Hunting For Boys...

Yes, yes, I know. The title doesn't do me any favours. I'll explain later.

This is Day Six of my trip to Libya. I can confirm that I have had two (count 'em) hot meals since I arrived. There isn't a lack of hot food in Tripoli, but there is a lack of an oven in my villa. As a consequence, I are been mostly eating...sangwitches. This bothers me not a jot. The alternative is to brave the streets of Tripoli at night. I may have mentioned the driving skills of these very nice people in the past-1.8 million people in this city-and not a driving license between them. This city, I hasten to add, is safer than Fort Knox during a lock-down. Crime is non-existent and if I ever get lost, the simple act of flagging down a car and asking for directions results in the driver ordering you into his vehicle and he will run you home. The journey is often terrifying and I see little of it. Eyes shut tight and clinging on to the "Jesus handle" above the passenger door is how I travel. Walking along, or God forbid, attempting to cross a road, is strictly for adrenaline junkies.

About 12 feet from my bedroom window is a large mosque. I am treated to an early morning wake up call by the wailing muezzin. It bothered me for the first couple of mornings but I don't even hear him now. Despite the one billion watt sub-woofers he wails through.

My meetings go well. How can they not when there is an ashtray on every boardroom table? I do, however, need to arrange a bladder extension. I have consumed record amounts of tea. Hot and sweet and laced with mint, it is sure to be good for something.

I notice that you bastards have not revolted in my absence. I also notice that the climate change people are all confessing to their lies. Spidey warmed my heart cockles when I read this climb down.

A further trip down my bloglist revealed that Leggy dealt with the "infected" cigarettes, ably abetted by Dick of the family Puddlecote. The non-story reminded me of the time they (the bansturbators) tried to tell us that our tabs were jammed with Polonium 210. This was timely, as that Russian geezer had just been fed a kilo of the stuff by someone to silence him. They forgot to tell everyone that Polonium 210 has a half-life of 130 days and that cigarettes, once manufactured, are stored for up to three years before they hit the shelves down at the Kwik E Mart. They also disremembered to inform us that Polonium 210 is present (in much larger amounts) in all of our broad leaved vegetables. And, erm, the Polonium is still very much alive as the veggies chow down on their salads. These same health-freaks then try to tell us how dangerous our smokes are? Do fuck off.

While we are all remembering stuff, do pop over to The Talking Clock to see what they have been remembering. Colostomy Brown seems to forget that stuff he said doesn't just fade away, unlike Polonium 210.

That's me. I just fancied a scribble.

What?

Oh, the boys.

I am the only occupant of this villa, and my host is concerned for my well-being. He has decided that "we must hunt for a boy".

"A boy?", asks Ranty.

"Oh yes," says mine host, "We need to find a boy to run around after you. Make coffee, run to the shops, and be the security guy at night".

"I don't need a boy", I said, "I can manage just fine on my own. I can make my own coffee and walk to the shops myself".

"No", says my new bezzie mate, "We must find you a boy. Of course," he elaborates, "It may not be a boy. It could be an old guy. Look, I am going to let him sleep in here". (We wander out into the garden. He opens a door to a room I hadn't noticed by the external wall). "He will be fine in here, no?". I said, "Erm, it's a bit small isn't it?". (The room is 10 feet by 4). "No", says Hosty, "He can live like a king in there. I'll get him a telly and a bed, and look, he even has a cupboard for his clothes!"

My mission now is to try and dissuade Hosty from finding this poor unfortunate so that I don't have to make my own coffee.

Best wishes to all,

CR.