Saturday, 22 August 2009
Welcome back blog fans... (Theres 7 of you now, Im thinking about waiting until I get another 5 then renaming you disciples, stay tuned and someone remind me in case I get sidetracked...)
As you will no doubt be aware, the past 3 postless weeks that you have been forced to endure have been because I have have been fannying around with the long suffering Mrs Dickfingers to some of the furthest and most exotic corners of the Earth... or to be more specific, France and Cornwall.
To make up for the no-doubt intolerable absence of my fascinating (educational AND entertaining) posts behold a special superduper extra special Holiday Edition length post:
The first week was spent in the charming Medoc region of France, (its near Bordeaux, don't worry, I had to check too)
Arriving in France, I did exactly what any Globetrotting International Cultural Chameleon would do to integrate seamlessly into French life: I hired the smallest gayest car they had, bought a baguette, peed in the open without being drunk, then found a vinyard. Right after these photos were taken, a confused couple asked me for directions as apparently I looked so French they figured I must know my way around (only don't ask anyone as they'll only deny it...)
The only thing that slightly undermines my otherwise immaculate Gallic Assimilation and betrayed my Brits-Abroad roots, can be seen in the following picture: I went to the beach...
Unfortunately and unbeknownst to me, there appears to be a newly registered French law that dictates any adult male within 50 metres of a large public body of water, should remove all clothing and parade around nonchalantly flopping their hangdowns at everyone, trying to maintain eye contact for as long as possible to make all repressed uptight Englishmen in the area (me) feel as uncomfortable as possible... In one week in France I believe that I saw more leathery European winkies than any man ever should... In short blogfans, don't go to a French beach unless you have a deep-seated desire to see more balls than Elton John's chin...
All this was quickly forgotten when I found a sign to Brest (which bizarrely they don't find funny)
...and shortly afterwards, saw a poodle with a ribbon tied round it... Apparently I just missed the old man with a Beret, bicycle and a Stripy Jumper as he had an urgent appointment at Stereotype HQ but I may have better luck next time
France was amazing, however, for all the things that they do have over England, force fed animals with amazingly delicious fat livers and cavalier attitudes to public nudity being some of them, after a while you realise what you are missing and have to go home. In my case to spend a week in a deserted field in Cornwall and eat more Pies, Scones and Tea than is probably wise...
Here is Dickfingers Base Camp: 6 hours and a lot of petrol away from HQ and fucking cold when it rains. Which it did. Often.
As if being the home of Cream Teas and Pies wasn't enough, Cornwall proved to be a veritible...thing of stuff to do. In between "sleeping in a carrier bag" and "avoiding rain" we managed to get crabs (snigger)
and found the (apparently) famous Jamaica Inn (the site of another Cream Tea) where I proved that no matter what monumental historical site you take me to I will somehow work out a way of posing next to it to imply its my widger...
I also found time to paddle thereby completing all necessary holiday rituals
As if that wasn't enough, using my Mr Miyagi-like skills I managed to snatch a fly out of the air using nothing but my shitting hands... find another blog with fly snatching, go on, I dare you.
Next time: Something else.