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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.

Arse biting
I was 10, my mum took me and brother on some cheapy trip to Portugal. We stayed in some dodgy hotel for 2 weeks and I made friends with the owner's huge Rottweiller type dog.

One day I walked up to it to say hello and it just went for me. I ran and it chased, gaining on me. The dog was on a long chain and just before it got to the end of it, the dog managed to bite me right on the arse. It hurt like hell.

The owner (some mad old Potuguese woman) came running out babbling, pulled down my shorts and pants and rubbed some red stuff into my bleeding arse. All in front of the crowd of people who had come to see what all of the noise was about. Nice one crazy lady.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 13:00, Reply)
Teenage years?
correction: I was 11
(see below)
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 12:53, Reply)
Teenage years?
Well I was only 8 at the time, but I was the likeliest person to get us home. Me & dada, being big boro (middlesbrough) fans, had gone to Rome to follow the boro into europe against roma. However, my dad picked the furthest hotel away on the outskirts of rome you could have possibly been. I mean, any further and you would have been out of Rome.

So we had to commute about 10 miles to get into the centre of Rome. Now, on the night before the match, my dad got drunk to the point of insanity. I tried to stop him, he said he wanted to have a "good time" without me interfering. So eventually, about 11 o'clock, we stepped out of the shitty english pub and suddenly it dawned on me: I am the responsible one here.

I knew there was a metro station at the end of the street. It was closed. I slowly started to cry. We were stranded in the centre of Rome. I thought the mafia would come and save us. But it didnt happen. My dad, regaining his vital senses, got us on the most random bus EVER. I mean, for all he knew, it could have took us to Venice or something.

Luckily for us, it took us to the main train station, and my dad somehow found the cheapest taxi guy that ever lived and who was prepared to do a 20 mile round trip for just 15 euros. It was just that moment of panic that I will never forget.

Apologies for length.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 12:50, Reply)
I met...
a delightful lass by the name of Olga (it's OK, you can laugh) when on my last holiday with the parents about 5 years ago. She was Russian and spoke about 5 words more English than I do Russian. I don't speak Russian. Long story short we ended up back in my room (shared with the parents) where we set about relieving me of my innocence. Luckily I had the only key, which meant when my mum did come back as had to happen she knocked on the door, for fully 3 minutes while I finished up (it was my first time!) got dressed and flicked on the TV. So when she came in Olga the Russian was sat on the bed looking flushed watching Spanish Family Fortunes.

I don't reckon she suspected a thing!

I'd like to put a length joke in but it was really short...
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 12:44, Reply)
New Zealand...
Tis a strange place. If anyone has ever been they will know, unless you are a huge fan of country pursuits such as walking, or erm walking on hills, or errm walking around hills, there isnt much in the way of stuff to do. Especially for an 19 ish year old Gimli, who doesnt particullaly like walking.

Now Mr/Mrs Gloin several years ago decided to move over there leaving me with my slightly odd and incredibly racist grandmother. Basically anything that is wrong with the world can be directly related to the fact there are Muslims and Poles in London. Anyway I digress.

Part of their plan for this move, was for me to finish my A levels and then join them for a new life in NZ. I wasnt so sure so the compromise was, come out for a month, see how it goes. Just as these plans were being finalised I got myself a new whomarn. Lovely lass, mad as a box of schizophrenic frogs who were abused as tadpoles. The suggestion for her to come along was made and all was set.

I get to NZ jet lagged to buggery after 26 painful hellish hours on planes/in airports. All to start a calender month of being practically begged to stay by my mother. And being guilt tripped into coming back by the girlfriend, who even suggested we get married so she can come live with me. (FUCK NO, I dont even like you that much!!! was my internal reaction, some ol'bollocks about not being ready the external reaction). Not fun.

Also as I mentioned NZ isnt exactly full of things to do, especially in winter and especially when you are there for a full month, with very little money. So not only was I being emotionally tortured. I was bored as fuck for long periods! This also lead to my mother accusing me of not trying to enjoy NZ!

I had a lot of sex though, something mad women seem quite adept at.

