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This is a question Shit Holidays

Camping on a dried-up river bed, we discovered when it rained during the night and half of our equipment and clothes were already most of the way to the Irish Sea why you shouldn't camp on a dried-up riverbed. Tell us about crappy holidays.

Suggested by Zuowon

(, Fri 15 Aug 2014, 10:32)
Pages: Popular, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

The water quality in one Spanish hotel I stayed at was so poor I was forced to piss in my own mouth when cleaning my teeth.

(, Thu 21 Aug 2014, 11:43, 4 replies)

Turning, the man fell. His body vector described a helix cut short by the hard immovability of the pavement. He heard the thud, heard the crunch, and looking down saw the tear in the linen of his trouser, edged with blood, looking strangely reminiscent of a whore's painted mouth.

He rolled out of the way with moments to spare as the car bore down on him murderously. Despite the pain, despite the fatigue which made each and every muscle in his body ache like it had been dunked in freezing water, he ran, picking a path through back alleys and pathways with no clear direction in mind.

Why he was being chased so vigorously and so dangerously he had no idea. He could only assume that his presence in the seaside town had riled the locals, or that his generic appearance had become confused with that of another, more criminal man. He burst through a gate at the end of an alley, only to see the car containing his pursuers parked squarely in front of him, one blacked out window down and the business end of a large and lethal looking gun aimed at his head.

His last thought before his brains splattered on the gate behind him were of his wife and infant son in their room at the hotel, waiting for him to return with the morning paper.
(, Thu 21 Aug 2014, 9:44, 17 replies)
I must say the weather is looking smashing in Miami

(, Thu 21 Aug 2014, 9:34, 6 replies)
Phimrallax Alpha
A few weeks ago, when the question was ‘bad ideas’, you will all no doubt fondly remember that I posted that it was a bad idea to go to Phimrallax Alpha:


However, I gave no reason not to go to Phimrallax Alpha other than: ‘it’s shit’.

Well! Thanks to this week’s question, I can now tell you exactly why it is a bad idea to go to Phimrallax Alpha, and exactly why the place is so utterly shit! Ooh, it’s an arc!! Clever me!!!

It was many moons ago and I was in another body, but I remember it well. Stupidly, in retrospect, I had decided to go to Phimrallax Alpha myself to see what all the non-fuss was about. I left my TARDIS on the orbital platform around the planet and took the shuttle down, so I could get the full experience of shitness, as it were. The shuttle was a rickety old thing powered by negative mass flux absorption – I know! – and as I strapped myself in, I instantly regretted my decision not to travel by TARDIS. As the shuttle blasted off – steady on there – I distracted myself by reading the brochure. ‘Rellax on Phimrallax!’ announced the garish cover in a font illegal on all civilized worlds, above a photo of a Draconian, a Zygon and a Slitheen frolicking on a beach, playing volleyball. The ball was the head of a Mutt. Lovely. Inside, I was disconcerted to see that a substantial portion of the contents was given over to a listing of brothels with prices and reviews, catering to all sexes and all races. If you wanted to have group sex with the Rutan host, frottle yourself on an Ogri, skullfuck a Monoid, or watch a shrieking human female be devoured by a Drashig whilst you watched and wanked – you could. Unfortunately, I was in a rather prudish incarnation at the time – other of my personae would have relished this carnival of depravity. So, disconcerted and feeling rather sick, I closed my eyes as the shuttle landed – bumpily – at Phimrallax City Spacedome.

As I exited the shuttle with all the other life forms – which included a bunch of drunken Sontarans, of which more later (and see here


for my experiences with drunken Sontarans) – I was blasted by a wave of intense, crippling heat. At first I thought I had been exterminated by a Dalek or something, but it was just the Phimrallax climate. Now, I knew it was going to be hot, but not THAT hot. I managed to crawl out of the terminal – fighting off legions of prostitutes including a particularly persistent Exxilon – and into a taxi which, fortunately, had air conditioning, but which, unfortunately, was driven by the smelliest Ogron it has ever been my displeasure to meet.

I stared blearily out of the window at the Phimrallaxian landscape – it was just desert, shimmering under a throbulating heat-haze. Phimrallax is bathed in the light of three suns and it is never night; just perpetual, bright, blistering day. Worse, there is one hour of the day when the heat of the combined suns is so intense that any flesh-and-blood creature that happens to be outside at the time is roasted to a crisp. The Phimrallaxians are meant to have ‘sun alarms’ which sound well in advance of this period – but these are mostly broken, or missing. So woe betide any human-basics, though silicon-based life forms are all right.

