Okay it’s that time of year when everybody goes absolutely fucking balmy and starts dieting, buying crap clothes and getting brochures… yes it’s holiday season. Tacky glossy junk mail comes flying through your letter box like an elephant shitting through your door, your email inbox gets flooded with deals and testimonials from faceless happy customers and the adverts on TV brainwash you into thinking that if you go on holiday your gonna get laid.

I hate packing for a holiday! I’m not a big procrastinator, but for some reason I will find 1000 other things to do rather than pack a suitcase. I have friends who really enjoy it and take great pride in starting their packing a week before they leave for a holiday. I, on the other hand, often leave packing until the last minute. Sometimes I get lucky and do it the night before, but there is more chance of me drinking a strawberry milkshake through my cock.

Now I don’t mind holidays at all, sometimes it’s good to just fuck off for a week, but the thing that pisses me off about some cocks is that they are fooling themselves into thinking that they are “getting away from it all!”… What the hell kind of statement is that?

When you go on holiday your still you, you still have the kids siphoning your cash every two seconds and your still with the partner you hardly speak to… your still in debt, you still have a crap job and your still going bald. The difference is your doing the same bullshit but in another place, the only difference is that your getting sun burned and coming back a hundred times more skint than when you left.

I never pick my holidays either, never have done. If I go on holiday it’s because friends, partners or family have already decided where I’m going and I simply tag along happily, and that’s out of choice. I don’t trust holiday brochures and I believe in them just as much as I believe the Sunday Sport found a double decker bus on the moon.

The whole brochure thing just stinks of bullshit from the first page, golden sunsets, sandy beaches, perfect people all noncing about swimming pools and dining in posh restaurants with a smiling waiter… I mean seriously… a smiling waiter? Fuck out!

What they don’t show ya in brochures are the pissed drunk chicks flashing their tits, the drunk guys in A and E with a handful of teeth and the old couples spread out on sun beds looking like someone’s drying out a melting rug. All you see are perfect people without baldness, cellulite, orange peel skin, varicose veins or any rolls of hanging fat like an upended water bed. The only time you see a Grey hair is when they are showing you either a golf course or a ballroom dance.

Another funny thing about us Brits is that we spend all year wrapped up like bloody cocoons, hiding our blubber under layers upon fucking layers of clothes, jumpers, jackets and coats… but as soon as we land in another country we are stripped off and in the sun like a ten penny whore, lubing ourselves like a dildo in a gay club, cooking and sizzling like a cow with foot and mouth. Why? So we can come back and wrap ourselves up like loft insulation for another year of cold weather and self image paranoia.

There is one funny thing I love doing when on holiday and I suggest all of you try this because it’s fucking hilarious and a proper good chuckle. When you land at your destination, get your ass through customs and all that bull and find the departures lounge and head for the queue of depressed Brits heading back to England. As you walk past them say something like “I wonder what it’s like here? I hope it’s good, we are here for the next four weeks!”… as you walk off listen carefully and you can hear the men cussing, kids start crying and the wives start bitching and throwing wobblers. It’s evil I know but it’s fuckin funny and it’s what I go on holiday for.

Every month us guys have to suffer the indignity of having our hair cut, this little chore is pure boredom in a can. It doesn’t matter how early you go you’re guaranteed to have at least a queue of six in front of you.

I once stood outside the barbers waiting for it to open and I was blatantly the only one outside, opposite there is a newsagents, literally three steps in front of me. So I looked at my watch and with a full ten minutes to spare I decided to go into the newsagents to buy a paper. Buying my own paper is part of the ritual of getting your hair cut for sole reason of sanity. Once I forgot and I had to read the magazines they had and I was shocked to realize that recently the Titanic sunk, so from that moment on I decided to buy my own boredom cure.

So I went in and bought the Daily Sport, good paper that… full of good factual stories and plenty of nipples. So literally thirty seconds later I step out of the shop with my eyes rolling in tits and I look up, the fucking barbers opened a full seven minutes early with a poxy queue of ten hairy wombles waiting in front of me. This was not a good start, now I had the complete asshole and to make matters worse the only person cutting hair was the happy emo.

Now there’s a very valid and scientific reason I buy the sport, it’s not for the tits I promise you. The happy emo despite being a right royal conversational pest always comments on the fact that I buy the Sport, to which I always answer

“it’s the best paper in the world, do you want me to leave it here when I’m done?”

Now the trick is you have to read it so all the old farts can see, but not read… it works every time and it’s a trade secret to jumping the queue when it comes to the barbers. What you do is lightly scan all the boob filled pages so all the farts can see them, and believe me they will be looking. Just as the barber finishes dicing up the bored sod in the mastermind chair, close the paper and roll it up and put it beside you. This is the important bit; if you let it go someone will take it so keep it rolled up and by your side until the barber calls for the next victim. Now watch as all the farts within your immediate area let you go before them, now normally I would leave the paper behind but it’s entirely up to you, there are no rules that say you have to so it’s entirely up to you.

Now I don’t know whether it’s just fate or maybe an act of God or something, but I always end up with having my hair felt up by the happy emo. Now this guy aint a bad kid, I don’t dislike him or anything like that, I just don’t want to indulge in idol chitchat with someone that I rarely see from one month to the next. He asks me the same questions every single bloody time and it’s almost clockwork…

Not working today? Where do you work? Is it good? Is the pay good? Blah blah

Now I make a game out of it simply by changing my job every time I get my hair cut, and he responds with a full conversation every time and his gullibility is fascinating to me to say the least. This last year I have been a training Astronaught, dustman, front bench spokesman for industry, model scout and MP for Billington upon sea (which don’t exist) now either his memory has the attention span of a Goldfish with avian flu or he’s a secret android hair cutting alien from bettlejuice… I’m yet undecided.

Life would be a lot less annoying if I could be a hippy or even a skinhead… but I love my hair and it’s a necessary evil I have to suffer twelve times a year. Dammit!