Dad not letting a little fire stop family enjoying holiday in Bordeaux

A FATHER is refusing to let a spot of uncontrollable wildfire ruin his family’s holiday in Bordeaux.

Tom Booker had already meticulously planned the two-week family vacation by the river Garonne, and so was not about to let a suffocating inferno send him scurrying back to a caravan park in Dorset.

He said: “We’ve come this far and it’s too late to get the Airbnb refunded. Besides, witnessing a blaze firsthand will be character building for the kids.

“I’ll have a word with the firefighters and ask if we can drive through the flames. They may not understand a sentence like ‘Don’t worry, I’ve supervised loads of family bonfires’ but assuming it’s a man he’ll understand we’re not afraid of a few smouldering trees. 

“I don’t see why my wife’s so worried. People travel to the continent because they want warm temperatures all the time. It’s not my fault Goldilocks there in the passenger seat can’t stand the heat.

“We’re going to the Saint Michel Basilica and the Place de la Bourse and that’s final. The locals have been driven out by the flames but that means it will be quiet. Hopefully they’ve not burned down, but you go to see ruins all the time.”

Booker’s son Oscar said: “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d gone to Disneyland like I wanted. But I need to stop sobbing with fear before I can mention it.”

Sign up now to get
The Daily Mash
free Headlines email – every weekday
privacy

Equestrian, philanthropist, socialite and other jobs that don't exist if you're poor

FANCY being able to call yourself something impressive like ‘tycoon’? Sadly these occupations are not open to the likes of you average income peasants:

Equestrian

‘Equestrian’ wasn’t mentioned alongside ‘plumber’ or ‘personnel manager’ by your careers advisor, probably because it’s a career somewhat dependent on daddy buying you a horse. Sadly you can’t bravely overcome poverty by learning to show jump on your dog. 

Philanthropist

A billionaire gives £20 million to a museum and is hailed as a philanthropist. You give a tenner of tinned tuna and pasta to the food bank and nobody even lets you cut in front at Aldi. It’s proportionately the same amount of your income. Not to mention that you bought a poppy two years ago.

Socialite

If a rich woman attends parties five nights a week she’s a glamorous socialite who gets a spread in Hello! magazine. A dinnerlady who’s down the pub that often would be condemned and asked who’s looking after her poor, neglected kids. Maybe it’s time to give up your dream of being Tamara Beckwith.

Tycoon

Nobody has ever described the bloke who owns four kebab shops as a ‘fast-food tycoon’. Nor has anyone referred to the woman with a successful Etsy business as a ‘cross-stitch magnate’. A tycoon is simply someone whose money has become too embarrassing to express as a number.

Patron of the arts / Art collector

A millionaire watch collector gets praised for keeping a craft alive. If you’ve got more than five Funko Pops, you’re told that’s why you’ll never own a house. If a billionaire buys a Damien Hirst shark off Charles Saatchi for $8 million they’re helping British art. If you buy a gig ticket for £80 you’ve got more money than sense, according to your dad. Probably wise of Saatchi to get rid of the shark before it turns into mush, though.

Explorer

A posh person who spends years getting diseases in the Amazon or losing various extremities in the Arctic is a hero pushing themselves to the limit. If you did it people would ask you when you’re going to get a proper job. And their reaction to missing fingers would just be ‘idiot’.

Gentleman farmer

Former members of Blur or ex-hedge fund managers are called ‘gentleman farmers’, despite their crop usually being fairly non-vital, like posh cheese or alpacas. Farmers who feed the nation with unglamorous things like potatoes and beef get no such approving title. Presumably they are ‘ruffian farmers’.

Bon viveur

If a wealthy man drinks expensive claret while enjoying a long and sumptuous lunch, he’s a bon viveur, the life and soul of the party. If you order a kebab and crack open a pack of Stella at 1pm on a Tuesday in the office, there’s apparently something wrong with that.