The Holiday: a debrief

Yes, yes, I know. It's been forever since I wrote here. I left you hanging when I went on hols and then cruelly ignored you when I got back. 

If I'm honest, it's taken me this long to get over the horrific experience that was The Holiday. I'm not sure my limited vocabulary can do justice to the fifty shades of shit that was our week in Gran Canaria. If you're thinking about going there, just don't. Unless you particularly enjoy soulless, Anglofied resorts populated by persons of the...chav persuasion. I don't know about you, but I don't tend to go on holiday abroad to sit by the pool in a cloud of other people's cigarette smoke, watching Dave and Tracey get drunk and moan about how there's too much foreign food (there wasn't - it was burger and chips for almost every meal). I could pop on the tram to Croydon for that, all for the bargain price of about three pounds eighty. 

I think I was most annoyed with Thomson. It would be unfairly generous to say their description and photos of the hotel were misleading. Misleading doesn't cover it. We'd booked a Junior Suite, which turned out to be a damp, smelly room in the bowels of the hotel which we were expected to share with about a hundred fruit flies, and which appeared not to have been decorated or repaired in any way since 1975. It was late, we recognised we might be overreacting so decided to tough it out until the next day, when we woke up and realised things were just as bad as we'd thought. We complained to a surly rep named Georgina, who seemed, at best, to not give a flying f*ck whether we were enjoying our holiday. She grunted "what's wrong with your room?" aggressively, and when I reported the cockroaches who'd also been enjoying the breakfast buffet, she replied "well, the hotel is on a cliff, and they do spray" by way of not-at-all-satisfactory explanation. Eventually we got moved to another room, and I wish I could tell you that was the end of the sorry tale. 

I wish I could tell you that. 

Other highlights included: 

extreme sunburn. Yes, that was our fault. But I hadn't expected an hour of sitting in cloud to be quite so debilitating. I don't want to re-live the 2 days I had to spend in the hotel room, or the doctors visit and resulting hospital visit, but suffice to say It Was Not Fun. 
the other guests. The kind Channel 5 make documentaries about. The kind you'd usually cross the street to avoid, except we couldn't get away from them, because....
the resort. It was five hotels clustered around a tiny beach, with the central 'attraction' of a couple of shops catering exclusively to the Benidorm crowd, and an amusement arcade complete with slot machines and air hockey. You couldn't walk anywhere else, and the nearest towns were a small town with a nice marina but nothing else, and Puerto Rico. Google it - I dare you. We ventured in one evening for a spot of class tourism and were almost blinded by the overwhelming number of neon signs. O'Somebody's Irish Bar! Curry House! Cocktails! Now I think about it, being blinded might have made things better, as it would have spared us the sight of the extortionate amounts of exposed, flabby flesh and novelty penis-shaped items. 
the food. By the end of the week I couldn't face the same crap they wheeled out for breakfast. Lunch was a bizarre mixture of burgers, chips and pizza with various deep fried vegetables. Deep fried cauliflower is not good. Dinner was ok, but our most common comment when asking each other how their food was, was "it could be worse". Which pretty much summed up the no,I day actually.

Maybe we expected too much from our last child-free holiday. I had visions of romantic walks all the beach at sunset, dinners a deux and passionate nights. That was soooo far from the reality. 

I'd like to be able to show you some photos of the holiday, but we took precisely zero for the reasons outlined above. So, instead, you'll have to make do with this photo of my expanding abdomen. Enjoy! 

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