Tene-grief

Tene-grief I am a simple Brit when it comes to holidays, I don't usually delve into the rich culture of countries, no shove that up your arse. I want simple things, sun, beer, and food, all in over the top glutenous amounts. If its not asking too much, what I dont want is anyone else remotely like me, I fucking HATE Brits on holiday, I hate their accents, I hate their sugar addled children.

 I was desperate for a holiday, work has been a struggle, I am fucking up almost everything I do in the manner of a car starting to weave from side to side before the driver gives up trying to regain control and puts his hands over his face and goes into the central reservation at 90mph turning his once happy family into charred Rustlers Burgers.

 I dont like the whole to-do of getting to somewhere, wherever it is, the airports and their collective of useless staff will ensure that it will take you at least 14 hours from arriving for your flight until you have the dissapointment of putting the card in your hotel room door and seeing that they have given you the room next to the fat fryer outlet, laundry shoot or next to the couple who fuck all night and make it sound like he has a pneumatic drill for a penis.

 My day started miserably. Trying to get a beer in the Wetherspoons at the airport where the long streak of piss barman was deliberately avoiding eye contact with me, instead serving people who (rightfully at 6am) wanted coffees and breakfast, I only wanted a Guinness. Every time I step onto a plane I assume that at some point my body will be ripped from the fusilage and be rocketing to earth in -50 degree air before my fall is miraculously broken by huge fir trees and I survive, only to be raped by wolves with aids and slowly dying from various animal be-buggerments. I want a last drink.

Eventually, when he had served three customers, I called him a cunt and a long streak of piss and storm off, to the disgust of my girlfriend, my mind full of images of my hearty rump being pumped full of wolf semen to the tune of enthusiastic howls. Then at check-in I had the displeasure of meeting possibly the thickest and most incompetant person of all time. A dozy Spanish version of Dorian from birds of a feather, who could not, for the life of her, find our flight. She argued with us saying that it didnt exist and we must be in the wrong part of the airport, she then asked us to confirm the date for her, and she looked up and down her hastily written roster of todays flights before finally finding out from a colleague that our flight did exist and then after several goes confirming that we were on it, I gave up all hope for my luggage and just hope that it enjoyed its holiday wherever it was going, as it was odds on that this paella eating fucking wreckage of a woman could not summon up the congnitive function to get it on our flight.

 The flight slowly started to fill up, mostly old people, this scares me, I try to imaging the passengers faces in the newspaper report (about the crash) and I can hear the news reader stating that 90% of the passengers were mercifully old, I'm not you cunt, im 38, a sub report would state that one passenger, is still missing, assumed dead, but probably being raped by wolves. The other reason I dont like to be on a plane full of old people is that one will probably die and the plane diverted to Afghanistan or something. Fuck 'em fly on, dump the piss addled cadaver off at the destination airport, I dont mind sitting next to a corpse, I just want to get on holiday.

 I am back in Tenerife, the Island of two sides (which I wish I read about before), this essentially means that one side is nice, and the other is shit. There is a huge fucking mountain in the middle, on one side it seems to reflect the sun off, and your holiday will be like a week living inside a George Foreman grill, on the other side this big rock bastard produces non stop clouds and rolls them over onto the side I am on. Its been non stop rain so far, this must be the place where Spanish people settle because they are tired of the sun, Its rich in vegetation and trees etc, the perfect place to experience the bleakness of the Lake District in a wet Autumn. I cant see how it could be possible for it to be hot here. I desperately wanted to return to work as red as Sebastian the Lobster in the little Mermaid, gloating while my colleagues sit depressed and lard coloured with their arteries hardening at the very thought of Christmas approaching. This is not going to happen. Because I've been confined to the hotel with a very bad case of all inclusive pig doggery, the best I can hope for is to not return with some sort of organ damage and still be able to sit on my office chair.

 The one blessing is there are hardly any British here, they probably read up first and are all over the other side of the Island sweating in the sun with their fat ugly girlfriends with omni folds of fat, like origami with the edges rounded off, returning with such a deep tan that it can only be described as "crackling" and a gambit of STI's. What we do have here though is almost 90% Germans. Dour faced older couples trying to "efficiently" have a holiday whilst avoiding smiling or saying thanks for anything. All of the men look like they were stars of 70's porno's and never changed their image, just grew older and larger, all looking a little bit like disgraced housing ponce M.P Frank Dobson. The women have shortish brillo pad hair and all look like they spent the majority of their youth gently smashing their face onto a huge slab of marble presumably as an apology for that thing they did. The younger German men look like variations of a special edition Patrick Swayze Mr Potato Head. That said, I am much happier spending my time on holiday with Germans than British. I don't want to speak to them abroad, so I am desperately trying to conceal my Nationality by doing what can only be described as a German Kermit the Frog.

