What happens on tour...

Holidays were here, and the summer stretched out before us like a large gaping wound.

Sorry for the simile, but as you can probably tell, I was not looking forward to fifteen weeks of no university. Some people opt for the easy option, moving straight into a house on 2nd July. Maybe popping back to visit the parents for some money, or for clean clothes, but only staying long enough to see those demands met.

I was not this lucky for two reasons. The first being that my tenancy did not start until September 1st: this would not have been the end of the world if only I could visit friends and crash at theirs. That would wile away the summer, right?

Wrong.

This is because of the second reason: I had been forced into getting a J.O.B.

The very word brings tears to my eyes and sends shivers down my spine. I had adapted well to the university life. An hour a day on average, and three days off a week was my kind of life. It left plenty of time for socialising and exercise. But this job would entail working six days a week and full days at that.

I couldn’t go straight into that after university. So I did what every fun-seeking, single, 16-30 year old woman does. I went on a girl’s holiday.

Now this holiday could not be any more different that That Girl From Derwent’s darling holiday with her parents. I was going with a bunch of friends who were all looking for lots of fun. Inhibitions were dropped off at the airport – there was no need for those where we were going – and Jagerbombs were downed one after the other after the other. I felt it best one of us remained sober, if only to get us to the hotel and out to the bars later that night, so I took the ‘designated driver’ role.

On the flight with us were a bunch of fifteen lads, all on a stag do. The lads were from Liverpool and there were a few lookers in the bunch. I’m not going to pretend I understood a word they were saying, but hey, what does that matter? I soon decided which of the lads I was going after. However, after two bottles of Sambuca being confiscated and a whole lot of tellings-off from the flight attendants the flight passed pretty quickly with not much action at all. Not that I had any intention of in-flight activity, I just thought it could be an interesting way to kickstart the holiday.

Once the plane landed though we lost the boys. However, the island we were on wasn’t very big, chances were we’d see them again. We arrived at the hotel and all managed to get ready for the night ahead in about ten minutes. The outfits were pretty much chosen for us: we had matching printed vests, a must have for an all-girl holiday. We hit the bars straight away. It being the first night, we were all pretty wasted, but once a few more drinks had been consumed – though penis shaped straws – everyone was in the mood for fun. A big group of girls like us got a lot of attention. Some of the girls loved it, some didn’t. But in the end we were all having a hell of a time. I didn’t know how the night could get any better, until lo and behold, there was the Stag 15, as I shall call them. Long story short, we all danced until the early hours, and I got a few kisses from the hot one I’d chosen on the flight over. The 6am walk home was simple, but beautiful – there really is something special about being in a hot foreign country.

The next day all the girls were hung-over and had one thing on their mind – a big greasy fry up. Not being one to taint my body with such monstrosities, I opted out, and instead hit the beach. It’s never good to visit a lovely island and not soak up the sun in the conventional beach/ocean way. Plus I love swimming in the ocean - that could never get old.

The night, getting ready took a little longer. We were off on an organised bar crawl, with holiday reps, waterguns full of shots and a lot of rude games. One of the girls dared me to see how many of the reps I could kiss in the night ahead, ‘Easy’ I said, and went to find my first blue-shirted victim. A few bars later, and everyone was pretty drunk. Everyone, that is, except me. I was having enough fun without the need for alcohol. Unfortunately though, the holiday rep I’d kissed in the first bar was hanging on to me like a puppy dog. The more he drank, the more disgusting he became. He was a good kisser, granted, but when he asked me ‘Are you going to have sex with me or are you just a cock-tease?’ I decided to give him a piece of my mind.

Turns out holiday reps don’t appreciated a bit of psychoanalysis.

I saw him two minutes later slobbering all over an equally drunk, semi-attractive female. Well, I hope they enjoyed spending their night together.

I was getting ready to call it quits, but realised I hadn’t done very well on my challenge, so off I went to find some other holiday reps. Two girls and one guy later I was sat outside a bar wondering what to do now. Then, as fate would have it, along came Stag 15. So there was another night spent dancing with the Scouse hottie, and another 6am walk home.

The next day was spent much the same as the previous, and the flight home was uneventful. Sadly, all I could think about was how I now had to settle into a routine. I felt my free spirit slipping away the closer we got to landing.

But I had had the perfect start to the summer, and I wasn’t going to forget that too soon. I was going to have to find myself a new hobby, and as the saying goes, ‘Stick to the things you know’. I was back on a mission of manipulating guys and toying with emotions.

But the holiday has taught me one thing: maybe I needed to expand my horizons, maybe guys just didn’t cut it anymore.

Maybe next year That Girl From Derwent will let me show her how holidays are meant to be done.

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