Menstrual Mondays – Down with the rural charm, in the country

So I’ve been in ye olde Devon for just over 2 weeks now, and I thought it high time to give the rest of you uncultured heathens a taste of life in the old country.

The Good
Straight out the greatest thing about the UK is that every day seems to be “Tits Out Tuesday”. What other first-world country has several high-distribution national newspapers that feature the likes of Lucy Pinder and Michelle Marsh cuddling topless staring you in the face as soon as you open the front page? And what the fuck are they feeding these women? The average nork here is GARGANTUAN.

Lucy Pinder – Relative under-achiever in the
UK mammary stakes

The Monday I arrived in Exeter was sunny, warm and mind-blowing. The walk from the St David’s rail-station was like a magical stroll through an erotic jelly factory – there were jiggly bits as far as the eye could see. I started getting really excited, thinking the UK might be so progressive that they celebrate Tits-Out Tuesdays a day early – turns out it was just a warm up, because Tuesday was a whole other league again. By Wednesday, I honestly started expecting to start seeing topless Valkyrie wearing white-flowing skirts riding around on fucking unicorns, because I’d clearly died in a train wreck on the way here and had instead arrived in Valhalla.

Unfortunately the valkyries never eventuated, and the norkage has died off a little after a few rainy days – seems limey fun-bags are fair weather fighters. But whenever the sun comes out for more than a few hours, so do the weapons of mass destruction. And we’re not talking flabby jubblys either. Sure, a lot of the more boob-alicious girls are a little “cuddly” too, but given the number of bicycle and foot paths around, plus the restrictive traffic control – the general rule is growth hormone-induced super boobs (thank god they force feed battery hens steroids) on quite athletic women.

I’m going to destroy this town once my marines
application process finishes

The Bad
The one risk living here in Exeter though (besides suffocating under a breast of a Page 3 model) is the prevalence of jail-bait. Since the average hooter here is big enough to be used as a three-seater couch, it’s impossible to tell if a girl is only 15 or she’s brought shame to her family for only being endowed with double-D’s. Combined with my complete inability to judge people’s ages and I’m having to be especially careful.
Even so, I was very nearly trapped in my first week here. Started chatting up an absolutely stunning girl at the recruiting office here when we’d both headed in to do our aptitude test. Got talking about what we were both applying for, what she was doing for work, where I was staying; all the while flirting horrendously.

And then the comment “When I finished school last year…” came out.
She’s was 17

Now I knew ALOT of girls from high school that regularly went out with guys who were 6 years older than them. Hell, I knew alot of girls who went out with guys who were 10 years older than them. But I vowed back in school to never to be one of those guys. Partly because it destroyed any chance I had in school with the girls myself, but mostly because 17 is 3 years younger than my sister and that makes it fucking creepy.

The Ugly
It led to an interesting indication of the guys of Exeter though – or maybe just of the weirdos staying in this hostel. When I told them about hot underage recruiting girl, their collective reaction was “Awesome dude, did you get her number?” and “If there’s grass on the wicket!”. Very creepy.
It’s been a real struggle to write ANYTHING with these assholes hanging around too. Since I’ve been here blogging, emailing, book writing, anything, has become nigh on impossible because every one of these failed human beings seems hell-bent on stopping me (or any other member of society) from contributing anything to the rest of the species. I’ve automatically become the most interesting person here because I’m trying to work on my laptop. The moment I sit down to write something, some troglodyte is hanging around to;

• Find out what I’m doing,
• Stop me from doing it,
• Read what I’ve written over my shoulder,
• Tell me some inane story about them abusing a council worker,
• Piss and moan about the hostel owner, or
• Have the hostel owner tell me to go outside and get some exercise

Initially I thought listening to music might have stopped some of the conversation, but buying massive headphones and wearing them all the time doesn’t seem to have done shit – suddenly everyone thinks you’re “rude” because you’re not answering along to another one of their bullshit stories about molesting a farm animal. No no, they still talk to me when I’m typing, wearing headphones and staring at a screen – they just think I’m ignoring them (which incidentally is true).

What part of “leave me alone” are
you not getting here?

Oh and of course because I’m here to join the Royal Marines, every one of these flabby white poms suddenly either has decades of operational military experience or are a hardened gangster. I never realised a quiet little hostel in some backwater of the English country-side could be the central meeting place for every former Ranger, Commando, SBS, SAS, Recce and modern-day Al Capones that’s ever existed. The funniest thing is though, none of them are travellers. None of them are on a world-trip, meeting new and exciting people, seeing the world. Instead these guys are mid/late 30 local dole-bludgers who are staying in a hostel because it’s cheaper than renting. I thought I was being weird for staying in a hostel for a month during my application. One of them (the “ex-Ranger” who loves telling me he was involved in the real “Black Hawk Down” over and over and over again) has been staying here for over 18months now – he’s a “rock band photographer” now (read: groupie with a camera).

Andy Warhol – A monumental asshole, even during a firefight

Since I’ve been here, we’ve had just 2 other “travellers” come through – a pair of lovely Canadian girls on a working holiday who I chatted to quite abit. But they only stayed for a night then moved on. Which strangely enough is what people in hostels do. They were fun, but eventually I’d love to meet some other actual backpackers in this backpacker hostel.

The Conclusion
Quite simply, the south-west of England is full of over-sized breasts on bicycles, under-age supermodels and neanderthals. I don’t know whether to cup my balls, punch them or marvel at their staggering relative size.