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How to spot a Brit abroad…

How to spot a Brit abroad…

You know the drill: you’ve done the whole “I am just a normal person going on a normal holiday with my normal possessions” act as you anxiously pass through customs whilst trying to act as un-suspicious as possible, and have finally landed in your holiday destination.

Once you arrive at your hotel and dump your stuff in a heap on the ground in the corner neatly unpack and neatly hang everything up definitely neatly, you decide to go for a walk to check out the surrounding areas.

You pass a guy with a deep and even tan, who isn’t wearing a hat or sunglasses, but is wearing a pair of budgie smugglers so tight that it looks like he’s just singlehandedly completed the Aztec Zone on The Crystal Maze but didn’t have any available pockets to keep the crystals – well, he’s definitely not British is he? We aren’t that “at one with the sun”, nor do we have such a healthy relationship with our bulges.

A minute later, you walk past another guy who was clearly wearing a vest when he got his sun burn – you can see freshly applied sun cream smears on his shoulders that haven’t been rubbed in quite enough, along with a cap, sunglasses, and a pair of flip flops a size too big.  Now this man, probably a Kevin: is a Brit. Just how many other ways can you tell a Brit apart from the locals?

How confident someone eats an ice lolly:

You can tell where someone’s from by the level of confidence they exude whilst eating something that will be mostly melting as they eat it.  If you see panic on someone’s face and their Twister lolly is dripping down their arm by the time they’re only half way through – then they’re not a local and would most definitely be able to tell you what The One Show is.  There’s no technique learned there, we don’t even know what the sun does to ice, we only see it twice a year.

Burnt shoulders and the covering up of them:

We’ve all done it – forgotten to pay attention to our shoulders whilst creaming up and so after a day or two, they’re a completely different shade of red compared to the rest of you. Unless of course, you’re one of the lucky ones who goes brown instead of red, of which case – go away.  This then puts you in a difficult situation of having to protect your shoulders with your unworn vest whilst walking or sunbathing. I bet Juan would never forget to Factor 50 his shoulders.

The constant moaning about sand:

I mean, it gets EVERYWHERE. And then there’s the whole having to awkwardly manoeuvre yourself from the beach shower after washing your feet to avoid treading on more sand thing.  You find it in your suitcase when you get home too, and there’s just no need for it.  Ban sand. Ban it all.

The utter greed when you’ve paid for All Inclusive:

If you’ve paid for All Inclusive, then you bet your sweet Spanish paella that I’m going to be absolutely heaping my plate full of food at the buffet. It will be a small-to-medium sized mountain. I will drop bits of food on my walk back to my table, like a Spanish Hansel and Gretel. You make eye contact with someone doing the same thing and you just know…they’re probably from Clacton.

Day time drinking

It’s of course socially acceptable for Brits to drink throughout the day around the pool – “I’m on my holidays” is a valid excuse. 3 euro a pint? Yes, you see those stairs? I will probably fall down them at some point, to some very disgusted tuts from the German family over the other side of the pool who all have brilliant tans.

Indecisiveness in shops

Most locals will be able to walk into a shop and know exactly what they want. They’re used to it all and they don’t know any different. They pick up their chosen item, pay, and leave. Not us. LOOK AT ALL THE DIFFERENT FLAVOURS OF CRISPS? How can I possibly pick? You realise you won’t be able to get these once you get home so you spent quite some time weighing up your options. Should I just buy them all? Lays or Pringles? Hang on…they’ve got HOW many flavours of Oreos? What if I don’t like that flavour? Sod it, they’ve got a Kit Kat and we get that back home.

You then pass the freezer and are faced with the agonising choice of what feels like 100’s of different ice creams and ice lollies that you can’t get back home. I like a Maxibon but which of the 7 flavours will I like most? What about that watermelon slice shaped lolly? Which one will I regret not buying? If I buy two, which one will I not mind melting on the walk? You realise you’ve been in the shop for 9 hours and are now classed a missing person – in the distance: sirens.

Fanta Lemon

I don’t care what anyone says, Fanta Lemon on holiday is a completely different ball game to Fanta Lemon over here. The sheer elation felt when you initially realise/remember you can get served Fanta Lemon in restaurants or via a pump is something that never goes away. If you see someone ask for Fanta Lemon and they let out a little scream when they’re given some in a pint glass, then you bet your sunburnt, factor 50 covered, soon to be peeling shoulders that they’re 100% a Brit.