You'd think it was good luck, being rescued when I was almost at the stage choosing between eating the SPAM and drowning or using it to keep me afloat and staving, but it wasn't so good, as it turned out...

 

Y'see, I was rescued by a boat from the French equivalent of the RNLI, the Société Par les Accidenté Maritime (SPAM), and they refused to take me back to Norfolk, citing my conjoined eyebrows as evidence that I'd suffered enough. Instead, with only a strategically-placed tin can to protect my modesty, they took me to their headquarters (not so strategically-placed in Bourges, central France), and I had to hitch-hike back from there, with only a rapidly-emptying can of SPAM as bartering capital.

My attitudes and conflicts are distended by the consumption of huge quantities of processed meats.

Aahh the French.

At least you were able to make the SPAM last for bartering purposes.

I tell you - the U.K. is like the old third world! On my return, I still had a SPAM sandwich about my person which I placed in my garden intending to enjoy a refreshing breakfast when the sun rose. Yes, you guessed! When I woke in the morning most of the sandwich had gone with just the crust remaining up on bricks.

Fuck off and die you dirty spamming little shithead. LMAO

Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit? 8-O