Confessions of a Holiday Rep - My Hideous and Hilarious Stories of Sun, Sea, Sand and Sex
Описание книги
When Cy Flood applied for work as a holiday rep, his reasons were simple. He wanted to party like crazy, booze like there was no tomorrow and pull like it was going out of fashion! In his ten years working for holiday companies as a rep, Cy has seen it all. From Lanzarote to Ibiza, from Palma to the Greek Islands, there have been flying cockroaches, flying televisions, drunken pub crawls, angry clients, wild sex and a TV crew on the scene. There are tales so tall that they defy belief. As well as the sun, sea, sand and shameless excess, a shockingly true picture of life as a travel rep is exposed; a world of violent crime, corruption and drug dealing. Cy's confessions allow us to peep into a world we all see from the outside but wish we knew more about.Confessions of a Holiday Rep is a truly behind the scenes picture of the resort scene and a real eye-opener for any holiday maker. A funny, honest and crazy must have summer read that will make you laugh, shudder and maybe even cry!
Оглавление
Cy Flood. Confessions of a Holiday Rep - My Hideous and Hilarious Stories of Sun, Sea, Sand and Sex
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
REPPING: WHAT’S IT ALL ABOUT?
WELCOME TO IBIZA
SAN MIGUEL – IT’S NO SAN ANTONIO …
SKIING
A SLOW BULLET TO THE ALPS
ADOLF HITLER RUINED MY HOLIDAY
THE CHARM OF GREECE
COLDITZ AND POLYVOTIS
THE JOYS OF LANZAROTE
TEAM TENERIFE
BENIDORM: SPIRITUAL HOME OF THE PACKAGE HOLIDAY
AIRPORTS AND AEROPLANES
HOME AND AWAY
THE LAST RESORT
Copyright
Отрывок из книги
For Helen, Charlotte, Lola and Daniel
I’d like to acknowledge all of the brilliant reps and guests I worked with during my ten years in the job – you were all brilliant.
.....
When some of the chosen few gathered at a hotel in Essex on a frosty February morning, I was primarily worried about two things: my name and my age. In the 1930s, Cyril was among the nation’s favourite names, but by the time I was born – in the Sixties – it was reserved for hamsters or tortoises, fluffy toys and other objects of ridicule. My father was unaware of this when he came across the name in a book he was reading, liked the sound of it and informed my mother that the lad was going to be called Cyril. My mother protested, but the old man insisted and so Cyril I became. I was the only Cyril on the Hartcliffe council estate in Bristol, where I grew up. Matters were made worse by my parent’s Irish brogue, which meant they pronounced my name as ‘Cerril’, which came out sounding like ‘Sarah’. Some of our neighbours were mightily bemused by the eccentric Irish family that lived at the end of the street and had a son called Sarah. Being called Cyril pronounced Sarah was also the cause of a few scuffles in the school playground. Even now the name is likely to provoke fits of giggles. And, of course, everyone knows the rendition of the song ‘Nice One Cyril’, written in honour of the only famous Cyril I’ve ever heard of – the Tottenham Hotspur player Cyril Knowles.
And that wasn’t all. Being a good ten years older than the rest of my course companions made me feel like I was a sly old fox let loose amongst a flock of young chickens. For them it was their first or second job. I sensed they thought I was only doing the course as a last desperate attempt to make something of myself. Maybe they were right.
.....