Category Archives: holiday

How To Apply Fake Tan

Gotta love looking translucent.

Too poor to go on holiday and looking pastier than Patsy Kensit being dry humped by a raw turkey crown? Shit one.

January, the month when suicide numbers hit their annual peak, is a continuous shitstorm of crap. And when it comes to having a sunkissed glow, you’re fucking kidding yourself if you think that’ll be happening anytime soon. No, such thoughts should be relegated to more suitable times of the year, such as the hour of Summer bestowed upon us sometime in May.

However, help is at hand when it comes to faking a tan, thanks to endless fake tanning goods propped up in supermarket shelves like the product equivalent of the Geordie Shore cast- promising to give you a Ronseal Wood Varnish glow should you buy, or punch your fuckin’ lights oot if you don’t. Fake tan, I imagine, is just a little bit rough.

But how do you achieve a natural shade that enhances you without looking too orange? You fucking don’t, alright. But I’m going to slap the bastard on anyway and get drunk quickly so I don’t notice the streaks and will happily fight anyone who dares to look in my direction.

What the fuck are you lookin' at?

What the fuck are you lookin’ at?

Here’s the lowdown on applying fake tan:

Trial and Error

Choosing the right tan is key- therefore, be prepared to try out lots of products before settling on the right one. Do this on the cheap by going to your local Semi-Chem and hotfooting it straight to the non-branded tanning wipes that look like they could also double up as toilet roll when you go camping. Go home and vaguely wipe your limbs with your purchase, taking care to vomit into a designated area, such as a toilet or bin, rather than all over yourself in reaction to the smell of the ‘scented’ wipes. Wait ten minutes and- hey presto- your beige-and-white striped body looks like a mobile version of Ralph Lauren’s Homeware Collection for Spring/Summer Every Year Since It Began, seeing at it looks the fucking same every time the bastard thing comes out. Now, having achieved an adequately stripey, Pikey look, sling your greasy mane into a BumBun (TM), and off you go to Debenhams where you can shoplift luxury brand tanning items to try without repercussion because the security team is unlikely to approach you for fear of being bitten. And contracting HIV.

Exfoliate

To achieve an even finish, one must exfoliate to get rid of dry patches and ensure that skin is smooth and even before applying product. Take an industrial sander and carefully apply to soles of feet, which have built up enough hard skin to achieve flipflop status in their own right, and try to close your mouth as much as possible so bits of hard skin don’t accidentally fly into it during sanding and make you die from shuddering. After your feet have been cut to ribbons, apply to industrial sander to elbows, knees and other crusty bits, carefully sweeping up discarded skin-bits to use as snow in next year’s nativity play at your local church. Finally, on delicate areas, such as your face and neck, opt for a dentist’s drill with bits of old carpet glue to it for that ultimate sheen. Failing that, don’t worry about exfoliating because nobody bothers to do it anyway.

A Hand’s Turn

Remember to take great care with your hands when applying tan, as they absorb product quickly and can turn a deep shade of orange within moments of contact with fake tan. Use gloves to combat the dreaded ‘tan hand’ fiasco. Tramp’s Tip: just slap it on without gloves and if anyone asks, tell them you’re best friends with Victoria Beckham and you’ve just returned from an afternoon of feeling her implants.

Victoria Beckham: Keeping it as real as Rev Run sitting in his big fucking mansion pretending to be ghetto.

Victoria Beckham: Keeping it as real as Rev Run sitting in his big fucking mansion pretending to be ghetto.

Care When Drying

Letting your tan dry after application is vital in getting an even finish. So no going outside naked and jumping in puddles, unless it’s absolutely an emergency. Or you want to achieve a nice Vitiligo look. Or you’re a big fan of Michael Jackson and wish to show your undying support for that time he lied about skin-lightening surgery. Or your desired shade of tan is ‘Pale and Dirty Bastard‘.

Stay in the Shade

Once you’ve got that first layer down, it’s all about building up the perfect shade that’s just right for you. Go to B&Q and get yourself a nice portable wood varnish shade chart, and use that as a bible in building your colour from ‘Moments from Asphyxiation’ to ‘Good News, Mr Jones- We’ve Decided To Turn Off Your Wife’s Life Support Machine Today To See What Happens. Don’t Worry, We Reckon She Has A Good Chance Of Living’. And beyond that, it’s up to you. Dare you go as far as ‘Cocksure Whore’, ‘Leather Bag Slag’ or even ‘My Electricity Bill Is Zero Because I’m My Own Lamp Vamp’. Or will you keep it mellow with ‘Michelle Heaton’s Oranger Mate’? The choice is yours*!

