A rebel without a clue.

After a brief episode of dry retching on the main Tadcaster/Wetherby road Stephen dropped me back at home to conclude our mad afternoon/evening around York and Tadcaster Saturday night. A day where copious gills of gin and JD was drunk while I played innocently outside the King's Arms with an unopened prophylactic, attempting to look like a chicken with only one teat like wattle. A couple at the next table found my routine hilarious, but maybe thought I needed carrying away. Stephen was unusually silent on the occasion. I don't want to bore anyone with a catalogue of pints drunk, cocktails swallowed and our lingering hope we'd find a nice man with an interesting stash of uppers, downers, acid or mescaline. But this is York 2011 and not LA in the 1970's so I think we were on a hiding to nothing. Having been dropped off along from the Barbican we walked up to Pivini for our first Cider, while coming up that road to the Merchant's Adventurer's Hall next to the...

Eh you know I'm not one for complaining, much, but I think I've just spent £250 quid on the biggest waste of 5 days ever. Exeter piss poor backpackers with zero feeling shoved full of itinerant workers and chinamen. Launceston so in the middle of nowhere to not know where nowhere is (is it Cornwall or is it shite or is it on the A30 between nowhere and nowhere) and where a heart can be broken by so someone so effortless and quiet. The longest road though has to be the enormous effort to get to and from Falmouth without mindless and gormless ranters and to trundle along in a happy shopper bus through one too many Trelistlessnessesevenlevonpoollooe only to arrive in Falmouth and discover the set of keys that Globe gobshite backpackers of Exeter will no doubt want their £10 of flesh for. Then to stay in The Ladder where the locals are listless and eyeless zombies drivelling one too many Grandma Weapon Grade and Old Rosie and where DJ's play lotus spread and aren't eclecti...