Why do people of a certain age find it acceptable to pass wind in public? It’s like there’s absolutely no shame factor involved once you pass a set point in life. Whilst looking at some ancient Incan ruins the other day on a day-long journey from Puno to Cusco, an Italian geriatric decided to interrupt the tour guide by floating an audible air biscuit. Not one, but two. The latter changing key several times on its entrance into this world and causing me to erupt into a fit of hysterics. Clearly, I am only 29 years old in a physical sense and not mentally.

Another interesting part of the aforementioned journey was the presence of a chap who bore a passing resemblance to Flavio Briatore in the seat across the aisle from me on the bus. It was not so much his appearance that I found amusing, but his decision to air a spare set of (dirty) grundies and socks on the curtain cord. Although I can’t say for certain, I’m sure that if you look closely, you’ll see that that’s not Marmite or Nutella smeared on the gusset (copyright David Brent)…

“Pants man” as he was thereafter referred to, then decided to gnosh off the tour guide with a series of regular, irrelevant questions clearly designed to showcase his trilingual language abilities to anyone within a five mile radius. Being bilingual myself (English and bullshit) I was not jealous, just extremely irritated. I’ve encountered many a gobbler in my working life thus far and all have a special piece of my unique brand of hate reserved especially for them. I’ll not name names but if you’re reading, “Cecil”, I always wanted to tell you that you really are, an insufferable bellend.

Two days ago was interesting in the fact that we stayed in a grotty hostel complete with dirty sheets, paint peeling off the walls, dogs barking all night long and a rather concerning stench emanating from the bogs (I wasn’t responsible). Still, it was worth it to witness the missus shout down the receptionist in what seemed like a competition as to who could speak the fastest Spanish. I’ve no idea what was said but I loitered in the background, confident that if a situation arose, I would be able to talk down the receptionist with my superior linguistic skills to convince him he was in the wrong. In a decent hotel now – there’s even a phone in the loo.

On a more serious note, I’ve had a wander round Cusco and am impressed by its selection of pharmacies which have proved extremely useful as today, I awoke with a searing pain in my shoulder. Christ only knows what happened but being a hypochondriac, I was convinced that last night, I was having a heart attack. Thankfully due to the existence of said pharmacies, I am now being soothed by Ibuprofen cream and a bottle of Cusqueña. That said, it’s a little chilly here at night and lager is only suitable for warmer climes. Fortunately the Irish bar up the road serves Abbott Ale on draught and I may well have to pay it visit.

I have six more days in Cusco before heading back to Lima where I will doubtless be able to top up my sunburn (and learn some Spanish). First of all, I need to find a place to live, and by “place”, I don’t mean a hostel. I’ve seen enough save-the-world white rastas carrying their lives on their backs to last a lifetime.

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