Thursday, October 21, 2010

I've Just Had Sex With A Prostitute

Not sure how to begin this, but basically I had sex with a Thai prostitute.

I don't know what to say but trust me, I never expected it to end like this; four years of blogging about an even longer sex drought, and I end up in a seedy Bangkok hotel with a girl. That just isn't like me, not in a million years, but then things that night didn't really seem that awful and she didn't seem that way and I'm not one of those desperate hideous fuckwits except perhaps all of it just is, and I am.

But I still didn't mean to do it. Of course I could've left the bar, or simply not gone in in the first place, but I didn't. The fact is she was lovely; absolutely not, in my head, a hooker - and I'll quantify that; a desperate and potentially manipulated and downtrodden poor woman - but a very attractive and extremely keen girl who I swear to god wouldn't leave me alone, and smiled constantly, and made me forget where I was and what was happening to the point that my morals and convictions went right out of the window. Men are morons, and I am one of them. I don't know what else to say; Men just want to get laid.
I know there will never be enough excuses, but let me explain as best I can:

It was my first night in Bangkok, the first night of my holiday, and I'd gone to visit Monkey Dave who's working out here. By nightfall, we'd met up with two English colleagues of his, and hit the bars. As working ex-pats, they hadn't gone out on a cliched Bangkok night for quite a while, and we'd ended up in some of the seedier joints around Sukumvit, essentially a hot Leicester Square except with more neon, and girls who'll sleep with you for money.

It wasn't long before we were approached in a pool bar, where I was playing atrociously which was a surprise to absolutely no-one, including two women - Mook and Sue - who appeared from nowhere to rub our thighs and engage in smalltalk. Suddenly I felt really uncomfortable, that they shouldn't be doing that to strange men - particularly ones like the fat old guys from Leeds I'd seen grinning and staggering around earlier. I wanted to talk properly to the girls, to find out more about their jobs and their lives, but as I asked if they "worked" at the bar, they said they did but retained a veneer of innocence about the whole affair. Far be it from me to embarrass them by stating the obvious.

So, instead, the conversation faltered. I wanted to tell them that they were wasting their time with us - with me, certainly, - that I was happy to talk but there was no way I was going to 'buy' them for my own selfish gratification, but matters never went that far, we lost our games, and left the bar, as did one of our group. The remaining three of us went on to Nana Plaza to watch football in a nearby bar - Nana Plaza, which I now know to be a kind of small, layered shopping precinct of sex. We sat outside the bar for a couple of minutes as the urge to go to the toilet took hold, and that's when things took a turn. In those places, the action tends to be inside, and once in, it's difficult to get out - both customer and management induced. An absolutely stunning girl in a bikini - and the Madam - beamed a hello and made a grab for me, but I politely shrugged them off and made for the bathroom. On my return as I headed for the exit, the Madam shoved Bikini Girl at me. She giggled, and I went red. Naturally, being British, I also apologised.
'You drink inside!' they said.
'No! No thank you,' I smiled.

Ten minutes later, we were inside, stunning Bikini Girl sat next to me.
'This country is nuts!' I yelled at the others over the Europop as they stared at the dead-eyed dancers on the podium. I'd been to places like that on my last visit, but it was what it was; pretty damn seedy, but we're blokes, doing what blokes do. Still I maintain, at that point, I never intended to do what happened next, but then I'd never had that level of attention before.

Bikini Girl - to my shame, I never did catch her name - wriggled against me with her fabulous body as I smiled awkwardly. 'No thank you,' I said when the subject of sex came up pretty quickly; 'I can't.' My crotch was grabbed repeatedly as an inducement, but I was made of sterner stuff, telling them straight, Bikini Girl, the madam, the ladyboy waitress, that I wouldn't be doing anything.
'You married?' asked Bikini Girl.
I shook my head. 'No,' I replied. 'I just don't agree with this.'
'You fuck!' said the ladyboy. The girl nodded in agreement.
'No, really.' This was the hard sell, but I just have to stand my ground. 'I can't do this to you,' I said to the girl as she pressed herself against me, her arm around my waist. 'Do you understand?' I said as I touched her bare back. 'You're a human being. I can't just pay for you like that,' and she looked at the floor. Her smile was gone and she seemed to understand. Thank god, finally I had made my point and she got it. I was a decent guy after all. Bikini Girl was tall and beautiful, with large, oval brown eyes and wavy black hair and it was horrible to see how easy it was for her to throw herself at men for money. For a moment, briefly, it seemed as if she really understood and I was off the hook, soon to be left alone, temptation well out of my way.
'I'm sorry,' I said to the side of her head, 'I just can't.' Then she turned slowly to face me and stared into me with those eyes, and brought her lips slowly to my mouth.
'Uh, I-' was all I could manage as gently, she kissed me.