Chelsy Davy: A Cunt with a Stupid Tan

Chelsy Davy: A Cunt with a Stupid Tan

*Unless you’re still using those non-branded wipes, in which case, you may as well be drinking bleach. Good luck with that one.

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Prick of the Week- Geordie Shore

After watching the first episode of MTV’s Geordie Shore- Chaos in Cancun on Tuesday night, I can only assume that the producers advertised recruitment for the show as ‘Are you a failed abortion with no job or future? Do you like saying the word ‘Bantah’ a lot, but have absolutely no idea that banter doesn’t mean having sex with strangers on camera that is played back to the general public in nightvision while they laugh at you? Were you facing a life of robbing to subsidise your benefits for learning difficulties? Well then, apply to Geordie Shore today, and start your new life as a glorified porn star who is paid to slither around the VIP section of low-rent nightclubs!’

Admittedly, I watch the show so this is entirely hypocritical of me. But I’d watch anything, so that doesn’t say much. There was a time when Geordie Shore was once funny, some of the characters were even *slightly* endearing, but, like every reality show nowadays, the characters have got wise on how to build up an ’empire’ (I’m using ’empire’ in the loosest possible sense here), and the show has become massively contrived and awkward.

Take baby-voiced, arm flailing, towel-as-daywearing, Charlotte and bitchy Lego man, Gary. I am fucking sick to the back teeth of looking at these two gimps as they act out the sort of on-again off-again relationship that would have Katie Price saying, ‘Enough is enough. This bullshit isn’t worth the coverage in Heat magazine’.

Gary’s wingman is Jay, the perfect posterchild for a campaign to adopt capital punishment in the UK, with the slogan, ‘Who cares if a few innocent men are convicted wrongly and die? It’ll be alreet, pet.’ 

On the outskirts of this nonce-fest is Sophie, a lesser wanker than the others, but a wanker none-the-less. Sophie has left behind boyfriend Joel, basically an uglier-faced Ken doll with a very prominent steroid-addiction, to go to Cancun. Lucky her.

But sadly, these four are the most likable of the cast. My least favourite is James– a poor man’s Anthony Hutton who makes me want to invent a time machine just so I can go back to the time of his conception and stop his mother from downing those rohypnol-laced lagers and beg his father to stop raping women in the back alley of the pub. His treatment of Holly, a girl with daddy issues so severe, the entire live-in community of the Playboy mansion is currently sending her a ‘Thinking of You During this Difficult Time’ card, is abysmal, but hey- that’s just the power of the combover. Holly is best friends by default with Rebecca, Newcastle’s answer to Olive Oyl from Popeye, if Olive Oyl was a massive tart.

In the midst of this pack of abysmal cunts is Ricci and Vicky, Newcastle’s equivalent to a more-unlikable Fred and Rost West. Both are underlying serial killers- Vicky’s uncontrollable rage, egoism and relentless bullying simmering at the edges, coupled with Ricci’s arrogant bastardism, coloured Ray-Ban favouring and general drunk dickheadness make for the sort of concoction that would make the majority of the general public turn a blind eye if a terrorist attack occurred in the Newcastle Upon Tyne area.

So now the ‘gang’ are in Cancun, ready to slime around the place, spreading AIDs all over everything in Mexico and getting on it like a car bonnet. Mexico is famed for being the murder capital of the world, but it is assured that Cancun is a very safe place for tourists to holiday with absolutely no threat of murder. Pity that.

Geordie Shore– fuck you.

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How to Get Bikini Ready Right Now!

 

Many people ask me, ‘How do you stay in such great shape?‘ to which I always reply, ‘Should I make this cheque out to cash, or…?’.

Yes, that’s right, ladies; if this blanket of grey mizzle ever lifts, bikini season will be just around the corner! And that means it’s time to start preparing for those lazy days on the beach. And by lazy, I mean stressful and miserable as you’ll probably spend the entire run up to summer in an endless cycle of crying and exercising.

