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This is a question Family Holidays

Back in the 80s when my Dad got made redundant (hello Dad!), he spent all the redundancy money on one of those big motor caravans.

Us kids loved it, apart from when my sister threw up on my sleeping bag, but looking back I'm not so sure my mum did. There was a certain tension every time the big van was even mentioned, let alone driven around France for weeks on end with her still having to cook and do all the washing.

What went wrong, what went right, and how did you survive the shame of having your family with you as a teenager?

(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 14:33)
Pages: Popular, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Dad's cock
We were early teens when my folks took me and my brother to Las Vegas on holiday. Obviously being too young for cocktails and bankruptcy at the casinos we busied ourselves at the local 'Wet N' Wild' water park fucking about on huge waterslides and such like. There was one ENORMOUS slide there that twisted, turned and dropped like a motherfucker. Me, my brother and my dad queued for it as my mum wimped out. In front of us was a woman and her daughter who looked about six. On getting to the top it turned out that the little girl was too short for the ride ("You must be yay tall to ride..." etc.) and this started her crying. The lifeguard guy at the top decided to let her ride anyway, probably trying to avoid a scene. Her mum went first, presumably so as to 'catch' the little girl at the bottom. The little girl followed her mum, then my brother went, then I went. Half-way down this slide there was a fully-enclosed 'tunnel' bit that corkscrewed around and as I approached it I could hear crying. I just had to time to register the little girl bawling her head off and holding on to the side of the tunnel before I passed her in a watery blur. I splashed down and my brother was stood there with the mum who was wondering how 2 people had managed to exit the slide before her girl had. The mum was just peering up the exit to the slide in a comedy "looking at the end of the hosepipe before it spurts in your face" type gesture when we heard the crying girl's approach. She was promptly squashed flat by my dad and the little girl arriving together. As if this wasn't already creasing me and my brother up enough it seemed that the perishable underpant lining of my dad's ancient Asda-bought swimming shorts hadn't quite survived the trip intact and his hairy cock was plainly on display for all to see.

Me and my bro were sharing a room and we got no sleep at all that night for collapsing in laughter every time one of us said "That woman had dad's cock in her face!!"
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:18, Reply)
Oh God
I'd repressed most of these memories. Only way to keep what's left of my sanity. But this QOTW has brought some of them back.

Cayton Bay, Wallis Caravan Park. A kind of poor mans Butlins. circa sometime in the 70's. I was about 10 or 11.

Some fool, probably my sister, entered me for the kids talent competition. My talent? Farmyard Impressions.....

(God I'm cringing here remembering this....)

So I gets up and stage and host says:

"So here's young Legless with his Farmyard Impressions"

To a smattering of bored applause I filled my little lungs and bellowed:


And that was as far as I got before I was physically jumped on and dragged off stage.


(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:02, Reply)
70mph naked highjinks.
Not so much a family holiday but...

My uncle Hamish has a number of great friends with whom he used to travel around Europe with. One of the said friends has a curious desire to get nekkid whenever he gets drunk. Much hilarity has ensued from this along the lines of getting him to try peeing over the top of a car without hitting it, successful, to trying to pee onto the ceiling, he pooed himself.

Anyway, one holiday out in Italy, Hame and his mates are blasting along some back roads when his mate decides to get some nudey action in and strips off in the car and climbs out of the sun roof and holds onto the roof rack like a wobbly pink Spiderman. The second he was up there, Hame wound the sunroof shut and floored it.

After about 5 mins of screaming from above them they decide to do the decent thing and drive onto the Autoroute next to them.

Apparently they drove past a bus load of school kids who all pissed themselves laughing at the screaming naked man with flapping nads perched on top of the car and they were followed for about 5 miles by an old man who must have had the worst view possible.

After a while they pulled over and let Mr Naked back in. He was almost in shock and to my knowledge stopped the naked japes from that point on.

Length? It was flapping about so much I couldn't measure it.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 16:03, Reply)
Rectum? It nearly killed him!
As previously stated my family only went on vacation to places that had blackjack tables. This meant we always either had holiday in Vegas or Lake Tahoe, which is like Las Vegas with ski slopes. While we skied, Dad gambled.

I skied alone as I was much more proficient in the sport than my Mum and Sis. We had planned to meet up for lunch at noon. My mother had bought us all sandwiches at the 7-11 (the US equivelent of a Tesco Express, I believe) the previous evening. I was the only one who ate the egg salad sandwich of undetermined age.

After lunch I went back up the lift. As I was getting on the highspeed quad lift to the top of the mountain, I felt a slight gas pain in my gut. Half way up the lift I thought, "Man, this sandwich is not sitting well with me at all." When I arrived at the top I was hunched over in pain. I was ghost white, hunched over with sweat pouring off my face. The lift operator asked if I was alright. "No!" I screamed and I was off.

I'm flying down the mountain with my butt cheeks clenched togher while screaming in pain. I really wasn't sure if I was going to make it. The moguls were not helping at all. The lodge was in sight.

I started releasing my skis as soon as I was on flat ground. I was still moving when I took the second ski off so I tumbled a few times then landed on my feet and took off running. I didn't even see which direction my skis skidded off to. I ran as fast as a guy in ski boots possibly can. I'm tearing off layers as I enter the ski lodge. I high tail it into the restrooms and I'm ready to unleash the fury of my meal at the buffet the night before.

I get in there and every single goddamn stall is taken. Just as I was about to kick in the door where some 12 year old is taking a piss, a stall opens up. I push some guy out of the way and latch the door.

The bathroom was completly empty in 30 seconds. The sound of me screaming and my colon discharging combined with the smell must have been horrific.I sharded the sandwich, everything I had consumed for the past few days, and a penny I had swallowed when I was three. 5 minutes later and I'm still sitting on the toilet, trying to catch my breath when I hear the door open. Some guy took a step in and gagged audibly. I found this funny. I chuckled and a fart came out. Then the guy who walked in starts chuckling. I'm going "Heh-pfft-heh-pfft-heh." Which makes this guy bust up laughing, which gets me laughing which triggers round two of the sandwich vengence and the bathroom is cleared once again.

I'm in there for an hour before I was sure it was over. I was still sweating when I came out. My mother was like, "Where were you? Oh my god! You look terrible! What happened?" I says "Take...me...home."

It wans't so much length as it was volume.
(, Sat 4 Aug 2007, 6:57, Reply)
Haven Holidays
Me and my then best mate james went with my Dad, Nan, Grandad and Great Uncle Tom to one of the Haven Holiday caravan sites in Cornwall.

We were there 3 days, and we pulled twins, albeit from a Mormon family. They were up for anything. Highlight of most men's lifes. Trouble was, the one that James got was fun, fun, fun; mine was a bit more "square". Think the Twins from Sweet Valley High (Mine was Liz, hers was Jess: I know it's sad but thats the best example I can come up with). Both fit and up for the craic, but his was more open to suggestion!

We had great fun for 3 days. Last night, they invite us back to there caravan as their parents have gone out. Fun occurs. Lots of getting naked type fun. Until headlights flash across the window. Ma and Pa twin are home.

We get caught, dragged back to our van, bollocked collectively by their parents and mine. Finding both daughters with one set of pants on between them didn't go down too well.

Me, James and my family were collectively banned from all Haven Holiday camps.

Thing was my dad shook me by the hand as we exited the Managers office muttering - "twins, naked, brilliant..."
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 17:28, Reply)
Provence, France. July 1993.
Back in the days before my parents divorced, my dad considered a 'great holiday' to consist of loading up our Ford Sierra estate and matching trailer full to bursting point with camping gear, clothes, my long-suffering mother and my brother and I.

I was about to turn eight; my brother would have been five.

After what may well have been days of driving down French motorways, my mum was looking forward to some proper amenities- anyone who has ever visited an old-school French motorway service station will be familiar with 'squatting' toilets. Those who aren't can probably guess the arrangement.

We finally arrived at the campsite, rendezvoused with my grandparents and set about settling in. My dad struggled with our massive tent, my mum went to wash some clothes at the facilities block and my brother and I acted like young children.

Soon, my brother approached my mum saying he needed the toilet. She pointed him in the direction of the gents, next to where she was washing the clothes. He disappeared inside and came out just a few seconds later.

"Mum, there's just a hole in the ground!"

