THE nation was saddened to read that Britons, presumably including Scots (difficult to tell: the London paper I was reading used "British" and "English" interchangeably) are regarded as the most horrible tourists in Europe.
How the mighty have fallen. "Great" Britain indeed. Mind you, one cannot be surprised by the finding. For this is a land of neds and fat, waddling litter-louts. This is a raucous and ignorant place, not all of it obviously, but most of it, particular
ly on a Saturday night.
I should qualify the word "finding" above. The claim is made in a guide issued by the German newspaper Dacht Bildenkriegsfurter (Daily Sausage) and, in it, an expert warns: "It's best to avoid the well-known Englander destinations."
These are listed as Majorca, Ayia Napa in Cyprus, and Faliraki in Rhodes. I've never been to such places, but have seen holidaymakers leaving Scottish airports for them. How I feared for the poor natives at the other end, shivering in their huts.
On the few occasions that I'm forced abroad, I see myself as an ambassador for my country. I do my best to appear civilised and house-trained. But others care not a whit, being almost proud of their slovenliness.
I say to them: "You cannot go abroad. You do not dress well." But they just ignore me or, sometimes, pour liquids over my head.
German tour operators say British tourists are the noisiest, though this fault is also attributed to Americans who, in addition, are deemed rude and greedy. I suppose Americans, like everyone else, are a mixed bag. All the ones I meet seem pleasingly polite, though I heard one in the Aberdeen tourist office rudely demanding a quiet flat right in the city centre. To my mind, staff in such offices should keep a haddock under the counter, for slapping such poltroons.
The only tourists applauded across Europe are the Japanese, who tiptoe unobtrusively from sight to sight. It's possible they're up to something – though I cannot think what – and that they don't wish to draw attention to themselves. It may be lack of height that lets them go unnoticed but, irritatingly enough, many oriental people are tall nowadays.
The last generation of western Europeans, reared amidst a plenitude of fruit, has raced ahead in height like no other, leaving folk my age bitter and resentful. Once, we were average. Now, because of these freaks, we are small.
Festering outrage eats at the soul of My People. Burdz adore tall men and only go for little ones if they want something portable. But big people are clumsy and arrogant, and have an unpleasant smell. They lord it over us but, one day, we'll rise up. On crates. And poke them in the eyelobe. Yup, conflict is coming. My prediction is that the next world war will be between people above and below 5ft 9in.
I have wandered from my original point, which I'm told was about Britons abroad. The lesson is clear: only British people with proper flannelled trousers should be allowed abroad.
Possession of a degree from a technical college should be mandatory, and egress from this grey, unpleasant land should depend on answering a number of questions on horticulture, malt whisky, the books of JRR Tolkien, and other civilised pursuits
Burke and Hair solution in baldy-snatching scienceCRUEL scientists risk causing widespread distress and disappointment after announcing they've found a cure for baldness. The boffins claim they're on the brink of a breakthrough, using a method that involves catching the bald person with a net, holding him down and injecting him in the back of the heid.
Marilyn Sherlock (real name) of the Institute of Trichologists (real organisation) said: "This is going to be absolutely superb." However, it is not all fun. It involves taking dermal papilla cells – ken? – from remaining patches of growth, cloning these in a laboratory, freezing them, piercing the film three or four times, and then injecting the contents into the crania of sedated sufferers.
A spokesman for Intercytex, a firm part-funded by the UK Government's anti-baldness task-force, said the cure would be available "within the next five years". This is an advance on the usual "in ten years' time", a convention in health breakthrough stories, which indicates the cure will never happen. "Within five years" suggests the development is likely to become reality around the year 3020, when we'll all be deid.
Baldness is thought to have originated in the Middle Ages. During the Black Plague, the condition spread rapidly across Europe. Descendants of survivors were rare in the 20th century, seen only in circuses or playing the baddie in films. However, in 1988 a virus escaped from a secret weapons laboratory in Porton Down and quickly infected large segments of the male population. Today, few families are unaffected by the condition.
I'll pass on normal, just don't expect me to talkI WAS pleased to see public speaking listed among phobias engulfing the nation. I'd rather lean over the top of a skyscraper with a tarantula in my mouth than give a speech. Remarkably, I've never given one, though I'm often asked. My trade union and a Rotary Club are among those most recently rebuffed. I don't mean to be rude. But I am not as other men. They "get through" public speaking. I cannot. My voice does not project; my face is engulfed in heat; I get an overpowering urge to run.
I loathe being the centre of attention. When all eyes turn towards me, I fear the tribe has chosen me for sacrifice.
The phobia is so serious I find myself not wanting to make new lifelong friends, in case I outlive them and have to make a speech at their funerals. I'm only single because I could never be the object of attention (with the bride a distant second) at a wedding. When publishers discuss book projects, I worry immediately about having to speak at the launch. Then I fear winning the Pulitzer Prize, entailing the threat of another speech. The phobia dominates my life.
When I wrote about it, after declining to speak when given a much-valued award, a lovely American woman offered to cure me. The paper turned her down (she wanted dosh), and she shouted down the phone: "But don't you want Robert to be normal?" Ah well, we are what we are. I've met normal people. They're frightening and strange.
The full article contains 1094 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
