If you’re going away this summer, I suggest you give Haiti a miss.
My holiday there was ruined by one of those package tours from Oxfam.
Honestly, the Club Condescenti make me ashamed to be British. Why can’t these people behave when they go abroad?
None of them tried to speak the language. They think if they talk slowly and shout at the waiter, they’ll understand. You know the type of thing:
‘I want polenta! You know. From maize? Yah? Mayzzzze. Buuuut. Ground coarsely. Coarsely – you know? Coarse! Like Nigel Farage? You know? Ooooh, not nice. Coarse! Oh, this is hopeless. This bloke’s a deplorable. I’ll try one more time. PO – LEN – TARRRR!!!!’
It was bad enough when they did that conga line round the hotel pool singing ‘Ohhhh Jeremy Corbyn!’
The drinking and the violence were even worse – but no more than we’ve come to expect from a Momentous occasion.
But it was the sex that appalled me, though that’s exactly what they are promised in the marketing leaflets. The motto for Club Condescenti is a bit of a giveaway. Sun. Dependency. And Sex.
These people shouldn’t be allowed to go abroad.