Conclusion, if anyone is still with me.

I come back finish with the biach, stay in the UK and my parents have decided to come back because they dont like it.

Sorry about the length, but if you have ever been on a flight from London to Wellington, you wouldnt complain.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 12:37, 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)
The summer I turned 18 the family went for a long holiday in Canada. Where the legal age for drinking is 19. Smashing. This was highlighted when I was admonished by the "Nutrition Computer" in some museum for choosing beer as a suitable drink with my dinner.

Still, taught my 3 year old nephew to say "You suck moose cocks" so it wasn't all wasted.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 12:35, Reply)
I once witnessed my parents having sex...
... but then so did everyone else in Sainsburys.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 12:03, Reply)
Family holidays, grown-up style
I'd managed to avoid going to a holiday camp for the entire 30-odd years of my life up to that point, so quite why I agreed to spend a week at one (in Woolacombe, north Devon) with my sister and her family is, in retrospect, something of a mystery. The fact that I voluntarily did so twice is a veritable riddle inside a mystery wrapped in an enigma. I suspect I was drugged.

Okay, the first occasion was only so-so: at that time I and Mrs RWN were pre-kids so my sister decided that we were the de-facto childminders for my nephew...all day, every day, for the entire week. Brother-in-law spent the whole time fishing or golfing, while sis sat behind her copy of the Sun and smoked herself into a coma. I didn't really mind too much, it was actually quite good fun getting to mess about like a kid again. To be honest, the evenings were the worst due to my sister's insistence on watching every single soap opera you could possibly think of, followed by several hours of Big Brother (which I loathe with a passion), and then moaning at me for the discourtesy of ignoring it in favour of reading a book.

The second time was when RWNlet #1 was about 18 months old. Sis had also spawned again so this time we were to be childminders for three kids. And the villa was the same size -- two rooms -- so it was all a bit of a squeeze. RWNlet had been sleeping 7pm-7am every night since the age of three months or so. But stuck in an uncomfortable, too-small travel cot at the foot of our bed in a stuffy little room, she was not a happy bunny. And (it later emerged) she was suffering some some sort of viral infection too. None of us got more than an hour's sleep in a row for the entire week.

By day three, I was desparately trying to convince Mrs RWN that we should pack up and head home. We were both almost hysterical through lack of sleep and further exhausted from having to entertain three youngsters from the crack of dawn onwards. RWNlet was in a shit state and miserable. And, without wishing to sound too snobbish, we were stuck in a clapped-out holiday camp surrounded by obnoxious chavs and their even more obnoxious offspring. But she insisted that we battle on, not wanting to offend my sister (who, despite not having to do fuck all, wore a face like a slapped arse the whole time).

We made it through the week, somehow, but it was the worst holiday -- not far off the worst week, too -- that I've ever had. And to top it off, it took us two months to get RWNlet back to sleeping through the night without screaming her head off for hours at a time.

Never, ever again.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 12:02, Reply)
**Breathe deeply**

My family are from Mauritius. I don't like it at all - it's not that nice a place when you're visiting family as they live in the places that tourists don't see....

Anyhoo - This is one of many stories that live in my repressed psyche.

We went to Mauritius for a month - my sis and I got back from (boarding) school looking forward to relaxation - at this point we were whipped into the car and driven to Heathrow to go on a "special family holiday" that had been planned.

That's right we were off to Mauritius.

For a Month.

Followed immediately by France for 2 weeks on the way back.

Kill me now.

Anyway, I, being about 10, cried. A lot. All the way there in the car. All the way on the flight. And all the car journey.

I hated it, I hated it, I hated it.....

I eventually fell asleep on the couch in my Gran's front room (different Gran) when we got there. I woke up with my Dad telling me that we were going home as I was so upset.

I sat up and smiled - I think for the ONLY time in the whole god-for-saken month - only for him to say "kidding!"

I cried.

Then I realised that, in the hurry to leave home, I'd forgotten my glasses - I was, and still am, practically blind without my glasses. I cried some more.

Did I get any sympathy about any of this?



