Seville

A week after being back from Sri Lanka and I was off again – this time to Seville. (And to think I was once called a 'parochial motherfucker' by a colleague.)

The reason for this trip was to celebrate the impending nuptials of our friend, Reesy. Reesy and I have known each other for years, both having played as substitutes for our local football team. He was the back-up left-back and I was the supporting right-back. Unfortunately, our manager did not have the same policy on defensive rotation as Mauricio Pochettino, so most of our Sundays were spent watching piss-poor thirteen year-olds play kick and run. Despite the neck ache we endured watching adolescent hoof ball, our time on the sidelines did us good, informing our punditry, making us excellent readers of the game. Wenger, Mourinho and Ferguson weren’t great players but they went on to become successful managers … now I’m not saying Reesy and I could necessarily manage a top 4 team, but I’m surprised no Championship team has taken a chance on us yet.

There is no more loyal player in the whole of football than the thirteen year old substitute.

The Stag Do started early at 8am when a mini-bus picked us up from Watford Junction. A lot of the lads going on the trip were old school friends, which was nice as it gave me a chance to revisit playground handshakes, nicknames and anecdotes. Such was the level of nostalgia on display, I recorded it on my phone to sell to Peter Kay fans at a later date.

Arriving at the airport, I sat my liver down to assuage its fears. I explained that it would soon be killed by alcohol. That, yes, it would hurt. It would take hold. But in time it would find green tea again. Stoic to its fate, I told my liver I'd never been so proud. Midday hadn’t even arrived and I’d had two pints. I had said to Scott that I could murder a coffee, but when the round came I ordered a pair of pints, fearful that holding just one would disrupt my balance.

Pair of pints.

Ben was responsible for the accommodation, and he did a great job. We had a huge apartment with big living area and rooftop terrace. Some of the boys had already arrived, meaning nibbles and drinks awaited us on arrival. Unfortunately the lads didn’t maintain these standards for the whole trip; consequently my cries of ‘waiter!’ fell on deaf ears.

We then headed out into the night to get buzzed. Maquiila was where we went to, which is located in the upper/lower/middle/somewhere part of Seville. (I never knew where I was in Seville. Like a Mail reader, I just went where I was told.) The food was just how I like it: constant and continuous. The beer was refreshing, possessing that vital ingredient: sun. The company was good too. Son Brewing are a great corporation. (Just a pun there to misdirect my friends into thinking I was complimenting them when in fact I was complimenting the cerveza..) Putting foreign words in italics makes you smart, right?

After the meal I shamefully headed home at 12. For the record I did this because I just thought the lads were going for a nightcap. If I knew they were going on an all-nighter I would have continued to fight the good fight, fending off lethargy in the name of stag. As it was I went to bed, awaking a clear-headed man.

I thought this is what the boys meant by 'nightcap.'

The next morning I made way up to the living room where I was given desayuno. Some people might argue that, given I was one of the flaky dropouts, I should have been on the mixing desk early to bang out some scrambled egg. What I would say to that is … yes, that is a completely valid point. However, Steve - on a hangover- made a Spanish breakfast so well it put pay to the idea that men can’t multi-task: Alka-Seltzer in one hand; whisk in the other, the boy can do it all.

After the breakfast of Gods, we left for a spa. Yeah, that’s right we went to a spa. We put the spa in Spain, motherfuckers. I had never been to a spa before because as a skinny jean wearing, tahini seasoning, romcom watching male, I’m far too alpha for that shit. Fortunately, the other boys aren’t. Before we got the relaxing massage though, we had to go through the fraught business of administration. On arrival we were given blue plastic bags to slip on our feet – like we were heading into an Ebola Zone. Unsure whether to put the bags on as we went in, or when we got in, caused an outbreak of panic amongst staff. Quickly, we were quarantined in the changing rooms whilst our translator, Benjo, established whether we could uncouple the bags. After being checked by the manager, we were given the all clear to dive bomb into the waters.

