Having had a relatively severe falling-out with the local Dungeons and Dragons society, I was forced to leave the country, for fear of a Level 15 Necrophiliac casting a spell on me. As everyone knows, Dungeons and Dragons enthusiasts are allergic to sunlight; so, having consulted my Dora the Explorer atlas, I realised that the logical destination was the exotic land of Spain, where I knew I could not be followed.
To my complete horror, when I arrived in Spain, the local tribesmen’s English was utterly appalling. Obviously, I had not bothered to learn Spanish, because, as a British person, I am already speaking the correct language. I have already drafted a brief, four hundred page letter to the king of Spain, requesting that a full written apology on his country’s behalf, be waiting for me on my return to the motherland (once it is safe for me to do so). I know that Spain is in a remote corner of the world and I was there seeking safety from nerd-wrath; however, I was deeply saddened at the distinct lack of effort that the locals had made in preparation for my arrival.
In order to avoid similar embarrassment for other locals, I immediately worked on identifying myself as a British Person Abroad, in order that they could treat me with the appropriate amount of respect. I wasn’t asking to be treated like a god, but something better than a king. I think that the ideal level of respect would have been Jesus or Jeremy Kyle or perhaps even a combination of the two. Realising that the healthy, ghostly, glow which I had achieved through years of living in my parent’s basement was not enough to clarify that I was British, I pulled on my Union Jack shorts and one of my numerous t-shirts with amusing/ mildly racist slogans emblazoned across the front.
Next, I lay unprotected in the sun for 15 hours straight in order to cultivate a beautiful t-shirt-tan. The next day, I decided to go “taps aff” in order to show off my newly achieved tan (I briefly toyed with trying to go “pants aff”, however, after a number of awkward family barbeques, I suspected that it would only lead to similar embarrassment for all involved). It must have been successful, as numerous children were laughing with jealousy at me and several of the locals asked for photographs with me. It was during one of these paparazzi-like escapades that I met a beautiful local woman called Juan-Carlos.
I know that holiday romances are a bit of a cliché, but, after two days of knowing her, I sincerely think that Juan-Carlos is The One. She’s such a special person and I love so many things about her: the way that the sunlight reflects off of her beautiful Adam’s apple; the way that her overly stubbly upper lip grates against my cheek when she kisses me; the way that her husky voice emasculates me when she demands that I buy her something… All of these things and more.
I have decided after 3 days in Spain that I am going to set up a life here for me and Juan-Carlos. I will forge a living by providing corn-row hair styles to holiday makers during the summer months and as an assassin through the winter.