Walk into the ball to the overwhelming smell of bacon. My feet follow the scent automagically until I find a brightly lit marquee, a beacon of meaty goodness in the darkness. I approach the minimal queue, and four young blonde ladies reach out towards me, each offering a sandwich with more bacon stuffed in it than the next. Four curvaceous, short skirted beauties behind a mound of fried meat, literally forcing more upon me every time I finished a roll.
I guess this is what religious folks mean by heaven.
*****
On the other side of the ball there is a stall giving out coffee. Sure, it’s instant, but it’s swish Whittards instant, in a range of flavours and served by equally gorgeous, though less bacony, ladies. Coffee in hand, I walk outside to find an inflatable Gladiators-esque attraction, where young women sit atop a horizontal pole and hit each other with a blow-up giant ear picker until one falls off. If only there was jelly involved, I hear you thinking.
But then that guy turns up. You know the one. At every event there is a guy in a kilt, who isn’t even Scottish, who turns up, gets lairy and ruins it for everyone. Pushing his way through the crowd, he invites his friend up to the contraption, shoes the delectable ladies using it away, and jumps up to the pole. I couldn’t turn away fast enough. Turns out he was being properly Scottish with regards to his underwear.
Welcome to hell.
