I wrote the following blog whilst sat on a night flight home from cyprus on 29th August.
Enjoy.
I'm sat here, on a plane, and I'm having a little think to myself about the position I seem to have paid to put myself In.
Riddle me this if you will.
The supposed highlight of our annually disappointing and increasingly short British summer is to pay £4000 to lock ourselves In a tin of compressed air for hours on end to arrive In a country, usually borderline on bankruptcy, where we'll moan about being 'sticky' for the duration and confirm that we do in fact hate our families with every fibre of our beings.
As we arrive at the airport bright eyed and bushy tailed dragging along with us multiple cases that have been packed, weighed, unpacked, re-packed identically, weighed again (now displaying a heavier weight), unpacked and re-packed, and a family of similarly hopeful holiday makers we, being British and loving nothing more, we join a queue. 9/10 times this queue is the one you need to be In because Dad, In his fatherly wisdom and with his majestic leadership qualities checks the tickets several times and matches this with the departures board...oh how intelligent of him.
"Follow me family!" he cries as he waddles off In his statement holiday outfit. Whereas your teenage brother thinks 'Oooo a holiday, time to break out the snap-back' and your mother grabs the noisiest flip flops available and matches this to an oversized maxi dress, because let's face it she is not as tall as Kate Moss and frankly a mini dress is a maxi on her, instead your father has grabbed his holiday shoes. Depending on the variables at play In your dads personality his shoes can range from a blue suede addidas samba to a Jesus sandal, which may I add should be burned publicly. Either way the main function of your fathers footwear is to push you to a break down with the constant squeaking. If your father has chosen to wear crocs for this occasion it serves the same function but may I just say I am so so sorry for what you have to go through.
As if this reflective paragraph isn't enough to articulate my point I'll state it plain. The first leg of your holiday, 'departures lounge', is designed to put you on edge ready for the flight from Hell.
As you check In your cases and move through security, getting fondled on your way through the metal detectors because of the wire In your bra or a stray 2p piece that's gotten lodged In your Jean pocket, you're remembering the pain of last years holiday. Oh if only you'd remembered this sooner. Next you're marched around the departures lounge searching for your mums perfect 'holiday perfume' despite her only ever wearing the same one, and some magazines or a book because a holiday really isn't a holiday if you haven't read some Ill-written trash. Then you finally get to board the plane, and what an experience that promises to be.
You climb through the door after the final blow of English air that's trickled through a small opening In the boarding tube. Awaiting you is an overly smiley orange face wrapped and tied neatly In a scarf that looks like its colour scheme has been designed by a 11 year old on Word Art. she's VERY happy to see you and during the flight smiles at you as if you've formed a bond for life...you haven't. She's just spotted your dad's expensive watch and wants you to spend some top dollar on the plane. She's manipulative, don't trust her, no-ones that happy. I once went on a flight where the entirety of the staff were Scottish...and broad Scottish at that. This flight was rather hostile. Requesting a drink became confrontational and they pushed the trolley down the isle at pace so's to smack the funny bone of all those who like to spread out on an aeroplane. It was by no means a comfortable flight but I did respect them for being true to themselves...and their stereotypes.
You sit yourself down, get comfortable and actually say to yourself "this isn't too bad actually"... Then they lock the doors and you realise what you gotten yourself into. There's a southern family In the row behind you with a baby Tarquin and a 5 year old called Oscar. They're earth parents so when you smell what you think is a fart every now and again, it actually transpires that they've released one of their processed vegetable treats because Oscar is 'oh so hungry'. Like many others on the aircraft, I'm aware that Oscar is hungry because he's not stopped telling us since we boarded and he's been kicking my chair In an attempt to force his mothers hand so that she'll feed him one of these delicacies. Tarquin however has the loudest cry In the world and hasn't stopped since we took off. Noones really sure what his issue is as he's been breast fed, changed ad winded all on the seat behind me. Aside from this being actually rather impressive being as we are all encased In our own individual 60cm by 60cm space, it's been noisy and smelly and I've had font row seats. Luckily for the children their parents don't believe In smacking as a parenting method. Unlucky for the children however, I believe I'n smacking as a general life principle and I'm teetering on the edge.
