Ten beers, 3 fishbowls and a week of torture.

It's easy to spot a Brit abroad. We're a virus, a bald-headed, tattooed virus. We spread throughout the world like an aggressive infection marking what we think is ours as we go. We do it just as dogs do; pissing on every surface, trying to fuck anything that moves and having a good old fashioned skirmish (more popularly referred to as casually kicking the fuck out of someone). Just look for the ill-mouthed, topless drunks with the enormous sense of entitlement and an undeserved sense of accomplishment.

In the last three years I've been on four 'lads holidays', you know the crack, the holidays that revolve around a  week of sun, booze, vaginas, booze, shit food, unbearable heat, booze, tits, acting like a fucknut, being an actual fucknut and a great deal of moisture falling out of your arsehole and mouth on a daily basis. Sounds fucking horrendous doesn't it? Well there's no twist at the end of this particular fable, it is fucking horrendous. The day will begin at around twelve o'clock whereby you receive a wake up call, a wake up call via the medium of teeth-grindingly bad amounts of restlessness due to the unnatural quantity of heat being applied to your body and the worryingly low quantity of water in the poor sod. From this rude awakening you'll move on to a cycle of beer, chips and pizza, swimming, vomiting, gawking at breasts and arses that could not be further out of your league and sunburn. If you come through this and are still conscious it's time to start drinking again, and I mean serious drinking where the aim is self-destruct and the booze is of sewer quality. If you make it out you can expect to spend the night trying to balance on the dance floor and passing it off as dancing, more vomiting, being rude to very good looking women, being successful with moose like women, trying not to collapse whilst throwing punches and being lost, alone.

Whilst I've lost a lot of my brain through these vacations, the remaining portion begs for the answer to the question, "why do you continue to put your body through this?". Why do I and many like me go to climates that are alien and harmful to our bodies, to eat food that is alien and harmful to our body, and drink alcohol that is alien and harmful to our body and to try to perform sexual acts that are, quite frankly, alien and harmful to our bodies? What's worse than going to a large, sweaty, dark, smoky room full of sexually motivated 'lads' (cunts) moving their shoulders to the beat and eye-balling every girl in sight? I'd say being one of those lads and picking one of these poor girls to rub your crotch against on the slight off chance she might turn around and do something other than tell you how much you look like John Merrick and slap your unorthodox, modern art face.

I'll tell you why I'm mad for holidays like this. Because it's an environment that is provided just so people can be fucking outrageous. I mean really outrageous, really silly for every hour in a whole week. An environment where being offensive, overstated, drunk, loud, naked and an all-round 'orrible little bastard is acceptable, encouraged in fact. Who doesn't want a bit of that to break up the otherwise middle-of-the road year?

There's something intrinsically British about causing a bit of alcohol fuelled chaos abroad, about letting the locals know exactly who we are and what we're about, about laughing when it looks like someone's been murdered in your toilet but it's actually only your rotting insides and shame that coat the bowl. When you're surrounded by nothing but this surrealism you forget about any worries in your life. There's no jobs, no results, no boredom, there's nothing but what you want to do and when you want to do it.

These weeks are some of the best, most unforgettable weeks of my life and it will take a force of nature to hold me back from signing up to more. Smash on summer 2013.