The Spain Chronicles

Part 1

I wanted to be the great beach-bum drunk, but it’s just way too hot. I drink daily 12-6, a quick cold shower and then I’m too drained from the heat to be anything..

I dread going back to London – what could I possibly be there? Nothing. Here I’m the eclectic, mysterious guy with tattoos who has his own place amongst a sea of families with brooding teenagers all following girls around because they’re trying to make sense of their erections. They were all hanging around by the garbage, berating a group of girls like some awful Shakespearean matinee. Middle aged women, teenage girls, hot of-age females, they all look at me with lust in their eyes – but I’m just the great pretender, pretending that I’m ok. All bronzed, a healthy tan-boy I am.

I like the fact the clouds are blocking the sun for a change, I have my feet in the sand and a beer at the end of my arm. My chair is sinking, and I realise the sand surrounding the bar in the trailer park, is where the dozens of cats living their happy little lives shit. And here I am – kneading my toes in there like a happy ending massage… fertilising the soul.

All I came down here for was some gad-damned paella, but it’s Spain and people don’t eat when I AM HUNGRY.  And if I have to eat one more cheese and chorizo sandwich I will shit in the sand and befriend the cats and live out the rest of my days eating scraps of squid that are dropped from the kitchen window. However, the bar plays the same game as the beach, I wait for the hot girls to come in and sit down so I have something pretty, something HUMAN to look at.

Part 2

 

The fat bar-girl promises me some Paella, but looks at me like only Spaniards enjoy this yellow monkey-fish dish. Hook me up with that goodness, I say, and force it down my gullet with giant weathered spoons. Spoons all dented with black spots where the non-stick NASA nonsense has faded away to leave the burnt on taste of many meals eaten with glee. The sun has bleached my hair like an Ugly Kid Joe song, but I am more tanned on one side because the beach lies facing EAST, exposing my blistered back to the ferocious sun; that frankly astonishes me can be so hot when it is so far away, so I lie on one side, like a weirdo.

And now I’m spilling Olive Oil all over the place and slipping my un-couth elbows all over the shop – still with my feet in the shit sand – now covered in oil… I’m becoming a greasy Spaniard. So I opt to eat my little bits of bread in the little bread basket          PAN-SOLO, but it’s way too dry so I go back to the oil and I’m definitely some manner of greasy, oily bandit with cat shit between my toes waiting for my PAELLA.  I think of the only other time I have eaten alone in a restaurant – drunk as funk in the seven seasons in china town shovelling chilli beef into my face. The best god damned chilli beef in town though – no doubt.

And the Paella is great, all squiddy and prawny, first proper meal I’ve had since I got here – good wholesome eating. Filling my belly in a way it had forgotten. I head to the toilet and fill my pockets with all my possessions because a couple of nights ago some greasy thief stole my cigarette filters, nearly a full pack of filters, filters you can’t get in Espana. I spun vigorously in my seat looking for them; in complete disarray, trying hard not to believe that someone would stoop as low as to steal a man’s filters. FILTERS! There was tobacco, papers and a lighter right there! What an odd prick thing to do.

The bandana wearing cock-knocker with his ridiculous little wizard-beard goes strolling off, like nothing’s awry, completely oblivious to the fact a startlingly beautiful girl calls herself his girlfriend. What do I have to complain about though? Well, here’s a list.

My feet are too hot

Palm trees are blocking my view of the sea – Jesus life is hard.

Right now I’m more interested in the big ginger TOMCAT and his big swinging nut-bag, but that’s only because he’s right there strutting in the sand between the palms. All the TOMS round here look gnarly, all scarred with tails missing and bits of ear chewed off. It’s like a feline war zone in this place. You hear them scrapping all over, screaming, wailing, hissing – kicking up dust in the bushes.

