Irritable Cat Syndrome & Bloody Weddings.

Who Could Have Suspected the Evil
That Lurks Inside?

If I sound quite nasally in your head while you read this it's because I currently have a clothes peg on my nose. It's either that or spend the day being unconscious. Why, you may ask. Well it's thanks to my new pet cat Marley, the newest edition to my household. If you have seen my posts on my Facebook page then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about. Marley has the arse of a Leviathan with the consistency of the atomic clock. I have owned a couple of cats in the past and Marley is without a doubt the most flatulent cat I've ever known. I've even considered tying an odour neutralising air freshener around his tail so it dangles just behind his arse to soak up some of the evil. For those of you who are agnostic, or suffering a crisis of faith and are doubting the existence of God, Satan or any other kind of afterlife let me reassure you. Satan is alive and well, and is currently living in Marley's colon.

This is EXACTLY What's Going to Happen
on Our Wedding Day.

Away from matters feline, the Missus has been ill lately this time with a chest infection which for some reason has given her a license to be even more of a moany bastard than usual. This all culminated in an out of hours trip to the hospital because she couldn't breathe or something, I'm not sure, I really wasn't listening to be honest. You'll no doubt be glad to hear that she is almost all better now and that her lungs have returned to normal. This is handy, seeing as how we are getting married in a few weeks. Yes, I will officially sign over both ownership and custody of my balls to the Missus on June 22. I've been engaged for about 18 months now, which is a weird experience. Basically being engaged is like having ALMOST given up on life, but not quite yet. For 18 months now I have had the pre-marital sword of Damocles hanging over me, only that sword is in the shape of a massive wedding ring and it's positioned precariously over my genitals.

"What is She Wearing? Terrible, She Looks Like a
Dog's Dinner. Why I Remember the Days When..."

Thankfully the Missus is not a Bridezilla, quite the opposite in fact. She is only getting worked up and excited now, probably looking forward to getting a set of testicle-shaped earrings. The Missus wedding dress is hanging up in the wardrobe and she has made me promise her that I won't go peaking at it before the wedding. She's a traditional girl in that respect. I told her what's also a tradition is for the bride to stand the groom up at the wedding, but she either didn't take, or possibly ignored, the hint. We won't be having a honeymoon though. We had a pre-wedding honeymoon (to Milan which I have blogged about previously), so in other words although we did things backwards, at least we had a lovely holiday BEFORE we feel like stabbing one another in each other's sleep. Ours will not be a traditional wedding though, as my best man is going to be a woman, and the bridesmaid will be a man I can only hope the judgemental old bastard pensioners who gatecrash weddings and sit up the back judging the participants like wrinkly saggy-titted Simon Cowells will get in such a lather over this slightly untraditional wedding that one or more of them might have a heart attack. I will happily proceeed with the ceremony and with a smile on my face, whilst paramedics frantically attempt to resuscitate a pensioner on the back row of the church. Most marriages end in divorce these days, and it's fully possible ours will too, so at least we may as well get things over and done with as soon as possible. That's why on the morning of our wedding I will be filing for divorce, because I know the Missus appreciates thoughtful gestures like that.

But enough about irritable cat syndrome and bloody weddings, how are you? I hope you're keeping well. I've noticed a massive foreign readership of this blog, some of which are from the most surprising countries, a readership which just seems to keep growing. So let me just take this moment to thank you, regardless of where you live, for reading my blog posts, and I hope you find them as funny as I find them cathartic.

Kieran x

The Week that Wasn't - 18th May 2013.

One of the Ladies' Rhinoplasty Surgery Has Gone Awry.

So what's been in the news lately? Well the Daily Mail have been highlighting the old weathly women of New York's Fifth Avenue and how their skin resembles the leather handbags they carry, as they get botox treatments, get their noses hacked into and their colons cleansed. The ladies of luxury enjoy, shopping for Gucci, Prada and Louis Vuitton. It's nice to know that living the high life hasn't affected their looks. With all the surgery done they lose the ability to pull any facial expressions, and their necks still look like a pharaoh's scrotum. Meanwhile tensions between North Korea and the rest of the sane world remain high, and there is alleged evidence of chemical weapons being used in the Syria conflict. All I can say is thank Christ the Mail have their priorities right.

These Receptionists Have Very Impressive CV's.

