oily oaf
17th April 2007, 06:49
Boa Noite! :mad:
The more lively minded and alert among you will have gathered that I have returned to this blessed Albion via the moving, flying, planet raping aeroplane device and am once more able to add my insightful comments and observations in this debating society par excellence.
Whilst away I became accustomed to a diet consisting largely of lager, olives, figs, lager, lager and oily tuna steaks washed down with lager with the ensuing result that my bowel movements became more regular than a home defeat for West Ham :(
So with this in mind I have now completed a small guide book entitled "The Rough Mechanics Guide To The Iberian Bog" which chronicles my own toilet based and and at times explosive experiences in the Gentleman's retreats throughout Southern Portugal and Spain.
It is a fairly compact and yet all encompassing work and is aimed at those people who upon venturing into the region have found themselves through one reason or another "wanting to go to the toilet".
Here is a small taste of what you can expect for your £200,003,59p.
Faro airport:
As I passed through baggage reclaim I decided to pop to the Ben Ghazi for a crafty one before calling a cab.
As I opened the door I noticed that you could cut the fetid atmosphere inside with a knife.
Realising at once that decisive action was called for I attached a length of string to the cat's collar and hurled it through the door before closing it firmly.
After ten minutes I hauled him out only to find the brute unconscious and with tears matting the fur around his eyes.
I made a tactical withdrawal.
Marks out of 10 - 2
O Restaurant Baixamar. Santa Luzia:
A blessed lavatorial shangri la.
The bowl glistened and winked in the shaft of warm Portuguese sunlight that peeped through the louvred window, the heady scent of orange blossom and Dettol Extra Strong filled my head with sensuous delight as a piped Shipping Forecast played softly in the background.
So enamoured was I of the facility that I promptly pressed the distress button and asked the maitre d' to serve my Sardine Vindaloo and fizzy lager in situ and spent the next hour in wonderful pensive bowel evacuating nirvana
10/10
The following day I crossed the Guardiana river into Spain and reached Huelva before going down with severe stomach cramps.
Sadly everything was closed including the bogs due to the sacred festival of "The Last Clearout" when Our Lord nipped away from the supper table for a quick nipsey in the chodbin before shooting off to the Garden of Gethsemane with the lads.
I watched enthralled as sombre priests, black as crows bore huge papier mache toilet bowls through the thronged streets, gently waving burning toilet brushes and anointing the crowds with small bottles of Blu Loo.
Stark and moving fare indeed.
Loosening the top button on my trousers and mopping my sweating brow I sped on to beautiful Sevilla. Whitewashed Moorish Jewell of Spain. Home to the succulent orange, the sudden cry of the anguished Flamencoista, the throb of guitars and some of the finest Manueline khazis in all Spain.
I opted for a tiny public lavatory in a small backstreet and let fly as the scent of tapas and industrial cleaning fluid enveloped me like a shroud.
9/10
For your copy of the full, unexpurgated version of my toilet trek please send me all your credit cards and pin numbers safe in the knowledge that I will have cleaned out your account within 1 working day.
Disclaimer:
I am a gullible 2 bob mug who can't even walk and talk at the same time and who realises that I will receive absolutely no goods whatsoever within this or any other working year.
I will be in/out between the hours of ..... and .....am/pm.
I do/do not have a fierce dog
signed.............
Next week:
How I became locked in a grim life or death struggle in the gentleman's retreats at The British Bulldog Lager and Pilates Emporium in Torremolinos after an irate English football lout accused me of staring at his toilet brush :(
The more lively minded and alert among you will have gathered that I have returned to this blessed Albion via the moving, flying, planet raping aeroplane device and am once more able to add my insightful comments and observations in this debating society par excellence.
Whilst away I became accustomed to a diet consisting largely of lager, olives, figs, lager, lager and oily tuna steaks washed down with lager with the ensuing result that my bowel movements became more regular than a home defeat for West Ham :(
So with this in mind I have now completed a small guide book entitled "The Rough Mechanics Guide To The Iberian Bog" which chronicles my own toilet based and and at times explosive experiences in the Gentleman's retreats throughout Southern Portugal and Spain.
It is a fairly compact and yet all encompassing work and is aimed at those people who upon venturing into the region have found themselves through one reason or another "wanting to go to the toilet".
Here is a small taste of what you can expect for your £200,003,59p.
Faro airport:
As I passed through baggage reclaim I decided to pop to the Ben Ghazi for a crafty one before calling a cab.
As I opened the door I noticed that you could cut the fetid atmosphere inside with a knife.
Realising at once that decisive action was called for I attached a length of string to the cat's collar and hurled it through the door before closing it firmly.
After ten minutes I hauled him out only to find the brute unconscious and with tears matting the fur around his eyes.
I made a tactical withdrawal.
Marks out of 10 - 2
O Restaurant Baixamar. Santa Luzia:
A blessed lavatorial shangri la.
The bowl glistened and winked in the shaft of warm Portuguese sunlight that peeped through the louvred window, the heady scent of orange blossom and Dettol Extra Strong filled my head with sensuous delight as a piped Shipping Forecast played softly in the background.
So enamoured was I of the facility that I promptly pressed the distress button and asked the maitre d' to serve my Sardine Vindaloo and fizzy lager in situ and spent the next hour in wonderful pensive bowel evacuating nirvana
10/10
The following day I crossed the Guardiana river into Spain and reached Huelva before going down with severe stomach cramps.
Sadly everything was closed including the bogs due to the sacred festival of "The Last Clearout" when Our Lord nipped away from the supper table for a quick nipsey in the chodbin before shooting off to the Garden of Gethsemane with the lads.
I watched enthralled as sombre priests, black as crows bore huge papier mache toilet bowls through the thronged streets, gently waving burning toilet brushes and anointing the crowds with small bottles of Blu Loo.
Stark and moving fare indeed.
Loosening the top button on my trousers and mopping my sweating brow I sped on to beautiful Sevilla. Whitewashed Moorish Jewell of Spain. Home to the succulent orange, the sudden cry of the anguished Flamencoista, the throb of guitars and some of the finest Manueline khazis in all Spain.
I opted for a tiny public lavatory in a small backstreet and let fly as the scent of tapas and industrial cleaning fluid enveloped me like a shroud.
9/10
For your copy of the full, unexpurgated version of my toilet trek please send me all your credit cards and pin numbers safe in the knowledge that I will have cleaned out your account within 1 working day.
Disclaimer:
I am a gullible 2 bob mug who can't even walk and talk at the same time and who realises that I will receive absolutely no goods whatsoever within this or any other working year.
I will be in/out between the hours of ..... and .....am/pm.
I do/do not have a fierce dog
signed.............
Next week:
How I became locked in a grim life or death struggle in the gentleman's retreats at The British Bulldog Lager and Pilates Emporium in Torremolinos after an irate English football lout accused me of staring at his toilet brush :(