"Oh no," thought my mum "we're going to have to squat for the whole blooming holiday. Fan-bloody-tastic."

"Just use it anyway, dear. It's just like the ones on the autoroute."

A few minutes pass, and my brother emerges from the block in tears, soaking wet.

He'd been peeing into the showers.

And he'd tried to flush.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 20:54, Reply)
How could I forget?!?!?
Holy fucking shit I've only just remembered this real life diary entry (this was pre-blog :-P) nearly 10 years ago. It wasn't actually a family holiday, but it was at a place where family holidays take place, so with that tenuous point in mind, take it away with a lengthy-as-fuck post. Yes, it's long, so if you have the attention span of a gnat, just scroll down, read the next post and don't complain. Rargh.

Originally posted here: www.teamfishcake.co.uk/article.php?id=86


The story goes a little something like this:

Mid February 1998 a friend told me of his expedition to a certain holiday camp in Wales for a week. The way he described it, it made it sound relatively ok, so I decided I would give it a try. However, upon arriving at this holiday camp in the middle of May, things were not what I had been led to believe.

For those non-British people, holiday camps are a strange British tradition. One of Britain's many strange traditions. You'll get the idea of what they're like after reading this.

The name of the holiday camp has been changed…

Read on…

Arriving at "Fort Happy Camp" was highlighted by the typically dysfunctional family-style groups, behaving like dinosaurs, stomping their fat, ugly way through what appears to be a fucked up council estate with a bit of metaphorical sugar sprinkled on top.

These families must think to themselves: "Right, we've not had a good family row for ages, so we'll go to 'Happy Camp' and piss people off by blasting our insignificant ramblings into the eardrums of passers by". Not that the passers by give a shit, because they're too busy acting like twats anyway.

There are many different types of people that go on holiday to 'Happy Camp'. You get the "Anti-family" types like I just mentioned, you get groups of "Ladz!" going on holiday, seemingly for the reasons to insult and offend people, drool over underage girls, get their brains shafted by mass amounts of piss-diluted beer and think they're good because of it! However, there are also the groups of "Girrrlz!" that act in a similar way.

God, I am so fucking bitter…

You can always tell which people don't want to be there. Obviously there was me, sat in the bar, writing this lump of hatred, but generally, it's the teenagers that are in the "Anti-family" who reeeeeally look embarrassed to be in the kiddies organised "Entertainment" section playing "Pin the tail on the fuckwit greencoat" or something equally as dire.

It seems like you're being forced to have fun all the time. It's like "Look! There's someone who isn't laughing stupidly! Let's go and be dead funny, like, just 'cause we're CRAZY guys!!!!!!!"

You always get the mandatory twat of a greencoat who has seemingly been released into the real world after living on a diet exclusively of caffeine and slapstick movies. They think they're funny - they think they're really funny, yet it's pretty much evident that they were constantly bullied at school, dragged up by crappy excuses for parents, and fucked by strange men in dirty raincoats. It's the only possible explanation for a potentially dignified person turning into a hyperactive - probably drug-addled - arsebiscuit.

Holiday "camps" go out of their way to try and un-evolve the human race. The selection of events they put on is an utter pile of dog shit. I noticed one of their notice boards proclaim that they "cater for every conceivable music taste".


If it's not 60s/70s music, kiddie disco crap or old people's ballroom shit then they don't want to know! Rock? Techno? Blues? Metal? Classical? Drum and bass? Bavarian oompah music? No! "Every conceivable music taste" ? What a load of dog's cock.

'Happy Camp' is basically fascism with a big smiley face.

It seems that 'Happy Camp' is promoting stupidity! People may say "It's having a LAFF innit!?!" I hated it! People come and listed to cabaret by sweaty untalented songbotherers, dance to shit songs and wear crappy 'comedy' t-shirts.

It's so misleading calling 'Happy Camp' a family place.


Either people are supposed to convert to old people - wearing beige and grey cardigans and listening to fucking crap singers belting country songs out of a knackered old synthesiser and a knackered old voicebox, or piss around like spoilt little bastards.

The choice of things to do there was amazing.


It was crusty. The crustiest piece of bum crust from a crust-monsters crust-mobile during national crusty week doesn't even compare! It is wank!

'Happy Camp' is a shite excuse for a holiday. Entertainment in a can. Fun for lazy bastards. I don't want to go ludicrously over the top with fun! I would just like, once or twice, to be able to park my arse down of an evening, and have a relatively quiet bottle of Newcastle Brown in a pub. Oh no.

Oh fucking no.

'Happy Camp' have decided for me that I don't want a quiet time. So, I have the choice of a second rate combo of full-time accountants fumbling shitty musical instruments in a vague fashion to certain over-popular 60s/70s tunes, or a "disco" with "Happy Happy" songs raping my ears.

It's a place for unimaginative lunatics. Ok, if you've got kids, it would keep them amused, but so would a few cardboard cartons and a box of matches. They'd love that. I personally think that the American concept of "summer camp" is a great idea. Basically, kids go away somewhere and do activities for a couple of weeks. So, you pack the kids away somewhere, who cares where, and then pretend they don't exist for a few weeks! You get the satisfaction that they're hopefully enjoying themselves. If they don't, then just bullshit them with the idea that it's "character building" or a "learning experience". Lovely.

Actually, I suppose it was a learning experience for me. Learning that I'm never going to go there again! When I eventually have kiddies of my own, I'll shove them in a parcel once a year, and mail them to someone else to look after them for a week or so. It would be kinder than taking them to 'Happy Camp' anyway!

Unfortunately, the weather was nice when I went to 'Happy Camp', so of course you get the inevitable consequences of nice weather. The ugly people come out. By God's bollocks they're ugly. Fat blokes with beer bellies the size of a large child, and bigger breasts than most women, wearing a nice pink sunburn that I'd love to go and give a big slap to, just because of their obnoxiousness.

And, of course, the women. You know that a place is tacky when you see more than one woman - and I bet that you've seen a few of them too - with tightly permed, greasy bleached hair wearing a leopardskin style top, with a cigarette hanging out of her messily lipsticked gob.

What is it with these maniacal old witches?

Are they fucking breeding or something? All I can figure out is that somewhere, some sick, twisted and fucked up human being is misleading these clueless bints into believing that the aforementioned combination of UNfashion looks good! You'd have thought that they would have got the idea by now! And, just for the record, they always wear stupidly-heeled shoes, carry a silly plasticky handbag and have a raspy, croaky fart of a voice that sounds like they have terminal catarrh.

Then there's the spoilt little git of a child. "I want a drink! I want a burger! I want to go to the beach! I want to play Ridge Racer! I want a FUCKING LOBOTOMY." Screaming their way through the prison-esque eyesore of a complex acting like a little Mussolini, letting everyone, and I mean everyone know that he is unhappy. Little bastard.

I tell you: judging by the attitude and personality of the fucknut staff you get working at 'Happy Camp', You'd have better luck holding a decent conversation with one of the vending machines! The bar staff just grunt at you as they demand the entire contents of your bank account for a scraggly pint of watered down demi-beer, The greenjackets will try and make you do something "Fun!", The receptionists make you feel suicidally guilty if… no, not if, because there's something wrong with your stuffy apartment, The security guards eye you up suspiciously for just being and you just know that the canteen staff are pissing in the gravy. Bastards.

This is basically a warning to people - 'Happy Camp' is not a place for normal adults!

Stay away if you want to remain sane! Stay away if you don't want your friends and family to disown you for being a clueless wanker!

Luckily for me, because I was sharing my apartment with 5 others, I didn't spend too much money on my sentence at 'Happy Camp'. Only £47 of my hard-earned cash was pissed away. Oh, there was the small matter of wasting 5 days work holiday on this crap though.

God, I feel sick every time I mention that word. "'Happy Camp'". YUK! It was like, when I told people I was going away, and they asked me where, I'd tell them, and, judging by the look on their face, it was the equivalent of telling someone that I had small, insignificant impotent genitals.

Have you ever seen the film "Groundhog Day"? Basically, Every time the lead character wakes up in the morning, he re-lives the same day - Groundhog day - until he changes his attitude. Well, 'Happy Camp' is exactly like that. The same every day. Example:


Wake up late, burn your fingers on the crappy cooker trying to grill cheese on toasted cheap and crappy bread bought from a dirty overpriced on-site not-very-super-market.


