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(Yahoo)   Stop me if you've heard this one before: a jet flying from Glasgow to Ibiza had to make an emergency landing because a bunch of drunk Scots were dancing down the aisle   (news.yahoo.com) divider line 28
    More: Amusing, Glasgow to Ibiza, emergency landing, French capital  
•       •       •

1845 clicks; posted to Main » on 18 Sep 2013 at 4:00 PM (1 year ago)   |  Favorite    |   share:  Share on Twitter share via Email Share on Facebook   more»



28 Comments   (+0 »)
   
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2013-09-18 03:53:43 PM  
Ring ding diddle diddle i dee o, ring di diddley i o ....
 
2013-09-18 04:02:13 PM  
But were they true Scotsmen?
 
2013-09-18 04:04:10 PM  
i1.ytimg.com
 
2013-09-18 04:05:25 PM  
ts1.mm.bing.net
 
2013-09-18 04:05:55 PM  
Drunk Scots?
You repeat yourself subby
 
2013-09-18 04:06:01 PM  
A wee beige number?
 
2013-09-18 04:08:26 PM  
Yes, I quite agree I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep. What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Pow ell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realize they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing enterovioform and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...
www.discshop.se
 
2013-09-18 04:09:03 PM  

bump: [i1.ytimg.com image 480x360]


Is that Issac Asimov?
 
2013-09-18 04:10:29 PM  
The next time someone asks me why I'm not going to Ibiza when I'm in Spain I'll show them this.

Ibiza:  Where else can you hang out with Eurotrash and yobs at the same time?
 
2013-09-18 04:11:13 PM  
you could have just said "scots."
 
2013-09-18 04:12:12 PM  
btw, "ibiza" is best said in a broad cockney accent: "oi-beeeezah" for full loutish effect.
 
mhd
2013-09-18 04:12:45 PM  

FlashHarry: you could have just said "scots."


And at least added some quotes around dancing.
 
2013-09-18 04:14:08 PM  
We were on a rock 'n roll booze cruise in Grand Cayman one time, then started a conga line.  They asked us to stop lest we capsize the boat.
 
2013-09-18 04:14:55 PM  
Or as I call it; a family reunion.

There isn't anything worn under my kilt.

Everything is in perfect working order.
 
2013-09-18 04:16:21 PM  
I lady that I know just came from Majorca Spain
She smiled because I did not understand
 
2013-09-18 04:17:52 PM  

MBooda: Yes, I quite agree I mean what's the point of being treated like sheep. What's the point of going abroad if you're just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Coventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, complaining about the tea - "Oh they don't make it properly here, do they, not like at home" - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamares and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White's suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they "overdid it on the first day." And being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Continentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they're acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you're not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.And then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman Remains to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney's Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing "Torremolinos, torremolinos" and complaining about the food - "It's so greasy isn't it?" - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday's Daily Express and he drones on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Pow ell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres. And sending tinted postcards of places they don't realize they haven't even visited to "All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an 'X'. Food very greasy but we've found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays 'Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner'." And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried BEA-type sandwiches and you can't even get a drink of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England and the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty and there's nowhere to sleep and the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ash-trays and they keep telling you it'll only be another hour although your plane is still in Iceland and has to take some Swedes to Yugoslavia before it can load you up at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning and you sit on the tarmac till six because of "unforeseen difficulties", i.e. the permanent strike of Air Traffic Control in Paris - and nobody can go to the lavatory until you take off at 8, and when you get to Malaga airport everybody's swallowing enterovioform and queuing for the toilets and queuing for the armed customs officers, and queuing for the bloody bus that isn't there to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been finished. And when you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel del Sol by paying half your holiday money to a licensed bandit in a taxi you find there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the taps, there's no water in the bog and there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet. And half the rooms are double booked and you can't sleep anyway because of the permanent twenty-four-hour drilling of the foundations of the hotel next door - and you're plagues by appalling apprentice chemists from Ealing pretending to be hippies, and middle-class stockbrokers' wives busily buying identical holiday villas in suburban development plots just like Esher, in case the Labour government gets in again, and fat American matrons with sloppy-buttocks and Hawaiian-patterned ski pants looking for any mulatto male who can keep it up long enough when they finally let it all flop out. And the Spanish Tourist Board promises you that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a case of mild Spanish tummy, like the previous outbreak of Spanish tummy in 1660 which killed half London and decimated Europe - and meanwhile the bloody Guardia are busy arresting sixteen-year-olds for kissing in the streets and shooting anyone under nineteen who doesn't like Franco. And then on the last day in the airport lounge everyone's comparing sunburns, drinking Nasty Spumante, buying cartons of duty free "cigarillos" and using up their last pesetas on horrid dolls in Spanish National costume and awful straw donkeys and bullfight posters with your name on "Ordoney, El Cordobes and Brian Pules of Norwich" and 3-D pictures of the Pope and Kennedy and Franco, and everybody's talking about coming again next year and you swear you never will although there you are tumbling bleary-eyed out of a tourist-tight antique Iberian airplane...


