Whatever was I thinking, dear reader, when I booked a coach tour for Bloke et Moi? Arriving at the first pick up point One felt positively jeune against the assembled octagenarian mob.
Amongst the gaggle was a vociferous hennaed matriach who determined to be heard above all others and, frankly, who never stopped emitting drivel from her pinched up little gob until we reached Bristol, whereupon we changed.
True to the luck of Bloke, or so he would have us believe, our ongoing vehicle was circa 1950 and exceptionally uncomfortable unlike the other lined up luxury modes of transport. In fact, Lovely One has bruises on her triangular knees having been crammed into a space designed for someone under 4' tall. Speaking of which, was what we had sitting in front of us for the entire hideous ordeal, in the person of, Troll, see above.
Troll and Trollina communicated with one another by reading out any printed material passing by.
'Morissons', or 'Car Wash', met with 'Mmmm Morissons' from the other Troll.
Now this became hysterically amusing and murderous in turn.
When stopped alongside empty buildings we were treated to
'Empty building, shame' or even 'I like them bricks'
In fact any empty space had to be filled with the sound of Troll's voice, from start to fucking finish!
At feeding times, (all scoff was included in the price) Troll and Trollina ambled repeatedly up to the carvery and returned with overloaded plates of anything that was going.
Them being... 'entitled, since they'd paid for it.' The despicable little worms!
The first day out was a tour around the Peak District which is aching with interesting places such as Haddon Hall and Chatsworth, which we positively sped past, being dropped of for a shopping opportunity in Bakewell.
One high street being much the same as another, that was rather boring, although most of our time was spent searching for a belt (Bloke had forgotten his and was intending to spend the entire break wearing grey jogging bottoms) Believe Moi, he does indeed have a 'jogging bottom' and the larger gonad of the gentleman of advancing years is not served in the asthetic department by being encased in said jogging bottoms!
We tried Burtons and M & S but to no avail. Nothing they could proffer would go anywhere near encircling the girth of Bloke!
Oh joy! Oh bliss! I espied an Evans! The home of the fasionable fat bint! And indeed, they didn't let me down, having a four yard faux leather trouser holder-upper that went round him a treat!
Being completely shagged by the first day out we fed and watered and retired to the room, such as it was, to watch TV
Bloke divested himself of his attire and reclined in a mass of undulating flesh on the bed wearing just his Primarni shreddies and what I thought was a 'come hither' stare that I later found was indigestion.
Other discomfort centered around his 'bad knee' and this was duly attended to by raising and lowering his right leg in a scissor like movement which apparently eased the pain. An unfortunate side effect of this therapy, however, was a portion of shiny gonad peeking out of his knicker leg at alarming intervals.
I attempted to diffuse the situation by making conversation about the film we were watching, 'Clash of the Titans' (an Omen, or what!)
'I always wanted to look like that Judi Bowker when I was a little girl', says Moi, 'you know, when she was in Black Beauty'
'Shame you look more like the fecking horse', he replied, giving me another flash of past it's sell by date wedding tackle.
Pot - Kettle
Day 2 was a trip to Chester. Off we went, trundling along, with everyone full of Full English. Or at least full for a while.
Dashing down the coach ailse came a scraggy looking old girl, closely followed by a stream of puke.
'He's never sick! He's never sick!' shouted the attendant wife of the Pukemeister.
'OH YES HE FUCKING IS' methinks as partially digested bacon, egg and fried slice sloshes past me.
And so it went on...
We did have a trip to Liverpool which was acceptable since we were dropped at Albert Dock and were able to visit the Tate. When asked where I'd been by the driver and I divulged this information he looked stunned and his mouth fell open. Most people went to John Lewis.
Bloke accused me of 'moaning' and 'thinking I'm better than everyone else'. That is simply not the case. We just enjoy different things and I AM different to people who enjoy coach trips and have a 'herd' mentality. Not better - different. We can't all be the same.
I don't want to holiday with people who go around on frames with wheels and are disgorged from groaning coaches for shopping trip after shopping trip.
Bloke does and he's going without Moi next time!