Letter from a very confused bespectacled sex pest

A couple of things. Okay, this looks like I’m too lazy to post, right? Actually, I’m only kinda too lazy to post, Instead today I post a letter I recently received from my good friend and this completely unrelated link. Enjoy!

Dear All and One,

If you can recall, about one year ago a very confused bespectacled sex pest was planning to leave the far east and return to the grey skies of Blighty to pick up where he left off; namely vast debts, drug addiction and the rare ability to play Championship manager while he slept. By some strange coincidence I too faced a similar situation twelve months ago to that weirdo and faced the same one this week. However, due partly to my utter cowardice and mainly to the inept naivety of the Japanese immigration authorities I have not only been given another crack at the oriental whip but a 3 year one at that (why, when speaking to the hairy palmed, mostly female civil servant about my 3 year plan did I immediately think of Stalin? Must have been her moustache). After returning home to my apartment, digital stamp in worn out passport, I decided to celebrate the only way I know how: burning yet another "ohh, pretty please give us our bloody money back or we will cut your fingers off!" letter from Barclays with the fire from my just lit opium pipe and plugged myself into my 22^nd season of Champ, ready for another 3 years to drift on by. Just as I was about to fall into another vast blank sleep, two thoughts crossed my mind, one, I work too hard and two, where is my home?

The first of those two thoughts is one of those solids truths we sometimes encounter in life, similar to the concrete fact that all French people smell of rotten cabbage and have 6 fingers, and pigs, if you throw them hard enough at French people, can fly. I work 22 hours a week. I make a nice wage. I work too hard. The second question needs a little bit more research but luckily I will be returning this Christmas to find whatever answers awaits me. The dates themselves are unknown at the present moment but seem to be hovering uncomfortably with both hands in both pockets around the 22^nd of December to the 10^th of January. In my short trip I hope to get beaten up, speak Japanese to the staff at Tesco, go to Waitrose and meet all the same people I used to work with (ahh, the memories), laugh at how gigantic everyone's bottoms/chins are, complain generally about every aspect of English culture, boast about Spurs' recent success, get incredibly drunk with old dear friends and, with a little luck, go absolutely insane. That's just the first week. In the second week I intend, if Kana, my lady, is to accompany me (and ask such endearing questions such as "Why are those boys carrying knifes?", "It doesn't get dark at 2.30 everyday does it?", "These aren't real trains are they?" and "Are all these people wearing fake gigantic bottoms?"), we will be off to some European capital before coming home. I mean Japan. I mean....ohh, dear.

I would be sincerely grateful if you all would be so kind as to let me know your plans, locations and contact numbers if you wish to meet up with me over the Christmas period and ask stupid questions about Japan (Before you ask yes, we eat raw fish, yes, we always use chop sticks, yes, we drink hot babies and kill ourselves every Wednesday.) I will probably be based in the soulless commuter town that is West Byfleet and for a while in my Mother's new abode in Hook, although how she intends to cook Christmas dinner in a bad Robin Williams movie is beyond me, I just hope they'll be enough raw turkey for Kana.

I'm coming home.

Andrew/Andy/Talbot/Talby/ a very confused bespectacled sex pest

Wisdom of the Day: Don't be a very confused bespectacled sex pest. And don't ask me what it means! Are you chewing gum?