do you know, there’s lots of things I enjoy about staying in an airport hotel – not just the excitement, cramping belly and visits to the can that flying the next day induces in me, oh no. I like having my soap in a handy dispenser in the shower, plus the added novelty (occasionally) of having a seat in the shower – the glamour of being able to soap myself down with absolute minimal effort.
But what we really love is Rabbit Gay TV. We don’t get this channel at home because it’s on Freeview and we suckle merrily on Sky’s teat, so whenever we stay at a budget hotel we delight in the wares of the channels at the end of the Freeview EPG. Rabbit Gay TV is just the best. It’s essentially a scrolling list of those adverts you get in lonely heart columns, only with pictures. And good heavens, the pictures.
Now, I’ve been through enough shenanigans to know not to judge anyone’s sexual choices, but I’ve genuinely never seen so many lorry drivers, binmen and retired accountants dressed up as 1980s housewives in one place. They’re always the same, bad nylon wig, dress from a charity shop, posing with their hands coquettishly over their mouth like some simpering never-been-kissed seamstress, though you rarely get a seamstress named Big Keith. The adverts are nearly always the same, lots of WLTM and TV and GSOH and VWE (because what else do you expect to see when you lift up a lace petticoat than a very well endowed cock winking at you) and the audio clips are ever weirder, with hushed proclamations of desire whispered out in the echoing sounds of their garage or Vauxhall Passat.
Paul and I once decided to text a reply to someone on there to see what would happen, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that within five text messages, he was asking whether we liked “playing with dogs”. Which sorta summarises exactly the type of person on there. Mind you, Paul used to know a lad who was paid by an old geezer to come round to his flat, eat beans and fart in the man’s face. Now as someone who enjoys money, likes beans and loves a good fart, that sounds like my ideal job, though perhaps not for the poor victim. One of my toxic bumtrumpets near his face would leave him looking like Harvey Dent from the Batman series when he had half of his face burnt off. In fact, it would look like the top of a well cooked frittata, which is a lovely segue into…
Delicious, right? Here’s the full recipe.
to make slimming world syn-free frittata:
I’m on holiday at the moment so hopefully the details above will be enough!