Benidorm
Why a Holiday in Benidorm Is Basically Just a Pub Crawl with Sunburn
Benidorm. The place where British dignity goes to die and somehow ends up doing the Macarena at 3pm with a jug of sangria in one hand and a tattoo of a bulldog on the other.
If you’ve ever said “I don’t care about culture I just want some sun and cheap pints,” congratulations – your soul has already booked a one-way ticket.
Let’s break it down.
The Flight Alone Is a Warning
You haven’t even landed yet and someone’s already cracked open a tin of Strongbow on the plane and called the air stewardess “babes.” There’s a stag party in full Arsenal kit chanting “We’re All Going On A European Tour” and you know deep down… you’re not.
The pilot knows what’s coming. He doesn’t say “Welcome to Alicante.” He says “Good luck.”
The Accommodation Is Just a Wetherspoons with Balconies
All the hotels have names like Hotel Sol Palms Fiesta Paradise Deluxe 2 and somehow every one of them smells like cheap detergent and Skol.
Your room view? A bin. Your towels? One of them is actually walking. Your air conditioning? A ceiling fan that wobbles aggressively like it's about to report you to health and safety.
But it’s fine. You didn’t come for comfort. You came to consume spam, sangria and self-destruction.
Everyone There Is British. And That’s the Problem
Benidorm is just Blackpool with more vitamin D and fewer laws.
You’ll see Big Dave from Barnsley arguing with a bouncer in Union Jack shorts while his girlfriend, Chantelle, screams “He’s had ONE DRINK” even though Dave is currently trying to fight a mobility scooter.
You can walk the entire strip without hearing a single word of Spanish. Just slurred English, the screech of flip-flops, and the occasional emotional karaoke rendition of "Someone Like You."
The Food Is Just Like Home. Sadly.
Why try paella when there’s a café serving full English breakfast with HP sauce and a pint of Stella for €3?
Every menu proudly displays fish and chips, Sunday roast, gammon and pineapple and absolutely zero shame. There's a restaurant called The Brexit Café and people queue for it like it’s fine dining.
Meanwhile, someone’s grandad is shouting “DO YOU DO BEANS” at a poor local waiter who speaks five languages and has completely given up inside.
The Nightlife Is Like a Crime Scene That Forgot to Be Cleaned
Every bar is themed. There’s an Elvis bar, a Beatles bar, a bar that looks like a pirate ship and a place called Sticky Vicky’s Revenge which you're legally not allowed to Google.
You’ll see karaoke. You’ll see topless darts. You’ll see a woman called Linda doing tequila shots off a stranger’s knee while “Sweet Caroline” blasts through a speaker older than your nan.
The next morning you’ll hear stories like
“Remember when Karl did a shit in the bidet?”
and the answer will always be
“Yes, and I bet the hotel maid remembers it too”
But… You’ll Secretly Love It
You’ll mock it. You’ll say “Never again.” You’ll swear you’re doing a real holiday next year with museums and culture and linen trousers.
But deep down, a little part of you lives for the chaos. For the hangover breakfasts. For the €1 pints. For the moment at 1am when everyone in the bar links arms and belts out Wonderwall like it’s the national anthem.
Benidorm is not classy. It’s not cool. But it is a full send. And sometimes that’s all you need.