The taxi dumped me at my hotel and I paid the Ogron, who kindly only ripped me off financially and not physically. I had booked myself into the poshest and best hotel on Phimrallax Alpha – the Mantrabon – but it was still a fucking shithole. Worse, an expensive fucking shithole. I was shown to my room by a morose native Phimrallaxian, who seemed to be permanently on the verge of tears. Phimrallaxians are like humanoid stick-insects, and are the most dejected, miserable, worthless, most abject beings I have ever encountered outside of b3ta.

My room – the Presidential suite – was spacious, I’ll give it that, but that was the only thing in its favour. It was shabby and filthy, and dust hung in the air like the stars of a dying galaxy. There was a strong odour of sweat and putrescence, as if something had crawled away in a corner to die several months previously. As I stood there, my clothes soaked through with sweat, I heard a tiny alarm bleat and a few seconds later, a gale of white light poured in through the window which instantly darkened so as to save me from being roasted alive. It was the only thing in the room that worked, I was soon to discover.

I went into the bathroom with heavy hearts, dreading what I might see. The toilet was a fearsome affair, clearly designed to support the buttocks of heavier life forms such as Ice Warriors, and was fitted with a ‘T-Mat Flush’ which teleported the waste away. I had heard gruesome stories about people dying horribly in these contraptions from having their lower regions accidentally zapped away so no way was I using that. Additionally, it was full to the brim with diarrhoea, so it clearly didn’t work. I closed the lid softly, almost reverently, over the foulage, and went to the sink.

I glanced into the mirror above the sink, and gasped in shock. Instead of my reflection, I saw the savage stone face of a Weeping Angel glaring back at me! I stood there not blinking for ages until I realised it was just a hologram some cunt had put there as a prank. Charming. I tried the taps – of course, they didn’t work. The cold tap let forth a trickle of sand, then nothing; and the hot tap produced nothing but a series of shuddering, desultory moans and groans – rather like b3ta. Ha ha! Satire!

Worse was to come. On the wall next to the sink was a laminated sign bearing the message ‘Do Not Smear Bogeys Over This Notice’, with bogeys smeared all over it.

Next to this sign was a collection of graffiti: ‘Broton, War Lord of the Zygons, woz here’, ‘King Peladon is A Gaylord’, ‘Davros suck Ogron dick”, ‘I fucked River Song up the ass here, and sprayed my semen all over my face, hair and tits’, etc, etc (actually, that last one will be a future incarnation of me – I recognised the handwriting - though why I will return to Phimrallax Alpha, I have no idea – I certainly don’t intend to).

I wandered back into the bedroom. The bed looked fine but when I pulled the covers back I saw that that the sheets were plastered with thick, black, sticky hairs. It looked the aftermath of a particularly enthusiastic rutting session between a pair of Taran Wood Beasts. I replaced the covers and walked over to o the window through which I could just about make out the forms of a half-dozen Ogri and a couple of Kastrians frolicking on the sands in the pulverising heat of the three suns.

I felt a sudden compulsion to run outside with them and run through the rest of my regenerations in burning, excoriating agony.

I then unpacked, and in putting my things away, found the source of the rotting smell – at the bottom of the wardrobe, a Shrivenzile had curled up and died, clearly many weeks ago. I didn’t blame it.

As I stared at the rotting corpse, from the room above came a relentless stomping as of many drunken booted feet. Stentorian cries of ‘Sontar-HA! Sontar-HA!’ filtered down from above.

My urge for oblivion peaked, and I made my way down to the bar, ignoring the legions of prostitutes that flung themselves at me at every opportunity. At the bar, I ordered two bottles of the most evil alcoholic beverage I could find – Ribosian vodka fruit wine – and set to them with gusto. I then started on the Space Stella, and sank about 15 pints of that. My memories of that night are hazy, but I think I drank myself almost to the point of regeneration.

I woke the next morning with the most stinking hangover I have ever experienced, with the Sontarans STILL thumping and chanting from the floor above. That’s two holidays the cloned cunts had ruined! I had shat the bed, I noted with grim satisfaction as I rose.

I went down to the restaurant for breakfast, only to be told by the miserable Phimrallaxian maitre d’, ‘Sorry, breakfast finish.’

