Holidays are a load of fucking shit

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We are off on holiday next week.  Yes, yes we know:  You’re already 2 steps ahead of us.

It is going to be a catastrophe. 

Holidays:  are they actually any good?  Especially, and this does sound sexist, but especially if you are a man.

Our history of holidays is divisible into the following derisive eras:

Going on holiday with our parents and sulkily refusing to be impressed with anything.

As a teenager, we went 3 weeks around France, from villa on the coast to chalet in the alps. For the entire three weeks we refused to smile, to even acknowledge our hateful parents.  Because – how dare they – they had dragged us on holiday the very day after a girl (Amber Clare Donaldson (sigh)) had finally smiled at us.    We had gone to a party in East Woodhay and she had smiled at either us or the boy next to us, “Dickhead” Greg.    The very next day our parents unbelievably refused our demands to cancel the holiday so we could lurk outside Amber (sigh)’s house. We sailed for France and our world ended.  Or so we thought at the time.  It had ended because of the selfish actions of our parents dragging us to fucking France.  France with its glasses of wine at dinner and 30 degrees heat.  Wonderful food and girls -arguably- almost as pretty as the delightful Amber(sigh). The ungrateful sods, parents were.  We would show them.  And we did, don’t worry about that. How we sulked. God knows what this cost our parents, in either monetary or emotional terms.  Furious, we spent the time eating ice cream, silent with rage, whilst imagining what that bastard “Dickhead” Greg might be up to with her.  Nothing, as it turns out.  He went to Oxford to ‘read’ maths, so you can imagine what a love rival he actually turned out to be.  Ah Amber. Sigh.  Somewhere, today, a woman is going about her business; Tesco, football practice for the kids, Love island repeats.  Little does she know that once, she made life a living hell for our parents.  Well, alright, we made life living hell, she was just the fulcrum.

Of course today we’d not have had to lurk outside her house when we got back to show our feelings. She came out and told us to go away as her parents thought we were a weirdo. But she smiled at us again. We’d simply have Snapchatted a fan pick from the toilets on the cross channel ferry and all would have been well.  We’re not entirely sure what that actually means to be honest. Our children taught us that phrase. Kids today have it so easy.

Going somewhere and, taking as much drugs as possible.

This lasted far too long and is far too boring to talk about.  The drugs were fun though.

 

Going to Eurocamp

 

 

The most hateful word in the English language is camping.

Once, and we have documented this on here far too many times, we drove for 2 days straight in a Mazda Premacy, with 2 kids under 6 to a campsite in France.

 

 

 

It was a lot less glamorous than these promotional photos of the Premacy suggest.

Whilst in in France we stayed on a campsite – in a tent, mark you – for a week.  The campsite was between a motorway and a supermarket car park.

 

It was so hot our washing machine capsules melted.  We had one plug so could either plug in the shitty little fridge or the kid’s portable DVD player.  Quiet the kids down with that Dr Who DVD again. Drink increasingly warm beer and worry about food poisoning.

Having a great time!!!

Before the holiday we had airly packed only difficult books. People – women – would gaze at us reading Tolstoy and think us interesting and attractive.    Then, after a week, we got back in the car and drove home for 2 days.  Our feeling as we opened the front door, senses schrodeingers catlike atuned to whether the scallies had burgled us was indescribable.   No, they had not.  We were safe.  We were home. We adore the word ‘indescribable’ as much as we loathe the word ‘camping’.

Getting more money and going on package holidays

We actually quite liked this.

 

Once we went to Morocco and stayed in a concrete sweat box for a week, rarely leaving the astroturf by the pool.  Our reading had been downgraded from ‘hard’ to ‘easier, but hopefully still impressive’.  Kate Atkinson and her ilk.  Still no admiring glances from the women.  Doubtless that was because they were all ill read simpletons (who probably voted Brexit). Yes, definitely that, rather than anything to do with our pasty skinny frame on display on the sun lounger.   The only irritant to this holiday was our wining kids moaning that we were reading to much, that they were bored and had heatstroke.  Whinge whinge whinge. We’ve all had heatstroke. Get over it.

No internet, too hot,  and nowhere to escape to to be alone. Not the greatest week ever. Plus dealing with street hawkers and Moroccan hospital staff is “man’s work” apparently.

 

Going ‘travelling, actually’

Mrs Gin is ready to enter this stage.  She is signed up to Trailfinders and has a Lonely Planet app on her phone. She has a specialised rucksack ready to rock. We do not. We are not ready. We do not want to go up a jungle. What’s the point? We can’t go wrong with Scotland, in our opinion.

 

 

 

Far enough away, and with strange enough people to be exotic, but still close enough to the M6 motorway to be comforting.  Nowadays, when you can buy as good croissants as the French have from your local Spar, and get a great curry from the takeaway near you, it’s great to go somewhere where there is food you’d never be able to get at home:

and where the locals are so friendly, but oh so different…

But no. Overruled again. And off to distant shores it is we go.  Armed only with Deet and Zoflora.  And once again it will be us dealing with everything. Hot and stressed whilst Mrs Gin gets cross at us for ‘not being able to relax’.  We’ll have to sneak off to check on our work emails as if we were checking on a mistress, dealing with irritated teenagers who just want to be at home, albeit at home online not with Amber (sigh).  And when we think about how much Zoflora we could buy instead of paying (emotionally as well as financially) for this whole farce…

Well, bonne fucking voyage.

 

See you in 3 (three) weeks

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