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This is a question Brits Abroad

Union jack shorts, bulldog t-shirts, bars named after soap operas, hen parties in Malaga. Tell us about your encounters with the worst (or best) of our fair country's travelers around the world. Alternatively, tell us about your own doomed quest to find a decent cup of tea in Moscow.

(, Thu 24 Apr 2014, 13:01)
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I am a Citizen of the Universe and a gentleman to boot, therefore my parameters are rather wider than this ‘fair country’ or indeed planet, solar system, galaxy, universe, dimension and time-stream.

I have, however, experienced boorish behaviour on holiday, the worst example being a bunch of Sontarans that were enjoying some shore leave on the pleasure planet of Florana.

Sontarans generally are no problem. You know where you are with them. They are obsessed by war, and as long as you stay away from their many theatres of conflict, you’ll be fine. When you encounter them off-piste, though, there can be problems.

This happened during one of my female incarnations, when I was a tall, ivory-skinned, green-eyed, copper-haired goddess. I was on the rebound from a particularly bruising love affair (full story here: www.b3ta.com/questions/breakingup/post2089317) and so had checked in to the Hotel Magnasplendos on Florana for a few weeks of much-needed R&R.

Unfortunately, so had a troop of Sontarans.

I first became aware of their presence in the small hours of the morning on my second night. I was rudely awoken by a rhythmic thudding from the room above, a stomping so heavy that the whole ceiling shuddered and flakes of plaster detached and drifted down onto the bed. As I lay there grinding my teeth in anger the sound of singing penetrated through the shuddering stomps. ‘SONTAR-HA! SONTAR-HA!’, I heard.

‘Sontar-CUNTS,’ I thought, swinging myself out of bed.

Clad only in a short pink silk nightie I stormed out of my room and walked up the stairs to the next floor, quickly locating the source of the disturbance: a suite of rooms usually reserved for business conferences. I pounded on the door until someone – or rather something – some Sontaran – answered.

I smiled sweetly. ‘Do you mind keeping the noise down? I am trying to sleep.’

Piggish, red eyes burned deep within the Sontaran’s potatoey head. It snarled at me, and then turned away. ‘This puny HUMAN wants us to be quiet!’ it roared. ‘What do we say to that?!’

About a dozen Sontaran voices bellowed back, ‘Sontar-FUCK OFF!’

With an incongruous, disconcertingly prim smile, the Sontaran slowly and gently closed the door in my face.

‘Sontar-bollocks,’ I muttered, returning to my room to pass a very poor night’s sleep indeed.

The next morning, over breakfast, I glared at them angrily as I tucked into my bacon, sausage, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and fried slice, but they ignored me. Even worse, they proceeded to break wind thunderously all throughout breakfast, to the clear disgust of all the other guests. I don’t know if you have ever smelt Sontaran farts, but they are the worst in the entire known universe. The smell was so bad, I thought at one point that I was going to regenerate. How to describe it? Imagine a big pit dug in the middle of the desert. At the bottom of the pit, 125 dead dogs. On top of them, a layer of camel shit. On top of that, a layer of fish. Any fish, it doesn’t matter. On top of that, a layer of vomit. On top of that, a layer of Stilton cheese. And to top it off, a layer of hard-boiled eggs. Simply leave for three weeks in the burning, broiling sun, and the resultant odour will be similar to, though not nearly as bad as, a Sontaran anal emission. Sontar-POOER.

After a particularly potent guff I shoved my plate away and strode up to the leader of the troop, Commander Stor.

‘I’ve had it up to here with your immature, inconsiderate behaviour!’ I screamed. The Sontarans all roared in laughter.

Stor stood up and got right in my face. ‘And what do you propose to do about it, puny human?’ he said in his incongruous Cockney accent.

Twelve pairs of Sontaran eyes stared at me and my indignant heaving bosom. As Sontarans were sexless, I couldn’t even try to seduce the non-fuckers. ‘Well, for a start, I am NOT human,’ I began.

‘Yes, you are!’ bellowed Stor. He pointed at my throat with a stubby three-fingered hand. ‘You are a puny female human, going by the construction of your thorax!’

‘That’s beside the point,’ I went on, but my words were drowned out by Sontaran jeers and catcalls. They then began a food fight that ended up like something out of a Laurel and Hardy film.

I complained to the maitre’d, a charming elderly Draconian going by the name of Valdrax, but he informed me solemnly that this particular troop of Sontarans had just won a strategically important battle, and were entitled to let off a certain amount of probic vent steam on their well-earned their shore leave. Moreover, Sontaran High Command paid the Hotel Magnasplendos handsomely for the ‘honour’ of hosting such an esteemed troop of Sontaran ‘heroes.’ So it was like it or lump it for us poor civvies.

So lump it I did. Sontaran behaviour I had to endure included:

- Projectile vomiting from their balcony onto the sunbathers below – which included me. I’ve already described Sontaran farts, I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about Sontaran spew.

- Eating the hotel cupboards bare, and drinking its bar dry.

- Incessant vandalism of every single object they came across.

- Singing and stomping throughout the small hours every single night.

- Blockage of toilets leading to complete failure of the hotel plumbing system.

- Scrawling pro-Sontar graffiti e.g. ‘FUKK RUTAN CONZ’ and ‘PUNEY HUMANZ R PUNEY’ and ‘SOTARANZ ROOL THA UNEVERSE’ absolutely fucking everywhere.

- Murdering of a bunch of holidaying Slitheen, but to give the Sontarans the benefit of the doubt, they were greatly provoked and the Raxacoricowhateverthefuckitisian cunts were asking for it.

It all came to a head when one night they decided to start lighting each other’s farts, and blew up half the hotel. After this, Valdrax asked them politely to leave, and they killed him, running him through with a broken curtain rail!

At this I confronted them, this time managing to assert my Time Lord identity, and vowing to bring Time Lord vengeance down upon their sorry Sontaran asses. This did not go down too well and there was an altercation, which I barely escaped. I just about made it back to my TARDIS. On reflection, this incident was probably what prompted Commander Stor to lead the Sontaran invasion of Gallifrey, the so-called ‘Invasion of Time’.

Sorry about that. But they really were a bunch of annoying clone cunts.
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 21:43, 13 replies)
They just sound like a bunch of lads from Middlesborough or Burnley. Got to laugh aint ya.
BTW - best story this week on QOTW and the one with the least lies. Click from me.
(, Fri 25 Apr 2014, 22:16, closed)
They are wankers, aren't they?
(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 15:20, closed)
How sad
that someone uses a minor Doctor Who character as their username.

I mean come on. Fuck sake.
(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 15:35, closed)
I know
(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 16:50, closed)
Thing is
I really AM Dr Skagra, and you are not Iris Wildthyme, as Iris Wildthyme is a fictional character invented by Paul Magrs.
(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 20:15, closed)
That's nice, lovey
Which one are you at the moment, Christopher Neame or Manuel Sachs?
(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 20:28, closed)
I am Dr Skagra.
(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 22:09, closed)
Of course you are Grandad, we know..
Now come and have a sit down and take your tablets. Oh look Bargain Hunt is on! You like that don't you?

Are you warm enough?
(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 22:44, closed)
thanks, Ian.
(, Sun 27 Apr 2014, 23:19, closed)

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