We went on holiday to the levy in the Chevvy, but the levy was dry.
The first two nights we ate green curry, the third night we weren't hungry so didn't eat and the fourth night we ate traditional local food.

So Thai, Thai, miss, American pie.
( edjogs Collared doves are shit., Sat 1 Aug 2015, 16:13, 9 replies)

I spent one night in an hotel that did not have en suite facilities, imagine that horror.

( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Sat 1 Aug 2015, 10:35, 8 replies)

It began well enough.
It was my just after 18th birthday. I'd finished school and was off with my then gf and a few mates (some with their SOs) down to the coast to my dad's birthplace.
We were to stay in a cosy little beach shack that belonged to a friend of the old mans. On the beautiful NSW coast. In summer.

Sexy fun times with the gf were sure to ensue. Along with lots of new found freedom driving her brand new (old) car with my brand new licence.
And then followed by lots of getting really shitfaced facilitated by my newly found "being of legal age to buy alcohol".

The drive:
7 of us (illegally) crammed into an HQ stationwagon. For 6 hours with a 30min piss-stop after about two. Anyone with kids? "Are we there yet?" Amplify that by about 1000, with 6 other like-aged teenagers...
Why my gf's rents had chosen to buy her an expensively done up Holden classic as her first car when she didn't even have her licence I'll never be able to fathom. Both of my kids are getting cheap but reliable zippy little things with ANCAP ratings and airbags up the fucking wazoo.

The arrival:
The "quaint beachside cottage" - literally a 3 room shack about two blocks back from the beach was a bit less than advertised. The fact that it had a front door and glass in the window panes was probably a bonus. The solitary naked lightglobes hanging from the ceiling in each room and the cold running water in the bathroom and kitchenette were what elevated it to "luxury".
Privacy came down to being the couple (or single person and hand) who managed to achieve the deed under a blanket, without waking the rest of the house, let alone the neighbors.
The outside toilet was an upturned, open-ended can with a toilet seat on top sitting over a cesspit. Being bitten by something that could survive in that foetid environment was the least of your concerns as you let loose a morning after clanger; that would slither and plop noisily into the seething, churning mass beneath you feet. Fortunately whoever had designed and built the house had failed to take into account that the cooling seabreeze that billowed in in the afternoon began downwind of the shithouse and then straight in through the back door.

The stay:
On the second night (of a week) the gf decided we were "having trouble communicating" and whilst drunkenly screaming at me like a banshee, broke up. Then she tried to make her own quietus. By eating an entire box of panadol (500mg paracetamol per tabx20). I got her to the local emergency dept. where they looked at us incredulously, muttered about the fact that it might upset her tummy and gave her a shit-ton of ipecac. I will say this - it works. Her stomach was empty in a matter of minutes. Quite spectacularly. By the 4th night she had decided that to ease her solace she needed to form a relationship with Jimmy, the single junky who'd only decided at the last minute to come down to see what the "scene" was like. Aside from some vague jealousy and cuckoldry feelings I was happy to see the back of her - any fella who was prepared to take that on knowing everything that had happened deserved at least a little bit of encouragement.

The return:
True to form the done-up Holden decided to shit itself halfway back on the looooong drive home. After a couple of hours hitching, a good hour's walking and finally finding a public phone-box (pre mobiles) that hadn't been pissed in and then vandalized we discovered that not only were my (now) ex-gfs parents incredibly stupid in buying her an old bomb, they were also incredibly lazy when it came to investing in roadside assistance. About $1200 later for a tow and a new timing belt and we were on our way home. Again.

All in all: a great coming of age summer holiday. Consolidated some great friendships, saw the writing on the wall for a couple of others and came away a much happier person than before I left - just took me a while to figure it out. Some of us still head to the coast together to drop a line in - this time we take separate cars.
(shitposter from the anals of posteriority on, Fri 31 Jul 2015, 22:03, 19 replies)

the raibn ibn spaibn stays maibnly ibn the plaibn

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Fri 31 Jul 2015, 18:21, 5 replies)

I went on holiday to Germabny with my mate George via one of
those bargain trip websites. This is the review I sent afterwards.

"It was my Best and wurst holiday, Experian."
( edjogs Collared doves are shit., Fri 31 Jul 2015, 12:08, 15 replies)

Cheers

( $$ ✅, Fri 31 Jul 2015, 10:59, 8 replies)

Caravan of Love (pea roast)
Sorry - it’s a bit long…

Like many here, I was unbelievably naive as an adolescent. Easy to laugh about much of it but there's one that still haunts me a little.

