As I mentioned before I’m British, so the chances are I’m looking to give you a tip…

After sitting through an hour of head-banging against the self-imposed limits of your conversation making skills – I’ve got to say you’re chances aren’t looking great.

However, after sitting through an hour of head-banging against the self-imposed limits of your conversation making skills, AND your flat out refusal to cut me any slack – I’ve got to say your chances aren’t looking great. Especially when I get the distinct impression that you’re in a hurry to get back to whichever ropey seasonaire in sweaty thermals is your squeeze this week.

It’s the first day of my holiday and thanks to your grumpy, hard-arsed attitude, I’ve arrived at the chalet with some broken kit, some worthless “insider” information and a few years taken off my life because of your penchant for driving whilst smelling like a brewery. At least we can agree on one thing, those French drivers sure are crazy, and for that reason alone, here’s a couple of euros to get you out of my face and my life for at least a week. You ass-clown.