Call 1-800-Therapy now.....
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:58, Reply)
France, huh, yeah, what are you good for....
February, 1995. My mum and step dad were going bankrupt, but as a last hurrah, bought a house in France, declared it as a present to my sister and basically legged it across the channel.

I was just finishing my A-Levels and a summer of sex, beer and music festivals ensued. My mum then plays the guilt card ( the one thing ALL mums are experts at) and I end up over in France helping build a swimming pool so they can open a B&B.

After a week, I ask when I'm booked on the ferry to go. "Oh, the Sunday before the start of college". 4 weeks away. Fair enough, I've been pissed most nights but they live in a tiny village, no women my age. I want to get home. I need sex, free love and more importantly a cheeseburger.

Enter into my life Christine. She's about 28, speaks perfect English, has a young daughter and loves English men. Loves them. Including me.

The next two weeks I worked on the pool during the day, ate tea, then "went to the bar to play pool". Okay, the bar was Christine's very rural house and play pool was for her to shag me senseless. It was amazing. I mean, I had sex before but this was unbelievable. ANd before you ask, the little girl stayed around at her grandparents a lot in those two weeks.

She then makes the holiday even better by saying she's visiting Nottingham for a wedding and would I like a lift back to Angleterre. So, I tell my mum and off she goes, still none the wiser!

We ended our little affair with sex on the ferry, at the wedding and then at her friends house in Nottingham. Brilliant family holiday.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:51, Reply)
We went to the Butlins in Pwllheli, North Wales back in the early 90's. 'I'm Too Sexy' was number one if that dates it.

Anyhoo, the hellish, eight hour journey in a hot train that took me, my parents, my little brother, my older sister, her husband and her two small screaming kids to the grey environs of North Wales was just the start.

We got to the chalet to find that the floor was covered in filth (which my brother in law swept up into a small mountain in the middle of the floor for us to marvel at), the beds had no sheets (just plastic, slightly piss smelling mattress covers) and not only was the lino in the dingy bathroom buckled and yellowed by years of abuse from errant piss but there was a great steaming turd blocking the toilet.

My Dad kicked off and we at least got some sheets (they didn't give a toss about the floors and my Mum had to smash the logger to bits with a toilet brush) and we set off to enjoy the fun on offer around the rest of the site. Surprise surprise that was a shitheap too.

The tennis courts consisted of a couple of patches of loose, grey grit with a net stretched across them, most of the snooker tables were ripped and the highlight of the arcades was Pitfighter. Imagine.

The rollcoaster kept getting stuck mid movement with people in it. It did this three times in a row but, depressed as we were and keen for any semblance of fun, my brother in law and I remained in the queue, in the rain, hoping for our turn until they finally decided to close it down. It was a similar story with the chairlift but that I time I actually had the honour of getting stuck in it.

They also had a cinema that showed films that were already out on video and I ended up watching Rocky V over and over to escape the boredom. The audience stood up and cheered for Rocky at the end of every showing, punching the air and hugging each other. I felt retarded by association.

The highlight of the trip? Cracking one off into the bathtub of the piss reeking bathroom whilst looking at a picture of Bridget Nielsons norks.

Best family holiday ever was at Sandy Balls caravan park in the new forest. Aside from the peurile fun to be had with the name I also got attacked by enormous ants (fair enough, I was kicking down their massive hill after all) and got to enjoy a 1950's kind of childhood experience by the innocent joys of swimming in the Avon, climbing trees and fishing with my dad. Every morning started with Wac-a-day too. Classic.

This was too long and I didn't swear enough. Cunting fuckwallets!
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:48, Reply)
Forgotten this one too

This was wayyyyyy before the chicken pox incident....

I'm a mosquito magnet - put me in a room full of people and mossies, I'm the ONLY guy that'll get eaten alive. It's great. Not.

I got bitten horribly when we were in Malta, I was about 6 at the time so the "stop scratching" theory does NOT apply.

I got bitten on my eyelid in the night - how the hell??? Well, I got bitten all over, but that was the worst one - my arm got done too.

It being the night. I being 6. I scratched in my sleep. A lot.

