Someone would paint her all the colours of a rainbow and attach a unicorn horn to her head, if she did that.
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The WTF? Thread
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- Mar 2008
- 20969
- The House with the Golden Windows
- Fast falling out of love for football.
- WasPlain Hobnobs
The brawl kicked off when one passenger took offence to someone dressed as a clown
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-49137520
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Not uncommon apparently
https://twitter.com/richardgaisford/status/1155118659922255872?s=20
Cruise lines aren’t profitable based solely on their cruise fares. Of all “onboard purchases,” including casino sales, shore excursions, specialty restaurants and gift shops, alcohol sales are the key to keeping the tax-free foreign flagged cruise ships profitable. Pushing alcohol sales are a key part of cruising on certain mass market cruise lines.
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- Mar 2008
- 20969
- The House with the Golden Windows
- Fast falling out of love for football.
- WasPlain Hobnobs
The two arrested are from Chigwell.
I really, really, want to suppress my immediate response to that.
Because it's wrong of me to assume these are kipper sympathiser fuckers who will happily vote for the "Friends of the murdering IDF scum" wing of the Tory party.
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I hate to generalize (but it saves a lot of time, etc), but there's a certain 'package tour type' that generally represents the worst / most embarrassing part of a nation's character. We sat one row ahead of that sort of gammon/kipper on the way to Cuba once. He was well lubricated, and I swear he used the exact same line "I don't give a fuck what you say, that Obammy's a fookin' Muslim" literally a hundred times. You also get a lot of a certain type of francophone Quebecker on these things. They're usually loud, drunk, crass and friendly. Most of their sentences end in "....eh...Tabernac."
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- Mar 2008
- 19042
- Revelling In The Hole
- England, Chelsea and Tooting and Mitcham. And Surrey CCC. And Wimbledon Dons Speedway (RIP)
- Nairn's Cheese Oatcake
Originally posted by Guy Profumo View PostThe two arrested are from Chigwell.
I really, really, want to suppress my immediate response to that.
Because it's wrong of me to assume these are kipper sympathiser fuckers who will happily vote for the "Friends of the murdering IDF scum" wing of the Tory party.
Well, " the violence occurred after a black-tie evening and an afternoon of "patriotic" partying on deck" suggests that you might be on the right track!
Chigwell was a bit of a giveaway.
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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 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' - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they 'overdid it on the first day.' And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're 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 brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's 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 camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last 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 over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to 'All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel 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 sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're 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 take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of 'unforeseen difficulties', i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing 'enterovioform' and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody 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 the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding 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 you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government 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 Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free 'cigarillos' and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on 'Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich' and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane.....
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I genuinely thought it must have been a blip in the board's code, and that wingco had jumped in for a moment and his post had somehow got HP's user profile put next to it.
I am of course familiar with Monty Python but not that particular thing.
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I only came across them in 1991 when I got the tape of their songs. But I didn't really meet anyone who was into them until I met some americans in 1992. Then I discovered that in 1993, most of the internet was made up of typed up monty python scripts. I get the impression that they were bigger, later in the US. HP isn't much older than me, and they weren't much of a thing over here any more. I saw a fish called wanda, and fawlty towers well before I saw any monty python.
The Life of Brian is by far the best thing they ever did. It's just fantastic. (and was banned here)
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That rant is basically what my dad spends half his year doing with 'the lady he went to the gym with'. Except that he's too tight to pay for the buses so he always walks from the cruise ship to whatever port they're at, and then feels superior to all the other passengers.
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- Mar 2008
- 20969
- The House with the Golden Windows
- Fast falling out of love for football.
- WasPlain Hobnobs
Not so smug are you now, clever dick?
Council tenant fined 100 grand and evicted for renting out flat on Airbnb
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-49149983
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- Mar 2008
- 20969
- The House with the Golden Windows
- Fast falling out of love for football.
- WasPlain Hobnobs
Originally posted by Balderdasha View PostThat rant is basically what my dad spends half his year doing with 'the lady he went to the gym with'. Except that he's too tight to pay for the buses so he always walks from the cruise ship to whatever port they're at, and then feels superior to all the other passengers.
Impressive!
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My dad's trick was to see an interesting excursion listed, and then suggest it to a few other old couples over dinner. When they docked, they'd find a seasoned looking old cabbie with a minivan and pay him $100 to take the 6 of them to the butterfly farm or banana plantation or whatever it was. With a fat tip, they'd all have a day out for about $30 per person instead of the $125 a head the ship was charging. Often, they'd end up at the driver's house for roast chicken or at his cousin's rum shop for a couple of bottles. Dad said you usually got more interesting stories from those drivers, too. Not the tourist-friendly song and dance you'd get from the 'authorized' tours.
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