Walking in Wales
The overriding memory of my childhood holiday disasters is when the parents decided that we should spend a day walking along the path which runs alongside several waterfalls somewhere in the Welsh heartlands. It was about as enjoyable as most walking trips with the family are (ie not at all) when we got to a section of the path that split in 2. We had the choice of the higher path or the lower path which seemed to take us nearer the waterfalls and thus would get us a better view. Despite the map labelling this path the "unadvised path" we opted for the low road.

This was a very poor choice.

The path gradually became narrower and narrower until we were literally on a foot wide slippery mud track with a 200 foot drop in to the valley. We pressed on thinking that it could only get better. It didn't. The excursion ended when we were rescued by some passing abseilers while cowering under a rocky outcropping where we weren't in immediate danger of death.

On the way back to the car we also became lost and ended up being given lemonade by a lovely Welsh couple who showed us where we were and where we were meant to be on the map.

I don't go on walking holidays any more.
(Joey[kins], Thu 2 Aug 2007, 22:45, Reply)

1974 - Two parents, three kids, a granny and an Austin Maxi.
It was the seventies, and I was 9. We were driving to Switzerland in our Austin Maxi 1750.
In the back were me, my siblings and my grandmother. She was doing a great job of keeping us entertained in the back - a real trouper.

We drove from Rotterdam ferry port across the Netherlands and stopped at the Dutch/German border (they still had border checks at that time).
The guard (German) leaned into my Dad's wound-down window and asked if he had anything to declare.

From the rear seat, I gleefully proclaimed
"Only the heroine in the back!"

Next thing I knew, my Dad was outside the car, frantically trying to explain, in broken German to a very unamused guard, that I was just a stupid
kid and that he didn't really have a couple of kilos of smack concealed in the vehicle.

At this point, something very strange happened.

Dad started jumping up and down, doing a weird "funky gibbon" type dance which culminated in him removing his T-shirt and throwing it to the floor.

The guard was laughing his grey uniform socks off and eventually waved us on. He'd seen the wasp crawl inside the neckline of Dad's shirt.

I often remind him of it - from a healthy distance.
( finnbar has officially retired, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 22:32, 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!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 22:20, 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.
(silencer, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 22:08, Reply)

Great family holidays
Ole Man was poor sometimes and quite well off at others - so we would either go somewhere inexpensive, or somewhere quite luxurious.

One year we had a tent on the Isle of Wight.

Things looking pretty bleak day one until I bump into my best mate - who lives over the road from me way back home - what a great result! Ole Man well pissed off as they are staying in a chalet and we are stuck in the tent. Oh how I laughed when my mates parents walked over to our 'tent' to say hello and my Dad squirmed like fuck.

Another cracker was when my parents took my sister and me to France to stay in a lovely cottage with some family friends with children of similar ages.

Both my sister and I were asthmatic (she still is) and I suffer from quite bad hay fever - so picking a cottage surrounded by hay fields was great planning by the ole man.

Of course much wheezing and eye watering occurred and I must admit I felt slightly under the weather and wasn't really up for much. Cue ole Man grabbing me by the scruff of the neck one day (I was 8) and smashing me into the wall and ceiling screaming that he wished I was dead and that I had ruined his holiday (all whilst crying!).

It didn't pick up much for me after that - and that particular moment has stayed with me since (sob).

Now I have kids of my own, and I can vaguely understand that having a sickly child on holiday can be a tad irritating - but my daughter is asthmatic and I would certainly do my best to avoid a fucking field full of hay!

Still - look on the bright side - he is currently dying from Emphysema and when we are to be shortly gathered round his death bed I will remind him about that particular family holiday - call him a cunt - and wish him merely on his way to hell.



Length? About 3 weeks per the latest doctors diagnosis
(devasa, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 21:57, Reply)

Holiday nightmares
I can't remember a bad holiday but can remember someone who was having one, before it started.
We pulled in to a service station for fuel and, as we were leaving, I saw the most desparate site on Gods earth. A guy pulled in driving an old style volvo estate, the roof loaded with luggage with what can only be described as a resigned look on his face. The car had four back windows, all open, all occupied by a rather sad looking childs' face.
congealing on both sides of the car were four rivers of puke; some fresh, some dried on.
A family driving holiday with four dreadfully car sick kids. I can't imagine anything worse.
(DustyD, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 21:26, Reply)

You think your holidays have been bad?
Trust me: My most recent was worse.

