TIP: Don’t go to Puglia on holiday if you’re a ginge and want to get laid.
As I’ve mentioned before I’ve got some Italian in me. No, my bowls don’t contain the evidence of a hot night of passion with that great big sweat monger, Luciano Pavarotti, his putrid testicle tadpoles mixing with my shit deep inside my sphincter, being shaken not stirred every time I switch arse cheeks on my chair like the unholy contents of a rigorously shaken cocktail maker.

What I mean is my dad’s one of those ‘forriners’. There were drawbacks growing up with an Italian surname. People thinking I could play football like Roberto Baggio, people assuming I could sweat the best spaghetti Bolognese they’d ever tasted out of my pores on account of having the recipe imprinted in my DNA, and later when I was older girls expecting me to live up to the ‘Italian Stallion’ tag, when what they actually got was the knackered old mangy Midlands pit pony with gout version of sexual intercourse.

But there was one major positive too. The extended family had a house over in Lesina in the Puglia region of Italy. And every summer during my teenage years and early twenties I’d fuck off over there for a free holiday. Italian beer is great. Italian girls are dirty as fuck. Food’s cheap. And it’s sunny. GET IN THERE!!!

After I’d finished my A-Levels a group of mates and I took our lives into our own hands and Ryan-Aired it over to Pescara Airport then made our way down to Lesina by coach. Included in this troupe of oily skinned, pimply faced, sex obsessed teenagers was my mate Darren.

And yes, Darren was a ginge. His hair was so fucking red it looked like he’d been the loser in a fight with a stegosaurus on its period and somehow during the struggle Darren’s head had become lodged deep inside the gigantic reptilian’s clout of doom. Darren also had the full body freckle pebble dashing as if a group of outsider artists had armed themselves with toothbrushes, dipped them in watery diarrhea, and spent the afternoon flicking poo at his naked body.

Anyway, we get down to Lesina. Darren’s already lobster pink and peeling, the hot Italian sun’s burning the living shit out of his weird alien skin.

We go out and find a bar and start drinking, as teenagers do. And – also something teenagers do – after a few too many beers we decide we’re God’s gift to women and possibly the most attractive bunch of go getters that have ever lived in the entire history of the world. So we start trying it on with the locals. By now it’s getting a bit dusky, one of my mates Ian cops off and disappears into the night for a quick fumble and fingering session down by the lake. Soon after another lad scores and departs with a fat Italian bird. Possibly an own goal, but a fucks a fuck, I suppose. And Darren’s becoming increasingly frantic. He’s not getting anywhere. The local Southern Italian girls are just not interested.

This pattern went on for pretty much the entire fortnight we were there. By the end of the holiday each of us had at least offered a stinky finger to the rest of the lads while proudly proclaiming: “Sniff that!” After a session down at the lake. One or two had actually done the whole dirty with a local girl. Much kudos and back slapping.

All except Darren. He hadn’t even had a sniff. And he was going a bit mental about it.

And on the last morning we were there I was having a coffee with one of my uncles who lived over there. He asked me how the holiday had gone. I said it’d gone well. He asked if I’d ‘got any’. I felt like saying: “Sniff this finger, Uncle!” But decided against it. I told him we’d all got some except for Darren.

My uncle said: “Ohh, he wouldn’t get laid over here,” in his fucked up Italian/Coventarian accent.

“Why’s that?” I asked.

And my uncle shrugs his shoulders: “His hair. His red hair. Round these parts people think it’s a sign of the devil... the pretty girls don’t want to sleep with Satan... ” and my uncle pauses, lighting a Marlboro. “Come to think of it, the same applies for the ugly girls too...”

That left me pretty speechless.

And that’s how Darren got his nickname from then until this very day: Always gets a few weird looks when you shout: “Oiiiii, SATAN !!!” Across a crowded bar.

True story.
( SpankyHanky, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 10:32, 6 replies)

You have a disgusting way with words
*Clicks*
(wehttamman via B3ta for microwave, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 10:37, closed)

Bet they don't mention that
on the tourist information website. :-)
(Accounts Dracula, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 10:47, closed)

This made me giggle
and also taught me something I didn't know. Wins both ways. click
(Sussex Angel, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 10:57, closed)

Not many good posts this week
but this is def one of them. Coffee spat on screen moment at the end.
(Bed Bug, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 11:26, closed)

The Imagery!
Reptilian's clout of doom! Had me thumping the desk:)
Clicky for sure
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Fri 26 Feb 2010, 14:19, closed)

Excellent post except for one obvious lie:

"Italian beer is great"
(fibonacci_cunt cunt, cunt, cuntcunt, cuntcuntcunt,..., Mon 1 Mar 2010, 14:26, closed)