There were three pools: medium, hot – and freezing cold. As someone who isn’t an elite athlete, I saw no purpose in the Alaskan waters. But being on a stag I jumped in because I’m all about the bantz. Rejoining the warm pool, I had a chance to reflect on my life, and after much contemplation I decided that Watford should sack Walter Mazzarri. After this epiphany, I was called up to have my massage. Before having our bodies basted in oil, we were ordered into the jacuzzi, where we were put under strict instructions not to talk. As an introvert I find not talking easy, but the outgoing lads found this experience an ordeal, resulting in them using sign language, semaphore and eye blinking to communicate.

After the health spa, we immediately headed outside to the neighbouring bar to kill off any oestrogen we men may have acquired. Struggling to get a taxi, we paid the local bartender to take us back to the apartment. (This isn’t something I recommend in England. Our cabbies have it hard enough with Uber without John at Wetherspoons muscling in on the market.)

Cabbies: this man is coming for you.

Back at the apartment we played a pub quiz game, where one of the rounds was all about Reesy. At the end of the ten questions, I came to the conclusion that I’ve led a dull, tedious life. If someone had to write ten questions about me, it would be stuff life: ‘In 2015 what did Ryan have two glasses of that made him sick? Answer: Non-alcoholic fruit punch.” This quiz was one of my highlights of the weekend, sitting there with the boys laughing at Reesy’s – sorry, Smelly Pop’s - escapades.   

In the evening we all went for dinner at El Mero’s. A great restaurant with an even better waiter. At first we weren’t sure where we were going to eat, but then the aforesaid collared us. He had a vision for us. He saw fish. He saw meat. He saw laughter. He saw alegria. He told us that he could make all of this happen if only we gave him the chance. We liked the sound of his vision so we commissioned him to make the picture. The final film surpassed our expectations. If you go to Seville, then head to El Mero’s; there a culinary director waits for you, ready to shoot a technicolour he calls: Tapas! The Movie.

Following our feed, we headed to Feria, which is Spanish. The fair is quite the institution, dating back to 1847. I’d been before when I went to visit my friend Phil, but enjoyed it just as much the second time. Having enjoyed a feast for the stomach, feria is one for the eyes. The lights are bright, the dresses are bright and faces are too. It’s a joyous occasion, a collision of sound, drink and food that really is quite wonderful.

The next morning I woke up early and did the washing up. Doing the washing up for eighteen lads is something of a task, and how I didn’t earn a Boy Scout badge for my efforts is something of a mystery. Mum, put the needle and thread down: your son’s efforts have gone unrewarded. Taking the rubbish out was something out of sitcomland: passing into the city square was a group of British men, all carrying a bag of empty beer bottles; it was like we were satirising our own drinking culture – only shamefully we weren’t.

And so home. And after a two and a half delay, which Ryanair described as ‘a bit of a hold up,’ we arrived back in Britain.

Walking In The Footsteps Of Our Father: Dispatches From The Homeland

In 1974 my dad left Sri Lanka for England. It was supposed to be a short stay, a temporary arrangement for university education. He would then return home and embrace a dutiful Hindu path. Only it didn’t turn out that way. 43 years on and my dad remains in Blighty’s shores. The life that was mapped out for him never materialised. To cite the Robert Frost poem, he took The Road Not Taken.

Being one of seven siblings and the eldest, it was expected that my dad would marry within his community. In doing so he would serve as a totemic model to his siblings. Therefore, his decision to marry my mum, an English girl, came with huge ideological challenges. A Hindu is meant to put deference above all else. Is it respectful, my dad thought, to put love before religion? In finding love outside of his culture, he feared hurting the culture he loved.

Although my dad’s choice of partner denies him the moniker ‘dutiful Hindu,’ in regards to his position as husband, father and friend he has been completely dutiful. Following the customs of religion is important, but consciously living and leading a life of sacrifice is, I would argue, much more important. If my dad’s choice of bride was selfish, then so be it – the rest of his life has been defined by selflessness, so surely a little aberration can be forgiven.

