Going Home

Finally, I'm going home, via Cali, Bogota, Madrid, Malaga and Liverpool....but I'll get there in the end, I'm sure.

For those of you that know me in the UK, I'm well up for meeting up for a drink. The requirements are:

* You're not psychotic
* You don't speak Spanish
* You don't have a propensity to break your friends' electronic equipment or throw water over him for no reason
* You're not that keen on firearms
* If I get a call you won't snatch the phone from me and demand to know who it is

If you meet all of these then expect a call.

I've been upgraded to business class on the Bogota Madrid leg of my trip. Quite right too...I've had enough of mixing with the plebs. The one, and pretty considerable, downside is that all the talent is in economy. They might be poor, but they're pretty.

For the last two weeks I've had the most miserable time. Not only with the Near Fatal Gun Incident (8 men in a minivan, 3 pistols, a rifle and an 8 hour ordeal in a Cali warehouse is the latest version of it) but also coz of my imprisonment in Palmira...not just because of ******, but because of the circumstances of me being there alone with no transportation and not much to do. Hence a shortage of posts....I don't blog when I'm miserable (I know how much of a cockrock I am to you all).

I know when I arrive in Liverpool I'll instantly be depressed and missing Colombia. For a start, the women. Oh the women, the women. In Liverpool they have women too, I spose....hmm, maybe not. They have things that have bright yellow skin and sweat pants, maybe they are women, I can't tell.

I was in Cartagena for 3 days but Erica, the woman I love, stood me up on day 2 without any reason (other than she's Manchester Utd and I'm Crewe Alexander, but thats always been the case). Day 3 was fab though and I wished I'd spent 18 days in Cartagena and 3 days in Palmira rather than the other way around.