Wales. What a jewel of a principality this pocket of infinite rolling green is. Of course, the reason for it’s bountiful lushness is the near-constant pissing rain, but you can’t have it all. Anyway, I digress…

My parents are building a house in Powys, which I believe is Welsh for ‘the middle of fucking nowhere’. They plan to decamp there permanently as soon as the doors are on. I don’t blame them. Their other house is in Kent, a county so overpopulated with pikeys and fat bastards I’m surprised the council haven’t built temporary floating houses to spill out into the Channel. One can only hope that the day this happens, the anchors come unstuck and the dross can float off in the direction of France. Sort that, Sarkozy.

Anyway, I digress… again.

The German and I are headed to Powys for the weekend because we’re going to a festival there. It’s a small community affair, granted, but I love all that. It’s something you just don’t get in the smoke. Everyone’s too busy avoiding a knife attack to worry about polite human interaction.

There’s always a generous helping of village gossip to keep me scandalised for weeks and the booze flows. Oh, how it flows. Never mind the Irish: bless my daffodils, the Welsh can drink. Last time I was up there the dogs needed letting out the morning after a particularly heavy duty session. It was nearly 9am but I was still wazzered from the previous night, so the local farmers were treated to the eye-watering sight of Ms Hsh-Hush staggering around outside in naught but a teeny weeny towel and a massive pair of wellies.

I am all class.

So wish I and the liver luck and have a good one yourselves. Stories to follow, I’m sure.