Perpetual Transit

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There’s nothing more frustrating that in inability to relax on holiday due to constantly being on the move. I used to blindly adhere to the adage that it was best to try and see as much as possible in the shortest time possible, but I’ve learned that it makes a shit-ton more sense to stay in one place for at least 3 nights, minimum. What’s the point of sprinting from destination to destination? Unless you’ve got a fetish for collecting snow globes from every shitty tourist attraction this side of Antarctica, you’d be better served to set up a base camp of sorts and actually relax.

After all, what’s the point of going on holiday if you feel like you’re an unpaid extra in The Great Race? (Side note, that’s the name of a classic film about an auto race from New York to Paris, not a NAZI propaganda film…)

So next time you’re on holiday, instead of constantly checking into your hotel at 8pm, tired out of your mind after a big day standing in queues at some shitty stone monument, only to check out at 6am to catch the next cut price shithole aircraft to the arse end of nowhere, how about staying a while? Go have dinner and read a book, you cunt.

/end (holiday) communication

Rapid fire amateur photography

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I always feel a bit of an expectation to pack my camera when I go on holidays. This is despite me having no desire to ever take a photo in any situation I’ve ever been in. I’m 12 days into this trip and (despite packing my camera) I’m yet to take a single photo with it. I know this is at odds with the majority of the entire fucking universe these days, as vapid twats continue seem to now take extraordinary amounts of photos of every single place they’ve been in to give their Instagram followers the impression that their lives are actually exciting (they aren’t).

I’m pretty happy to go and check a place out without taking 950 photos of it. Sure, if I see something truly remarkable (like a cow giving birth to a 40 year old man) I might pull the camera out for posterity, but aside from that, I’m happy to let other people waste their time taking hundreds of photos they will put on a hard drive or flash disk somewhere and then never, EVER look at EVER again.

(Aside from when they come back to work and insist on making their colleagues sit through the most excruciating 45 minute recap of their trip imaginable).

“…and here’s me and Tamika eating an ice cream near the Parthenon.”

(The photo is of a bogan eating ice cream. There’s no ancient relic in the background, just a trollop in a 2 sizes too small bra pushing some sunburnt tits above eye level. She thinks she looks good. She doesn’t).

/end (holiday) communication

Sightseeing.

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Sightseeing, hey? It’s the reason you shell out significant amounts of your hard earned cash to travel halfway across the world, right? After all, places are always popular because they’re worth experiencing. That’s why you often have to line up in 38 degree heat with limited or no shade, stuck behind a fat Midwestern American family who are collectively sweating enough to run a hydro-electric power station (assuming the gradient of the footpath were such that their sweat pooled and ran in the direction of the hypothetical power station).

“Randy, can you pass me and the girls the Oreos? We haven’t eaten for 15 minutes and I’m scared we will die..”

Then, once you’ve waited for the best part of eternity, you’re ushered into the inner sanctum of this ‘once in a lifetime’ tourist attraction, only to find out that it’s actually kind of shit, and you’ve just wasted a significant portion of your holiday for essentially nothing…

Meanwhile, you could have been walking around the city doing something far more entertaining and outsIde the immediate proximity of Randy and the rest of the fat camp. Why didn’t you do that?

Because you feel an obligation to be a good tourist, that’s why! How could you go to Italy and not see the Leaning Tower of Pisa?

Quite fucking easily, that’s how.

/end (holiday) communication

Tube Strike.

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I know you’re probably entitled to better working conditions and the recent change to a 24 hour timetable has most likely had a negative impact on your lives. I know that dealing with the government can at times feel like repeatedly banging your head against a brick wall with no immediate respite in sight. I know that the offer that the government has put forward is rather ordinary. However, can I ask you one thing?

Can you please not go on fucking strike when I’m in fucking London, you bunch of backsliding unionist cunts?

I mean seriously, the fucking audacity you have to negatively impact hundreds of thousands of other people, the majority of whom are also trying to travel to the jobs that you seem to have such little regard for, it’s frankly fucking astounding. I was headed to my friends on one of the last tubes today, and I wanted to spank every last one of you for being such ungrateful gits. People are now having to pay out hundreds of thousands of unnecessary pounds to get to work via taxis as a result of this.

I personally think that the government should just call the bluff of these striking workers, freeze them out and hire replacements. That’ll teach them to fuck with everyone’s afternoons.

/end (holiday) communication

Can I stay on your couch?

