Sex bomb.....
Words from a Bird. Day 115
I know that many of you are sitting wondering what the hell happened between leaving for a quiet dinner with the mother and aunt and the mammoth hangovers suffered by Miss R and Mrs W yesterday morning. Well, dear reader, let me enlighten you, and I'll warn you now.....it's not for the faint hearted.
After the eighteen pints of Sangria, time had become immaterial until we suddenly realised that we had 17 minutes before we were due to meet the other two. A rushed call was made to the aunt (the mother rarely answers her mobile, and when it rings she has a habit of holding it as though it's going to go off in her hand). This gave us an extra 40 minutes. My naturally curly hair had a whiff of Ken Dodd going on, so Miss R, armed with her straighters suggested flattening it for speed.
Duly ironed, and all slightly more coherent, we headed off to the mother and aunt's hotel for a lovely meal. It was here that my two younger companions started heading off the rails at full pelt.
Settling down to watch the night's entertainment, Ricky Lavazza (probably not his real name as he hailed from Caerphilly) the mother piped up with the information that she'd seen him before, and that he had a lovely bottom. At this point in the evening Miss R and Mrs W had polished off three bottles of red, and were well on the way to breaking the sound barrier with their comments and drunken laughter, most of which was directed at Mr Lavazza's rather pert behind.
Miss R took rather a shine to the Boy from the Valleys, and made us sit five feet away from the stage to watch the show. As our Welsh boyo prepped for his show, I could see the smile slipping, revealing a level of fear that would only get worse as the night went on. The two of them subjected him to a barrage of sexual innuendos, and at one point put on rather a risque dance routine to his version of Sex Bomb. They cleared the dance floor and several of the older guests had to be stretchered off with palpitations, while the head waiter stood in the shadows clutching a pair of defibrillator paddles.
We expected the show to end at 11.00, but Ricky kept on singing, asking for his mummy on several occasions. While we were glad to hear a few more numbers, part of me was wondering whether he was just trying to remain within the comparative safety of the stage for as long as possible.
I finally managed to get them back to our hotel via a taxi journey that neither remembers. A quick nightcap turned into fighting off several rather annoying Finns. I'd never seen such pallid complexions in all my life. They obviously hadn't seen much sun over the last year, nor exercise if their straining shirt buttons were anything to go by.
By the time I got the two of them upstairs to the room, I had one laid out on the floor telling me that she'd never walk again, while the other had passed out, slumped over on her bed.
No wonder yesterday was so quiet...
I know that many of you are sitting wondering what the hell happened between leaving for a quiet dinner with the mother and aunt and the mammoth hangovers suffered by Miss R and Mrs W yesterday morning. Well, dear reader, let me enlighten you, and I'll warn you now.....it's not for the faint hearted.
After the eighteen pints of Sangria, time had become immaterial until we suddenly realised that we had 17 minutes before we were due to meet the other two. A rushed call was made to the aunt (the mother rarely answers her mobile, and when it rings she has a habit of holding it as though it's going to go off in her hand). This gave us an extra 40 minutes. My naturally curly hair had a whiff of Ken Dodd going on, so Miss R, armed with her straighters suggested flattening it for speed.
Duly ironed, and all slightly more coherent, we headed off to the mother and aunt's hotel for a lovely meal. It was here that my two younger companions started heading off the rails at full pelt.
Settling down to watch the night's entertainment, Ricky Lavazza (probably not his real name as he hailed from Caerphilly) the mother piped up with the information that she'd seen him before, and that he had a lovely bottom. At this point in the evening Miss R and Mrs W had polished off three bottles of red, and were well on the way to breaking the sound barrier with their comments and drunken laughter, most of which was directed at Mr Lavazza's rather pert behind.
Miss R took rather a shine to the Boy from the Valleys, and made us sit five feet away from the stage to watch the show. As our Welsh boyo prepped for his show, I could see the smile slipping, revealing a level of fear that would only get worse as the night went on. The two of them subjected him to a barrage of sexual innuendos, and at one point put on rather a risque dance routine to his version of Sex Bomb. They cleared the dance floor and several of the older guests had to be stretchered off with palpitations, while the head waiter stood in the shadows clutching a pair of defibrillator paddles.
We expected the show to end at 11.00, but Ricky kept on singing, asking for his mummy on several occasions. While we were glad to hear a few more numbers, part of me was wondering whether he was just trying to remain within the comparative safety of the stage for as long as possible.
I finally managed to get them back to our hotel via a taxi journey that neither remembers. A quick nightcap turned into fighting off several rather annoying Finns. I'd never seen such pallid complexions in all my life. They obviously hadn't seen much sun over the last year, nor exercise if their straining shirt buttons were anything to go by.
By the time I got the two of them upstairs to the room, I had one laid out on the floor telling me that she'd never walk again, while the other had passed out, slumped over on her bed.
No wonder yesterday was so quiet...
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