It was a few years back that I first heard this term. I’ve no idea who coined it, but I got it from people working in the Caribbean, who would always lament the stopover of the London-Trinidad flight in one of the holiday isles, when the half empty plane would fill up with be-tanned, be-braided and be-beered Brits giving off a distinct odour of coconut oil. I guess the bitterness sets in when you’ve been sequestered somewhere for months locked in a sweaty room working your arse off, suddenly confronted with a stack of holiday makers, heading back to reality with not a care in the world. And hey, we brits abroad certainly eat a lot of chips…
I thought about this again recently when confronted with another chipeating experience, this time in the Gambia. Just in town briefly for a meeting, dodgy airline schedules meant I had a rare Sunday afternoon free in a work destination. Our hotel of choice is big bungalow complex and on walking in I immediately felt like I was in the Canary Islands; little apartments with dusty tables outside; blocked toilet; broken TV. That sort of thing :-). Anyhow it was a lovely little place with a pretty garden, beautiful beachfront location and friendly staff. But I think the fact that I haven’t been on a beach holiday for a good many years now (I get bored!) has turned me into something of a prude, because what struck me most was the sheer nakidity – mostly wobbly, stripy, lobster-y nudity. Having lunch with a colleague surrounded by the naked pink boobs of your compatriots is a peculiar thing, but of course I can’t complain about that because we were the odd ones out having a business lunch in a holiday resort. But I will complain about people leaving the complex and wandering the streets with it all hanging out. Not only is it a muslim country, but that particular day was a public holiday in celebration for the prophet’s birthday! I am now in full rant mode but I reckon a bit of respect wouldn’t go a miss.
And don’t even get me started on the female sex tourism …
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Sounds like you've discovered the as yet not catalogued: "Eating with the Tit-Wavers". I have vague recollections of sharing a similar experience in Croatia where a family of old leather bags were passing themselves off as a group of sun-bronzed locals.
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