Fodor's Travel Talk Forums - Britain (or should that be England's) seven worst

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I enjoyed the wit, spoon. And I will enjoy the Garden of England. Even if London Snobs might look down their noses at 'carrot crunchers' ;O)

Amazingly funny, on both sides. What I love is that you two can banter away like old housemates that never get truly angry with each other. It's all in good fun. Love it, love it, love it. Now, because I'm an American, I don't understand MOST of what you've said, but thanks to old episodes of "The Young Ones" I've been able to figure out maybe 1/4 of what you've said. It's mostly the tone that cracks me up. : ) Carry on!!

He he he he... Enjoying the sparring... Kavey of Norf Lundun (with a brief 18 year stint in Lu'on - Oo Ee Oo)

Stunning argument! Perhaps you could agree to meet halfway to find some common ground - Crawley or Redhill, perhaps?

I belief Lord David has been defeated and shamed in this olympian battle of wits. The revelation that he is a master in the arcane and occult practice of the biscuit game should further ensure that he shall not be heard of again. Either that or he's taken the day off I shall never again venture further north than the South Downs, for yonder there be cockneys, swedes, picts and cannibals.

Hello again. I actually do this at work (sorry taxpayers) so don't log on at weekends as I have vaguely better things to do, (this weekend the Charity 7s at Twickenham - still hungover) I am fully behind you about anyone that refers to going on holiday as "travelling". As I am sure you are aware Winchester succumbed to the hedge-bumpers ages ago. Chinless trustafarians wandering around in a llama herders hat, before going off to "uni" to learn to become a cost accountant. Merchant bankers to a man. If I went all the way to Machu Pichu to find myself and then discovered that I was a sherman I'd be sorely distressed. Doesn't seem to bother the two-bobs though. Street performers - Don't get me started. Juggling is something that 10 year old girls do in the playground. IT IS NOT A SALEABLE SKILLL. In London now we have people who have taken a total lack of talent to its logical extreme. They stand still. That's it. Stock still, and they want paying for it. I weep for this country I really do. As to the biscuit game; I have never been able to look a custard cream in he eye since. And no I'm not going to the South Downs or beyond, as it is full of diddycoys, and as Spoon intimates, chutney ferrets. I think you are stalking me Spoon. I assume by Romsey Rd School you mean Monty's? I also lived in Battersea (Lavender Hill). Oh how I miss the Swithunites (even though I'd go to jail for it now)!

Monty boy indeed! The year below the po faced Jack Dee. I am trying to recall the names of some of the ruggery buggery biscuit gamers of my former aquaintance, but they all seem to merge into one conglomeration of over-privileged, hee-hawing, chinless, buck-toothed, floppy-haired fops with suede shoes (no offence intended).(Introduction to good old English class war for our American cousins). Do you remember the delightful Angie McDonald? The uphill gardening community in Brighton is a positive boon to us red blooded bird bashers. They keep themselves to themselves, or to be more accurate, give themselves to each other, and it results in a dearth in gentlemen qui font pas l'amour a la greque, which means more ladies per capita for us. The lipsticks are quite delightful, and this practice should be positively encouraged, if not subsidised by the European commission, then filmed.

Monty boy indeed! The year below the po faced Jack Dee. Battersea Park road, just down from the Latchmere, used to drink on Battersea Rise though. I am trying to recall the names of some of the ruggery buggery biscuit gamers of my former aquaintance, but they all seem to merge into one conglomerate over-privileged, hee-hawing, chinless, buck-toothed, floppy-haired fop with suede shoes. (no offence intended simply an introduction to good old English class war for our American cousins). Had no problems competing for the attentions of the Swithunites on the machismo front, however a potless comp boy from the village living with his mum, with a honda 125 could be at a disadvantage when up against an heir to an oil empire, with a Coutts account, his own villa in Biaritz and the use of daddy's Aston Martin. I did try and compensate for this, and in the true spirit of "trickle-down" economics, I would sell you lot bags of oregano at vastly inflated prices, then slake my class envy watching you smoke it. Do you remember the delightful Angie McDonald? The uphill gardening community in Brighton is a positive boon to us red blooded bird bashers. They keep themselves to themselves, or to be more accurate, give themselves to each other, and it results in a dearth in gentlemen qui font pas l'amour a la greque, which means more ladies per capita for us. The lipsticks are quite delightful, and this practice should be positively encouraged, if not subsidised by the European commission, then filmed. I could go on the hedgemonkey theme forever but will draw a line. However in crying for this country, and thinking of the millenium dome, the railways, air traffic control, the underground, inner cities, Northern Ireland, BSE, foot and mouth, teenage crime, the political parties, the tabloid press etc etc etc. I have come to the considered conclusion that a p*ss up in a brewery is the one and only thing that we can actually organise and we can take pride in how well we so do!

