Revision's getting me down. Cramped in a tiny space, staring at a small screen, genuinely not remembering what my life was like before exam season started. I have a vague recollection of it, but it feels a little bit like The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. That was my life then, this is my life now. Everyone tries, but no-one quite understands your pain.
With that in mind, to alleviate the stress, I'm going on an organised coach trip with a load of old people, my mother and my septuagenarian grandparents. At least, I assume the coach trip will be full of old people. I don't think it's going to be like This is Spinal Tap, put it that way. Admittedly, Paris lies at the end of this coach-trip, much in the same way that both Heaven and Hell lie at the end of purgatory.
My Mum's been on several coach trips recently. She says they're fun, but I think she means 'laughing at the moronic people is fun'.
Case in point: 4 days into her coach trip around the USA, they were asked to say a little about themselves. Anodyne stuff, until one Australian bloke declared,
'Hi, I'm Peter, and I'm bitter'.
And that was the end of the exercise.
I can't guarantee to blog about the architecture of Notre Dame, or the fine French cuisine, but rest assured, gems like these will be diligently reported.
My experiences of coach trips in recent years have been largely punctuated by awful, interminable official coaches travelling to away days with the Blues, in which bus drivers 'hilariously' put on Mission: Impossible as we travelled to North London for an ultimately fruitless relegation showdown. As if that wasn't bad enough, on the way home we were treated to an 'outrageous' 'flick' with 'Eddie Murphy' whilst people looked forward to the prospects of another coach trip to Barnsley.
So what do I expect from my four days with the cast of Cocoon? Fourth toilet stop by Dover? Pickled onions being passed round the back of the bus? Eddie Murphy? It doesn't bear thinking about, it really doesn't.
I might be being pessimistic. When I informed Twitter of my impending holiday, I was told by one person that it would be like 'going on holiday with twenty versions of your Nan'. Bon-bons, Horlicks and racist generalisations, then.
The last time I went to Paris for an extended period of time (mysterious, no?), I cried at seeing Captain Hook and shit myself. That won't be happening this time.
We're not going to Disneyland.
*credit to one of my followers on Twitter for the title- the best effort in a plethora of wonderful puns*
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