I looked away and back at the dancefloor, totally confounded. I was half aware that my right hand was nestled on her smooth narrow waist, and I had been rubbing her with my thumb. Still perplexed, and also rather stirred, I looked back at her and she stared back, dangerously close. 'What the hell am I getting myself into?,' I thought as we kissed again.
'I'm not doing this,' I whispered into her ear as I caught the sweet scent of her shampoo. It had been a long, long time since I'd smelled something so innocent yet feminine, and in that place, it waylaid me. This went on for something like twenty dangerous minutes, a gorgeous, exotic, semi-naked girl pressed hard against me, kissing me, acting nothing like a desperate, manipulated, downtrodden poor woman, but rather someone totally eager, totally smitten, and she wanted me.

In retrospect, that was the moment I should've got up and announced I was leaving, but you have to understand - and I cannot stress this enough - Bikini Girl was just too much; too beautiful and too keen, and if this blog is my testimony, I'm obviously woefully lonely and desperate. It was a lethal combination. I was wavering, and it was obvious to everyone.

'She dance for you!' said the ladyboy, prompting the girl, who was grinning now, to walk up to the podium.
'No,' I yelled in panic. 'Seriously! Don't!'

And then she danced for me, slowly, rhythmically, between two other dancers, and I was in hell. I stared pointedly at the floor but had to glance back up again. The thought flashed through my mind that I could have that body - not as a possession, not to buy or rent, you understand. I hope this can be forgiven or at least understood, but at that point I needed her immediately. I'd say it was something primal but that sounds too base and aggressive. It was more like a yearning, a desperate, urgent need for a woman - for her, just her - and after such an absence in my life, it ached. I watched almost in tears as that astonishing body of hers wrapped itself around a pole and, as she smiled back at me and just me, I felt ill.

'I don't know what to do!' I yelled out to Monkey Dave.
'Go for it!' he said unhelpfully.
That wasn't the moral advice I wanted.

'I can't do this!' I pleaded with Bikini Girl as soon as she returned, jumping onto my lap and gyrating her round, g-string encased bottom into my crotch.

'Oh god,' I croaked. 'Oh no, I mustn't-' I thought as I turned to her. 'How...' I stammered, 'How - uh, what do we do now?'
She smiled and we kissed again, slowly, as my hand slid down her tanned back and under her g-string.
'We go outside?' she asked, which essentially meant that this was going to happen.
'I can't,' I whispered this time, more in pointless echo than anything sincere anymore. She wasn't a hooker. She was just fabulous and really, really keen.
... Rubbing...
Okay...
Kissing. Slowly...
Absolutely nothing wrong with this. There can't be...

And then my wallet was out I was shaking my head as I did so. Insanity.
I paid the bar a small release fee, and Bikini Girl disappeared for 10 minutes to freshen up whilst Monkey Dave cackled in my ear.
'What the hell am I about to do, Dave?'
'Pay for sex,' he laughed.

She reappeared a different woman; elegant - really quite stunning in her little black dress as, smiling, beaming, she reached out for my hand. Grabbing my scotch with the other I threw it down my neck as we walked outside and headed up onto the second level at Nana Plaza. I felt quite sick then, just a first-time John, a hooker's Trick, an Accidental Sex Tourist walking guiltily past random girls and sneering ladyboys. The place was a warren of bars and of heat and people, of neon, small chickens on rotisseries, a confusion of noise and smells and the sudden emergence of a young Western couple whose presence made me cringe with shame. I thought I was about to get killed, or mugged, but overriding it all was the thought that I was about to have sex with, okay, a prostitute, but more importantly, and to my way of thinking that night, a dusky and exotic woman.

We reached the top and a seedy hotel where a po-faced elderly Scandinavian man walked out looking neutral and unashamed. A young woman lying prostrate on a sofa looked up from her violent movie as we walked in.

'You pay 300 Baht for room,' said Bikini Girl expectantly, and I did on autopilot. Then we we walked into the red-lit bedroom, shut the door, and flung our arms around each other.