Part 3

 

I’ve found the best spot on the beach is on the right hand side of the ASOCION NATURALISM marquee right smack in the centre. Been veering towards the end where a rusty old canal pumps eel infested stink water into the sea. The water is disgusting, in a greasy-green-eel kind of way. I saw them slithering about in the water next to the oldest, rustiest lock-mechanism – and what the hell is that for? It aint big enough for a human boat; do these little eels have little canal boats they whip out when no-one’s looking, all adorned with paintings of roses and old stabiliser tyres for buffers?

Big can of San Miguel for breakfast, followed by Heineken stubby snacks and more San Miguel for lunch. I don’t want to stop sitting on this beach in my sunken beach chair held down firm with bigger pebbles. At least the wind has died down enough for the waves to stop being frighteningly menacing like they have been for the past couple of days. Old Beastie (the sea) has given me a kicking the past few days, so much so that I lost my flesh tunnel ear piece and had to jam salty, hot pebbles of varying sizes in there until I found one suitable, but inevitably that slipped out the first instance I stepped foot back in the sea.

I can still taste last night’s Gin, it has tainted my tasty taste buds with some horrible Limey Gin-ness, but I must be turning into some booze-riddled blood-bag of death. All the booze is having a mediocre attempt at giving me hangovers. Could be the sun though, making me sweat out booze-bullets in my sleep. All I listen to is redneck country music because it fills my head with happiness, in a some-what lonely setting which only offers up feral cats for company. My little Spanish phrase book doesn’t help me hold down conversations with people, only how to ask for things, or complain that ‘I can’t eat this food because it isn’t fresh/clean.’ I should have taken more time to learn a bit more of the native language before coming out here. There is always the pen and paper though, because there isn’t anyone better to talk to than a finely lined piece of A4 paper with a pen strapped to your fingertips. It is a novelty, I admit, to sit on the beach with your balls out watching the surf lick the beach and write beneath the sunshine. I guess right here, right now, I am as free from obligation as I will ever be – no one to answer to and cold beer whenever I want it – what a lazy, lucky bugger I am.

The pen in my hand is beginning to feel tacky – is it actually melting? My god, the woes of my life! I’ve had ball-aching heartburn for the best part of three hours now and the milk here tastes like it JUST came out of a cow, and I’m not about to guzzle a load of warm udder juice just to quell a minor irritation within. Old Beastie is being nicer today, not me over and rolling me around on the pebbles like a twat. It smashed my knee up and ripped a tasty gash in it, which when covered in salt water feels like shit.

There’s some oily looking homos strolling around on the beach, I don’t mind the odd female to sneak a penis-peek in my direction, in fact it can be quite flattering, but when these greasy, shaved-ball-baggers stand directly in front of me pretending to pick through interesting pebbles I feel the need to cross my legs out of fear their penis will rise while looking at mine. I’d have to pepper the swinging wang with pebbles to diminish the loin swellage. And I think that might look a bit bizarre, a half drunk Englishman throwing pebbles at a homosexual’s penis shouting “DOWN BOY!”

I try to tractor-beam the females in my direction so they will fill up the space surrounding me, blocking access to the cruising gayboys – it never works though. There’s no way they would come close enough; is it because they would feel self conscious being that close to my beady ogling-eye. The sweet irony of it all. Would it help if I was one of these wrinkly ball bag old guys that are more perverted than most? One of these particular bandingos was busted eyeing up a girl’s vagina yesterday when positioning himself directly in front of her so he could get optimum line-of-sight to her girly snatch. He whipped off his gigantic blue shorts and layed down in front of her and started very unsubtly beating himself off, lifting his torso with his chest so he could get at his penis – the dirty bastard. She happened to look up, noticing the atmosphere had turned sour somehow, just in time to catch him quickly turn his gaze away and try turning his wank into a ball scratch. Her boyfriend laughed at him and moved all of their stuff one foot to the left so the fiddler could no longer see her bits. The disappointment on his face was so obvious – blatantly frustrated he thumped the ground with his pecker beating fist, rolled up his towel and skulked off. I laughed at his amateurish attempt at trying to eye-up a beaver – you have to be SUBTLE, and for god’s sake, don’t position yourself on a relatively empty beach right in front of a girl’s ham wallet and think nobody is going to notice. His wank for the day for was completely ruined by his over-eagerness.

