Foreigners have decent table manners
Fuck me - the French sit at tables and hold conversations with each other. If they have children, they sit on chairs, are involved in conversations with the adults, use a knife and fork and are encouraged to be still and quiet if they are not the focus of attention. Even when there are twelve of the buggers sitting together only a gentle murmer prevails as they converse rather than constantly outshout each other.
By contrast the extended family of English mongrel sewer rats next door (including Nanna and scrawny "Hayley" with two sprogs of different hues) yelled, burped, failed to understand, miscommunicated with waiters and got the third sprog to "shut the fuck up" by first clouting it and then giving it a mobile DVD player to watch - AT THE CUNTING TABLE FOR FUCK'S SAKE.
They understand wine and are willing to pay for it. They order by name not price unlike the "I'll have a bottle of the 28 Euro stuff" requested in estuary English in another restaurant proudly displaying its first Michelin star.
Oh - and they treat waiters like skilled professionals rather than pond-life - unlike the Brits who will condescend and abuse at the first possible chance.
The bastards dress properly
Even the fucking Swiss seem to be able to co-ordinate their colours, wear clothes that fit and generally dress for the occasion.
After a fortnight of well dressed natives, the sight of the abundance of man made fibres at the Eurotunnel entrance was shocking. You could almost hear the snap crackle and pop as the pink fat Chelsea/Aresnal kit wearing clones waddled around snapping up last minute bargains.
And as for polyester shorts with zip-on legs for poor weather - either buy two pairs Wayne (one short, one long) or just fucking shoot yourself - you're beyond salvation.
Oh - and when dining in a decent establishment, shorts, sandals and creased polo-shirts are NOT de-rigueur. If that's your style fuck off to KFC you half witted proles.
They have cars
Real cars. You know - Audis, Renaults, Volvos, Fords. Three box designs with a wheel at each corner. They come in two types. New and shiny, or old and rusty with bits of gaffa tape holding the windows in place.
The minute you hit the M20 in Kent you are greeted by a plethora of odd shaped vehicles the size of chieftan tanks, or with blacked out windows, or sporting stickers, banners or flags, or with exhuasts and sub-woofers drowning out any other vehicle within miles. People don't drive cars here - they're just fucking mobile statements to make up for a total lack of personality.
Oh - and you can drive fast without the fear of hitting a jam or getting your collar felt by Plod. Granted, you pay for the privilege, but of you can't or won't pay the tolls, you'd be better off going to Butlins in the first place cunts.
And before I forget - lane discipline! Pull out, overtake and then return to where you started. It's not difficult it's not rocket science, but if everyone does it, it works a treat.
Yes really - they do. The bastards look happy. Even the chap cleaning the streets looks up for a quick "Bonjour" before going back to his duties - must be a higher quality of litter (no kebab wrappers, stale puke or broken glass there mate!)
You can have a quiet beer
A quiet beer - five or six if you like. Seated in a welcoming bar, served by a waiter or waitress. No loud music, no pushing no shoving. A total absence of glassy-eyed 'power drinking'. Decent stuff that tastes of something - not watered down piss or Wifebeater waiting to cause problems by sunset.
Fuck me I hate holidays
Not because I hate the sun, the people, the food or the atmosphere.
But because EVERY FUCKING CUNTING COUNTRY I GO TO REMINDS ME EVERY FUCKING DAY THAT WE LIVE IN A GOD FORSAKEN CUNT HOLE OF AN ARESEWIPE OF A CESS POOL THAT WENT DOWN THE U-BEND YEARS AGO.
By fuck I hate England and the English. We lost our way a long time ago and every time I go abroad, this vile self-centred chav infested scum hole looks less and less appealing.
Originally posted here.