It's sometimes better not to ask some people.
Sadly this all from memory...
"I mean what's the point of going abroad surrounded by sweaty, mindless oafs from Kettering and coventry? In their cloth caps and cardigans complaining about the tea "Oh, they don't make it properly here, do they?" And being hearded into endless Hotel Mirrimars and Belvueses and Continentals with modern international luxury roomettes with draft Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and barging in the queues. And if you're not at your table spot on 7 you miss the bowl of Campbells cream of mushroom soup - the first item on the menu of international cousine. And every Thursday there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring a tiny emaciated Dago with 9 inch hips. And a fat, bloated tart with her hair brylcreamed down and a big arse presenting flamenco for foreigners. And adanoidal typists from Birmingham whith flabby white legs and diohorrea trying to pick up bandy legged wop waiters called Manuel.
You visit a typical restraunt and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolenos, Torremolenos" and complaining about the food "It's so greasy isn't it?" And sending tinted postcards of places they don't even realise they haven't even visited. "To all at no. 22. Weather wonderful. Food very greasy but we have managed to find this tiny place hidden in the back streets where you can buy cheese and onion chrisps and draft Red Barrel and the accordianist plays "Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner".
And there's an excursion to the local Roman remains where you can buy cherryaide and melted ice cream and Whatneys Red Barrel and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an instamatic camera and Dr Scoll sandles and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how many languages Enoch POwel can speak and how Mr Smith should be running this country and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libras. And spending 4 days on the tarmac at Gatwick airport on a 5 day package holiday due to "unexpected difficulties". IE. the permanent 24 hour strike of air traffic control. And the kids are crying and breaking the plastic ashtrays and they keep telling you it will only be another hour although you know that the plane you're on still has to take a load of Swedes to Iceland before they can load you on at 4 am in the morning...
In normal company I'm not usually allowed to complete the second sentence so the rest of it's a bit rusty..
so bits are transposed and missing - still most of it's there:
http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=hcCuBWXd-hc (traditional broken youtube link)