That was IT. I summoned my TARDIS and got the hell away from the place without paying my bill.

So now you know why Phimrallax Alpha is shit.

Phimrallax Beta, though – now, that is mint! But that’s another story.


(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 22:47, 18 replies)

If we took a holiday
Took some time to celebrate
Just one day out of life
It would be, it would be so nice

Everybody spread the word
We're gonna have a celebration
All across the world
In every nation

It's time for the good times
Forget about the bad times, oh yeah
One day to come together to release the pressure
We need a holiday

If we took a holiday
Took some time to celebrate
(Come on, let's celebrate)
Just one day out of life
It would be, it would be so nice

If we took a holiday
(Oo yeah, oo yeah)
Took some time to celebrate
(Come on, let's celebrate)
Just one day out of life
(Just one day out of life)
It would be, it would be so nice

You can turn this world around
And bring back all of those happy days
Put your troubles down
It's time to celebrate

Let love shine
And we will find
A way to come together
Can make things better
We need a holiday

If we took a holiday
Took some time to celebrate
(Come on let's celebrate)
Just one day out of life
(Just one day out of life)
It would be, it would be so nice

Oo yeah, oo yeah
Come on, lets celebrate
We have got to get together


If we took a holiday
(Oh yeah, oh yeah)
Took some time to celebrate
(Come on, let's celebrate)
Just one day out of life
It would be, it would be so nice

(Oo yeah, oo yeah)
(Come on, let's celebrate)
(Just one day out of life)
(It would be so nice)

