From: csg188@cch.coventry.ac.uk (MR X)
Subject: Fed up with being treated like a sheep???
Organization: COVENTRY UNIVERSITY (POLY)
Date: Mon, 23 Nov 1992 16:55:27 GMT

	OVERLAND TO THE WORLD

What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted
around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and 
Coventry in thier cloth caps and thier cardigans with their transistor
radios and thier Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - 'oh they
don't make it properely here, do they, not like at home' - and stopping
at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red barrel and
calamares and two veg and sitting in thier cotton frocks squirting
Timothey White's suncream all over thier puffy raw swollen puralent flesh
'cos they overdid it on the first day. And being herded into endless Hotel
Miramars and Bellevueses and Continentales with their modern international
luxery roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat
German businessmen pretending they're acrobates forming pyrimids and
frightening the children and barging in the queues and if your not at your 
table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's cream of Mushroom soup,
the first item on the menu of international cuisine, and every Thursday night
the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago
with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreamed down
and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And adenoidal typists for
Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy
bandy-legged waitors called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the
local roman remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding
Watneys Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant
with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who 
keep singing 'Torremolinos, torremolinos' and complaining about the food - 
'It's so greasy isn't it?' - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer
from Luton with an instamatic camara and Dr Scholl sandals and last Tuesdays
Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr Smith should be running the
country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up
all over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they dont 
realise they havent even visted to 'all at no 22, weather wonderfull, our room
is marked with an X. Food very greasy but we've found a charming liitle local
place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watneys Red Barrell and
cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'maybe it's because i'm a
Londoner'. And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day
package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwhiches and you can't
even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because your still in England and the
bloddy bar closes every time your thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the
kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep
telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland
and has to takes some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 in 
the morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of 'unforeseen 
difficulties', i.e. the permanant strike of Air Trafic Control in Paris - 
and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to
Malaga airport everybodys swallowing 'enterovioform' and queuing for the
toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers and queuing for the bloddy
bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished.
And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called hotel del sol
by paying  half you holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find
there is no water in the pool, and no water in the taps, theres no water in
the bog and there's only a bledding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms 
are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-
four hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and your 
plagured by apalling apprentice chemists for Ealing prentending to be hippies,
and middle class stock-brokers wives busily buying identical holiday villas in
surburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour Goverment gets
in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned
ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when 
they finally let it all flop out. And the spanish tourist board promises you 
that the raging Cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild panish tummy, like
the previous outbreak of spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half of London
and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting
16 year olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under 19 who
doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyones
comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumate, buying duty-free 'cigarillos' and
using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in spanish national costume and
awfull straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on: 'Ordoney, EL
Corbobes and Brian Pules of Norwich' and 3-D pictures of the pope and Kennedy
and Franco, and everyones talking about coming again next year and you swear 
you never will, although there you are tumbleing bleary-eyed out of a tourist-
tight antique iberian airplane after a ....

	[to be continued]
 
-- 
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*  MR X 	aka MR KEN LIVER SAUSAGE 	aka DAVE BRETT		*
*		EMAIL: csg188@cch.coventry.ac.uk			*
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