The Mail also report the latest embarrassment for Britain's next government-elect (that's if Britian finally sinks into the 7th circle of Hell) UKIP. As UKIP search for donors, their latest backer Demetri Marchessini (Yes, a Greek tycoon giving money to UKIP) who gave Nigel Farage's party £100,000 has bathed the party in glory by claiming that businesswomen who wear suits are deliberately making themselves unattractive and a woman not wearing a skirt is tantamount to "hostile behaviour". This comes from the same man who once called Jennifer Lopez a "Mexican Tart". I can only imagine that the board members of his company are all men who attend board meetings at Turkish saunas and massage parlours, and the highest position held by women in his company is receptionist, all of whom are contractually obliged to wear bikinis at work. I'm sure the headquarters of his company is like the Playboy fucking Mansion. What an absolute fucker.

Are You a Commie or an Immigrant,
You Bald Bastard.

After a surprising and frankly worrying success in the local elections, UKIP have recently been determined to make a complete arse of themselves ever since. First there was the much publicised embarrassment of UKIP candidate pictured making an alleged Nazi salute. Alex Wood has defended himself by saying that he was only reaching for the camera which is fair enough. That's perfectly logical, just like ex-Italian premier Silvio Berlusconi claiming that in his legendary "Bunga Bunga" parties were just a group meeting of a women's health club who checked one another for breast cancer, and liked to discuss political issues of the day, is perfectly logical. The fact that they were all naked was purely incidental. After the Nazi salute nonsense, Mr Farage was barricaded in a pub in Edinburgh after a crowd heckled him by chanting "Racist Nazi scum" etc. In order to show that they were wrong, big Nige then went on the BBC to berate the Scottish media for "not telling the truth" about Scottish independence, then branded all Scottish nationalists "fascist scum". Is it at all possible he was talking about his own party? Nevermind, big Nige seems to relish the opportunity to show himself as a dickhead at every possible opportunity.

Ball-Achingly Gorgeous. And Brave Too.

News from across that really big pond now, and the story that possibly the world's sexiest women ever Angelina Jolie has had a double mastectomy. This is because she found out that she carried a faulty mutated gene which significantly increased her chances of developing breast cancer. Apparently the chances of her being stricken with the cancer was over 80%. She therefore took the brave decision to have the operation which has reduced her chances to around 5%. Then incredibly she declared to the world media that she had it done. Holywood, the most superficial place on earth where beauty is demanded, and imperfections of celebrities are scrutinised and mocked, was startled. Angelina said that she hopes to raise awareness of the gene and help the plight of fellow women who carry the gene. Hopefully it will inspire others who need to have mastectomies, especially ITV, who will hopefully follow Angelina's example and surgically remove their pair of tits Ant and Dec from Saturday night TV. Perhaps this can lead to a televisual health checkup. Next to be surgically removed from your TV screens can be the festering great bollock that is Jeremy Kyle. And if he disappears from our screens then we will all owe Angelina a great debt.


The Sun has gone with the story of George Michael being involved in a crash on the motorway. Apparently he was the passenger in the vehicle, and no other vehicle was involved. Hopefully all are OK, but given George's track record in vehicles you'd have to be absolutely fucking mad to let him anywhere near your car even though he is already banned from driving. Nevermind the rush hour local traffic bulletins, they should simply inform other drivers of where George is at all times, so fellow drivers can ensure they are never any closer than 10 miles to him at any time.

"Wef, If You Don't Give Us 15 Minutes Injuwy Time
 I'll Punch Fuck Oot Yer Dog, Ya Pwick".

The big sports news this week is the retirement of 2 footballing institutions: Sir Alex Ferguson, famous for chewing gum and throwing a football boot, and David Beckham, famous for silly hairstyles and having the aforementioned boot lodged in his head. Sir Aldo, the ashen-faced, Wrigley's Spearmint bothering, self appointed grumpy old bastard of British football has decided to give up the ghost after being at the helm of Manchester Untied for the last 80 or 90 years. He states that he wants to spend more time shouting at his racehorses after getting a taste for it while Carlos Tevez was at Untied. Silly voiced anti-brainbox David Beckham has decided to call it quits on his football career after a glittering career of winning medals and being in black and white adverts wearing just his knickers. The highlight of his career was right at the end, where he successfully became the highest paid footballer ever, bagging a wage of £500,000 per week at L.A. Galaxy. Unfortunately, Dave is well known for being a feeble-minded simpleton, but what is lesser known is that he was actually a bona fide member of MENSA - right up until Sir Alex brained him with a football boot. After that he began to find Dora the Explorer an intellectually challenging show.

Emperor Cameron Shall Wine & Dine the Google Fatcat.
Then They Shall Play Charades in the Drawing Room.

