Bloody Tourists

'WHERE are the DONKEYS. YOU SAID there'd be DONKEYS'

I don't dislike tourists. Tourists are the source of my sustenance and wellbeing. Without tourists I would have to subsist on a diet of gruel, sliced white and tap water. 98% of my guests are great people. Some of them come year after year and are, I hope, lifelong friends. It's the other 2% that present the problem. They are the bane of my life. I'm sure they are the bane of their own lives, their childrens lives, their relatives lives and their next door neighbours lives.

The baleful impact of this gruesome 2% manifests itself in two forms:

1) The gormless fuckwit question asker.

Here are some of the stupid questions I have been asked down the years:

• My front door. Sunday, 9.00am. Q: 'Why isn't the shop open?. I always get my Sunday Times at 9.00am in Basingstoke'. A: 'Newspapers are published in London you stupid tosser. They are delivered by train, ferry and van. This is the north west of Scotland. How the hell do you expect them to get here by 9.00am; fucking CARRIER PIGEON?
• My front door. Sunday, 9.15am. The hillwalkers. Q: ' We're Monro (mountains over 3000 ft) baggers. We've looked at our maps. There aren't any Monros around here. Where's the nearest Monro?' A: 'Why, in the name of God, didn't you check your OS maps before you got here you pair of clueless imbeciles. If you look carefully you'll find that most of the mountains around here are about 50 ft short of Monro status. They have better views. Why not climb one of those you tasteless monomaniacs. Now get your hideous, lurid, Goretex encased carcasses out of my sight. Wankers'.
• The local shop. Sunday, 11.15am. Q: 'This suntan lotion is £4.99! That's daylight robbery. It's only £4.15 in my Milton Keynes Tesco. How do they expect to get away with charging those sort of prices? It's outrageous'. A: 'This shop sells about 10 bottles of suntan lotion per week. Tesco sells about 50,000. Haven't you heard of bulk buying and economies of scale you mong brained ignoramous'.
• My front door. Saturday. 11.15pm. Q: 'Sorry we're late. We're hungry. Where can we get something to eat?' A: 'If you pop down to Glasgow you might find a kebab shop open. If you're quick. No you can't have a pint of milk. Can you have a loaf of bread? What do you think I am, a bakery. Kindly fuck off. I've had to wait about for you bastards when I could have been down the pub SO DON'T EXPECT ANY SYMPATHY FROM ME'.
• My front door. Sunday, 11.30am. Q: 'We like to go fishing. Are there any fish in this loch?' A: ' No, a nuclear sub sank last week. The radiation killed all the fish. Of course there are fish in the loch. It's the SEA,you clueless twats'.
• My front door. Sunday, 12.45pm. Q: 'We're thinking of going to the hotel for lunch, what's their soup like?'. A: 'Hot and wet'. Slams door. Goes to pub.

Of course, I don't say any of things. I am helpful and courteous to a T. But I'm THINKING them. Next time you go on holiday please, please think before you ask.

2) The pernickety complainer.

These boils on the backside of humanity are thankfully rare. I take pride in what I do and can count the number of pathetic git complainers I've encountered on one hand. Thing is, they UPSET me. They never, ever say anything to your face.They have their weeks holiday and then write to complain that they couldn't find the salad tongs. Why don't you look in the right drawer you blind moron. Someone even sent me a photo of a cracked verhanda tile. Fair enough it was cracked; but it was a hairline crack, barely visible to the naked fucking eye. Tosser.

It's difficult not to develop the odd Fawltyish tic when you work in this trade. I think I've escaped pretty lightly. I am, on the whole, sweetness and light and affability personified.

My neighbouring hotelier ( a real call a spade a spade Yorkshireman) took a slighty different approach:

'IF YOU DON'T FUCKING LIKE IT YOU CAN FUCK OFF YOU FUCKING FUCK'

It's an interesting approach to customer relations. Maybe I'll give it a try sometime.