And so, summer remains months away. As does spring. So let's torment ourselves with holiday memories. Last week I introduced the subject of All Inclusive - The Pig's Choice. The type drawn to All You Can Eat promotions. We were surrounded by All Inclused elephants last year. There was an ambulance on stand-by next to the cholesterol kiosk. The hotel worked on the fact that a dead holiday-maker was a good holiday-maker. Funeral directors handed out cards to those who looked like they were eating their last burger. There didn't seem to be any healthy options available on the menu - not unless chicken nuggets are good for you. The area around the swimming pool was a field of beached whales - David Attenborough actually filmed there, he did a piece about "the feeding frenzy that erupts when the pies arrive." I was like Sticky the stick insect by comparison. And then we saw the Complete Beasts. The adults in the shade by the bar. The free bar. Dispensing Fosters by the tanker and absinthe by the yard. Predictably, football shirts were much in evidence. I plucked up the courage to get close to them. I reckoned that if it turned ugly, I could outrun any of them. It looked like the cast of EastEnders relocated. All of life's losers were there. And all of their children were wildly out of control in the swimming pool. You know the type. Dump their appallingly behaved children in the play area at the pub - the ones that punch your children and then go to the other end of the bar, marked `No Children Allowed', for a good drink and, of course, smoke. The bar area was an affront to thousands of years of human achievement and ambition. Charles Darwin would be shaking his head in disbelief had he nipped in for a quick snifter. The beasts were really good at drinking. They didn't talk much, mainly to the desperately overworked bar staff. They were also really good at belching. They had the social skills of coarse, uncouth walruses, walruses brought up on the wrong side of the rocks. Three children did wander into the walrus zone. Unfortunately they ended up being squashed. They weren't discovered until the walruses were cleared out by security at the end of the day's supping. The walruses only moved to do two things. Firstly, the bar. Secondly, the toilet, when they would be briefly reunited with their children in the swimming pool. After their 60 seconds in the pool, when they would show their children just how hard they could throw a ball into their faces, they would return to the swamp. And repeat. For 14 days. Because they were All Inclusive, the whole walrus family would stay in the hotel on the evening for what was referred to as cabaret. This seemed to be the hotel's attempt to get them to go somewhere else. The lure of the free drink, however, overpowered any concerns about the entertainment served up. A typical evening started with the children's disco. This meant the adults taking the opportunity to have a drink in a bar area whilst their children hit other children. Bit of a Groundhog Day emerging, eh? By 8pm, the walruses, who would put on gaily coloured shirts to go with their gaily coloured faces, started to waddle into the disco, so that they could play bingo. Any later than this, and no one would be able to see their numbers. The winners got alcohol, which they would then pass on to their children. A comfort break followed. Many of the walruses would instinctively head to the swimming pool. Security were needed on most evenings to guide them to the urinals. By 10pm we were into the main event, which would be one of three desperately unattractive options. Firstly you may get a singer - usually described on a tacky poster as `International singing star,' and the classic, `As seen on TV.' The fact that they're singing to swine in a two-bit hotel now makes the CV questionable to me. The singer, usually a leathery-faced woman with a big bottom and a skirt split to the waist, or a fat bloke with a guitar, gave us all our karaoke favourites. The second act you might get is described as `Novelty.' This is usually a few manky parrots on bikes. It is not an appropriate use of our limited time on earth. Which brings us to the ultimate horror. The reps' cabaret. The 60 minutes of fun and frolics that lead so many of us to go self-catering. The reps clearly hate the holiday-makers. The holiday-makers are so drunk, they think the grotesque smiles are for real. By the early hours, the day is done. Some of the walruses leave. Others cannot. I bet some of them are still there, inextricably wedged in the chairs. Any holiday tales? ********** Time to own up It's the time of the year when the magazines come out, the ones with things you collect. The ones that you never finish. The ones that you regret by Issue four. The ones that appeal to hopelessly lonely fools. This year there seems to be a veritable plethora of choice for those who cannot establish meaningful relationships with other people, and so collect things. There's magazines about steam engines, one you build a ship with, week by monotonous week, and magazines about fictional television detectives. One has particularly taken my eye. It's about watches. Apparently you'll be able to collect various timepieces "that you'll be able to treasure." The ad features two people, who should be in care, admiring a watch and then putting it in a glass case. I'd like to hear from anyone who's started this collection, ideally with a photograph please. | 
