Slowakisch - Slovakian

Readers of my previous entries may recall my utter contempt for almost every fellow countryman featured in Boozed Up Brits Abroad, a show on Bravo about the UK’s least popular export since Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. Were I one of millions of Estonians, Latvians and Slovakians who have the misfortune of experiencing these belligerent, loutish fucks and their piss-embarrassing antics first hand, BSE wouldn’t seem so bad. At least it takes eighteen years to turn you into a quivering, death-begging vegetable instead of the eighteen seconds it takes Gary from Chelmsford after you’ve spilt his pint. Okay, so they aren’t ever that violent, but still look well up for a manslaughter charge if the locals were ever to rise to their drunken mouthing and kicking off. Now these are the same people you see on other such Bravo offerings as Street Crime UK, scrapping and fighting on the British high street, but at least we’re only showing ourselves up… to ourselves. In economically less developed countries, there’s a repulsive, baseless swagger in the step of so many UK travellers, who seem to think their comparatively high earnings mean they can own the place and its people. You hear them everywhere in eastern Europe and Asia, complaining their smug little faces off about everything and making snide remarks about the locals inability to understand their often regionally-accented English. And they‘re not even drunk. Now I can’t quite tell if Boozed Up Brits Abroad is taking the piss or not - it’s never that judgemental of the strutting cretins who feature on the show, but nor does it really praise their unpleasant conduct either. Whichever way, the presence of a camera crew probably makes them act even more dickishly to impress their grinning, equally repugnant ilk back home. But if there’s one thing to be thankful of, it’s that the programme seems to follow only groups of British guys on their weekends spent further devaluing the country’s international credibility. Committing hen nights to film would be truly horrid, as they’d just feature flock after flock of the sort of mutton-dressed-as-mutton you’d usually see in a TV darts crowd, or sagging miserably out of a Primark top on any Chicago Rock Café dance floor. I’d much rather spill Gary from Chelmsford’s pint than be exposed to any such mad cows. Or woefully mixed metaphors.