But it doesn’t have to be a depressing and laborious misery fest. Here are five ways in which you can get a better bikini body with very little effort, and bid farewell to sucking in your stomach, dusting sand out of your spare tyre and going into the water to hide, which can lead to being potentially eaten by a shark, or being raped by a merman. You don’t want that, do you? So, read my tips.

 

Start a revolution

Thanks to brainwashing tactics that have been employed by our government for many generations, the general public are unaware that they are always being told what to think. If you don’t believe me, I would like to point out that, deep down, you are a tiny bit prejudiced. Even if, like me, you were raised as liberal, you have prejudices that are inbred through years and years of being told that anyone that is different to you is a threat. Our government did that. If you still don’t see my point- five words: My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding. You watched that atop your high horse and secretly sneered, didn’t you?

Anyway, start a revolution by being like, ‘I don’t give a shit about no man, that’s right Lawd Jesus’ and doing snappy fingers (as explained here), then others are likely to follow suit and be all like, ‘Mmm-hmmm, I’m handling my shit and don’t give a ish’. Attitudes like this are usually picked up by masses of defensive, paranoid women. Eventually even uptight white women like myself will be joining in from afar, doing snappy fingers too and saying ‘I’m a strong white women and I’ll be damned if my man be all up in my bidness about my lumps’. See, I told you, we all have our prejudices.

Buy a cleverly designed ab-smock

A time-efficient way to obtain the abs, arse and thighs of a young starlet when you’re more ‘old harlot’ is to fake it ’til you make it and buy yourself a nice novelty apron with a cartoon muscle man or beach babe on it.

No-one will know it isn’t your body because they’re dead convincing. This apron will also double up as a hilarious conversation starter for vapid morons who still find The Simpsons and David Walliams funny.

 

Mince about with older, saggier and weightier counterparts

And watch yourself look better by comparison. Yes, this sounds cruel, but people like Vanessa Feltz and the entire cast of Loose Women would be friendless otherwise, for they were hardly made in God’s image. Making friends with women who are less of a ‘ten’ than you are effectively makes you the Queen Bee, even if you, too, have a face for radio and a body for rodeo. Every time someone has the misfortune of taking a photo of you bunch of ugly shrews together, that picture encapsulates a scale; this scale affixes the ugliest friend at the bottom and the prettiest (by default) friend at the top, which would be your good self, if you play your cards right. Hey presto: you’re the best of a bad bunch.

 

Start drinking plenty of fluids

Keeping your system ‘flushed out’ as whichever horrible ‘curvy’ Z-list celebrity who is currently the face of Activia (most likely either Martine ‘Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing’ McCutcheon or Claire ‘Eternal Menopause’ Sweeney) would say, is great for something, but to be honest, no one really knows what because we’re all too busy nodding along like chimps. Anyway, my fluid of choice is vodka, but I’m not fussy and whatever you have in the fridge will do. Drinking fluids like vodka, whisky and wine makes me look a lot better in the mirror, even when I’m crying and I don’t quite know why- I just get back on the kitchen table and dance like effing J-Lo. Drunk girls like this are the epitome of self-esteem.

And finally- stop caring

Ceasing to let the demands of society, the media and other shallow buffoons make you feel negatively about your, quite frankly, miraculous existence is the best move you’ll ever make for yourself. Have another bit of cake and stop worrying about it. And if anyone wants to tell you otherwise- myself, Martine McCutcheon, Vanessa Feltz and the cast of Loose Women will be round to glass that mother*.

*I just made that bit up about the cast of Loose Women, Vanessa Feltz and Martine McCutcheon. The only way they’ll be showing up is if you’re having a party and the theme is ‘Bitching about Anthea Turner while eating Macaroons’. Otherwise, it’ll just be me on my own, and I’ll probably just be in the corner crying and swinging a broken bottle. Thug life.

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The Law of the Package Holiday

After watching the first twenty minutes of Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents yesterday, I felt compelled to leave the sofa and go scrub myself clean with barbed wire. Now I’ve run out of bleach. Thank you, BBC3.

Anyway, apart from the unspoken objective planted in Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents for all subject matter to obtain as many sexually transmitted diseases as possible, there was the underlying message that package holidays are hilarious.

Hilariously shit.

Ok, so some of this mirrors the Easyjet article here I wrote a while ago, but package holidays are so much more than just a miserable plane journey- there’s the miserable transfer, the miserable hotel and the miserable week spent living out a nightmare.

