Teletext. The daddy of the internet only without the obvious pornographic benefit. Booking a holiday was the most time consuming activity on the planet in the 80′s. 500 pages of flights and holidays and you had to sit through every last one of the fuckers to make sure you were not getting stitched up.
The only benefit teletext had to aid a wank was if you were watching something late on Channel 4 and you didn’t want your parents to hear so you would press the old 888 for subtitles so you could at least know when tits were likely to appear.
Lads holiday destinations revolve purely around girls. I never once sat down with the boys and said, ‘do you know what chaps, I hear Magaluf has some renaissance architecture to just die for’.
Popular destinations change. Even the sort of Northern girls who could teach Jenna Jameson a thing a two finally get worn out with having their ass pinched every ten seconds so seek out pastures new. If you and your mates get the timing of this wrong, 3am in a sweaty club will feel like the perverts wing in Guadalajara state prison.
I have been to Gran Canaria, Ayia Napa and Ibiza on lads holidays and every single one was an absolute brahma.
All you can talk about for from the minute the trip is booked is how fucking awesome it is going to be, how pissed you will get and how many birds you are going to shag.
As the time approaches, you got to get yourself some new ‘holiday garments’. Invariably this normally means purchasing something a little more racy, a bit more charismatic, a piece of fabric pow which says ‘hey girls, how about a first class seat, Air Barrie?’. Of course what happens in reality is you buy an absolutely shocking dayglo orange Ralphie which makes you look like the sort of cunt who works on the Easyjet check in desk.
Along with the ‘holiday garments’ comes the toiletries. This is the kind of question and answer session I would have with myself:
Bite cream? The only bite I am getting is a love bite on my cock.
Immodium? Can’t get the shits from a full English son.
After Shave? Oh yeah, industrial sized Polo for me.
Hair Gel? Just Gel? I have got wax, gel and mousse, Vidal Sassoon just bought a yacht with my spends.
Sun Cream? Fuck that, that is for poofs.
Nurofen? Poofs.
After Sun? Poofs.
Johnnies? Now we’re talking….
Buying condoms before a lads holiday is like John Motson commentating on a 5-0 England lead against Germany in the World Cup Final and saying ‘England are cruising now, surely the World Cup is coming home’. You know he has fucked it for everyone but nobody wants to be running around at 4am in the morning with some liberal scouse lass semi conscious on your bed looking for a johnny. Luckily for me I have a cock so small that I could use the empty straw wrapper from a small carton of Um Bongo.
There is no shopping experience which causes greater stress and anguish for a man than buying condoms. If I ever meet the twat who designed Durex vending machines I will knock him out. It would have been much better designed with a sonar radar screen on the front to alert you to anyone else coming into the shitter and it could have done without the kind of Glastonbury main stage decibel level when you opened the draw to get the fuckers out.
Going to Boots is no better. Sods law says that the Nigerian pharmacist who is on the till leaves for lunch the minute you walk up to the counter, only to be replaced by a Clarins counter whitney who looks at you like you are wearing a badge saying ‘time for some coffee and under eights’.
An ex girlfriend used to go to family planning to avoid my complete humiliation but do not go expecting any sensual and erotic experience with those lambskin/wool blend fuckers.
Once you have your stuff ready to pack, you then have to find a bag to pack them in. Overlooking your bag is often a rookie mistake. I have been away with plenty of lads who have been forced to rock up with their mum’s brown patterned shocker or a sports bag which offers the protection of a mafia informant by a Sicilian police officer. You know when your mate pulls out his latest YSL (Yeovil Skittles League as it used to be known round these parts) it will be covered in Aquafresh.
You meet round your mates house for the off. You will never see more pairs of virginal white trainers than at this moment. It looks like someone knocked Sammy Davis Jr’s teeth out. Then the fun starts…
