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“Aha, me hearty!” or “Walk the plank!” or “Pieces of eight!”.  Yes, I think I would have made a good Pirate if not just for the oratory extravagance.  In fact, that’s the only thing I would have been good at.  Let’s face it, everything else they had to endure would have been pretty tough.  Scurvy, lack of food, a distinct lack of women.  It would have been beyond excruciating at times.  We’ve all seen the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise.  We all know how painfully lacking in humour and structure it all was.

You might get a decent tan though.  Being on them boats all the time.  Or burnt.  Really, really burnt.  Like how I got the other day.  June 27th 2011 – the freakiest hot day of all time.

Now, I’m no stranger to hot, sunny climates.  It would be wrong to list all the places I’ve been to and sound like a wanker, but let’s just say I popped out to Dubai in November, you know, for a weekend break.  Like one does.  With their butler.  And a sex slave called Yanev.  Who, by the way, is also a fabulous cook.  And she fits into a suitcase. But anyway, we’re deviating.  Dubai is a desert.  A desert with a brand new city plonked in the middle of it.  Now, admittedly it was winter, but, winter in a desert ain’t like no winter here.  It’s like our summer.  Correction – better than our summer.  It’s hot.

Myself, my friends and our peasant slaves all frolicked in the sun, looking at the bikini-clad ladies who hugged the pool like super-rich ladies of leisure can only do.  There was mention of sun-tan lotion, but like in other hot climates I have frequented, one can get quite excited and forget about such protection.

I didn’t burn.  And neither did some of the fairer skinned members of our Brits-on-Tour expedition.  In fact, I didn’t even get brown.  But then again, that could merely be down to the fact that I’m well hard.

So why, on this fateful day in Hyde Park, London, did the Gods mistake me for a lobster and make corrections to my colouring?  I assure you, I’m not meant to be that colour.  I was sitting in a deck chair.  In Hyde Park, London.  Not Hyde Park, Sydney!

Now, I look like an idiot.  And I hurt.  And I have to apply moisturiser.  Every day.  Twice a day.  Whilst standing naked in front of a mirror.  So it’s not all bad.

I got done by one day of freaky UV.  An experienced sun man like myself.  I got complacent.  What can I say?  At least I took advantage of the one day of sunshine our British summer has to offer.  I don’t fuck around.  I get in there and get a big fuck off tan that’s gonna last at least until 2014.  It’s not even, but hey, it adds texture does it not?  Who doesn’t like texture?  Hairdressers love texture.  That’s all they bloody go on about.  The next time you go get your haircut and they ask you what you want, don’t just offer the mandatory shrug of the shoulders, tell them you want them to ‘Take the weight out of it’ and ‘Add some texture’.  They’ll think you’re Nicky fucking Clarke.  You might then be spared the ‘No Work Today?’ conversation.  A conversation with which I’m bored of replying with a very obvious ‘NO’.  I simply now look them in the eyes and say; “Yes.  I’m at work ”.  I offer nothing more.  They ask nothing more.

“Can yaa squeeze me in now me hearty?” Long John’s sea legs were still wobbling as he approached the desk at Toni & Guy.  The other guys on the ship liked mocking him for his choosing to get a ‘Proper’ haircut whilst on shore, but, he didn’t care.  He licked his lips at the prospect of the full scalp massage, peppermint treatment and the constant fanfare of attractive young females with asymmetrical haircuts and low-cut tops.  His Shipmates were missing out.

“Yes Sir, we can fit you in now.”  The Desk Girl was young and very attractive.  Not a natural blond, Long John thought.  Funny, given how dense she appeared to be.

“Neal?” The girl gestured to a lad in his early twenties.  Skinny Jeans and a trendy haircut.  Long John’s face was one of disappointment.  He wanted a girl.  After all, one of the best moments of the haircut was the fringe cut.  A pure 2 minutes of having breasts presented in front of your eyes, purely for your viewing pleasure.  The only time in your life you have to look at a pair of breasts.
“I wanted a girl” He pleaded.
“ I’m sorry Sir, Neal’s the only one available right now.”
Typical.  Three years at sea.  And now Neal.
“Maria will be free in over an hour?”
Long John liked the sound of Maria, imagining her to be a red head of European nature.  He checked his watch.  He had to meet up with the boys in three quarters of an hour – they had planned to drink rum and rape prostitutes.  Besides, his Parrot was becoming restless.  No, Maria would have to wait.  And I’m sure they’ll have one of those female trainee drones do the washing and the massaging anyway.  Sod it.  You’d better be good at cutting hair Neal.

Long John took his seat still glowing from the shampoo and Peppermint treatment.  That new girl was quite good at the massaging lark.  And she didn’t speak.  Which was a bonus.
Neal centred around Long John and asked him what he wanted doing.  Long J was quick to respond;
“Er, if you just take the weight out of it.  Give it some texture.”
Neal was impressed.  He wondered if this Long John was a professional.

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