wanky diddler

I didn't mind camping with Stacy, or her mong friend Simon, since Stacy was supplying the drugs and Simon the four-person tent. Trish, however, turned out to be intolerable.

Her babygurgling over every creature as "kur-YEWWT" (duckies/ickle sparrows/puppy with adORAbibble eyesiwies/birdiekins having an ickle bathy-wath) was bad but dismissable,

Cute lambs. After the first hundred thousand, the novelty starts to wear off.

her jolly insistence on a game of I-Spy during the slightest moment's silence was annoying but bearable, her half-hearted non-effort in putting up the tent or washing up or collecting firewood was infuriating but overcomeable, her enthusiastic squelchy masturbation each night was nearly as amusing as it was awkward, and her treatment of Simon as non-existent was merely an accurate reflection of his charismatic presence (and, in fact, it was her one redeeming point: her non-exchanges with Simon and his subsequent annoyance providing a little amusement). But the endless mentions of Gerald near drove me to murder.

A Trish story about Gerald would be cued by almost any mundane event, such as rain, and would proceed as follows:

"This reminds me of the time I was camping with Gerald. And it started to rain. Well, wouldyoubelieveit he touched the side of the tent even though I told him not to and we got wet. Then we did something, I don't remember... O yes that's right: We played I-Spy with my little eye something beginning with w which was water and that is so Gerald well we laughed and laughed it was so funny I tell you that's Gerald all over."

Gerald (Artist's impression)

Her Gerald stories would end with her donkey porn laugh and there would be a nanosecond of silence before she told another Gerald story, most of which involve I-Spy; or she would suggest a game of I-Spy here and now. One day she was going to put all her Gerald stories in a book, and everyone would buy a copy, and then, having read one to two stories, swallow their own eyeballs to prevent themselves accidentally reading any more.

Day six, and we were driving through the village of Big Shitting, which is distinguised from Little Shitting by the fact it has a large shop cum post office. "Aww look at the ker-YEWT ickle lambikins" said Trish, not for the first time, as we passed a field identical to a thousand others. Trish had to stop to get a stamp and post a letter (I think it was literally one letter) to or about Gerald - who was on a French exchange or got shot during the 1919 uprising or was tragically crushed by a camel while liberating the arabs.

Trish went into the large shop while we waited in the car. After a couple of minutes I said "I spy with my little eye something begin with F."

"Freedom!" I shouted, while accelerating out of there.

Stacy wouldn't talk to me for fifteen minutes.