Holiday

I had a little holiday recently, which is why you’ve not heard much from me for a while. That and there’s only so much mediocre sex I can have in any amount of time. Anyway. I had a little holiday. And it reminded me how much I love travelling. Well, how much I think I love travelling. 

It’s never as glamorous as you think it’s going to be. I always find myself planning my day between phone recharge points. Even if I don’t use it much, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, it’ll be almost dead by teatime. Which is a bit of a pain in the arse, because in any city where I don’t know my way around, or maybe even don’t speak the language, not having Google Maps and Translate handy is fucking terrifying. I mean, I like to do my best to manage without having to check them every five minutes, but however great I was at GCSE French 20 years ago (Christ), I wasn’t exactly fluent. And I’m much worse now, because gin and trying poppers that one time in 2009 has pushed all of the French words right out of my croissant. 

Before I went on holiday, I was imagining I’d pick it up dead quick, and be jabbering on like a native in no time. Sadly, this wasn’t quite the case. Because it’s easy to be clever in French when it’s written down, like in a Grindr message, for example, because I had time to look at the words, work out the gist of the question, and find a way to answer it that mostly involved ‘oui’ or ‘non’. But it’s different when they’re standing there looking at you, immediately after saying something in a bored and less patient tone than Madame Ward did, back in 1999.

So, because this kept happening a lot. I memorised a phrase in French that I thought might help: I learned to say “I’m sorry, I’m very stupid in French” in French. I even added “In fact, I’m not particularly clever in English, either…” in the hope that it would break the ice, get me a laugh and then they’re on my side while I stutter through ordering more gin. But no. Mostly it got me a look that said “Yes, monseiur, I can see that. What is it you want?”

Although I did spend a happy couple of hours chatting to a boy who only spoke French. It was a little awkward, as once I’d found out that there is no beach in Paris, and talked about my dog for a couple of minutes, we had to keep typing things into Google Translate and then pressing the button so that the nice robot lady would say it in the right language. It got kinda weird when we were getting flirty, though.  <YOU DON’T SWEAT MUCH FOR A FAT LAD> loses something in translation. Besides, you can’t use her for the sexy talk. <You like that, don’t you, you filthy bitch, uh, yeah, take it, you love it, that feels so good baby, don’t stop>

Having Grindr on holiday is not a good thing. I like to think that, when I travel, I’m going to be all broadening my horizons and classy. But it usually turns into a gin-fuelled episode of “Shag anything - you’re on holiday, it doesn’t matter”. ALthough, actually, I tend to do better abroad than I do in London. For some reason, there are often much hotter boys sending me unsolicited dick pics in foreign cities. Here at home it’s just manky old men. It’s disgusting either way, but at least if the guy is hot I will save the photo to my phone before I call them a wanker and block them. Y’know, for later.

I”m not sure why incredibly sexy people in other cities are attracted to me. Maybe to them, I’m exotic. So, where I find dark, muscular men with great accents pants-wettingly, got-a-boner-just-ordering-a-coffee-ly horny, they, being from places where that kind of guy is ten a penny, might look at a blobby, awkward English boy with skin so pale it’s difficult to look at me in direct sunlight because it just reflects straight back off me again and think “Phwoar. Donnez-moi some of that!”

The important thing, I’ve found at this point, is never to contradict them. If they say that they think you’re incredibly sexy, you shut the fuck up and take the compliment. When you go “oh, no, I’m not! I’m hideous”, the only thing that could come out of that is that you might convince him that you’re less attractive than he thinks. All you have to do is smile, say thanks and then compliment them back. I’m gonna say that again for the people at the back: If someone you fancy finds you attractive, do not argue with them unless youn want them to say “Actually, you’re right - thanks for pointing that out. Wow, I almost made a terrible mistake! Thankyou, and goodbye forever.” No. You keep your whore mouth shut and wait for him to realise the mistake on his own, which with a bit of luck won’t be until the next morning. And by then it’s too late, because he can delete your number and unfollow you on Twitter, but he can’t unsuck your cock.

Anyway. Grindr on holiday. It starts to eat up all my time. Simon Amstell does a bit in one of his shows about how travelling means you learn a lot about yourself, and how he learned that he’s a horny sex-monster. To be honest, I’m right up there with him. Or I would be, if it weren’t for that restraining order.

There’s part of me that secretly hopes it’ll become a little romance. The holiday hookups, I mean, not the restraining order from Simon Amstell. 

But no, sadly not. In the city of love, all I got was drunk and horny. 

I even asked a mate of mine to give me a suave opening line to say to men in bars. Y’know, something that would be mysterious and beguiling, and would make me sound like the international man of mystery I wanted to be, instead of the drunken English tosspot I really am. And he did. Gave me a line to say, I mean. And I tried it. I was there in a bar, saw a cute guy catch my eye, so I wandered over and and said “Bonsior. Regardez mes tetons.” It wasn’t until four or five guys later that one of them explained that I was saying was “Look at mah tits”. 

So, yeah, perhaps not the most successful holiday, but it was nice to get away, and drink too much and generally get plenty of sleep and drink too much.

I noticed as well that photos in hotel room mirrors always look a lot sexier than they do when you take them at home. I don’t know if it’s something to do with the lighting, or because someone actually comes in and wipes hotel mirrors, or what, but there’s some magic that just makes them so much better for selfies. Especially naked selfies. Although if you’re anything like me, you’ll need ot take your naked selfies on the first dayb or two of your trip, before all that rich food and booze starts to take its toll on your ‘holiday body’. I say holiday body. That’s a bit of a grand term for “had a wash and trimmed my pubes a bit”. 

It can be a bit awkward when you get back and someone wants to see photos of your holiday. Like There’s the Eiffel Tower, there’s Notre Dame, that’s my penis, that’s my penis, yep, penis, there’s that hot barman I was telling you about. I know, I know… There’s both of our penises. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you? I could hardly believe it. There’s the Louvre, there’s me with the Mona Lisa, that’s a bum. Not entirely sure whose, to be honest. There’s my penis. And my penis… Tell you what, let’s just close that app…

<OH YEAH BIG BOY. GIVE IT TO ME. I’M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR CLOTHES AND PISS ON YOUR TITS.>