I always feel a bit of an expectation to pack my camera when I go on holidays. This is despite me having no desire to ever take a photo in any situation I’ve ever been in. I’m 12 days into this trip and (despite packing my camera) I’m yet to take a single photo with it. I know this is at odds with the majority of the entire fucking universe these days, as vapid twats continue seem to now take extraordinary amounts of photos of every single place they’ve been in to give their Instagram followers the impression that their lives are actually exciting (they aren’t).

I’m pretty happy to go and check a place out without taking 950 photos of it. Sure, if I see something truly remarkable (like a cow giving birth to a 40 year old man) I might pull the camera out for posterity, but aside from that, I’m happy to let other people waste their time taking hundreds of photos they will put on a hard drive or flash disk somewhere and then never, EVER look at EVER again.

(Aside from when they come back to work and insist on making their colleagues sit through the most excruciating 45 minute recap of their trip imaginable).

“…and here’s me and Tamika eating an ice cream near the Parthenon.”

(The photo is of a bogan eating ice cream. There’s no ancient relic in the background, just a trollop in a 2 sizes too small bra pushing some sunburnt tits above eye level. She thinks she looks good. She doesn’t).

/end (holiday) communication