This year my dad took the decision to retire from work. For a man that has made a life out of earning a living it's of some significance. To mark the event, my brother and I booked for the three of us to go to Sri Lanka. Dad’s previous trips home have been clouded by the spectre of war; the recent ease in tensions would allow us to see the beauty of the country without the blight of military check-points. It was always his dream to show us the place of his birth and with our calendars in alignment, we were able to make the journey; a journey I call: Walking In The Footsteps Of Our Father: Dispatches From The Homeland.

Walking In The Footsteps  Of Our Father

Monday 10^th April

Dad and I journey on the train from St Albans and meet my brother at Gatwick airport. Stopping for coffee, my brother had us pose for a selfie. Normally, I’m dead against selfies, perceiving them to be emblematic of a tech-obsessed world, more interested in self than others. On this occasion though, I thought, ‘This picture has all the ingredients to generate views. It has the sentiment of family. It also features a senior citizen. The aah! Factor is high on this one.’ I spent the whole time in Departures asking my brother how many 'likes' it had.

On the plane I watched the classic double bill of Captain Fantastic and Moana. My brother recommended the former, arguing that it was Little Miss Sunshine without the schmaltz. He was right. As an educationalist (I prefer this term to teacher, as it makes me sound more learned) I found it particularly interesting, looking as it does at the debate between home school and government education, making valid cases for both. It also features the immortal line, “Let’s honour mum’s life by flushing her down the toilet.” Moana is great too. The Polynesian location is animated beautifully, and Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson is hilarious as Maui.

Arriving in Sri Lanka I expected to be receive a hero’s welcome. After all, the country had been waiting for me to visit for 31 years, so I couldn’t even begin to imagine the anticipation when news outlets broke the homecoming story. Unfortunately, my dad must have phoned ahead and asked for a low-key reception – probably highlighting how my role as a public servant makes me embarrassed by undue attention – consequently, we were ushered, without fanfare, through passport control into the arms of our excited family.

This did not materialise.

Tuesday 11^th April

Heading through the streets of Colombo was something of a blur. I was exhausted from watching Disney animations, simply unused to seeing things in 3D. But what jumped out at me were the trees. Beautiful palm trees stretched the highway, a visible sign that I was elsewhere, far from home. The only other thing I remember about the journey was the modes of transport. Few cars were in attendance. Most of the vehicles that littered the streets were tuk-tuks, glorified Go-Karts that dart deviantly through Columbo’s lane markings.

Arriving at our Air B&B we settled down for an impossible lunch made by our aunt and got some shut eye. In the evening we made the bold decision to hire a tuk-tuk through the city’s rush hour. To say I was afraid would be an understatement. In getting a mortgage with The Girl we made the sensible decision to take out life insurance. In taking that rickshaw I was convinced it wouldn’t be long before I made The Girl rich. Unfortunately for The Girl’s bank balance I survived and was thus able to enjoy the home cooking of my other aunt.

Tuk-tuk.

Wednesday 12^th April

We woke up very early to make the long journey to Jaffna, the northern city where my dad was born. For the trip we decided to hire a driver, feeling this would reduce our journey times. Rajun picked us up, along with our aunt and uncle, at 5 o’clock in the morning. As a general rule I don’t wake up before milkmen, but I thought I would make an exception for my dad’s homecoming. On the way we stopped in Anuradhapuru, a city that is as hard to sound as it’s to spell. The city used to be home to Sri Lanka’s royal family thousands of years ago; today it’s something of a Buddhist stronghold, harbouring the oldest fig tree in existence. A tree that was said to be planted in 288 BC, which therefore makes it older than Jesus and Batman’s Adam West combined.

The sacred tree.

