Holidays

Holidays are a commonplace feature of our lives today, whether they're a weekend in Blackpool (in the manner of our Victorian ancestors who began the principal of time off for the average working man), package fortnights in Majorca, or a luxury break for two in the Bahamas. Once, people only went on holiday in Britain, and you didn't require much guidance about where to go because a) there wasn't a huge choice; and b) this was Britain after all, who needs to be told about the pleasures and pitfalls of his own country?? But latterly, with the realisation that holidays are big business, that everyone expects one, that they're prepared to risk people who don't speak English, and that it's no longer simply a matter of poising a pin above a map of Britain, we have grown to feel the need for fall guys, people prepared to travel out to where we'd like to go, armed with nothing but a camera crew and a BBC expense account (the most powerful source of money in the world, that could blow your licence fee clean out), to recce our selected site.

Yes, the TV Travel Programme is with us, allowing us to journey to obscure foreign parts and resorts within half an hour, from the comfort of our armchairs. Those dedicated to exploring other parts of the world may do so with merely the remote control, sending the likes of Judith Chalmers, Anne Gregg, Frank Bough, and Anneka Rice on ahead to check out the terrain and hopefully visit a few topless beaches.

The journey begins in mid-winter, mere days after the New Year, with programmes like "Holiday" and "Wish You Were Here" (otherwise known as "Bet You Wish You'd Landed This Cushy Job") advising the year's potential tourists with the aid of detailed reports of days spent lounging around Spain, France and Greece on where to head for this summer. And for variety, they'll tell you about the Hawaiian Islands, New Zealand, the Canary Islands, and other tax havens which probably only 10% of the audience can afford to consider along with the presenters themselves.

But come the holiday season itself, the real hardcore stuff gets shown. The idyllic programmes of winter are but a distant memory as another season of "The Travel Show" on BBC2 gets underway. This is the meat of any self-respecting armchair traveller's diet. No easy breaks for Travel Show presenters, this is the Real Thing. Sent out to the world's tourist danger spots in the Med, ordered to investigate the resort discos, risk being ripped off in the stereotype old town market, drink the local water, eat the genuine local food while sneering at the fish and chip establishments opened for the tourists, subsequently sample the local strain of dysentery, and try the local sports of shark-hunting and cliff-diving, all the while offering informative commentary on their experiences before being packed off for the following week's climbing holiday in the Alps. Judith Chalmers would choke on her expenses claim at the first red wine stain on her skirt. It's a tough life.

Travel Show programmes always follow the same format, and almost the same script. It's worth analysing in greater detail to comprehend the reckless appeal of this series.

After a title sequence consisting of a daredevil flight over a computer-generated treacherous mountain landscape which might possibly belong to another planet altogether, Penny Junor, a woman with a comprehensive knowledge of the deeds and thoughts of Princess Diana who has determined not to let it stand in the way of her career and can sit in the studio secure in the certainty that her contract states explicitly that she will not be obliged to suffer the hardships of her fellow presenters, offers a cordial welcome and outlines the items for the viewer's sadistic delectation in tonight's programme. Then it's straight into the first "Resort Report" with John Thirlwell, a stout Northern bloke who you know would cheerfully be dragged through the Grand Canyon by wild horses and still stand up at the end and say the experience is interesting. John sets the mould for all the other presenters bar Penny and one other - the stolid Northern accent that can't lie, combined with just enough sensitivity to attract the female viewers, and wrapped in plenty of enthusiasm to ensure that they're too stupid to refuse to try anything.

By "Resort", they mean Resort. The kind of coastal Mediterranean town that is patronised by thousands of British holidaymakers every year and as a result has built up thriving tourist facilities of cafes, nightclubs, water sports in the turgid, organic, sewage-ridden slick covering the sea, and a mass of identical hotel blocks which would indicate that Lego is getting some big construction contracts these days. Whatever the typical year's tourists are likely to experience, John has to sample it all, from ethnic evenings in packed nightclubs with warbling local folk music blasting out sounding like a whole harem being serviced, to day trips to distant nudist beaches, to windsurfing (and despite trying this sport on at least ten occasions in every series, John still falls off every single time. What a hoot!), to raucous Eurodiscos offering cheap wine and free migraines, to whatever the local embarrassing traditional pastime is (usually dancing - John has less rhythm than a tortoise in it's death spasm but refuses to let this stop him. Berk). He has to report on everything, from the toilets to the seafood fished out of the polluted harbour. And at the end of it, he still isn't pissed off enough to say anything but that it's "a nice place".

Back in the studio, Penny sums up with additional details about typical costs (in terms of money, not stress) and a checklist (indicated by foreboding ticks and crosses) of what "we think" is good and bad about the resort in question - "We liked the beach and the local scenery but didn't think much of being mugged several times. The best thing that's free is the trots from eating out". Then it's a deft and handy link to the week's European weather.

