[New year, new algorithmic results: 804 words is now the optimum – must have been all the extended rants about reneged resolutions. Long Live Content!]
Sitting in an iconic bastion of British transport that is a South West Trains train arriving at the internationally envious hub that is Southampton Central train station, can only be described as arriving in Southampton on a train.
I’ve booked us into the Grand Harbour Hotel: walk east on Western Esplanade/A3024 – 361 ft; turn right towards Harbour Parade – 43 ft; turn right at Western Esplanade/A3024 – 0.1 mi; slight left towards Harbour Parade – 20 ft; turn right towards Harbour Parade – 69 (teehee) ft; turn left towards Harbour Parade – 0.1 mi; turn left towards Harbour Parade – 36 ft; turn right onto Harbour Parade – 0.2 mi; at the roundabout, take the 2nd exit – 0.1 mi; turn left onto W Quay Rd/A33, destination will be on the left – 157 ft.
We arrive late, but the restaurant’s still serving.
“I’ve booked us two rooms, so we can each have our own personal space, and of course two rooms means two beds for naked jumping, and possibly some sexual intercourse, depends how good the jumping is. Gin?”
“Have we met?”
“I’ve given us three days and four nights to stock up, find a butchers, crew if necessary, and most importantly, source a vessel; there’s one outside called ‘The Good Ship Venus’ and has ‘take me’ written all over it…I did it whilst you were in the toilet; we’ll keep an eye on it and when the owner shows up I’ll offer my bespoke boat cleaning services, turn on the charm and whatnot, and depending what sort of chap he is we’ll get him to come with us.”
“And what if he’s the wrong sort? I still have the hobnobs.”
“If he’s the wrong sort we’ll knock him out with some biscuits and steal his boat, yes.”
Neter Wrobahr is a great green beast of a man; at 18ft 37in of age and 67 years in girth his squirrel mane is the scabbard of all men south of east, and most of those drove a cabbage. He constantly keeps about his person a collection of horses, dogs and babies, so we know immediately that he can be trusted; a wise man once said ‘never trust a man whom horses, dogs, or babies do not like’, so whenever Neter met anyone new he would thrust his collection of organic moral diviners at said person and let nature take its course.
Naturally Perl and I pass the test; we are trust worthy till death; I admit to painting his boat, offer of course to clean it thoroughly, but he says he likes it, I’m quite the artist apparently.
So with our vessel secured and our first mate mated the three of us head back to the bar for a much earned drink; there are tales of woe, yore, fancy and bacon, together with dancing and facial hair tickling – Perl cannot wait until she reaches the age where she can tickle her own facial hair, and then find a young child to kiss, they love that they do – and when all six eyelids are struggling to remain open there is talk of slumber. We offer Neter one of our rooms which he gladly accepts. We then stumble towards the lifts…the combination of gin and a subsequent tab of bacid gives the stumble more of a swim like feel, so while Neter does the usual holding onto chairs and hugging walls, Perl and I are engrossed in the individual medley [is the reader expecting a breaststroke joke at this point? Maybe, hence I’m loathe to put one in] and I stroke her breasts in the most unamusing way possible.
The morning brings rain and headaches, but a new world record for the 100m butterfly. We skip breakfast and go on the hunt for a quality butcher. At this moment in time, you’re probably wondering what the purpose of all this is (bless me for thinking it’s only now that you’re wondering what the purpose of all this is); what use is there for a bacon smuggler or two? Isn’t there perfectly good, nay, excellent bacon getting produced on this merry isle? Don’t we have a more than satisfactory bacon trade agreement with Denmark? Yes to both these pertinent questions. But there is a foul plot afoot; there is a place – and there are few who even know of its existence, let alone its location – a place that has such perfect bacon; such sublime methods of rearing, feeding, tickling – a tickled pig is a happy pig; a happy pig is a tasty bacon – slaughtering, cutting, curing, smoking, that it is kept secret from the wider world at the behest of the 1%; they deem it too glorious for the likes of us; it fetches such enormous sums that true, we would not be able to afford it; but these vast sums are arbitrary figures used as labels to denote elitism, and not at all commensurate with costs of production. Now I don’t give a
To be continued…