Menorca; The Guantanamo of the Med
A few years back, I and a group of my peers decamped to Menorca in order to visit some friends who were living out there.

In order to do this without having to put up with hordes of Kevins and Kylies, we went off season. The only other people with us on the flight were a large number of golf-loving men in their 50's and 60's, together with their wives who doubtless dreamed of daily adultery with teenaged Menorcan boys.

As we made our way through the rigorous security employed by the Menorcan airport, I allowed my friend Christina to go ahead of me. My ample chested, scantily clad friend Christina.

Due to her being the only woman to clock in at under half a century, the chap checking the passports was entranced by her. To the extent that I, and the 4 or 5 people after me, essentially had to wave their passports in the air whilst a tit-obsessed jobsworth ignored us and stared longingly at Christina's charms.

I've often wondered since then whether the 9/11 hijackers got through airport security by taking the precaution of allowing a plump chested young lovely to go just ahead of them at the queue.



As a postscript to that trip, on the return journey I was tired and emotional, and complained noisily at a stewardess who ordered me to sit down after we'd landed. I apologised to her as I left the plane, realising I'd been an unforgiveable boorish prick.

As we disembarked onto the tarmac, one of the aforementioned golf seniors, presumably full of frustrated testosterone after watching his wife's sagging flesh undulating back and forth whilst getting skewered by a muscular latino named Jose for 2 weeks, started having a pop at me for my rudeness.

Now, although I'd admitted I was at fault, the stewardess had accepted my apology, and as far as I was concerned, the matter was at a close. So to have this turkey knecked, pig-titted old fuck yelling at me was a bit much.

So it was that I swallowed my lifetime's habit of respect for my elders, brought my face close to his (I stood about a foot taller than the sour faced bag of tramps piss) and bellowed "What the FUCK business of yours is it, you STUPID OLD CUNT!!" in an uncontrolled burst of drunken, self-righteous fury.

His face was a joy to behold as he blanched and scampered off to the carousel and from thence, presumably, to his stinking little prole hole. His wife's was less so, in that she laughed, then offered me what she imagined to be a coqettish smile. ~shudder~
(Light, Tue 7 Mar 2006, 14:46, Reply)