In the late 70s I worked in Southampton, after I fled the loveless family home at the opposite end of the country. Why Southampton? Well, firstly it was difficult to get any further away - but more than that they offered accommodation, a godsend for a penniless Manc. Didn't mind the place too much, worked with a good crowd - one of whom collared me one day, saying that a couple of them were getting a holiday apartment on the coast. Did I fancy going?

I did, but by the time we actually went, several weeks later, the holiday apartment on the coast had mutated into a six-berth caravan on a campsite at a place called Selsey Bill, just down the coast from Portsmouth. I'd seen too many of these shitholes in Wales to think they could ever be really enjoyable and, having spent my first night out on what we (over-expectantly) referred to as 'the pull', soon found that things were no better at the other end of the country. It was fucking dismal.

We spent a couple of boring days looking out of the window at the rain and the nights wandering round the various on-site bars. None of them were up to much - pool tables, arcade machines, shit lager... until I came back from the bar and found Kenny the Glaswegian (the only one who had any real chat) deep in conversation with a very attractive blonde girl, really pretty with a great arse, who looked about my age.

Then, from behind them, up pops her companion - her mother. Frizzy hair, skinny rather than trim, certainly battered round the edges. Probably literally, given where we were. There was a little girl, too, aged about six, really sweet-natured and very pretty with long blonde hair, who was playing with other children in the bar.

It turned out they were staying in a neighbour's caravan and were from one of Portsmouth's roughest council estates - can't now remember which one (I think it was the one famous for paedo marches a decade or so ago) but I came from a fairly rough council estate and even I recoiled slightly when she mentioned it.

To cut a short story shorter we all ended up back at ours. There were no social niceties to be observed - Kenny immediately disappeared with the blonde in the master bedroom (anyone who's ever been in one of these will know exactly what I mean) - and somehow I ended up in the middle bed with the mother (I think the others went for a resentful stroll for a while).

Now in theory I'd have dipped my wick in any woman who offered but I'm afraid this was beyond me. It was only when we were in bed I realised that I really, really wasn't up for it. At all. We fumbled for a while but Mr Floppy was completely living down to his soubriquet. She finally made some inane remark about me having had too much to drink, I eagerly agreed that must have been the case and so we got up and sat on the couches, waiting for her daughter to emerge from the back bedroom, where she was presumably being rogered senseless by the Glasgow Ram.

The others came back and as we sat there, she talked about their life in the most casual fashion - beaten by this guy, raped by that, her daughter raped as a child - it was a true catalogue of horrors.

I was glazing over and, to be honest, wondering if all this was just designed to elicit sympathy when I had the weirdest sensation of movement. It was a strange rocking motion, as if we were on the sea. I looked at the others - they looked back at me.. it took a few seconds to realise that Kenny and the blonde were now really getting down to it and the four of us were noticeably bouncing up and down on the couches as they approached the vinegar stroke. Surreal doesn’t cover it.

And while this happened the mother turned not a hair - not even a pause in conversation. Probably the most natural thing in the world to her.

But what still bothers me is when she told me about the old man who owned the caravan, who they’d come away with. I asked where the little girl had gone - he was looking after her, she said. And then she mentioned that they didn't pay for the stay. Like an idiot I said that must be nice of him. And she said, totally matter-of-factly: "Oh, no - he likes looking after X (the little girl). She shows him her knickers."

I had no idea what to say - or even what to think. This was so far outside my realm of experience that I just did not know how to react, as much as I thought it wrong. Plus, this was the child's mother talking - surely I must have got it wrong, somehow. I hadn't, though.

Even now I feel really guilty that I was told this and I didn't do anything. Do what, though? Take her away? That wouldn't happen. Tell the police or social services? At that time that sort of behaviour was more likely to be ignored than acted upon. There were no graphic depictions of the consequences - people like the old man were the ones you were severely warned to stay away from, with no-one ever wanting to say why. It just left you with the impression that while it’s bad, it can’t be that bad.

Presumably this was how the mother grew up and thought nothing of it. I wonder what happened to them all – did they grow up to be battered and abused in their turn? Was sex as casual an event for the youngest as it was for the other two? Did they end up on the game? Possibly – looking back I think that might not have been an unfamiliar scenario for the mother. What an awful thing to even contemplate – let alone experience.

ps: During the days we remained there, the blonde shagged everyone except me - presumably I got a bad review from the mother. Think I'll live with that, though.
(zebideedoodah likes florence but prefers venice, Thu 30 Jul 2015, 23:21, 9 replies)

The Radio 1 Roadshow! Only on 247 meters Medium Wave!
My name is Jacob Dyer and Summer holidays used to be the best!

You can eat lots of ice cream from the Walls Ice Cream Truck.

Then you could sit on the deckchairs listening to the paedos DJ's playing pop records!