(Holiday, celebration)
(Come together in every nation)
(Holiday, celebration)
(Come together in every nation)


~~~~wavy lines~~~~

(We got to get together)
(Take some time to celebrate)
(Just one day out of life)
(It would be so nice)
(Holiday, celebration)
(Come together in every nation)
(Holiday, celebration)
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 19:35, 8 replies)

(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 19:11, 6 replies)
Show me the way to go home
I'm tired and I want to go to bed
I had a little drink about an hour ago
And it's gone right to my head
Everywhere I roam
Over land or sea or foam
You can always hear me singing this song
Show me the way to go home.
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 15:37, 11 replies)
A nonce laden pea (which old have been much worse)

The greatest entertainer of all time - on holiday

When I was a little fella of about 7, I, with a bunch of young mates saw Rolf Harris in the General Store on Rottenest Island, just off the coast from Perth.

Now many of you may not know (probably because you are in such awe of his true entertaining genius) that before being famous Rolf used to be a camera man for a Perth television station in the early days of Australian TV. I know this because my mum was an amateur actor who appeared several times on TV in Perth in it's early days and none other than the Big R Harris was the camera man.

Pea edit - he did not nonce upon her - as far as we know....

Anyway, I felt that it was my duty to rush up to Rolfy boy with half a dozen 7 year olds in tow and tell him that he knew my mum. I could tell he wasn't really that interested when he replied at full volume (to children mind you)

"OH fuck off you little cunts, I am trying to have a quiet weekend with my family!" - I swear it is true.

I was horrified, I was mortified, I was angry. How dare this legend of the didgeridoo, the wobble board, kangaroo molesting and three legged pedophiles who KNEW MY MUM, be so rude to me.

Now for those who are not familiar with Rottenest Island, there are no cars, the only transport is push bikes or walking. My mates and I decided that the only real course of action was to follow old Rolf home with his shopping and stand across the street from his holiday cabin and shout intelligent abuse at him such as "Hey Rolf you are a stinky poo bum" and lob sand bombs onto his roof.

And do you know what the bearded fucker did?

He called the fucking cops................ on 7 year olds.

Pea edit - in hind sight, a very restrained action to take against kids by this chap.

I must admit the young constable did look a little bemused when he arrived to this hardened gang of criminal 7 year olds, and clearly fearing for his safety decided not to enact an arrest but, suggested,

"I know Mr Harris can be a bit of cranky old man but, you have had your fun now, so its time to leave him in peace".

Which we did, and begged the cop to give us a ride in his paddy wagon, which he didn't.

(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 15:09, 15 replies)
Some peay goodness
A working holiday pea first posted in 2009
Ted and the Cocky's daughter

Back in the great depression me and my mate Ted where both hard up for a crust. The local businesses needed no workers and we was down to our last brass razoo. In desperation we decided that the time had come to hit the road and try our luck in the bush.

We walked for 100’s of miles and apart from the occasion bit of work for food chopping wood or fixing fences type of thing and living off wild rabbits it was a long hard slog until we came across a fruit farm. The cocky (that’s farmer for your non-depression era, non-Australian types) was growing all types of produce, apples, cherries, paw paw, pineapples, and oranges amongst others. He was hard up for help since his son had run away with the local priest to start a new life in New Zealand and he was in need of a couple of workers. He offered us 3 meals a day, a shed to sleep in, Sundays off and 2 shillings a week and his only caveat was,

“if either of you city drongos touches me daughter, I’ll fuckin’ have you”

And so it was, Ted and I hunkered down and fair worked our arses to the bone harvesting his fruit. From sun up till sun down we picked and packed in the hot sun and when Saturday afternoon rolled around he paid us our money, handed us a longy of Emu Bitter and told us he reckoned we had a bit of ticker for town galahs.

The following week was the same, except on the Saturday arvo when he paid us our money he told us he had to go to town for the night to call on the Johnson widow and then sternly warned us,

“touch me daughter and I’ll have your cock and balls to hang over me fire place”

Now I don’t know about Ted but it had been so long since I had had the touch of woman my old fella was like a rooster crossed with an owl (a cock that stays up all night) and despite the warning from the Cocky I just had to try my luck on with the daughter. And as luck would have it she was a right goer, she sucked me knob till it felt like my guts where going to come out the japs eye and then rode me like a brumby in the local agricultural show till she had fair rubbed six layers of skin off me pecker. With knees a trembling and my toggher about to draft a letter to his union rep in protest of cruel and unusual work conditions, I waved the white flag and legged it out the window but, farmers daughter was most definitely not satisfied and lay on her bed bellowing,


I hobbled back to the shed and told Ted to get his arse in there and finish up the job. And as the sun broke over the horizon next morning Ted struggled back to the shed, his tackle torn to ribbons.

“Don’t worry” he said “she promised not to tell her old man”

Later that Sunday when Ted and I where resting in the shed, the farmer burst in with eyes of furry.

“You flaming mongrels have rooted me daughter, I’ll have youse” he screamed. And after walloping Ted across the back of the head with a shovel he came for me.

“How do you know” I stammered

“She’s an idiot” he screamed “she fucking told me”

“Surely we can work something out” I cried back, and the cocky stood back and started to think.

“You and your dead shit mate get out and pick me 100 pieces of fruit and bring em to me in the kitchen” he growled before storming off.

