A middle class holiday itinerary vs a working class holiday itinerary

AFTER a year of work, you’ll want to spend your holiday doing f**k all. Unless you’re middle class, in which case you’ll want to use it to tediously better yourself. But which is more fun?


Middle class: You booked this villa specifically because it has a luxury outdoor kitchen. This means you can break up trips to darling little local restaurants by slaving in it for hours to produce elaborate dishes of fish purchased fresh from the harbour and mushrooms you foraged this morning.

Working class: No cooking. Cafe or takeaway, don’t care. Lots of it.


Middle class: While the kids are having private one-to-one paddle boarding lessons, you go on a wine tasting trip to select several expensive bottles to sip appreciatively throughout your holiday. It’s about improving your palette, not getting pissed for the sake of it.

Working class: Local beers or amazingly cheap local wine. All delicious, lots of it.


Middle class: The villa needs to be far enough from a town to be considered rural, but near enough that the cleaner can still come and you can have fresh bread and vegetables delivered daily, ideally by a charmingly ugly old man who you photograph yourselves with for Instagram.

Working class: All-inclusive hotel with a big bed, curtains that shut properly, a telly and a pool with a bar.


Middle class: Cathedrals, monasteries and nunneries are a must. You’d also like a genuine Perugian nonna to teach you how to make pasta, which you will begrudgingly part with money for on realising she doesn’t just do it out of the kindness of her big Italian heart.

Working class: Hire mopeds to zip around the local beaches, then go to a club that plays Europop until 3am and is only 20 metres from the hotel.


Middle class: Sunrise yoga session in geodesic dome in local olive grove, before dressing the kids in hundreds of pounds-worth of hiking gear and forcing them to walk up a mountain.

Working class: Lying down. Drinking. Sleeping. Loads of it.

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Couple on small plates date night get KFC bucket on way home

A COUPLE who experienced a small plates meal at a trendy restaurant were forced to buy a f**k off massive KFC bucket on the way home.

Tom and Emma Bradford confirmed that the service was good and the ambience pleasant but the portions were so stupidly minuscule that they had to gorge themselves on cheap chicken afterwards.

Tom Bradford said: “As soon as I’d settled on my uncomfortable bar stool the waiter said ‘Are you familiar with our small plates concept?’ and my heart sank like a stone.

“We were brought something described as ‘calamari, foam, chèvre crumble’ which for £8 turned out to be a microscopic tentacle with a bit of bubbly stuff and tiny cheese particles.

“Emma took some beautiful pictures for social media but once we’d cut it in half to share it was barely worth the effort of putting it in our mouths.

“Also, they’d done that wanky thing where they remove the pound signs from the menu and just write numbers like ’14’ and ‘9’. I don’t think they appreciated my joke about whether that still meant I had to pay with real money.

“So we went to KFC and shovelled it down our gullets on the train like animals. Emma didn’t put that bit on Instagram.”