Bungees and posh twats...

Time for a rant. I know it doesn’t always make for the best reading, but rant I must, that or say something rude and probably offend some of those around me, so rant I will. If you are easily offended by bad language, rudeness or my judgemental comments best skip to the next blog, hopefully I will be in a better mood by then!

Things started well enough this week with some white water rafting and a bungee jump. The white water rafting was a grade 3, so nothing too dangerous, but great fun nonetheless. To be honest, anything much stronger would have scared me and I like thrills, but not to the point when I think I am going to die, which brings us nicely to the bungee.

It is nearly 3 years since my last bungee. I say my last bungee loosely as I paid my money, got strapped up, went to the edge, looked down and then simply walked off the bridge, over Victoria falls, having made the mistake of looking down. This one was much smaller, but still big enough to have me shitting myself in the build up. Unlike last time, I managed to avoid looking down and hey presto, I found myself diving off a bridge with just an elastic band tied around my ankles to save me from death.

As you go over the edge, it is very scary stuff, and the water down below approaches fairly fast. Staring death in the face, putting your life in the hands of an elastic band and jumping off a bridge is easy though, compared to the challenge of biting your tongue, when presented with the past few days I have endured. I mean endured too, as we have ended up on a horse riding ranch, where the 3 people looking after us are from the one group of people I can’t stand, the English upper classes. Or to be more accurate, the condescending snobs of the English upper classes, recognising not all the upper classes are that way.

Things started badly for me, when we got invited to a wine tasting by the owner of the ranch. This guy was from a wealthy Anglo-Argentinian family and the reason for the wine tasting seemed to be so he could tell us all about his family and his roots. In passing he proceeded to inform us of the Argentinian wines we were drinking whilst returning whenever possible to tell us all about his life and how he had come to own a 600 acre farm of cows and horses. His hard work started when Daddy sent him to private school in the UK. Next up, Daddy got him a job at an international bank that sent him over the world for 12 years, before Daddy died, and he inherited Daddy’s 600 acre farm. Yes, you may have spotted the common theme here, one of doing SFA and Daddy giving you everything on a plate.

The thing is, I have met many pretentious wankers in my time, worked with many too, but to listen to this guy and not interrupt was painful enough, but I was actually paying for the privilege. Worse than his “look at me, aren’t I wonderful” lecture, was his tutting when I was the sole person to hold my hand up and say I am not a wine drinker. The patronising wanker actually tutted at me, as if drinking wine is somehow superior to drinking beer. Here’s the thing mate, wine was introduced to the modern world by the Romans, who I seem to recall also shagged horses among other things. Beer was introduced to the modern world by monks, closely linked to the heavens. So why should wine be considered superior to beer? Beer is drank by millions more people, but oh yeah, they are the commoners. Twat.

After hearing how Daddy enabled this prick to spend his life so wonderfully, sampling wine, riding horses all day, we were then introduced to his two British guides, who were peas from a similar pod. The “Gap yah” student Ellie proudly introduced herself and announced that her claim to fame was she had never ventured north of Nottingham. She was actually proud of the fact that she has never got the silver spoon out of her arse and ventured to Liverpool, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield or Newcastle, 5 cities that all offer amazing nights out, local culture etc, never mind venturing to wonderous sights of the Peak or Lake districts. I guess to go to such northern places might mean meeting working class oiks and heaven knows what one might catch something off these people.

Henry was little better, though I switched off and went to do the washing up when he started a story with “The other day when I was at the Polo club…”. Polo? How have you got through life with starting stories with “When I was at the Polo club” and not been punched? Bell end.

What was more annoying than having to breathe the same air as these three, was the fawning of most of the passengers over them. What on earth is the attraction of talking to people who come from a different world, look down on the rest of us, and spend their spare time playing Polo or riding horses? Ellie, the “Gap yah” girl, had only just finished Uni. Well I know when I finished Uni. I had only one thought on my mind, getting a job and paying off the debts I had accrued. The idea of going to Argentina to volunteer to work on a ranch (for free) wasn’t even an option, the bankwere putting my overdraft onto a commercial rate and sadly Daddy wasn’t going to fund a free loading trip for me.

Boy do these people get on my tits, and the idea of overlanding is to meet local Argentinians, not British aristos and “Gap yah” students. I think you have the message by now, but let me say that come the revolution, sticking these fuckers heads on poles isn’t going to make the world any worse I can assure you. The plum in mouth, private school educated, Polo playing “elite” will be top of my list for sure.

Feel better for that, and well done if you are still with me. I will be heading home shortly, back via a short stop In Buenos Aires. I did try and hire a motorbike in Salta, which would have meant I could have missed the wine tasting / horse riding extravaganza but sadly this wasn’t possible. So I will get just a couple of days in BA, and then I will be home for crimbo, so feel free to buy me a drink when I am back. I have nothing against wine, but a beer if you don’t mind, followed by some Boxing day footie and a nice curry. Beer, football, curry and motorbikes. Proper tastes for proper people. I know it’s only been three days living with the other half (well camping in their gardens) but boy I can’t wait.