The weather in the first couple of days is terrible, the rain is so hard that it can only be described as "cunting down", so much so that there are news crews out in the town square, I think a building has flooded, and there have been several car crashes. This leaves us confined to the hotel, both saying that we are not fussed by the weather, and just glad to be away, but secretly inside she is cursing my choice of staying here. This leaves us confined to the hotel, which is now starting to spring leaks in various places. I attempt to recreate the force of the rain with the pace that whiskey is gushing down my throat. The Spanish bar staff to their credit appear to pour sympathy measures, the sort of size you do at home shortly before having a row and breaking the house up. The spirits here are generally local piss, the worst of the bunch is "Jerkoff" vodka. The food here ranges from quite nice to dire, when there are Germans around there is lots of meat, usually veal, its important that something has suffered in order for them to truly enjoy it, the lower end of this are sausages, the meat in them is so battered and processed that I would imagine that it is collected off the floor of the abattoir AFTER the Rustlers Burger team have left, they taste of nothing, just the mild smokiness of the skin.

 All inclusive also brings out the true pig in you, I find myself one evening with a plate of canneloni and brussel sprouts and other bizarre intercontinental culinary mash ups. I've emailed the team at work to tell them to get rid of my human office chair and replace it with a Jabba the Hut style plinth, the girls I work with can argue amongst themselves as to which one will be Leia. Day 3 and the Sun finally comes out, its peeping from behind the clouds like a ginger kid with jug ears starting at a new School in Newham. We rush out to get a sun bed, no doubt the older Germans are already there having "stormed" it earlier after popping themselves into tight speedos and their women in ill fitting bikinis. The men are leathery, they look like Michael Bay has filmed a weird furniture based Transformers movie in DFS, where all the sofas have transformed. By the time me and the missus have got our shit together the sun has gone back behind one of the taunting cloud formations shat off by the mountain. It eventually comes back out and we finally get some colour, her pink, and me just the colour of embarrassment, or tinned salmon being eaten on Gay pride.

On day 4 the sun is out in force, cancer strength and we manage to get two sun beds. I don't believe in sun cream, I don't like putting anything on my body where I cant read out the ingredients, anything that starts dimethasulphate cant be good for you, the missus thinks I am stupid, I explain to her that there is a global conspiracy to deprive the human race of vitamin D and she stares at me puzzled, I ask her to name 3 food groups where you can get it from naturally, she cant name any, my theory is not gaining any weight (unlike my body) and she just thinks I am a bit of a pratt. Starting to feel like a hog roast I eventually smear myself in the horrid chemicals but its too late, I've burnt and am condemned to spending the evening looking like a typical Brit abroad. I spend the evening drinking gin despite being reminded several times that it is a depressant. This is confirmed to me in the morning when I just feel like crying and throwing myself off the balcony for no good reason. The only thing stopping me is that we are only high enough for me to possibly be in the next paralympics?

 The entertainment here is OK, but much better than the only other place I subject myself to it, which is generally caravan parks. A guy in polka dots ponces about to the entertainment of children and all I can think about is Saville, the nations psyche has been completely shifted and now, anyone who has a vested interest in the entertainment of children is a paedo who should be chemically castrated and then shot between the eyes and his body minced up and turned into the pieces of ham in those horrid dairylea lunch boxes, this should be the only way they end up inside a child. Another day there is a trio of Motown singers that are actually quite good, the lead singer is handsome and does a Spanish song which I can definitely caused a mass wettening amongst the ladies, this guy probably spends his days travelling around the hotels and fucking. Lucky bugger. An older German woman gets up and does that horrible slow dance that older women do which looks like a house plant dying speeded up.

I expect she is hoping the have these three stallions in each of her holes later, but ends up going back to her younger boyfriend who looks positively palid, probably from having to pump on empty while this sexually irrepressible saxon hag screams orders at him sternly. I'm sitting here on day 5 my face so tight I feel a bit like Dale Winton after botox and a break-up, I'm still goggling over last nights entertainment, an old bloke with 3 dancing poodles, they walked on two legs and could count. I wouldn't have been surprised if they could open their own tins and renew a TV licence online. They were incredible. The old fella was a pro and this was an act that would have got into the last 8 of Britains got talent. Sadly, the only future I see for this act is the Spanish police kicking his door down and finding his half eaten cadaver surrounded by the growling free from oppression beasts with reddened muzzles and blood stained woolly fur, one holding an electric bread knife before being shot dead by the Police and the entire flat jet washed out and re-rented within 24 hours.

 Bill Tarney has died on the Island just yesterday, I don't know where he was staying but I only hope his last meal was better than the pork I ate last night, which staying in the Coronation Street theme was so tough it minded me of going down on Bette Lynch (as i imagine it) . Bless him, I'll raise a glass of whiskey to him later. The entertainments biscuit was well and truly taken last night, I will describe the act in detail but I don't expect you to believe what I saw happened, it did, my brain is still compartmentalising it, its stuck between surreal, amazing and down right fucked up. The poster had promised a kind of ninja/juggler, I was obviously curious.

