Wanking into a dishcloth

I come from Lincolnshire. Somebody had to.

After spending those formative years tipping cows and evading buggery at a minor public school, I moved to Glasgow, where I lived for 5 years in splendid indolence.

I now live in a small Italian town which we shall call Knockers, because it amuses me and gives me a shred of anonymity.

I work for a moderately well known company, currently bent on world domination. More on them in due course.

I harbour a deep and nigh on sexual desire to work for the BBC. With my limited talents I can but fail to achieve this.

I'm currently drinking Molto Malto, a Trappist style Italian beer made from Golden Hops, water, wolves and levity.

I don't speak Italian.



So, introductions over. Last July I graduated from university with a 2.2 in 'pretty much anything', having done little of any worth academically. A succession of temp jobs followed, accompanied by a gradual sink into numbed depravity. Stepping out for a crafty wank in the disabled toilet soon became a staple, then a highlight, then a necessity, of my day. Fruit and breakfast were discarded as unnecessary Bourgeois trappings. Mayfair Lights lit up my weekend. I considered a hard drugs habit, just for something to do.

But then, a light! Just before Christmas I got a phone call. My application had been successful, I was moving to Italy. Booze-fuelled goodbyes were said, Mr Spiky the cactus was dumped on friends, the gaudily stained relief-map of a mattress in my student hovel was cavalierly turned over for the next guy. I was off, my spirits soared.

Of course, I would have to learn Italian. But you can pick up language in a weekend... right?