Without going into details, we spent an hour together, a very, very happy hour where I occasionally remembered who she was and where we were, but remained convinced that, despite the possible debasement, the seediness, the manipulation, it was actually incredibly tender and intimate. It's very hard even now to convince myself that I had paid for sex with a working girl, as it felt nothing of the sort. There was too much hugging, so much eye contact, and stroking - well you get the idea.

The following morning, I woke up the perhaps one of the worst,'Oh God, what the hell did I do last nights?' of my life. There were no shades of grey; I had had sex with a prostitute. I had walked into a bar, met a girl I liked the look of, and fucked her, for money. I felt awful - strangely content to a degree as I wanted to have sex so badly and treated her with the utmost respect and affection, but the basic, sobering fact had remained: I had travelled to a developing country and took advantage of a very beautiful local girl.

As I'm incapable of keeping my mouth shut, within 24 hours I was drunk again and emailing my friends in London en masse to tell them what I'd done.
'Hahahahahahahahahaha!' this elicited, and the expected jibes that I'd shagged a ladyboy.

I suppose - like this post - the email was meant to be cathartic, the secular priestly confession, but it made me feel like a braggard. The fact was she was too sweet to have been treated that way. How dare I actually tell her she was a human being, then rent her like a piece of meat anyway? Surely that was worse than just walking in and choosing her immediately? And those eyes that stared up at me from the bed, it was all so intense.
I made the mistake of emailing Danny too, who was pretty disgusted.
'Find her again,' he advised, 'buy her dinner. Or give her money for her family. If you don't want to do that, perhaps you could give money to a woman's refuge.'
I nodded at his words. They made sense, although I wasn't going to buy her dinner. Far better, I thought, to go back to the bar and somehow slip her 40 or 50 quid without management noticing. At the very least it would be one less arsehole for her to have to sleep with.

The days passed, and I pondered what to do. Giving her money I thought was best, although I was slightly worried that I'd end up in bed with her again. She really seemed to like me, something I put down to the common desire of a lot of bargirls to settle down with a Western former customer and be set for life.

But there was more, and I'm afraid it gets worse....


As the last couple of days have passed, I've continued to ponder. One of the things that's been on my mind was my friend's absurd quip that I'd bedded a ladyboy. Of course I hadn't. You can spot ladyboys a mile off as there's something contrived about them. They try a little too hard to be more woman than women, and the woman I'd slept with, well, she was too beautiful to be a man.
Although having said that, some ladyboys are really attractive. It can be hard to tell.
Really hard.
HOWEVER, thank god, there was the simple matter of, well, her vagina.
Because it was a vagina.
It's been a while for me, but not that long. Plus her vajayjay worked perfectly, and by that I mean in the moments leading up to sex, I had managed to make her very, erm, ready.
Because I'm fucking brilliant in bed.
So while I profess not to know much about gender reassignment, I'm almost 100% certain that medical science will never be able to recreate spontaneous internal lubrication in a man. How? It's just can't be possible without some kind of switch or fluid at the ready. Therefore, ladyboy? Ha! No.
End of Story, Case Closed.

But thanks to my bastard friends, they'd sown the seeds of doubt in my head. She was tall, after all; just a shade shorter than me, and for a Thai woman she was practically a giant. Then there were a couple of things that just didn't sit well with me. Thinking about them has been like living in my own personal Sixth Sense with its twist in the tale. In fact it's been more like the Usual Suspects, because as I've pondered over these last few days, little flashbacks and clues have suddenly appeared about extremely over-eager Bikini Girl.

"I don't know what else to say; Men just want to get laid."

I'd spoken to Monkey Dave when he got a quiet moment away from his wife and kids. You see, Bikini Girl just couldn't have been a ladyboy. Above all else, I'd got her wet. Really wet.
'Dave,' I'd whispered to him, 'how can ladyboys get that way? Obviously they can't, can they?'
'Dunno,' he'd shrugged. 'Some kind of lubricant, I suppose.'

I'd nodded, and wandered off, lost in thought.

There had been one thing strange about that night, now that I'd thought about it.... We'd left the bar... walked upstairs... past sneering (envious of a more convincing?) ladyboys... fallen onto the bed kissing, and stroking, and taking off our clothes, when Bikini Girl got up and stepped behind the partition.
'I have to shower,' she'd said.
I had thought it odd, particularly as I'd waited 10 minutes for her downstairs. I'd assumed she'd already freshened up then.

..... 'Some kind of lubricant, I suppose.'

