NOT been abroad since 2019? 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 you were so clever booking outside of the school holidays, but failed to factor in the bastards with children under five. 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.
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 score is and you’ve missed crucial Twitter drama. Bridlington would have been better.