When I first set up this blog, the aim was to impress a global audience, all of whom would be enchanted by the unrivalled poetic beauty with which I convey my thoughts on life. My inbox was to be jam-packed with emails from editors begging me to contribute to their publications and they’d pay me a king’s ransom to do so. I’d then retire at the age of 30 and fulfil my dream of turning MultiYork (née Oadby Furnishers) into a GTA Vice City-style 80s bar, complete with casino. That life hasn’t turned out like that is a big fat travesty. The fact that I can rarely be bothered to write anything and when I do, it’s of absolutely no interest to anyone is if no statistical significance whatsoever.

The above is, of course, bollocks. However, I wanted to write it as many a time, I’ve been asked what it is that I do for a living. The opening paragraph is a perfectly succinct microcosmic example. I’m a gobshite and this gobshite hasn’t updated his blog in a while as he’s been busy being a professional gobshite in order to earn the requisite cash that will keep him away from the UK for a little longer. To return to the land of his birth at this stage would be tantamount to suicide – he cannot jeapordise his recovery from a working-in-Wellingborough-for-four-years induced breakdown just yet.

Back to writing in the first person.

I will return, one day. Maybe in 2015. That’s because in 2015, we are due to have a general election and countries magically improve the day after general elections. Or that’s what people seem to believe as they alternate their vote between two parties with a history of failure and the exact same policies, time after time. That’s right, it makes perfect sense to vote for the Tories once you’re tired of Labour rule and then switch back to Labour again when you’re sick of the Tories. If you repeat this trick ad infinitum, you can convince yourself that you live in a democracy, feel better that your country invades other countries to install similar “democracies” and gleefully denounce anyone who thinks otherwise as a fruitcake. Speaking of “fruitcakes”, I’m very pleased that UKIP has so spectacularly managed to upset the status quo with its staggering success in this week’s council elections. However, I’m sure the LibLabCon cabal will continue wreaking destruction upon my homeland making the prospect of a return less appetising than a ones-up with Diane “I’m not racist” Abbott.

Other than losing more hair and getting agitated with the brainwashed robot radicals that are a cancer on the UK, what have I been up to? In a nutshell, I’ve been enjoying life. I’m of the opinion that you’re a long time dead and while money is of course, an unavoidable necessity, human beings were simply not put on this planet to carry out a lifetime of drudgery (work). So while I have been working, I’ve been doing it as and when I want, and on my terms. Not between the hours of 9 and 5 on weekdays as so many are forced to. Instead, I’ve been bettering myself. I’m getting physically fit for the first time in years, I’ve resurrected my once semi-successful tennis “career” and I’m learning a new language – Spanish. Fair enough, the latter is proving difficult and I’m largely incapable of coherent conversation, but I’m persevering. I just cannot get my head round the need to assign genders to inanimate objects. La mesa? El sofá? What if something new is invented? Who decides whether it’s male or female and what criteria do they use? Maybe if the Spanish weren’t so busy faffing round with the dictionary, they’d never have had to cede Gibraltar to us Brits!

While I have been expanding my cultural horizons, I have not forgotten the things that make Britain great either – stupendous tea and incredible beer. Thanks to my dad’s generosity, a shipment of the finest organic tea arrived last week. If there’s ever a slight crisis, out come the teabags. Similarly, each day now begins with a good cup of tea, as it should. For St. George’s Day, I managed to procure four bottles of Abbot Ale and two dimpled pint glasses. It was a truly fantastic moment to enjoy “warm beer” once again (I’ve explained that it’s not warm, many a time, but it’s rarely understood). Maybe that’s because I explain in English, like every arrogant Englishman should. And if I’m still not understood I talk a bit louder before smashing the place up, safe in the knowledge that I tried my best.

One thing that did amuse me the other day was a chance encounter with some Germans. There I was, making my way to admire the sun set over the Pacific Ocean from a beautiful cliff top vantage point in Larcomar, when not one, but two distressed Germans accosted me. This is pretty much a summary of our exchange:

Heavily-perspiring German: “Habla Español?”

Me: “No”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Do you speak English?”

Me: “Yes”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Thank you, thank you. Where are you from?”

Me: “England”

Heavily-perspiring German: “Nice to meet you. I’m from Germany. I hope you’re not offended by what I am about to say but I need some help. Earlier today, my backpack was stolen and I lost all my documents. My passport, money, EVERYTHING. I have been to my embassy and they have managed to get me a hotel room for the night, for free, but they’re not like your embassy. They won’t give me any financial assistance. Once again, I’m sorry to have to ask you this, but would you be able to give me some money so I can get something to eat? I haven’t eaten for over 24 hours and I’m so tired. I can give you my details so that I can repay you as soon as I can”.

Me: “I’m really sorry, but I only have enough money for my taxi home and I don’t have my cash card with me. Best of luck though”.

Seconds later, another German approached.

German #2: “Do you speak English?”

Me: “No”.

As a man who talks bollocks for a living, I found this story to be highly dubious. Firstly, I’m sure German embassies don’t abandon their citizens like that. Secondly, it might have been more convincing if both weren’t wearing brand new t-shirts emblazoned with “Atlantic City Casino” in the middle of the gambling part of town. It would seem that, given the extreme panic emanating from every pore, one of them had stuck the lot on red, while the roulette ball agonisingly settled on black. Strangely, in my three months away, I’ve encountered numerous inefficient Germans. Is it Merkel’s policy to deport the inefficient minority these days? I hope so. I also hope that they replace “Deutschlandlied” with Nena’s “99 Luftballons” as their national anthem.

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