Go down to the arcade, waste your money on fruit machines and insult your arteries by slamming your fat slab of a face full of greasy undercooked cheeseburgers and soggy fries.


Either blow your money on crap arcade games again, overspend at the bar, join the old farts in the 'pub' whilst in the background, there's some crappy arsehole called "Mr Eric " who is allegedly here to "Entertain with music and comedy", or, the cream of the crap, Spend a night in the fucking disco with fucking little sprogs on the fucking dancefloor dancing to fucking trashy pop tunes whilst a smarmy fucking bastard of a greencoat badly DJs. Crap. Or, you could do none of the above, and AVOID COMING TO 'Happy Camp'!!!

The lowest of the low-lights for me whilst I was at 'Happy Camp' must have been, and this really happened, dropping my sunglasses into a turd-filled toilet. Yep, after squeezing out a junk-food fuelled arse sausage (junk food ones are the worst type, they're really hard and feel like they're coming out sideways) I wiped my arse (which, if you're one of the archetypical people that come to 'Happy Camp' is a strange thing to do) and then, just a split second after I flushed...

My bastard sunglasses fell into the rapidly disappearing crap cocktail.

My gut reaction was "Shit! I don't want to waste a 60 quid pair of sunglasses" and, as my reactions got the better of me... I quickly... rolled my sleeve up... and... without having chance to prepare myself for the scatological encounter I was about to experience............................. I plunged... my hand... deep... into the toilet bowl... which was still full... of what had previously been... the contents of my rectum. I'm still emotionally scarred now, after having my own faeces stuck to my skin, and even after spending 20 minutes washing my hands and glasses, frantically scrubbing them, it still makes my skin crawl at the thought of it to this very day.

I noticed a shedload of people wearing designer labels around the "place of the damned" which got me puzzled. People generally wear designer clothes to make themselves look good, and stylish.


They were in 'Happy Camp'! That alone made them look like twats!

All day, every day at 'Happy Camp' is as mentally stimulating as hanging around at night outside chippies with the local satankids. I generally felt embarrassed to be there!

So I decided to leave early. Fuck 'em. So I gave them my money, supplied them with cash so that they can do more of their evil work. So what. I didn't care by that point. Goodbye 'Happy Camp'. Goodbye Forever, you weak-arsed fuck of a holiday complex.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we must rise against this evil tide of so-called "holiday camps". Boycott them if you want to stay sane! Leave them alone! Take them to a deep, deep hole in the ground and bury the fuckers, greencoats, holidaymakers and all. We must do it. For the sake of our nation's dignity!

Let them soak in their own detritus!

Let them burn in the vast pits of hell!

Let them rot in their own pitiful excuses for bodies!

The holiday camps should be destroyed and pulped to a mashy, gooey substance and dumped in our enemies territories. Then, and only then will we be safe from the tyranny of this sort of behaviour. There is no excuse for it.

(, Mon 6 Aug 2007, 15:17, Reply)
As kids & teenagers we went to france every year, and on several occasions, the same campsite each time. To be fair, they were fantastic holidays and me and my younger brother loved every minute, even the long drives down to the town near the spanish border.

We always stayed in a campsite, on one of those 'eurocamp' places, where they provide everything, tent, fridge, stuff. The tents were generally large canvas things (obviously!) but divided up into different 'rooms' - basically large, thin mesh bags hung from the frames. My brother and I had one divided in 2, one side each, next to that was a large double room with a proper double bed for the 'rents, my bro and I had campbeds, the ones with a canvas sheet attached to a frame by springs. They made a hundred different squeaks everytime you so much as breathed. If you rolled over, the noise was like a large, badly tuned violin orchestra.

I was about 13, and before the holiday had started to notice a new side effect to my teenage night-time solo fumblings. I had started to leak quite a lot, you know, at the end bit. It was feeling amezzin. After a few weeks on holiday, i was feeling the urge, big time. One night i decided to go for it.

Every single sound would carry at night, i could hear my brothers heartbeat from 4 feet away if i listened carefully. My noise reduction from now on would have to make Mr Dolby weep with jealousy. I pulled off the duvet and discarded it to the floor to reduce rustling. I took off my pj's, further rustle reduction being key. I licked my palms, and attempted to flatten down my adolescent smattering of pubes, again, conscious of the potential friction and noise. I needed to lie as still as possible and move everything an absolute minimum. A hard-on took about 1 and a half seconds to achieve, i licked my palms again, and set to work. Concentrating hard on moving my hand without moving my arm, and moving my parts just enough to get things working. I listened for every squeak, and creak. I regulated my breathing carefully so as not to give the game away.

My 'bedroom' was separated from my parents room by 2 thin mesh walls, and approximately 1 inch spacially. My head was probably a foot from my dads realistically. However, i was doing well, i didnt make a sound. I was quickly approaching finale, and also realisng I hadn't thought this through fully. Point of no return. Many thoughts rushing through my head - tits tits sophie smiths tits oh shit wheres it going to go Sarah Manions legs god she so fucking fit oh god oh god come one oh fuck it i'm going to have to just let fly i cant reach for a sock without making a noise god please let me fuck Sophie and Sarah one day please just once god im giving it to them good now they love it i'm going to swap and put it in the other one and watch her tits dangling down as i fuck her and urrrrrrrrrgh oh fuck thats goooooooooooood........

Silence. Screaming silence in my head. A sticky warm wetness all over my stomach and hand and bits and utter relief. My ears almost ringing from the concentration, a stupid grin plastered and the knowledge that Sophie and Sarah had just got the seeing to of their lives, I am a total and utter STUD.

The unmistakeable outline of my fathers face appears in the mesh wall of my room as he rolls over. In a hushed tone he says "Son, I hope it was worth it. Please dont do it again when we're around it upsets your brother."

The subsequent shame has long since been repressed, I dont honestly remember how awful that moment must have been. I never got to shag Sophie Smith, i hear she is still very fit. Sarah Manion had the greatest legs you've ever seen and the images remain a file on the "w drive" to this day.

Later I'll tell you about my attempted rape on the same holiday.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:08, Reply)
Lucky escape
20 years ago, my dad decided to take us for a trip to France in March. Other than the fact that I got really car and seasick on the way there, the whole two weeks were fairly unremarkable, if a little damp.

Due to a promotion in a scummy, unpopular in Liverpool tabloid, we were getting the ferry back from Belgium, rather than France. This meant we had a much longer drive back.

As mentioned in the first paragraph, I used to get carsick (not helped by my mum chainsmoking). Despite leaving with plenty of time to spare, the frequent stops to allow my to throw up on some very scenic grass verges, we rolled into Zeebrugge just in time to see the ferry leave. Cue my dad screaming at me about how it was all my fault and how it'd cost a fortune to get back now.

His rant was curtailed by me pointing at the ferry we had just missed as it first rolled heavily one way, then the other, before taking a sudden turn and sinking.

We had missed being on the Herald Of Free Enterprise when it sank by about five minutes
(, Mon 6 Aug 2007, 11:51, Reply)
Attempted rape
The shameful onanism I recently spoke of pales into dry crusty flakes nestling amongst my navel hair in comparison to a truly, truly awful episode. The one where i was sat in a camping chair, next to a 12 year old girl, surrounded by the four of our combined parents, all of whom demanding to know why I had tried to rape her.

Referring to my previous escapade, you'll note that I had the horn big time on one particular holiday, the one where i learned to wank properly but ended up mortified that my whole family heard me do it. So it was with some vigour that I had been persuing Louise, a perfectly slim, devastatingly pretty, pubescent little girl with a fair handful, in my estimation, of pert little boobs.

OK. She wasnt that pretty, she was ordinary. She had no boobs, that was just me and she was a little plump if we're being honest. However, the one thing going for me, is that she talked to me occasionally. This wasn't love this, was the real thing. I was going to marry this one.

We were part of a group of about 10 kids whose holidays often co-incided at the campsite, and had got to know each other quite well in that hazy summer holiday way you do when you're young. She didn't appear to fancy anyone obviously, or at least i was ignoring it if she did. 2 weeks in and I am positive I'm there, I really am. I had a good omen earlier which confirmed that I was absolutely right.