The weather used to be presented by a professional Metman called John Kettley, yet another stout Northerner called ... erm ... John. But when they introduced the "Rule Of Toe" test for bathing water, John handed in his little button for flicking the maps over and quit, and who'd blame him. Now they get another stout Northerner called (give you a clue, it isn't Cyril) Dr John Thornes from Brum University. Dr J is big 'n' hunky, an obvious draw for the female audience, and yet softly spoken to indicate sensitivity and the fact that he doesn't like cold toesies either. Plenty of charts are the order of the day, charts to show average monthly temperatures and rainfall for the featured resort, along with the "Comfort Chart" which presumably doesn't take into account the dysentery, then charts for the European weekend weather designed to be understood by amoebae and probably understood by no one watching at home. Dr J knows that any commentary is completely unnecessary but provides one in the spirit of earning his consultancy fee, and peppers it with lots of jolly little witticisms such as "Tornadoes in Gibralter next week so take a kite if you're going!" and "It's the monsoon season in North Africa so don't forget that umbrella!". What he should be saying is things like "A bit chillier than usual in Greece but so what, this place gave the world George Michael so fuck 'em, hope they freeze!" But Dr J is a nice bloke, and you could even almost believe that he doesn't holiday in Bermuda himself with all the other Metmen.

Now there's another flash computer-graphic to explain that it's time to listen to the Travel Show Moan Line, a special 24 hour telephone line that people can whinge down after having a really shit holiday in the Med - it's their own fault, they should have gone where the presenters go. This is where the script remains the same as the week before, and only the names have been changed to protect the reputation of the programme. Penny adopts her concerned look (whilst still appearing cool as a polar bear's willy) while she relates the sad tales of how Mr X and family got well ripped off by Thomsons. Here's a sample:

"Mr and Mrs Smythe of Dorset booked a fortnight at the Hotel Laxative on the Costa Del Trotta ...

Mrs Smythe (crackling down the phone): 'When we got there we found that our room hadn't even been built yet and we had to sleep in bin liners in the middle of the site which was on the main runway of the airport. We were right next to the cement mixer and the noise was terrible! The toilet was a hole in the ground surrounded by local workmen and the swimming pool that Thomsons had promised us consisted of a bucket of water. It was a large bucket, granted, but we felt that this wasn't good enough and complained in the strongest terms to the Thomson rep in his apartment. In the middle of the week we were moved out and given a corner on the dancefloor of a local disco. Although the toilet facilities were better, which was essential by now as my Bernard needed them every time someone mentioned prawns, we literally had people dancing three feet away from our sleeping bags! At one point someone stepped on Bernard's neck and broke it, whereupon he was taken to the local hospital and given a course of anti-rabies injections due to a mix up. And our luggage went to Zurich! The brochure clearly described the hotel as possessing luxury facilities.'

We checked the Thomsons brochure and this is what it said:

'The Hotel Laxative is well appointed with a swimming pool and nice toilets. There are no discos or airports for three hundred miles.'

However, in the small print it said:

'NB. Thomsons reserve the right to talk complete and utter bullshit.'

The Smythes put in a compensation claim immediately but Thomsons blocked it on the grounds that they were stupid and then sued the Smythes for wasting company time. However, after we talked to Thomsons they agreed that the Smythes perhaps did have a valid complaint and have since awarded them £5 each and a bag of sweeties. British Airways have stated that the luggage diversion was all part of the service and the charge for it had been included in the price of the tickets."

Throughout this, the programme poses as champion of the great British holidaymaker and portrays the travel companies as nasty, greedy, Satanic liars out for every penny they can get at the expense of their customers. Which of course they are, but this simplistic view misses the point. Thomsons and their ilk are on trial every week in this slot for the most heinous of consumer rights violations, yet still Mr & Mrs Smythe and co. book holidays with them!! Surely they deserve a medal for such effective and cunning marketing, if they can successfully fool most of the public all of the time?

But no time to dwell on the wicked ways of the world because after a quick reminder of the Moan Line number, we're on to the Late Availablity Bargains which are celebrated with almost religious zeal. This, quite simply, is a round up of all the hundreds of flights which the airlines are desperate to fill up as they are left half-empty due to the recession and the fact that a few people have wised up to the antics of Thomsons and have gone to Bognor instead. Quite what the point of this information is, is unclear. It is doubtful that Joe Bloggs, spying seats on a flight to Barcelona, will shout "Bloody hell Doris, pack a toothbrush quick, we're off to Spain in two hours time!!". But who knows?

Duty done, the programme moves on the "UK Mini-Guide". It is called a Mini-Guide because obviously Britain is small and boring and you are unlikely to catch dysentery there, so it doesn't merit the full treatment. It is also called a Mini-Guide because some viewers might regard holidaying in Britain as very bad taste indeed, not to mention a sin against god and nature and a national scandal to boot. Portraying the report as a quick glance at Derbyshire reassures such folk that this is piece of mere trivia included for light relief and certainly no good reason.

