Bah
I went on holiday with my family for the first time when I was five, with my parents and 15yo brother, to some shitty static caravan place in Cornwall. Woolacombe or something. Pretty much the same as every other story on here involving lame caravan sites with the obligatory onsite 'disco' (this being the only place we went to after 6pm), windy, cold, overcast beaches, parents having a benny over stuff like kettles, etc. Holidays continued in this fashion (without bro, who at 16+ was considered old enough to stay at home - lucky bastard) until I was around 9, when we could finally afford to stay in a hotel. We went to pretty much everywhere in the Cornwall/Devon region for a week every year. I had to share a room with my parents and listen to ridiculous complaints about the bed not being hard enough (my dad would only be happy with a concrete slab with a sheet on it or his back plays up, poor lamb), thankfully, no shagging, as their relationship has been pretty much sexless for probably most of my life, heh. Highlights included:

- my mum being scared shitless during the 8-hour drive from Coventry to Falmouth (or similar) by my dad's driving, which tbh isn't exactly test standard, but when she screams into her balled-up cardigan and leans dramatically in every time he overtook something on the motorway (which she has never driven on, and never will) its a bit much.

- On a typical day, sitting in a lay-by all day, having abandoned all hope of having fun as it is a bit chilly for the beach (seriously, this is England, what did they expect), waiting to go back to the hotel for dinner.

- Being made to climb steep hills when it was raining and windy in flip flops, a swimsuit and a baggy nirvana t-shirt by my dad, who wanted to see some old 'engine houses' (google it or something if you want to die of boredom) which we never found. He bought an engine houses calendar.

- Walking for what seemed like miles along a beach trying to find a spot that they thought worthy of parking our windbreak, folding chairs, weird straw beach mat things, towels, bags etc. (my parents seemed to want to keep the sand at least 4 feet away from them) and ending up somewhere that was just the same as the beginning of the beach, just really far away from the toilets.

- Being dragged back to the caravan from the crappy caravan site nightclub because my mum was screaming at my dad for looking somewhere in a funny way (seriously), the argument continuing for ages, her shouting at me for crying (age 7), ruining the whole day, etc (which thus far hadn't been that bad).

- A similar argument caused by my curiosity over a henna tattoo stall... according to my dad, it seems that by allowing me to have a look, my mother was allowing me to have an actual, skin-piercing, AIDS infecting, socially-stunting TATTOO (dun-dun-derr), cue him storming off, leading to row of epic proportions, only this time its in front of a whole town and I'm kind of trying to look like I'm not with them.

When I was 16, I went on holiday to Portugal with my mum and aunt, I was quite optimistic about this, as my dad seemed to have indirectly caused most of the hassle of previous holidays. It was more friendly and there were hardly any rows (unless you count some stupid half-day sulk over using someone elses suncream), though I was bored shitless, as all they wanted to do was sit on the beach all day and burn to a crisp, then spend the evening eating and drinking sangria (as I was still 16, I was allowed a couple of sips - oo the horrors). A picture of us, me clad in all black, totally pale, reading metal hammer, with two middle-to-old-aged maniacally grinning orangey brown crispy women wearing leopard print swimsuits kind of explained how unevenly this trip was enjoyed.

Stupidly enough, reading this QOTW has made me want to plan a holiday. Probably somewhere as un-Cornwall-like as possible, lots of drinking and general debauchery, with only friends and the Mr with me, with no fecking windy shit British beaches. Amsterdam anyone?
(Ryuken-Kai, Thu 9 Aug 2007, 5:35, Reply)