Another tiny-dicked cock-sucker just showed his junk to me in a way that he probably thinks will get me aroused. I feel pity for him, showing me a penis that small, although any boyfriend he might procure would probably be happy that there wouldn’t be any serious damage done to anal walls.

It’s the old dudes that chill out under the marquee that have me stumped; just naked for the sake of being naked, not even in the sun, only there to enjoy the wind on their balls. What a life.

Part 4

 

I change the mood from angry metal in my ears to Gregory Isaac and now the shadows of gulls look poetic, not annoying. An endless blue and a banking horizon are ruined by two boys shoving their asses in each other’s faces. God I hope those two aren’t anally involved, boys that age should definitely not be putting their penises in each other’s assholes.

It’s not about mid-day sun, 3 – 4pm is the hottest time on this beach, blistering ass that the sun is – is doing its best to burn me up, cook me up finger lickin’. I have to look at two GIGANTIC lesbians; god knows if they even have vaginas hidden away under all those layers. Beached whales would be such a cliché I won’t even go there, but these gigantic squid-looking, manatee beasts are fatter than fat fucks eating lard at a chocolate gorging party. Old uber blue-shorts perv is back, towel rolled under his arm scoping out some naked puss-puss to masturbate over. Seems he’s having trouble finding a suitable target and has opted to wait it out by the foot washing fountain at the back of the beach by the port-a-loos. Poor old me has to look at the GIANT LESBIANS. I do hope they don’t go to suffocating each other. Old blue-shorts opts to scope out the giant lesbians, he aint fussy, he don’t care, just as long as it’s naked – or is he here to look at my ball bag?.

The giant lesbians must go through a hell of a lot of Euros on suntan lotion – covering their masses of fat must be an expensive affair. How does a person even get THAT fat? It must take years of butter-eating effort, slamming fried goods and sugary treats down their gullets every chance they get. The problem with these two obese lesbians is they’ve got no incentive to lose any of the weight. They are obviously happy losing themselves in each other’s folds of skin, making each other feel better about being so disgusting because they’re just as gargantuan as each other.

Part 5

If I’m leaving an average of 20 cigarettes a day on this beach, tucked away between the pebbles, then just how many cigarette butts are actually on this beach? Everyone smokes! There must be THOUSANDS and if that is the case then every over-populated summer beach in the world must have as many butts strewn around in the sand. BILLIONS of cigarette butts must litter the beaches of the world. And then there’s all the plastic in the oceans to worry about, what a race of litterers we are, what dirty fucks we all are; no one gives a shit, so why the fuck should I? I do seem to have a hell of a lot of rhetorical questions; does this make me into some kind of asshole drunk beach philosopher? There’s another one.

The clouds have rolled in again and the heat has dissipated enough to make some of the more UV junky revellers retract and leave the scene. God those fat lesbians are ugly beasts. Some people are still hanging around regardless of the lack of direct sunlight, actually more people continue to arrive, even thought the clouds are telling a future story of rain. The fatties broke out a box of cookies and gorged the whole lot like someone was going to steal them! Calm down girls, no one wants to pilfer your sweeties., you don’t need to inform the police that roll about on quad bikes in shorts and t-shirts with high powered handguns strapped to their hips, zipping up and down checking out the naked ladies and maybe once in a while penalising a marijuana infraction.

