It was 3am in the morning and I found myself crammed into the back of an over-crowded, cut-price aeroplane, jostling for arm space and breathing air amidst a bevvy of slightly drunk (okay VERY drunk) young holiday makers. I sat shivering wearing my silver, sparkly Primark shorts whilst appallingly singing ‘’Woah we’re going to Ibiza’’ – even though we were actually off to Magaluf. It hadn’t taken long for the effects of just two hours sleep and a liberal dosage of vodka to knock me clean out for the duration of the journey. I woke up with my best friend yanking on my hair whilst screaming, louder than any OAP on a rollercoaster, ‘’WE’RE HERE.’’ However, that was the least of my worries as I noticed I had been majorly dribbling in front of seven hot lads on the row next to me. I had no other option but to run off the plane as fast as I humanly could, and I wonder why security stopped me... ‘Apparently’ I looked dodgy.
As I stepped inside the room belonging to the ‘2 star’ hotel I tried really hard to put on a brave face and to convince myself that, despite the mustard-coloured, stained bed sheets, squeaky broken drawers and the grubby toilet that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned this century, everything would be okay. ‘’It can’t be that bad or it would be closed down, I will be absolutely fine’’, I muttered to myself. Which is of course why I ended up an hour later, at the reception in tears demanding an upgrade or I would sue. Unfortunately the manager was not scared of me in the slightest, even when I pulled my angriest face. There was only one thing to make me feel better in a situation like this; a nice cuppa tea. And yes thankfully the kettle did work –just about.
‘’Let’s check out the beach’’ my disheartened friend said to me. We both knew this would be make or break. Having a filthy room is one thing, but having a beach identical to Blackpool’s is another. Luckily, there was nothing to worry about; the sand was the softest powder one could have hoped for, perfect for making sand castles. Don’t judge me; there is something nostalgic and therapeutic about sand castles that I can never resist. The beach also boasted an even spread of deck chairs. RESULT! No setting my alarm at 6am in the morning to get up and put my official stamp (towel) on the chair to warn off all other human beings. Things were starting to look up, and despite it only being early in the morning I had seen more sun in the whole five minutes than I had living in solar-deprived England for an entire eighteen years.
I wanted a serious suntan. Despite me being eighteen my mum had filled up half of my suitcase with a million bottles of factor 50! Yes 50! sun tan lotion, jostling for room alongside the mosquito repellent, after sun lotion and wet wipes she also packed. I looked at my sun-starved body in the mirror, currently as white as clothing washed by Daz. I told myself that after the holiday, I would go back to England a new woman.
No time like the present; I threw my ‘Chanel’ leopard-print bikini on (knock of Nigel price from the market), exposing more flesh than the average butcher’s shop, and headed down to the beach. I whacked on my baby lotion (it was my only option in order to compete against the bronzed beauties of the world) and laid my towel out on the floor. I noticed four painfully, gorgeous blokes out the corner of my eye looking in my direction. I pulled my super-hot, never-failed-to-let-me-down-pose (this consists of not breathing and pouting my lips in a duck-like fashion) ‘’they’re laughing and pointing at us’’, Sarah muttered whilst looking with disdain at what she would call my ‘embarrassing pose.’ I, and I’m sure others, tend to disagree indefinitely alluring not embarassing. However, I suddenly realised that I had mistakenly brought my four year old sister’s Telletubbys beach towel. Great, maybe I should have brought Barbie armbands as well and a sticker for my forehead saying ‘twat’. Not quite the seductive beach-siren look I was aiming for!
Somehow I could just tell this holiday was not going to go, let’s say, according to plan.
C Cropper
