Going native

Even before the ‘f’ word comes out of your mouth, however, fulfilling his side of the bargain the generalissimo gypsy will already have the bonnet of your chariot of fire open and, quite oblivious to all the fumes, be tinkering around in the hot engine with the knife, fork and spoon he has magically produced from out of somewhere next to the ferret in his trousers. You will rush around to see what he is up to. Is he going to strip the engine down to the last spark plug? Is this a Johannesburg township? Such thoughts will crowd your already addled brain.

Just then, though, to truly add injury to insult, the moment you stick your head under the bonnet to take a shufti at the Heath Robinson repairs being executed, one of the other gypsies will lean his weary elbow on the bloody thing and down it will crash, catching you a corker on your already sore skull and bouncing your teeth off the radiator cap. You will collapse to the ground groaning like an Italian footballer in the penalty box and pass out.

Ten minutes later you will groggily come to. By this time your body will be covered in an old carpet, a goat will be licking your face and two paparazzi leaning over you.
"Can we take your photo, mate? We have been given permission to take a pic of some of the different locals by the editor at last and you guys look just the biscuit." Locals?

Oh god what mortification, will scream your erstwhile stylish wife by now hobbling around on one high-heel, the other having been chewed off by the first of the randy goats to hit the scene. Hearing the shriek, you will blink and try to spot her and your children in the crowd. But all you will see through the smoke is a dirty, dishevelled and mournfully faced bunch standing clueless around your by now wheel-less car. It will be impossible to tell your family and the villagers apart.

Moreover, as you struggle to focus on who’s who you will suddenly taste blood in your mouth and with your tongue feel around for your front teeth. Both will be missing, regrettably.

It is then that a shocking thought will hit home. Within the past half hour you have truly gone native, just as the holiday brochures promised you would! You have become one of the dusty, dancing, toothless band of local brothers with even an appropriately trashed motor to match! So your adventure vacation has really got off to a brilliant start. In fact, it’s definitely time for that first cocktail under the stars, both those spinning in your eyes and the others twinkling in the warm evening sky.

Happily, somehow your new gypsy buddy will read your thoughts at precisely that moment and quickly shove a cold bottle of high-octane rakiya to your cracked lips, the contents of which you will start glugging thirstily as camera flashes floodlight every twitch of your bobbing Adam’s apple.

Early next day back in London, your boss will sweep past his secretary’s desk and pick up the morning’s post and newspaper. The headline on the tabloid will yell ‘Eastern Europe collapses for the 655th time this week. Locals Hit Booze!’

"Hey, hahaha", he will guffaw holding the paper up so his PA can see. "Who does this toothless drunken bum on the front page remind you of? Johnson from Accounts, no?....... It’s his spitting image, isn’t it? Hmmm, hang on a second, where’d he say he was off to again? Wasn’t Bulgaria by any chance, was it?!"