discoplayer
Active Member
if 181 people hadnt bean killed over the weekend i would have 
'd about that comment....
'd about that comment....
if 181 people hadnt bean killed over the weekend i would have
oh 5h1t, didn't realise it was so bad (not really been following the news that closely)
I dont mean to **** on Ausie traditions, its just I don't understand them.
Things like, cricket and VB and stuff like that.
I don't eat meat pies, I don't 'put shrimp on the barbie' and all that.
It's just a culture clash to me.
I don't know what Australian culture is. At work when they bust out the lingo, I just, don't get it.
181 AUSTRALIAN'S died. I felt it to. .. Even if they weren't "Italian Australians", I felt it.
I donated more money than I could afford.
And yes it's cut into my trip to Ibiza a little bit. But, I love this country and the people in it. All of them, even if they can't love me for having a culture from a different land.
See, when the world says 'Australian', they don't think of a dark haired, olive skinned boy who eats more pasta than pies.
They think of flannel shirts, mullets and kangaroos. Just when we think of Italians, we probably think of Papa Jiuseppe. Now, not all Australians fit that stereotype. Not all Italians fit the Mario one.
It's those stereotypical bogan traditions I can't understand. They are very rude, and their accent is very, well, just ****ing annoying
But mine is also very annoying to them, and I'm probably frigid to them. I won't hate them as people, I'll even go and, put another shrimp on the barbie with them.
But I can't sit and talk cricket. I can't fart infront of them. I can't drink beer until I pass out with them. .. Get wat I mean?
Things like, cricket and VB and stuff like that.
I don't eat meat pies, I don't 'put shrimp on the barbie' and all that.
It's just a culture clash to me.
I don't know what Australian culture is. At work when they bust out the lingo, I just, don't get it.
181 AUSTRALIAN'S died. I felt it to. .. Even if they weren't "Italian Australians", I felt it.
I donated more money than I could afford.
And yes it's cut into my trip to Ibiza a little bit. But, I love this country and the people in it. All of them, even if they can't love me for having a culture from a different land.
See, when the world says 'Australian', they don't think of a dark haired, olive skinned boy who eats more pasta than pies.
They think of flannel shirts, mullets and kangaroos. Just when we think of Italians, we probably think of Papa Jiuseppe. Now, not all Australians fit that stereotype. Not all Italians fit the Mario one.
It's those stereotypical bogan traditions I can't understand. They are very rude, and their accent is very, well, just ****ing annoying
But mine is also very annoying to them, and I'm probably frigid to them. I won't hate them as people, I'll even go and, put another shrimp on the barbie with them.
But I can't sit and talk cricket. I can't fart infront of them. I can't drink beer until I pass out with them. .. Get wat I mean?
I
icebaer69
Guest
what is that ???
ive a great link for you:
http://just****inggoogleit.com/
ps you may want to that on your own name - *laughs*
impressive package btw
Don Simon
Well-Known Member
discoplayer
Active Member
i'm from melbourne.... like you.....
discoplayer
Active Member
*drools* soooooooooooooo frikkin good....
with homemade aioli & lemon *double drool*
I
icebaer69
Guest
"...
Benidorm lager louts?
What about those Himalayan espresso louts?
Britons are the worst behaved tourists in the world,
according to a group of European hoteliers.
We are messy, we complain and we don’t tip generously enough.
The Association of British Travel Agents says that communication is the main problem:
we don’t bother even to order drinks and food in the local language.
The only plus for continental hoteliers and bar owners is that we spend more
on holiday than any other nation, worrying about the cost once we get home.
Now, you might well be thinking that this is going to be yet another article
wailing about how terrible it is to go on holiday to Ibiza, say, and find that the moment
you step outside the grounds of your secluded villa you are surrounded
by red-faced louts and their spaghetti-strapped, midriff-baring concubines
staggering along what would otherwise be picturesque cobbled streets.
They clutter the bijou bars, ruin the peaceful joy of sniffing the bougainvillea-scented air,
and litter my own middle-class vision of what it is to be on vacation.