One of the best screeds ever written.
 
2013-09-18 04:22:46 PM  
 
2013-09-18 04:49:29 PM  
 
2013-09-18 04:58:15 PM  

Rapmaster2000: The next time someone asks me why I'm not going to Ibiza when I'm in Spain I'll show them this.

Ibiza:  Where else can you hang out with Eurotrash and yobs at the same time?


If you just let yourself go and enjoy it it's the greatest place on Earth.

Just take... something, and head off to Privilege. I had previously held the same reservations you have expressed there. I could not have been more wrong. It's so easy to just have fun. Effortless fun. It is an amazing place, and everyone is so nice and friendly.

Those Scottish people are not typical of everyone there, only typical of the undeserved stereotype it has. You could climb Mt. Everest and meet a dickhead. They will, however, be kicking themselves, because chances are they are going to miss the closing parties. I'd give my left nut to be there on Monday for the last ASOT of the season.
 
2013-09-18 05:22:28 PM  
Where did they bury the survivors?
 
2013-09-18 06:14:02 PM  
At least that would be the wrong time for a hijacker to make an attempt.

KEEP ON DANCING!
 
2013-09-18 06:23:28 PM  
Great Scots!
 
2013-09-18 06:23:52 PM  
At 18, I flew standby out of Boston to Las Vegas on a TWA flight booked with patrons of an Irish pub who once a year would go to Las Vegas. I still have flashbacks.
 
2013-09-18 07:24:41 PM  
Been to Ibiza and it was amazingly fun! Privilege, Space, Ibiza Rocks Hotel, Cream, bora bora... Crystal sand top-optional beaches (and more than a few ladies opting to not wear their swimsuit bottoms), scuba diving. Cliff diving, gathering on the west beaches to watch the sun set.

Everyone is friendly, the ladies are (for the most part) beautiful, and no one really cares what country you are from.

I can't wait to go again.
 
2013-09-18 09:36:16 PM  
Well what the hell are a bunch of Scots on a plane supposed to do, cry in their beer?
 
2013-09-19 03:34:43 AM  

Bschott007: Been to Ibiza and it was amazingly fun! Privilege, Space, Ibiza Rocks Hotel, Cream, bora bora... Crystal sand top-optional beaches (and more than a few ladies opting to not wear their swimsuit bottoms), scuba diving. Cliff diving, gathering on the west beaches to watch the sun set.

Everyone is friendly, the ladies are (for the most part) beautiful, and no one really cares what country you are from.

I can't wait to go again.


Yep. It's great to be sure. It's going to be an annual holiday. Reckon we could rustle up a Fark party in privilege?
 
2013-09-19 12:35:31 PM  

Slaxl: Bschott007: Been to Ibiza and it was amazingly fun! Privilege, Space, Ibiza Rocks Hotel, Cream, bora bora... Crystal sand top-optional beaches (and more than a few ladies opting to not wear their swimsuit bottoms), scuba diving. Cliff diving, gathering on the west beaches to watch the sun set.

Everyone is friendly, the ladies are (for the most part) beautiful, and no one really cares what country you are from.

I can't wait to go again.

Yep. It's great to be sure. It's going to be an annual holiday. Reckon we could rustle up a Fark party in privilege?


I would be game for that!
 
2013-09-19 03:16:57 PM  

Bschott007: Slaxl: Bschott007: Been to Ibiza and it was amazingly fun! Privilege, Space, Ibiza Rocks Hotel, Cream, bora bora... Crystal sand top-optional beaches (and more than a few ladies opting to not wear their swimsuit bottoms), scuba diving. Cliff diving, gathering on the west beaches to watch the sun set.

Everyone is friendly, the ladies are (for the most part) beautiful, and no one really cares what country you are from.

I can't wait to go again.

Yep. It's great to be sure. It's going to be an annual holiday. Reckon we could rustle up a Fark party in privilege?

I would be game for that!


Have a TotalFark, and a big green favouriting colour. We'll have to try something next year. All I have now are memories. Awesome memories. Need to keep making them.
 
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