Part 2: Ear Mate! Two Pints of Lager and a Large Kebab!
In the summer season , bulking out this mind-numbing ex-pat, human ballast, are the bottom-end package tourists; the cream of northern England's housing estates. The squabbling, cheaply-tattooed, 'problem-family' holiday groups, rowdy, drunken hens and stags, newly-matched trailer-trash, modern-day Tracey and Darrens. They form a human layer of scum and float uselessly on the surface of social humanity in our depressed, inner-city, BNP hot spots.
Chain-smoking 35 year-old grandmothers with ankle-chains, tattoos, and non-existent grammar. Foul-mouthed, belching, balding husbands, slouching along in Nike trainers, with beer-bellies hanging over their shorts like one huge round hairy breast. Deluding themselves into thinking that anyone is actually impressed by the social depths of inbred, uneducated squalor that they've reached. The shame of Britain with their ASBO's, and litters of 'at-risk registered', next-generation social and educational excrement.
They have no respect for the country hosting them, nor interest in the people whose home this is. They're not looking to discover another culture, or expand their knowledge of how others live. All they want is to realise their holiday-fantasy; whole streets filled with nothing but pubs selling cheap pints, and restaurants and takeaways selling greasy kebabs drenched in chili sauce, and all-day breakfasts doused in ketchup. Pints of lager, pints of ketchup, pints of grease, and forty Benson & Hedges, all blended into a disgusting, putrid soup that they can pour down their karaoke-scarred throats. Like selfish, ungrateful parasites, their low standards and ignorance spill out, like the beer that slops from their endless pints, running onto the table and dribbling down onto the ground. They feel threatened by anything unfamiliar, and defend themselves by mocking it. They stuff their faces with endless plates of 'full-English' and chips, scour the place for fast-food, and refuse to eat 'that foreign muck' demanding the same low-standards they find at home.
Do they care whether it's Spain, Greece, or the local sewage plant? No, they want cheap sun, cheap booze, and cheap grub! A hotel near the beach that they can reach without having to expel too much effort, either mental, physical or linguistic (God forbid they should need to try to ask directions or look at a map).
You can see them in Benalmadena, ambling in classless extended family groups, 'down t'beach' like a lost evolutionary link, already slathered in pizza or nicotine-flavoured, zero-protection, sun oil. Women in bikini tops and shorts, men topless with England football shorts, a towel in one hand, and an ever-burning cigarette in the other. Bleary-eyed from a night of boozing, scoffing and shagging, and adorned with an array of cheap, market-stall jewellery, knock-off designer sunglasses, and love-bites. It's like a distressing, condensed version of the annual wildebeest migration of the East African savannah. Hundreds of socially-identical, sub-human figures moving as one down to the shore, and then back again at the end of the day. Having roasted themselves to the point of permanent scarring, they glow like radioactive particles in the dark, as they sizzle back to their hotels for a late-afternoon 'sleep n'shag'.
Every creature has its preferred habitat, and this is the habitat of the British package tourist.
The one thing I just don't understand is how the Spanish could have let this happen. How they could have allowed part of their country to be populated by an alien species who make no positive contribution and do nothing but destroy and devalue everything they touch.
Am I missing a point somewhere?