And when she'd returned from her brief shower, her skin had been dry to the touch.

Then there was her clitoris. It was chubby, like a reconstructed bell-end.
And I can't remember much in the way of labia, or a hood, and although she was a picture of femininity, I recall her ladygarden being quite unkempt, when a Brazilian would've suited her figure to a tee.

Perhaps it was covering up the scars?

This was all becoming more like the Crying Game.

And then there was the last piece of the puzzle. In the crime-solving world, this is known as an admission. But at the time, I dismissed it, like an abused partner in a bad relationship. They don't see the signs, because they don't want to.

We'd walked back downstairs, Bikini Girl having wriggled that body back into her black cocktail dress and me, dazed and grinning, back into my shit shorts and t-shirt. Back in the bar, as management prepared the bill, Monkey Dave, quite pissed now, rambled into my ear;
'Mate, you would not believe how many of these birds are ladyboys.'
'Really?' I'd remarked, looking around in astonishment at the half-naked dancers.
'Hey!' I'd said to Bikini Girl not 10 minutes after I'd filled a mango-flavoured condom full of my DNA, 'Are there lots of ladyboys here?'

'I'm a ladyboy,' she replied somewhat dreamily, not looking at me but staring ahead at the dancefloor.
'Eh?' I'd replied with a smile. The daft, beautiful leg-puller.

... Some sort of lubricant...
... Men just want to get laid...
I'm a ladyboy.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

The Massage

'When in Rome' as they say, so in Thailand I've been having constant Thai curries and booked myself a Thai massage. After several weeks of work stress and a shitty journey here it was badly needed. After all, the last time I had a Thai massage was when I last visited Thailand a decade ago.

I enjoyed it so much back then that I'd booked myself onto a course, then promptly forgot most of what I'd been taught. It started to come back to me as I was escorted to a booth to change into loose-fitting shorts and shirt, and lie on my back to wait for the squat, middle-aged masseuse to appear.

It was rather socially awkward to have this complete stranger start rubbing the soles of my feet in the darkened booth then, with perhaps more than a frisson of pleasure on her part, ramming her fingers into my thighs until I screamed, but it was sorta marvelous in a pain-inducing sorta way. She even jabbed her digits into parts of me I didn't realise were sore, such as the muscles in my groin.

'Nngh!' I stifled a roar as she leant into my crotch and giggled, then worked her way back down my thigh then back up again, where I braced myself for another round of awkwardness.
'Ungh!!' I moaned, trying to make my utterances as non-coital as possible.

If there's one good thing about ageing, it's dick control, and I was able to avoid what in my teenage years would've been the raging horn. What didn't help, however, was the brush of my masseuse's hand against nad as she got too close to the danger zone. That made things, in a manner of speaking, harder, but age won over giddying cheap thrills and what remained of my general dignity was intact.
And then she brushed the other nad. Oh well. I just had to concentrate.

Trying to avoid an erection was becoming mathematically impossible as the masseuse manipulated my inner thighs to get at the knot of redundant muscles, particularly as she was now moving from thigh to thigh, now having to physically grab and move a teste out of the way.

'Bugger it', I thought. If my genitalia was going to be touched by another's hand for the first time in 5 years, it could hardly be my fault if it gets a little blood rush. And then she grabbed the whole package, physically got hold of the full set, and rehoused it against the other leg.

I remained poker faced.

The masseuse was now sat on my legs and forcing them towards the ground and I yelled out. She giggled again, shook my penis and made a tinkling noise, and told me to flip onto my front as she massaged my shoulders. For my part, I lay there looking confused and wondering if I'd just imagined that.

'You want oral?' I thought she said.
'Huh?'
'You want oil? Oil massage?'

'Uh', I wondered out loud. My session was nearly over and frankly I was as curious as hell. Anything sexual aside, an oil massage sounded fun - mainly because it sounded sexual.

'Take croves off,' said the masseuse as she watched me remove my accoutrements and my dignity, and clamber like an enormous toddler onto the table.
She turned the lights off and, as more or less expected as I lay on my front, she covered me in oil and rubbed the backs of my legs, then my arse, paying occasional attention to my aforementioned testes.

I flipped over with a towel covering my shame as she rubbed me everywhere but there. And then, as she straddled me, the giggling started as she rubbed lotion onto my chest.
'You strong', she said. 'Muscles!' and extended her arms in weightlifting mime.
'If you say so,' I crowed awkwardly. Mostly my muscles are hidden behind layers of subcutaneous fat. Still, random compliments were nice, if suspicious.

