Ten years on: 31 things you’ll remember if you did a ’18-30′

It’s sad but it’s true.

For many of us, this year marks the ten year anniversary of something quite monumental.

2007 was the year that we were finally allowed out of the bosom of our mothers, allowed to pack our own cases, and allowed to fly off to some godforsaken semi warm resort under the pretence of going on ‘holiday’.

If ‘holiday’ actually means getting ratchet and contracting herpes.

Then a ‘holiday’ it was.

And if you, like me, experienced first hand a delightful Thomas Cook ’18-30′ break, there are certain things you’ll remember;

Actually being able to pay said holiday off weekly. Having a Thomas Cook payment book and feeling like a winner when you had an extra 20 quid to lump off of the whole £280 that holiday cost you. You didn’t care about not going Megabowl one Friday night, your EMA money was going on holiday. And nothing was stopping you.

Talking about how good the holiday was going to be for at least 4 months before you flew. Literally the topic of all conversation. Having your elder siblings tell you that it was actually going to be shite but knowing that their mates weren’t as mental as yours so it would be fine. Cos you lot were off your nuts.

Taking up half of your case with johnnies and cornflakes from home. Because going abroad meant you’d instantly get lucky every morning, noon and night. But you were going abroad so you didn’t know what they ate in that there Spain. So best pack some Kelloggs to be safe, init.

Flying at 4am in the morning with approximately 17 stag dos, 4 hens do and one poor family who totally did not do their research.

Putting on your matching t-shirts at check in. Yes they were numbered. Yes you all had nicknames – even those in your crew that didn’t actually have a nickname, you made one up for holiday. One nickname was at least half racist.


This is actually me and my mate, before you start complaining.

Getting ball bagged on Jaegerbombs at the airport because, you know what, flying, in the morning, when  battered is SO MUCH FUN.

Arriving at said resort really early in the morning so being greeted by the debris from the night before. Getting a condom and some puke on your brand new Matalan wheelie case. Deep down really wishing your Mum was there .

Checking in only to be told that all your passports would be taken off you by some random Thai woman who you were pretty sure didn’t even work in the hotel. Being told they would be kept in a ‘big safe’. Wondering if this was legal. Wondering if you’d ever get home. Again, deep down really wishing for your Mum.

Getting into your room and being ‘totally OK’ with the shower being over the bog and there only being a bathroom lock between all of your belongings and ‘The Strip’.


Thinking ‘fuck it’ and going down to the pool bar to ‘get on it’ at 10.30am. Only to be accosted by the 18-30 rep. Who was called Jimmy. And was a complete cock. But who made you believe that if you didn’t hand over all of your spending money there and then to go to his organised raves, you’d have the worst holiday ever.


Handing over all of your money to Jimmy The Bellend and wondering how you were going to afford to eat for the rest of the week.

Loosing at least one mate for at least 40 hours

Realising that the were was a pub called The Red Lion on ‘The Strip’ so knowing you’d be able to eat if the Kelloggs in your bag ran out. Phew.

Realising that ‘The Strip’ wasn’t quite Vegas. More Bognor on a come down.

Going to your first organised 18-30 party. Getting force fed really questionable cocktails from some sort of funnel on the bar. Getting forced to play games that normally involved you shouting the word ‘shag’ out at the top of your voice. Nearly choking to death on the foam at the foam party. Hating every minute of it but taking 700 photos to prove to everyone at home that you loved it.


Honestly, I love drinking e-numbers getsurrey.co.uk

Repeating this for the next 7 days.

Snogging a random northerner. Probably called Charlie. Or Bennie. Or Freddie. Or something else beginning with an ‘ee’ noise. Swapping MSN’s. Vowing to go home meet up and probably ‘getting together properly’ cos he wore head to foot Lacoste and was right your type.

Seeing him negging off with another bird at the following night’s School Disco party. Drinking far too much ‘Tequila Sunrise’ to function so crying the rest of the night away on a beach next to two people shagging on a sun lounger #holidayromance.

Waking up every day wondering if this would be the day that your vision went from the vodka/brake fluid you’d been drinking all week.

Literally surviving purely off of jacket potatoes. From The Red Lion.

All agreeing to get quad bikes out one day. Seeing that group of lads from Burnley come back from an excursion on said bikes covered in blood and thinking better of it.

Only drinking from fish bowls. All week. The more neon the contents, the better.

Believing that the Pacha were you where was actually better than the real one.


Considering getting a Pacha tattoo.

Throwing up more times in the week than times you probably ate a meal with a knife and fork.

Having at least one pregnancy scare in the group.

Having at least one syphillis scare in the group.

Vowing to return the following year to get a job in Banana Bar. Cos Lenny that owned it was well sound.
Looking back at it Lenny from the Banana Bar was a nonce.

Getting lobster burnt because none of your mates were using suncream and you didn’t wanna look like a neek whacking on your factor 30.

Travelling back to the airport, again in your team t-shirts and looking back at “The Strip”. Wishing Banana Bar a fond farewell and questioning why they called them ’18-30′ holidays. Like anyone who wasn’t clinically insane would come to somewhere like this pass the age of 19 and three quarters.

Coming home and booking the next one. Cos guess what. You were 18. And you never fucking learned.



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