Google's chief Eric Schmidt will gladhand David Cameron when they meet at the Business Advisory Group at 10 Downing Street next week. Google were recently dragged over the coals by MPs over the amount of tax it pays in the UK. Google's total annual revenue is thought to be £3 billion, however they only paid £6million in tax last year. So Eric will be going to Emperor Cameron's pad with some beer and Doritos. Dave will provide caviar, Pimm's and butlers. They'll play Xbox and Twister, and if the occasion calls for it, a game of trivial pursuit. I think it's pretty safe to say that one thing which won't happen is Eric being made to explain Google's tiny tax percentage. It's more likely that he will be congratulated by Big Dave on playing the system so well and proving conclusively that the system truly works. Especially for multi-billion pound companies.

Kieran x

Three Cheers for the Birthday Boy.

It's my birthday today!!! Yay!! Everyone sing!

For I'm a jolly good fellow, for I'm a jolly good fellow.
For I'm a jolly good fellowwwwwwww .......... and so say all of me.

Today I celebrate my birthday, not just because social convention dictates that I should do so, but because it's also a timely reminder that the misery I long to be put out of is one year closer to ending. And if that isn't cause to celebrate then I don't know what is.


I'm going to be 32... I think. A young man in most peoples' eyes, but already an old fart in my own. The Missus seems to find great amusement this. I told her that I may feel 70 these days, but before I met her I felt 18. 6 years together and she has put 52 on me. Christ help me, when we celebrate our 5th wedding anniversary, it'll be a miracle if both of us are still alive by then. For some unfathomable reason she seemed angered by this and went off to sulk. This was great, as I could watch the extended edition of Lord of the Rings on Blu Ray uninterrupted. The messages in my birthday cards all seem to take great delight in the fact that this will be my last birthday as a single man (as I'm officially marrying the Missus in 2 months, but that's another miserable blog for another miserable time). Those well-meaning fucks really know to make a guy feel worse. All I can say is thank fuck none of them work for the Samaritans.

So my friends visit and I receive cards with silly badges (that I admittedly wear with great pride) and open presents with a smile which has been welded onto my face, in case it slips off and into my pint of beer. Now I love every single one of my friends and family and I'd go to the ends of the earth for each one of them, but sometimes I just need them to know that I don't need presents from them. All I need from them is their absence, and surely that's not too much for a birthday boy to ask. So the Missus and I are going for dinner at a lovely Italian restaurant to celebrate my birthday. I already know I will be ordering the spaghetti bolognese. This is because depending on how the night goes, I may want to intertwine the spaghetti strands together to form a makeshift noose for my neck somewhere between dessert and coffee.


So how has my last year been? I think it's safe to say a mixed bag really. I'm now learning the art of standup comedy and I continue to write absolute bollocks, in the hope that people who read it might crack a smile and forget how shit their day has been. I'm still poor as hell. I live in the trendy West End of Glasgow which means I've found my spiritual home, and my wallet gets raped every month in rent money for the pleasure of staying there. So now I'm a broke arty farty writer in bohemian West End struggling to get by whilst plying my trade. I'm nothing if not a stereotype. Still, it's not all doom and gloom, some good things have happened this year. JLS have split up. Margaret Thatcher is dead. I've seen George Osborne cry live on worldwide TV like a little girl who's just been told that her birthday party has been cancelled. All I need now is for all One Direction members to be sentenced to life imprisonment for the violent gang-rape and murder of David Cameron, and my 2013 wishlist will be complete already.

And what are my goals to achieve before my 33rd birthday? Well, being crowned "Grand High Emperor of the Universe" would be nice. And winning £100 million+ on the Euromillions Lottery has been on my to-do list for some time now. But to be honest I'd be happy just to have all the same friends and family still around me, safe and well. It may be cliched but it's true all the same. Now dearest friends, fuck off. I've got a cake to cut and some welding to do.

Kieran (Birthday Boy) x

Dances With Smurfs.

Whilst chatting over a coffee in an overpriced coffee shop a friend of mines recently suggested that I try writing seriously for a change, rather than just this blog and my column in The Glaswegian newspaper. I told him that this WAS me writing seriously, which i'm sure you can imagine made the remainder of our coffee very awkward indeed. It was reminiscent of a couple who's relationship had completely fizzled out, but neither wanted to admit it, so spent the day punctuating the horrible silence with periods of painful small talk.

"Pauline? It's Tom.
Jesus is your Granda".

