The horror of summer in a small market town.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that time of year has swung round again. It's time for those in their boats and croc sandles to grace us with their prensence and swan among us, our overlords, our customers, our income. Yes, I'm talking about Grockels. Those loud mouthed yuppies with all the fashion sense of a delirious goldfish. And much less common sense to boot.
I understand that they're needed for our local economy. But is it really necessary for them to arrive in cars that would rival a cruiseliner in a width contest? What's more, with their floppy wigs hanging in their eyes, the can't see out of the backs of their jerk mobiles to reverse. And with their black-out sunglasses, the blighters are unable to see that they are infact 2 feet away from the hedge, making unsuspecting locals drive through the hedge and possibly into the field on the other side.

The large part of their visit that hacks me off, is that the grockel season is the only time of year when anything interesting happens. During the winter, there's nothing for anyone around the coastal fishing villages to do. When the sun comes out and the beaches are warm enough to sit on, and there are local events being held... BAM! The grockels swarm and swamp the beaches, giving the locals the damp, crowded part in the shade at the end of the beach and congregate infront of the event, giving locals the back to stand and stretch their necks as the peer among a forrest of pink hats and glasses straps.

As a friend of mine once wrote on a t-shirt, wearing it as he sailed up the Salcombe estuary at height of season:

"DIE YUPPIE SCUM"

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On a slightly lighter note, here's a picture:



Taken with my brand new dslr. More to come possibly.

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