I was beginning to like buses. But after this morning’s horrific trip, I’m sticking to the Bolt boys. It’s not just the Indian kids and their never-ending, loud as fuck, mobile convos behind my ear, the unwashed fucker coughing without pause or cover the whole trip, or indeed, the extreme over-overcrowding. What broke this camel was the following.
I’ve done plenty of miles and hours, and the knees needed neither pain relief nor supports. Two 4L’s got on and picked the 2 seats ahead of me – bear in mind, less room than Ryanair and absolutely nowhere for my knees to go but the seat back (Large, Louisianan, Lycra clad Ladies). The one directly in front of me loses her fight with gravity and knees buckle and she lands her – 150Kgs at least – like a dump truck. The seat slams back and bashes into my poor right knee. I squeal like a stuck pig and the husband, brother, pimp that had sat beside me, gives me the most insincere, ‘Sorry,’ I’ve heard since Alex apologised to Esme.
Now I’m feeling it with every step and cursing the stupid American fuckwit each stride.
I’ll just throw this in, first. Alex serving to win the set at volleyball v ROI in SCA tournament. The little clackers that I’d brought to embarrass her with can’t compete with the fucking loud music – I doubt a foghorn could.Leaving Marsaskala. I’ve got to get the miles in and get back to her for the next match. It’s windy and cold enough to need a coat, except when the wind drops, when it becomes too warm. Gonna be one of dem days.Salt pans, big and small. Isn’t it nice that someone has tidied all the rocks into just one. Mind you, the poor bastard that owns that won’t be best pleased.Loving some of these forts. All that just to protect a single knight and his hangers on. Nothing much changes.The large empty hotel last seen across the bay. Graffiti girl could compete with Banksy. It’s all about getting some pretentious art wanker to push you out there. As ever was. As always, the collars and cuffs have been removed. Beezer idea.Maltese stray cats get the biz. No need to crash anyone’s pad.Christ! the Turks are back. Sent for El Cid.Hard to tell the ancient from modern. Either way, still seem to work. Imma feeling the salt crunching under me boots.Heading to those white cliffs while badly needing a piss. Every time I unzip a local pops into view.Still no relief. Even the bin shades have pride.Natural? Or a drug dealer’s opium crop a-growing?The deed was done and if the ship borne had their bins on then they got a free show. Ha! A hell of a range to espy anyone’s todger at.Shouldn’t the sad face be last?Bye cliffs. I think that’s the last I’ll see of them.Fuck! This is getting out of hand. There’s even a brush and pan. And WTF do they need decorative plants? Meanwhile, The black sheep cat is getting short shrift and a bollocking. ‘What do you think this is?’ says the white’un. ‘A fucking parable from the bible? Sling yer hook!’This fam of ducks is keeping me company.Marsaxlokk. Look I’ve found the boats. Obvs. a coming of age party for one of them.The huge freeport that feeds all of Malta.There is an assumption that all these forts are contemporary but, of course, the era of building them extended to 300 odd years. This is a British one to protect the harbour below.Near the end but as usual the last mile seems the longest.Aha! An afterparty.Monster ship filled with all the crap that china produces. The end.
The day started poorly, got better watching the babe and sort of fell away on me. I wonder if it was because I didn’t get walking until 3? Whatever, not feeling at peace. Bring on the morning.
