*** Fed up with beeing treated like a sheep?
*** Overland to the world.
*** Transcribed from 'The brand new Monty Python bok' by
*** Dr.Doom / Amega Industries in approximately 1 hour and 5 minutes.

What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around
in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in
their cloth caps and their cardigans with their transistor radios and their
Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea -'Oh they don't make it properly
here, do they, not like at home' - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling
fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in
their cotton frocks squirting Thimothy White's suncream all over their puffy
raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they 'overdid it on the first day'. And being
herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellevueses and Continentales with their
modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools
full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and
frightening the children and barging in the queues and if you're not at your
table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the
first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the
hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with
nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hear Brylcreemed down and a
big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners. And adenoidal typists from
Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-
legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week ther's an excursion to the
local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice creem and bleeding Watney's
Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with
local colour and athmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep
singing 'Torremolinos, torremolinos' and complaining about the food - 'It's so
greasy isn't it ?' - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from
Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily
Express and he drones on and on about how Mr Smith should be running this
country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up
over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realize
they haven't even visited to 'All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is
marked with an "X". Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local
place hidden away in the back street where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and
cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe it's because i'm a
Londoner". 'And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day
package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't
even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the
bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and
the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they
keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in
Iceland and has to take some Sweedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at
3 a.m in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of
'unforeseen difficulties',i.e the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in
Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you
get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing 'enterovioform' and queuing for
the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the
bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been
finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the
Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licenced bandit in a taxi
you find there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the
bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because
of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel
next door - and you're plagued by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing
pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying
identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case
the Labour Governments gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-
buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can
keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish
Tourist Board proomises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case
of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660
which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody
Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and
shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last
day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty
Spumante, buying cartons of duty free 'cigarillos' and using up their last
pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys
and bullfigth posters with your name on: 'Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules
of Norwich' and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and
everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will
although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique
Iberian airplane after a third attempt, and it sinks to its knees and
haemorrhagess all over the sand, they cut off its ears and give him them as a
present while all the locals cheer and the tourists throw up and the
intellectuals discuss Ernest Hemingway and Watney's Red Barrel, and Ken Tynan's
latest glorification of the insanely bestial act you've just....