 The evening built up and the bar area was full of the usual sour faced Krauts, Spanish, and a few more English, that had now paired up, and were probably talking about cars and golf. The "Ninja's" assistant came out on stage dressed for the Dads, a tiny little dress revealing the entrance to an arse of the like you only usually see on the 900+ channels on Sky. The "Ninja" came out, about 50 years old, embodying everything about a prolonged mid-life crisis, dressed in a see through chiffon top and leather trousers the band "yellow" starts playing, horrible samples and synths played by two Germans who look like sex offenders, it was popular in the late 80's, look it up.

He started to do some unimpressive juggling and I felt like I was in the Phoenix club, every time he achieved something his pneumatic assistant would yell "Opa!" (as a prompt for the crowd to clap, if you had missed the trick) probably 3 years at drama school to end up tagging along with this meat head and having a bunch of dads phwoaring at her arse and tits. After some tedious throwing stuff about and balancing some stuff on other stuff, including the most fucked up thing I have ever seen, balancing several glasses on a violin bow and then playing some eastern european folk tune, you had to be there, but you've never seen anything like it. He left the stage and his assistant came back on dressed in even less and did a little dance, it was not connected to the act in anyway, but was probably written into her shoddy contract, five minutes of attention for her, in exchange for the fact that the act was probably pumping her and spraying a load out over her chest while screaming "Niiiinjaaaa" and her "Opa!"before going back to his parchment faced dowdy wife.

 He reappeared now dressed in full Ninja regalia, sweaty and armed with a Samurai sword and started to swing it around madly, like he was trying to swat a fly with it, about 2ft from the faces of some Euro children who were both cowering and staring in fear and disbelief. He switched weapons and did the same with a pair of "sai" without swishing noises, throwing oriental weapons around at speed just looks ridiculous, this is not helped when the person doing it is over 50, and German. Several "opa's" later and the tangible feeling that at any moment a group of dads could rush over and gang rape the assistant after over powering the old fart (to be fair, he would kill about 10 first) and it was onto the main act, which consisted of firing a ninja dart from a ninja catapult onto some presumably ninja balloons, blindfolded, and I couldn't see very well (as spent much of the time staring at the assistants arse) but I believe he may have been lying on a bed of nails while doing so. The children all held onto their parents, the parents moved the kids in a sly manner to form human shields.

The Ninja was now sweating like Hasslehoff lying on the floor drunk eating Pizza, and even I slid down in my chair thinking about the white hot pain of a steel dart entering one of my eye balls. He burst the three balloons and the assistant "Opa'ed" with aplomb, (after a third costume change).. This wasn't enough and he now fixed a long bolt to his feet and was spun on an office chair to burst a final balloon. He did it of course, and we all left with intact, apart from our sanity, it united Europe in the sense that English, German, Spanish and some French all collectively stared on in total disbelief, he milked the applause at the end, which only had the vague clapping sounds of Dawn French's arse cheeks slapping together during a 3am naked walk to the cake larder. The whole thing made me feel quite bad for the overall legend of the Ninja, once feared assassins that dared to enter the homes of Samurai, paid killers that acted on stealth and guile, now any old cunt who puts a balaclava on can call themselves one, and huff and sweat their way through some fucking side show act. Its a bit like the martial arts equivalent of the Aberdeen Angus mark, that was once proudly stamped on beef that lives up to its high standards, and now you'll find on the side of a fucking Burger King burger.

 I left thinking about a juggling act that I would like to perform with the assistant (that involved my balls) and tried to get drunk, ultimately having a bad night and smoking homosexual cigarettes until my insides felt dry. I'm on the balcony now, and I am literally inside a cloud and its raining harder than you can imagine, I kind of just want to come home now, its Brazilian girls tonight, dressed up like a trans-gender big bird from sesame street, I expect these ones will be ropey as fuck and will look like a leather sandel with tits. Who knows? Surprise surprise, the Brazilian girl dancing show was another one for the Dads, the girls had soft porn bodies and threw themselves around with speed and youth, one of them looked a bit like Alesha Dixon with learning difficulties, but in the circumstances that was still pretty nice to look at, another was all tits and teeth, tall too, I sat tactically, I knew at some point these three harlots would be dragging men up from the audience, they did, but ventured far into the crowd and I was a bit worried, not because I would have a problem with three south American style beauties shaking their bits and bobs around me dressed in tiny skin tight bikini versions of the national Football team, but because they would probably expect me to dance with them, my body does not have a Latin mode, I am your uncle at a wedding, unless I'm hammered, in which case I am an extra at the back of the MC Hammer "you cant touch this" video.