If you was lucky then the paedo DJ's would pick you out and then they would take you into their caravan and do things to you.

Sometimes I sound like Barnaby Bear, but when the paedos DJ's did things I didn't like it. I do like Barnaby Bear though.

I didn't get to see the Radio 1 Roadshow in Bristol though.

But, I do like Bristol.

The picture isn't Bristol though, it is somewhere else.

I wish they did come to Bristol though. I only went to Eastbourne on a day trip for my Summer Holiday, but at least I got to see The Radio 1 Roadshow!

But then some kid burnt my neck, like what happened in France.

I didn't like it.



www.radiorewind.co.uk/sounds/the_biggest&best.mp3
( Tesco Quality 60.825659, -0.788337, Thu 30 Jul 2015, 23:17, 3 replies)

get fresh

(Guy Debord cette mauvaise réputation..., Thu 30 Jul 2015, 22:49, 4 replies)

The first time I ever went abroad for a Summer Holiday,
I saw a very fat sunburnt man who had some words tattooed around his belly button. After some considerable effort, I deciphered it: BORN AND BREAD IN WOLVERHAMPTON.

Never left the country since.
( fred zeppelin II: Electric Boogaloo, Thu 30 Jul 2015, 13:57, 17 replies)

Guetta is a shitcunt

( broadsword w⚓, Thu 30 Jul 2015, 13:10, Reply)

( $$ ✅, Thu 30 Jul 2015, 10:58, 1 reply)

get bent

( $$ ✅, Thu 30 Jul 2015, 9:39, Reply)

Squatter
Well, Squatter, Squatter had a terrible holiday.
He was in Bahrain, which is a pretty bloody place to be. And there was this ant, which had only one leg and only one eye, and it was about two miles away from Squatter. So, a pretty bloody menacing position for Squatter, who was equipped only with, erm, you know, a hydrogen bomb, erm, six grenades, and, erm, a few rifles.

And this bloody ant, one eye, one leg, was advancing towards Squatter at about-, oh, I'd say at about, er, a mile every century, you know. Really speeding up. I think the animal was on drugs. Or heat, yes, as you may say. And Squatter, with his extraordinary calm, took it very smoothly. And do you know what he did?

Nothing.

He immediately did nothing.

And this stupified the ant. Stopped in its tracks. Didn't move an inch for about, um, three and a half years, yes. But still Squatter was very much aware of the problem of the ant, with all of one leg and all of one eye, advancing towards him. So he took up, you know, a strategic position with about five thousand men on one side and seven thousand men on the other side, all equipped with, er, various kinds of guns and so on. The ant was, er, fairly pinpointed. But what was odd was the ant understood Squatter. The ant realised he was up against somebody as good as-, as good as he was. Equals in their struggle, yes. So Squatter, with a tremendous display of courage, put up his hands and surrendered.

And the ant, five years laters, yes, five years laters, crept into the, er, hole, and Squatter was gone.

And this is the extraordinary thing about Squatter: he was never there when he was wanted. And Squatter told me later that, ah, he'd gone because he'd had to go.

That sums up Squatter for me.
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Wed 29 Jul 2015, 21:26, 7 replies)

That 'squatter' story reminds me of my incident of them in a campsite in Italy.
Deciding to embrace the local culture and for a bit of a new experience I decided to give them a go.

Now, what I didn't realise at the time is that you're supposed to crouch right down to use them. Instead I decided to adopt a 'teeing off at golf' style pose. Naturally I completely missed the hole and left a big steaming turd inches away on the porcelain. This being a campsite and me being effectively anonymous, I just left it there.
( Slippery Mick ‏, Wed 29 Jul 2015, 14:21, 4 replies)

( Two Hats I saw someone eating M&M's with a spoon, Wed 29 Jul 2015, 13:12, 3 replies)

Squatter
My brother and I went on holiday with a few mates to a French campsite - they had some 'normal' toilets and some of those where you squat on the footprints and hope for the best.