We were all on the beach, sunbathing, Louise lay near me but perpendicular to me, our heads close together, we formed an 'L'. I noticed that when she lay on her back, her hip bones were raised above her stomach, stretching the elastic of her bikini bottoms taut. From my point of view I could just about see some pubes. FUCKIN PUBES! Thats pretty much her entire fanny, or at least thats what I would be telling my mates when I got home. I would dine out on this for many years to come. This was genuinely, honestly, to date, the greatest sexual experience of my life. (20 years later, it slightly saddens me that to see a 12 year olds pubes again will cost a lot and society now frowns upon such activities)

A plan was forming. By the end of the holiday i would get off with her. It would be one of the greatest single achievements of the modern age. By the next day, not only would i get off with her, i would feel her boobs. By the end of the week; anilingus. Definitely.

In my mind, I had escalated. I was unaware of this at the time. I had recently discovered that my knob now worked, you know, made spunk and everything, and my racing teenage hormones were in overdrive. I would have this girl dammit, even if it meant burglary.

(Quick disclaimer, when you're 13 the legality and morality issues are utterly irrelevant, they just dont exist. You're just 13 and your body is out of control).

Being a total chickenshit meant I could now barely look the girl in the eye. She was oblivious to her impending pole vaulting session. It was now the last night of the holiday. Internally, I was screaming to do this. Just ask her just ask just ask just ask on and on and on and on...

The beach group hung out in the evenings in a big field with a small pond in the middle. We would sit in long grass, snaffle mini beers and some people smoked fags - one girl claimed they 'warmed her up' which still makes me laugh now. Over the course of the evening, I had positioned myself carefully next to Louise. I hadnt listened to a word anyone had said for hours, I couldnt hear them for the excruciatingly loud din of my internal monologue, now sounding like a drill sergeant. By some fucken miracle, almost everyone had left for the evening, only my brother and her older sister left.

A few sharply raised eyebrows and a jerking of the head in my brothers direction saw him on his way. Louise's sister left with him (years later i would find out he had been snogging her for 2 weeks already, he was 10, her 14. This pattern would repeat throughout my life and continues to). Louise had 'nt noticed our sudden proximity and the slightly threatening atmosphere now descending.

I made stupid comments about the stars, the colour of the sky, the pond, the crickets anything really just make your fucking move you total and utter cretin. I went for it.

Her position was sitting down, legs outstretched, propping her torso up with her arms, angled behind her. I was lying on my side, on her left, (think David Brent posing for the photos after he did the 'simply the best' training session), twiddling bits of grass with my fingers, and trying to disguise a 3 day hardon.

I reasoned, partially correctly as it turned out, that if i just knocked one of her arms hard enough she would fall backwards, I could then roll on top and kiss her. She would initially struggle, but eventually acquiesece and practically beg me to do everything a man should.

I was successful at the start. Out of the blue, I hit her arm in the middle, it immediately gave, and she fell backwards with a loud thud, the momentary thought that I might have actually really hurt her passed, she'll be fine. I rolled on top and pinned her down, i shut my eyes and I kissed her.

I kissed her ear. Revulsed and totally confused, she had turned her head violently away, she scratched me in the face. She started to cry. the back of her head was slightly cut as it had hit the grassy but dry and slightly stony ground. I couldnt believe my plan had failed so early on stage 2. I was utterly utterly devasted. I stayed there long after she had ran off. I contemplated a wank but found myself strangely unable to get aroused.

After that its all a bit hazy. As you do when youre 13, you have no idea of consequences. Half an hour later, all thoughts of the evening had evaporated, it was over, i didnt get lucky. Maybe another day, another girl. I wandered back to the tent.

As I approached, I saw a group had gathered, my parents, some other generic adults, all huddled round someone sitting. Louise, head bowed in her hands, obviously upset and sobbing. Time slowed down, I was aware of being manhandled by my dad into a chair, next to Louise. This is of course is where we came in to my little story.

Looking back, it's all a blur now, she had been confused as to why the boy she quite liked as a friend had suddenly decided to try to break her arm and kiss her and talked about strange bulges in shorts poking her in the tummy and all sorts and everything was blown out of proportion. I didnt know that sex had barely registered by that point in her life. (this was a while back..) Her parents marched round to mine demanding to know why their son had tried to allegedly rape their daughter blah blah its was all a big mess. I told my side, i tried to kiss her! The parents eventually figured out that it really wasnt all that bad, my father diplomatically calming down her father, it was our last night, lets all make up, say sorry. We all got to bed eventually.

By the time the lights went off, I had a raging hardon again and was dying to find out if i could crack one off on the sly.

But you know about that one already.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 15:18, Reply)
My family and other Tragedies.
My family, being not-so-hot in the financial stakes, had a habit of not going on holiday over-seas. My father - being a french teacher - had other plans. One summer after months of plotting, we set off in our trusty 1.6dl Ford Escort with the south of France in our sights.

As I type I'm beginning to realise that this holiday isn't - per say - a nightmare... but there were a few fun incidents, and, come to think about it, they appear to revolve around shit.

Squatter-Toilets: First Contact.
Squatters - for those who have somehow managed to remain ignorant thus far - resemble a shower-tray with two foot-platforms. these allow you to maintain a stance slightly higher than the inevitable flow of shit and piss.

Being small kids, (10/12) my brother and I were still supple and amused by this concept until a series of accidents prevailed.

This is just the first...

The first night we had was spent in coastal Normandy. We fed on Prawns. Half way though the next day's journeying, we desperatly required a shit-stop. Hmm. Squatters. Carefully placing trollies and shorts around our knees (the highest placement available when "assuming the position") we squatted while giggling in adjacent cubicles.
Laughing is not conducive to accurate sphincter control.
Good sphincter control is recommended if you have the shits.
Listening to your sibling's building laughter get accompanied by louder and louder splattering noises causes *yet more* laughter... and resultant shit-torrents.

This is what is known as "positive feedback". The more we laughed, the worse our anal control. The worse our anal control, the more we laughed. 2 minutes later we were howling with laughter desperately trying to maintain balance on the raised areas.

Mirth and merryment quickly turned into dismay as - bawling like a mong and trying to hoik his trollies up - My brother literally skidded in shit and lost footing. The *THUD* represented the moment that both of his feet hit at waist height on opposite cubicle sides as he fell flat on his back in a pile of bog-roll and prawn-splatter, and was also the moment *sigh* where I jumped.

Being caused to jump while laughing and trying to wipe one's arse and heels (I have a blast radius that makes Hiroshima and Nagasaki look lame) had the effect of making me fall over. I instinctively put a hand out behind me to stop the fall.. it went straight down the large diameter shit-hole in the back of the pan. If I'd have known about brake-dancing back then, I'd have been proud of my momentary pose. Sadly my feet then kicked out from under me as the coefficient of friction failed to be big enough, and I too - in accordance with a theme that would establish itself in my life - became a walking shit-monster.


Looking back, Maybe this was the point at which my father became de-sensitized to shit-covered children.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:56, Reply)
When we were young...
...and my parents had divorced, we were super poor, no car, and couldn't afford to go on holiday.

BUT, we did live in Torquay, which is a touristy kind of place.

So we used to go on holiday by staying in a campsite. A campsite right next door to our house.

Kids don't care where they are, it was fun, but we were under STRICT instructions from my embarrased mum not to tell anyone where we were from.

Though I was never sure how she explained away the cat following us on holiday.
(, Mon 6 Aug 2007, 17:38, Reply)
Worst. Holiday. Ever.
Family decided to go and visit the grandparents. They lived in Sunderland. We lived in Dover.

After 8 hours on the M1, we arrive. Unfortunately, Dad hadn’t told them we were coming, and they weren’t in.

So we went home.
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 22:08, Reply)
fat camp
When I was nine, I was hugely obese. My parents took the opportunity to send me to one of those fat camps in America where rotund pre-teens can burn off their kilos of tub with healthy outdoor pursuits and vegetables.

