The Holiday

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On a recent, very relaxing trip to Greece, mum and I found ourselves delightfully sandwiched between Malia bound mischief makers on the flights there and back. Cracking.

The heat that was radiating between the bombshells and reemsters hit me harder than the humidity on arrival in Crete and they were practically bouncing off the walls with the excitement of their impending “MEGALOLZ”. On the way back however, it was a completely different story. The sexual tension was still paramount but they were absolutely ruined. Hair extensions were sandy, suncream had clearly not been a priority in thirty degree heat and the “Bang Tidy Becky” t shirts were looking somewhat weathered.

I’m not going to lie, I judged them. And I would’ve judged them as a seventeen year old too. But do I have the right to? And what was I judging them for?

Three years at uni were spent mainly going out and getting hideously drunk. Every festival I’ve ever been to; obliterated. Pretty much every Friday and Saturday night; hammered. I’ve held a friends hair back on a street corner before and have definitely fallen over in public. I, too, have kissed randoms in clubs and can think of one or two nights with a DJ I’d rather forget. So why do young holiday makers get such a bad wrap for what they do when we’re all doing it at home, more often and probably twenty times as hard? Is it because we aren’t doing it in hot pants and a “Military Men Only” vest that it’s deemed okay?

For me, there’s just something a little different about going abroad and doing as you please (aside from it being pretty disrespectful to the locals). On visiting a small town close to Malia, all I could see behind the coloured lights were vulnerable British girls, teetering around in heels, clearly inebriated on too much Ouzo. I know it shouldnt be the case but the dark streets scared me; if a girl were to be separated from her friends for a second, she would be lost and alone. And that’s when I realised: I wasn’t judging them for having fun, I was judging them for putting themselves in danger. I just think that if you’re old enough to go abroad, you should be old enough to keep your wits about you AND have fun. Something I just wasn’t seeing.

You’re probably thinking I’m old as shit. And I sort of feel it as I write this. But if that’s the case, I’ve been as old as shit since the age of sixteen. My friends and I have always joked about how gutted we are that we’ve missed out on a holiday where you drink so much your fanny falls out. But since that trip to Greece, I’ve reassured them that it’s okay: we didn’t miss the boat, we, in fact, jumped right off of it.

So on the dawn of a fresh set of GCSE results, I’m pretty sure there’ll be a few more departures to Greece over the next few days with one thing in mind. I just hope they know how to take care of themselves.

And judging by the number of youngsters I’ve seen sheepishly buying condoms in Boots, they’re definitely playing it safe.

Safe and hopelessly optimistic.

Happy holiday!