After feigning interest in the tree, we made our way to Jaffna. Sadly, Jaffna has been badly affected by the troubles in Sri Lanka. The civil war began in 1983 with the Tamil Tigers seeking self-determination away from Sinhalese control. You see Sri Lanka has two languages, two people: Tamils, mainly based in the North, and Sinhalese, who are rooted in the centre and south. As a British colony, Sri Lankan Tamils found favour for accepting the poor pay and working conditions the Sinhala refused. When Sri Lanka gained independence, the balance shifted the other way. My dad tells me of how as a Tamil you needed a higher pass mark to get into university; how Tamil wasn’t recognised as a national language and how rights eroded. There are, however, Tamils who believed the Tigers went too far in seeking self-rule, intimidating not only Sinhalese people but Tamils too. With Jaffna a centre of conflict, people fled their homes – including many of my family members. Having a look at Google Maps before we left, my dad was relieved to see much of his area still standing, aware that many other parts weren’t so lucky.

Arriving late into Jaffna, I’m pleased to say I immediately created an international incident. The approaching weekend was Sri Lankan New Year, a celebratory weekend of prayer and festivities. On the floor of the hotel foyer, spelt out in dyed rice, were the words ‘Happy New Year.’ Unaware of this, I stepped back and put my foot through it. The hotel manager looked at me as I had kicked a baby. I feared immediate deportation. Luckily, my embarrassed apology acted as the British Embassy, and all was forgiven.

I didn't trust this man to come to my diplomatic rescue.

Late in the evening we had a meal by the pool where we witnessed an unseemly argument between hotel guests. All eyes were taken off the food as became absorbed in the bare-chested showdown between pool attendees. It was like the scene in Women In Love, only this was Men At War. After lots of shouting the men were eventually separated. Watching a fight made me feel right at home and made me appreciate that colour, language and religion may separate us, but fundamentally we’re all people that love a scrap. 

Thursday 13^th April

Being in Jaffna was a humbling experience for my brother and me. We are so cosseted in England; conflict is a disagreement over what film to watch, not a foot soldier at your door. We were lucky enough to go to the temple my dad once worshipped in; there a priest performed puja blessing our arrival. From there we went to the home my dad grew up in. Fortunately, it is now home to a hospitable family, who showed real kindness into letting us in, thereby allowing my dad to guide us around. The back garden was alien to us, accommodating as it did a bath, well and outhouse. We’ve always heard stories about my dad’s childhood, but the fact we’re now able to give definition to those outlines is something very special indeed.

My dad and sister outside their old home.

In the evening we made our way down to the hotel bar to be told that no alcohol could be served because of Sri Lankan new year. My dad devised a cunning plan, requesting drinks be brought to our room, thereby negating the ‘no drinks in public rule.’ So there we sat, four men (including Rajun) in a small room, drinking bottles of beer before our night out. With one sip of the bottle my 64 year old father had transformed into a college room-mate. Fortunately, we didn’t discuss girls, daytime TV and cannabis legislation, but I enjoyed the poetry of the situation all the same.

Friday 14^th April

We woke up early to make our way to Dambulla. On the way we stopped in Habarana where we ate and then joined a driver for safari. Standing on the back of a jeep, I initially felt like a soldier patrolling an occupied war zone; this macho reverie was soon broken, however, when my hat nearly blew off and I cried, ‘Whoops a daisy!’ The safari around the national park allowed my dad to snap some rare birds. My brother and me weren’t really too bothered about these feathered friends, believing that when it comes to nature enthusiasm correlates to size. Size came moments later when we saw a herd of elephants chilling about the watering hole. One elephant was so unfazed by our jeep that he came within touching distance. Usually I’m nonplussed by nature: Attenborough for me isn’t an immortal deity, simply a man with a voice I could lay on; but seeing elephants in their natural habitat was an awesome experience.

Elephants near water.

After safari we arrived at the Kandalama. Much of our trip was booked on a reasonable budget. Our accommodation was either Air B&B or affordable hotels. The Kandalama was our glorious splurge. It is the finest hotel I’ve ever stayed in, maybe the finest one I will ever stay in. Perched on the hills, amidst the forest, built into rock caves, the location is a work of architectural wonder. With the forest in sight, moving between the floors felt a little like tree climbing- all without the fear of falling. My brother was happy because it had Wi-Fi too. I was also happy about this, but the reputation I’ve cultivated as a bookish technophobe meant I could not say this aloud. Looking out to paradise, I concealed my phone within my book and caught up on the football results - I've never known bliss like it.

