The Archive

Beach in heat

The Guardian today has a piece which, with typical journalistic integrity, it trails with the phrase “Can the perfect beach really be located in the British Isles?”.

Hmmm. Forgive my cynicism, but can anyone seriously think a few mange-ridden Donkey, 78mph winds and a Flake 99, so called because it now actually costs £99 from a scary man in a transit with a hole cut in the side, really constitutes the best beach life has to offer?

I don’t think so. Could you seriously imagine Leo DiCaprio in the UK version of The Beach.

Leo: “Hail there wild and clearly drug addled stranger.”
Stranger: “Hello. Would you like some of my Tennants Super young man.”
Leo: “Er, no thanks.”
Stranger: “Then I shall tell you of a secret place instead.”
Leo: “Really? What manner of place is this?”
Stranger: “It is a beach, purer and more perfect than any found before. Like Brighton it be, but it has sand where Brighton has pebbles.”
Leo: (gasps)
Stranger: “But there’s more. For it is said that there is very little dog shit on this beach of dreams. And nary a sight of a heavily tatttoed fat man in an England shirt.”
Leo: “I must visit this extraordinary place. Where is it? Where?”
Stranger: “Wait! I shall tell thee, but only after sharing this… there is no chip shop within sight of this golden shore, and saveloys are just a distant memory.”
Leo: “No chip shop? What about a pub showing Sky?”
Stranger: “Nope.”
Leo: “Oh forget it then, I’ll stay here. (sings) get yer tits out, get yer tits out, get yer tits out for the lads.”

The End.

posted by Peter The Great @ 12:46 PM