On a scale of one to ten how much of a hardship is it if people don’t manage a foreign holiday this year? I’m in one of my generous moods so I’ll give it a 1.2. And I speak as someone who would kill to be lying on an Italian poolside lounger caressing a Slippery Nipple.
However I keep hearing parents saying they will be “really upset” if they can’t treat little Orlando and Clematis to a foreign “getaway” because they have been through so much. Look, I know children have suffered in lockdown and it was largely uncomplainingly, which is more than you can say for many adults. But here I must hoist up my crimplene old lady slacks, blow my nose on the tissue balled up my cardigan sleeve and tell such parents to get a grip. Because while I hate to say “when I was a lass” (but do because I’m tiresome) the fact is that “when I was a lass” no one’s parents took them abroad on holiday. Not where I’m from anyway. And no one to my knowledge ended up in therapy over it. I was an adult before I stepped on my first plane. Imagine! To this day I have never set foot on foreign soil with my parents and now never will. Take that, Orlando and Clematis.
But judging by some people’s horror, facing a second summer in British drizzle watching two pigeons fight over a chip outside an amusement arcade or, worse, trying to find a souvenir worth buying in a National Trust gift shop is akin to child abuse. No, it isn’t. The great thing about children brought up on holidays at Butlin’s or in crappy tents and caravans that smelled faintly of urine is that expectations were low and thus disappointment impossible. Also children had far better times watching the Redcoats judge a knobbly knees contest or pushing a pirate off a diving board than they ever will sitting round a stylish pool in Tuscany being told to admire the view.
As a child at Butlin’s in the 1970s I thrilled to how exotic the Beachcomber bar looked, thinking, “I can’t wait until I’m old enough to drink so I too can sit on a high wicker stool.” The excitement of the monorail and donkey derbies was unparalleled. Was I having a nightmare or did warders really check on sleeping children in their chalets while their parents drank at the “cabaret”? In the 1960s apparently Butlin’s also had a kids’ club called, unfortunately, “Butlin’s Beaver Club”. But those were different times. Let’s just draw a veil.
This week it emerged that Generation Z have coined a phrase to describe a middle-class, outdoorsy upbringing full of Crocs, Nature Valley bars and Gap hoodies: “Crunchy”. I suppose then you’d call the working-class version full of Woolworths pumps, Vesta curries and Asda cardies “gritty”. I do realise that the problem with staying in Britain this year is that the prices have been hiked so high it will be like being relieved of your shirt, underpants and both kidneys. But if it ends up being a crappy tent on a windswept hill don’t worry about the children. They’ll get over it and won’t miss queuing to put their shoes through airport security. Sometimes going abroad was overrated anyway. My second venture abroad ever was on an 18-30s camping holiday in France with its signature high-culture event, the wet T-shirt competition. Since everyone sunbathed topless in France then, it meant the women taking part literally had to put a top on to have their breasts ogled, even though five minutes earlier they’d been naked. Isn’t that mindblowing? I’ll leave it with you.
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Football or sex? No contest
Here’s some not at all shocking news. Research has shown that when men watch football their heart rate soars to 136bpm whereas a comparative study from Harvard suggests that during sexual intercourse it rarely exceeds 130bpm. So basically they are more excited by football than sex. As someone used to hearing the full When Harry Met Sally sound effects whenever Liverpool play, I am not surprised. I doubt anyone will be. No, madam, put away your scratchy red basque for Morecambe FC play Grimsby Town in five minutes and you cannot compete with that. I’m reliably informed though that VAR is the anti-Viagra, the “deflator” extraordinaire. “VAR is to football what Hilda Ogden’s pinny is to sex, ” said a man I shan’t name but who lives in my house.
A hairstyle disaster at Number 10
Can anyone explain the baffling mystery of Boris Johnson’s haircut? He is the only person in the country who has had a post-lockdown trim and managed to come out looking worse. Extraordinary. Who was his barber — a blind goat using a child’s plastic knife? It’s quite astonishing that he waited three months for that dog’s dinner. The Downing Street janitor could have put a pudding bowl on his head weeks ago and by comparison looked a proper Vidal Sassoon.