I've thought about writing novels before, but every time a semi-coherent plot formulates in my mind a movie/book immediately comes out which renders my idea dead in the water. I thought about a story where it transpired that Jesus' friend Mary Magdalene actually turned out to be his shag, rather than his Vatican approved fag hag. A historian called Tom then unravels a murderous plot which ultimately leads to the conclusion that his young female BFF Pauline actually turns out to be Jesus' granddaughter. The climactic scene is set in a small but intricately decorated church, where the historian calls Danielle to tell her the shocking news. I was all set to start typing, then Dan Brown came out with his book "The DaVinci Code". Damn.

My Vision for Das Boat.

Then I thought about a period piece story called "Das Boat" where a boy called Leo and a girl called Katie from opposite ends of the social and economic spectrum begin a romance on the world's most luxurious ship. The romance turns out to be doomed however when the ship hits an iceberg and sinks on it's maiden voyage in the middle of the Atlantic Sea. Most of the people die in the freezing water because there weren't enough lifeboats for everyone. Then I read somewhere about some ship called The Titanic or something. Bugger.

Avahontas....

Then I thought of a tale where an adventurer far from home discovers a civilisation completely alien to him. One of their native girls who though suspicious at first, befriends him, teaches him of their ways and soon love blossoms. Though scientifically and technologically backwards, the indigenous people have a respect for their land and mother nature. The adventurer learns respect and love for the people, and soon this becomes his home. But alas! The adventurer's own people who are warmongerers and have no love or respect for the land, show up and make war on the indigenous society so they can rape the land of it's precious natural resources. The adventurer then has to chose between his own people and his new home with his new love. Then I found out about Pocahontas and Dances With Wolves. Shitsticks.

James Cameron's Vision When 
Planning Avatar's Winning Formula

Still, if James Cameron can shamelessly and blatantly rip them off when making Avatar, then perhaps I shouldn't give a shit either. Either James Cameron has never heard of Pocahontas or Dances With Wolves, or he has brass balls the size of space hoppers. Afterall, making Kevin Costner's character a crippled space marine, and turning Pocahontas into a 12 foot tall Smurf still isn't enough to make it an original idea is it?

"It was instant lust when their eyes
met across the pot of boiling cabbage".

So what can I do for MY magnum opus? Well, it's a little late to jump on the 2012 doomsday scenario bandwagon, and sexually frustrated vampires have been done to death now. The in-thing right now is erotic stories involving sexually frustrated perverts and deviants, so perhaps if I'm quick there will be enough space on that bandwagon. Imagine if you will: A bored and sexually frustrated housewife meets a mysterious and dangerous chef at a cookery night class he is teaching at the local college. Her name is Pauline. His name is Gordon. He is Scottish and sweary and verbally abuses his pupils constantly by telling everyone that they are really shit at cooking and how he wouldn't serve the food they worked on so hard to the stray dogs in the alley behind the college building. This is a massive turn on for her. Cue chapter after chapter of unnecessarily filthy scenes where they cook various meals and eat them off one another by the open door of the cooker.

"The evil wizard looked on helplessly
as officers from Operation Yewtree
seized his laptop..."

I can call it "Fifty-Seven Varieties of Grey" or"Nine and a Half Woks" or something. If it sounds a little dull then I can always set it in some private school for wizards, and a subplot can involve Pauline's son Harold and his 2 friends Ronald and Harmony battling an evil big bald snakey-looking wizard who for some reason must not be named. Possibly for legal reasons, for example he is a suspected sexual predator being investigated by police for child abuse allegations commited whilst he himself was at the private school. If any of this sounds familiar to you, then I don't know what you mean because it's an original story of mines and I made it all up all on my own and I'll sue anyone who claims otherwise. Damn you James Cameron, you big-balled genius.

There's Always Room for Gelato Motherfucker - Milan Special Pt 2.

No, This Isn't Photoshopped.

Welcome back folks. As you join me I am sitting in my hotel room watching some chatshow with a singer so ridiculously tanned that she has gone from being Mediterranean to being mahogany. And she's a bit shit too. Well we've had a bit of a cracker today. After getting on a couple of wrong trams, we finally found ourselves at the Metro system (or Subway). Once again we got on the wrong train, however when I realised my mistake I jumped off at the soonest possible stop. I expected the Missus to be at my back, but as the doors closed, I saw her sitting on the seat looking confused, as the train moved off again. It was like the penultimate scene of the world's shittest rom-com. It may have been something to do with her confused/scared face, and my surprised/happy face as she moved off into the darkness. My joy was short-lived however, as she had the good sense to jump off at the next stop and double back. When she returned her enraged face was a joy to behold, although I swear she was thinking of pushing me in front of the next train to arrive.

