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All our most agonising summer holiday fails

Summer holidays really are the best. There’s sun and music and your school wardrobe can hang untouched in your wardrobe for weeks. But there are so many things that can go wrong on summer holidays; bikini malfunctions, language barriers, sunburn – and we’ve done alllllll of them. But don’t worry, bad decisions one day make for GREAT stories. Here are some of our faves.

“Me and my boy-crazy friend were trying (and failing) to skateboard in this little French village when we were about 13. Two French boys start playing football next to us, and my friend and I proceed to have a loud and lengthy conversation about how much she fancies one of the boys. Cut to ten minutes later when their ball sails over to us, and, in perfect English, and with the biggest smirk on his face, he says, “So sorry, can you pass that back to us?”. We died.”

“One time we’d hired a car and were staying in a house on a hill and someone didn’t put the handbrake on so it rolled down the hill into the river.”

“I was in one of those child chairs on the back of my dad’s bike when I was a baby, and my brother was on a separate bike. My bro went down a hill that ended in a lake and lost control, skidded at the bottom in order to not go into the lake and scraped his face and arms, my dad cycled down after him and dropped his bike to run to my bro… forgetting that I was strapped into the back of the bike.”

“Going down a waterslide, I get to the bottom and the lifeguard is blowing her whistle and walking towards me. I’m confused and continue to walk away. She comes right up to me and starts pulling my bikini top down – it had ridden right up and I was walking about, chebs out, for all to see.”

“We were throwing rocks into a lake and I couldn’t get it as far as my friends. We were on a bit of a slope and there was a brown muddy bit at the bottom of it, and I knew that if I jumped down I could get a couple of metres closer to the lake and throw the stones further. So I jumped down. It was soft mud, I sank into my knees and couldn’t get out. My friends were hysterical, and my dad had to come down and pull me out and my shoes got lost in the mud.”

“A wasp once flew into my dad’s ear and got stuck when we were on holiday in France.”

“I went braless and stuffed a piece of tissue down my dress so I didn’t get too nippley in front of the French boy I fancied. Obviously the tissue fell out in front of him and it looked like I was stuffing my bra.”

“My friend and I were on holiday and we spent the entire day on the beach. It was sunny but because it was windy, it didn’t feel that hot. Fast forward 24 hours later and we are sitting in the emergency room in Lisbon with all of our luggage because she had sun stroke so bad she needed a drip.”

“One time I went to Rome and ate so much pizza and gelato that my stomach turned inside out and I spent the entire time running from toilet to toilet, pooing constantly. Then there was the time I went to Paris and ate so much my stomach turned perfectly circular and people kept offering me seats because they thought I was pregnant. And the time I ordered a four cheese pizza in rural France and it was so disgusting I cried.”

And the grand finale…

“It had taken me years to convince my parents to go to Disney World, Florida, but they finally caved and forked out for a two week holiday on the agreement that we would do OTHER THINGS besides JUST Disney World. So one night after dinner we decided to go to a crazy golf course near the resort. It was getting pretty dark by the time we had passed the halfway point. Naturally I was getting a little knackered as being great at crazy golf can really take it out of you, so waiting for my turn I sat down on a small hill at the next hole. After approximately a 15th of a millisecond, ants (ow?) started spilling (ow) out (OW) of (OWW) the (OWWWWW) FIRE ANT NEST IT TURNED OUT I HAD SAT ON.

I learnt that night that a) fire ants exist and b) they are called fire ants because their bites feel like fire. My mum, ever resourceful, knew the quickest way to stop ants crawling up my clothes was to whip my dress over my head and throw it in onto a nearby crazy golf windmill, before demanding my socks and shoes join them. As I was wriggling out of my pants another family walked past us in the twilight, took one look at my mum wrestling a sock off my now-starkers and bite-ridden body and dropped their things, frozen to the spot. My dad, unsure if this was really his territory, (he’d opted for ‘standing guard’ over my clothes and poking them a bit with his golf club), assured them in a very rambling British way that this wasn’t a molesty situation but an environmental emergency and that they should continue onwards to enjoy their less perilous game of crazy golf and ‘keep an eye out for nests’. As though I opted to sit on one for fun.”


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