I thought I was fat, but when I met my room-mates, I became the Nicole Ritchie of the camp. Jed was so fat that you couldn't see his eyes and, from a distance, he looked like an out-building. If he laughed, his body continued to ripple for some minutes afterwards. I believed he affected the tides. Chip was fatter still. His ankles spilled from his shoes like a haemorrhage of pliant lard and his face was little more than a stub of nose emerging from waves of jiggling flab. If you put your hands near his mouth when he was eating, you might lose one. His parents dropped him off from a flat-bed truck

Day one: assualt course. A former marine screamed himself purple at us as we tried to negotiate the course. Jed rolled for much of the distance, picking up twice his body wieght in sludge, while Chip had to be winched from a concrete tube after a fire team had rubbed his flanks with butter. I fell from the three-metre wall and landed on a ginger-haired girl from Minnesota. She seemed to have no skeleton and I was unharmed. At lunchtime, Chip went into a faked anaphylactic shock when he was allowed only one cookie. A hit team with rubber truncheons had to placate him.

Day two: Psycological counselling. We had a group focus session in which we were required to bare our feelings about being fat. Jed told a story about sitting on a succession of family pets and squashing them dead. He had once eaten an entire "All-You-Can-Eat" buffet at Hungry Hippos and been banned from the restaurant for life. Chip admitted that he had eaten so many pizzas on one occasion that share prices for tomato puree had risen five percent. His parents had rigged up a feeder for him from parts of an industrial grain silo. My tales of eating one too many Hobnobs paled in comparison.

Day three: confidence dance. A ball was held for the male and female fat-campers to increase confidence and repair years of damage to self-esteem. Jed smuggled in a hipflask of brandy and ended up making out with a girl from Alabama - only on closer inspection it turned out to be a storage tank containing 1000 litres of fresh water. He left shortly after that (his parents collected him with a trailer). Chip turned out to be a hell of a dancer. He jumped around the floor like a rotund Micheal Jackson on speed - until someone realized he was having a fit and sedated him.

Day four: It was lonely without Jed. Only, we saw him on the news that very evening. His parents had stopped at a diner on the way home, where Jed had eaten too many nacho chips and gone batshit on additives. He had to be shot with a tranquiliser gun. Me and Chip laughed so hard that Chip fell off the bed and went partially through the floorboards ino the room below. In panic, he soiled himself and introduced a timid boy in a bunk below to the experience of scat. This made me laugh even harder - so hard that my appendix ruptured and I had to be taken to hospital.

I came home after that. Eventually, I lost all my weight after seeing a poster of Peter Andre and vomiting non-stop for a week. Happy days.
(, Mon 6 Aug 2007, 12:14, Reply)
Holidays + Fashion = Animal Attack!?
As everyone knows, the early nineties was a time fashion forgot. Men wanted to be thick-haired, muscular and manly, and women wanted to be like Julia Roberts off Pretty Woman (after she gets a makeover..not when she's a prostitute).

So, it was one of these fashion voided years that found my dad on a bus, on a daytrip. It was a regular bus, not a coach, and had poles all the way down with buttons for the bell on (coaches don't have these. Coaches have a chemical toilet, and curtains).

I don't know what my dad was wearing, but let's imagine that he and his mates were wearing bleached denim jeans, global hypercolour t-shirts and white jackets with the sleeves rolled up. Fun-ky. I digress.

An older woman sitting halfway down the bus was wearing a smart blue jacket, with huuuge shoulder pads and enough gold decorative buttons to make a modern day rapper admire her bling. Notably, there were 3 buttons down each sleeve (I think it's called 'Military Style').

As the older woman stood up and rang the bell, the bus slowed to the stop. She slowly made her way down the bus to exit, reaching out to each pole.

My dad was causually watching this woman get off the bus, as you do, and has described the following to me over many a festive drinking session.

The woman was going down the bus, reaching out to each pole, and all of a sudden, she started to scream and wave her arms around. The people around her started to scream too, and some of them held their shopping bags in the air, and put their feet on the seats.

My dad, from his vantage point higher up on the bus, over the wheel, started to scream with laughter. Imagine the bus right now. Half the bus screaming at an old woman thowing a fit, and my dad surrounded by appalled travellers, laughing himself sick.

What had made him laugh?

Well, the reason the old woman had screamed and gone mental, and set the bus mental, was that she was sure she had a rat on her sleeve - a big, hairy rat! RAT!! She screamed. RAAATTT! Which set the other passengers off.

Why wasn't my dad scared of the rat? He IS terrified of rats. But you see, it wasn't a rat. My dad (he can be awful!!) was laughing at a short, fat, bald man who was red as a beetroot and clutching his head.

My dad had seen the old woman's sleeve button catch onto, and whip off his thick, brown wig.

Apparently the woman, when she'd been calmed down, apologised and returned said head garment. The passengers were a mix of bemused, apologetic, and hysterical. My dad was the leader of team hysterics. He was literally crying and doubled over in acute pain.

The now re-wigged bald man sheepishly got off at the next stop. It took a number of days for my dad to stop randomly bursting into hysterics and to this day, 17 years on, still can't tell the story without going high-pitched and wiping his eyes.

I swear my dad enjoys the journey more than the holiday!
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 12:37, Reply)
What a bit of warm weather does to Northerners...
On holiday in the South of France, an idyllic little cottage in a beautful quiet village. I was 14, and innocently reading in the garden.

Went upstairs to ask mum where the sun cream was, she was hanging over the edge of the bed and my dad had just finished giving her a mighty good seeing to judging by the fact he was more out of breath than the time he ran the marathon. Oh, and he was propped up on top of her admiring a job well done, giving me a full frontal in the process.

Horrified, I ran through to the room I was sharing with my older brother, who was sat on his bed having quite a vigorous session of his own.

Spent the rest of the holiday afraid to go back in the cottage, getting hideous sunburn as I never did locate the suncream.

I still have nightmares now.

Woo, first post! Wasn't as scary as I thought it might be.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:41, Reply)
Wasps and Cocks
My folks never took us abroad. Most of our summer holidays were spent crammed into a tiny car (my Dad insisted on buying Nova saloons for many years, before finally upgrading to a CLK, having a number of fun cars to thrash, and ensuring my Mum has a variety of new plate cars as soon as we left home).

With two testosterone and fizzy drink filled young teenagers perched alongside a much younger,incredibly annoying sister on a tiny back seat the scene was usually set for disaster.

Normally we would be fractious, punches would be exchanged over the top of our sisters' head and Mum would slap legs and bellow. Quiet would follow, before the bickering started again.

One day, however, things became vindictive. My brother stabbed me in the leg with a pen. I bashed him with my sisters Etch-a-sketch. My sister wailed, I leant over to give my brother a wedgie, a wasp flew down his boxers and he received a sting in a very personal place.

The subsequent scream was the loudest noise I ever heard. Confused and a little frightened (and puzzled as to why her etch-a-sketch no longer worked) my sister joined him in a robust chorus of shrieks.

Naturally he was unable to talk clearly and was reluctant to show my Mum what had happened. She assumed I'd hit him very hard on the cock and smacked me one. We had to have a detour to hospital, and the holiday was spent in argument and recriminations.

Funny though, still brings a smile to my face whenever I think of it...
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:43, Reply)
I was staying in a nice hotel in Paris and they had one of those grand pianos in the bar that automatically play along.
Mom thought this was great as she had never seen one before and asked the guy in the bar all about it.
The next night we are relaxing in the bar after a busy day sightseeing in Paris. Mom steps up to the piano and as a joke decides to pretend that she is playing the piano for a few moments not minding that she has never had a lesson in her life she lets the piano automatically play along as she made the movements.
All was going well for mom until she soon drew a rather large crowd.
Oh crap she thinks, I can't leave the piano now everyone will know I'm a fake and I'll look a right idiot.
So she carries on fake playing and making the Stevie Wonder type moves right to the end of the song.
She got a round of applause and a free drink from the bar.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:46, Reply)
Calling occupants of interplanetary craft
First off: yeah, it's long -- read it or don't. Also: no it's not entirely on-topic -- so sue me. Finally: yeah, it's true.

I'm 16, heading towards A Levels and in order to improve my French my parents decide that I should spend some time there with a French family. Being short of cash and somewhat lazy, they decide to avoid the costly and time-consuming process of going through some sort of organised exchange service, opting instead to ask around to see if anyone they know might know someone who knows someone...

Et voila! Our next-door neighbours happen to know a family who live in the south of France, who have a similarly-aged son who'd benefit from some time in Blighty. The deal is done, although strangely with no direct contact -- they don't have a 'phone so it's all day indirectly through friends. I know literally nothing about them beyond the son's name. I don't even have their address.