On arriving back at the hottest caravan a big, gaping shit hole had been dug directly in front of my trailer. Exposed pipes leaking out a shit-stinking funk. This morning I was bathed in the ether of sewage stink; headache, felt sick. I cycled around the deserted summer roads for an hour or two but nothing would lift the shit-fuelled depression I felt. Alas! The salvation came in the form of a toothless, demented hobo called Dennis – the ex-junky drummer who had decided a life in Spain clearing shit filled shit pipes from inconsiderate shitters was better than his life as a failed rock god in the U.K. Thank the lord for Dennis and his shovels and his potbellied Spanish minions who went to work repairing the shit-pipe with zero blame jousted my way. I left him with a “Have a nice day, if you can!” ha… Ha… ha….

Out on the water, about 10 feet from the shore, a guy bobs about on a lilo, leisurely soaking up sun while his girlfriend, very un-subtly, bobs up and down on his penis… gok… gok… gok. I had observed him attempting to coerce her into jacking him off on the beach by spraying solar leche (that’s sun milk to me and you) on his wang and motioning towards it, kind of nodding at it with sordid intentions. I can‘t hear what he’s saying due to the crash of the surf, but you can be sure he was saying something along the lines of “this needs rubbing in too baby, you can’t do my chest, stomach and legs and leave this general area free of sun milk.” After that failed attempt, which was a complete failure as she flicked his penis with ill intentions, it seems he talked her into sucking on his manliness in plain view of everyone on the beach; maybe it aint such a bad idea, who am I to judge the lunatic actions of two sex-monkeys hell bent on getting their rocks off in the salty sea.

My viewing for the day was ruined when a super gay black fellow strolled up holding his cigarette in a faggoty way only the overtly “LOOK HOW  GAY I AM. AREN’T I  FANTASTIC AND WONDERFUL AND SO SUPER GAY” gays do. He dumped his shit down just far enough away from me not to be intrusive, but we all know the only reason we see super gay black fellows around these parts is because the draconian dictatorship they inevitably hail from doesn’t allow man-on-man super gay bandit action so they find their refuge on the nudie beaches of tolerant old Europe where everyone’s a homosexual, right? What’s a human dark as a black key doing sunbathing anyway? Look, I’m not prejudiced, I’m tolerant of EVERYBODY, but if you are abusing the view in my periphery you are game for ridicule. This isn’t racism or homophobia – this is Nilsism. I don’t care if you’re black, or gay, or have tits and a penis, lesbian, old, young, brown, yellow, white, bald, ugly, tall or short. I’m just an asshole. If you’re fat though… go on a diet, and don’t bitch about my god damned smoking when you have half a big mac stuck in your teeth and perpetual oily fingers from an onion ring addiction.

Mr. Motorbike dude is covered in very bad tattoos, and he has a tiny penis. I aint a penis checker-outer like the other bottom loving types that frequent this beach, but when someone is trying to steal my individualistic thunder I have to see what I’m up against. He obviously fancies himself as some kind of tough guy, but with a tiny little pecker-penis he is nothing more than a macho cliché and the faggot situation is becoming intolerable as a floppy haired bum champion is trying to grab my attention by looking at me seductively and sucking on an ice lolly with greasy intentions. I think about stamping on his face, but instead, I pick up a pen and abuse him with prose. You see, a kicking will last a few minutes, but these words, these words right here, will last for as long as the paper stays around or the digital copy remains accessible. And that’s a pretty long time hoss.

Part 6

 

I have to cook a little dog turd on the beach in a mini aboriginal stone oven; a bunch of stacked pebbles anyway, because some careless PERRO owner let the little bastard squeeze out a little bit of shit on my beach. I sat down, got my little zone set up with a beach chair, towel so my feet don’t burn on the toasty stones and a nice cold Amstel 100% malta. And then the unmistakable smell of a good warm shit wafted into my nostrils, all sneaky up the beach with the sea breeze like nothing was the matter. I scanned the area – looking for a culprit, and there it was, a curly little black poo all covered in flies (where’d you get them pies?). I’d been riding around earlier on the rattling bicycle with a wobbly front mud guard; that rattles like an asshole because of a wayward screw, on a smoker’s scavenger hunt because you have to go to a TOBACCONIST to buy smokes in this crazy town, no news agent or supermarket with smokes, nope, only at the Toby Macbaccarist’s. I had seen a particular truck and was making jokes to myself, laughing out loud in the sunshine while cycling along the road next to the beach, about the poo-pumpers – those who have chosen the profession of extracting waste from people’s septic tanks and how hilariously homosexual their job is – pumping shit in a shit pumping truck. Pumping the shit of the young or the old – they don’t discriminate – they’re just a merry band of shit pumpers – pumping shit all day. “What does your daddy do for a living son?”