God Has a Lovely House.

We eventually arrived at our destination - The Duomo di Milano. In English it translates as "That fuck-off bollocking huge cathedral thingy". It was a sight unlike any other place I've visited. The architecture was as jaw dropping as street sellers were irritating. As breathtaking as it was, I couldn't help but think that rather than spend all the money building it, how much that money could have helped the poor. It just seemed like one big Papal self indulgent hard-on. As we crossed the square a man offering to take our picture kept pestering us. Politely saying 'no' obviously wasn't enough for him so I said "Vaffanculo, testa di cazzo" (look it up) and he promptly retreated.

Me, Happily Enjoying a Coffee.

The Missus and I then sat at a piazza where we enjoyed a glass of coke in the sun. The Missus left for a moment to use the restaurant's toilet. When she returned she divulged that the toilet consisted of a hole in the ground, and that she couldn't go for fear of peeing on her own clothes. We therefore set off in search of a proper restaurant with proper food and a proper toilet to shit that proper food back out. Properly. The place we found did the most beautiful cappuccino I've ever tasted, making Costa Coffee taste like festering snot from a rabid dog by comparison. We got a massive pizza each, which was extremely filling. We passed a place selling gelato (ice cream) when the Missus moaned "I thought you said you were full" to which I replied "There's always room for gelato, motherfucker".

Bastard Conmen Everywhere.

We then got ambushed by more street sellers. This time it was Africans who were selling multicoloured string wristbands which tied on. They promised that the wristbands were free and that they were sending "Love from Africa". I replied "So, AIDS then?" but the sellers played dumb. Once the bands had been tied on and the excess clipped off meaning we couldn't remove them without breaking them, that's when they suggested (surprise surprise) a 'small donation'. The Missus naively asked how much, to which one seller replied "5 Euros". I said, "Well give us another 2 then, for our friends!". Thinking that he'd bagged another couple of tourist suckers, he held out his hand smiling expecting to receive 20 Euros. He looked crestfallen when I gave him 5cents. He then protested that they were 5 EUROS EACH, and not 5cents for all 4 wristbands. "Eh?" I replied. "5 EUROS EACH!". I smiled, nodded and said "Si! Si!" and pointed to the 5cent coin in his hand. "No, 5 EUROS each!" he insisted. I shrugged "Mi dispiace, non capisco (I'm so sorry, I do not understand)", and we walked away. The seller realising HE was the one who'd been mugged, looked dejected. When we turned the corner and were out of sight, I put all 4 wristbands in the bin. Serves him right. Fucker.

I'm Lovin It. And Lovin It. And Lovin It. And L....

We seemed to spend the rest of the time shopping, which isn't a massive surprise. Take your wife/girlfriend/fiancee to Milan and you can forget wanting to do anything else. One thing which surprised me was the number of McDonalds restaurants there are here. The Missus and I went for a nice evening stroll and we passed by 2 separate McDonalds outlets on the one road. As we walked we saw a McDonalds poster on every streetlight for 300 yards. I think they were advertising a seperate one each time. I guess it's true what they say - McDonalds outlets are like rats; you're never more that 20 feet from one at any one time. We also strolled past a gang or rather mangy looking prostitutes who were applying make-up, removing coats etc, obviously preparing for tonight's shift. I couldn't help but feel sorry for them. I could tell they were all 20 - 30yrs old but they had faces like 90yr old Russian grandmothers. Obviously the world's oldest profession had not been kind to them, as they all looked like they'd given one blow job too many a long time ago.


***UPDATE***
Ok everyone sing with me!

Oh, show me the way to go home,
I'm tired and I want to go to bed.
I was on holiday about an hour ago
And now I feel half-dead.

Enjoying My Balcony.

I'm back bitches! I have returned home and I'm almost resembling something near slightly tanned. Normally I look slightly blue, like a drowning victim, but now I actually look white. The only thing I didn't sample was the local whores, although having seen the state of them, I really wouldn't want to even if I was single. I have certainly grown more appreciative of the Missus' looks. Compared to a haggered drug addict prostitute she looks great. I told her this and although she said thanks, she also looked a bit underwhelmed. I'll never understand women. I've got somewhere in region of 4 - 5 million photographs which instead of assaulting you with here, I will assault you with on my Facebook page.

Arrivaderci Bitches! - Milan Special Pt 1.

