Holiday For One.

Holiday For One.

I’m writing this blog form the comfort and shade of a giant bean underneath a straw parasol on the beach in Lagos in the Algarve region of Portugal. Don’t worry you haven’t accidentally clicked on some basic bitch’s travel blog about the best green wine in Portugal (i’ll get to that later. Basic bitches). It’s still me- The Hackney Gay, the same shoot from the hip wit, humorous tales, and the same cottage cheese ass (seriously, my ass pulls a sad emoji face when I turn to look at it in the mirror).

I decided to take a little week out to recharge after a crazy few months. London having her cruel way with me the way Britney makes her way through a cheeseburger. Destination- Lagos in the Algarve. Clear blue skies, cold beer and white sands are the perfect antidote to a cold spring in England’s capital. Pair that with the fact that your average Portuguese man is a 14 out of 10 in the U.K. (I’m a solid 12) and it makes for the perfect getaway.

So armed with my suitcase, passport and sass I take my uber to the glamour of Luton Airport. Created by what I can only imagine is a fallout from a local finishing school now all working for EasyJet’s check in desk. (Please note the obvious sarcasm. If you did not register the sarcasm, you should lock your phone. Lock your door. And never leave the house again for you are a terrible person). Georgetta (real name) and Stefania (not a hooker) informed me AFTER my bag had gone through the fancy belt thing that I would need to pay £10 for my excess weight (the bag, not my stomach). After threatening them with a complaint letter (don’t piss me off after I’ve been clubbing all weekend. It won’t end well. For you.) they let me on my way. I was a CHAMPION amongst the other customers, sad faced middle aged men with their troves of ugly children and fat wives, a champion! I mean, no one acknowledged me or made eye contact or even registered my existence, but I knew. I knew.

I landed three hours and two episodes of The Handmaid’s Tale later after what sounded like some sort of mass child execution on the plane which later I was informed by a very attractive Dad (actual Dad, not just a Tom Sellock lookalike) that it was simply ‘what having children sounds like’. How lovely. The world’s best contraceptive- a plane full of families with children.

I queued for my rental car. Over hearing a young group of lads taking about me (and why wouldn’t they be. I’m a fox), one of them said in some awful Jeremy Kyle-ish accent “He must be gay look at his outfit”. What an odd sentiment- I wasn’t wearing my tutu or my leather chap which meant I was obviously well dressed, as that is the common stereotype of gay men. So massive compliment to me, thank you Tyler (I imagine that was his chav name), very kind of you to notice. Interestingly he wasn’t wearing a dunce cap and yet I knew 100% that he was an idiot. Weird.

An hours drive from Faro airport and I arrive at my villa- Casas Novas in Lagos. I’m torn between maintaining a great reader/writer relationship and also wanting to make you all sick with envy with my pictures. Bad bitch wins- here’s the villa.

I join the local gym, where it appears only to have male models as members. Which is VERY distracting. Especially when a Julian Schneyder (look him up, and you’re welcome) doppelgänger is ‘downward dogging’ on the mat as your mid squat. Very distracting.

So day 2 and my 2 favourite people in the whole world fly out to visit me here- no not Dora The Explorer and Jenna Maroney…….. my Mum and Dad. My Top Bananas. Three days of them trying to keep up with my alcohol intake. I have a zero tolerance policy on ordering water in a bar. It’s wrong and sad.

But all good things must come to an end. Like Tom Cruise and Katy Holmes’ marriage. 5 more days of solo sun and sand and then it’s back to life in the theatre.

See you on the flip side mother fuckers.



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