The Post-Lockdown Holiday

“Well, now that lockdown is nearly over, we can finally sort out our holiday.”
 
“Yes, but where can we go?”
 
“The world is our oyster, we can go anywhere we like.”
 
“Well, how about Greece?”
 
“No, that would be a tragedy or should that be travesty, besides I don’t like John Travolta.”
 
“What about gay Paris?”
 
“To be franc, he seems like a nice boy, but I can’t see myself making the long journey through the tunnel in one go.”
 
“What about the borderlands between Germany and Poland then?”
 
“No, that would be even Oder and, besides, the Germans have already marked my card.”
 
“Denmark?”
 
“I wouldn’t go there to save my bacon.”
 
“What about Spain.”
 
“Bullocks - that’s a red flag.  It’s a load of bullocks and bullfighting.”
 
“Have you thought about Italy?”
 
“What have the Romans ever done for us?”
 
“Austria?”
 
“Non-grazie.”
 
“Hungary?”
 
“They don’t have anything decent to eat there, everybody leaves the table – well, starving.  If I had my way, the whole lot of them would be hung.”
 
“Portugal?”
 
“Not when they foisted that ghastly Mateus Rose wine off on us in the sixties and seventies and everyone turned the empty bottles into ghastly, electric table lamps?”
 
“Malta?”

“Now, that is a real teaser.”
 
“Why don’t we go to Estonia?”
 
“That’d be Tallin.”
 
“How about Latvia?”
 
“Oh, it’s so boring there, everybody seems to be suffering from riga mortis.”
 
“Lithuania?”
 
“I thought that the Germans had sunk it.”
 
“What about Luxembourg?”
 
“Bourger the Luxembourgers.”
      
“Bulgaria?”
 
“And bulgar the Bulgarians too.”
 
“Well how about Romania?  We could go to Transylvania.”
 
“Bloody hell!  That place would give anyone a pain in the neck.”
 
“Well, what do you think about Czechia?”
 
“I don’t think anything about it at all.  Heck, in fact I can’t even spell it.”
 
“Slovenia?”
 
“Lubyanka!  I’m not staying there!  The hospitality’s not great and they treat everyone like criminals.”
 
“What about Croatia?”
 
“It really makes me want to split.”
 
“How about Holland?”
 
“Oh, that would fall flat, besides tulips are definitely not my favourite flower and, anyway, I don’t like Mary Poppins’ Dick Van Dyke.”
 
“Belgium?”
 
“Belgium?  That’s a bit low, I’m persona non grata in Brussels and, besides, most of them are a right set of Wallonians.”
 
“What do you think about Cyprus?”

“I’m a bit half-hearted about it, as some scantily clad, young woman keeps jumping out of a clam shell, by Zeus.”
 
“Sweden?”
 
“Sweden?  Den of iniquity more like, what with mixed saunas and birch twigs and things like that.  Believe me, those birch twigs can be really painful in the right hands.”
 
“What about Finland then?”
 
“Definitely not!  It’s so far north it’s even colder than Ursula von der Leyen’s heart, if she has one that is.”
 
“Ireland?  What about Ireland?  I fancy Ireland.  Why don’t we go to Ireland?”
 
“Cork it and don’t keep harping on about it, besides I can’t stand Harp lager, or Guinness either, for that matter.”
 
“Slovakia?”
 
“No, it’s full of Brats and we need to support the Brits.  Well, the English anyway.  Covid 19 is still about and we must stay in England!  We’ll go to Barnard Castle.”
 
*
 
“Well, now that we’re here, it does seem rather nice.  It’s rather weird, though, as I think I’ve just had a case of déjà vu or have we been here before?  If we have, I can’t remember seeing any of these sights,” said Dominic Cummings to his wife.
 
“I think,” replied Dominic’s wife, “we should have gone to Specsavers - or perhaps Outer Mongolia; after all they don’t have an extradition treaty with the U. K.” 

THE END

(c) David A Jones