Faux Star
Death of the Bourgeoisie!
They say pride comes before a fall. Having worked in sales for years, I’m aware falls come frequently. Pride, when it eventually came, was just a brief respite from the pain celebrated in a bar. I intentionally don’t remember the falls, and why would I when I’m banging on all day long about how great I am? So dear reader, please forgive and indeed forget the next few paragraphs, where I confess another recent fall.
Shortly after bragging to the world that I was going on a holiday which would normally only be taken by the true bourgeoisie, I discovered that the ONLY hotel I’m staying in that is recognised as 5-star is the shitty airport hotel where we reside for one night before departing Blighty. It is one step up from the Premier Inn, I grant you, but I doubt we are going to be fighting over a sausage with the Kardashians at the breakfast buffet.
The truth is, despite my delusions of grandeur, which briefly got the better of me. Not a single one of our hotels has been awarded 5 stars by the Canadian Tourist Board. This is in a country where most people live in log cabins and eat beaver. Would you believe even the hotel that is directly adjacent to a McDonald’s AND a Tim Hortons only rates 4 stars?
Basically, we are slumming it the whole way. Next, you’ll be telling me my dirt-cheap discounted business class British Airways ticket doesn’t get me caviar on the plane? Ha, of course it doesn’t, I’ll be lucky if I get fish fingers. Not that I really wanted caviar. Most of the food I love (burgers) isn’t produced by a hairy Russian massaging the ovaries of a sedated sturgeon.
For the duration of this holiday, let’s refer to my lodgings as f*** star. You can assume it means ‘five’… or ‘four’... or ‘faux’… or just f***ing fantastic star! You keep telling yourselves your Easter break at one of Center Parcs finer prison camps is better than mine, you know you’re wrong.
That said, and to further repent my sins for bragging about flying in that there fancy business class. You should know that because I’m incredibly wealthy, my uber luxurious bourgeois class seats cost £437.50 per person per flight. Basically, I picked them up in the amazing middle aisle at Aldi.
If you would like to join me, you can book those same two tickets today for just £23,866. I kid you not. Now my company on holiday is pretty bloody awesome, but dare I suggest, it’s not worth quite that much. However, if you want, I’ll happily sell you Snuckem’s ticket for a nice round £10k.
That would go some way towards paying off her exorbitant pre-holiday spending. What do you mean, Steve? Well, you know how sunglasses wear out SO quickly? Here is how my conversation with her went:
Snuckems: “I could do with some new sunglasses!”
Me: “You do know it’s not going to be sunny!”
Snuckems: (rolls her eyes like I’m being a tight fisted unreasonable old git… you know the bloke she married.)
Me: “Do you really need new sunglasses, my darling little angel pie?”.
Snuckems: (laughs and walks off)
You guessed it, she’d already bought some. TWO PAIRS!? Oh, and a bag to match them! Because you know, your bag simply must complement your sunglasses!
F*** my f***ing life!
Wouldn’t it be hilarious if I just made this shit up for your amusement? But no, the aforementioned items are sat on the floor next to me as I type. Have they left the lovely ribbon-adorned shopping bag they came home in? Of course they haven’t.
I’m trying to work out if I hate my life or do I just hate my wife.
Stay tuned for the Snuckems vs Grizzly bear fight night blog!...
…I don’t fancy the bear’s chances.