Every morning without fail my brother would go to the bogs, find only 'squatters' available, pull down his shorts and assume the position, and all his change would drop out of his pockets and fall down the hole. Then he would swear loudly and try not to overbalance. Every single morning.
(Smale is stuffed, Wed 29 Jul 2015, 12:22, 1 reply)

ok, this one time I did a plop and flushed the khazi but it wouldn't go down and the bowl filled right up
past the rim, nearly overflowing, then the water sort of trickled away slowly and left all the mersey trout bobbing around in the bowl, landlord came out, called Dynorod, they said they'd have to unblock the drain outside, lifted the cover and get this, the bloke said he'd never seen a drain so badly blocked with mounds of reeking bumjobs

So yeah, I do the best bog blockers Dynorod have ever seen, go me
(Birds Eye potato waffles are waffly versatile CUCKOO, Wed 29 Jul 2015, 10:32, 2 replies)

I was on that beach that got shot up in Tunisia
I'm ok though, thanks for asking, I was there in 2010.
( Peej, Wed 29 Jul 2015, 8:41, 6 replies)

I was pick pocketed and lost all my holiday money.
The name of the hotbed of crime? The Isles of Scilly.
( Peej, Wed 29 Jul 2015, 8:39, 2 replies)

I haven't had a holiday in five years.
I am rectifying this tomorrow. In 24 hours time I shall be on a Greek island, hoping to fuck that my Euros don't (a) get stolen, or (b) run out after ten days. If the Daily Mail is to be believed.

Which it isn't.
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 28 Jul 2015, 21:56, 5 replies)

I was on the East coast of America.
In September. 2001. It was my honeymoon. As omens for a happy marriage go it was up there with a wolf swallowing the sun.
( Ambegris likes his tea stirred anti-clockwise, Tue 28 Jul 2015, 20:26, 1 reply)

Chicken Kievs

( $$ ✅, Tue 28 Jul 2015, 15:46, 9 replies)

my family had a summer holiday trip to queensland when I was a kid
two days of sweating in the backseat of the car while my dad listened to the cricket on the car radio, with no air con, fighting with my brothers. In some hills near the state border the caravan we were towing flipped over and smashed to pieces on the road. My dad bought a tent. Two days after arriving queensland was struck by terrible flooding. Our tent was almost submerged and the caravan park was a lake. We stayed with another family in the toilet block, the only dry ground. I got stung by a jellyfish while on my surfmat (basically an air matress in the days before boogie boards) and it was like I'd been whipped. We couldn't leave because the roads were flooded. I did get a plastic ruler with photos of the Big Pineapple on it, so the holiday wasn't a total write-off
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Tue 28 Jul 2015, 10:53, 3 replies)

In 1998 a Peshawar taxi driver apparently confused the "smugglers' bazaar" market described in the Lonely Planet handbook with the real smugglers' bazaar through the Khyber Pass in Afghanistan
As a result me and three friends found ourselves at an outdoors arms and drugs market, (after passing two signs that said in big English letters "NO FOREIGNERS BEYOND THIS POINT") where guys in headdresses bought and sold AKs, pistols, heroin and hash in quantities I've never seen before or since. To add a certain frisson to the atmosphere, they would test their new purchases by exuberantly firing them into the air. After politely explaining to the men who approached us that we really weren't interested in buying guns, drugs or women, we managed to find a bus going back to Peshawar but it was boarded by police at the border, we were arrested at gunpoint and put in the cells. Four bowel-clenching hours later, we got to talk to the officer in charge who let us go with the advice: "Taxi drivers are scoundrels!"

TL:DR; Went to Afghanistan by mistake, got arrested, talked our way out of it
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 27 Jul 2015, 21:19, 22 replies)

Romany caravan
Had a mini break in June , staying in an old romany caravan in secluded orchard on a farm.
On arrival I bought fresh baked bread, eggs, bacon and sausages from the farm,to be cooked over the open fire, the rest of the time I didn't see or speak to another soul.
Spent the sunny days lounging in the long grass reading, the nights daydreaming in front of the fire, listening to foxes and badgers.
Not everyones cup of tea but to me it was utter bliss.
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Mon 27 Jul 2015, 20:30, 6 replies)

I went on holiday with my partner to Paris...in France.
We got in late and went to bed, when we woke the whole ground floor had flooded, a burst pipe. It was a basement reception and breakfast room so the whole place was covered with 4" of water, it was like one of those pre-swim foot wash areas...or a really lame kid's pool. We asked the receptionist about breakfast and in a very French way, without saying a single word, he cast his arm about the scene in the room and pulled a face. Seems like a thick question now but at the time we thought back home(UK)they probably would have broken out the bread and jam while the plumber got on with it, no?
( transparenttown Dead to worse..., Mon 27 Jul 2015, 17:32, 6 replies)

Daytrip to Tijuana, Mexico, when on a family trip to California
As we pulled into town on the coach, we saw a guy throw a brick through a car window and start removing the radio. No one in the street reacted.

As we got off the coach, the tour guide warned us that we should stay together and not venture off the main road. She seemed to think this was very important.

As we walked down the road, several men asked if we wanted weed, booze, or women. Despite the fact I was 16 and with my Mum and Dad.

Other bits of Mexico are apparently quite nice, so I've been told.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Mon 27 Jul 2015, 17:12, 2 replies)