And now we're locked into winter. We have 17 hours of darkness a day, forcing us to spend time in the house with our appalling families. Good news indeed. And so, inevitably, our thoughts turn to summer holidays, now seeming so long ago. We went to the Algarve - which is in Portugal - just to the left of Spain. We chose self catering. People lacking imagination chose half board. Pigs chose all inclusive. All Inclusive, the ultimate definer of class. We were waiting at reception to check in. A pair of elephants sat next to us. They had All Inclusive written all over them. He had several beer bellies. She should have had very low self esteem. She certainly had poor self awareness - and fat knees. They looked as though they'd been eating non-stop for years. They could see we lacked social standing, so felt safe talking to us. They came up with a classically astute comment. Bearing in mind we were lily white, surrounded by suitcases and with passports in our hands, Man Pig inquired: "Just arrived?" The urge to come up with a devastating riposte was, quite literally, devastating, but I resisted quite beautifully. "Yes," I replied, as limp as the limpest of lettuces. They were very red, with a hint of purple on his bulbous conk, and also surrounded by suitcases. "Just leaving?" I inquired, keeping the conversation flowing with élan. "Aye, we've had a brilliant time." And then, the killer question: "Are you all inclusive?" I was, frankly, insulted by the question. He may as well have said: "Are you sub-human?" "Self catering," I explained. He shook his fat head: "You should have gone all inclusive." His huge partner added to the scintillating debate. "You should have gone all inclusive." He then assumed we didn't understand the concept and its full and varied implications. "You can eat and drink as much as you like, it's all inclusive." "Really?" I nodded, as though taking in new information. "You can upgrade, you know. You just need to ask at reception." If either of these beached whales had been able to get up, I'm sure they'd have headed to reception for me. He was like a timeshare salesman by this point, piling on the benefits. "It's Foster's, you know." "What is?" "The lager, Foster's lager. I've been absolutely bladdered every day, haven't I, love?" She nodded back, smiling at the joyous, though hazy, memories. I moved the conversation on. "What's the Algarve like then?" They looked blankly back at me. "Is it nice?" I'd decided to keep the questions short and simple - goodness knows how much damage the Foster's had done. "We didn't get out much - we're all inclusive, you see." "Did you hire a car?" The question was clearly ridiculous; they'd never been under the limit. I thought I'd narrow my search for information down. "What's Albufeira like?" They looked at me, clearly thinking the penny hadn't dropped. I pressed on. "I've heard the Old Town is excellent." It was becoming a monologue. "We just like sitting by the pool, having a drink. And on the night there's cabaret. You should go all inclusive." I thanked them for their life-shortening advice and we parted. As a Professional People Watcher (just shy of a stalker in legal terms) during our stay I thoroughly enjoyed observing The All Inclused. They all looked as if they were related to Wayne Rooney. They were issued with wrist tags to denote their social standing. The tags seemed highly appropriate. For many, I'm sure it wasn't the first, or the last. Whenever we went to the pool, the Tagged were all there. They never left the complex. The more they drank, the more they ate, the more they saved. Enormous children were urged to have "One more burger. I mean, we've paid for it. Go on, love, and your dad will have some more chips." Signs adorned the complex: "Will guests please not fill their plates to overflowing with food? In God's name, show your body some respect. You freaks." So, are you an all Inclusive Fan? If so, my corpulent chums, fire away. ********** That's great expectations And finally, a true story. Last week Cement Woman was watching Sky Sports News. I think this is a significant comment on my conversational skills. She said: "A bloke has been sent off for reading - that's got to be a mistake, hasn't it?" We waited for the message to re-appear, which confirmed that a player had been sent off for Reading. The nonsense of it - a footballer reading. As likely as monkey tennis, methinks. ********** A little light sabring Last week, I was scanning the recruitment pages. My boss asked me to. Does that seem odd to you? I was taken by one opportunity, which I swear is correct. The vacancy is for an Editor. So far, so good. Editors, if you don't realise, rule with a rod of iron. Trust me, I've seen the rod. When you first get the job it's little more than the size of a Curly Wurly. Every year you get given a bigger rod. The final rod is the spit of the Light Sabre in Star Wars, it lights up and everything. Sometimes Editors fight each other. I think they just like dressing up. Anyway, the product to be edited is the soon-to-be-launched What Funeral? Apparently you'll "manage all elements of the magazine's content". Thank goodness for that - it's not just the letters page and picture spreads. The ad goes on: "You must be able to tackle the subject from a serious perspective." You don't say. So they're not playing it for laughs. "Send us your hilarious photos
tell us what happened when you tried to get to the funeral on time
did Auntie Flo fall in the grave?" The piece finishes: "Whilst maintain-ing a scintillating journalistic style." Scintillating, eh? Funerals, eh? Limited scope, but I'm prepared to give it a go. I'm going to send my CV in with a suggested fashion piece. It's called "Why yellow is the new black." Any ads that have taken your eye? | 
