White Russian. That’s a drink right? I travelled about 3000 miles in Russia, or Russian Russia as it’s known to those in the know. I saw three black people. I didn’t ask if they were visiting. Can you call a drink a Gay Gordon? A Faggot Felch? Maybe the first, but I doubt the second would go down to well.

Actually, you could make a Faggot Felch out of B52 ingredients, you’d just have to think of an innovative way to serve it.

As you can see, my brain is rotted through with booze and a chronic lack of colonic irrigation. And it’s been two days since my last Thai massage. I’m still keen, despite having to physically unhand the vicious torturer, and tell her to stop punishing me for crimes I may or may not have commited. Since when did she become the judge, jury and executioner. Besides, I only think of crimes mostly. Perhaps this particular massage crone was some kind of martial arts cast-out – thrown out of her dojo for crippling too many opponents. She was a wee thing, but managed to virtually disable me with one thumb to my thigh. I kept trying to get up, and communicate that I had to go, but she kept pushing me down, and then she’d skewer me on her thumb again. Vicious.