779 days ago
This time it was nothing to do with being forced by the Mrs to make a long drive to beaches packed with lobster red, blubbery, North Europeans where the sound of ghastly music was omnipresent and where the Daily Mail could be purchased not far from the Irish pub. I think the Mrs has agreed that, for the sake of our marriage, I will never have to visit Stoupa again. When I die I shall, for my sins, find that I am in Stoupa for eternity forced to sit on the beach in the blazing heat next to a man lying on a Stoke City towel, only able to gaze up at the mountains but never able to leave what is, for me, hell. This resentment was rather different.