When my Mum saw me I think she suppressed a scream, my Dad was sympathetic (as much as a Dad who'll toss you in the sea can be) and my sister laughed and prodded me a lot.

My arm looked like it had a second elbow just above my wrist the lump was that big.

My eye, on the other hand, had swollen in to comic proportions and I couldn't open it - I looked like I'd gone 10 rounds with Tyson. Nice.

It stayed like that for 3 days with lots of helpful "Don't scratch it JTW" type suggestions - to a 6 year old FFS?!?!?!

I'm still a mosquito magnet. It's great. Not.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:46, 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)
Learning to swim
I'd forgotten this one.

My Dad taught me and my sister to swim when we were in Malta - how nice.

For "Taught" It was more akin to "tossed off a pier into the sea".

Good times :o)
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:40, Reply)
Butlins+Moody teenager
My mother in a fit of desperation to cling to her maternal instincts decided that what we all needed was one last family holiday. This was to take place in a butlins caravan, with no computer and two cds.

Realising the odds of butlins having a banging gayer nightclub was going to be pretty slim I made peace with settling down with some books for the week.

The Mother and Father units however decided that drunken man on woo-man sex was the way to go and the carvan would rock, so gently at first, almost like they were just stepping around the living area. Then the first big slam from Father unit, then again, and again and again. And as my left eye twitched, my mind once strayed on the notion that in terms of energy being released, I was kinda almost experincing what it would be like to taken roughly from behind by my father...and just as the full horror of what my vague understanding of physics was putting in my head, father unit ended the sex act with mother unit. At three minutes...ohh the shame...the terrible shame.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:39, Reply)
Bit of a complicated one but here we go....
After I left home to go to Uni, my parents decided to move to Cornwall. (This means I no longer see my friends from home as I have no base there anymore)

As they're in Cornwall, it's a bit of a bugger to get there from London, you can't just pop over for tea one day, you've got to plan it out, especially if you don't want to pay a fortune for the train. So, one occasion, I decide to visit them during my somewhat limited holiday from work (thus tying it into the question). As ever, this is all arranged, written on celndars, booked up etc.

So the day comes and after an interminably long train journey I'm finally in Liskeard, so I stagger up to the entrance to the train station to find.... nothing. After waiting for half an hour for them to turn up, I ring for a cab, managing to get together what little cash I have on me.

So now I'm at their house, and no-one's in. Not a problem, I'll use my key. Which doesn't fit the lock. Oh dear. Have they moved and just not told me? No, there's their cat, and their stuff is still inside the house...

After searching around for a bit, I discover that the garage is open, so in I go, and not a moment too soon as it starts to piss down with rain. Luckily, there's power in the garage, so out comes the phone charger and the mobile. They're not answering their mobile phones. I ring my sister to ask if she knows what they're up to... Nope.

After sitting in the garage for around six hours (after the train journey of about the same don't forget...) their car pulls up in the driveway. Apparently they'd gone fora holiday in Devon, and thought I was coming next week. They weren't even going to have returned that night but they didn't trust the neighbours to feed the cat. Some start to a nice relaxing break that is.

Tenuous I know... something more relevant later...
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:31, Reply)
Families eh?
I must have been about 13 or 14 and we spent a week in a hotel on the Ring of Kerry. There was a 'civil war' in the hotel between management and staff the whole time we were there. We'd arrive down for breakfast to find the place deserted and no tables laid etc. On one occasion, my mother had to change the bed linen as the chambermaid couldn't be arsed.
On top of this, the weather was cold & wet everyday with grey cloud sitting on top of the mountains and constant drizzle.

Mind you, I never enjoyed family holidays. Every year we'd have the same old fight as I was dragged, kicking and screaming up and down the west coast of Ireland. Practically every holiday snap features me with a sulky face. My younger brother and I loathed one another as kids and he (ab)used his position as Mum & Dad's favourite to always get the upper hand. Some of our 'highlights' were:

Getting lost up a mountain in Mayo when the cloud descended and we lost our way. We took an 'eeny-meeny-miney-mo' guess at a fork in the path and got it right so returned to our car safe and sound.

