There are some who would love to spend an eternity by a pool in Spain dancing the ‘Cha Cha Slide’ until they pass out on a sun lounger. There are others who would prefer to spend the afterlife with bifid-tongued demons than wait in line for a subpar continental buffet.
I fall into the second camp. It’s not that I think all-inclusive holidays are without purpose, it’s just that I think all-inclusives have passed their sell-by date. I’m sure that Gérard Blitz’s initial idea for an all-inclusive came from a good place: his desire to entertain the masses. But these resorts are a far stretch from the original straw huts and bartering beads of Club Med’s 1950s design. Back then they weren’t just about getting loaded on bottom-shelf vodka and fighting with other Brits by the pool bar.
I just don’t think I can bring myself to spend a month’s salary on eating processed food
Over time these resorts have transmuted into gluttonous and greedy excursions. They’ve lost touch with the very notion of travel. The point of an all-inclusive is not about exploration, nor is it about cultural appreciation. We’ve taken the idea of unlimited consumption and run with it, leaving behind the enjoyment of another culture. We’ve decided to take a slice of Blighty and plonk it on the less temperate coastlines of our European neighbours – and beyond. Take a look at Spain. Good old Spain. All-inclusive hotels line the Spanish coast like a pesky rash. We, the Brits, are the infection.
I understand becoming giddy at the thought of a hotel where everything is included in the price. All-inclusives make holidaying easy. But the novelty wears thin. It’s a bit like eating a dozen meringues: it’s fun until you throw up. There’s also something disconcerting about getting on a plane with 50 other Brits, landing in a foreign country, and being shuttled to your hotel via coach to spend the following seven days with several hundred more Brits. Isn’t the point of travelling to leave your home behind?
But it’s not fair to disregard all all-inclusives. They have their moments. I have fond memories of floating in algae-green pools, of kayaking with children from other parts of the UK, of performing my Michael Jackson dance routine and winning the resort’s talent competition – the greatest honour of my life. And it’s also true that these trips give parents a break from their kids. It’s not easy entertaining a petulant seven year old when all they want to do is bite your arm and throw figurines at the hotel window. Companies like TUI and Mark Warner are experts in keeping children entertained, which in turn gives parents peace of mind. It might not be as culturally significant as visiting the remnants of the Berlin Wall, but it’s a great deal more efficient for a family break. Or at least it used to be.
A huge problem for modern all-inclusives is their price point. In most cases, they’re actually more expensive than booking a normal hotel and sourcing your own food and drink. An all-inclusive will set you back well over a grand during peak season, and that’s for the grungier hotels. You could fly to Madrid and rent an Airbnb for half the price, living off of baguettes and jamón ibérico, which would be healthier than the sludge they serve at all-inclusive resorts.
Maybe all-inclusives are a thing of the past, and maybe that’s where they should remain. When I watched Charlotte Wells’s brilliant and nostalgic film Aftersun, I was transported back to my last all-inclusive holiday. I remembered it vividly.
We were 30,000 ft above sea level hurtling towards Majorca, surrounded by polo necks stained with fake tan. The nauseating smell of Joop! and Lacoste permeated the cabin. We were Britain’s modern day marauders: the people who gave Brits abroad a bad name. Twisting over France, the oxygen masks fell down. ‘Don’t panic,’ squealed a flight attendant. I turned to my mother. ‘Am I going to die?’ I asked. ‘No, you’re not going to die,’ she said. The man sitting next to us removed his oxygen mask and took a swig of beer: ‘If I’m going to die,’ he said, ‘I want to die doing what I love.’
After an emergency landing in Paris, we were kettled back onto the plane. A few meeker – and more sensible – passengers considered our brush-in with death a bad omen and took the Eurostar home. Once safely in Majorca, we left our bags at reception and walked through the pastel-washed suburbs of mini-apartments that made up the hotel. The pool was the colour of Mountain Dew. A sad looking clown stood on a rickety stage and danced to Black Lace’s ‘Agadoo’ as children tore at his feet. The all-day buffet was placed within the pool’s splash zone. The sight of tinned sausages floating in a vat of dark oil was enough to beat the appetite out of us. My mother marched us to the front desk and demanded an upgrade, citing our near plane crash as reason for compensation. We were upgraded to a slightly nicer all-inclusive down the road. When the trip was over, we agreed never to go on an all-inclusive again.
And I think that was for the best. Though that trip – plane crash and decrepit hotel aside – wasn’t all bad in hindsight. They are, however, loud, obnoxious, and lazy holidays. But they’re also a relic of so many people’s childhoods. I just don’t think I can bring myself to spend a month’s salary on eating processed food and watching a foreign sun set behind an ominous hotel wall. I’m not saying that I agree with the Situationist slogan – ‘Club Med – a cheap holiday in other people’s misery’ – but I will say that all-inclusives needn’t remain a staple in the coming years of British tourism. It’s time to let them go.
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