The time comes, my parents accompany me to the station and stick me on a train with 250 francs (about £25) in my pocket and a ticket to Spain -- for some reason they're to meet me on the bull-hating side of the Franco/Spanish border. It's an uneventful journey to Paris, but things start to go wrong when I try to get from Gare du Nord to Gare d'Austerlitz. The 250F was intended to pay for a taxi across town (my mother deciding that the Metro was too dangerous to negotiate alone) but I quickly find that it's nowhere near enough to pay for such a journey unless I want to risk my life, possessions and/or possibly my anal integrity to a dodgy-looking Moroccan gent who accosts me while standing in the taxi rank queue. I don't.

Back in the Gare du Nord I begin to investigate the Metro. First of all I'm completely unable to find the ticket office, my pathetic O-level French failing at even this most basic of tasks. The metro station is a maze, and each person I ask gives me a completely different set of utterly incomprehensible instructions. When I do finally find a ticket office, the babbling goon behind the desk flat out refuses to make change from the 200F bank note I offer him.

I'm beginning to get a little nervous -- time is getting short. Finally I find a ticket office where somebody actually consents to sell me a ticket, then on my way to the platform, I'm accosted by an English-speaking woman who needs to find a map of the metro system. I happen to know where this is (having recently explored every inch of the place) and in return for my help, she gives me one of her metro tickets. Thanks lady, you're about an hour late.

I arrive at Gare d'Austerlitz with less than ten minutes to spare. Giving up on my French I simply walk up to every uniformed figure until I find one that speaks decent enough English to tell me which platform I need. I run. I find my train. I get on and look for my reserved seat. There's someone in it. I am perplexed. Not wanting to cause a scene, I find a guard and somehow make myself understood. He shakes his head: the reserved seat was for Calais-Paris. I have no reserved seat for this leg of the journey. And every single seat on the train is full. I resign myself to the prospect of spending the next twelve hours (i.e. through the night) sitting on my bag in the corridor.

Luckily, a friendly lady takes pity on me and lets me have the seat that one of her two children should be sitting in, only he's sitting in her lap. Said child then falls asleep across my lap, and I'm so worried about waking him up that I don't move for the remainder of the journey. Neither can I sleep: the train is full to bursting, it's hot and everyone is sweltering, even through the night.

We finally roll into Portbou the following morning, and I'm met at the station by a couple who I assume to be the parents of the family I'm to be staying with. I've had nothing to eat or drink in 24 hours: they hand me a dry croissant to munch on as we career at insane speeds along twisty coastal roads, back towards France. It's fortunate that I no longer suffer from the carsickness that I mentioned in an earlier post.

We arrive at a nondescript house in the suburbs of Perpignan. It's still morning but already horribly hot. Not having slept in over 24 hours, I'm looking forward to being shown my room, so I can crash out for a while. But it's not to be: as we walk through the door I'm greeted by a great crowd of people -- I have no idea how many -- all smiling and friendly, and in many cases barely clothed. There's a LOT of flesh on display, some of it belonging to some delightfully-proportioned young females, and even some bits that until that point I hadn't witnessed outside the pages of Razzle. My eyes are out on stalks. I think I must be hallucinating from lack of sleep/food/drink.

We're barely in the door when I'm ushered out again, back into the car and off we go -- once again over the border to Spain, where we're going to a restaurant for lunch. In spite of my hunger I'm frankly revolted by the food that's offered -- I have no idea what it was but suspect it was intestinal -- so decline and instead go for a walk along the adjacent beach: more naked flesh to ogle. Bargain!

The others gradually emerge after gorging themselves on garlic-stuffed tripe or whatever, and gather around in a group in a shady spot beneath some trees. I wander over to talk to the woman who (I correctly guessed) is the mother of the lad I'm to exchange with. He's just arrived, and we're introduced: his name is Ramuel. He is handsome, muscled, tanned and cool -- he sports of mohican (this is the 80s, ok?) and struts around like he has balls the size of coconuts.

In short, he is everything that I'm not. We have absolutely nothing in common, and his English is no better than my French so we could hardly communicate even if we did. I dislike him immediately and it's clear that he feels the same way.

And this is where it all started to get a bit weird.

We're called over to join the main group, who are now standing in a large circle. I'm made to understand the we should all hold hands and close our eyes, so I join the circle and do so. A very large, pot-bellied, intensely hairy man begins to talk in French. He drones on for a very long time. I don't understand a single word, but I'm sleepy, his voice is very calming and I feel very relaxed. By the end I'm nicely chilled. The mother calls me over and in broken English, she explains what has just happened.

First of all, the man I had assumed was her husband, was not. In fact, her husband is currently on a book tour of Canada. His name is Claude Vorilhon, and the book he's selling is all about the religious movement he founded -- Raelianism. For those of you who've never heard of it, the Raelian movement came about when he (Vorilhon, or Rael as he later styled himself) happened to be walking on a mountain one day, carrying a copy of the Bible (as you do). There he found a space ship, and in it some extra-terrestrials who told him (taken from Wikipedia):

"...every life form on Earth was created by advanced human scientists from another planet with 25,000 years of scientific advances who, according to Raelians were originally called Elohim or "those who came from the sky", and that some forty prophets in Earth's history were sent by Elohim whose messages were misunderstood and distorted by humans, largely because of the difference in the level of scientific understanding between the advanced race and our primitive one."

All the people at the house and now gathered around were members of this group/cult/religion (whatever). The group hand-holding had been an attempt to telepathically contact these aliens and summon them.

No, really.

Looking back on it now, I wonder at my equanimity upon having this related to me by an otherwise apparently sane adult. Perhaps it was that I was already spaced-out from the sleep deprivation, the hunger and the heat. It didn't seem in the least bit odd, and unbelievably I didn't even have the faintest urge to laugh at her. Which, by rights, is exactly what I should have done.

At this point I'm whisked off again, this time to a small airport where a pretty young thing of about my age is due to fly off somewhere with her father. Strange to report, in the hour or so we spend in the back seat of the car and then a hot airport waiting room, we fall in love. We barely speak, just smile at each other. I can't break eye contact, and we hold hands as we cross the tarmac to her father's Cessna. She flies off. I never see her again.

Heat/hunger/tiredness/horniness? Possibly. I can remember her face to this day.

The next week I'm given further insight into the Raelian movement, and do my best to take it seriously. There's a lot of group meditation which is genuinely quite relaxing, as long as you ignore the fact that the others think they're communing with the Elohim. One day we go to see the Dali museum (I later learned that he was there at the time, dying slowly in a small room in one of the towers). Another day I sunburn my feet (painful), somehow end up having to walk five miles in espadrilles (excruciating), then arrive at the house to find all the (middle-aged, overweight) menfolk sat around the kitchen table, stark bollock naked to a man, playing cards. I decline to join them, and head to bed.

But frankly, most of the time is spent lying around by the swimming pool, ogling scantily-clad young things while trying to a) not be seen to be ogling and b) not get a stiffy. Apparently free love is part of the religion (it's true -- look it up!) but alas I don't get any -- apart from being crushingly shy I'm also horrifically unattractive, especially compared to the various other bronzed hunks about the place. Ramuel basically ignores me.

At the end of the week, it's time for us to head for the green and pleasant land. Ramuel is less than happy, and who could blame him, when he's leaving behind sun and sex for a grey, cold English summer? We have an interesting time when we're stopped by armed border guards at Calais -- it turns out he's only 15, and you can't travel on a French ID card if you're under 16 unless you have written permission from your parents. And his mother can't be contacted because she has no 'phone. Somehow we managed to track her down, and were allowed on our way.

Ramuel was miserable for the entire week and bizarrely, ate nothing but apples. My sister fell in love with him. I gave up trying to entertain him and just left him to mope until the time came for him to return home. Needless to say, we didn't keep in touch.

To this day, I find the whole thing rather surreal. And the Realians turn out to be even more bizarre than the above story might suggest -- like, remember that group who claimed a few years back that they'd cloned a human? That was them. Great fun story to tell the kids, though.

Nanu nanu.
(, Wed 8 Aug 2007, 16:39, Reply)
Uncle Richard
My parents used to to on two week jaunts to Spain and Greece when I was young, but they left me with my uncle Richard because they didn't want me to ruin their holiday with my whining and irritating paranoias.

