Hols in Bri­tain? Not while you’re here, Stephen!

Midweek Sport - - FRONT PAGE -

ONE man guar­an­teed to get my blood bub­bling like the Old Faith­ful geyser in Amer­ica’s Yel­low­stone Na­tional Park is Stephen F***ING Fry.

Not con­tent with be­ing an in­suf­fer­ably smug c*** on telly se­ries QI where he knows ev­ery­thing about ev­ery­thing, the portly geek pro­ceeds to pop up ev­ery time I open my eyes.

And you can bet your house that he’ll be talk­ing what he would no doubt call (mid­way through a self­sat­is­fy­ingly posh chuckle while arch­ing an all-know­ing eye­brow) “twad­dle”.

Or, as a poor un­e­d­u­cated oaf who didn’t get tossed off at Oxbridge – like me, for in­stance – might put it, shite.

This tire­some “na­tional trea­sure”– no, me nei­ther – is on a telly near you right now in a Gov­ern­ment backed ad­ver­tis­ing cam­paign to get us plebs to hol­i­day in the UK in­stead of abroad.

Hold­ing up a china cup of tea in one hand, and a saucer in the other, the mul­ti­mil­lion­aire toff chor­tles to the cam­era: “Why on earth would any­one want to go abroad in 2012?”

Now, as much as I like what Stephen prob­a­bly calls Old Blighty, what the F*** do I want to take my hol­i­days here for?

The weather’s shite, ev­ery­one’s skint, ev­ery­thing costs a

Stephen Fry F***ing c**t!

for­tune, and, frankly, Hi-de-hi style hol­i­day camps don’t re­ally do it for me any­more.

There’s no top­less sun­bathing, there’s no Ma­galuf live sex shows, and I’ve no chance of smash­ing in the back doors of a pissed tart from Bul­garia.

Why would any­one want to go abroad in 2012, Stephen?

To get away from YOU, you C**T!

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