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It's taken me 12 months to get over the singed fanny trauma of last year, when that Leicester bellend Nuggy tried to sell me into the Bulgarian sex trade. After months of fanny physio it is now running at almost 95% and I've had the burn scars covered with a tattoo of Rob Earnshaw's face.
So when Mavies said we should go away together I was eager to put the past behind me, I can't let Nuggy confine me to Whittam Towers for the rest of my days, nice as it is.
So which romantic destination did Mavies have in mind? Jamaica, Hawaii, New York or perhaps Milan? No, he wanted to fly to Copenhagen a few days before the BWFC Summer tour. Absolute tosser. Still, a holiday is a holiday.
Copenhagen isn't so bad I told myself, it's got some pretty swanky hotels and if I was going to degrade myself by having intercourse with Mavies I'd at least be doing it between silk sheets (although he did text me a few weeks ago to say he had a fetish for making love in the BWFC tunnel, which does explain his anonymous performances in a white shirt).
Anyway, Mavies informed me we weren't staying at a hotel, an old friend was putting us up. I was immediately worried as I've met some of his friends. There's the guy who collects toe clippings of retired League 1 footballers, the brothers who steal women's underwear and stitch them together to make duvet covers and then sleep in them together while completely naked, Zat Knight, and the elderly gentleman who likes to sniff male bums. They are a right bunch of freaks but nothing to the guy we were staying with - one Mr Stiggle Trofting.
As soon as we walked into his front room I knew I was in trouble. The walls were lined with human heads, displayed like trophies. Ever wondered what happened to David Ngog and Nigel Reo-Coker? Wonder no more. I tried to make a dash for it but Mavies's ears got in the way and I was forced upstairs against my wishes by Mavies and Trofting.
My clothes were removed to reveal nothing but Rob Earnshaw, thankfully his lovely face put Mavies off his game and his little tiddler shrivelled to a size smaller than Magoo's brain. Trofting was already fighting with himself so I made my escape.
As I dashed outside a kindly dwarf took pity on me and offered me a lift to the Preston embassy in Copenhagen, so I took refuge in the back of his van. When the doors opened an hour later I wasn't in Copenhagen I was in some sort of circus, which I soon realised was a travelling freak show - and horror of horrors - I was the main attraction. The bearded lady with wonky tits.
I would have escaped sooner but I was getting £2000 a day plus all the shaving cream I could use.
It's good to be home though. Oh, and for the record, Mavies and I are finished. The jug eared twat.
So when Mavies said we should go away together I was eager to put the past behind me, I can't let Nuggy confine me to Whittam Towers for the rest of my days, nice as it is.
So which romantic destination did Mavies have in mind? Jamaica, Hawaii, New York or perhaps Milan? No, he wanted to fly to Copenhagen a few days before the BWFC Summer tour. Absolute tosser. Still, a holiday is a holiday.
Copenhagen isn't so bad I told myself, it's got some pretty swanky hotels and if I was going to degrade myself by having intercourse with Mavies I'd at least be doing it between silk sheets (although he did text me a few weeks ago to say he had a fetish for making love in the BWFC tunnel, which does explain his anonymous performances in a white shirt).
Anyway, Mavies informed me we weren't staying at a hotel, an old friend was putting us up. I was immediately worried as I've met some of his friends. There's the guy who collects toe clippings of retired League 1 footballers, the brothers who steal women's underwear and stitch them together to make duvet covers and then sleep in them together while completely naked, Zat Knight, and the elderly gentleman who likes to sniff male bums. They are a right bunch of freaks but nothing to the guy we were staying with - one Mr Stiggle Trofting.
As soon as we walked into his front room I knew I was in trouble. The walls were lined with human heads, displayed like trophies. Ever wondered what happened to David Ngog and Nigel Reo-Coker? Wonder no more. I tried to make a dash for it but Mavies's ears got in the way and I was forced upstairs against my wishes by Mavies and Trofting.
My clothes were removed to reveal nothing but Rob Earnshaw, thankfully his lovely face put Mavies off his game and his little tiddler shrivelled to a size smaller than Magoo's brain. Trofting was already fighting with himself so I made my escape.
As I dashed outside a kindly dwarf took pity on me and offered me a lift to the Preston embassy in Copenhagen, so I took refuge in the back of his van. When the doors opened an hour later I wasn't in Copenhagen I was in some sort of circus, which I soon realised was a travelling freak show - and horror of horrors - I was the main attraction. The bearded lady with wonky tits.
I would have escaped sooner but I was getting £2000 a day plus all the shaving cream I could use.
It's good to be home though. Oh, and for the record, Mavies and I are finished. The jug eared twat.
