…I mean I’m fed up going abroad and being treated like a sheep, I mean what’s the point of being carted around in buses, surrounded by sweaty miners from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and 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” and stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney’s Red Barrel and calamaris and two veg’ and sitting in their cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh ‘cause they overdid it on the first day and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and Bontinentals with their modern international luxury 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 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 bloated fat tart with her hair
all Brylcreemed down her big arse presenting Flamenco for foreigners and then some adenoidal typist from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhea and some hairy bandy-legged wop waiter 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 in every chair and they sit you 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 Scholls sandals and Tuesday’s Daily Express and he drones on and 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 Cuba Libras and sending tinted postcards of places they don’t know they haven’t even visited, to all at number 22, “Weather wonderful our room marked with an X”. Wish you were here…
… and several butchers’ aprons…