So Ted and I slunk out to the fields to gather the 100 pieces of fruit. Ted was well pissed with me, he reckoned it was all my fault and after telling me to go fuck myself walked off in the opposite direction. I was near the cherry trees, so I picked 100 cherries and took them to the farmer.

When I showed him the fruit, he told me to,

“drop your strides and stick em up your bum” and the menacing look on his face and the loaded shot gun in his hands told me it was best to just get on with it and not argue.

So I start sticking the fruit up me arse, one cherry, two cherries and so on but, I couldn’t help myself and when I got 34 I burst out laughing and the cherries fired out of me like a rat out of a drain pipe. The farmer waved the shotty at me and indicated to start again but, it kept happening, when ever I would get close to the 100, I would laugh and out the cherries would fly.

After this had happened about 10 times the Cocky was fair dinkum fuming.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny you suburban dingo” he yelled.

“Sorry boss” I replied “It’s just when I was on me way back here I saw Ted in the back paddock”

“So what, that’s not funny, the little cunt better be picking fruit is all care about”

“Oh he is” said me “he’s picking pineapples"
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 15:04, 6 replies)
My First Surfing Trip: An Australian experience. (long, but hopefully not dull)
Many moons ago, in my spotted youth, one of my best mates (Dave) was the first bloke in our social group to get his car licence. He’d scraped together enough coin to purchase a battered old 60’s wagon, and so began a new found freedom at around 16 years of age. At the time, we were all into surfing, and this meant that rather than relying on the goodwill of our parents to drive us to the beach, we could now pool our money, buy a few litres of petrol and drive (all by ourselves!) to a remote beach for a day of paddling through pounding surf, trying not to drown and with some luck, catching a wave.

Happy times. Innocent times.

We also made some new friends through surfing – we got to know some older blokes who we’d regularly meet at the beach. We’d chat, share a few waves, and generally be in awe of their surfing skills. They were a bit rough, but seemed very grown up and cool to a pair of innocent 16 year olds. They did cool things like smoke cigarettes and tell stories of getting shitfaced at nightclubs, and you know, pulling chicks, to like, fuck and stuff!

Anyway, this one time, the older surfers invited us to an overnight camping trip. Oh man, we’d graduated to the “cool” group. We’d arranged to all meet up one weekend at a remote beach & stay overnight. We’d have a fire on the beach, sleep in our cars and have a jolly good time, swapping lurid stories of imaginary sexual conquests.

I’d been camping before, but this was going to be different – there would be alcohol, and perhaps some chicks. This was going to be so cool. It was all very exciting to be invited, but Dave and I were worried that we’d be labelled as dorks if we turned up without alcohol or cigarettes. We had absolutely bugger all money, so budgetary constraints dictated that we had to nick a few bottles of cheap port from my Dad’s wine cellar, and “borrow” a packet of smokes from Dave’s Mum’s handbag.

All very povvo, and in hindsight, a bit sad that we valued drinking and smoking as prerequisites for social acceptance to what was, in essences, a group of fucking bogans.

Anyway, after a few hours drive, we meet up with the others. There’s about 10 old cars parked throughout the dunes, a big group of blokes, we all hit the water and paddled around for a few hours, and just as dusk fell, we returned to shore and got busy building a fucking huge bonfire in amongst the dunes. It was Winter, and fucking cold.

Eveyone got stuck into the booze, Dave and I entered into the spirit of the occasion with the enthusiasm and gusto of the awkward novice.

Now at this stage in my life, I’d never really had much to do with alcohol, so in hindsight, it probably wasn’t such a great idea to rapidly neck 2 litres of cheap port on top of a feed of cold baked beans.

Inevitably, before long, the sky started spinning around my head and I stumbled away from the fire to seek out the quiet coolness of the dunes, away from the raging bonfire, just as great gushes of purple port-soaked baked beans started violently exiting from my body with great heaving retches, mostly through my nose. (Remember your first alcohol induced chunder? It’s quite scary the first time, isn't it?).

I must have passed out for some time in the quiet darkness, as next thing I know, a couple of very drunk, but well meaning blokes were dragging me by my legs, back to the warmth of the fire, asking if I was ok. They dumped me almost into the fire, and through a crust of sand and vomit, I could see a scene of utter carnage.

Everyone had been getting into the grog and probably some harder stuff, and the stupid shows of bravado had already started – a couple of blokes were been tearing around the dunes in an old car, headlights swerving at crazy angles, engine screaming, sand flying, little regard for the proximity of drunk people. The car swerved to avoid one drunk bloke (but actually clipped him and sent him flying) hit a tree and came to a rapid stop.

Everyone cheered wildly, helped the battered bloke to his feet (cigarette still clamped between his lips) then another car started up the same performance. It seemed to go on for hours. I finally twigged that this was actually a primeval bogan method of harvesting more wood for the fire – smash down a tree with a car, then drag it onto the bonfire.

Jesus, this was getting scary.

Inbetween dry retching, I saw blokes fall into the fire, blokes fighting each other, the sickly waft of cigarette smoke would set off another round of retching. Someone had their car stereo at top volume. It was noise, smoke, vomit, violence, all around.

I wasn’t having a very nice time.

I sought the refuge of Dave’s wagon, hoping to roll up in a blanket and quietly pass out, but, as I discovered, Dave hadn’t bothered to seek the refuge of the quiet dune to chunder. So yeah, Dave had laid down in his car, as he felt a bit "woozy" and had spent quite some time power-chundering bile and port flavoured baked beans throughout the entire interior of his nice old car. The stench was overpowering, and there were no dry blankets on account that he’d also pissed himself.

