The Idler

DEACON’S SCHOOL SUMMER TRIP 1992

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now my mind has blanked out the events of that horrible week to such an extent that I couldn’t even tell you where we were stayting - it was somewhere in France, and as it was pretty hot it must have been Southern - if you want any more detail than that you’d better contact one of the other attendees on the Deacon’s School Summer Trip of 1992.

The trip itself was planned for first and second years, but, in their wisdom the staff felt it would be a good idea to bring along a few sixth form types, to help supervise the youngsters. Having been assured that, even at our somewhat tender ages, we would be able to drink while on the holiday, a bunch of us signed up. It all started so well - we made our
way to the back seat of the coach, evicted the munchkins who’d set up camp there, and got settled. In my experience, coach drivers are some of the most miserable people on Earth, although the two we had were quite the opposite, and they couldn’t do enough to please the kids they were driving across two countries, including agreeing to their requests when it came to music. Unfortunately only one of the kids had a tape
they were willing to let be aired over the coach stereo - I don’t know if you’ve ever listened to a Right Said Fred album on a perpetual loop for three hours, but it’s not a pleasant experience.

Stage one of the journey ended with us boarding a ferry. Having stuffed ourselves in the canteen we then headed to the bar to find to our delight that they sold Stella for the princely sum of 88p a pint, and better still, they had a juke box. On closer inspection it turned out to only contain two records, ‘Temple of Love’ by Sisters of Mercy and ‘Jump Jump’ by backwards-jeans wearing teenage lackwits Kriss Kross.
Still, the Stella was cheap, so we took advantage.

Back in 1992, however, I was ignorant to the dangers of Stella, and the French leg of the journey was one long misery-filled hangover, accompanied by yet more Right Said Fred…

On arrival at our resort, the weather was almost as miserable as I felt, so activities were strictly indoor. This was only a problem because, being a beach resort, there were no indoor activities on offer, meaning the whole party squeezed into a room far too small for the numbers to play a team game loosely based around Pictionary. Luckily we had found
time to visit the local Hypermarket and stock up on beers, because nothing makes looking after children easier than a skinful.

Breakfast the next morning was an awkward affair, given that all but two of the teachers who were with our party were refusing to even look at me following my ‘erratic’ behaviour the previous day. Undeterred by that or the grey skies, a few of us went off for a game of tennis. After a few hours of shirtless play it became apparent to me that the sun had
come out. It had in fact been out pretty much since we all removed our shirts, but we weren’t going to stop our game for anything as trivial as suntan lotion.

I’ve experienced many kinds of pain before and since, but nothing I can remember came close to what I had to contend with for the rest of the holiday. Probably the lowest moment came at breakfast the following day when my mate Matt gave my blistered back a hearty slap. The resulting skirmish was over pretty quickly, but not before the kids had learned a
few words that they had not heard before. The remainder of the holiday was largely uneventful, spending long hours on an airless coach nursing my burns and listening to ‘Deeply Dippy for the 300th time, although the physical pain came nowhere near the mental anguish of knowing that, on my return to school, everyone would know about my drunken attempts to
stick my tongue down Mrs Burgess’ throat on our last night. It still amazes me that she was so polite about it…

Bill Handley