First published in The Trumpit.
I got out of the habit of holidays abroad in Covid times so, when Sal asked me if I fancied Tenerife, the answer was instant. Being used to more annual trips than the average Royal, she was due a top-up of her tan too. “Of course, you know its with the family?” she said casually, awaiting my reaction. Having not been away with kids since the Desperate Seven Tour of Lanzarote 1993 (average age 30+) what threat could 5 grandkids pose?
Everything was booked with the excellent Idle Travel who paid me nothing for this shameless plug but if they are looking for a Trumpit Travel Correspondent I’m your man. In our soulless internet age, why trust your annual holiday with invisible Billy the Bot? The team were great.
Packing
After whittling down her choice of bikinis to a bare three options per day, Sal declared us fit to go. Roused by a brutally early alarm several hours before we would see Leeds Bradford Airport, I rolled over trusting a mop of the hair and quick brush of the teeth would do. As we reached LBA, 5 bleary-eyed kids stared at us as I adjusted blindly to my new life.
LBA is great for convenience if desperately in need of investment. Soon we were hurtling down the runway with Sal’s nails dug deeply into my palm, the Pinot Grigio breakfast sedatives yet to kick in. We were off, destination Paradise Park, Los Cristianos.
Paradise is a 4* all-inclusive complex although with kids buzzing about the main pool like mosquitos, paradise was not my immediate feeling. That said, we soon acquainted ourselves with several adults only pools in readiness for the first night of several in the kids’ disco. Sublime to the ridiculous?
Youngsters were whipped into a frenzy as parents kicked back and let their holidays begin as the beer pumps flowed.
Grandma Gaga
Eventually, we made our excuses and found the local offy to commence our search for the best local red, night-clubs a long and distant memory, Haribos and a tube of Pringles as racy as it gets. The next morning it was towel carnage at the main pool with barely a bed in sight. In contrast the much smaller main adults pool was blissfully unoccupied – it truly was a sign from above.
After a day of fetching wine for Sal and getting redder by the hour, it was time for another night at the disco. The lights dimmed and jaws dropped in unison as on strode two scantily-clad ladies. The music boomed and the curtains opened to introduce us to Lady Gaga’s mum, complete with laddered tights and Doc Martens. She was brilliant.
Fascinated by this, two-year-old JJ could not resist invading the stage and was lucky the old trooper did not crush him underfoot. It was time for the offy again.
The Tanning Process
Having been working on her tan for several weeks back home, a small part of Sal was already unusually brown. Struggling with two kids and various bags of duty-free, she had collapsed into her seat on the plane, bouncing off the arm and landing painfully on the seat-belt buckle.
Not one of the numerous bikinis could cover the damage which mushroomed on a daily basis. On editorial (and divorce) grounds a picture was not possible.
After a few days acclimatising it was beach day as the various spivs and speculators viewed our giant party like hunters and prey. One had more beach towels than M&S and Sal inspected every one before sending him away penniless. Another provided the line of the day attempting to flog us his sunglasses. “Ten year guarantee!”
Melon Man
However, the King of the Strip was Melon Man. Clearly seeing a kindred spirit in Golden Balls who works in retail, he manged to sell him one watermelon for 18 Euros. He chopped it in half with devilish speed and announced his price was “Nine and nine!” Golden Balls was bamboozled and handed the cash over in a trance.
Soon realising his career was over back home if this got out he demanded a refund/discount and managed to secure a pineapple and a banana as Melon Man danced away for several early beers.
Elvis Lives!
No holiday would be complete without an Irish bar, Karaoke and a fat Elvis impersonator. The King’s Burnley burr took the edge off his “performance” even before he “sang”. I hoped he never found the Idle Working Mens Club as it would not end well. But what would Europe do without the Brits abroad? We land in our thousands awaiting our pockets being emptied and our livers pickling. If the Burnley Elvis was bad we had yet to see the worst.
Back at Kids’ Club, the turn opened with Prince’s Purple Rain as kids looked on in unison wondering why adults sang depressing songs. He then morphed into the worst Freddie Mercury tribute you could imagine ending his set parading in front of numerous kids in a pair of Tarzan underpants. He was mesmerizingly bad. If only the kids had had a few spare melons.
And Now The End Is Near
Our last day arrived as Sal and I sought the Zen-like calm of the adults pool avoiding “bloody Blackpool” as she described the family piranha lagoon. She moulded herself to a sunbed and clutched an early glass of white under a rain filled sky.
Soon it would be time for the journey home and I would have to adjust to not being called “Gramps” and the daily anticipation of kids’ club and the “turn”. Tenerife airport loomed in the distance as I looked down at my recently healed palms and prepared for pain again.
It had been the best of times.
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