Sorry, Hans, brassy Brits rule the beaches now

When package holidays began, all of a sudden we could

experience life at close quarters with people from other

nations. We thought the Germans were the most ridiculous

people on the beach.

As Monty Python pointed out years ago, they pinched

the sun beds and barged into the queues and frightened

the children. And if you weren’t at the buffet spot-on

seven, Fritz had wolfed all the sausages.

But with the advent of the Boeing  747 came the longhaul

holiday and we realised that the Germans were

country mice compared with the Americans. No shorts

were too large, no thong was too small.

What’s more, Hank does not like to sit on the beach

and read a book. He likes to shout and play volleyball.

When the Yanks are around, it’s like being on holiday in

a primary school playground.

For years the Americans were in a class of their own,

but then the Berlin Wall fell down and, as a result, from

the Indian Ocean through the Middle East and the Mediterranean

to the Caribbean, Boris and Katya were making

all the running.

In many ways the Russians are like the Americans.

They’re either far too fat or far too beautiful. There’s no

middle ground. And again, like Uncle Sam, no part of

the body is immune from man-made enhancement. The

Americans go for surf-white teeth; the Russians for alarming

special forces tattoos. And neither seems to see anything

wrong with breast enlargement. I saw one Russian

woman on the beach in Barbados the other day who had

the body of a walnut and a chest that put Antigua in the

shade.

However, where the Russians move into an easy lead

is beach attire. For the men it’s the traditional Speedo,

while the women seem to get their fashion pointers from

internet porn sites. I haven’t yet seen anyone strutting

down the beach in stockings and suspenders but it’s only

a matter of time.

Today, though, a new contender has come along and

blown the old favourites into the seaweed. The title of

Most Stupid People on the Beach has gone in  2004 . . .

to Britain.

We were designed to make Spitfires and Beagles. We’re

supposed to be in a shed, in gloves, inventing stuff. We

therefore do not look good on a beach. We’re piggy

white and if you expose us to the sun, we turn into

Battenburg cake.

We’re designed for bracing walks along the front in

Scarborough and wet camping holidays in Scotland. But

our newly discovered wealth means we can now go to

the tropics. Because it’s new money, we really have no

idea what to do with it.