If you think that is what I am about to proclaim, you are as wrong as if you
were wearing white socks with sandals.
I first thought about the injustice of only the rich thinking they own the rights
to the world’s beauty spots, to its sunshine and smells,
when I went on holiday to a small island off the coast of Mozambique.
I took a succession of aeroplanes that decreased in size, Russian-doll fashion,
in order to reach this far-flung patch of paradise.
I stayed in an open-sided log villa that had not long before been slept in
by Nancy Dell’Olio and Sven-Goran Eriksson.
I got to watch, by torchlight, giant turtles lay their eggs in the hot sand.
Only a few feet away from this spectacle was the village where the locals lived.
The men were mostly alcoholics and the women defeated by repetitive manual labour,
such as teetering on the edge of a stinking well to haul up water,
or tending scrub-like patches of crops.
The children had the swollen bellies of malnutrition, while each morning I was greeted
by a man whose raison d’etre was to squeeze my pineapples.
The same uncomfortable friction was true when I holidayed in Jamaica.
I was driven through the capital, gazing at the poverty on the streets, and then
ensconced in what turned out to be a fortress patrolled by guards with machine guns.
I had my own Jamaican butler who prepared my food and looked after me.
He worked a 14-hour day, six days a week, and never saw his family.
In India, staying on the banks of the lake at Udaipur, I was ashamed to be bathing
in rose petals when, a few feet below me, women and children were washing in
and drinking from the dregs of a lake bled dry by its necklace of five-star hotels.
In Thailand, the young man whose job it was to take me out on a boat at dawn
and hold my hand as I snorkelled had dreams of becoming a doctor but instead
had to kowtow to a stupid woman (me) who was worried about scratching
her Cartier Tank.
In Cambodia, I went by elephant to watch the sun come up over the Angkor ruins.
Among the fallen rocks were tiny naked children begging, ignored by tourists
who had come to see where Lara Croft: Tomb Raider had been filmed.
On a walking holiday in one of India’s most northern states, in the shadow
of the Himalayas, I thought I was being very back-to-basics, tramping from village
to village in my high-tech walking boots, while in fact my holiday choice meant
a very old man had to carry my suitcase walking behind me.
All he had on his feet were flip-flops.
To my shame, given the locals didn’t have electricity and cooked on wood fires
on dirt floors, each morning I insisted they make espresso coffee for me.
I had brought along my own Illy beans and a special pot.
I wonder what these people think of us with our cameras and our iPods.
I’m sure it’s no better than what goes through a Greek taverna owner’s mind
as he sweeps up broken bottles.
We need to think less about the world being our playground and more about it being fair.
While luxury resorts have been built in the poorest parts of the world precisely so
that the well-heeled can bask momentarily and not too closely in authenticity,
you wonder how much more offensive these holidays are
than the bargain-basement alternative in the Costa del Sol,
so excluded are local people from being able to cash in
in any way, shape or Benidorm.
..."
(dailymail.co.uk)
Benidorm lager louts?
What about those Himalayan espresso louts?
Britons are the worst behaved tourists in the world,
according to a group of European hoteliers.
We are messy, we complain and we don’t tip generously enough.
The Association of British Travel Agents says that communication is the main problem:
we don’t bother even to order drinks and food in the local language.
The only plus for continental hoteliers and bar owners is that we spend more
on holiday than any other nation, worrying about the cost once we get home.
Now, you might well be thinking that this is going to be yet another article
wailing about how terrible it is to go on holiday to Ibiza, say, and find that the moment
you step outside the grounds of your secluded villa you are surrounded
by red-faced louts and their spaghetti-strapped, midriff-baring concubines
staggering along what would otherwise be picturesque cobbled streets.
They clutter the bijou bars, ruin the peaceful joy of sniffing the bougainvillea-scented air,
and litter my own middle-class vision of what it is to be on vacation.
If you think that is what I am about to proclaim, you are as wrong as if you
were wearing white socks with sandals.
