Brits Oot

Is a British tourist in a Hawaiian shirt such as sin?
Well, yes in the sense that the instant reaction is correctly "what an abortion".
But do we have so much that we can afford to turn some down?
Isn't it a little colour every now again slightly wonderful?

OK, it is sinister to see a 60-year-old guy in cutoff three-quarter length trousers.
It's like a clown's smile. Not right. Uneasy.
But what are they supposed to do, they're comfy, you racist!

Maybe a little loudness means you can still remember how to enjoy yourself.

But there is an icon of common in these supposedly trashy resorts.
The resorts are beautiful even if they might have one too many tribute bands. You can always switch over.
And how can you do a tribute to Chubby Brown without ripping it off his material? In exactly the same way he did. Oh, I get it now!

These places are knowing, populist and built to survive recession.
They're fun and it's an admirable model.

The critique that feeds the critics perhaps shouldn't be the people. Or the resort.
But there is one internationally recognized symbol of bargain-basement crud.
One cardinal signature of border-neutralising tat.
The purest diagnostic sign that seeps across the continents:

Red Coca-Cola chairs.
Let's melt them all down and make party balloons for the Foam Disco.