Signed,
Madeleine McCann
(ratthingbazzterd, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 21:22, Reply)

Not so bad after all
Maybe I'm just getting rose-tinted in the spectacle department, but I'm sitting here with all sorts of fond memories of family holidays when I was a kid. We never had much money, and we're big family so it was nothing spectacular - camping in wales, staying in friends' country cottages etc. I feel slightly guilty for not appreciating it as much at the time as I do now, and I realise that my dear parents may not have been that well off, but they were quality when it came to doting on us and providing new experiences.

Of course the other reason for my misty-eyed recollections could well be a result of having to spend (mercifully short period of) holiday time with Mrs Spankengine's freakshow of a family. They all deeply resent each other, compete to see who can be the most attention seeking, cower in fear at disgusting, repellent Grandad, and possess enough mental disturbances to keep a psychiatrist in a full-time job. I'm constantly amazed at how wonderfully Mrs Spankengine has turned out.

I can only imagine what a week's family holiday might be like with that crowd.
(Thomas_The_Spankengine, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 21:14, Reply)

Don't go on many family holidays.
Mainly due to the fact that my Mum is as pikey as you get. The last one she went on was to Centreparcs. I decided not to go, seeing as it was Centreparcs.



I just re-read that, and its really shit. Click 'I Like This' if you agree...


ahem. sorry.
(littlenipple hate's bad grammar, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 21:11, Reply)

Of wriggling pockets and soaked children
Back when I was around ten, we all decided, for reasons I forget, to go to New Hampshire for two weeks.

Early on in our extravaganza, we went to a beach in Maine. While dodging the entire population of Connecticut that'd come for the weekend (I swear to God), I found a shell. I decided to give it to my mother.
A few minutes later, her pocket began to move. She reached in and pulled out a very disgruntled little creature. It learned how to fly.

Later on, we went to a lake. Some kid asked why I wasn't swimming. I told her it was because I didn't have a bathing suit, so she pushed me in.

Ah, good times.
(Fnooklemop, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 21:10, Reply)

my parents, in their genious...
dicided to go camping during early spring, in pennslyvannia. its cold until march so here we are in the middle of nowhere sitting in tents and it never got above 5 degrees celsius. the worst part? it snowed on the day we were supossed to leave so we had to stay an extra two days.... I barely survived.
(Rated Arrr for pirates and nudity, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 20:53, Reply)

Maybe I am not normal...
But I always enjoyed my family hols with my brother and parents. Static caravan on the South Coast with a magnificient view of the Solent, amazing beaches (and a lot of wasps but oh well).

Only notable weird moments were...

My brother getting dry when he was about 7 in front of the fire and burning his ass on the wire front of it, leaving him with an interesting noughts and crosses pattern on his cheeks.

Finding a dead fish on the beach to use as bait in the crabbing area and leaving it over night outside. CRAWLING with maggots next morning.!

Seeing a topless woman when I was about 17 and staring for fucking ages at her.

My girlfriend coming with us and having to shag VERY VERY slowly so as not to rock the van. Came up with a new position that night as well as voyeuring a couple shagging behind a beach hut that my parents totally missed whilst out for a walk (my ex loved watching lol).!
(elfinpunk Touching Cloth Since, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 20:10, Reply)

Waste of money?
The last holiday we went on was to Crete. It was paid for by my dad of course, and it was very nice, warm, good food etc...

But of course, my dad would start a fight about anything he could think of, thus I believe he ruined his own holiday. He has a knack for doing it on his birthdays too...

Boring post =)
(Dracia flailed on, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 19:49, Reply)

Christmas 2006
In Sri Lanka, arsehole like a Japanese flag coz I was ill.. no airconditioning and I didn't like the people...

Oh yeah, Christmas sucked too coz it weren't at home...
(Margaret Thatchers Right Gonad Is up inside ya, finding an entrance where He can!, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 19:33, Reply)

childhood disease
It became a tradition of sorts on family holidays for me to catch an improbable disease or to maim myself unexpectedly. I should have realised that my parents were training me up for adolescent holiday disaster scenarios when they sent me and my brother off every year to Grandma's house in Newquay. Grandma couldn't really see that well, and never could. One of the things she really had a hard time seeing was dirt, and the sell-by dates on food. We were also given dog biscuits at tea time masquerading as "rock cakes". Cue six days of nearly constant vomiting which would cease just as mum and dad came to collect their offspring after their lovely break from the kids. They were always so touchingly gratified by our immense relief when they arrived to take us away from the Death Kitchen.

Other highlights include:

- catching fleas from a hotel bed in France. Hotel staff denied all responsibility, refused to move us, and while my mother was stuck at the pharmacie trying to remember the word for 'flea' my brother made use of this new freedom to tell all the English-speaking children in the hotel that his sister had fleas and may give them plague.

