My hotel, the Solazur, had a large Brit contingent that was too scared to leave the safety of the hotel thanks to the Rep's warnings. Being on my own a number of middle aged couples took to me and would offer advice on which tours to take and how to haggle for a handbag. One woman in particular, with a loud South Yorkshire accent dumb enough to make the staunchest of white roses blush, insisted 'I must go on the marvellous tour of the Medina because it's not safe on your own'. Thanks for the knowledge but I've just spent two days searching for Burroughs residence during which time I'd seen the group being hounded by trinket sellers.

My man is hovering outside the hotel, �10 buys half a Mars bar of majoun. I scoff the lot, "no, no, crazy English fuck" rings in my ears. I don't know what all the fuss is about but the taste leaves me gagging for a beer.
One of the most popular beach bars is the BBC run by the batty old Emma who makes the best chips I've ever tasted. Like most of the beach bars the food is free and the more you drink the better the dishes get.
The bar filled with English queens and local youths whose fathers must have been pumped with so much white-mans semen that it's indiginous to their genes. I realise I've been seated next to this sugar daddy with a mouth like Donald Duck and teeth like tombstones, his toyboy is obviously too young under English law so he's brought him out here. He pulls out a huge wad of 200dh notes and pays Emma for their drinks. It appears Tangier is still something of a gay destination.
I'm sucking on a bottle of Stork watching the cruise liners enter the harbour when suddenly things go a bit Pete Tong. The sea disappears, Emma's talking gibberish, fags whine in my ears, got to get out.


I don't feel right...