Someone Else's Cheese
It was a balmy July afternoon when we set off from the verdant greenery of the Llynfi Valley in search of the mythical land of France. With only a faded hand-drawn map, a ragged old tent, a sack of dried fish, and clean spare party pants, we set off in a south easterly direction. 'Elita Squirrel' and the three young squirrels - Dylan, Ewan, & Maya were singing a joyful travelling song "Come on Barbie lets go party", expectant of the adventures to come...
Shortly into our travels, we came to the small Celtic settlement of "Gwasanaethau Services", and it was there that we met up with the 'DARK LORD' and his dear wife, 'Mrs DARK LORD'.
Evidently in a moment of alcohol induced clarity I had invited them along to our exploration of a far off land that was thought to lie across the English Channel. It's similar to the Welsh Channel but without the plethora of programmes about turnips watched only by Ma Mogwyn of Machynlleth. The 'DARK LORD' had packed some curious objects called 'surfboards' and had a strange torture instrument called a 'guitar'. Apparently, if operated properly, it can cause the kind of auditory pain unheard of since the Spanish Inquisition - at least that is what 'Mrs Squirrel' claimed, some time later...
So it was, that we journeyed long across forgotten lands to a sea faring town called 'Portsmouth' famed for its low quality and inexpensive prostitution and named after the little known explorer 'Edwin Portsmouth' , of whom it was said had an unusually large gob and had also discovered rickets after a six month experiment, consuming stale urine.
At Portsmouth we bartered passage across the sea with the blaggard Captain of the "Spirit of Free Enterprise" and slept uneasily amongst the drift nets and cockroaches. When dawn arose on our first morning, land was in sight. It was at this point (and the cause remains unclear) that chaos ensued. Three things happened simultaneously - we woke up; Dylan Squirrel got the squits & pukes and we discovered the wonders of someone else's cheese (metaphorically speaking and this may become clearer by the end of this tale).
Nervously we left the ship at "Wee straw ham", a French port - un-famous for its bed wetting pigs. We followed the clouds in a southerly direction and within half an hour of travel, our path was blocked by the sprawling city of "Con". Here there was a sign for "Periferique". It sounded dangerous and I righteously ignored it...then we got lost, stopped for Dylan to relieve his bowels and our transportation device refused to start!
Fortunately the 'DARK LORD' is a fine Mechanic and by hitting the engine with a large hammer he got it to work again. We journeyed South. We got lost again, stopped for Dylan to relieve the contents of his stomach and our transportation device refused to start. The 'DARK LORD' used his magic hammer again and we travelled on...
The long and tiring first stage of our journey ended at the sea faring town of 'La Rochelle', famed for its high quality and expensive prostitution and named after the top totty female surfer 'La Rochelle Bollard'. We rested for a couple of sunny days in this splendid town, observing the pseudo-gothic architecture, laughing heartily at the little squirrels' attempts at pigeon tipping. During the evenings we ate pizza and drank some curious mead made from grape, which the French called "van".
On our last night, a chance encounter with a one legged sailor in the old port peaked my curiosity. He said that there existed a thing called the 'Perfect Wave', and that it was far to the south.I enquired in my best Foreign; "Ooh hair la Perfect Wave?" "Get Arry!" he replied. I didn't like the sound of this Arry character, so I handed him back his seadog and ran off using a gay-looking high step just for gratuitous comic effect.
It was Sunday morning when we decided to journey south in search of the 'Perfect Wave'. After stopping at some traffic lights, we followed signs for a place called 'Bored Doh!' We had travelled for a short time when we once again stopped at some traffic lights. Sixty seven stops at traffic lights later and we arrived on the outskirts of 'Bored Doh!' but before we could enter the town, we had to wait at some more traffic lights! It became clear to me that the King of France puts up traffic lights, not so much as to help the flow of traffic (in fact not to help the flow of traffic at all) but to give people the opportunity for philosophical thought on the meanings of life, travel and possibly, traffic lights.)