I felt less muscular as the masseuse made her way to my stomach and began her sweeping movements as I sucked my gut in and hoped it worked.

Then she removed my towel and paused. The anticipation had taken its toll, not to mention the near hour spent being rubbed to a high buff with warm oil.
'You big!' she lied as she stared at my curious penis. 'Very nice, very strong,' she beamed.
'Thanks,' I squawked. I was about ready to explode. Then she made a fellating mime and giggled as I cried a bit inside.
The masseuse shook her fist. 'You want?' she whispered, smiling.
'Erm, sure, if it's not any trouble,' I replied casually as if she'd offered to make me a cup of tea, and absolutely not bring me off.
'Tip' she smiled. 'Good tip!'

I nodded violently. 'Massive tip'. And then it happened. The rumours were true. I was having a Happy Finish in a darkened room, being given a hand-job by a fifty-year-old. I can't say it was the most romantic thing that's ever happened to me, but it was pretty gratefully received.

'Nnng!' I squirmed, trying not to sound to prying ears in the neighbouring booth like a man receiving a quick one off the wrist. 'Guhhh!'
The masseuse's cheeky smile I noticed had now gone, replaced by a distinctly bored look as she milked me like a cow. My dignity was now in tatters as I tried to hold back from the inevitable, but she quickened the pace.
'Mustn't - come,' I thought to myself, 'Really - rude -' - and then I did, absolutely everywhere, in angry waves. I hadn't even abused myself in several days and what with the elongated massage several gallons of the stuff had built up over time and had gone christknows where - pummelling a hole in the ceiling, through the wall - an unfortunate wad even caught me on the neck, bringing me back down to earth with shame.

I was rather disorientated as the masseuse began to pump and squeeze a little longer, presumably to make sure I was empty.

Then she left, came back with a cup of tea, and told me to shower, which I did, feeling a little cheap and used and very happy about that.

Even as I type this, I still have trouble believing that had happened, but that's not the worst of it. Far more, I'm afraid, has happened, and on my very first night in Bangkok...



I've finally had sex, after 5 years drought, and with a prostitute.

It's hard to explain just how this happened, that it was an extremely poor lack of judgment that I feel absolutely terrible about, but I'll explain later.

Friday, October 15, 2010

MUSCAT a pair of shorts

(Sorry)

Greetings from Oman, and forgive my potty mouth but it's really fucking hot. I'd like to be afforded some kind of protection from the sun here, but a chap at Heathrow saw fit to confiscate my suntan lotion lest there was something combustible in the remnants of a 6-year-old bottle from the Boots Soltare range, so my burnt scarlet mug is all his fault.

On the plus side, he was very polite about it.

I nearly missed my flight, as I stayed late at work (drinking at my desk with my boss), then raced to Terminal 3 cursing myself. I was the last person on my flight to check in, but I'd checked in, dammit. That did give me Hobson's Choice of seats though, regrettably within teasing sight of Business Class as I sat sandwiched between three babies to my right and two to my left in Cattle, none of whom stayed silent for more than ten minutes.
So I've been awake now for, ooh, 26 hours.

I chose not to take a (pricey) tour in the end, settling instead for my original Plan A - taking a cab or bus into town, and wandering around at my leisure. That plan was only nixed due to my Daily Mail reading parents, and I've quite enjoyed emailing them to say I've been sat in a cafe among foreign looking men with beards who stare at me with polite disgust, and listening to the Allah Akbars wailing rather evocatively from distant minarets.

In fact now that I'm here, I'm rather pissed off with myself for getting all worked up in the first place, particularly as it's charming. It's been a while since my holidays have left the safety net of Europe or the States, and it's nice to be dumped and alone in a place that definitely ain't Kansas anymore.

But the heat - Wow. I played it safe and chose to wear to work a smart, button-up shirt and a pair of dark jeans; a smart casual look that I thought, as I'd have no opportunity to change, would look nicely respectful over here.
So imagine my joy as I slid through the alleyways of the souk, the air thick with warmth and pungent spices, as I left a salty trail of sweat onto the cobblestones like a fat, sweating slug with a wet Fitness First towel around my neck, only to spot pink Danes and Germans in their damn t-shirts and shorts.

26 hours I've been wearing this shirt and these jeans, and Christ alone knows what skin rashes and steaming pustules are welling up like orphans' tears behind these stinking fabrics.