- on holiday in some kind of villa complex aged 6 or 7, I spent most of the time in the communal pool. Or the fourth day someone called round to tell us that the chemicals in the pool were a little strong and that we should wait until the next rainfall to have our dip. They needn't have bothered: mum had me in the bathroom wrapped in camomile and cling film as my skin had turned to scales and begin to peel off in strips the day before.

Happy times.
(Dalrymple, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 19:28, Reply)

Annual Pilgrimage
Every year, my mother and father packed all 4 of their kids, as much luggage as a boeing 747 could hold and two massive german shepards into an estate car and drove 5 hours to sunny Aberdeen.

It was the same every year I can remember. Being the youngest and by default, the smallest, I spent the journey in the boot area with the dogs and cases, face pressed against the rear window praying my older brother (aka vomit fountain) would keep his unique talent to himself until at least an hour into the journey.

My sisters would moan like bitches from mile 1 on, my mother would smoke like a chimney from the very second she got in the car.

My father, well, he'd drive and have to stop at every toilet coz he'd have terminal squirts.

This memorable journey was only topped by arriving in the granite city (funny how it rhymes with shit), being dragged round relatives houses with the faint aroma of brother spew around us, to be spoken at in an alien language and force fed cakes and sandwiches.

Oh, those were the days....
(bazboy making it up as I go along, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 19:01, 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.
( chart cat has an itch, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 18:36, Reply)

Wild, wild horses.....
Most of my summer holidays were spent visiting my aunt in York. "How was Majorca? Bet it wasn't a patch on Fulford!"

Anyway, my aunt stayed close to some stables and me, my brothers and cousin would often play hide and seek there. This involved my oldest bro and cousin running away to climb dangerous things whilst me and my other bro looked for them. And so it came to be that we were at the stables feeding a chained up horse some grass. I accidentally shove a large, dry piece of grass up said horses nose. As I leaned over to pick some more grass, the horse swung at me, missed, and picked my brother up by his face, before dropping him bloody-faced and screaming on the ground.

After that, everything was a haze of worried parents and reading pop up books in a hospital waiting room. The last thing I remember is my oldest brother claiming to have seen a nurse put a massive needle right up my injured bro's arse.

Good times, good times.
( Alzo wouldn't ride your mum into battle, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 18:35, Reply)

Ah, lovely Cornwall
All family holidays (bar one) from the ages of 6 - 15 were spent in my Gran's holiday cottage in Cornwall. It was great - lots of surfing, eating of clotted cream and getting stung by nettles when attempting to clear up the garden. The only problem was that her reading material apparently consisted entirely of musty smelling James Bond and Mills and Boon books. The mix of graphic torture scenes, light misogyny and large numbers of women giving up careers/independence/brain activity to swoon in to the arms of some man/landowner/boss are probably the reason I am the cynical and entirely unromantic b3tan I am today - one who hasn't had a date in a very long time. Damn you Grandma!
(kitteny_goodness, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 18:16, Reply)

Worst Holiday Ever !
Years ago when I was unhappily married to my mad american ex wife she came up with the brilliant idea of a big family holiday.

Great thought I, now my family can meet her family and they can be even more disappointed with my choice of life partner. Then she broke the even better news to me.
The family she meant was me, her, her ex husband and his new wife, the 2 children they had together, one of his friends with his mad on/off girlfriend and none of my family.

We started off from London and went to look at Stonehenge. It's just a bunch of large bricks that's all, I think the ancient brits stuck it up to annoy future generations and fair play to them. I got bored in about 10 minutes.

Next stop was Liverpool as she is a huge beatles fan, I was born in merseyside and wasn't.

So far so good.

We next went to some castle I can't remember which one but it is apparently very famous. We wandered round it and I was yet again bored shitless. This day was only livened up by her ex husband being attacked by a peacock. I told him to flap his arms at it to scare it away.
He looked an idiot but disappointingly it worked.

We then finished up in Edinburgh. I loved the place. At last somewhere I could get a decent drink and somewhere I could have some real fun.

I need to point out that all through the week ex wife had decided that she had to prove to ex husband that she was well over him and that meant she had to try and dominate me as much as possible and ex husband had decided that it was my fault their marriage had broken up (it was, but as he was unable to keep his dick in his pants with other women I wasn't going to admit it, plus ex wife said I was a better shag) so he would take every opportunity to needle me.

