Monday, September 19, 2016
Zante V interlude - top ten holiday hates
Things I hate about holiday
Putting on suncream. Oh god, this is such a ball ache. Trying to turn yourself into a contortionist to get the damn stuff, always reticent to come out of the bottle I might add, into every nook and cranny that may have the slightest amount of sunlight fall upon it - probably all whilst having to look at your own pale, slug like body in a mirror - is a good enough reason alone for never leaving your house in the first place.
Shaving. With a mere 20KG of luggage available, every ounce saved when packing is vital. And so rather than my expensive Gillette turbo seven 12 blade GTI with extra moisturiser strips, go faster stripes and bulky case, I appear to have inherited, for holiday purposes, a pack of Bic single blade, single use disposable razors from the 1970s. They are, by any sense of the word, complete agony to use. Dragging a broken Mythos bottle across my face would be smoother, more effective and less likely to leave me with rivers of blood running down my face and into my wine - those little pieces of bog roll used to staunch the flow of blood having long since sweated off in the heat. Complete and utter ball ache.
The toasters at breakfast. You know the ones. With the little conveyor belt that disappears the bread one end and spits it out the other ever so slightly warmer than when it went in. Unless you repeat this three times you're having bread, not toast. This is a real traffic jam and leads to something that shouldn't happen at breakfast. People talk to you. Really, you've got a mother of all hangovers following a night of Mythos, wine and cocktails more colourful than Dame Kiri Te Kanawa's holiday wardrobe and folk want to talk to you about how slow the machine is. Please don't do that, there are knives nearby.
Those little packets of butter - it's as if of someone said how much butter shall we put in these? And the answer was 'too much for one slice of toast, but not enough for two.' And whatever you do, don't try buttering anything but red hot toast with them, those frozen little fuckers will make mighty quicker work of ripping to pieces a slice of bread or seed topped roll than you can say 'how's your father?'
And don't get me started on those little milk cartons...are they made by the same people as the butter? One leaves your coffee almost identically black and two render more milky that a wallet-breakingly expensive super size from some poncy high street coffee vendor. JUST GIVE US A BOTTLE ALREADY!
Trying to get a decent cup of tea. Look- PG + Hot Water + plus milk not from the aforementioned little cartons, OK? You can do it, the supermarkets even sell real milk not three metres from your own front door!! Really, come the fuck on...
Noisy trees - what the actual fuck? No really. How can trees make so make fucking noise? FFS.
Sunbed Grand Prix - for fuck's sake you numbskulls - it's 7.45 in the morning and you're prowling round the beds like a prizefighter waiting for sharp ding of the bell.
Coach transfers - so having breezed through what passes for passport control and know for a fact that you hotel is just 3 miles away, your holiday company thinks that the best way for your trip to commence is to heard all passengers going vaguely in the same direction on to a musty old coach, that is hot as hell, and send you on the way. You will, of course be with an ancient old duffer behind the wheel who speaks no English, and a bright and breezy tour rep whose only knowledge of the local language is how to order the morning after pill following a night in the company of some local lothario she has amazingly got drunk enough to slip her the D. They then circle passed your hotel while dropping other people miles from where their holiday stay is. Then, despite having driven passed the front door to your hotel 7 times, they drop you at the bottom of a hill leaving you to drag your all the way back to the top. Arse biscuits...
The welcome meeting. No honestly, you are welcome. Please steal an hour and a half of my holiday to try and sell me overpriced trips, give me 'secret' local knowledge any barman will tell you is bollocks, and pretend we're going to get on like best mates for the duration of our stay, then not show your face again for two weeks. To balance this out you offer us all a free drink for attending. Thanks, but I can get a glass of powdered orange at the bar anytime I fucking want you complete and utter wankers.
Putting on suncream. Oh god, this is such a ball ache. Trying to turn yourself into a contortionist to get the damn stuff, always reticent to come out of the bottle I might add, into every nook and cranny that may have the slightest amount of sunlight fall upon it - probably all whilst having to look at your own pale, slug like body in a mirror - is a good enough reason alone for never leaving your house in the first place.
Shaving. With a mere 20KG of luggage available, every ounce saved when packing is vital. And so rather than my expensive Gillette turbo seven 12 blade GTI with extra moisturiser strips, go faster stripes and bulky case, I appear to have inherited, for holiday purposes, a pack of Bic single blade, single use disposable razors from the 1970s. They are, by any sense of the word, complete agony to use. Dragging a broken Mythos bottle across my face would be smoother, more effective and less likely to leave me with rivers of blood running down my face and into my wine - those little pieces of bog roll used to staunch the flow of blood having long since sweated off in the heat. Complete and utter ball ache.
The toasters at breakfast. You know the ones. With the little conveyor belt that disappears the bread one end and spits it out the other ever so slightly warmer than when it went in. Unless you repeat this three times you're having bread, not toast. This is a real traffic jam and leads to something that shouldn't happen at breakfast. People talk to you. Really, you've got a mother of all hangovers following a night of Mythos, wine and cocktails more colourful than Dame Kiri Te Kanawa's holiday wardrobe and folk want to talk to you about how slow the machine is. Please don't do that, there are knives nearby.
Those little packets of butter - it's as if of someone said how much butter shall we put in these? And the answer was 'too much for one slice of toast, but not enough for two.' And whatever you do, don't try buttering anything but red hot toast with them, those frozen little fuckers will make mighty quicker work of ripping to pieces a slice of bread or seed topped roll than you can say 'how's your father?'
And don't get me started on those little milk cartons...are they made by the same people as the butter? One leaves your coffee almost identically black and two render more milky that a wallet-breakingly expensive super size from some poncy high street coffee vendor. JUST GIVE US A BOTTLE ALREADY!
Trying to get a decent cup of tea. Look- PG + Hot Water + plus milk not from the aforementioned little cartons, OK? You can do it, the supermarkets even sell real milk not three metres from your own front door!! Really, come the fuck on...
Noisy trees - what the actual fuck? No really. How can trees make so make fucking noise? FFS.
Sunbed Grand Prix - for fuck's sake you numbskulls - it's 7.45 in the morning and you're prowling round the beds like a prizefighter waiting for sharp ding of the bell.
Coach transfers - so having breezed through what passes for passport control and know for a fact that you hotel is just 3 miles away, your holiday company thinks that the best way for your trip to commence is to heard all passengers going vaguely in the same direction on to a musty old coach, that is hot as hell, and send you on the way. You will, of course be with an ancient old duffer behind the wheel who speaks no English, and a bright and breezy tour rep whose only knowledge of the local language is how to order the morning after pill following a night in the company of some local lothario she has amazingly got drunk enough to slip her the D. They then circle passed your hotel while dropping other people miles from where their holiday stay is. Then, despite having driven passed the front door to your hotel 7 times, they drop you at the bottom of a hill leaving you to drag your all the way back to the top. Arse biscuits...
The welcome meeting. No honestly, you are welcome. Please steal an hour and a half of my holiday to try and sell me overpriced trips, give me 'secret' local knowledge any barman will tell you is bollocks, and pretend we're going to get on like best mates for the duration of our stay, then not show your face again for two weeks. To balance this out you offer us all a free drink for attending. Thanks, but I can get a glass of powdered orange at the bar anytime I fucking want you complete and utter wankers.
# posted by Bucko! @ 8:49 AM 
