CLINTON: [ inarticulate-high-pitched-screeching ]
CLAIRE: "No no no no no no no....."
CLINTON: "...and then surrounded by adenoidal typists from Birmingham with diarrhea and flabby white legs and hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel, and then, once a week there's an excursion to the local Roman ruins where you can buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel, and one night they take you to a local restaurant with local color and coloring and they show you there and you sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keeps singing 'Torremolinos, Torremolinos' and complaining about the food: 'Oh! It's so greasy isn't it?' and then you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic and Dr. Scholl Sandals and last Tuesday's 'Daily Express' and he drones on and on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up all over the Cuba Libres........and sending tinted postcards of places they don't know they haven't even visited: 'To all at Number 22, weather wonderful, our room marked with an "X", wish you were here... ... food very greasy but we have managed to find this marvellous little place hidden away in the back streets... ... where you can even get Watney's Red Barrel and cheese and onion... ... crisps and the accordionist plays "Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner"' and spending four days on the tarmac at Luton airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dried Watney's sandwhiches... "