My brother and I were nearly swept out to sea by a vicious riptide despite the beach being signposted 'Safe for Swimming'. Safe for who? The fecking Man From Atlantis?

Mayo again. Driving for miles and miles one Sunday where nothing was open and nigh-on starving to death before reaching a large town and gorging ourselves in a greasy chipper.

Now I'm 40-odd and not much has changed as I hate travelling and, apart from a few city breaks, have hardly been anywhere.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:28, Reply)
And that's before we even got there...
Being a child of the 80s, and from a large Yorkshire family to boot, my holidays consisted of the following: 1) a coach 2) a big seafront hotel in Torquay, Rhyl or similar and 3) the majority of my family - my aunts, uncles, cousins etc coming along.

The following tale however is from my (legendary!) dad, and one of his favourite holiday memories.

We were all on a hot, stuffy coach, setting off for our adventures. Most coach-travellers will agree, that, national-express style, 80s package holidays via coach involved at least an hour of travelling around the county you live in, picking up fellow holidaymakers. Me and my mum and dad got on, and about 30 minutes later we picked up my aunties and uncles (who lived but five miles away!). We sat on either side of the aisle, taking up about 20 seats. Now, my aunty Vera (who looks just like Rita from the Kabin in Corrie, and is a bit of a clean-freak), had an older man sitting directly behind her. It was about 8am and the man was making odd coughing-sicky noises. My dad was already grinning at this point, as he knows his sister can barely tolerate sitting on a coachful of possibly disease ridden strangers.

The coughing man's wife was heard to say 'oh just put them in Arthur!' to which he replied 'you know I can't put them in first thing in't morning, Jean!', at which, unbeknownst to my aunty but in plain view of my dad over the aisle, he produces a full set of false teeth from his hanky. Every time he tried to pop them in, he'd gag. My dad found this, in equal parts, gross, yet hilarious, as my aunty was on the verge of spilling her breakfast.

It all came to a head when Jean forced Arthur to 'just shove them in quick' and Arthur spat the false teeth with such force and height they arched over the holidaymakers in front in a rainbow of spit and hit the driver, who freaked and kicked them back down the muddy aisle, where they skidded to a slimy stop next to poor aunty Vera!

The result? Aunty V puked, the driver had to make an extra stop to 'clean up', we never spoke of the matter again and my dad almost pissed a kidney several times in almost spasm-inducing fits of laughter every time he had a flashback.

Oh, and it wasn't the teeth landing at the feet of my now green aunt that pushed her into vom-country. It was the fact that Arthur stood up, picked up the teeth, brushed the worst off them and popped them in his gob, stating 'ah, I feel better now!'
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:24, Reply)
France, 1990....
It was cool. My parents had bought a Renault 5 GT Turbo that year and blasted down to Biarritz at 100mph+ bullying arrogant french drivers out of the way.

I found a great store that sold Metal Hammer and Kerrang! and was frequented by semi-decent french rock-chicks.

I managed to get off with one of said Rock-chicks one sultry summer night.

My Dad fed me beer all week, and insisted on getting drunk with me and being purile (I later found out he was having a tough time at work then, so was probably cutting loose).

The campsite courier wore denim hotpants, which left NOTHING to the imagination.

Great days.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:11, Reply)
Camper Van
We had a camper van where you had hammocks slung from poles as well as beds underneath.

My little brother was in the hammock and I was in the bed underneath.

He wet the bed. I can still remember being woken up by the sound of running water.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:07, Reply)
Wales again.........
Aberystwyth this time I think, all I and my sis remember of this trip was my mum treading on a nice fresh dog poo.
This would have been funny enough but my mum was able to slip and keep her balance allowing her to slide a good 15 feet along the pavement producing possibly the worlds biggest skidmark.
Had us all crying with laughter/gagging at the smell.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 11:07, 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)
childhood diarrhoea, pah.
My dad managed to shit the bed twice while we were in France.
He was 47 at the time.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:47, Reply)
What went wrong?