But let’s begin with the miserable booking process. If you were an adult in the 1980s, you probably got, and therefore still are, accustomed to locating holidays via Teletext. For those under 18, I cannot even explain what Teletext is- there is nothing in the modern day it can be likened to, I’m sorry. Teletext is a fucking liar and the cheap deal you keep seeing on page 19 of 1900 has went long ago, if it even existed.

Then there’s the option of calling into a travel agency for the hard sell of being pressurised into booking a holiday on the spot. I choose to not do this as, A) There are no seats because all the ‘lads’ of 7F, St. Ford Escort’s High School for Disobedient Cunts have just called in to book their holiday to Shagaluf, B) I don’t like the smell of suncream and they aren’t fooling anyone and C) I do not believe that Thomas Cook Sales Representative Cassandra-Louise has been to my hotel, nor has Thomas Cook Representative Sue who is listening into our conversation and says that it’s very central- not that she stayed there, but she walked past and it were lovely. Fuck off, ladies, your fake banter is less believable than Cassandra-Louise’s hair extentions.

If you are in any way connected to the outside world, you will have migrated to using the internet like the fucking rest of us, you uneducated swine. The internet, unlike Teletext, has the ability to show you pictures of your hotel and surrounding area (well, Teletext could do this too if your hotel was just a big yellow and red square set upon eternal darkness, or if your holiday was a trip to Legoland). Insider tip: all pictures of hotels and surrounding areas are bastard liars- your hotel does not really look like this. Take the picture that they have given you of the pool area, draw in lots of cunt stick-figures, throw a bucket of water over yourself to emulate getting splashed by said cunt stick-figure’s cunt offspring, all the while playing Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits Some Unknown Man Sings Barbra Streisand’s Greatest Hits in Spanish. This is a truer representation.

If you are stupid enough to still book a package holiday, then you’ll be heading to the airport by now. It’s probably nearing midnight. I have no idea why, but it always is. Great, a day wasted already.

Ensure that whilst waiting at the departure gate, you adequately sneer at your returning home counterparts who have just got off the plane in their shorts and party-hats. Their holiday is over, while yours if just beginning! Ha! Look how miserable they are- this is great.

Board the plane and instantly spot the loud party of inconsiderate dickheads, who insist upon calling all staff ‘Mr Air Hostess’ while exploding into a wheezy smoker’s laugh so cancerous, you feel sick by association. This party, who I will herein refer to as ‘The Pack of Loud Cunts’, will spend their time inadvertently making the flight miserable for everyone else through being loud as fuck, singing songs like ‘Country Roads’ and shouting ‘Are we there yet, Mr Pilot?!’ One of them is also likely to have the world’s most irritating laugh, which will penetrate your very soul. Fix this irritation by paying £6 for half a shot of vodka to have alongside your in-flight meal of beef vomit in glue, with a side of dehydrated bread and vacuum packed cucumber. Considering you’re flying for a whole three hours and 45 minutes, you’ll need nourishment lest you’ll die of starvation.

When you finally arrive, you need to be transported to your hotel. This is achieved through the torturous ‘Coach Transfer’ organised by whichever travel agency you’ve sadly booked your holiday through. Note that The Pack of Loud Cunts are on your coach, trembling with anticipation for your journey to commence so that they can sing ‘The Front of the Bus is the Huffs, Barney Boo’. Wankers. Pray to God they aren’t in your hotel.

Thank God, it appears that your holiday representative has taken centre stage at the front of the bus to inform you of basic Spanish phrases such as ‘Please’ and ‘Thank You’ to silence The Pack of Loud Cunts. The one with the weird laugh keeps laughing at a collective ‘Ola’ mumbled by the bus. Feel yourself moving closer toward that stroke you’ve been putting off.

Pull up to what looks like the burnt remains of a sex dungeon and pray to God your name isn’t called to denote that this is your hotel and that your miserable hotel experience can now commence. Of course, your name is called and you trudge off the coach. Don’t forget to be pressurised into giving the bus driver a tip, considering he did his job and no other frills were included to justify a tip. Happily, The Pack of Loud Cunts are also getting off here. Wohoo, they are staying at your hotel.

At this stage, optimism sets in and you start to allow yourself to hope that your hotel room isn’t the shithole that 600 Trip Advisor reviewers warned you that it was. Snooty desk clerk, Selina is annoyed that you’ve disturbed her slumber at 3 a.m. and puts you in room on the ground floor, guaranteeing your room gets robbed numerous times throughout your stay and that each night you drift off to sleep with the tranquil sounds of the nearby motorway.