“My Daddy pumps shit with his giant hose. He has a gang of men that work around town pumping their neighbour’s shit with giant hoses. He runs his own shit pumping business”… and so on and so-forth. But, now, I have chosen a spot right god-damned next to a pile of shit. And I am now on hands and knees – assuming the position, gathering handfuls of stones to cover the poo to cover the smell – I’m just a poo coverer, I cover all manner of tasty turds. You got poo? I got it covered!

Would you like to sit on my lap love? You and your offspring are way too close for comfort. Now that I appear to be just a harmless writer on the beach I no longer pose a threat to anybody because I’m not stumbling about drunk making people feel uncomfortable. And because of this all manner of annoying FAMILIES keep sitting near me. The Mamma’s got some o’ them flappy pancake titties, flip flop-flapping about the shitting place. There’s a couple of little ’uns  with floppy titted mamma, frolicking about in the water, and it’s a scene of childhood fun, kind of thing that makes the world go round, makes people smile, that is until a guy about six or seven feet away starts dry-shaving his balls, couple that up with a group of naked, ugly, fat girls all taking photos of each other’s asses, in fact, let’s tell it like it is, each other’s hairy assholes, makes one hang his head in the shame of humanity. I accidentally put a cigarette out on my leg, not just a quick stab of the embers, completely extinguished the fucker ON MY LEG, because the shit wind is trying to blow my writing papers all over the place and I wasn’t paying attention to my fingers.

After two weeks everything kind of falls into place, you stop worrying about optimisation and accept shit for what it is. Disappointments and excitement are both so frequent that if you don’t accept – you would go completely barking mad. For instance, why would a relatively attractive woman go and sit RIGHT IN FRONT of a giant behemoth fat fucker? I dunno, I’m just gonna keep stuffing cigarette butts between stones and worry about looking fat. God I hate vanity. It is ball-ache. Might as well get myself a kite and run about the beach like a lunatic, kicking pebbles in people’s stupid smug-sun faces. Maybe if faggots would stop checking out my junk I wouldn’t be getting so angry. Mincing about the way they do, pushing their arms back and pointing their fingers, jutting their chests out like they’ve got tits.

All the best looking chicks keep their pants on – disappear off down the non-nudista zone if you aint gonna play properly. Getting your guns out is not getting nude, here I am with my balls out, at the mercy of the gaze of the cock-gobblers; at least you could have the decency to show the same courtesy. Way too many cocks on this beach – feels like homo Sunday. I should’ve gone further down the beach, same story every day. I’m sure this is where the gays literally hang out in every sense of the phrase. Where did all this gay-bashing come from? I used to be so tolerant. I must suffer alone.

Part 7

Two weeks I’ve been slothing the days away, worrying that my excessive chocolate milk intake is ruining my summer-trim waistline. What do I have to show for the time I have spent here? Let’s see, I started a pretty good story that has some potential and I have drunk a shit load of beer, yep – that’s pretty much it.

The sea changing blues to the horizon starts to look more beautiful than anything else. Chucking back 8 or 10 beers a day turns into a sleep helper to combat the annoying heat and the sun on your bones, my bones, becomes a Vitamin D and serotonin producing lover. I’m still here for another week too, albeit with some much needed human company. I never thought I would miss conversation so much. People I can do without, but mental stimulation, I have come to realise, is an absolute MUST.

