Nothing to be ashamed of (not that it’s mine).

As British fathers everywhere begin making for the latches of their daughters’ cages up and down the country, such fervent action can only spell one thing: The Gonzo Traveller (AKA Will Peach, for the simple folk among you) has hit the road.

That’s right. Dragging my lithe, quivering limbs up to Gatwick Airport from twee middle England yesterday, I arrived safe in the bosom of the Spanish capital of Madrid last night ready to wreak typical Gonzo-esque fashion upon the tapas-engorged masses.

And what havoc may be wreaked. Right now, as I type this, I’m rebelling away penning a rather conventional post full of carefully worded narcissism to reflect, oh skinny legions, the fact that I actually got up and did it. I went somewhere.

Fucking yippee.

Yet while I peck away in this hired crap-hole that someone, somewhere, calls an “apartment” (probably the morbidly obese man I can hear lubing up in the room next to me), I can’t help but resort to the types of remonstrations that have become de rigeur on this here travel site.

So, despite knowing that I’m probably about to further alienate my sickeningly positive North American audience (a dwindling stock anyway) I’m going to go ahead and do what I do best.

Moan, bitch and whine about how goddamn sweaty my little pecker is.

La Suda La Polla

Now I know that keeping you all in-check about the effects of perspiration on my penile region probably doesn’t make for the easiest of reading but hey, guess what, that’s why I started this anti-travel blog in the first place.

Making you uncomfortable about the realities of travel, or, as the case may be, the realities of being a man/child crossing Western Europe in Marks and Spencer underwear, is EXACTLY what I had in mind when I woke up with morning glory only a few hours ago.

This is about as real as it gets folks.

Yet sweaty coconuts and bananas aside, how apt is it that I’ve surfaced in a country where talking about your dripping old todger is, in actual fact, a part of the everyday lexicon?

“La suda la polla”, as they say here, or, for the more English-inclined cretin, “it (makes) my dick sweat”. It rolls off the tongue with particular aplomb. As, no doubt, I’m sure you’ll agree.

Such Beautiful Imagery

OK, so this isn’t the type of phrase to bust out when you’re round at your Spanish mother in laws pretending to be the gamely old-fellow we all know you aren’t. Course not.

Yet, in the midst of this being a reality for us all, how interesting is it that one of Europe’s most broke-ass nations continues to make talk of over-ripe genitalia in casual conversation almost as if it were a playful dance?

A slippery cock tis’ a slippery cock. There ain’t no two ways about it.

For our Spanish compatriots, just as it should be for us, it’s a simple fact of life, a problem that can’t be avoided.

And as for when we travel? Well, the problem only worsens. Airplane seats, bus recliners, jaunty little strolls through plus 30-temperatures in European side streets, all these things conspire against our precious organs, destined to facilitate a ruining dampness in our private crevices.

It’s enough to make a blind man (with an exorbitant sense of smell) gag.

The Salty Taste of Success

On the one hand I’m proud to be sitting here, watching the results of my body over-regulating as the salty trails drip slowly from crotch to floor.

One, after all, could see it as a sure-fire sign of the true adventurer inside. The one who confronts the dangers of a frozen, vice-like, British groin only to let it thaw out and unlock itself naturally in the exotic extremes of faraway lands.

And, as for my female travelling cohorts, I beg that you too have no shame of the filth and grime that may accrue for you there.

Until Veet silences us all with a product capable (and safe enough) to alleviate the musty smell of a well-travelled vagina, we are all prisoners of the same fate.

All subjects to that wicked travelling malady of the diaphoretic drenched dongle.

Footnote: I imagine over-sensitive people everywhere are now probably enjoying a slippery cock-induced heart attack. That’s what you get for sailing too close to the winds of Victorian moralism.

Extra Footnote: that and an endless repeating hell of having to read all the posts on this site over and over again.