no sex please we're british i mean irish

"Why won't you come back to my apartment?" wondered Miss Brazil her eyes wide and round.
"Oh you know," I answered non commitally.
"Is it because you don't want to be alone with me?" she pouted.
"No not really," I hedged.
"Is it because you're Catholic?" she pressed.
Well bold readers!
There's hope for the ancient church yet.
If the young and the sexless are still mistaking my neurotic ditherings for deep spiritual principles, why then all is not lost.
My piercing blue eyes took on a diamond lustre.
"Yes," I told her. "Yes. That's what that is."
What else could I tell her gentle travellers of the internet?
The truth?
The truth about my incipient lunatical paranoiia?
The bims can't handle the truth.
(One of mine surely. - Jack Nicholson note.)
The truth is, it is well nigh impossible to get the noble Heelers on his own unless he knows you very well indeed.
You see I've badmouthed an awful lot of people on this here blog.
I never risk being alone with a woman unless I have first ascertained that she is:
(1) Not a member of Al Qaeda.
(2) Not a member of the Irish thug police force.
(3) Not a devil worshipper.
(4) Not Barack Obama.
Life is too short to wander home with some lissom lovely and only then to discover that she's trying to kill me.
And so I walked away from Miss Brazil.
As I bid her adieu, the ghost of a New York synth funk techno musician called Moby appeared beside me.
He sang:
"Oooh Lordy
My troubles with God
Oooh Lordy
My troubles with God
Don't nobody know my troubles with God
Ain't nobody know my troubles with God."
He sang quite soulfully too.