As of tomorrow, my pursuit takes an entirely new direction. I am going cruising. I must make it clear here that this is of the nautical variety, not the type of cruising associated with those who explore Hampstead Heath in search of George Michael, although from what one hears of life on the ocean wave, it may not be entirely different.
Let me nail my colours to the mast here, if modern day vessels have such a thing, I have nothing against homosexuality, lesbianism, transvestitism, transexuality, or trans Siberian sexuality, which is of course doing it in the snow. It is only that I would like it to be a voluntary act between any number of consenting adults, not a compulsory demonstration of non-discrimination. I do not want it rammed down my throat, or indeed any other orifice. I am concerned for the unsuspecting sperm, who when released from their scrotal captivity, and swim joyously towards their anticipated connubial bliss with equally excited ova, find themselves swimming into a very different and murky future.
Among all the justified criticism of the 13 year old putative father, I see a ray of hope. Firstly, I understand that he is set on joining Fathers for Justice (not that he is political, but he already owns a Spiderman outfit), but also he has made a stand, of whatever size, for procreation. At least his prepubescent sperm swam to some degree of success, albeit diluted it would appear with others flowing from a similar gene swamp, each of which that should be tattooed ‘Do not breed from this sperm!’
Many people took offence at the hooded jacket worn by young Alfie, suggesting it showed an obscene gesture. Not true, It merely reminded him which end was up and where to put his head through.
We must just hope that as more and more people turn their backs on heterosexual encounters so to speak, and the average age of the population gets older, and primary schoolchildren having children and not able to work, that there will be enough people to carry out the work needed to pay off Gordon’s loans without bringing in more Pole Dancers or Bouncing Czechs, or worse still me having to go back to work and thus have to give up my endless search for productive idleness, speaking of which, I have now returned from my Nautical sojourn, and if the other form of cruising is as enjoyable as my recent experience, I may have to reconsider all I have written above!
Before reaching the ship however, there was many an obstacle to be surmounted, not least security at Gatwick Airport. Now I am all in favour of security, not least because the only form of blowing up I wish to experience on an aircraft, is that bestowed on the automatic pilot in the film Airplane. As usual however we in this scepter’d isle do take every rule to the nth. Degree. If our Masters in Brussels in their infinite wisdom decree declare that all bottoms shall be of the same size and shape, the Germans continue to break wind through theirs, the Italians like it because they always look better from the back view, and the French ignore the rule because they firmly believe they already have the most perfect derrieres in Europe. Who is it that rush to show that we are total assholes-we Brits! Thus it was that all our bags were emptied, deodorant was confiscated, although it must be said that the Security Official needed it, underwear was checked for unpleasant fluids, and nearby, a very embarrassed young lady was having to explain the use of a sex toy, that she had probably bought at an Ann Summers party the day before. Her predicament was not aided by the security folk singing Good Vibrations to her!
Repacked and through, but no it is remove your belt and then remove your shoes. Leaving aside the fact that my svelte racing snake figure makes having no visible means of support dangerous, hundreds of people removing their footwear having queued for hours to check in, creates a more toxic atmosphere than any dirty bomb dreamed up by Osama in his cave - speaking of which, can we assume that our Muslim friends, and particularly their womenfolk, assuming that is what they are under their shrouds would be subject to the same intimate scrutiny, or do we respect their cultural differences, one of which of course may be a predilection towards blowing up our aircraft? Fortunately, we were able to achieve revenge when breakfast was served on the aircraft and it consisted allegedly of a bacon roll!
We then arrived at Barcelona, of which my only previous knowledge had been through Fawlty Towers. Having spent over an hour there in the company of an armed policeman who was clearly far too young to be either armed or a policeman, (I can only assume it was a water pistol!), I can say I have great sympathy with Basil. In fairness, it was not entirely their fault. It was far more down to the Ayatollah, who because of some flimsy excuse such as Osteo Arthritis or some other unbelievably agonising ailment that we men would hardly raise a grunt about, was needing to use a walking stick, as does her mother, at times the two of them do a passing resemblance to Jake the peg-twice! Therefore I had arranged for airport assistance. At Gatwick, this had proved to be a buggy twice the size of a stretch limo, though still with no room to carry Sam my daughter or the hand luggage. Barcelona, being foreign, doesn’t run to such automation. They merely had two wheelchairs and pushers. Having been told that we would all be going to the same place, in retrospect, Spain being a Catholic Country, that could have meant to a destination in the hereafter, but I took it to mean Passport Control.
Sam and I followed the crowd , while those on wheels were apparently put on a high loader, and lowered gently to the ground, and equally gently escorted to Baggage Reclaim, a highly appropriate name. By this time, I had arrived at Passport Control, only to realise that my Passport was still with the Wagon Train, as I am not allowed to carry said document on the flimsy grounds that I may lose it! I am a man for God’s sake, and thus incapable of losing anything-it took me 40 years to lose my virginity, and yes I know I wear my mittens on elastic through my coat, but that is only to disguise what I am doing with my hands, but that is another story. . .
