Voice Over: And now, here is a magnificent recording made in the Y valley of an ordinary Travel Agent's office. Note the huge-breasted typist in the background.
Tourist: Good morning.
Secretary: Oh good morning, ummm, do you want to come upstairs?
Tourist: I beg your pardon?
Secretary: Do you want to come upstairs? Oh! Or have you come to arrange a holiday?
Tourist: Er.......to arrange a holiday.
Secretary: Oh sorry.
Tourist: What's all this about coming upstairs?
Secretary: Oh, nothing, nothing. Now where were you thinking of going?
Secretary: Ah one of our adventure holidays.
Secretary: Well you'd better see Mr Bounder about that. (Calls out to Mr Bounder) Mr Bounder, this gentleman is interested in the India Overland.
(walks over to Mr Bounder's desk)
Tourist: Hello. I'm Smoke-too-much.
Bounder: Well you'd better cut down a little then.
Tourist: I'm sorry?
Bounder: You'd better cut down a little then.
Tourist: Oh I see! Smoke-too-much, so I'd better cut down a little then.
Bounder: Yes...I expect you get people making jokes about your name all the time, eh?
Tourist: No, I'd never noticed it before.
Bounder: So, you're interested in one of our adventure holidays, are you?
Tourist: Yes I saw your advert in the bolour supplement.
Bounder: The what?
Tourist: The bolour supplement.
Bounder: The colour supplement?
Tourist: Yes that's right. It's all due to a trauma I suffered when I was a sboolboy. I was attacked by a bat.
Bounder: A cat?
Tourist: No a bat.
Bounder: Can you say the letter 'K'?
Tourist: Oh yes, Khaki, kind, kettle, Kipling, kipper, Kuwait, Keble Bollege Oxford.
Bounder: Why don't you say the letter 'K' instead of the letter 'C'?
Tourist: What you mean.....spell bolour with a K?
Tourist: Kolour. Oh thank you, I never thought of that. What a silly bunt.
Bounder: Anyway about the holiday..
Tourist: Well yes, I've been on package tours many times and so your advert really bought my eye.
Bounder: Ah good. (begins to murmer 'yes' and 'uh-huh' in agreement)
Tourist: Yes, you're quite right. I'm fed up with being treated like sheep. 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 Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, bomplaining 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 calamaris and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they 'overdid it on the first day.'
Bounder: (still patiently) Yes, absolutely, yes I quite agree... (continues to intersperse comments throughout the tirade)
Tourist: And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Bontinentales 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 into 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 hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.
Bounder: (beggining to get fed up) Shut up!! (comments grow more rude and more forceful)
Tourist: And then some 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 there's an excursion to the local Roman Ruins to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing 'Torremolinos, torremolinos' and complaining about the food - 'It's so greasy here, 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 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.
Bounder: Will you shut up?
Tourist: And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realise they haven't even visited to 'All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'.
Bounder: Please, Shut up!!!!
Tourist: Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets...
Bounder: Damn you, I can't take it!!!
Tourist: where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion.......
Bounder: For God's sake, take it off, TAKE IT OFF!!!!
Tourist: crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'.
(Sound of needle being lifted off a record and the speech abruptly ends)
Continue to the next sketch... Theory on Brontosaurus' by Anne Elk