As they were all staying in our small, pokey, overpriced flat in Hampstead while they were in London instead of forking out for a hotel ex husband decreed that we wouldn't need to pay for anything and I decided I would take advantage of this.

We ended up in a TGIF in Edinburgh and him and his mate ordered some drink that cost a fortune (£40 if I remember correctly) consisting of lots of spirits and I think chocolate milk.

I had two. This was after I had consumed some £40 quid of crap burgers and pizza. I felt pretty good and the look on his face reminded me of a bulldog shitting a cactus.

After this I would take every advantage of saying things like 'And one for yourself'to the bar staff, when their backs were turned, in an appalling american accent at every pub we went in and I also got away with 'Wanker' in the same appalling accent when we walked past this huge bloke. It was fun watching him talk his way out of that.

When we eventually got back to London we found out my cat had shit in the bag he had left his spare clothes in.


Do I really need to make a knob joke ? Oh and first post (ftw or something)
(bluetuba has a special friend in Blue Label Smirnoff, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 18:12, Reply)

Socialist paradise
When I was 12 and my brother was 17, my parents booked us all onto a package tour of the Soviet Union. This was 1983, very pre-glasnost, organised tours only kind of thing. Highlight included:

* Our first breakfast at the Moscow hotel consisted of a tomato on a plate. No garnish or anything, just a tomato. I was a fussy enough eater at the best of times, and wouldn't touch it. In fact, I ended up skipping a lot of meals and had to live on ice cream instead. This was plain, flavourless Soviet ice cream, but at least it was tasteless rather than vile.

* We were warned not to drink the water in Leningrad as it was unfit for human consumption.

* The hotel in Odessa was about 12 storeys high and the lift only worked long enough for you to get stuck in it. The sponge cake they served us after every meal got staler every day. On out final night there the staff served us a "special" cake, which was exactly the same (now 4 days old) with cream on top (well, something white anyway).

* Some of our fellow tourists bought fruit from a roadside stall and had diarrhoea for days. The toilet next to the stall (and therefore used by the vendors) consisted of a hole in a slab of concrete. I suspect the two facts may not have been entirely unrelated.

To be fair, it was still quite a unique experience for a 12 year old, although everyone at school called me a commie for the next 5 years.
(lolwhites, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 18:09, Reply)

Travel Sickness.
I've got a cast iron stomach, unless it involves boats or cars.

One trip when I was 8, involved a long car journey. About half way there, I told my Dad I felt sick. My Dad told me "You'll be OK in a minute", somehow thinking that would ease any problems I had.
30 seconds later, I was sick. A direct hit on our poor spaniels head. The dog looked quite put out by this, with sick dripping off of it's head, but managed to grab some dignity by slowly licking it's mouth as the sick ran down.

This immediately caused another wretch. This caused a loop until my Dad pulled over and he was spot on. I was alright then!
( Fronkle99, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 17:50, 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..."
(gjb006, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 17:28, Reply)

I have many stories I would like to tell but no courage to do so.
So you will have to make do with one of my more boring tales that doensn't involve club 18-30.

Every year one of my kids manages to steal something from the same mallorcan shop and its always the same man who's working when it happens.

The first time was when the smallest (then being 11 months) reached out and grabbed some toys from the shelf. It wasn't until we were back at the hotel that I noticed the pack of four Disney squeakers he had in his lap. Being the same resort and shop we go to every year and being on "hello when did you arrive" terms with the shop owner I felt it my duty to go back and admit to my child's felony. I was expecting the lovely Mallorquin to give a roasting as he has that kind of face that looks scarey. It wasn't as bad as I thought. He gave them back to him with a grin thanking us for our honesty.

The second time was the same shop a year later - when we arrived on the first day the man in the shop laughed when he saw us and joked about last years incident reminded said child (now 23 months) to behave. Although he forgot to have words with my 6 year old, who 3 days later saw some motorbikes with mickey mouse on them and picked one up for himself which we paid for. It wasn't until we went for lunch in a bar an hour later that I realised the little one had one too which we didn't pay for. On questioning the older boy I discovered he felt sad for his brother and wanted him to have one too. I went back to the shop and insisted that I pay for it (this is also down to my fear that we have friends who live and run a really respected business in this resort and we are known there as their friends so I would hate to damage their reputation) - he eventually caved in and let me do so.

I am absolutely dreading our arrival at the same shop next Thursday evening when I go to collect my milk and sugar - I think I will make that trip on my own.

