Towards the end of summer, the missus and I succumbed to the television adverts and decided to visit Wales. Rolling green landscapes, majestic mountains, beautiful beaches, and friendly locals. (As long as you don’t buy a beach cottage apparently). We decided to head for the Barmouth / Shell Island area, based on reports about the scenery and beaches.
7 am on the Saturday morning, armed with water, Anadin extra and a severe hangover, we set off in the Erkmobile and plodded up the motorway, then on to some dual carriageways, then onto some minor A roads. I don’t remember going through any border posts, but at some stage, the road signs had translations into what was presumably Welsh. God help anybody with a cleft palate who tries to learn to speak Welsh.
Approaching Barmouth, I noticed a speed camera van on the other side of the road, but didn’t think too much about it, as half of the United Kingdom had the same idea as us and were also visiting Wales at the same time, evidenced by the bumper to bumper traffic, with the result that everybody was traveling at a very low speed.
A few miles out of Barmouth we decided to park up and head for the beach. Parking was easy, and we only had a short walk from there to the beach. I have to say, the beach was absolutely magnificent, if not world class. A quick dip in the sea proved the temperature was almost tropical, probably helped by the five minute piss I had in it. The missus and I slapped suntan lotion on each other, and proceeded to relax and enjoy the sunshine. Life could not get any better, or so I thought, until ten minutes later, two twenty somethings sat down about three yards from us and proceeded to get their magnificent tits out. My mirrored wraparound Oakleys did their job fantastically well, and I didn’t receive one slap around the back of the head from the missus all afternoon. I’m not the cunt I look sometimes.
We called it a day on the beach at around sevenish, drove a few miles, and miraculously managed to book into the first hotel we came across. After a quick shit, shower and shave each, we wandered into the village, found a restaurant and had a really nice meal. I managed to consume two bottles of red inside two and a half hours, and the missus, to her credit, managed to polish off a bottle of rose and a couple of vodka & lemonades. I don’t remember much else about the evening.
I woke up at about 8 on the Sunday morning with a bit of a headache. I guess I must have boned the missus when we got back in, as my cock was covered in fanny batter, and it felt like it had gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. The future Mrs Erk was snoozing contentedly on my shoulder, something she only does when her beaver is full of wholesome and nourishing Erk cocksnot. Romance aside, my headache needed attending to, and I had a bladder full of piss again, so I took an executive decision to end this beautiful scene of symbiotic harmony, and dragged myself out of bed and into the bathroom to empty my bladder. I must have still been pissed, as I really believed it was possible to drink from the tap whilst continuing to piss into the toilet. Never mind.
We spent the Sunday on the same beach as Saturday, as I was really too drunk to drive very far, and the missus was in no state to help out either. We left at around 4, and even passed another speed camera van outside Barmouth on the way home. Lucky they haven’t invented a drive by breathalyzer yet. All in all, we were thoroughly impressed with Wales, and agreed that we would go back in 2007 and spend more than a couple of days there. The future Mrs Erk even suggested that we could get married there. “only if there is a more proactive approach in the blow job department luv” I muttered under my breath in response to her threat, but she didn’t hear me, so I let it go.
Well, summer blossomed into autumn, as just as the first leaves were turning brown, two letters from Wales plopped through the letterbox onto the doormat. The motherfucking cocksucking sons of mongoloid sheep shaggers had sent me two fucking speeding fines. One for doing 36 in a 30, and one for doing 37 in a 30.
The notice of intended prosecution, or whatever the fuck they called it, gave me the option of going on a speed awareness course, and in return, they would quash the fine and I wouldn’t get three points on my license. There are a couple of problems with this. Firstly, I object to being patronized by some sheep shagging fucking yokel who thinks he knows more than me about speeding, and wants to implant his take on the subject into my consciousness in the same way that Alex in “A Clockwork Orange” had to endure it. The second problem with this was that the course was in Wales. I had already collected six points on my first trip to Wales, going back would almost definitely give me a minimum of another six points, so the net effect of attending the course would be to leave me with 9 points, three more than if I stayed at home and paid the fine and took the points up the arse like a man. I sent the form back and told them to effectively shove their propaganda film up their arses, please forward the fine by return.
“Speed Kills”, “Arrive Alive”, and “they are safety cameras, not revenue cameras” are all mantras of the lefty, lentil eating, environmentally friendly, anti-car, nanny-statist fucktards who seek to impose their values on the entire nation, if not planet.
The speed camera vans I saw in Wales had “arrive alive” stickers on them, something I had managed to do on the day I arrived in Wales, and a feat I repeated on the day I left Wales as well. If the truth be told, I have arrived alive every day since I got my driving license in the seventies. Presumably plod and his stickers were implying that if I drove at 36mph I would probably die
If they are “Safety Cameras”, then surely within half a mile of any 30mph speed camera, a large percentage of those people who passed through at 36 mph (
20% above the limit)would be involved in an accident. Yes ? Logical ? The fact that this does not happen points to the fact that we are being lied to, and we are being ripped off, by the very people who we cede some of our individual rights of self protection to. A bit like a nightclub bouncer who starts to think that he owns the club.
North Wales police has history on this speeding issue.So, will I be going back to Wales ever again ? Not as long as I have got a hole in my arse. I would rather perform marathon cunnilingus on the decaying carcass of a syphilitic hyena with thrush before I go anywhere near fucking Wales again. It cost me £120 in fines the first fucking time round, if I went again it would probably cost me another 120 cunting pounds as well as my licence.
Fuck you very much Wales, but for that £240, I could go to America, or indeed anywhere where they don’t fuck sheep. Or the tourists for that matter.
