Published: November 28th 2011September 14th 2011
Jean Luca certainly setting no trends this morning over breakfast turning up with his bright blue woolly jumper tucked into his un-pure white shellsuit bottoms. Bottoms so old and soiled in grime that they surely pre-dated Caesar.
Fried eggs for breakfast, quite the treat, one a piece, Jean Luca takes the biggest one and then tells everyone that he doesn't really like eggs. I on the other hand fucking love eggs!!! The day had barely even begun and his Italian head was already beginning to grate with me as I sat and eat my slightly smaller egg.
After breakfast we travelled some 3 hours or so to some ger in the midde of nowhere for brunch. Here we watched a lady handcraft some noodles from scratch. There was also a small child present with a seriously snotty nose. At one point he decided to wipe a hand full of his snot upon a heap of dried noodles. Everyone seemed to find it charming and cute because it was a kid that did it, I personally found it to be irresponsible and repulsive.
Shortly after snotty noodles we headed out to another ger some hour or so away where
we would saddle up for a little horse trek. It just so turned out that riding a horse would be one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life. I remember riding one as a nipper for 50p down at Skeggy with no issues apart from the hyperdermic needles sticking out the sand. Maybe perhaps back then I just had peanuts for balls.
Francesa and I were paired up with a horse a piece and taken out for a trek together as opposed to Francesa and her lover Jean Luca, I presumed that the Mongolian guides thought that me and Francesa were an item and that nobody would possibly be dating Jean Luca because he smells like a dead pheasant.
The moment that I mounted the horse and it began to trot I knew then, instantly that it wasn't going to be the game for me, and when the bastard up'd the tempo to a full on sprint then it was more or less game over, especially in regards to my nuts....my lovely, lovely nuts. I honestly don't know how the guys do it, their nuts must either be knackered or have a flat pancake base to them
as mine were getting barbarically mashed, minced even.
I was standing up as far as I possibly could, using muscles that hand't done a day's work in all their life. In less than a minute I was caked in an unwelcome layer of sweat. It was like some little dwalf was stood below me just hitting my testes with a sledgehammer. And to top it off the arch upon the back of the saddle was fisting my arse. I was getting well and truely raped by the experience. I looked across flustered at Francesa who seemed to be having a whale of a time making all sorts of orally pleasurable noises and perhaps understood to some degree why it was that girls enjoy riding horses so much, girls and little fellas with knacked nuts.....or gay men. But not me, no sir, I like my lovely nuts, in fact I fully plan to make use of them one day just like my mate Primmer did.
With each second that passed the more strenuous it all became. Another mild concern or one of great peril even was that I had just recently been suffering from a bout of the shits
and just so happened to need a shit before going horse riding. But I thought that I'd savour the pleasure until after the trek. However 6 or 7 minutes into the trek and I no longer needed that shit, I quite literally couldn't tell if I had shit my pants or not.
So as well as trying to physically tackle the shit head horse I was also mentally conjuring up some sort of fathomnable story when I got back to camp as to why it was that there was a heap of dirt lying solemnly within my pants. I couldn't very well blame this one upon Jean Luca. Also there would be no shower until the next day and I'd have to sleep in my sleeping bag with poo pants. I didn't like the thought of this one bit but realised that once you had poo'd your pants on a horse then there was no way of un-poo'ing your pants on a horse, it was an unredeemable feat. Jean Luca might be able to live like this, but not me, I just had to hope that there wasn't any poo in my pants, it's all I could do, have
a little faith and hope in my bowls.....faith......and.....hope.
It was at times like this that I wished Dave the Camel was here, he wouldn't have treated me like this. It's because of the way my bastard horse treat me that I decided to give him a shit name, 'King Shit Cunt IV'.
Apparently according to gospel we rounded up some horses and led them back to camp and it only took about 20 minutes. For me I went to war for 18 months and fought off a thousand minions. Arriving back at camp I dismounted King Shit Cunt IV and without saying goodbye to the horse twat I made haste to the toilet to see what kind of damage I had done to my pants.
To my great delight when my panties hit the deck there wasn't an once of poo in sight, I could have eaten my noodles out of them. Not shitting ones pants is a surprisingly nice feeling. The thing is I still didn't need that poo that I needed before I straddled King Shit Cunt IV, so there was still a poo milling about somewhere unaccounted for. But as long as I hadn't
redecorated the walls of the engine room then I was quite content.
After not shitting myself I returned to the ger and lay on my bed for a while like a rape victim. We was then served up 'Khorkhog', one of the dining highlights of the trip. A slaughtered lamb cooked slowly in amongst hot coals. When served up you just eat with your hands and throw the bones over your shoulder like a heathen. Meat eats had been pretty tight up until this point but I definitely fore-filled my quota on this night. Who would have thought that eating baby animals could be so much fun?
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