I shan't be writing about what I've done and where I've been in Europe. Two reasons: First, such articles always, no matter how whimsical, no matter how much of a disaster the trip, always but always read as rather arrogantly boastful; Second, I have hated writing What I've Done On My Holidays pieces ever since Mr Tennyson, an otherwise excellent teacher with wild white hair, an out of control tie and a cane which he used for pointing out the words to the hymns, forced me against my will to write just such a piece about a catastrophic holiday in Wales (mumps, rain, woodlice). The experiences of one's formative years are not easily overridden.
What I will say, though, is that the only time I felt threatened on the whole trip was on the train from Leeds to Harrogate, which was stuffed full of drunk rugby thugs, fighting and chanting (this despite the fact that their team had won; I'd have hated to have seen what they'd have been like if they'd lost). It was especially disappointing given that I had flown back from Greece where, though there was a large basketball tournament which had attracted large crowds around every television, there was absolutely no unpleasantness at all. It was a shame, I thought, to come home to a threatening country. It's nice to be home, though. I'm happy to brave the thugs for a decent cup of tea.
The rugby thugs were supporting, incidentally, the Leeds Rhinos, a name which presumably refers to the animal blessed with equivalent intelligence to their supporters.
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