28 Feb 2003

Anyway, having landed amidst the Bulgarian cabbages, Vlad drove me to his bunker and stood back as I excitedly began to jimmy the lid off one of the two boxes containing those wonderfully effective and reliable Russian automatic rifles. As the lid fell to the floor and I perused the wares within, it became abundantly clear to me that this was going to be one of the numerous occasions when I would regret that I spoke not a word of Bulgarian and Vlad not a syllable of English. I had flown 400 miles at 300 feet at night and spent over 200 pounds on treacle to come and pick up two crates of Kalamares. That’s squid in tins for anyone who doesn’t know. Incidentally, if you have never tried the delicacy that is tinned Kalamares and would like to (believe me, you won’t regret it) contact me at my email address and I’ll sort you right out with some and at a crackerjack price too. Vlad could tell I was disappointed as I got him in a headlock and ran his head against the concrete struts of the bunker. After we had calmed down and stitched ourselves up, Vlad took me into town.

I guess Vlad was feeling bad for getting my hopes up about the literal killing I could have made with the rifles and so he started to try and make it up to me. We began the night out at a bar called Wooslettle. If you have never had the pleasure of drinking vodka in Bulgaria then make sure you do. Or possibly don’t. It depends in how much of a high regard you hold the health of your liver. Needless to say, I had cheered up considerably by the time we left Wooslettle and headed to the female flesh market aptly named Woodyz. As soon as we were sat comfortably in one of the private viewing booths Vlad got his American Express card out and started flashing it about. Then came the ladies, flashing about the place, all young, yummy and mine to take home with me, if I so desired.

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