Eurozone My Arse

Nige Burton asks the question where are the great British public going for their annual wakes week these days?

We Brits love our holidays, and boy do we vary in where we like to take them. I remember as a kid in primary school being envious of the handful of my mates who went on the annual summer holiday abroad. Kevin Wilson would brag with despicable relish that it was always “so ‘ot in Spain. It’s really, really ‘ot. You could fry an egg on the pavement.” By grammar school, adventure and breeding had set in, and the likes of Howard Thompson would jet off to exotic sounding places like Tunisia. I didn’t even know it was in Africa. Come to that, I don’t think he did either.

My parents were not so well-heeled, so my sister and I had to make do with the likes of Butlin’s at Phwelli. Wall to wall redcoats and a distinct lack of sunshine there may have been, but we were loved and I was happy. Ish. But I still wanted to go abroad.

And then came the school skiing trip to Bulgaria when I was fifteen. There was no way my parents could really afford it, but somehow my mother managed to scrimp and save to squirrel away the money to pay for me. I think she must have either sold her body or done the odd drugs run, but that was her affair. I was going abroad.

I suppose my arrival in 1979 Sofia set me spinning on my arse. It was devoutly communist, stark, cold and frightening. It looked like a pre-bombed Manchester on a dark, wintery afternoon and I didn’t like it. The four hour coach-trip up into the mountain resort of Pamporovo was a chore, with a snotty first-year leaning fast asleep on my arm all the way to the top, giving me the worst ‘dead arm’ I’d ever had. But when I stepped out onto the sun-drenched balcony of the Smurf Wanker hotel the next morning (I have absolutely no idea now what it was really called, but the affectionate name given to it by my fellow fifth-formers will suffice) and surveyed the snow-capped sierra of the resort, I knew I wanted it.

It awoke a spirit of adventure in me which has never been dampened down. It also ignited my lifelong love affair with Eastern Europe, leading me to explore Russia, Poland, Ukraine, Hungary, Romania and Lithuania in the following years, each with its own distinctive character, and each with its own individual currency. Until now.

As huge swathes of Europe adopted the euro, Britain remained staunchly in opposition. We were keeping our pound! It was, after all, what made us British. Bollocks. What makes us British is our pig-headedness. Question even the most entrenched euro-sceptic and you’ll soon realise they don’t really know why they didn’t want to join the euro. Question my 84 year old dad and he’ll quote you something The Sun or William Hague said. Between you and me, I just think he couldn’t face learning a new currency. “I remember when decimal came in,” he says with a grimace. No more substance ever backs up his argument.

The main Brit holiday hotspots for years have been Spain and Greece, and herein lies the dilemma. Honest, hardworking English countrymen and women simply can’t afford these western european favourites anymore thanks to the ever diminishing pound in our pocket. At almost one on one with sterling, the euro has soundly spanked the wallet of many a working and middle class UK traveller – even the famous pink pound doesn’t go nearly as far.

But the damage is even more far reaching for these resorts in the sunny climes whose economy depends largely on tourism from the British Isles. They might be all smug about the fact that they’re in the eurozone, but the smirk’s slapped squarely from their chops as they realise that we’re either staying at home or venturing to destinations where they still enjoy their own spondooleys.

For those holidaying in England’s green and pleasant land, the ‘credit crunch’ (oh how I hate that term) has rendered some pretty tasty deals, even on trips to the Big Smoke. On the downside, global warming has produced little more than a thorough drenching for most of us, so staying for the weather does not count as a reason, but on the upside, apart from the aforementioned deals, the UK does have plenty to offer in the entertainment stakes.

And who knows? It might even save the skin of the virtually extinct redcoat, or even allow that extra special species, the Blackpool landlady, to add to her gold bangle and cubic zirconia reserves once again. Eeh, it’s an ill wind…

Words Nigel Burton

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