26 March 2012


First of all, we're talking about 2 benign cysts in ma' neck.

I know, sexual.

And second of all, this blog will not be turning into diary of my myriad of ailments.

Let me explain myself.

You know when you are getting slammed from behind and your suitor grabs the back of your neck, let's say for leverage? Well, imagine if they place their hand firmly on a marble sized closed sac just beneath the skin commonly known as a cyst whilst doing that.

And then their hand promptly retreats - you don't say anything, they don't say anything, you both just ignore the giant pink cyst in the room.


Well, it happened with The Straight-ish Guy After I shut up shop thanks to his slab-like penis he certainly wasn't slamming me from behind, but he did have me on all fours in a very compromising position and his hand grabbed the back of my neck and well, let's just say, it was off quicker than his sexual advances toward strangers in front of me at the bar we were just at. Oh yeah!

Is it a giant zit? Is it gonna burst? Is it a mole? Is it your twin? I can imagine were just some of the questions running through his mind at the time.

So, as part of the PNBF Reinvention Tour, it was time to get the fuckers out. Totes!  

Julie my doctor is a no-nonsense South African. Delores her glamourous assistant is a no-nonsense Jamaican. Together they made a formidable no-nonsensical double act as they tag teamed the shit out of my neck, so that in no time, I was sans cysts.

Although I was not fully healed, on the weekend just gone I felt as though I was ready for the dance floor and not even a few stitches were gonna stop me. So, with a couple of flesh coloured plasters* and a thirst for vodka, I was ready to trash the town.

*While the plasters were not completely visible, they weren't completely hidden either.

So as the night wore on, my thirst for vodka was well and truly quenched. Basically, I was totes pissed. I then sidled up to a cute Canadian or he sidled up to me, I can't remember. We shall call him The Canadian because I can't remember his name. We exchanged pleasantries and almost immediately hooked in for a pash.

We danced and chatted about stuff. He spun me round a couple of times. It was fun and just what I needed. Nothing serious, although if he had asked for my number, I would totes have given it to him, but essentially we were both going home alone and that would be that.

I headed off to the toilet feeling pretty good about myself - I even worked a little step-ball-change into my walk and spun into the bathroom like it was my West End debut.

I finished my biz and whilst washing my hands I looked in the mirror. The glue on the plasters had dissolved from the sweat I had been working up and they were both flapping like a pair of gills in the non-existent breeze.

I don't think I have ever left a bar quicker.

Sans Canadian.

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