On your first day, you go to the ‘Welcome Meeting’ hosted by your holiday representative to avail of the free thimbleful of orange juice and hear at length about Costa del Slum’s ‘Transvestite Drag Show and Karaoke Night’ that you can attend for the small price of 150 Euros each, not including drinks and depressing meal. I would advise against this as your holiday representative will be your host and, if male, he is most certainly going to use this opportunity to sleep with your teenager daughter. If female, she’ll be chirpy enough for the whole bus to club together and murder her, meaning you’ll have to tip the bus driver massively to dispose of her body in an empty, desolate forest. Considering the exchange rate, it could work out pretty expensive.

If you opted for Self-Catering, lucky fucking you. If you are Half-Board, Full-Board or All-Inclusive, shit one. You must now spend every morning of your precious week off work throwing your fried breakfast down your gullet at 6.30 a.m., while catering staff tut obviously at you because breakfast finishes at 7. If, like me, you have no control at buffets, be prepared to eat your weight in bacon so laden with grease, it’s practically singing ‘Summer Nights’ and calling Rizzo a slag. Thank God for The Pack of Loud Cunts who roll in at 6.57 a.m. and make everyone else look like upstanding citizens. The Pack of Loud Cunts insist upon wearing their pyjamas to the dining hall, but wonderfully, the one with the weird laugh isn’t making noise because he’s too busy vomiting Sex on the Beach down the side of the table. If you are from mainland Europe, you’re probably eating a small bowl of fresh fruit with yoghurt on it, and I’ll cry because I’m fatter than you later on. Thanks for ruining my holiday.

During dinner, be prepared to forge a relationship with dreamboat waiter, Fernando, who insists you are seated in his area every night so that he can charm you into bed, while bantering with your boyfriend and enquiring how many camels it would take to ‘buy you’. Don’t be fooled ladies, he does this with every sunburnt, blonde lush in the restaurant, and he is also engaged to desk clerk Selina, who would fucking destroy you. Plus, he already slept with the Mum from The Pack of Loud Cunts- you’d probably get the herp.

But don’t fill up on dinner because you’ll be too bloated to dance to ’99 Red Balloons’ with enthusiastic German patrons at the hotel disco after dinner. And this is the best case scenario. Worst case is participating with other hotel guests to compete for free drinks in a contest to establish which country in Western Europe is ‘the best’, not realising that underneath the charade of polite and civilised humanity lies an angry mob of xenophobes who are waiting for any excuse to pounce.

Speak of which, don’t stay up too late because you have to be up at 4 a.m. to pettily secure sunbeds for you and the rest of your party. Delightfully, The Pack of Loud Cunts are swilling round the pool and doing lots of drugs because they haven’t been to bed yet, so don’t be surprised if one of them shits in your towel because they are pack of utter dickheads. Thankfully, this lack of sleep causes one of The Pack of Loud Cunts to be rendered unconscious in a quad biking accident just hours later and sent to a Spanish hospital to begin years of rehabilitation that will later be documented when they sell their story to ‘The Daily Star’. When the Dad from The Pack of Loud Cunts, whom you’ve befriended out of fear, tells you they are leaving, you look remorseful but are secretly pleased.

Now that the hotel is quieter, you are free to enjoy your holiday by lying in the sun for eight hours per day, having a mediocre meal, getting pissed and enjoying absolutely nothing of any cultural value whatsoever.

Not to steal Peter Kay’s intellectual property, but he is very right- you will go to the Spanish Spar and look at products that you can buy at home, you will ring home to enquire about the weather and you will most certainly frequent an Irish bar, where you will eat the exact same shit you have at home. You will start to adorn some holiday spirit and talk to poolside wankers, make a few friends and make the train much longer by doing the Conga at your hotel disco.

Like your package holiday predecessors, you will erroneously assume that you will appreciate a cold shock to the loins when you land back home and wear shorts and a party hat on the plane. Upon stepping out of the plane, you will regret this choice and feel very miserable and sad. The airport will be a bastard and insist that you are paraded in front of those travellers waiting to go on holiday, so that you can be mocked the way you mocked those before you. This is the law of the package holiday.

I’m already loading up the Teletext to book my next trip.

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