A: Ah Hello, Im Bounder of Adventure.
C: Hello, my names Smoketoomuch.
A: What?
C: My names Smoketoomuch, Mr. Smoketoomuch.
A: Well <humouredly> youd better cut down a little then.
<pause>
C: Im sorry?
A: Youd better cut down a little then.
<pause>
C: Oh I see, Smoketoomuch so Id better cut down a little then.
A: Yes <laughing> I expect you get people making jokes about
your name all the time.
C: No actually. It never struck me before. Smoketoomuch. Tahaha
heh heh.
A: Anyway, you're interested in one of our holidays are you?
C: Yes thats right, I saw your advert in the bolour supplement.
A: The what?
C: The bolour supplement.
A: The colour supplement?
C: Yes thats right. Im afraid I cant say the letter B
A: C?
C: Yes. Its all due to a trauma I suffered when I was a
Sboolboy. I was attacked by a bat.
A: Ah, a cat?
C: No a bat.
A: Well can you say the letter K?
C: Oh yes, Khaki, Kettle, Kipling, Kuwait, Kings Bollege Bambridge.
A: Well why dont you say the letter K, instead of the letter C?
C: What, you mean spell bolour with a K.
A: Right.
C: Kolour.
A: Yes.
C: Ah thats very good. I never thought of that before. What a silly
bunt.
A: Now then, er, about the, er, about the holiday.
C: Yes well Ive been on package tours many times before and so
your advert really baught my eye.
A: Good, good, jolly good.
C: Yes, you're quite right, whats the point of going abroad if
you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded
by sweaty (miners sons???) from Kettering and Boventry with their
bloth baps and their bardigans and their transistor radios
complaining about the tea, ooh they dont make it properly here
do they - and stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish
and chips and Watneys Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and
sitting in their cotton sunfrocks squirting Timothy Whites sun
cream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh cos they
overdid it on the first day.
A: Absolutely, absolutely.
C: And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses
and Bontinentals with their International luxury roomettes
and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German
businessmen pretending to be acrobats forming pyramids and
frightening the children and barging into the queues. And if
you're not at the table spot on 7 you miss your bowl of
Campbells Cream of Mushroom soup - the first item on the menu
of Internaional cuisine.
A: Absolutely, well what we'd like....
C: And every Thursday night theres bloody cabaret in the bar,
featuring some tiny emaciated dago with 9 inch hips, and some
fat bloated tart with her hair Brylcreamed down and a big arse
presenting flamenco for foreigners. And then an audio-typist
from Birmingham with flabby white legs and dihorrea(sp?) trying
to pick up hairy legged wop waiters called Manuel.
A: Will you be quiet!
C: And once a week theres an excursion to the local Roman remains
where you can buy Cherryade, and melted Ice Cream and bleeding
Watneys Red Barrel.
A: Please....
C: And one night they take you to a typical restaurant with local
atmosphere and colour and you sit next to a party of people
from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, Torremolinos".
A: WILL you be QUIET!.
C: And complaining about the food.. ooh its SO greasy isnt it.
You get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with
an Instamatic camera and Dr Scholl sandals and last Tuesdays
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 Libres. Then sending tiddly postcards of places they dont
realise they havent even visited.... to all at number 22,
weather wonderful, food very greasy, but we have managed to
find this tiny little place hidden away in the back streets
where you can buy Cheese and Onion crisps and Watneys Red
Barrel. And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport
on a five day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA
type sandwiches and you cant even get a glass of Watneys Red
Barrel cos you're still in England and the bloody bar closes
every time you're thirsty. And the kids are crying and vomiting
and breaking the plastic ashtrays and they keep telling you
it'll only be another hour although you know damn well your
plane is still in Iceland and it has to come back and take
a party of Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can come back and load
you up at 3am in the morning. And then you sit on the tarmac
for four hours because of 'unforseen difficulties', ie. the
permanent strike of Air Traffic Control; and when you finally
get to Malaga airport and everyones swallowing into Vioform
tablets and queueing for the bloody toilets and queueing for
the bloody armed customs officers, and queueing for the bloody
bus that isnt there waiting to take you to the hotel that
hasn't yet been built. And when you finally get to the half-built
Algerian ruin, called the Hotel del Sol, by paying half your
holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi; thers no water
in the pool, theres no water in the taps, theres no water in
the bog, and theres only a bleeding lizard in the bidet!
And half the rooms are double booked and you cant sleep anyway
cos of the permanent 24 hour drilling of the foundations of
the hotel next door. You (play while appaling ????) apprentice
chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class
stockbrokers wives from Esher, busily buying identical holiday
villas and suburban development plots just like Esher, because
the Labour Governments got in again.
Meanwhile the Spanish National Tourist Board......< fade out>
Close 2nd for me is
"Were do these stairs go?" "They go up"
3rd would Royal Tennebaums telling his X he has cancer and then saying he doesnt.