As a 13 year old, finding out that having a wank in a caravan with your parents in actually shakes the caravan. What to do for two weeks?

What went right?

Slow masturbation rules.

Just wish I'd have known about the finger up the arse at that age.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:41, Reply)
I met Dr Nick (Hi Everybody)
Sorry this is my first post so please bare with me

I had a fantastic holiday when I was about 12 years old. The family & I went to Spain for a typical package holiday (This was a new thing back then so we where all very excited)

I managed to ruin this Holiday on the very first morning we arrived! I insisted that we went swimming in the hotel pool straight away, me being a daring 12 year old I went to the deep end climbed down a rung of the ladder in the swimming pool & preceded to jump off.

As I entered the water, I immediately knew something was not right I noticed the water turning red around me, Being a 12 year old I had not seen the film jaws yet, so I was a bit puzzled as to what was going on.

I could see my Mum looking a bit worried & my Dad grabbed me out of the pool, only then did I realise that the back of my heel had been cut off (Cue lots of crying)

Apparently the Spanish health & safety was not up to scratch in this hotel. I found out later that the ladder in the swimming pool had been made by folding over a sheet of metal to make the steps, one of these had become bent & razor sharp! So as I jumped in the pool it had taken my heel off!

I was rushed to the nearest hospital where they tried to sew my heel back on (I am sure this is where Dr Nick from the Simpson’s trained as a professional!)
After lots of injections (In this hospital they where still using metal syringes) & 15 stitches later I was aloud to go back to the hotel.

I had to spend the rest of the holiday in my little sisters buggy being pushed around everywhere because I could not walk. Needless to say we had a great holiday after that!

I still have the scar today!
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:38, Reply)

This is one of many stories that I have about France which I may, or may not share.

This one, however, is one of the shorter ones.

Before my Dad passed on, we went to Paris to stay with (evil) Gran and Dad's Brother - these holidays usually pass off uneventfully and, barring the usual yelling and fighting of my sister and I, it's usually good tempered. Ha ha ha.

Anyhoo - this one summer we got to Grans, we're all tired and cranky as we'd driven. Great.

I feel a little icky (I was only about 13 or something) and not quite right and uncomfortable.

My Uncle, Aunt and cousins from London arrive - these are my fave relatives and loved them lots (less so these days).

They say "JTW - you look icky" - Thanks, I reply.

I itch. A lot. Dad looks at me - you're ill (Newsflash!) he says.

ChickenPox they all notice. Joy.

2 weeks cooped up in an 18th floor flat missing out on outing due to face mange.

It clears up just as we leave. Typical.

Not a joyous time.

**Have I missed the point with my stories at all???**
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:34, Reply)
Not one of the best!
Ok I was 21, in the south of France with my family and strangely my ex gf's little sister (seeing as she was freinds with my little sister and she was french)

So anyway, just split up with my gf, feeling pretty low. Had a few drinks one evening, said ex gf's younger sister asks to sleep in my room as it was not as hot as her room, I agreed and next thing you know i ended up taking her virginity! She was legal before you ask!

Next day, I feel terrible about the whole thing and end up getting drunk! Pass out on the beach and wake up to find a french lifeguard who wants to take me back to the first aid centre to make sure I am ok. I speak pretty good french but when inebriated not so good. Anyway long story short, I get glass of water think I am fine and start to make my way back to the villa we were staying in. Next thing I know I had my legs kicked away by said lifeguard who had sprinted up behind. My obvious first reaction was to twat him one! Wrong move. Turns oput he was a municiple police officer and I was charged with resisting arrest, swearing at a police officer and assaulting a police officer.

Luckily I only spent the night in a cell and got away with a 500 Euro fine which was imposed by the court (while i wasnt there I will have you know).

On the plus side, I got a letter from the home office saying I didnt have to pay it but if I go back to France I am under their law again and could be arrested.

Well I ahve been back laods since then and not been bothered once! Fucking retards!

Long and dull I am sure, but I feel better now its off my chest!
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:30, Reply)
One New Year, we went to Skegness.

