This week I decided to take a break from my ongoing publicity drive. I needed to recharge the batteries and blow off the cobwebs. A vacation was in order.
Thus, on Monday morning, my companion and I climbed into the Smithmobile and drove the fifty miles to the ancient and mysterious island of Llanhorny, believed to be the rudest place in Wales. Leaving the mainland behind, we crossed the bridge on the stroke of noon, intent on losing ourselves in the strange landscape and culture of this alien world across the water.
It was only when the first cartographers set foot on Llanhorny and detailed the rugged coastline, that it was discovered the island was shaped like an enormous minge. Copies of maps were sold to navigators and masturbators alike, the saucy topography inspiring lust in lonely gentlemen of the age.
Weaving along tangled country lanes, we make for our first stop, the oldest working dirty dairy farm in the country, where the milk maids are said to wear no knickers and often bend over to attract the attention of passers-by. The place is a bugger to find, as, according to rumour, the island’s council took down all the road signs and sold off the scrap metal to buy drugs. Just as we are on the verge of giving up, we stumble across the farm, but alas, it is closed on Mondays.
A little disheartened, we continue our quest, turning left toward the coast where we hope to visit the National Museum of Tits. After driving straight through an unmarked junction and narrowly avoiding a car accident, we find a parking space and make the short journey on foot along the promenade to the museum gates, but alas, find it to be closed on Mondays.
After a mug of coffee from our flask we consult the guidebook and make for the Institute of Freelance Lesbianism, a cooperative set up by a couple of carpet munchers, back in the seventies, who fled prejudice in search of a simpler island life. We find the institute, and rubbing our hands in anticipation of seeing some hot, girl on girl action, attempt to gain entry via the front door. Unfortunately, according to a note taped above the letterbox, the place is closed on Mondays.
Our holiday is not going well. Frustrated and saddened, we give up on our rude pilgrimage and decide to go to the hotel and get drunk. After another hair-raising drive, we arrive at the quaint inn and carry our luggage inside. Here, at the bar, we find a dairy farmer, a museum curator and a couple of stout ladies in dungarees, drinking lager and arguing about the football results. The landlord scowls at us and barks in guttural language, that the hotel is closed on Mondays.