Uncle Richard was a retired schoolteacher of the old school (corduroy jackets with leather patches) and always insisted that I wear a pair of denim shorts much too small for me. "It's good for a young man to expose his legs to the sun!" he'd say, as his hands fluttered beneath an out-folded newspaper in his lap. We did all sorts of fun things. For example, he'd throw my shoes in his ornamental lake and tell me to get them. "Take off those shorts, first, lad!" he'd say. "The water will make them even smaller." Any smaller and I'd be chewing them.

Of course, now I realise that he was a paedophile. Not the nasty kind who download pictures and rape children, but the old fashioned kind who became scout masters and teachers so they could ogle kids and have a tug later. He never touched me inappropriately , even if he did spend about 40 minutes each morning rubbing me down with sun cream.

"We don't want you to burn do we, Frank?"
"It's raining, Uncle."
"Well, you never know, do you?"
"It's been raining for a week."
"Put your shorts on, I'm going to sit and read my paper while you do some yoga in front of the fire."
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 16:44, Reply)
Fucking terrible caravan holidays
Imagine being a randy teenager in a tiny caravan with the object of your desires. Sounds all right, doesn't it? Oh no. Not if you were me and you were forced to go on the succession of evil caravanning holidays with my barmy ex-girlfriend, her parents and three smelly dogs.

To ensure that no fruitiness took place (as if we would, literally two feet away from her parents - I mean that would have been kind of weird, and besides, every single movement in a caravan is amplified a million times so that the slightest cough shakes the cutlery and sends plates crashing down out of the cupboards) I was forced to sleep next to her father, a chronic snorer and a pipe-smoker with a cruel streak for minorities, while she stayed up the other end with her mother.

The three ill-trained mongrels - invariably sweaty, smelly and covered in mud, rain and their own crap - used to jump on my head and settle there for most of the night, gently wheezing dog-breath into my delicate teenage nostrils. Either that or lick my face or stick their grubby shitty claws into my eyeballs.

"Aww, he's playing, he likes you!" they'd say.

And what I was thinking, from the safety of my ill-fitting sleeping bag, was: "Get this fucking dirty dog off my face; when you're not looking I'm going to kick it in the balls. I'm only here because I want to fuck your daughter."

Being 16-17, it was constant blue-nuts territory of course; the slightest brush against her fragrant body caused every pint of blood in my body to gush into the bits you enjoy washing most. Helpful in usual circumstances - oh, what I wouldn't give for that priapic propensity in my mid-30s, by the way - but not when the sexiest thing you do all day is take a turd in a chemical toilet in full knowledge that everyone in the caravan, and in the windswept field in the middle of nowhere beyond, can hear your strains, it's no use having a stonking great chubby all day.

I used to count down the minutes from the moment we set off on the motorway. Oh, I could steal seconds of sanity, by wandering off in the shops or going to sleep on the beach, or nipping off for a crafty tug in a public toilet whenever my adolescent urges got the better of me. But on the whole it was the most dreadful, horrible, unpleasant world of pain and misery that I've ever experienced.

Every time I see a caravan overturned on the motorway I do an impression of Marco Tardelli and cheer to the rafters. They deserved to be smashed to pieces, obliterated from the world, crushed and burnt. Do the world a favour and destroy a caravan today - you may just save a young boy's teenage years from being so shit.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 0:25, Reply)
"praise the lord, it's a miracle"
when i was about 15 and completely in love with my [gay] history teacher, we went to america for a 3 week family holiday. in my head if i got a fabulous tan, the guy would fall head over heels in love with me when school started again in september. yes, it does get a bit echoey inside my head sometimes.

so we were on the beach but the weather wasn't great. it was very cloudy. i had been swimming and was lying on a sunbed when my family trooped off for lunch. i wasn't hungry - i intended to be thin as well as brown. unfortunately, i have the kind of fair irish skin that could burn in siberia at midnight. in december.

after an hour or so, the family came back and i was asleep. my mother looked at the sun which had now come out and dragged me kicking and screaming into the shade... but the damage had been done. i was so badly burned that 24 hours later i made freddie kreuger look like a chanel skin cream model. my 13 year old brother found it hilarious and was most unsympathetic.

i was burned all over my front and it hurt like fuck. it hurt even more to be lying in bed, too sore even for the sheet to be on top of me, when the family buggered callously off for the day. and it hurt most of all that my girlfriends were all on holiday together in torquay that week, the first ever girlie holiday.

by the end of the week, i was desperate. so i forced myself to get dressed and went on the next excursion. we were somewhere in the deep south and we were looking at a plantation house. the problem was, i was too blistered to walk very far, and it was miles around this damn house.

no problem ma'am, drawled the ticket man, and he produced a wheelchair. this was utterly mortifying. i had to be wheeled around the house with americans openly saying, "poor young girl," and my blisters bursting in huge fried egg sized shapes all over my t-shirt.

every bump on the gravel was agony. which my brother quickly realised. he grabbed hold of the chair handles - and began to RUN up and down over the gravel with me! i was helpless and it hurt so much i was screaming. so was he, but with laughter.

eventually i managed to jump out of the chair, right in front of the baffled american audience. they gasped collectively and i swear to god one of them said in hushed awe, "it's a miracle!"

little bastard...

ps: thank fuck it all healed as if it never happened, could have been much worse i guess!
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 22:20, Reply)
Myrtle Beach
Ah yes, Myrtle Beach SC. The Redneck Riviera.

In the late 70s my parents purchased a condo as a rental property with some friends of theirs. As it turned out to be a good money maker, they bought several more of them as well. Part of the thought of this was that the owners are allowed two weeks per year usage without it being taxed as a vacation home, so now my parents had these places to go to for free. The only catch? We had to go off-season, which meant going to the beach in February or March. Which meant cold, blustery days spent either sitting around with the folks or freezing my arse off outside. Really nice when you're a teenager.

As there were no bikini babes on the beach, I had to find other ways of entertaining myself. Generally I spent a lot of hours wandering the beach- and once, when I was over 18, I walked about ten miles down the beach, found a store and got a bunch of beer and carried it back with me, drinking as I went, until I was reasonably pissed by the time I got home.

So one night after dinner I went out for a nighttime walk and found a nice little bonfire with people from about 16 to 23 standing around it, bullshitting away. I wandered up and joined the group, and ended up sitting next to a pretty little blonde. A couple of hours later said blonde and I went for a walk along the beach, carrying along the blanket she had been sitting on.

Yes, that was the night I lost the V-plates.

By the time I got home it was about 3:00 am, and my head was swimming with happiness and hormones. As I neared the condo, I found my parents out on the beach looking for me- and got the bollocking of my lifetime up to that point. They had been looking for me for hours, not finding me anywhere, seeing only a couple off on a sand dune. Which meant that they had seen my butt, bobbing up and down with a pair of ankles wrapped around my waist, and had no idea of what they had just seen.

To this day Mom tells the story of how I was gone until the wee hours and worried her half to death. And no, I haven't told her what was going on as she was stewing that night. But if she tells that story one more time, I just may. Hell, she's almost eighty- she's old enough to hear such stories now.

What do you think- should I utterly blue-screen her with this little revelation?
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:54, Reply)
Madeline McCann latest
I heard this on the BBC this morning:

"After discovering spots of blood on the wall of the apartment where Madeline was abducted, Portuguese police have made a more thorough search. They discovered a wheelbarrow of narcotics in a wardrobe, Osama bin Laden in the bathroom, Lord Lucan enjoying a cocktail on the balcony and Shergar nuzzling at some hay under the bed. Using a sniffer dog, they also discovered Madeline's rotting head on a spike.

Head of the Portuguese Police, Carlos Ineptides said: "We no look everywhere at first. But now we are having more clues. We think that we can find Mandy alive."

Osama bin Laden said: "Shit! I thought this was the last place anyone would come looking for a crime or criminal!"
(, Wed 8 Aug 2007, 10:08, Reply)
Stolen cars and Living Rooms
At 15 my folks considered me mature enough to go on holiday by myself. This was good. I capitalised on their goodwill and went home to stay with my mate Ash. We were wandering through town and we bumped into some old friends, Steve and Laney.

Steve's folks had gone away for a bit, which meant that we had access to his house, some booze, and a credit card. We spent a lot of money on more booze and were roundly pissed by about 3pm.

