Не сделал химию - диссоциировал с урока.
Текст, который произносит персонаж Айдла в скетче про туристическое агентство.
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 with their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirror’s, 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 Watneys Red barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in thier cotton frocks squirting Timothey White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen puralent flesh ‘cos they overdid it on the first day. And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevistas 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 in the queues and if your not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbells “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 from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged 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 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 camera and Dr Scholl sandals and last Tuesday’s 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 wonderful. 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 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 sandwhiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watneys 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 take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 in the morning and you sit on the tarmac ‘till 6 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 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 “Hotel del Sol” by paying half your 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 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 your plagued by apalling apprentice chemists from 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 “spanish 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 Cordobes 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 ….
”
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 with their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirror’s, 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 Watneys Red barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in thier cotton frocks squirting Timothey White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen puralent flesh ‘cos they overdid it on the first day. And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevistas 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 in the queues and if your not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbells “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 from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged 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 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 camera and Dr Scholl sandals and last Tuesday’s 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 wonderful. 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 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 sandwhiches and you can’t even get a drink of Watneys 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 take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 in the morning and you sit on the tarmac ‘till 6 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 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 “Hotel del Sol” by paying half your 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 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 your plagued by apalling apprentice chemists from 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 “spanish 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 Cordobes 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 ….
”
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19.08.2012 в 20:01