Not a bad view.

Saturday 15^th April

That morning we went to Sigiriya, an ancient rock fortress, that is often described as the ‘8^th wonder of the world.’ Visiting Sigiriya meant we encountered Sri Lanka’s idiosyncratic pricing policy for the first time. In popular sites Sri Lanka has a price for locals and a price for ‘foreigners.’  My dad doesn’t own a Sri Lankan passport anymore so is seen as ‘foreign.’ The difference in price is marked, meaning it made sense for my dad to play Sri Lankan. Consequently, my dad had the guide buy his 'local' ticket, instructing us if asked to say that he was our uncle who we were visiting on holiday. The alias along with the false glasses, nose, and moustache worked a treat: my dad incognito made it through. I’ve since asked him who else he'll impersonate for his own benefit. He said that he’s going to take on my identity when he next requests a bank loan. Cheeky fellar!

The climb up the 1002 steps of Sigiriya rock was wonderful. With plenty of places to stop on the way you never get tired. The place has historical significance too, as it was where the prince escaped to after killing his father. (If Charles ever gets wind of William redesigning Stonehenge, then he knows he’s got something to worry about.) Historically, the rock had three entrances: lion, elephant and snake. Obviously over time these have eroded, but the lion’s paws are still visible, allowing you to imagine what the rest would have looked like.

Sigiriya.

Sunday 16^th April

Heading to Nuwara Eliya we went via Kandy. Kandy is known for being the epicentre of gems. I went into the store wanting to buy something for The Girl, without knowing anything about jewellery. Before I met her the only presents I would buy were CD’s, books and DVD’s. These would be the fail-safe gifts I would fall back on. But with the invention of Spotify, Kindle and Netflix, I’ve had to meet the 21^st century head on and learn a completely new skills-set for present buying. I think I did ok. I hope the pendant I bought was the genuine article. I mean they gave me a certificate and everything. If her neck goes green, I’ll write to Matt Allwright – maybe BBC’s Rogue Traders can do a foreign special and bust them for me.

After the shopping expedition, we climbed the helter-skelter roads up to Nuwara Eliya. With every bend I was thrown my upright seating position to a supine horizontal one. It was like I was constantly reenacting Del Boy’s falling through the bar routine. A classic British comedy moment our driver had never seen, which meant it felt like I was doing something of a national service by sharing the spirit of the piece with him.

The funniest comedy moment of all time.

Monday 17^th April

On this day we went to Pedro’s Tea Estate for a guided tour of their site. Pedro’s supply tea to PG and Lipton, who they then add their own secret ingredients – probably cocaine and meth amphetamine, given how addictive the brown stuff is. Seeing the staff at work put into perspective how much is gone through to put that mug on the table. Tea pickers earn about a £1 a day, work in all weathers and are expected to collect kilos and kilos. Work conditions have improved over the years, but it makes you appreciate the toil that goes into your brew. Next time you have a cuppa, raise a mug to the ladies who gave it to you.

Tea pickers at work.

After, we walked half an hour up hill to Lovers Leap, a waterfall so called because it was the crime scene of a Sri Lankan love story. Myth has it that a prince was refused from seeing the girl he loved. Consequently, he and the girl went to the site and jumped to their death. This other royal story begs the question: why can’t Sri Lankan princes and kings just get along? With all the father and son problems in Sri Lanka’s history, they really could have done with Freud to sit the men down and explain the reasons for their rivalry. With some good psychoanalysis, Sri Lankan royalty would have been a lot healthier; although the places of interest would be less interesting. So all in all, maybe male rivalry has been a good thing for the country.

Lovers Leap.

