On Newquay

On Newquay

OK.

I confess.

On a number of occasions spanning the last five years, I've visited Newquay.

Newquay, twinned with Gomorrah.

Newquay, twinned with Gomorrah, where all the drunken Scouse stag parties go if they can't afford the plane ticket to Latvia.

Newquay, twinned with Gomorrah, ringing with the sound of drunken Scouse stag parties that couldn't afford the plane ticket to Latvia shouting "Dey do dough, don't dey dough" until the early hours, before getting up extra early to do it all over again.

I should have listened to my old dad.

"Son", he said, "Don't go to Newquay."

"Why?" I replied, "Why ever not?"

"It is," he said, the wisdom of ages finding its way down the generations, "full of wankers."

I can some up my entire experience of the town by quoting the sign in the window of a local seaside tat shop on my last visit:

"TURDS! Now only £5 – reduced to clear"

I went in and bought a postcard in the shape of a Cornish pasty.

Then a seagull shat in my eye.


Insult of the week

"I'm so angry, I'm going to kill you TO DEATH, clone you, then kill your clones." - The boy Scaryduck Junior, who is EXCELLENT.