Why the foreign holiday you've booked will suck balls: the reasons you'd forgotten

NOT been abroad for a while? Just booked a fortnight? Forgotten what it’s like? This is why you should have gone to Dorset: 


The delays. The queues. The stupid rules. The £5 charge for dropping off. The price of a f**king coffee. You’re not even on the plane yet and you’ve wasted half a day and spent a pissing fortune. All for being crammed into a seat for three hours while a baby howls.


You’ve stopped thinking of Britain as ‘that wonderful place without little buzzy bastards everywhere’, but you’ll remember. No matter how much foul-smelling insect repellent you apply, they’ll find a way through. The bites will itch unbearably and once you’ve scratched off the top, you’ll discover the agony of immersing them in seawater.


Your memories of Greece neglected to include putting shitty toilet roll in a bin, hating it, convincing yourself the waste pipes can handle your post-dolmades dump along with a bit of bog roll, flushing and flooding the bathroom with sodden paper and excrement.


Every British holidaymaker is caught in a cycle; return from beach boiling, whack air-con on, pass out, wake up freezing, go out and get pissed, come home hot, whack air-con on, wake up hungover and in the initial stages of hypothermia at 3am. Shiver under a sheet until 6am. Begin day exhausted. Repeat.

Other people’s kids

You thought maybe the cost of living crisis would stop other Brits coming, but you were wrong. The peaceful, dreamy days lying by the pool of your imagination will be shattered by yelling, splashing and exhausted tantrums. You will not get past p100 of your Jack Reacher.

Shit wifi

Holidaying abroad is your one chance to step back from the rat race and get back to life’s simple pleasures, such as scrolling your mobile for 15 hours a day. But Brexit means you’ve no data and the hotel wifi’s buffering to buggery. You’ve no idea what the football transfers are and you’ve missed crucial Twitter drama. Bridlington would have been better.

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I wouldn't vote for me, by Boris Johnson

REMEMBER that bloke who became Tory leader in 2019? He was great. I’d vote for him, and millions of you did. Would I vote for what I’ve become? Not likely. 

That guy was amazing. Bouncy and excited as a new puppy, full of all these brilliant promises, offhandedly dismissing the doomsters and gloomsters. There was no way he could fail.

And despite the fact that he did, repeatedly, almost immediately, setting Brexit deadlines and missing them, proroguing Parliament then having to bring it back, firing loads of MPs, he sold it like a wild success and won an election.

What a dude. He did Brexit, he went on holiday, he got his girlfriend pregnant to celebrate. There wasn’t anything that could bring him down.

Well. Let’s be fair, he was unfortunate. A pandemic, lockdowns, losing his pals Cummings and Trump, and then, same as always happens, he started getting caught in lies. A lot of lies. Basically anything that was a brilliant promise was a lie.

Brexit done? Yes and it’s shit. Pandemic over? Apart from all the dying. Britain on the up and up? Only inflation.

And that bouncy puppy? Now a surly, hangdog old hound, grouching around, quick to snarl at children. Look at him. Caught and found out like he’s been in every job and every marriage. Waiting for it to be over.

I wouldn’t vote for him. He doesn’t want you to vote for him. He wants out of this place so he can go off to somewhere new – probably America – where he hasn’t been rumbled yet.

So please, on Thursday, do what I would do. Make your X anywhere but Conservative. Do it for Boris.