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Bloody tourists…

Look, I’m delighted they’re here. I’m delighted they’re clogging up the footpaths. I’m even cool with the leprechaun hats, if they absolutely have to. What really offends me though, as the years go by, is the way tourists still, to a man, refuse to ask me directions.

They’re here each summer, these nice American (and French and German and English) people, standing helplessly on the street corner, mouths and maps hanging wide open in the breeze. They’re lost. I’m on hand and willing to help. But who will they turn to? For reasons unclear, the answer would be anyone but me. To add insult to injury, these encounters most often take place in Christchurch: where, let’s be honest, even at the best of times the junky to non-junky passer-by ratio tends to run at about one to one. Even in Christchurch, even while clearly not on drugs – I still can’t get a break.

They look me up and down and quickly look away. “Tell ya what,” says Bob to Louanne. “Let’s ask that angry lookin’ feller with the scabs on his face instead. He looks to be the safer bet.” And Louanne agrees.

I could rationalise it more easily in the past. I wasn’t always so well presented – rocking (what someone memorably described as) Lithuanian construction worker chic. The tourists probably thought I was only getting my bearings here myself, they didn’t want to bother me.

But I’ve smartened up my act. Today I was clean shaven. I was wearing a raincoat that cost over a hundred quid. I was even carrying a copy of the Observer, for Christ’s sake. (Has anyone read this thing lately? It’s like 2% news, 98% asparagus recipes…)

How un-threatening do I gotta get here tourists? I’ll wear socks with sandals if I have to!

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