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There’s nothing more frustrating than organising a holiday 6 months in advance, paying for all of the accommodation, transfers, flights and activities in advance (at significant out of pocket expense to yourself), only to have some last-minute jizzrat pop up and manage to gently lube themselves into your holiday life…

“Oh, hey man, does your holiday villa have a couch? Do you mind if I crash on it for 37 nights without contributing to the cost of having booked it in any way?”

“Oh, do you mind if I eat breakfast, lunch and dinner at your accommodation for the same period of time, without contributing to the cost of groceries and ignoring the large pile of dishes accumulating on the sink?”

These types of people might brand themselves as ‘children of the world’, whom live on a shoestring and justify their actions thus, but in reality, they’re just freeloading cunts who need to be smoked out in the same way you might smoke out termites from a rental property.

There’s no excuse for freeloading. Before now, today, or into the future, it’s a dog act, perpetuated by self-involved butt fucks who have no morality when it comes to the potential extension of their holiday at the expense (both literally and figuratively) of their friends. Sure, you might be spending $100 a night on the hotel room, but don’t expect a single cent out of these freeloading cunts. They’re too busy planning their next cut-price flight to a city that another friend lives in, so they can continue exploiting their surroundings like a Chinese fruit factory manager in Northern NSW.

/end (holiday) communication

I’ve got enough friends, thanks.

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I didn’t realise until today, but these posts only have to be 200 words, not 400. Fuck.

Right. So, if I’m sitting quietly by myself reading a book on a hostel balcony somewhere, head down and away from any sort of communal hostel activity, does this say to you, “Please come over and tell me your deepest fears, your hopes and dreams and your darkest secrets “?

No, it fucking doesn’t. I don’t know you from a bar of soap and I couldn’t give a fuck that your aunty is recovering from brain cancer. But does that stop you from lumbering over and asking me some asinine question to interrupt my serenity?

“Hey, whatcha reading there buddy?”

“Mein Kampf. Fuck off.”

Seriously though, I’ve gotten to a point where I’ve got enough friends. I don’t want to waste my time collecting more, especially not barefoot cunts in some far-flung pitiful hovel on the other side of the world. I won’t tell you anything about me and I don’t want to know a single thing about you. Not even your name. All I want to know is when you’ll leave, and my preference is for you to leave right now.

Of course, rudely interrupting me was only step one of your process, wasn’t it? Now you’re going to try and gently shift the conversation to something you want to preach about, like your bullshit political views or how many chicks you banged in Slovenia last month. What you’ve neglected to understand is that the only story involving you that I’d ever want to hear is the one where the punchline is you being decapitated in a freak Vespa accident in Palermo, you cunt.

/end (holiday) communication

Eat.Pray.Cap

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Welcome to the reincarnation of bankingcommish (travel edition). Today I’ll be taking aim at the sorts of self-ingratiating buttfucks that push gems of wisdom like the the one pictured into the world. You know the types, they generally wear coloured John Lennon style sunglasses and accost you in the kitchens of Eastern European hostels. They go to great pains to explain to you that they aren’t like other travellers; they’ve gotten the the real core of the communities they’ve visited and done away with the tourist nonsense that ‘amateur travellers’ (thar inference being that you’re one of these) occupy themselves with. They tell of amazing days spent with villagers in eastern Peru, drinking yak’s milk from a gourd made from the stomach of a goat while music played dizzyingly in the hills above…

They felt at that moment that the true meaning of life had momentarily revealed itself in all its ornate beauty. A single tear of joy streamed down their face in silent celebration.

What they neglected to mention was that all of the villagers thought they were an utter cunt and the gourd was full of goat’s piss…

The other great irony of this type of traveller is that even though they’re dressed in some of the most ill fitting, stinking, patently shitful opportunity shop seconds you’re ever likely to see someone in outside of a soup kitchen, they’re actually the offspring of incredibly wealthy parents who’ve gifted them absolutely everything in their life, literally right up until the point they’ve accosted you. There’s a certain cruelty in this incredibly entitled turd visiting dirt poor communities on the other side of the world in order to ‘find the true meaning of life’, whilst, back at home, mummy and daddy are sitting comfortably in their gigantic Victorian mansion in Surrey, alternating between swimming in their gigantic pool of money and snapping the necks of baby fur seals after waterboarding them one by one with crude oil they’ve dredged from their vast oilfields, also ironically located in Peru…

This traveller is never religious either. Well at least not formally religious. You can bet all the dead, oil-soaked baby fur seals in Surrey that they’re a ‘spiritual’ person though. This is a convenient mechanism to allow them to take elements of numerous religions and bastardise them to suit their own ends, trampling revered ancient traditions in order to build out their Instagram profile.

Nice Kabbalah wristband, you chinless fucking wonder.

/end (holiday) communication

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