It may surprise you to know America is a whole other country, although most Europeans, (hopeless as we are at geography,) think of it as an island suburb of Limerick populated by gun happy Dutch puritans (- this view is only partially correct.)
So humour me greatly and read on as I shine a light on this nascent Dutch colony and it's exuberant settlers, a God-fearing people who really might make a big impression on the world if only they could put down their knives, forks and guns.
We travelled by tuna boat to Plymoth (Ryanair are really offering some cheap deals nowadays.) Halfway through the journey we all applauded as the captain launched a cannonball at the Azores, he was a jolly old sort that captain. 'More rum for the passengers,' he cried through the tannoy and we all cheered again as the wooden legged hostesses teetered down the aisles with casks of the best Jamaican, sloshing it merrily hither and tither. A memorable trip indeed, and instead of jet-lag I ended up with tuna-lag.
Customs was a relatively brief affair consisting of a brisk water-boarding (no not surfing) while a gentleman in a pilgrims hat bellowed 'ADMIT YOU'RE A WITCH!' Then the holiday proper began.
Very early the next morning my tuna-lag kicked in hard. How many times have have I sat in a foreign land, in a foreign toilet drawing quietly to wend away the hours before dawn? (Just this once actually.) I was perched naked on the bath edge scribbling furiously and all was going splendidly until one of the inhabitants of the house stumbled in for a pee. I made my apologies then climbed out the window I had entered through and wandered naked back to the bush where I was staying.
More about public nudity later - it is VERY de rigueur among the Dutch colonists.
The purpose of our visit was enlightenment. We had travelled across the Atlantic to see the great Swami Mick 'The Greek' at his ashram in the Vermont hills. The Greek Guru preaches a simple message of nudity, semi-automatic weapons and money. 'All else is meaningless,' was his mantra. As we approached the camp he greeted us with guns blazing, a Smith and Wesson in one hand, a Kalashnikov in the other, it brought a tear to my eye and I prostrated myself before his noble body. 'Share your wisdom with us,' I pleaded.
'Okay pal,' he said through a gold toothed grin, 'get your pants off.'
I did as he said and he went through my trouser pockets until he came upon my wallet, then he kindly led us to our cabins at gunpoint.
That night we went to sleep surrounded by the placid sound of woodland interspersed with gunshots and screams.
God Bless America.
The following morning a queue was forming before the Gurus hut. 'No doubt people awaiting a blessing from The Master,' I said to myself as I joined the line. Standing there I realised I was the only one in the queue who was (a) not female, (b) under 21 and (c) of a pneumatic bodily disposition.
Unfortunately by the time I was due to step inside The Greek staggered out knock-kneed and exhausted. 'No more, no more . . .' he whimpered. So somewhat dejectedly I left for a fortifying breakfast of deep fried hamburgers, marshmallows and Hershey bars (the strict dietary regime at the ashram is all part of The Master's spiritual program.) My shirt was taken at the door of the breakfast room and searched for any cash I may have been concealing. I never saw the shirt again, but what are these things other than mere bagatelles? Although the other diners did complain my man boobs were putting them off their vittles.
*OUR NEXT INSTALLMENT WILL FEATURE MORE ENLIGHTENMENT FROM SWAMI MICK 'THE GREEK'. UNTIL THEN REMAIN PURE, KEEP YOUR SHOTGUN LOADED AND ORDER EXTRA LARD WITH EVERYTHING.