As if this isn't enough, an hour In, the plane In which you are sat, has become a Petri dish of English dog breath and Tarquin's shit, and the alarmingly happy stewardess has rubbed her breasts In your face far too many times for it to be an accident. This would be all very delightful If the breasts In question weren't slightly moist from a days flying, glittery from he gypsy inspired body spray and attached to the ugliest face In the world. Stewardesses, I find, are an unusual specimen. They come with a trolly dolly, beautiful stereotype but always actually look like the ugly kid from school that made the best of what she had. A honey monster In lipstick or play dough with fake eye lashes. Poor girls. Or dudes. Occasionally there's a dude that comes aboard like Louis Spence, pirouetting and the like up and down the isles.
You arrive and suddenly remember why you love England so. You're sticky. The hot air hits you like a tramps breath. And now you have to retrieve your luggage from the carousel of doom. Surprisingly, although us English are excellent at queuing, put us In an oval shape and were fucked at turn taking. Every family thinks they've been clever by attaching red wire tape to the handle or a 'scooby' that your now 20 year old daughter went through a faze of making when she was 11, but you've ALL had this brain wave. Otohh. Trouble't'mill. Kids run up and down hoping to assist by grabbing their cases themselves but the case itself is twice their body weight and this is not at all helpful. The rage becomes to much and you find yourselves hoping the children get trapped dragged onto the carousel never to be seen again. It's okay, we've all done it.
This is all before your holiday has even begun. It is during the next week that you, an Englishman, learn to love that pain In the arse Health and Safety exec, because there is not one thing okay about a Cypriot on a moped In flip flops and a Jack Daniels vest top. It is here where you learn to love the air con at work that you usually moan about. It is here where you learn to love salad and water. We Brits, despite what we say, are not built for heat you see. Day one we give it 'woo toasty' but day two onwards is a race home so we can put on our hoodies and watch it piss it down.
You want a tan because your mates at home have been ripping the piss our of your 'Ginger skin' so you lie there sweating like a blind lesbian In a fishmongers waiting to be brown, screaming to random passers by 'am I tanned yet?!'... You don't mean to scream this at strangers, just you have mistaken them for your parents as your vision is impaired from the beads of sweat that have been acting as eye drops for the last hour.
You retire to your room to shower, In which you realise 'shit I'm burnt'. The glowing red from your nose and singular tit is quite a sight. And yes I say singular tit because the odds of an even tan on holiday for a Brit Is virtually unheard of. Later In the week you find yourself crying In front of the air con because the only places that seem to have caught any colour are the nose and tit In question and your knees. Yes. Knees. I know, who burns their knees? Me apparently.
The week actually flies by because you convince yourself you're having a good time. However if you look closely the family time is usually spent over an alcoholic beverage, necessary to make the company bearable, or over a game of cards... Yeah babe, gambling is a past time that really brings a family together. Then you realise all the Laughs have come from jokes where you're putting down another member of the family, present or not, you're all targets guys...
To summarise you've eaten too much, spent too much, lived In discomfort, failed to reach your target of 'look like Mila kunis', hated your family and not drunk nearly enough to numb the pain of the thought that you've looked forward to this for an entire year...
In all seriousness, I'm on the way back from a family holiday as I'm writing this. I mean absolutely everything I've said. I'm having seven shades of shit kicked out of me from behind which frankly is embarrassing as she's Half my age. My brother is sat beside me...he's finally stopped fidgetting although it took two minor rows and and a chicken sandwich to settle him... Pffft teenagers. Although he's currently sat with his hood up and he's not moved for a while, really ought to Check he's alive and hasn't given up... believe me were on the cusp. 3:33am
Nighflight with an hour and a half to go as well as a Drive back from Birmingham leaves an awful sense of 'LEAVE ME. I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE' to even the mentally-strongest of people. My mum is In the isle seat. She's been on and off asleep the entire flight. She could have done the full 5 hours but she's worried about snoring. If I were her though I'd be more concerned about the dribble. Just saying. Dads on the row to the side of us giving us sad eyes because he's bored and trying to avoid making friends with the chunky lady at the side of him holding a crucifix far too tightly. The kind of tight that would scare an atheist.
Despite meaning absolutely everything I've said I've actually enjoyed my week away. Mostly because I haven't paid for a thing. Same time next year?
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