CatSpace

Isn't it wonderful? I'm listening to Dookie! I'm wearing shorts! It's time to crack out the Maggies on ice and sit in the garden watching Wimbledon with my quaint middle-class friends. No longer will I have to play poker at the pub with the heathen! I fucking love summer. It's when all the good shit happens. I always play awesome football in the summer. I always have my best nights out in the summer. I always make new friends in the summer. I always have a girlfriend in the summer. I always have really floppy cool hair in the summer. I'm actually sitting here with a smile on my face, and I'm not often happy when I'm writing crap here. I'm usually cooped up in my manc cupboard writing away simply as an alternative to PES or masturbation. Today, though, the sexy sun is shining though my sexy window onto my sexy face and I'm turning browner by the minute. Mint. Welcome to paaaaaaradise!

Only we all know that by the weekend it will be pissing it down again, and I'll be sitting in my room writing about female Bangladeshi textile workers inequality or something else that is only of consequence for the next two months of my life.

But whilst I'm revelling in the warmth of the summer glow and the feel of freshly cut grass under my feet, let's talk about happy things. Happy chat for happy people. A happy, funny story that happened to happy, funny people on a lovely summers day.

My holiday to Kos 18 months ago was a bit of a schlet down. I was almost 20, and the oldest person at the hotel (minus siblings) by about four years. Thank god it was all inclusive, offering limitless free beer and wine. Sweet, tasty adventure fuel. The amount of my own fun I created was really something to admire, but I totally outdid myself on about the fifth night of the holiday. The entertainment that the hotel put on for us was abysmal most nights, requiring copious amounts of alcohol to be imbibed before you could even begin to enjoy that crap. So, yeah, as usual I was pretty lagging by the time they announced what the main act of the evening would be.

Russian dancing girls.

My first thought was "How the fuck am I going to get it up for her later if I'm thishhh pishhhed?". My second thought was "I wonder how much she costs anyway?". My third thought was "MINTTTTTTTT!".

So I sat down and enjoyed the show. And a great show it was. Tall blonde from Moscow Vs. curvaceous brunette from Slovakia. As usual I went for the curvaceous brunette, as appears to be my wont. My brother went for the slim blonde, as is his wont. Between us, I reckon we could just about manage Keira Knightley. Just.

After the show was finished, I drank several gin and tonics and started talking to my friend Angelos, the hotel manager. I was wasted, so wasted no time in asking him to introduce me to the chicks. Bless him, he did. The poor girls didn't know what had hit them, but amazingly they liked me. Clearly my tales of a stable suburban nothing upbringing and lots of roads that are the same fascinated these people brought up with a background of war, political unrest and revolution, because they invited me to their apartment after they'd done their second dancing assignment of the night, at some club in Kos town. They duly left.

In hindsight, I now know this to be a rejection.

However, 19 year old Statcat knew of no such concept.

21 year old Statcat now chats up women by saying "The Red Army killed 1600 of their own men at Stalingrad. However, the Weimar republic were not prepared for winter". I'm not sure which is worse.

I remained awake courtesy of more gin and tonics. It all goes a little hazy. It all goes VERY hazy. Then it all turns into one big beige mess. I guess that's what it must be like to be visually impaired. I can't remember shit. I just remember thinking "If I drink ALLLLL this gin, then the Russians will find me attractive. Russians are always pissed, right?". Again, hindsight tells me that, when dealing with foreigners, one must play up the sophisticated, intelligent angle of being English, lest be filed alongside your average England football fan / BNP voter.

However, the result of the gin was favourable in that I didn't wake up in my own bed that night. Oh no. And neither did I go to sleep alone.

I woke up at 6am sat on one of the hotels outhouse toilets, with my pants round my ankles, a messy shit in the toilet, and a cute little mouse looking eagerly at my bollocks.

I don't think I got laid. I went to bed instead.

PnL
StC