Happy and Excited at Edinburgh Airport.

Arrivaderci bitches! As I write this I'm currently bout 10 million feet off the ground in an airplane headed to Milan, Italy with the Missus in tow. And before you ask, yes I have asked if I could join the Mile High club. Initially I was hopeful, but the look on the Missus' face gave me my answer. To be fair, perhaps I should have asked to join the Mile High club with her, rather than some of the pretty passengers. So a few days in Milan seeing the sights will do me a world of good. The Missus is taking all her nicest clothes with her, as it is one of the world's foremost fashion hotspots. I too am taking some of my finery, and I'm confident I will be amongst some of the more fashion-conscious Milanese homeless community. The pinnacle of my fashionable accessories is my old fart "bunnet" hat bought in a Glasgow shop, but with the impression that it was stolen from a sleeping pensioner on a bus. In the lead up to this brief little visit the Missus asked me to draw up a rough itinerary for our stay. After a full day searching and thinking I managed 'Visit the San Siro stadium'. I'm such a bloody boy sometimes.

The Alps, from My Airplane Window.

Ohhh by the way, I just sneakily felt the Missus' boob. So as far as I'm concerned I'm now an official bonafide member of the Mile High club :-D. Anyway, whilst the missus sits embarrassed and seething, let me tell you about what's been happening recently. My standup career is really going surprisingly well, with me entertaining audiences all over the city. The crowd laugh, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it is out of pity more than anything else. I've unfortunately been neglecting my writing duties both here, and in my Glaswegian newspaper column, something which I shall endevour to rectify post haste.


We're Staying in Milan for 3 days at a 5 star hotel. Now I know what you are wondering - 'How can he afford to stay in 5 star luxury when he is so bloody poor all the time?'. Well it's basically thanks to the Missus and the nature of her job. She gets to do these things, whilst I am the poor arty-farty writer scribbling away my thoughts on this gadget thingy like a squirrel hiding nuts in a tree. We'll be visiting the Duomo di Milano (In other words, the bollocking great cathedral) and also some Castello Dforzesco place too. I'm expecting the tour of the Duomo to cost a fortune. The one thing Italians know how do do, apart from play horrendously boring yet crushingly effective football, is make money out of religion. The last time I lived in Italy it was Florence (or Firenze if you're Italian, or an arsehole) and I once went on a day trip to Assissi, of St Francis fame. The Basilica there was beautiful in every way, but if you wanted to see where St Frankie was buried you had to pay, and if you wanted a candle then you had to pay 2 Euros. Scandalously, they then asked you to put it back in another container a mere six feet away. So you paid 2 Euros to carry a candle six feet. Like I said, a tremendous amount of money in religion.

Happy and Having Fun on Our Balcony.

 I must say, the cabin crew have been absolutely lovely, and have treated us well, especially when one came to collect the rubbish and I asked if he would take away the Missus. The Missus then promptly asked how good the flush on the toilet was to the bemused steward. She then said "I have 14 stones of shit to get rid of before I arrive". Touche Missus, touche. I guess you could count this trip as a pre-wedding honeymoon. Why go on a honeymoon BEFORE the wedding? Well I figured that since most marriages end in divorce, we may as well get the fun stuff out of the way. In fact since the marriage statistically won't last, we may as well get it out of the way as soon as possible. That's why on the morning of the wedding I will be filing for divorce. I'm sure the Missus will appreciate the thoughtfulness. I will keep you up to date with how the holiday goes, but for now, buon giorno bitches. 

***UPDATE***

We have now arrived at our hotel and are attempting to chill out. Milan city centre is absolutely fucking insane. Crazy drivers, suicidal pedestrians and so many people cutting in front of one another in queues that it could have been London in summer. Like I said, having lived in Italy before, I was used to this and expected it, but poor old the Missus didn't and got herself so worked up that she had steam coming out of her eyes. We decided to take a walk tp the local shopping centre, which immediately made me feel like I was back in the Buchanan Galleries (which is kind of defeating the purpose of going abroad). In these galleries we were stopped by security and had our shopping bags searched for no reason other than the guard was being a prick. I asked him "Is it cos I is black?", but he didn't understand and continued rummaging around our bags. He got frightened off when I asked to see his warrant, and threatened to call the Carabinieri if he didn't stop it. Fucking twat. We're currently sitting watching the Italian edition of The Voice (Which is like Eurovision, only even shitter) with a bottle of prosecco trying to digest today's events. So until tomorrow, buona sera bitches.