World. I’m sorry. I’m genuinely sorry for the knuckle dragging neanderthals that infest your beautiful countries and destroy whole city centres in running battles of drunken carnage stag nights. From the UK. And Ireland. Every corner is represented. And by every corner I specifically mean English. English animals. Brits abroad. We watched in utter disbelief as an idiot dressed in a crap wig and hot pants vomited up the street, while his stag cohorts attempted to steal bicycles and broke into locked buildings along a cafe-culture street. Totally out-of-place. Totally not welcome. Locals and travelers alike stared on as yet another group of sex tourists gave rise to this alarming phenomenon; fly to a European capital city, get pissed up and wreck it, because we can leave on the plane and they’d never catch us. Shit in someone else’s back yard. They’re everywhere, and they’re giving us a bad name.
They’re easy to spot wearing similar “humourous” t-shirt prints with nick-names on the back and the drunken face of the stag on the front. Loud. Obnoxious. Rude. Sexist. Insulting. Groping. One approaches me with heavy booze breath, hooded eyes and beetroot face, his trite ear piercing and shit tattoo’s a dead giveaway.
“Henry! HEeyey…hennry. hic. Whersyougoin?” He slurs. I’m not called Henry. “Whersssgood to go. hic?”
“I don’t know mate I’ve only been here a few days.”
“FUUUCKME YOU’RE ENGLISH!” His face cracks like a burst baked potato. I don’t answer. Is he so ignorant to presume I could speak his language?
“Isss this your Croatian girlfriend?” He turns his attention to my new hostel buddy from Manchester. Before I have time to answer he’s slurping on her hand.
“If you find somewhere to go let us…hic…know.” Aye right pal. I’ll come back and find you and your feral companions. I can bet my bottom dollar you’ll wind up in a brothel with a pathetic attempt to get it up after twelve hours of drinking and a gram of coke. Either that or some loose type will give you a sloppy hand job down an alley.
So I’m sorry world. We’re not all like that I promise. I’ll admit I’m no angel, but however drunk I get I certainly still hold a respect for the people and the place I’m be lucky enough to be in. Apart from that time when I got into a bar brawl in Nicaragua. But that wasn’t my fault. Honest.
A heartfelt apology to the rest of the world from a former resident of the UK
World. I’m sorry. I’m genuinely sorry for the knuckle dragging neanderthals that infest your beautiful countries and destroy whole city centres in running battles of drunken carnage stag nights. From the UK. And Ireland. Every corner is represented. And by every corner I specifically mean English. English animals. Brits abroad. We watched in utter disbelief as an idiot dressed in a crap wig and hot pants vomited up the street, while his stag cohorts attempted to steal bicycles and broke into locked buildings along a cafe-culture street. Totally out-of-place. Totally not welcome. Locals and travelers alike stared on as yet another group of sex tourists gave rise to this alarming phenomenon; fly to a European capital city, get pissed up and wreck it, because we can leave on the plane and they’d never catch us. Shit in someone else’s back yard. They’re everywhere, and they’re giving us a bad name.
They’re easy to spot wearing similar “humourous” t-shirt prints with nick-names on the back and the drunken face of the stag on the front. Loud. Obnoxious. Rude. Sexist. Insulting. Groping. One approaches me with heavy booze breath, hooded eyes and beetroot face, his trite ear piercing and shit tattoo’s a dead giveaway.
“Henry! HEeyey…hennry. hic. Whersyougoin?” He slurs. I’m not called Henry. “Whersssgood to go. hic?”
“I don’t know mate I’ve only been here a few days.”
“FUUUCKME YOU’RE ENGLISH!” His face cracks like a burst baked potato. I don’t answer. Is he so ignorant to presume I could speak his language?
“Isss this your Croatian girlfriend?” He turns his attention to my new hostel buddy from Manchester. Before I have time to answer he’s slurping on her hand.
“If you find somewhere to go let us…hic…know.” Aye right pal. I’ll come back and find you and your feral companions. I can bet my bottom dollar you’ll wind up in a brothel with a pathetic attempt to get it up after twelve hours of drinking and a gram of coke. Either that or some loose type will give you a sloppy hand job down an alley.
So I’m sorry world. We’re not all like that I promise. I’ll admit I’m no angel, but however drunk I get I certainly still hold a respect for the people and the place I’m be lucky enough to be in. Apart from that time when I got into a bar brawl in Nicaragua. But that wasn’t my fault. Honest.
Oh and that time I…
Nevermind.
Just forget I said anything.