About this sort of time a guy called Yorkie popped round. He was a cock, but he was bigger and older and had access to drugs so we naturally thought he was a bit cool. A plan was hatched; we wanted some weed, we were lazy, but above all we were lashed. So, having Steve's mum's car (and keys) handy we decided that it would be sensible to drive. Yorkie assured us he could drive, despite not having a license owing to some unexplained misfortune. Thus the decision was made.

Initially, we couldn't get the car reversed out of the driveway. At this point alarm bells really should have rung, but being young, pissed and excited we managed to block our concerns out.

It took a few minutes, but eventually Steve and I managed to push the car out, position it so it facing in the direction we wanted to go in and relinquished the keys to Yorkie. Then we had to show him where to put the keys. This had disaster written all over it.

The engine was started, then excessively revved, and we were off! We accelerated rapidly and seemed to be going in about 17 different directions at once. Yorkie was not an expert driver.

We approached what seemed like 7 million miles an hour on the first corner leaving Steve's house, and swung a hard right. A BMW was in our path, and suddenly everyones voice rose by several octaves. Swerving, we missed the Beemer, but careered wildly across the road and on a course guaranteed to cause destruction.

Praying the brakes worked, we braced for impact. The world slowed; I saw the rhodedendron bush shatter in front of us as the car ploughed through a garden. While the world slowed down, the car didn't. Yorkie, Grand Prix rookie that he was, hit the accelerator instead of the brake. Reaching about 40 mph we slammed through a bay window and came to a stop several feet inside a living room. The old lady living there had a stupefied expression, obviously not expecting Countdown to end in such a dramatic way.

My brain kicked into action, and I said the first sensible thing of the afternoon; "Fucking leg it!" We did.

Ash and I legged it, dodging police and fire vehicles all the way, and made it to a village some distance away before going to his mum's. Steve, less intelligently, ran to his house. Yes, the house from which we had borrowed the now compact car. Laney was bleeding and injured, and Yorkie hid behind the pipes in Steve's loft.

It was only a matter of time; the filth arrived and Steve (having slightly less sense than an apricot when pissed) thought it would be sensible to fight the law. He lost, and was dragged semi conscious from his house. Laney went willingly and Yorkie was eventually extricated from the plumbing.

Those three were fucked. Ash and I though, were home clear (bar my swollen eye). Or we thought we were. We called Steve to find out how the arrest had gone, and were told we'd been named. After seconds of interrogation Laney had broken.

We later saw his interview transcript; "My name is Andrew Lane (not a lot of people know that). The others you are looking for are Johnnyball and Ash." Wanker.

So, we all got nicked and dragged before the beak. One of the magistrats was our textile teacher. Steve and I were very unruly in school. This was not a good development. Eventually though, we blagged it and got off with a caution. Except Steve (who must have turned up at court pissed). He xswapped his caution for a fine and a 2 year driving ban. Twat.

As an aside, the most entertaining bit of this whole sorry episode was Steve's folks return. He had tidied the house and so on to soften the blow, but when his folks got back from holiday thay had bought a local paper and found that on the front page under the headline of YOB CULTURE was a picture of their car in an unexpected location. The ready boiled kettle did not cut a lot of ice with them.

To make it worse, and to keep it on-topic, I was due in court on the 11th of August, smack bang in the middle of our family summer holiday 240 miles away. I was not a popular boy for some time.
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:48, Reply)
Not my family, but a family we know.
Tony and Christine are some couple- he's a borderline alcoholic German teacher, she's an angry, six foot tall music teacher. Lovely people, but very strong personalities that are prone to clashing.

They engage annually in a scheme which allows them to 'house-swap'. They end up in some lovely part of western Europe, and the other suckers take on their (admittedly lovely) house in our dodgy little home town.

One year, they really lucked out. The family they'd arranged to swap with had a picturesque thatched-roof cottage in Bavaria. The location and house were beautiful- so beautiful that Tony had insisted on driving non-stop all the way there.

On their arrival, Christine was understandably tired. She lit the open coal fire and sat down with a bottle of wine.

Tony, on the other hand, felt quite energetic. He had the school video camera and was making a video to show his students.

He panned around the garden, naming the flowers and the trees; describing his two children as they played. He panned around to the house, and the beautifully made thatched roof. Which was now on fire.

Explain that one to some irritated Bavarians.
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:09, Reply)
You think your holidays have been bad?
Trust me: My most recent was worse.

Madeleine McCann
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 21:22, Reply)
Butlins brainscar
When I turned four my parents decided it was time for our first proper family holiday. My younger brother was barely 18 months old, so a trip abroad would have been hell. Plus we couldn't afford it, so Butlins holiday camp* was the natural second choice.

Near the end of an exhausting week (for my parents), all the kids in the camp were rounded up to be treated to a final magic show with a fabulous prize…. a HUGE bucket full of lollipops. Believe me when I say I wanted those lollies more than anything before or since. My dad was looking after my sleeping brother at the back of the room while my mum also took the opportunity for some shut-eye, so I pressed forwards into the pre-school mosh pit at the front, hoping it might increase my chances of winning this magical tub of sugarjoy.

Tension built as the magician rummaged around in a top hat full of names... Finally, to a chorus of rapturous squeaks he produced a crumpled scrap of paper and announced... somebody else’s name. I was gutted and began sulking immediately. In the background I could hear my dad shouting something about putting my hand up but I was too consumed with grief to care. In any case, my attention was focused on the stage, as the magician was still waiting for someone to come forwards. He kept repeating the winner's name, and each time he did it, my dad's shouts drifted pointlessly over the sea of kiddynoise, into one ear, and straight out the other.

The magician grew impatient and asked his pint-sized audience if he should draw another name, to which the reply was a resounding, fever-pitch “YAY!” from each of the mewling brats below. I shouted louder than anyone, struggling to believe that I’d been granted a second chance. My dad was now wading through the maelstrom of youth towards the front of the stage, but I was determined to win that bucket of lollies before he made it.

Just before he reached me, the magician announced a second name… and the winner (a girl just to my left) bounced three feet onto the stage to claim the prize. I felt my eyes begin to well up with tears, but these were soon cleared as I received a hefty clip round the ear.

Apparently, the first name the magician had announced was my brother’s. My lolly-induced tunnel vision and selective hearing, combined with exceptional naivety meant I’d ignored my brother’s name completely. When I realised the magnitude of my error, I cried for about a week and had recurring nightmares about it for years afterwards. My dad still reminds me of this story every single time he sees anything lollipop-related. I’m now 27 years old.

I don’t know how long it was, but that bucket really did look _enormous_ to a four year old.

* For those who haven't experienced Butlins, it's similar to Auschwitz but with more clowns.
(, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 18:36, Reply)
There was a reason, we found out, why nobody else in the campsite pitched their tent in the little dip in the field.

It was this: whenever it rained, the little dip became a river.

A raging torrent, no less, that swept through our tent like some Welsh tsunami, bearing all our worldly goods before it.

All our worldly goods including our clothes, which, soaking wet, freezing and half-naked at four in the morning, proved impossible to find by the light of a 99p torch.

We set fire to the tent as soon as we got home, just to make sure we were never tempted to go camping, ever again.
(, Wed 8 Aug 2007, 13:39, Reply)
Toll booths
Drove to Freiburg in Germany a couple of years back for a family camping holiday. On arriving at a French motorway toll booth we queued up to pay and drive on. As we sat there in our gas guzzling Ford Galaxy with roof box (making us a 2.3m high motorized brick) we spotted a toll booth with no queue. Never liking to hang around I was just about to leave our queue and head for the idle toll booth.

It was then that a German plated Audi with roof mounted bicycles confidentally pulled up at said booth. It was this point we realised why the booth queue was clear, it had a very low height restriction, just high enough for a regular heighted car. The bikes hit the cross beam and were dragged off the back of the car on to the road. Ooops.

It didn't end there, the wifey in the car proceeded to get out and recover the wrecks while hubby paid the toll. The barrier lifted and hubby drove on and wifey followed wheeling what should could behind him. Except that the barrier came down and smacked her squarely on the head causing her to fall to the ground. Instead of anyone in our queue going to help her we all just sat there grimacing.

I bet that holiday was going well!
(, Tue 7 Aug 2007, 22:40, Reply)

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