Tourist: Yes I quite agree with you, I mean what's the point of being
treated like a sheep, I mean I'm fed up going abroad and being
treated like a sheep, what's the point of being carted around in
busses, surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and
Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their
transistor radios and their 'Sunday Mirrors', complaining about
the tea, 'Oh they don't make it properly here do they not like
at home' stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips
and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in
cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over
their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they 'overdid it on
the first day'!
Bounder: (agreeing patiently) Yes. Absolutely, yes, I quite agree...
Tourist: And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses
and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes
and their Watney's Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of
fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming
pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to the queues
and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl
of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu
of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night there's
bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago
with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair
Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for
Foreigners.
Bounder: (beginning to get fed up) Yes, yes, now...
Tourist: And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhoea
and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called
Manuel, and then, once a week there's an excursion to the local
Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and
bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and then one night they take you
to a local restaurant with local color and coloring and they
show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl
who keeps singing 'Torremolinos, Torremolinos', and complaining
about the food, 'Oh! It's so greasy isn't it?' and then you get
cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an
Instamatic and Dr Scholl sandals and Tuesday's 'Daily Express'
and he drones on and on about how Mr Smith should be running
this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and
then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres.
Bounder: Will you be quiet please.
Tourist: And sending tinted postcards of places they don't know they
haven't even visited, 'to all at number 22, weather wonderful
our room is marked with an "X". Wish you were here.'
Bounder: Shut up.
Tourist: 'Food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous
little place hidden away in the back streets.'
Bounder: Shut up!
Tourist: 'Where you can even get Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and
onion...'
Bounder: Shut up!!!
Tourist: '...crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe its because I'm a
Londoner"' and spending four days on the tarmac at Lutton
airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried
Watney's sandwiches...
Bounder: Shut your bloody gob! I've had enough of this, I'm going to
ring the police.
treated like a sheep, I mean I'm fed up going abroad and being
treated like a sheep, what's the point of being carted around in
busses, surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and
Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their
transistor radios and their 'Sunday Mirrors', complaining about
the tea, 'Oh they don't make it properly here do they not like
at home' stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips
and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in
cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over
their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they 'overdid it on
the first day'!
Bounder: (agreeing patiently) Yes. Absolutely, yes, I quite agree...
Tourist: And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses
and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes
and their Watney's Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of
fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming
pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to the queues
and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss your bowl
of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu
of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night there's
bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago
with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair
Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for
Foreigners.
Bounder: (beginning to get fed up) Yes, yes, now...
Tourist: And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhoea
and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called
Manuel, and then, once a week there's an excursion to the local
Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and
bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and then one night they take you
to a local restaurant with local color and coloring and they
show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl
who keeps singing 'Torremolinos, Torremolinos', and complaining
about the food, 'Oh! It's so greasy isn't it?' and then you get
cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an
Instamatic and Dr Scholl sandals and Tuesday's 'Daily Express'
and he drones on and on about how Mr Smith should be running
this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and
then he throws up all over the Cuban Libres.
Bounder: Will you be quiet please.
Tourist: And sending tinted postcards of places they don't know they
haven't even visited, 'to all at number 22, weather wonderful
our room is marked with an "X". Wish you were here.'
Bounder: Shut up.
Tourist: 'Food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous
little place hidden away in the back streets.'
Bounder: Shut up!
Tourist: 'Where you can even get Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and
onion...'
Bounder: Shut up!!!
Tourist: '...crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe its because I'm a
Londoner"' and spending four days on the tarmac at Lutton
airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried
Watney's sandwiches...
Bounder: Shut your bloody gob! I've had enough of this, I'm going to
ring the police.

That's what I thought, but just wanted to make sure.

, too.
I tried to tell her that there were nice jeans for cheaper than that, but fashion was a big deal to her. She wasn't a stupid tourist though.
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