Chemtrails snake about in the blue sky ruining its brilliance; why must we dirty everything up? We’re even ruining the sky!

The fat lesbians are back, although one of them has had the decency to wear bikini bottoms. HA! Bikini bottoms! More like a giant’s sun hat, I could fit four or five of me in them bad boys. It’s comical, like the two fat guys on motorcycles. They’re both leaning forward on their stomachs that way super-fatties do. They’re a beastly pair of humans. Too much chocolate milk, I’m sure.

The rest of the world is an eternity away from me right now. Alabama Shakes in my ear holes, well, one ear hole, as old beastie took it upon himself to deafen my left ear and the FARMACIAST told me he couldn’t sell me ear drops without a prescription because it’s DANGEROUS. To get my ear unblocked I have to go pay a doctor to write me a prescription and then pay the FarmASCIST to give me some ear drops. No wonder Spain is in an economic toilet bowl spinning with the shit of Europe. But, at least they make good beer.

Families are forever coming down to the beach and setting up little dining rooms with chairs, fold-up tables and massive coolers full of food. They then all get butt-ass naked and eat with their bits flopping about. Can’t they sit at home and eat naked? There’s a lot of bending over to grab certain lunch goodies and I have to endure the site of an ANUS in my face. The least they could do is hook me up with some of their lunch goodies, I’m down to eating tomato rolls from last night’s left over hot dog buns. It’s all the food I have you selfish sons of bitches – don’t you know I spend all my money on beer. What a wonderful travel article this is making.

This guy – right here – the one who just sat right in front of me and isn’t even taking off his shorts – classic nudist-beach interloper. Now I have to meander around the prick to get to the sea for my tinkles. Maybe I’ll go and piss right on his face for being such a dick. And what a nice ‘dream catcher’ tattoo you have you moron. I hope your native American tribal leaders gave you permission to… oh right YOU’RE SPANISH! Is there anything worse than an inconsiderate beach dick with a crap tattoo? If he looks at my penis without the decency of at least acting like he’s here to enjoy the sun I WILL CUT HIS EYES OUT with a plastic knife that I will borrow from the family eating their lunch with their bits out.

An amusing musing on a beach such as this is the black guys with their rotund girlfriends. It is hard to decipher whether these quite obvious refugees actually like these roly-poly dames, or are they only in it for the EUROS? I want to say the latter, but shit, you see it everywhere, especially in my neck-of-the-woods, fat white chicks love a big black dick and the big black dicks dig a big fat white chick.

This dick-hole in front of me has no beach agenda, he only has a towel! No lotion, no drinks, not even a book to pretend to read. I came down here with a bag brimming with beer and pathetic sandwiches, books, writing pad, pens, two factors of sun tan lotion (stronger to cover the tattoos) a chair and a towel. All this guy has is an ERECTION! A GOD DAMNED ERECTION! POINTING RIGHT AT ME! I scowl, hard, and he turns his pointing penis towards the family eating their lunch, and now he’s leaving – what an enigma. He could be the most marvellously incomprehensible human being I have ever come across. I think he came to the beach, sat down, went in the sea, JACKED OFF, and then left. I thought I had seen all the madness this beach had to offer.

The big fatty tries to get her black man-servant-toy-boy to suck on her flopping titties in the sea and he’s having none-of-it. It adds credence to the money theory; and she has money, no doubt about that, designer labels all over the shop. She tried wrapping her legs around him and he scarpered like Captain Ahab, el capitan is only hunting that white whale for her riches, the glory of what a bunch of euros can bring. She is a god damned shaved mammoth among the pebbles and fag butts. She is plain disgusting so it’s either a screw loose or the sacrifice for a bit of loose change.

