Club 18-30? Sorry it's not my scene.
Why the Club 18-30 brochure landed on my desk I do not know. A colleague making a subtle hint at my age?
Actually, when I was between 18 and 30 I would never have considered such a holiday anyway. I hate being organised (you should see my desk) and, like Groucho Marx, I refuse to join any club that would have me as a member. Even for two weeks.
The idea of a package holiday geared to young singles who want to play alcoholic drinking games all day long, be taken on endless tours of nightclubs to be soaked with bacardi and soap suds and count notches on bed posts, may appeal to some people but not to me. It never has.
I have watched in horror at airports as parties of outward bound young ladies in matching pink tops and red devil's horns have headed for the nearest bar at 11 o'clock in the morning to trade insults and flirtations with groups of young men in vests and tattoos who believe the whole world revolves around their four letter wit and boisterous behaviour.
Thank goodness I am not going to their holiday destination, I have thought. Thank goodness I am not on their flight.
Does this make me a misery guts? An old fogey? A Victor Meldrew?
Of course, me and my mates were at times boisterous when I was young, but we did not act with the antagonistic bravado that is often seen today.
My idea of an enjoyable holiday hasn't actually changed much over the years, although it is some time since I've been able to indulge it.
Between 18 and 30 I was happy with a beach, a good book, a female companion, a couple of friends and a modicum of alcoholic refreshment in the evening. Getting paralytic did not appeal.
For fuddy duddies like me, of any age, the Club 18 to 30 brochure is, however, essential reading.
It tells you which hotels in which sun-kissed resorts to avoid.
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|Publication:||Huddersfield Daily Examiner (Huddersfield, England)|
|Date:||Jun 20, 2005|
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