Showing posts from February, 2016

20 Reasons why dating a surfer is a stinking pile of pish.

21. Almost forgot. Your children will be indoctrinated too. Right then. Let’s get straight down to business. I have read a few silly things recently. One of them was an article with the headline  “20 Reasons Dating a Surfer is Like Winning the Lottery”. I posted it to facebook and got an immediate comment from Mrs D that perhaps there were some important details missing. She’s right. Dating a surfer in Hawaii might well be like winning the lottery if he’s loaded and gorgeous and you don’t have to work and he’s got his own personal make up artist and photographer to make him look ‘kewl’ every time he sits in the line up. However, boys and girls, we don’t live in Hawaii. We live in northern Europe. And what follows, my friends, is the absolute fucking god’s honest truth. There is a stinking pile of pish in the bathroom. It’s not him after a night out at Caesar’s in Bideford. It’s the wetsuit, your rival for his affections. He pisses in it, even though he says he doesn’