LENGTH - SIX MORE DAYS AND I WILL BE IN MALLORCA WOOHOO HOORJ YAY
( Mrs.Sp@m, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 17:16, Reply)

A misunderstood teenager....
I went on a skiing holiday in France with my dad and stepmother.
One evening, I fell asleep in the bath. I must have been lying on it funny, as when I woke up, my arm was killing. I rolled over a bit, and groaned in pain.
"Stop that, you dirty little shit" shreiked my stepmother from a different room. Obviously, she thought I was having a wank.




They then went out for a walk. I had a wank.
(Elfroid How Long Have We Had These?, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:59, 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?
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:54, Reply)

Oh look...a tree
As previously related, we didn't stray far for our holidays -- lack of money mainly. Then in my late teens, thanks to an inheritance, we all got to go on a grand tour of Canada to see all the family that lives over there. As an added 'bonus' we spent a few days in LA and San Francisco, mainly to visit my aunt.

Well my aunt is an odd one, a spinster who grew up in London but emigrated to the US in her teens.

Anyway, after our stay with her she decided to invite herself along for the next stage of our trip -- a flight up to Calgary, then a drive across the Rockies to Vancouver. At this point I should point out that she and my father dislike each other intensely, for reasons dating back many, many years. So cramming the two of them into a minivan together for a week was never going to end happily.

To add to the fun, over the decades of her residence in the US she has managed to cultivate the most awesomely irritating accent -- a sort of strangled mix of East End London and indeterminate American. 'Grating' is a good word to describe it. And she has verbal diarrhea: the instant a thought enters her head, it emerges from her mouth. So we all enjoyed a constant running commentary on the journey, along the lines of:

"Wow, look at that mountain, isn't it pretty? Phew! "Caution falling rocks". Wow, look at that mountain! This road is very twisty. I wonder what we'll have for dinner? What a pretty blue lake. What type of car is this again? I wonder how high that mountain is..." and on...and on...and on. My father would just hunch further over the steering wheel and grow progressively redder about the face. I swear you could hear his teeth grind and his blood pressure rising. I just blessed the foresight I'd shown in bringing a Walkman.

Sad to relate, my father did manage to keep his calm and refrain from pushing my aunt off a mountain. But he's never forgiven her, and even though she's since moved back to the UK and now lives down the road from them, he can barely bring himself to speak to her.

P.S. LA is a shithole and Disneyland really is hell on earth.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:51, 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.
( disasterprone "Pyjamas caused the Holocaust", Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:48, Reply)

a couple of years ago
Me and my parents went over to Corfu, Greece for a family holiday, I wasn't really looking forward to it since it was two weeks in the middle of no where with no one to talk to and I was a teenager.

First night went fine, and we had a really nice villa, balconies, stone spiral staircase (remember that one its important) and the tavernas round the area were alright.

Twas the middle of the second day and I'm sat on the lower balcony reading my book. Then i heard:

*Thud*
*Thud*
*ahhhh crap*

I choose to ignore, because I'm a loving person, but more shouting from my father prompted me to put down the book and see what the hell was going on.

Walk into the villa and there is my dad sat on the chair, his leg pointing towards me, whilst his foot was facing somewhere to the left.

Phone ambulance, which is apparently the wrong thing to if your in Greece and your a tourist, you phone a doctor out instead, if you do that you get to go to the nice tourist hospital.

However if you phone an ambulance you get taken to the normal hospital. Which I dont care how bad some of the hospitals in the UK can get, its nothing compared to Greek ones.
My dad had broken alot of the bones in is ankle and obviously dislocated it, he stayed in the hospital for five days before with some very strange greek patients and doctors who didnt give a crap

By the time we had tried to get home from the hospital it was getting very late and trying to get a taxi was one of te hardest things to do, ended up sharing with some russian couple, to coe back and spend half an hour bawling down the phone to family members back in England, which doesnt look great in front of the rather nice looking Greek guys who had spent the whole of the da before trying to teach me greek

apologies for length, I'm extremly bored
(bryony*niamh kneecaps exist to be hit with clawhammers., Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:47, Reply)

Sidford, Devon, 1990
Worst holiday of my life. Went with my mad girlfriend and some of my college friends.
Myself and said girlfriend elected to do it doggy style on the first night. Terrible mistake. She was not prone to wiping her arse very thoroughly, and the only real memory I have of the experience was the smell of faeces permeating every sensory orifice.
2 days later I found a pair of her shreddies on the bedroom floor. On closer inspection (well you would wouldnt you?) they appeared to have a political map of the Yukatan impressed upon them in dried shit.
Which was nice.

/I guess after that last revelation, the town should've been renamed "Skidford"/
(LunarJim, Thu 2 Aug 2007, 16:47, Reply)