What's the point of going abroad, if your just going to be treated like a sheep?
Carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry.
Their blotched backs and their cardigans and their transistor radios, complaining about the tea or they don't make it properly, do they? And stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamaris and two veg. And sitting in their cotton sunfrocks, squirting Timothy White Suncream all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh, 'cos they overdid it on the first day.
Being herded into countless Hotel Miramars and Bellevues, Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes...and swimming pools full of draft Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children... and barging into 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 in the menu of International Cuisine.
Every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated local with nine-inch hips and some fat bloated tart with her hair Bryll-creamed down and big arse presenting flamenco for foreigners.
And an adenoidal typist from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhea...