Firstly, I would like to report that rumours of my demise by means of a bloody anal prolapse have been greatly exaggerated, and if it is any consolation the purporter of said cloacal hyperbole has been forced to drink himself to the point of collapse ever since the hot gravy got a little extra bisto and finally turned into the familiar Mersey trouts, about a week ago. As you may be able to tell from the mangled prose above (and from the incredibly pretentious use of the third person), Coybag is well on the way again, as part of the night’s plan of killing time waiting for yet another night train and anticipating a possible date with Miss/Mr Eukaryote (asexual) 2007 as part of the package.
I have to say Goa has been a fine place to beat the bug: watching the bloke in the room next door go through the stages of smack withdrawal at the same time as watching several ex-supermarket Santa Claus wandering aimlessly and talking to themselves or orange speedo and stetson-clad Russians, always shouting the message “kids: don’t do drugs – well, do, but for fuck’s sake stop before you’re fifty”, certainly gets the “I can’t be that bad” mindset into action, and everything seemed to fall into place after that.
Next stop is Mangalore – thankfully at present not the homosexual haven that its name will make it once the gay community starts recognising puns – and a break from the beach for a while. It can only be healthy that someone with such a crushing ineptitude for approaching the (un)fairer sex should be taken away from wall-to-wall bikinis for a time.
And thus Good morrow, overcast ones!