No Welsh, No Cocker-knees

So I did the whole five-day wonder thing, the trip to TX.

No, I did not get the chance to do the TSA wind up. More to the point i did not need to. There was this geezer, you know the type all Larnn-din swagger and a gold toof, two places in front of me at immigration mouthing off in his stentorian, nicotine-barbed grate about farkin' lazy this and farkin' ages that - makes me proud to British, the dopey twat - and I wouldn't mind if we were in DFW cuz he'd have wound up with a five-fingered butt plug up his ring faster than he could have shouted Dee Arse-nul, but[t] cuz we were in O'Hare the TSA Oirish guy and two Puerto Rican girls just laughed at the dickwad with well-placed and perfectly measured disdain.

I got back Tuesday morning and the jetlag is just wearing off and my quads and hamstrings are just returning to the flexible side of pityfully taught; twenty-five hours on aeroplanes in less than five days. No es bueno.

Apologies for the lay off; I am just getting settled back in. I'll be back in my invective-feulled stride before you can say Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch (my nan taught me how to pronounce this when I was kid. If you are wondering about this and the connection with my invective-feulled stride then just trust me that you do not want to get me started on the Welsh).

Hwly ti plentyn gordderch (as the average friendly Welsh salutation goes).