**Breathes a lot**

I'm still traumatised by this as I don't remember why I agreed to go with my Mum and Sister and I don't recall how I got guilted into it - I mean, I was 19 - what the hell was I thinking?

Anyway, we went, the three of us, in a VW Polo - an E reg one - you know, the shitty little "estate" one - it was white (and after a long weekend in skegness it was rust-brown) and it was a squeeze. The car was slow, I meant 1.0 litre slow especially with all the shit that my Mum carries wherever she goes (even for a night she packs like Armageddon's just around the corner) and I think, after much argument, I drove - my sister and I always fought over who drives (mainly because she's a crap driver - and no, that's not a dig at women drivers, it's a dig at my sister)

We got there - and I remembered why I hate Skegness. It's a shithole. Pure and simple. And it's a shithole in Summer, never mind the depths of the New Year.....

Kill. Me. Now.

Ok, fine - I'll find a bar and get hammered for the whole time - I'm NOT spending more than 30 seconds in the company of my Mum and Sister. Off to the chalet - My chalet - My sister's sharing with my Mum.

Um - No, she's not - she's refused to do that and she's sharing with me. A 2 bed chalet. with limited amenities.

I'm going to kill myself now, or my sister. Preferably her. The weekend spent in that chalet will haunt me forever as I think we just yelled and screamed and bawled the whole time we were there.

That's ok, because I've found a bar, and a fit barmaid who served me and we chatted each other up the whole time - result :o) Nothing was going to happen, but it's ok, we'll meet when I get back to Uni - I was at Uni in Sheffield and she was in Barnsley. Hooray - there's light at the end of the tunnel.

Anyway, the weekend passed off uneventfully - apart from constant rowing with my sister and rowing with Mum about my drinking (I'm a 19 year old student FFS) and being hungover - well, I say unevenfully - sharing a room with ones sister who you pretty much hate isn't good for the psyche.....

I still harbour a hatred of Skeg as it is, and always will be, a shithole.

Oh, the girl from Barsnley? I met up with her, realised she was actually hideously ugly and got straight back on the train back to Sheffield.

That was the last time I went anywhere with my sister and Mum.

I do, actually, have more stories. Tragically.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:25, Reply)
The Budddwyer story…but how it happened to me...
I didn’t go on holiday with my parents, but when I was about 17 or 18 I went on holiday with my then G/F and her parents.

They had a caravan. Being quite trusting and liberated souls they gave G/F and me a little tent each next door to the caravan.

Now this girl was fit. Grrr-worthy in fact….and when the mood took her she went like a rabbit on Dextrosol. I was a lucky boy.

I had been witty and polite doing all the crap things you do with G/F’s parents all day.

Nighty-night time came. We slipped into our respective jammies, had a cup-of-tea in the awning, said our goodnights and tottered off to our tents for a good night’s kip.

Here’s the part where G/F has other ideas…

She grabs her torch, unzips my tent, tentatively climbs in, puts torch down and proceeds to suck and fuck the living gizzards out of me.

Oh yes…every conceivable way, orifice and position the tent could possibly stand was experimented with. I think an arse was literally screwed-off somewhere

(Like I said earlier, I was a lucky boy).

So I thank her for her effort and kick her out back into her own tent so her parents would never know the naughtities that had occurred

The perfect crime...

Breakfast next morning was a strained, quiet affair. Disapproving looks, tuts and mutterings under breath. I was doing my ‘Captain Charming’ act. It wasn’t making a snot's bit of difference.

Later that day G/F’s mum takes G/F to one side and explains that her placement of the torch the previous night cast shadows that left nothing to the imagination of not only her parents, but the whole camp site who were watching (and I’d like to think cheering me on, but I doubt it).

We were also told that only twats as thick as us would think that the thin tent canvas would easily muffle her cries of ‘oh fuck me, stick it up me, oh yeah, I’m gonna cum’ etc etc

If only I had the intelligence of budddwyer back then and made it through the week with nowt but a biblical stonk-on.

Fucksocks, I thought at the time.

Happy memories I think now.
(, Fri 3 Aug 2007, 10:24, Reply)

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