Seymour Totti’s Foreign Policy

Look what I got at Marks & Spencers

I hate shopping, I loathe it to the very core of my soul. I’m not the only one. I’ve seen it on the faces of other blokes as they hang around changing rooms waiting for the Mrs to try on yet another dress or nodding obediently in Ikea as it is pointed out to them that these knick-knacks will look very nice next to all the other crap that is now cluttering up the idiotic curly bookshelf they bought last week.

But shopping is a necessary evil and I do have to do it sometimes. So I tend to do it early on weekday mornings. I find 10.00am on a Wednesday is a good time. And I’ve noticed there are quite a few other men have the same idea. It’s a joy to watch, each customer knows exactly what he is looking for. This week it’s shirts; try on one, buy five and away. The chore is completed in a matter of minutes.

It’s money for old rope as far as the stores are concerned and they should quietly promote it. Not with sales, big advertising and shit. We’re happy to pay a little more just to avoid the weekend melee. But they could see to it that they have their prettiest staff working and that they smile when they swipe our credit cards. That would be really nice.

Childish I know but I can’t help but snigger everytime I pass one of these. This one is staffed by two delicious bits of crumpet. Sadly they think I’m only interested in their lemon meringue and egg custards. Little do they know that I dream of eating their muffins.

Contrary to popular belief not all air hostesses are gagging for it the moment they get off the plane. In fact very few are. But for a fellow who finds himself working in some pretty sexually inhospitable places sometimes it is either a trolly dolly or a camel, the natives are out of bounds.

I’ve been seeing a Filipina hostess. She’s married but we both agreed that this was a no commitment affair. But inevitably the conversation rolls around.

“Would it have been any different,” she asks, “if I’d met you before.” Before what I ask. “You know, a long time ago.”

It would have been very different I assure her, you wouldn’t have liked me then. “Why do you think that?” she asks. Because I was the same then as I am now and you would have had no interest in a discreet, no commitment affair. I pointed out that it was perfectly normal to feel bored and lonely when her work kept her away from home. But that if she was unhappy at home she must deal with it without the clutter of another person clouding her judgement.

She told me everything was fine at home but she worried about me. There’s no need, I told her, I’ve come this far alone I’m sure I can make it the rest of the way. She seemed somehow reassured.

She had an early morning flight next day and I left a few days later. I’m still not sure if she was breaking up with me or trying to propose. She has my e-mail address but she hasn’t contacted me since. Probably for the best.

This is Xuan-Vy, she’s Vietnamese and she wants to tell you where you can stick your Christmas pudding!

Call me Scrooge but I don’t like Christmas. Oh I’m all for peace on earth and goodwill to all mankind, you never see any of that though. You get shopping malls engorged with even more crap than usual playing background music that makes you want to punch people.

The best thing about Christmas is girls wearing Santa hats. It makes me want to fuck them. Of course I’d probably still want to fuck them even if they weren’t wearing Santa hats.

I’m all wet

Me, I’ve been off mountain biking in China. Pedaling furiously between mysterious pinnacles of limestone. Stopping occasionally to catch my breath as I round a gnarled and bushy karst to catch sight of emerald green rice fields and the sound of children’s laughter echoing of the rock.

Such wholesome pursuits provide me with a great deal of recreation plus little income but rural China is not a great place for getting your leg over. There’s no shortage of hot babes but unless you are the marrying kind they are firmly out of bounds.

Anyway I slunk back into Hong Kong with the intention of winging down to Bangkok pronto only to discover that the City of Angels is in danger of joining Atlantis on the bottom of the ocean. A few phone calls put my mind at ease. Yes, the bars are still serving and “Please come to Bangkok Khun Seymour, no have customer” they all wailed.

What with floods, red shirts, yellow shirts, avian flu and so on and so forth - it seems like every year something fucks up the peak tourist season. So if you had been planning a trip don’t cancel just because of t bit of water. The girls will be really pleased to see you.

There’s something about cleavages. They are like a visual vortex, a fleshy whirlpool into which you’re eyes get sucked. There is no escape. Even if you have no sexual interest in the owner of a particular cleavage if she is exposing it you will be compelled to gaze into it as if the whole meaning of life is contained therein.

Silvio Berlusconi may prefer girls a fraction of his age and regard Angela Merkel as unfuckable but if the latter turned up to an important Euro-meeting in a low cut top he would have to look, he wouldn’t be able to help himself.

A smooth well rounded cleavage is like a welcome sign, and a promise of more treasures within. It’s often said that the sign of a good painting, like the Mona Lisa, is when the eyes follow you around the room. That is also the sign of a good cleavage, when your eyes follow it around the room.

I was reminded of this the other morning when I met a client for coffee. She has a good cleavage and she knows how to use it. Eyes were following it all around Starbucks.

ps. These models also have smooth shaved pussies