Monty Python's Flying Circus1969

Mr. Smoketoomuch:
Well I saw your advert in the paper and I've been on package tours several times, you see, and I decided that this was for me.

Bounder of Adventure:
Ah, good.

Mr. Smoketoomuch:
Yes, I quite agree with you, I mean what's the point of being treated like a sheep, I mean I'm fed up with going abroad and being treated like a sheep, what's the point of being carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry 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' stopping at Majorcan bodegas, selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in cotton sun frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cause they overdid it on the first day!

Bounder of Adventure:
Yes, absolutely, yes, I quite agree...

Mr. Smoketoomuch:
...and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes and their Watney's Red Barrel and their swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging in to 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 on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some big fat bloated tart with her hair Brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.

Bounder of Adventure:
Yes, yes, now...

Mr. Smoketoomuch:
...and then surrounded by adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhea and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel, and then, once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and one night they take you to a local restaurant with local color and coloring and they show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing 'Torremolinos, Torremolinos' and complaining about the food: 'Oh! It's so greasy isn't it?' and then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr. Scholl Sandals and last Tuesday's 'Daily Express' and he drones on and 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 all over the Cuba Libres.

Bounder of Adventure:
Will you be quiet please?

Mr. Smoketoomuch:
...and sending tinted postcards of places they don't know they haven't even visited: 'To all at Number 22, weather wonderful, our room marked with an "X", wish you were here...

Bounder of Adventure:
Shut up.

Mr. Smoketoomuch:
'... food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous little place hidden away in the back streets...

Bounder of Adventure:
Shut up!

Mr. Smoketoomuch:
'... where you can even get Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion...

Bounder of Adventure:
SHUT UP!

Mr. Smoketoomuch:
'... 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 Watney's sandwhiches...

Bounder of Adventure:
SHUT YOUR BLOODY GOB! [Mr. Smoketoomuch continues on and on... ]