Tuesday 18^th April

I was ill for much of the day, but unfortunately my brother was more sick, which meant I was denied some of the sympathy that was owed to me. The problem is he got on early with the sick card. Once someone in your family puts down the sick card you can’t say you’re sick, because then it looks like you’re stealing their thunder. Therefore, I had to remain stoic in the face of a mild headache. Because of this injustice, I’ve learnt to wake up every morning and say I’m sick regardless of whether I am or not. This way if The Girl is sick, I’ve got in their first, meaning I get all the sympathy. (Don’t hate the playa- hate the game.) Until two people within a household can get equal sympathy for their sickness, I’m going to play dirty. If people are going to bagsy illness, like it’s the front seat of the car, then there’s going to be no more Mr Nice Guy.

Wednesday 19^th April

Back in Columbo we make our way to Pettah Market, which is Camden on acid. Pushcarts of impossibly loaded potatoes, water, coconuts, cardboard boxes make their way up the roads, steered by little men performing the challenges of the World Strongest Man. Also, despite all the activity, the roads aren’t closed off. Alan Partridge would be delighted that the Colombo authorities have decided against pedestrianising it; but for me dodging cars, scooters, tuk-tuks and trolleys was a hair-raising experience. Following this chaos, I sought respite in the T-Lounge. This is a posh café in Columbo where the whole mantra appears to be: ‘Stick some tea in it.’  Every dish on the menu is infused with tea. A gimmick you may argue, but a genuinely delicious one.

Market day.

Thursday 20^th April

My aunt brought food to our apartment and sat and watched my brother while we ate. This had happened the day before with my other aunt, making it a kind of take-away cum restaurant service (are you still sniggering over that preposition?). I did feel bad for my aunts doing this, but food is fundamental to Sri Lankan culture and to deny them this decency would be insulting. For all the hours they spent preparing the meals, bringing them over and serving us, they didn’t do the washing up. Because of this, I’ve only given them a 3 star review on TripAdvisor.

My aunt and all the food she brought.

Friday 21^st April

After watching Manchester By The Sea, Fences and Divorce: Series 1, I return home to England a fatter and more enlightened man. A bit like Buddha I guess. An amazing trip!

Gap Year

Establishing shot of an airplane in the sky. Camera then pans to inside where three travellers wait for the toilet.

Sam: A what! A lads holiday in China, why are you doing that?

Sean: Well he's been away at uni for a year. So we thought we'd just have a catch up. And he's been dumped.

Sam:   Sorry that’s not what I meant. I meant why China?

Sean: I don't really mind where we go. As long as we get smashed, soak up some sun, meet some girls. 

Sam: No, you’re not going to get to do that.

Dylan: What do you mean? 

Sam: This is what I do. I’m a travel writer. Trust me when I say, China is not right for you. This is not ideal, hearing about this right now, on the plane. Sorry about that. But you have made a mistake. Unless you’re going for a reason that I’m not aware of.

Dylan: No, of course not. We just wanted to do something different. Out there. We didn’t want to fall into the same old tourist traps as everyone else.

Sam: But you will though. You’ll find them.

Sean: What’s them? Who’s them?

Sam: Everyone else. The kids exactly like you. It’s like two dung beetles on top of a pile of lion poop. And one says to the other ‘fancy meeting you here.’ You know?

Sam and Dylan: No.

Sam: You’re all into exactly the same shit. Anyway fellars I hope that your friendship still functions in a different context. In my experience it won’t. And enjoy Thailand.

Sean: But we’re not going to Thailand.

Sam: You will though.

On the plane.

The opening exchange to Gap Year is prophetic: Sam, the travel writer, a flaneuse by trade, appreciates that foreign life can be difficult. People go with the right intentions, wanting to immerse themselves in a life that is not their own, but soon find language and custom barries make assimilation impossible. So what do they do? They fall back into their old life, seeking out people and places that are familiar and comforting. Also, travelling with a friend is not the same as socialising: it’s a marriage of co-dependency that can leave both parties feeling stymied and suffocated. In the best case scenario some time apart can rekindle the relationship; in the worst, one snaps, serving the other divorce papers citing 'irreconcilable differences.'  The only time I have ever argued with friends is when I’ve been on holiday with them – and that was only for a few days. Even if you live with mates, there’s always a room you can escape to and breathe. When you’re walking the city with others, having to make choices on what you do and where to go, tensions will arise; conflict will ensue.

