For anyone wondering whether to do an EDT (an Express Drunk Trip) to Benidorm for New Year’s, then let me tell you now: definitely do.

It is unhinged, illogical, physically exhausting, emotionally questionable… and one of the best things you will ever do.

Picture it….

Me at a youthful thirty-seven, practically a toddler in life terms, thank you very much.

Two genuinely middle-aged Yorkshire women who carry ibuprofen like it’s a personality trait.

And Peely. A man who once drank twenty pints of Guinness in one sitting and still managed to tie his shoelaces afterwards. He’s built like a brewery and powered by sheer will.

We decided that the most sensible way to celebrate New Year’s Eve was to fly to Benidorm for five hours.

Not a weekend.

Not a holiday.

Five hours.

We essentially did a Tesco Express version of international travel.

The Arrival

We landed in Benidorm and immediately spotted a queue outside a bar that looked like the queue for Glastonbury tickets. Absolutely not.

As classy northerners with standards and a complete lack of patience, we rolled our eyes and declared:

“Can’t be arsed with all that. Get some tinnies from the off-licence.”

And off we strutted like ABBA from Bradford, if ABBA swapped sequins for trainers and performed exclusively in pub beer gardens. The Spanish locals had cocktails with sparklers. We had cans of lukewarm lager and the kind of confidence you can’t teach.

Midnight on the Beach

We hit the beach just in time for midnight. Fireworks erupted from every direction like the entire Costa Blanca had collectively said “Sod health and safety.” One shot past my face so close it practically threaded my eyebrows.

The two middle-aged Yorkshire women were shrieking with every bang.

Peely? Didn't blink. The man treats explosions like background noise.

We shouted “HAPPY NEW YEAR LOVE!” at strangers like we were trying to win a competition. We danced, we laughed, we absolutely embarrassed ourselves and everyone around us.

And then, someone checked the time.

The Race Back

We had two and a-half hours until we needed to head back to the airport for our six a.m. flight.

Not two and a-half hours to sober up. Not two and a-half hours to have a sit down. Two and a-half hours to locate an airport while powered entirely by tinnies and delusion.

Most people stay in Benidorm long enough to at least get sunburnt. We barely stayed long enough to blink.

I bought a fridge magnet like a cultured human being. Flange, however, decided her souvenir would be a three-in-the-morning kebab roughly the size of a toddler.

And instead of eating it, she looked at it with absolute loyalty and said,

“This is coming home with me.”

The Trans-European Kebab

So she smuggled that kebab through Benidorm. Through airport security. Through passport control. Onto a six a.m. flight.

People were getting stopped for having slightly enthusiastic moisturiser, while Flange breezed through with a kebab that had seen more of Europe than most influencers.

New Year’s Day arrives. She unwraps it like it’s a Michelin-star tasting menu and proudly announces:

“Travelling’s improved it.”

I still have emotional scarring from that sentence.

Meanwhile Peely opened a Guinness at breakfast, fresh as a daisy, ready for round two. A man who fears nothing and digests everything.

It was ridiculous.

It was chaotic.

It was one of the best decisions we’ve ever made.

Ten out of ten.

Would absolutely do it again.