse pube away from doubling the national speed limit, I had a front offside flat! Well, you just gotta laugh.

 

Peace out!

They get weirder and weirder

Can't remember this one quite as well, but Jon and I were going to some sort of amusement park. We were following three incredibly cute lasses to the water park bit, except that we all had to crawl on our hands and knees up a 55 degree slope to get there. When we finally got to the top, we had to clamber down a spiral staircase with no step which was being doused with water. When we got to the end of this, we had lost the girls and seemed not to be in a water park, but an indoor play area. I was given a little train to sit on, like the ones kids cart themselves round the garden on, and it started pootling off by itself round some sort of course, except that when it got to a wall, it just drove up it and along the ceiling. I just drove around for ages trying to find the girls, and then Jon, who I also lost. Eventually I got off to complain to one of the staff, a right arrogant prick, and he shoved me through a fire exit out into the broad daylight, andthn someone knocked on the door and woke me up!

I might need a psychiatrist. Or a joint.