Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Back in black.
Hey! What's winking? Here I am then, back from my holidays and what a magical time I had. I'd like to share some of my experiences with you in Goodballoon's guide to the World.
Day 1:
As I arrived at Croydon City Airport and settled into my Super Club Sandwich I had the most wonderful feeling of elation; destined for fine times with fine wines whilst commiting fine crimes for nine dimes my little plop-hole was jumpin' about like a freaked twat! As my tram pulled away a warm, almost orgasmic flush came over me. Then a tramp pulled away until he came all over me. These continentals!
Day 2:
France. Monsieur with this marvellous country you are really spoiling us. Cheese, wine, chocolate, horse, cock, horse-cock, frogs, amphibians. Oooo la la! Having been to the hypermarket and the tobacconists I was off. Next: Italy.
Day 3:
Spain. I was keen to meet up with a couple of friends in a ja jeun square I knew down in a tiny Andalucian village I was well disposed towards. I saw them from a distance and realised they had started without me. It was something in the air that told me: tear gas. They had already torn out the front of two of the bars and the police station was on fire. Wild times. I felt as Hemingway must've.
Day 4:
Italy. Nothing of note.
Day 5:
Cilla Black. I slipped into Cilla in the wee small hours and spent a very comfortable night in her birth canal. Warm and dry, it provided me with a very pleasant view of St. Michael's until morning when I ventured further North. Her liver was decent enough although a little editing would not go amiss. Kidneys, lungs and heart were all fine but it was her tonsils that I enjoyed the most. When she sang, they vibrated pleasingly; when she spoke, they swayed gently on the breeze of her breath but it was when she was entertaining a gentleman caller that the action really began. If you managed to cling on the ride was wild, and not unlike a log-flume ride at Alton Towers.
Day 6:
Leeds. I don't remember this at all.
Day 7:
Home. And here I am back to wanking and crying into my pants. Happy times.
Seeing dandruff!
Day 1:
As I arrived at Croydon City Airport and settled into my Super Club Sandwich I had the most wonderful feeling of elation; destined for fine times with fine wines whilst commiting fine crimes for nine dimes my little plop-hole was jumpin' about like a freaked twat! As my tram pulled away a warm, almost orgasmic flush came over me. Then a tramp pulled away until he came all over me. These continentals!
Day 2:
France. Monsieur with this marvellous country you are really spoiling us. Cheese, wine, chocolate, horse, cock, horse-cock, frogs, amphibians. Oooo la la! Having been to the hypermarket and the tobacconists I was off. Next: Italy.
Day 3:
Spain. I was keen to meet up with a couple of friends in a ja jeun square I knew down in a tiny Andalucian village I was well disposed towards. I saw them from a distance and realised they had started without me. It was something in the air that told me: tear gas. They had already torn out the front of two of the bars and the police station was on fire. Wild times. I felt as Hemingway must've.
Day 4:
Italy. Nothing of note.
Day 5:
Cilla Black. I slipped into Cilla in the wee small hours and spent a very comfortable night in her birth canal. Warm and dry, it provided me with a very pleasant view of St. Michael's until morning when I ventured further North. Her liver was decent enough although a little editing would not go amiss. Kidneys, lungs and heart were all fine but it was her tonsils that I enjoyed the most. When she sang, they vibrated pleasingly; when she spoke, they swayed gently on the breeze of her breath but it was when she was entertaining a gentleman caller that the action really began. If you managed to cling on the ride was wild, and not unlike a log-flume ride at Alton Towers.
Day 6:
Leeds. I don't remember this at all.
Day 7:
Home. And here I am back to wanking and crying into my pants. Happy times.
Seeing dandruff!