Dylan and Sean are friends reunited, classmates that have been kept apart by university. Sean hasn’t been to uni, preferring to pursue the trade of plumbing. Dylan, a philosophy student, is well on the way to his BSc. For Sean the trip is a holiday, an opportunity to trade smokes and jokes with a pal. Dylan, on the other hand, sees the trip as something more noble, more worthy, an 18th century Grand Tour that will announce his intellect on the world stage. Cocooned in the bubble of university, his pretension is yet to be pricked.

Dylan and Sean.

Like Macbeth on the heath, the boys scoff at Sam's prediction, vowing to press on and paint China - well, more- red. Arriving, Sean suggests they find a watering hole; a proposal soon squashed by Dylan whom is on the lookout for a more authentic experience They don’t have long to wait. Stopping for the loo they encounter China’s squat toilets. This taste of culture isn't what Dylan had in mind. So with a heave and a hightail they make their way to Costa Coffee. Whilst Dylan sits in the toilet cubicle monitoring ‘Map My Run,’ Sean waits outside with Greg, an awkward Brit, played brilliantly by Tim Key.  Greg is from the David Brent school of interaction, appearing wholly humane whilst being a complete buffoon. Over the course of the series his eccentricities become more endearing, so much so that he'll eventually become the show's beating heart.

Greg played by the brilliant Tim Key.

Greg is unlike other British travellers. He is pushing forty, in age and waist. His boasts of where he’s been, therefore smack off sadness, not arrogance. His pleasure in travelling with two girls (“we're a threesome”) is soon discounted when Sean walks outside and finds them attempting to abscond. Laden with bags, Greg is another piece of baggage they could do without. Sean, the Everyman, argues his case and the girls are stuck with him. In time Dylan and Sean will rejoin ‘the threesome’ where they’ll succumb to Sam’s prediction by discovering what all travellers find: all roads lead to Thailand.

The gang.

Tom Basden, the writer and creator of Gap Year, has done a sterling job at marrying humour and pathos. Critics got their claws out early, complaining that the show lacked laughs and depth. Like Fresh Meat, which Basden wrote for, the drama just needed time to bed in. Take that opening exchange for example, Basden was plotting Dylan and Sean's fall-out from the start; viewers just need to let the writers peel away the pretensions of the characters, trusting the juicy bits will come.

I’ve really enjoyed Gap Year; I think it brilliantly captures the strain it puts on old friendships, along with the excitement gained in making new ones. I remember when I went on a TopDeck tour after finishing my teacher training degree. Despite being averse to anything that takes me away from the BBC, I felt that I had to travel in order to qualify for adulthood. Initially on the trip, I was disappointed to find that I’d been allocated a coterie of dunderheads: many of the Aussie lads on board seemed to confuse the coach for Attenborough’s The Hunt, a battleground, where all males were threats to their female quarry. To remove me from the mating game, I was ‘accused’ of being gay- grounds? quietness and literacy. Fortunately, I would find other people that I got on with, which made the experience worthwhile.

I went on one of these holidays. Imagine the banter of being on a coach with the guy from the front. Imagine...

This illustration proposes that travelling is rarely about places, but people. In one telling moment in Gap Year Dylan looks at The Great Wall of China and asks, “How long am I supposed to look at it for?” Shrines, sites and wonders are brilliant, but that's never a question we would direct at our friends. I could make eye contact with the beauties forever and a day. Ultimately, Gap Year is an honest reflection on travelling: buildings are great, but people are better.   

The Gap Year box-set is available on Channel 4's On Demand service.