At the risk of sounding like a misanthropic misery guts, I admit I’m not a huge fan of making new friends on holiday. Even as a child I didn’t go big on holiday pals, although this may have had more to do with access, what with most childhood breaks being spent sheltering from rain in the back of our family car.
Many moons ago, while visiting Cuba, I was briefly befriended by a couple of German heavy-metal fans. Rather than worrying about the rights and wrongs of Castro’s communism, they seemed much more concerned that I got the full value from my ‘all-inclusive’ wristband. The ensuing night out resulted in easily the fiercest hangover of my life. It included projectile everything-ing, the shakes, the sweats, the shaky sweats and a vivid hallucination of Che Guevara wearing a ‘Carry On’ style nurse’s outfit.