A gay-boy just sent me a Lolita smile that sent shivers through me; he’s all sprawled on the beach like Marilyn Monroe thinking he looks sexy with his grey beard and bald head. It’s shit like this that makes me want to up and leave, escape back to the hottest caravan and feed the kitties sardines.

 

Part 8

Who could tell this place was going to be so perfect, but also have its pit-falls. Sure, it’s hot as hell and there’s plenty to do, but I haven’t done any of it. Beach-drunk for two and a half weeks like a total BUM, but I guess that was my wish all along. And sweet god is it hot. Hotter than fuck! So god damned hot I’m melting into man ooze feeling like total death due to alcohol and nicotine abuse paired with convection dehydration from the windy beach. The days here have taken their toll, aged me a good five years I bet. Falling into old age under the burning sun and only 30. At this rate I’ll be 38 by the end of the week and then 40 will be just around the shitting corner.

You try and buy a lemonade at the cat-shit beach bar and they give you a can of ice cold sour-puss lemon squash bastard that becomes warm tangy cat-piss within five minutes because of the relentless HEAT. O h sweet Lord the heat! The heat! THE HEAT! I haven’t slept properly in a decade, I guzzle water by the litre bottle like they’re shot glasses. Shots of water, cartons of smokes, blocked ear – completely deaf in one ear. I don’t ever want to go home. Who in their right mind would want to leave paradise? Even if paradise means an earful of medical grade olive oil stuffed in and held tight by rolled up tissues.

I get the SIESTA, nobody wants to work in this kind of mental weather. Even though most shops, offices, trains, fridges, eyeballs and the like are air-conditioned it is only a fleeting glimpse of what it is truly like to feel cool. The fireball in the sky doesn’t give a shit if you’re dying and the sea laughs at you with his salty lungs and dares you to quench your thirst in his watery benevolence – a duo of hideous masochists. I want to do like the Turkish do and drink tea, they must be on to something as they’re all at it; tea drinking maniacs smashing tea to leafy little pieces. I WILL TRY SOME TEA.

For some reason I’ve become a menthol smoking redneck – strutting about in sleeveless plaid shirt bopping my head to obscure country bands nobody has ever heard of. And now that I have made myself a cup of tea – thanks to Mamma’s foresight to stock up her cupboard with some good ol’ proper Tetley tea. I might as well take a bite out of the sun for all the good I think it is going to do me. Not even the wind is kind, this bastard heat is relentless. It blows all around the hottest caravan, but I’m in some awful wind void where it never ventures. The trees dance about all around me, joyously waving their branches around in the breeze but NONE OF IT comes into my little courtyard of ants and kittens under the corrugated hot box.

I treat myself to a bacon sandwich with the amazingly sweet Spanish tomatoes – which are all the condiment the butty needs, but my jaw fatigues through the pumping of lactic acid due to the over-cooked bacon. So I reach for the hot tea and brace myself for the burn, but no, the Turks are right, it may have had an initial warmness, but I can definitely feel a drop in body temperature. Today is the first day I haven’t spent lounging on the beach, instead I opt to stay at the prison hot box drinking tea like a gnarly and set-in-his-ways Englishman. Yeah, I sit in the sun all day when the locals all scarper for their siestas and I HAMMER beers all day and smoke like a burning grill, but I’m BRITISH           and we do things RIGHT… right? I’m sure if I lived here I’d be a dinner at 10 o’clock kinda guy and I would stay the fuck out of the mid-day sun, but I need a tattoo to show off to everybody back home… right? Back home is stupid. I could easily stay here and feed up the little kitten I have aptly named ‘Gremblin’ – due to her disproportionately large ears, and become her friend and she would drink tea with me and eat sardines every diddly dee under the trees next to the sea and we’ll die together from exposure to the heat.

