Lone-r (Wolf) of Leek

He harasses the inbred in public mock trial,

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It’s sneering pigeon-murderer, Jeremy “I’ll be sleeping in your garage then” Kyle.

Was meant to be doing a favor for a mate. He stayed there 6 months. Drank all my paint.

Okay, so I’ll level with you. My aim of two new blogposts a week has ended up being a bit ambitious. This is in part because of a travel schedule that has gone, for lack of a better phrase, “off the dilch” but also because as someone that treasurers a rich cornocopia of weight-gain methods, my day to day is fairly full anyway.

So going forward I’m going to keep it to the one blog a week, but there may be new ways to soak me into your pulpous brain balls via internet and I do not mean my upcoming series of erotic claymation Youtube videos (recommended watching conditions, curtain drawn, phone off the hook and a bowl of custard upturned into your lap). Said project will be attempted in the new year with two international cornholin’ chums of mine (Joe and Luke) and I’ll explain details as and when. I can tell you’re excited.

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Hey Joe and Luke, my friends. You’re a pair of bollockses!

I am cyber-bullying them. Bit harsh I realise, but on balance they’re lucky I’m not revenge porning them. Internet buzzwords!

So to the reason I haven’t posted a blog in two weeks. That reason is jetlag. For budgetary reasons, I was asked to take a circuitous and as it turned out perilously missile-y route out to the far East.

Leg 1 was London to Turkey, where I landed at about midnight. The place was rammed like the churro tent at an English food festival.

“Deepfried sugar-chocolate!? ” <heart explodes> These limeys love it.

Seemingly Istanbul airport is now a low-rent version of Dubai airport, basically a West to East hub, but with very ornate pots of sugary tea and enough lentil soup to ruin a socialists’ appetite. Bet you Corbyn loves a lentil, old elbow-patches himself.

After a short time I continued on to Hong Kong, completely unaware that while I was in Turkish airspace, so was a Russian fighter aircraft that was promptly torn to snipplings, much to the anger of Vladimir Puttin’ the Boot In Putin.

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Yay, it’s Daddy Smile Smile! Oh, did we trash your shit. Soz.  We good, right V?

Suffice it to say, the mother retroactively condemned my choice of airline. And my employers. And me.

Landing in Hong Kong several hours later I was immediately reminded of the ever-present sugary whiff that is on the air everywhere you go. I…I…

Okay I need to take a small break and  tell you how much I hate this advert.

This smirking, sneering, dog-turd sniffing ultra-nob is stalking my every waking hour. Every airport. Every TV ad break. Every 3 seconds pre a Youtube video rolling. This romancer of avian livestock clicks his feeble moron-digits in my direction which unless he is mutely dictating his autobiography, entitled may I suggest “why I am a toxic gimp” diving bell and the butterfly style, or navigating by sonar the fastest route to mog alley, then I urge him to stop. Everything. Eternally.

So. I met up with Luke from the photo above in Hong Kong and we celebrated his new internet-guy job by eating ribs and having a beer down by the water. Hetero-alert! My following day was business-guy times, but this meant me having to upgrade my room (alas) to save money on the charge for the meeting room. This was new info for me so once work was done I scooted around trying to milk every last luxury drop out of my new executive booking status. Laps of the pool? Check. Swallow 2 litres of that luxury chlorinated water like a baller? Check. Sweat it all out with toxic chlorine farts in the sauna? Checkity check check check. Parp.

The next day I flew out to mainland China for more business-guy times genuinely curious as to what I was in for.

In short terms: China = Japan + 20% craic + 50% airdirt.

Having lived in Asia before, none of it was particular crazy, though I did struggle with the food much more than I ever did in Japan. My toughest times in Japan were always at work do’s where you basically lose all control over your menu and the stuff they like the most is weirdo nightmare non-food. Urchin gonad and the like.

 I had the two standard reactions to overly foreign foods while there.

Hairy puppet-shins turned out to be… potato-y thing.

Sweaty chicken portion turned out to be… MUSHY WHITE ORGAN GOOP, liquifying in yo mouth. Best to read that to the tune of a jingle.

I was also airdropped into a meeting with the vice-chair of the local chapter of the Chinese Communist Party, as guest of honour. Honest to God, it was some heroic stuff. Like from a deoderant commercial or something.

With no local knowledge, foreign delegates from all over the world and TV cameras beaded on me, I improvised a 3 minute speech that could’ve reduced the stoutest heart to blubs of patriotic love. Not that I understood it, my translator was doing some seriously heavy lifting on that one.

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Glad they got a movie. Least we could do for them after forcing them to listen to my weak shit: “China is uuhh, like, I guess, really nice and… Chinese.”

My return journey was a whopper, three flights over about 36 hours. I got another few hours in Hong Kong (saw a beef man and a beef woman, steroid fanatics, rubbing beefs with each other) and getting nice and caffinated at the SARS memorial statue. ‘Cause I’m sensitive.

In Turkey on the way back I was alone but for one other passenger in the business class section. She was clearly bananas. Apart from looking like a low rent Karadashian she was wearing a ball gown and as soon as she plonked in beside me, she started telling me how we were going to get bombed out of the sky by Isis because she had seen an odd looking guy in the terminal. Someone I guess who wasn’t wearing a ball gown. After attempting to reassure her, I just smiled, looked away and then put my earphones in. She later switched seats, but I think that was down to my lack of fragrance rather than my potential as an Isis lone wolf.

In other news, I ruined Meg’s cardigan. It’s like a prison gangwar. My clothes get hers in the shower, then kill ’em dead.

Forgive me Meaghan!

She ain’t having it.

Lone-r (Wolf) of Leek

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