But that aside, it's now half-past midday over here and I've got 5 more hours to kill. Oh well. My wet shirt has finally dried. Time to re-soak it by walking half a yard outside.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

TWAT

So once again on my mission to save myself a few bob, I've gone and put myself in a rather difficult position; the middle of The Unknown.

In this case, the unknown is Muscat, even if I do know that it's the capital of Oman.
But then Oman is pretty unknown, so I'm back to square one.
i.e: Muscat.

I was quite proud in those Thailand Booking days of yore (July) to have found a return ticket for under £400. This meant a stop-over in aforementioned Oman for a mere 12 hours. (10 fewer and I wouldn't have bothered leaving the airport).

Except it doesn't help that my parents are racists with over-active imaginations.

Nor does it help that I am too.

My Dad called last night to check that I didn't have any Israeli stamps in my passport - Not for 14 years Dad, no.
Mum called last week to tell me, basically, not to walk through, talk to, or physically do anything, what with me being a) Western and b) all Jewey and everything, as I'd almost certainly be kidnapped and beheaded by Al-Qaeda (she reads the Daily Mail).

So I promised her I'd forgo the bus and gentle ambling through bustling souks and take a guided tour with a group instead.

Except I looked, I can't find (a cheap) one I like, so I'll be taking that bus followed by a wander around a tiny bit of the Middle East on my own for half a day.

Apparently I'm 36.

Oh, and if I don't get kidnapped and beheaded by Al-Qaeda - which thanks to a slow-burning paranoia I'm now convinced that at the very least I'll be surrounded by an army of Al-Qaeda sympathisers - my body's reacted to the stress of these preparations, plus the stress of being two men down at work (again), whilst trying to clear my desk by tomorrow night;

* Thus my facial skin has gone all teenage. The bridge of my nose has filled with a marmite jars-worth of pus, held in place by a thin layer of angry red skin. So the best way to clear that up will be sweating profusely under a 40 degree Arabian sun.
* I have a blood blister under my foul ginger beard.
* And my skin is peeling - despite the lack of sun (or sunburn) for at least a month.

Oh, and I still haven't packed.

But come Saturday, I will be in Thailand, the land of smiles, with Monkey Dave and several thousand hookers - that I'm promising not to sleep with.

I think.

I still don't know*

(*It'll probably be a 'no', but never discount my being drunk, and them being overly keen, and born a man)

Thursday, October 07, 2010

Thai-m Flies

Six months have already flown, half a year spent living alone in my cosy bachelor prison pad.

I'm very accustomed to living the solitary life with fantastic company (me), www.xvideos.com (NSFW) and as much illegally downloaded Offices (Offii?) and Mad Men as I can cope with. In fact, as the nights draw in and autumn takes hold, I'm eating comfort shit with petrifying regularity and going to bed later than ever.

(I lost over a stone. Now I'm going to see how quickly I can put it back)

The net result is that I'm almost psychopathically grumpy at work. I get the feeling my colleagues want me dead - particularly, for some reason, the guy I tried to get sacked. (His disciplinary didn't get him fired but did stop him taking the piss and telling me to go fuck myself anymore, so that was nice.)

And that's it. I have nothing else to say. I've spent a month since my last post juggling day salads with night Doritos, wasting all those daylight hours at my fucking day job, and drinking whiskey at home because Don Draper does it.

In fact so pleasantly boring busy has my life been that I can barely conceive heading over to see Monkey Dave in Thailand in just 7 days - and perhaps finally having sex.

But not with Monkey Dave.

With a prostitute.

Or three.

I did make the mistake however of telling my mate Danny, liberal Danny, liberal, left-leaning, 'Everybody's-Equal, Fair-Crack-Of-The-Socialised-Whip' Danny that, bearing in mind my sexual drought of biblical proportions I was thinking about having sex with several Thai prostitutes, he got all holier-than-thou about it, reminding me that they're "exploited human beings" n' shit, and further ruined everything by sending me THIS miserable link.

Oh, and I found all four of my schoolboy diaries in my Mum's garage, so I shredded them. They were a) childish, and b) depressing; "In maths, I got bored. Economics was boring too. Then XXX punched me for no reason. I had chips for lunch".

So that's that. I will be on holiday soon, so I may well have a lot to say over the coming few weeks - for a change. Stay tuned for that. It'll be great.

... And I'm speaking to my American ex-girlfriend again. I'm terribly, terribly lonely. Insults below, please.