Travel to EU

[original PM]

Do people from the EU have to pay to come to the Uk?

[meridian]

Do people from the EU have to pay to come to the Uk?

No, not unless the UK implements something similar.

ETIAS applies to all non-EU countries, it's not a "thing" that the EU are implementing because of Brexit.

[original PM]

No but do people travelling to the UK from outside of the EU have to pay/get a visa etc right now?

[darmstadt]

No but do people travelling to the UK from outside of the EU have to pay/get a visa etc right now?

Go over to CUSA and ask them...

[original PM]

Why you are on here waxing lyrical about the fact the UK is going to the dogs, you give me the terrible facts.

[AtW]

No but do people travelling to the UK from outside of the EU have to pay/get a visa etc right now?

Yes, and I hope every Brexiteer moron will have to queue for visas in the future

[original PM]

Ouch so in general taking into account stuff it is going to cost me between 3 and 5 quid a year to go spend my money in Europe.

I'll accept that for now.

[vetran]

Ouch so in general taking into account stuff it is going to cost me between 3 and 5 quid a year to go spend my money in Europe.

I'll accept that for now.

They should be paying us!

[Paddy]

Do people from the EU have to pay to come to the Uk?

So what? Who needs a European holiday with their blothed backs and their bardigans and their transistor radios, complaining about the tea or they don't make it properly, do they? And stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamaris and two veg. And sitting in their cotton sunfrocks, squirting Timothy White Suncream all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh, 'cos they overdid it on the first day... Being herded into countless Hotel Miramars and Bellevues, Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes...and swimming pools full of draft Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and...barging into the queues. And if you're not at your table...spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, the first item in the menu of International Cuisine... Every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dego with nine-inch hips and some fat bloated tart with her hair Bryllcreamed down and big arse presenting flamenco for foreigners... And an adenoidal typist from Birmingham with flabby white...legs and diarrhea trying to pick up hairy, bandy legged, whop degos called Manuel... And once a week there's an excursion to local Roman remains, where you can buy Cherry Aid and melted ice cream......and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel...And one night they take you to a typical restaurant with local...atmosphere and color and you sit next to a...party from Rhyl who keep singing "I love the Costa Brava!" And you get cornered by some drunken green grocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and last Tuesday's 'Daily Express'......and he's on and on and on about how it is running the country and how many languages Margaret Powell can speak and she throws up all over the cuba libres. And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton Airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dry British Airways sandwiches... And you can't even get a glass of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England with the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty. And the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ashtrays. They keep telling you won't be another hour, but you know damn well your plane is still in Iceland, because it had to turn back, trying to take a party of Swedes to....to take a party of Swedes to Yugoslavia. Of course it loads you up there at 3 a.m. in the morning. And then you sit on the tarmac for four hours because of unforeseen difficulties, i.e. the permanent strike of airtraffic control over Paris. When you finally get to Malaga airport, everybody's queueing for the bloody toilet, and queueing for the bloody half-customs officers, and queueing for the bloody bus that isn't there, waiting to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been built. When you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel Limassol, while paying half the holiday money to a license Spaniard in a taxi, there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the bath, there's no water in the tap, there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet, and half the rooms are doublebooked, and you can't sleep anyway, 'cause the permanent are in the jungles in the hotel next door. Meanwhile, the Spanish National Tourist Board promises that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a mild outbreak of the Spanish Conleigh, rather like the previous outbreak in 1616, even the bloody rats are dying from it! ...Meanwhile, the bloody guardia are arresting 16-yearolds for kissing in the streets -(something I can't make out) - everybody's buying little awful horrid donkeys with their names on, I can't tell you the -(something else I can't make out)- and when you finally get to Manchester, there's only another bloody bus to carry you another 60 miles... ( Mr A Brexiter Kent)

[original PM]

Brilliant

[emoji847]

[emoji847]

So what? Who needs a European holiday with their blothed backs and their bardigans and their transistor radios, complaining about the tea or they don't make it properly, do they? And stopping at endless Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney's Red Barrel and calamaris and two veg. And sitting in their cotton sunfrocks, squirting Timothy White Suncream all over their puffy, raw, swollen, purulent flesh, 'cos they overdid it on the first day... Being herded into countless Hotel Miramars and Bellevues, Bontinentals with their international luxury modern roomettes...and swimming pools full of draft Red Barrel and fat German businessmen pretending to be acrobats and forming pyramids and frightening the children and...barging into the queues. And if you're not at your table...spot on seven you miss your bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup, the first item in the menu of International Cuisine... Every Thursday night there's a bloody cabaret in the bar featuring some tiny emaciated dego with nine-inch hips and some fat bloated tart with her hair Bryllcreamed down and big arse presenting flamenco for foreigners... And an adenoidal typist from Birmingham with flabby white...legs and diarrhea trying to pick up hairy, bandy legged, whop degos called Manuel... And once a week there's an excursion to local Roman remains, where you can buy Cherry Aid and melted ice cream......and bleedin' Watney's Red Barrel...And one night they take you to a typical restaurant with local...atmosphere and color and you sit next to a...party from Rhyl who keep singing "I love the Costa Brava!" And you get cornered by some drunken green grocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and last Tuesday's 'Daily Express'......and he's on and on and on about how it is running the country and how many languages Margaret Powell can speak and she throws up all over the cuba libres. And spending four days on the tarmac at Luton Airport on a five-day package tour with nothing to eat but dry British Airways sandwiches... And you can't even get a glass of Watney's Red Barrel because you're still in England with the bloody bar closes every time you're thirsty. And the kids are crying and vomiting and breaking the plastic ashtrays. They keep telling you won't be another hour, but you know damn well your plane is still in Iceland, because it had to turn back, trying to take a party of Swedes to....to take a party of Swedes to Yugoslavia. Of course it loads you up there at 3 a.m. in the morning. And then you sit on the tarmac for four hours because of unforeseen difficulties, i.e. the permanent strike of airtraffic control over Paris. When you finally get to Malaga airport, everybody's queueing for the bloody toilet, and queueing for the bloody half-customs officers, and queueing for the bloody bus that isn't there, waiting to take you to the hotel that hasn't yet been built. When you finally get to the half-built Algerian ruin called the Hotel Limassol, while paying half the holiday money to a license Spaniard in a taxi, there's no water in the pool, there's no water in the bath, there's no water in the tap, there's only a bleeding lizard in the bidet, and half the rooms are doublebooked, and you can't sleep anyway, 'cause the permanent are in the jungles in the hotel next door. Meanwhile, the Spanish National Tourist Board promises that the raging cholera epidemic is merely a mild outbreak of the Spanish Conleigh, rather like the previous outbreak in 1616, even the bloody rats are dying from it! ...Meanwhile, the bloody guardia are arresting 16-yearolds for kissing in the streets -(something I can't make out) - everybody's buying little awful horrid donkeys with their names on, I can't tell you the -(something else I can't make out)- and when you finally get to Manchester, there's only another bloody bus to carry you another 60 miles... ( Mr A Brexiter Kent)