>>and this practice should be positively encouraged, if not subsidised by the European commission, then filmed....>> You are unfamilar with the works of Derek Jarman? We always believed that Monty's was more "public school" that Winchester (which is actually pretty relaxed and boho). Eg we didn't play rugby, but football (and our own truly pythonesque variant). We didn't have a uniform and so on...It was Henry Beuafort's that was full of John boys. As to your acquaintances from Montys you could always try that friends reunited site, although I suspect you already know that they've all married a girl called Fiona, have two kids and a labrador and work in IT. (Psychic dave)

you b*stard, that's my sister!

Ah Fiona Spoon. I knew her well. Pass on my regards will you?

What is all this chattering class bluster? all this southern shandy drinking, public school boy pumping, chinless harry potter reading, retro little englander, oh i must say, jolly good show, my dear boy, scat munching bollocks? Entertaining..yes...How people in England speak...nope

well it is how people talk around my manor. Northern monkey. Q.E.D.

Esteemed Northern Monkey It may not be how people speak, but down South we also write. I congratulate you on your three words with more than two syllables. Get the kind person with an education to whom you dictated your last piece to type out your response. (Miaow!)

Jeez, if they all spoke like Northern Monkey writes, we would have to take classes in "English" to get around in England! Maybe the Monkey should take some classes in manners though?

Ecky thump!! Uv been doont pit all daye an me ed is in pieces coz im knackered. Me mam has got me pies an peas ont table an i'll get a reet good thrashing off me faver if i don't run along. Now see thee! I'm not reet pleased about bein told i ave no manners evor. I may not be sharpest tool inth toolbox but Im no monkey ivor, orlreet? Now sling yer ook all ov yers....

Get along there my stunted northern chum. Haven't you got kestrels to strangle?

Michael Palin: Ahh.. Very passable, this, very passable. Graham Chapman: Nothing like a good glass of Chateau de Chassilier wine, ay Gessiah? Terry Gilliam: You're right there Obediah. Eric Idle: Who'd a thought thirty years ago we'd all be sittin' here drinking Chateau de Chassilier wine? MP: Aye. In them days, we'd a' been glad to have the price of a cup o' tea. GC: A cup ' COLD tea. EI: Without milk or sugar. TG: OR tea! MP: In a filthy, cracked cup. EI: We never used to have a cup. We used to have to drink out of a rolled up newspaper. GC: The best WE could manage was to suck on a piece of damp cloth. TG: But you know, we were happy in those days, though we were poor. MP: Aye. BECAUSE we were poor. My old Dad used to say to me, "Money doesn't buy you happiness." EI: 'E was right. I was happier then and I had NOTHIN'. We used to live in this tiiiny old house, with greaaaaat big holes in the roof. GC: House? You were lucky to have a HOUSE! We used to live in one room, all hundred and twenty-six of us, no furniture. Half the floor was missing; we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of FALLING! TG: You were lucky to have a ROOM! *We* used to have to live in a corridor! MP: Ohhhh we used to DREAM of livin' in a corridor! Woulda' been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip. We got woken up every morning by having a load of rotting fish dumped all over us! House!? Hmph. EI: Well when I say "house" it was only a hole in the ground covered by a piece of tarpolin, but it was a house to US. GC: We were evicted from *our* hole in the ground; we had to go and live in a lake! TG: You were lucky to have a LAKE! There were a hundred and sixty of us living in a small shoebox in the middle of the road. MP: Cardboard box? TG: Aye. MP: You were lucky. We lived for three months in a brown paper bag in a septic tank. We used to have to get up at six o'clock in the morning, clean the bag, eat a crust of stale bread, go to work down mill for fourteen hours a day week in-week out. When we got home, out Dad would thrash us to sleep with his belt! GC: Luxury. We used to have to get out of the lake at three o'clock in the morning, clean the lake, eat a handful of hot gravel, go to work at the mill every day for tuppence a month, come home, and Dad would beat us around the head and neck with a broken bottle, if we were LUCKY! TG: Well we had it tough. We used to have to get up out of the shoebox at twelve o'clock at night, and LICK the road clean with our tongues. We had half a handful of freezing cold gravel, worked twenty-four hours a day at the mill for fourpence every six years, and when we got home, our Dad would slice us in two with a bread knife. EI: Right. I had to get up in the morning at ten o'clock at night, half an hour before I went to bed, (pause for laughter), eat a lump of cold poison, work twenty-nine hours a day down mill, and pay mill owner for permission to come to work, and when we got home, our Dad would kill us, and dance about on our graves singing "Hallelujah." MP: But you try and tell the young people today that... and they won't believe ya'. ALL: Nope, nope..

Ahhhh, ME! This thread is destined to become a CLASSIC!