The Mini-Guide doesn't even include an adventurous presenter because, well, where's the adventure? Instead a camera crew are despatched to film a few happy families boating or going for healthy walks or exploring an eccentric museum dedicated to antique chamber pots or somesuch ("You can even have a go yourself!"), there being nothing else to do. Later, a bloke from BBC NorthWest who needs the extra cash will add a voiceover read from a local guide book bought for 50p from the Tourist Information Centre. The summation at the end generally says "We liked the nature trails and children's zoo but disapproved of the fact that it sometimes rains and it is, after all, in Britain". It's all most pleasant and undemanding and completely pointless.

Pointless because the sadists watching, and most of the presenters in the studio, are gearing themselves up for the highlight of the programme, indeed possibly the main reason that it is made. This special slot is left to the end and, understated to the last, is introduced by a title bearing the one word "Matthew".

Matthew Collins breaks the Travel Show presenter mould by appearing as a chirpy, boyish, slightly camp but very enthusiastic young man who's accent has never strayed near a single colliery and indeed consists almost entirely of breathing in. He also isn't called John (although who knows what his middle name is?). Don't let this mild front fool you. If you combined Sylvester Stallone's and Arnold Schwarzeneggar's genes into a test-tube gorilla, put the offspring through marine combat training, fed it on scrap metal and old tyres, and toughened it up by using it's backside for target practise with tanks, the end result still wouldn't be as 'ard as Matthew Collins.

This innocent-seeming waif gets the kind of assignments that would have John Thirlwell screaming for his agent. He's so tough that he doesn't even need to be told what they are until five minutes before beginning them. Camera crews refuse to follow him, hiding behind their mummies instead, so Matthew just packs a Konica and little else. And at the end of them he sits opposite Penny Junor and relates his incredible tale in a breathless flow of enthusiasm:

"Well Penny, biking up the Alps is great fun even when the saddle is a ten inch spike. I started in France and cycled over the first mountain and down to a hostel where I slept outside and I met these really nice Swedish girls and we shared our lunch and played cards [in reality they're probably still trying to force their legs back together] and then I carried on and did another ten mountains in two hours and then I arrived at a ski resort and had a go at skiing in my bare feet down a sheer rock face which was great fun and then I slept on a precipice and the bike fell off so I walked the rest of the way and and and ...."

"And how was the food, Matthew?"

"Well, the food was great although at one point I ran out and had to eat my own excreta but it was lovely and the people were so friendly and they always asked me where I was going and was I a complete lunatic and and and ...."

"And what about the silly French accent we asked you to use?"

"Well that was no problem although I did have to mutilate a few native truck drivers at a cafe I stopped off at when they got a bit offended and then the police were after me so I had to swim back home up the coast and and and ..."

And so on and so forth. Just for once, one wishes that dear Matthew would arrive back and the following would take place:

Penny: "Last week we asked Matthew Collins to try his hand at climbing a well-known mountain in the Himalayas without any equipment bar one accessory. As a proviso, we noted that holidaymakers often lose their luggage en route and so he had to attempt it stark naked. Matthew, how did you get on?"

<silence>

Penny: "... Matthew ...?"

<more silence, then ...>

Matthew: "... You bitch! You absolute fucking bitch!! Nine fucking hours I was stuck on the edge of that crevasse, AT NIGHT! I fucking hate K2!!"

Penny (smugly): "But didn't you shout for help?"

Matthew: "How could I when I was hanging on with my teeth??!!! The rescue team had to prise my mouth open with a crowbar!! And my bollocks nearly dropped off, trapped against a sheer ice face!"

Penny (really really smugly): "But couldn't you use the toothpick we provided you with?"

Matthew <launching himself at Penny with hands clawing wildly>: "AAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

<Cue end titles as studio crew rush forward to pull Matthew off and revive Penny Junor before next week's show>

In reality, this never happens, or perhaps it has yet to occur. Instead Matthew finishes his tale by saying that he had "great fun" (again) and Penny then opens a large black folder (presumably with the names of several reputable solicitors and funeral directors in) and informs Matthew of his next assignment as he looks on apprehensively but with just a hint of eagerness. This is usually something like:

"For a change, we've booked you on a luxury cruise liner going to the West Indies. Unfortunately [and at this point the excited look on Matthew's face evaporates like piss in a frying pan], there were no cabins left so you're going to have to rope yourself to the propellers instead. We've provided you with shark repellent and we want to know what a budget cruise is like underwater."

The end titles follow as the viewer turns in for bed to dream of making love to Penny Junor in a bath of Ouzo. Well, I do anyway.