The Saga Continues
File under "Wrong".
Broke, and desperate to take a holiday that did not include Spanis beaches, I once went on an old peoples' coach tour of Switzerland and Italy. There were a whole four young people on the bus. One of these was the driver, who managed to shag a different granny every night.
Caught en flagrante behind the pedalos on Lake Lugano, witnesses tell of a woman of advanced years to playing a solo on his pink oboe while he planned the next day's route in a road atlas.
We ran a book on when he would get round to the incredibly fat woman who took up two seats. He held out until Milan, the classy devil.
It was like predatory grooming, only with wrinklies. I was disgusted at his lack of loyalty, hammering away at their sandpaper-dry flanges, then discarding them with nothing to look forward to but their own funerals.
But now, I'm rapidly approaching the same age group and thinking envious thoughts such as "Get in there!", "Where do I sign up?" and "It's community service, isn't it?"
But then, I realised that this is Daniel O'Donnell's job, and I felt ill again. And strangely aroused.