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Thursday, August 18, 2005
I spend my holiday in a caravan and eat oysters for breakfast. My neighbour shits in a bucket outside my window.
The lap of luxury, dear boy, compared to one of my childhood holidays in Weston Super Mare at the budget guesthouse of the lovely Mrs Holt. There were aphids all over the teatime salad and the bloke in the next room died at two in the morning when we were woken by the ambulance men going into his room.
Thank you for mentioning Weston-Super-Mare, Betty. Our one family holiday there involved my dad discovering scrumpy. 'Do you know what this is, Geoff? This is scrumpy. It's cider with bits of apple in it.' The jugs he brought home didn't last long.
I've refrained from commenting on this post because it's even more disturbing than the Brian Blessed one. Now I know why. Weston-Super-Mare. A caravan. Scrumpy. Aphids. A bloke dying next door.
I imagine it's also raining heavily. Two small boys are playing on the seafront, wearing yellow sou'westers. The Speak your Weight machine is broken. A famous English movie star of the sixties walks down the promenade with the collar of his jacket turned up. Geoff eats oysters for breakfast but everyone else has to make do with rubbery poached egg on cold sliced toast.
The soundtrack to all this is of course provided by the Smiths.
Even worse, even worse. Mrs Holt - a woman in her late 50's with long dyed black hair and vast amounts of make up (I bet she used to say "I have been compared to Gina Lollobrigida in my time") swooped over my dad when he was eating his bacon and eggs and said "haven't you got lerverly eyes" in an Avon burr.
Sounds very Dennis Potter. No women ever bent over my dad as far as I know but I remember him slavering at the mouth over a big legged show off, enthusing 'That's a whole lotta woman!' But that wasn't in Weston but Pendine, South Wales.
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The lap of luxury, dear boy, compared to one of my childhood holidays in Weston Super Mare at the budget guesthouse of the lovely Mrs Holt. There were aphids all over the teatime salad and the bloke in the next room died at two in the morning when we were woken by the ambulance men going into his room.
Thank you for mentioning Weston-Super-Mare, Betty. Our one family holiday there involved my dad discovering scrumpy. 'Do you know what this is, Geoff? This is scrumpy. It's cider with bits of apple in it.'
The jugs he brought home didn't last long.
I've refrained from commenting on this post because it's even more disturbing than the Brian Blessed one. Now I know why. Weston-Super-Mare. A caravan. Scrumpy. Aphids. A bloke dying next door.
I imagine it's also raining heavily. Two small boys are playing on the seafront, wearing yellow sou'westers. The Speak your Weight machine is broken. A famous English movie star of the sixties walks down the promenade with the collar of his jacket turned up. Geoff eats oysters for breakfast but everyone else has to make do with rubbery poached egg on cold sliced toast.
The soundtrack to all this is of course provided by the Smiths.
Even worse, even worse. Mrs Holt - a woman in her late 50's with long dyed black hair and vast amounts of make up (I bet she used to say "I have been compared to Gina Lollobrigida in my time") swooped over my dad when he was eating his bacon and eggs and said "haven't you got lerverly eyes" in an Avon burr.
Top that, Geoff.
Sounds very Dennis Potter.
No women ever bent over my dad as far as I know but I remember him slavering at the mouth over a big legged show off, enthusing 'That's a whole lotta woman!' But that wasn't in Weston but Pendine, South Wales.
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