Without A Clu.

Well I thought I'd left it long enough to chance my arm at venturing back into the San Clu (Comfort Inn, in decimal currency), after all that nonsense with my friend Hellen, the damned collonial.
After all, it wasn't me that was sick in their fridge!
And I think I would've got away with it if it wasn't for my big mouth!
I'd managed to drink half of my pint of Seasider and was just about to order some food, when, rather stupidly, I checked with the big, burly bar manager to make sure that there weren't any Americans staying in the hotel at the mo.
He gave me a quizzical look, then a little light of recognition flickered across his face and he asked me, quite politely, to bugger off.

Much as I like Hellen, I do hope she doesn't decide to visit me again. I can get into my own little pickles, ta very much!