So, I spent the night curled in semi foetal position near the fire, avoiding the drunken lurching cavemen, trying to not be killed by witless piss heads engaging in vehicular tree felling.

As dawn eventually broke, the daylight revealed a scene that would rival the Somme Battlefields of World War 1 – shredded vegetation as far as the eye could see, bloodied bodies, a haze of smoke drifted across the landscape, the occasional broken vehicle. Broken souls wandered through the carnage, looking cigarette butts, or a last swig of grog from a discarded bottle.

Oh, and this was in a designated National Park too! So...if a Ranger happened to come along (which was highly likely on a Sunday morning) we would all be up for some hefty fines on account of the significant environmental damage. It was just a massive level of depraved base devastation in one stupid evening. (I’ve never experienced anything quite like it since).

I wanted to get the fuck out of there, away from these cretins.

So, with all my 2 hours of driving experience to count on, I shoved Dave aside, brushed off most of the dried baked beans, and bunny-hopped his shitty old car (no synchro in 1st gear – a good time to learn to drive) all the way back home. He lay on the back seat, intermittently moaning and retching out the window.

All the way home, I prayed that we wouldn’t get pulled over, as I had no licence, and Dave was in no condition to think and breathe, let alone drive.

I eventually came to a shuddering stalled halt outside my Mum’s house. Thankfully, she working a weekend shift, so Dave slept all the rest of the day on the front lawn, while I quite literally hosed out the interior of his car. Eventually he recovered sufficiently to drive home.

So yeah, that was my first "big" surfing trip.

It was really quite shit.
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 14:55, 11 replies)
I went to Scotland
And had a great time
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 14:44, 5 replies)
I went to Skegness , but it was all crowded with one conference for orthodontists and another seminar for emergency structural scaffolders
Still, it was quite bracing
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 14:36, 4 replies)

(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 13:34, 16 replies)
wales is great
it is probably you who is shit
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 13:33, Reply)
Anyone who lives outside the M25 is a forrin.
QV anyone inside.
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 10:24, Reply)
All you need to travel the world is a black umbrella.
If Johnny's feeling too bloody lazy to learn the Queen's, simply prod him firmly in the chest and say loudly "Now LISTEN HERE!"
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 10:15, Reply)
More of a day trip than a holiday.
When I was a kid there were maybe 1,500 people living in my old home town so not exactly a bustling metropolis. But when you are 10 you don't care. You ride around on bikes, go swimming in the local waterholes, make canoes out of sheets of corrugated galvanised iron and try to make sense of the mystery of girls. I'll call the place Greenville to protect the guilty. We moved away when I was 11.

Fifteen years later I'd grown up, or pretended to have grown up. Then work found me living in a much bigger town three hours drive away from Greenville. Because I had once worked in a bank for a year I was treasurer of a local car club. I knew the difference between an invoice and a receipt, which was more than can be said for some of the other members.

In the meantime Greenville was growing. By this time the population was over 6,000 and some of the local blokes were wanting to start a car club. They were going to have a meeting about it and could we send a few people out to advise them. 9am next Saturday, would that be alright?

So it was up at 5am, quick bowl of cornflakes, shit, shower and shave then jump in the car, nip around to pick president Darryl and his missus Helen who was secretary, meet up with Trevor and Barry in Trev's ancient rotary Mazda and head out on the road. We'd gone about 10 kilometres when Trev's car threw an engine seal. So after a roadside confabulation, I drove them back to Barry's place, they got into Barry's car and we set out again.

The result was we didn't get there until well after nine but it didn't matter, the Greenville crowd hadn't exactly all turned up. Finally things got started just before ten.

Things dragged on with the usual irrelevancies and pointless waffle. Noon came and went and about a quarter to one people were beginning to slip out the door. So we wound it up soon after that.

The three blokes who had set the whole thing up hung back a few moments to say "thanks for coming" and then disappeared. No invitation for tea and biscuits, a barbecue, nothing.

So the five of us went looking for something to eat. Everything was closed except the pubs and a cafe on the main street. Too late for a counter lunch at the three pubs in town so we tried the cafe. This cafe had belonged to a Greek family when I was a kid and had been OK. They did nice ice cream sundaes, and I don't think I've had a proper one since. My farming grandparents used to come into town and they always went there for one.

But things had changed in the Metropole Cafe. The Greek family had sold out. The place was underlit, I think that was an attempt to hide the decrepitude and filth. It didn't work. I took a look around and decided that I wasn't going to buy anything that was not in a wrapper. Helen and Darryl did the same and grabbed cans of coke each. Trev and Barry, greatly daring, ordered hamburgers from the surly woman behind the counter.

So where were we going to eat this feast? There had been shady trees with seats around them in the main street, but the seats were gone. Then I recalled that there was supposed to be a park outside the hospital gate. So off we went. The park turned out to be a single park bench well away from the only tree and the bulldust (finely powdered dry clay and silt) around it was more than ankle deep.The railway station platform would have been a better place.

Two years later Greenville was promoting itself as a tourist destination. Yeah, right.
(, Wed 20 Aug 2014, 4:49, 13 replies)

This question is now closed.

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