I looked out of the window of the plane as we flew high above the clouds where the sun always shines- except at night, obviously. It was like being in heaven, with a clear azure sky and the sun reflecting off the thick layer of white cotton wool far below us, which stretched as far as the eye could see and hid the dreary day in England that we were escaping.
Yes it’s holiday time again and we’re heading back to Portugal, to the same place that we stayed at a couple of years ago. And also incidentally, where our little muckette was conceived- but that’s another story, albeit a fairly quick one. Quality not quantity, that’s what I always tell Mrs Muck and it’s never been truer than here.
Despite our best efforts to arrange otherwise, all of the family are with us once again, but this time without the geisha girls, who have gone on a national tour with Jamal’s Camel Toe lapdancing club. But they have been replaced with a few additions. Our little muckette of course, and also my mother-in-law, who it has to be said is an absolute delight to have around. All I can say is that the docile gene in their family must skip a generation…
Jamal has managed to get around his ban on travelling abroad by changing his surname to Bin Laden, and worryingly the passport office had his new documents delivered within a week of him sending off the form. At least this time he won’t be turning up out of the blue with a stash of weapons and drugs hidden inside his anal cavity. Actually, the only definite bit of the last sentence is that at least he won’t be turning up out of the blue. God only knows what he’s swallowed or inserted this time.
He has also brought his girlfriend, Sharia, who was once glamorous, but is now a faded remnant of her former self. Don’t get me wrong- even with the sun damaged leathery skin and breasts that hang a couple of inches lower than you really want to see (and we do see, on a frequent basis once she’s had a few drinks) she is still a woman who oozes sexuality. Sometimes literally. Her foreign accent is incredibly seductive and the way she rolls her Rs (and arse) is hypnotic. Her most dangerous trait is the lingering glance she has a habit of giving after speaking to you. She holds the eye contact maybe only a second too long, but in that second all sorts of possibilities run through your mind, all of them dangerous. Jamal isn’t stupid, and as you can imagine he’s incredibly possessive and only one whiskey away from a violent jealous rage.
Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve had to fight off her advances on more than one occasion, usually late at night when drunk (her, not me). But fighting off her advances is far more preferable to fighting off Jamal’s, especially if he’s brought his gun.
As you’ve gathered, Jamal is crazy about her, for the reasons already described, and also no doubt because of her famous claim to be able to suck a golf ball through a hose pipe. That aside, it has to be said that Sharia is far better company than her sister Fatwa, who unfortunately never inherited the good looks that Sharia once had. Hirsute rather than beautiful is a far more accurate description of Fatwa, who has several sprouting moles across her chin and down onto her neck, which give the impression of a permanent five o clock shadow, which isn’t a good look for any woman. Her personality is actually less endearing than her moles, so I’m pleased that she has stayed behind to mind the camel farm while we are away.
Handy is fresh from his appointment at the beauty parlour yesterday, where he had his bi-weekly back sack and crack pumice and wax, and a refresher course of botox. No one dare tell him that he now looks ridiculous, and faintly reminiscent of The Joker from Batman. He’s wearing a seemingly permanent smile, which when combined with his permanent natural scowl makes him look slightly deformed.
You probably saw him on the news his appearance at the Levison Enquiry last year, where he arrived resplendent in a long flowing ballgown and dangly diamante earrings and then proceeded to cause uproar when he claimed to have had a threesome with Margaret Thatcher and Arthur Scargill at the height of the miners strike, in a Travelodge on the A4 near Newbury. According to Handy, Scargill’s refusal to swap wigs with Thatcher in a role playing game led directly to the breakdown of talks and Thatcher’s subsequent vow to “close the north down.” That, said Handy, was the real reason the miners lost the strike.
I’m sure your remember the chaotic scenes as Handy was rushed from the courtroom with the media pursuing him, where he was then ushered into a people carrier with darkened windows and rushed away, leading Handy to compare himself with Princess Diana (“but with better legs”) for a month afterwards.
Sandy is his usual terrible self and has a new girlfriend, whom he took on their first date last week down to the Ring Of Fire curry house in West Croydon. On their return Sandy was beaming as he took the rather the worse-for-wear girl up the stairs towards his bedroom.
“Good meal?” I asked him.
“Yeah blud, loads of pillow rice and coma inside her” he replied , winking.
“Pilau rice and korma” I corrected him.
“Naaa mate, not with the three rohypnols I slipped in her beer earlier” He cackled menacingly and went to get his video camera.
The following day I asked him if his new girlfriend (Sandy hasn’t deemed it necessary to inform us of her name) would be coming on holiday with us, to which he snorted in derision and said “fuck dat blud, I’m going to be eating Portuguese innit”
Amazingly, the journey here passed off without incident, although the air hostess wasn’t too pleased when Sandy pinched her bum and asked her if she fancied a trip to the toilet with him to find out if she was orange all over.
We had a lay in this morning and awoke to a warm sunny day, heavy with the perfume of the flowers in our garden, although some of that may have been a waft of Sharia emerging from the bathroom fully made up and pouting.
So let us start our holiday. And may God have mercy on my soul if it’s anything like last time…