 Its always awkward watching stuff like this with your girlfriend, it would have been the equivalent of 3 hunks in trunks gyrating away and dry humping the ground with cocks like smuggled adders. Collectively these three girls had no body fat or body hair but the reality is, for most men, a night with one of these would leave them a wheezing premature ejaculatory sweaty wreck with the girl pointing and laughing at him. These girls could milk the population of Brazil out of a mans ball bag in a couple of twists and shakes of their firm rumps. Give me a normal* girl any day. *No direct signs of mental illness, use of limbs, low sense of self worth and easily pleased.

 After a row in the morning, the day ended nicely by using the Jacuzzi bath for what it was meant for, and not what I was using it for, which was to clean my sweaty boxer shorts.. Its the last day and its still raining and cunts downstairs are drilling the entire car park up, so no siesta today, I've slept about a months worth here so I cant moan. Tonights entertainment could well be the pick of the week. From the poster, it essentially looks like a cross between Chris De Burgh and a convicted paedophile, he is promising latin tunes, but in the poster has a yamaha keyboard that can be brought from Argos for under 200 quid. I'm not expecting much. Watching the news about the BBC here is a bit upsetting, I expect when I get back, every single programme will be a protracted apology, eastenders scripts will be altered to just be the entire east berating anyone with anything to do with newsnight or they will just erect a pyre and sacrifice Tess Daley to an audience of flaccid wanking Lords. I expect the only mistake made by the Beeb is the fact that the accused wasnt actually a paedophile, but a beasto-necrophiliac, no smoke without fire..

 The TV here is just awful, its either Sky or BBC news (Worldwide) so I almost ejaculated when click online came on BBC. Apart from that, its just been the same news stories over and over, Britain must look incredibly boring to the rest of the world, the other channels were generic Euro shit, the sort of stuff that used to have porn on in the 90's, no such luck. Cigarettes are a fifth of the price in the UK, which is annoying. I dont actually like smoking, but I will buy anything at the fifth of the price, sanitary products, an arse dildo, a bargain is a bargain, even if it causes cancer, anal tearing respectively. Sub note - Babies Guaranteed to ruin any holiday, or most things is your fucking baby, wheeling it into a restaurant, plane, pub like some midget emperor, well done, you cunt- shat out a most likely pointless addition to the already over populated planet and now its screaming and your parental impotence is giving me a peptic ulcer. You have no idea what it wants as it sits there screaming like a Turkish women who has just lost her entire family in an Earthquake. What it probably doesnt want is you standing over it cooing and clicking, and it certainly doesnt want to be in this restaurant/bar surrounded by garish voices and oafish behaviour, fuck off back to your room and get it on your tit, which can be all it possibly wants, not have chemical formula milk rammed down its scream pipe?

Babies are essentially (to those whose child it isnt) self obsessed little shit sacks and I would ban them from everything and their tired bitter looking parents, which will be a good thing as it will mean that one of its parents will need to raise it from home and stop dragging it around with that poor me expression on your fucking faces. I know that sounds harsh, I am not a fan of babies, they are mostly pointless, and a pelvic design flaw in humans has meant that we need to spend the best part of 2 years waiting hand and foot on some whining little cunt, tending to its every whimper and 2am scream. I envy animals, the females will shit it out, lick its head and then nudge it as it gets to its feet clopping about like a first time ice skater before trotting off and doing the animal equivalent of going to University (and probably being eaten by a Lion). The parents are never bothered by it again, but know that their DNA foot print is safe on the planet.

Our reward, 18 years of need, greed and problems before being told we are worthless old cunts and our children going off to live in a crack den and then coming back to tut when they have to sign the paper work on your paupers funeral. The last nights Chris De Burgh latin sounds Keyboard Paedo was too much and we walked out after two songs and went upstairs where the missus got food poisoning which was no fun. The flight home was full of the usual wankers, joyless white Plan B type cunts who cant even construct a basic conversations and ever close their mouths between words, possibly because of they possess such a weak cognitive ability that they have to breathe and talk at the same time, thankfully, because they probably had a week in Playa Las Americas drinking fishbowls and trying to finger skanks they fell asleep on the plane, the only regret of this is that if we did crash they might not be awake for me to masturbate over them while they screamed for their mothers. Which is personally how I would like to spend my final moments of life.

In summary then, Tenerife should simply be renamed in order of extremes of STi's as an indication of how many cunts are going to be there, as a template we could have Playa de las Aids, which would be full of British firting their weak DNA up anything warm and fanny shaped, Los Chymida, which is bearable, but has its fair share of twats and Puerto de la Thrush, which is just mildly irritating and can always be solved by dipping your bits in a tub of Onken.

 If anyone is interested in paying me to fly around the world and slag things off, please contact me..thanks in advance, no not you Saga, you cheeky cunts.

Oh, and I got engaged out there!