Asshole wind has covered the floor outside the hottest caravan in bastard leaves after I spent an hour sweeping yesterday because I’m a house-proud son of a gun that feels better in his own mind when shit it TIDY. Now I’m gonna have to go to work with the whack broom that doesn’t like to sweep. If he hates his job so much he should  quit and become a spade or something. No point being a utensil if it can’t be utilised for its proper use – bristly cunt. I’m better off getting big eared Gremblin, who eats the ants off the floor to sweep up for me. She’s always covered in all manner of matter from rolling around in piles of leaves or under trailers. Now-a-days she is sitting on the step to the hottest caravan like she owns the place, but she can’t sleep, she’s always on alert – the slightest little noise brings her out of her much needed slumber time. I’m getting more satisfaction from watching her acting aloof and trusting me enough to chill out on the marginally cooler areas of my abode than I got from eyeballing a nice pair of hooters. Guess I’m just a big soppy animal loving cock-knocker. The amount of Euros I’ve dropped on buying cat food, sardines and ham for these furry little wankers is bordering on obsessive. Yes, Sir. I have no money because I spent it all on sardines and San Miguel. This is why I’m a destitute hobo eating the scraps of squid from the kitchen window where that big old bingo wing comes swinging out and I fight with the kitties for a rightful share.

 

Part 9

The kid and the father walking down the beach, a realisation; no, it’s a midget, a topless midget! The topless midget becomes a naked midget – bare-ass white bum tan line. Confusing shit to say the least. They’re at a distance where I can’t get a good 20/20 visual and I’m hung over as fuck from drinking gigantic shots of tequila last night. The lemon slices were an actual joke so I stumbled off in the darkness to Indian Jones it through the lime trees but alas, I had no knife, so I had to first bite them in half, which was the bitterest experience of my life, my lips went numb it was so  sour – like lime Starburst intensified, and I  HATE lime Starburst, Opal Fruits, whatever you wanna call ‘em. Right now I’m too busy trying to work out this midget conundrum to be overly bothered by my limey hang over. Now the… whatever it is, child or minute adult is desperately trying to hold on to a blow up mattress that is threatening to take it on some kind of Aladdin’s adventure.

The two token black kids (with white parents?) were playing with a kite until Santa Perv turned up in his speedos and white beard and took control of the kite-fun-times in a vain effort to teach the young boys how to fly the beast correctly. After two minutes tuition the two boys left him there, with THEIR kite, and headed back to the safety of their, what I imagine to be, adopted parents. It isn’t long until their white mother takes the kite back from Santa Perv and sent him packing back to Amsterdam or wherever Speedo-d weirdoes come from.

Breast-feeding should be better disguised on the beach, it makes a woman’s nipples stick out like pointing fingers and babies are GREEDY motherfuckers, clambering about on their mother’s udders like little spider monkeys blindly opening their gobs and trying to clamp down on a pointy bastard.

How does a fully grown man fuck a midget anyway? Maybe with a tiny penis it could be achieved, if not you’d be all up in her guts and shit, prodding around in the intestines – there’s food for thought.

Part 10

I’m feeling content, real content – good. Living these glory days without a care. Eating up burgers cooked on the gas barbecue that I can’t get a decent temperature from to cook things without burning them just a little bit. Smouldering pieces of meat on sticks are good food for the beach-drunk connoisseur. And finally my ear has begun to come back to life. Popping in and out of aural muted-ness and a ringing half sense of hearing. I hadn’t realised how bad my tinnitus was until I lost the hearing in one ear and a dull ring turned into EEEEEEEeeeeeeeeee –  stupid ear – battered by drum n bass raves and metal gigs. You block out the sound of London when you live there. The constant hum of the city becomes so commonplace you take it for granted. Do I miss the city? Sure. Can I do without it? Sure. Here all I worry about is the gay-boys checking out my junk, but fuck, I guess that aint so different from Soho where all my favourite drinking haunts are. I still have drinking holes to explore here, and who’s to say that I won’t find the greatest bar that ever existed along this coastline somewhere. If all fails for me in London at least I have somewhere I can escape to. Somewhere they can’t find me.

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