WARNING: Contains Humour
Earth & It's Contents
by Ben Franks
It's a Disaster...
There's very little things regarding a foreign country that generally reach my house, and cannot be sorted out with a good appliance of SudoCrem. Such as the times when you sit down and begin watching the news. It's times like these where facts end up being puked up on your lap by TV journalists who have children and listen to Radio 4.
However, more interestingly it's when you find out that all of a sudden the relationship between the U.S and Russia has worsened and the world is edging ever closer to a nuclear war. This is rubbish. What the news' TV journalists don't tell you is that as soon as these world leaders have finished their threatening speeches, they sit down with their wife or mistress - depending on the situation - and find themselves greeted by the hot, delicious and irresistible smell of bacon. And frankly, bacon is the one hero we have to be proud of. Then these world leaders will stare at their bacon and they'll think, as naturally as anyone would: If I started a nuclear war, would we still be able to get any pig? The answer's no or a highly risky yes, thus give the situation a week and they role back on for the cameras and blame their fall-outs on some kind of international economic incident.
So things such as the myth of a "Credit crunch," or the small incident that is a "Banking crisis," are easily sorted out with a simple helping of Jam on your morning toast and the warm feeling that bacon has once again saved the day. However, there is one major issue I have that concerns a foreign country...
Brits going on holiday to Spain.
Not a problem, you may think. Or you may well-be hopelessly whaling your arms about and getting your British head in a twizzle because you think Spain is a lovely place. In which case, not only does this mean you're exercising, but you're conveying your frustration badly, since I cannot see you. Anyway, in either situation, I have decided that you're wrong.
You see, it's people who regard Spain as a form of expensive tanning salon that lets them take a fortnight off of work to visit Spanish football players in the search to get in some amateur European version of Footballer's Wives. It's also the people who decide to go to Spain because they know the language. Well, you don't. You see, in Spain British people have a habit of walking into a Cafe discussing who'll attempt to order some form of edible food in Spanish and it'll end up being either the one with any form of education who's clearly been dragged to Spain against their will, or an excited middle-aged woman who's on holiday. Boffins call these women Mothers. Anyway, the mothers will go into the Cafe and find themselves managing "Hola" and then developing a stutter that they feel they cannot control, resulting in the male of the group - or a strong, confident female - to walk on up, take the withering mother away, and shout loudly at the server in English. To which the person at the counter generally replies, "Would you like me to speak English?" and thanks to this, us Brits appear to be the laziest, genetically modified Apes this side of Belgium. It's a disaster.
Not only this, the bread's awful. If you take a holiday in the hope that your bread will be close to edible, I will do the honour of suggesting France, Wales or Iraq. From realising that Kingsmill is a fairly good-tasting bread option I might even go as far as saying Britain, but because our holidays to Spain make us appear as dense as Matt Damon attempting a Crossword, I'm not.
Stop going to Spain, Britain. It's a disaster.
- 2nd January 2010.

