Scapegoats, flame-throwers and you: The lad’s holiday

It’s summer, exams are over, and most humanoids therefore want to while away their hard-earned freedom by engaging in some form of stereotypical foreign excursion. If you happen to be reppin’ the Y chromosome, then a “Lads’ Holiday” signifies the very best of such overseas adventure. As a general rule, I’ve never really understood this: the experience itself seems akin to avian migration… travel, preen, breed, indulge in gluttonous hedonism and repeat. Anyway. Each to their own. If you must go, just remember to follow Aunty Boar’s guide, lads.

**DO** take a scapegoat. This may seem a bizarre suggestion but every group needs a friend whose sole worldly purpose is to serve as a metaphorical conduit for the group’s collective abuse, japes and jokes. The role itself is open to transferral and can be assigned or removed based on merit. Remember that casual bullying builds character and aids social development.

**DON’T** construct a flamethrower out of highly-incendiary toilet roll, cheap lighter fluid and deodorant. If this was based on a real life event (which it isn’t), experience would say definitely do not then direct said fire at a toilet facility occupied by the aforementioned (fictional) scapegoat. Such childish behaviour could result in seriously singed eyebrows. (Which it didn’t.)

{{quote The experience itself seems akin to avian migration… travel, preen, breed, indulge in gluttonous hedonism and repeat}}

**DO** be adventurous. Go on, try something new. Go on, do it. Pussy. Listen to that voice in your head which, in the real world at least, you would otherwise suppress. Scientists have proven that the brain’s frontal lobe – responsible for assessing risks – continues to develop throughout your 20s. Your own brain is programmed to make you try new things. Do it a favour and live a little?

**DON’T** become “the victim” though. We’ve all seen him: tanked up on cheap vodka and borderline illegal energy drinks, tottering between bed-wetting lethargy and erstwhile-latent psychosis. In this state the young gentleman is a danger to himself and others. Sure, this is funny during the first five minutes, but surprisingly enough it becomes instantly unfunny the next morning when you awake with a Mohican, your ex-girlfriend’s name tattooed across a buttock and smelling like undigested onion and shame.

**DO** chip in equally. Most people do so but occasionally it becomes blatantly obvious that one foolish cretin thinks they’re getting away with short-changing the rest. The logic behind this is unfathomable, the process itself doesn’t even work and, oh yeah, you’re not getting away with it.

**DON’T** ever, ever, ever take your top off on a night out. In this situation you’re just a massive prick jabbing into the eye of the universe’s collective consciousness. Men’s Health Magazine hasn’t come calling for a reason; no one cares about your rock solid one pack. Also, you don’t need NASA to prove that the moon doesn’t give out tans, so cover up and shut up.

(In fact, on that note) **DO** use sun cream. There’s no joke there, seriously, cancer is as much fun as a clown gate-crashing a relative’s funeral, one who proceeds to drop a warm one on the coffin before punching the vicar. Depressing mortality aside, even on an aesthetic level tanning is utterly pointless, leaving the face confused and incapable of deciding whether it’s David Dickenson or badly weathered clay. And it takes ages to build up. And in the early stages you become a human lobster. Om nom, attractive.

**DON’T** be ignorant and trash the hotel. I know it’s all vaguely rock-star-ish to do so but then so is dying in a plane crash. Not that we’re resorting to parental scare tactics or anything. Sure, be a little bit cheeky, why not line a whole box of Cheerios along the balcony “in case the birds get peckish”? The point is though, don’t make damage permanent. Poise gents, poise.


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