I first thought about the injustice of only the rich thinking they own the rights
to the world’s beauty spots, to its sunshine and smells,
when I went on holiday to a small island off the coast of Mozambique.
I took a succession of aeroplanes that decreased in size, Russian-doll fashion,
in order to reach this far-flung patch of paradise.
I stayed in an open-sided log villa that had not long before been slept in
by Nancy Dell’Olio and Sven-Goran Eriksson.
I got to watch, by torchlight, giant turtles lay their eggs in the hot sand.
Only a few feet away from this spectacle was the village where the locals lived.
The men were mostly alcoholics and the women defeated by repetitive manual labour,
such as teetering on the edge of a stinking well to haul up water,
or tending scrub-like patches of crops.
The children had the swollen bellies of malnutrition, while each morning I was greeted
by a man whose raison d’etre was to squeeze my pineapples.
The same uncomfortable friction was true when I holidayed in Jamaica.
I was driven through the capital, gazing at the poverty on the streets, and then
ensconced in what turned out to be a fortress patrolled by guards with machine guns.
I had my own Jamaican butler who prepared my food and looked after me.
He worked a 14-hour day, six days a week, and never saw his family.
In India, staying on the banks of the lake at Udaipur, I was ashamed to be bathing
in rose petals when, a few feet below me, women and children were washing in
and drinking from the dregs of a lake bled dry by its necklace of five-star hotels.
In Thailand, the young man whose job it was to take me out on a boat at dawn
and hold my hand as I snorkelled had dreams of becoming a doctor but instead
had to kowtow to a stupid woman (me) who was worried about scratching
her Cartier Tank.
In Cambodia, I went by elephant to watch the sun come up over the Angkor ruins.
Among the fallen rocks were tiny naked children begging, ignored by tourists
who had come to see where Lara Croft: Tomb Raider had been filmed.
On a walking holiday in one of India’s most northern states, in the shadow
of the Himalayas, I thought I was being very back-to-basics, tramping from village
to village in my high-tech walking boots, while in fact my holiday choice meant
a very old man had to carry my suitcase walking behind me.
All he had on his feet were flip-flops.
To my shame, given the locals didn’t have electricity and cooked on wood fires
on dirt floors, each morning I insisted they make espresso coffee for me.
I had brought along my own Illy beans and a special pot.
I wonder what these people think of us with our cameras and our iPods.
I’m sure it’s no better than what goes through a Greek taverna owner’s mind
as he sweeps up broken bottles.
We need to think less about the world being our playground and more about it being fair.
While luxury resorts have been built in the poorest parts of the world precisely so
that the well-heeled can bask momentarily and not too closely in authenticity,
you wonder how much more offensive these holidays are
than the bargain-basement alternative in the Costa del Sol,
so excluded are local people from being able to cash in
in any way, shape or Benidorm.
..."
(dailymail.co.uk)
hauskitten
No longer active
I am most likely to be hounded to the point of stalking by Italian men who don't understand the meaning of F OFF
discoplayer
Active Member
1st time i went to rome i got pinched on the arse TWICE in one day & had a teary about it!
even called home!! that was like 12 years ago though... id prolly smash em if they tried that **** now! italian men can be pretty vile though......
1st time i went to rome i got pinched on the arse TWICE in one day & had a teary about it!
italian men can be pretty vile though......
it's all front though. Basically Italians look the part and talk the part but they don't walk the part.. the reality is they are all spoonfed by Mamma at home and the moment they are out of that comfort zone, they sink.
I
icebaer69
Guest
hauskitten
No longer active
One of them followed me to my room and waited outside at the end of the corridor, I swore I saw a head peeking round the corner but thought nothing of it. When I came back out he jumped out on me and grabbed me. I pushed him away and said 'Get the F off me!' He said 'you donta want to kees me'!! I got away from him and went in the lift and he followed me in, by now I was thinking ohhh sh** but he just stood infront of me and stared until we got to the ground floor and I made my escape.. This was one of numerous incidents that happened to me when I went alone with my kids!
Oh?