I have posted this before some time ago but here goes.
Torremolinos 1982 with my mum, my then 6 year old son, aunty Gladys and very dear family friend and widower Derek. We arrived to a building site, although our hotel was thankfully complete. The first thing we noticed when disembarking the coach was something that looked like a dead body covered in a blanket on the scrubland in front of the hotel. We were right, it was a dead body. It was a waiter who had apparently been shot and had been there for 2 days.
On the second day Derek went out to buy some ciggies and was mugged, sustaining 2 black eyes and endless curiousity for the rest of the holiday.
The food in the hotel consisted of the same dish every day which was effectively a grey stew with undeterminable bits in it. It smelt as bad as it looked and my mother christened it "donkey stew". The staff served this concoction from a great big soup tureen on a table in the middle of the restaurant, with bowls ready to receive it stacked high on either side. On the fourth evening my mother decided to complain. She raised herself, all dignified like, from her chair and said "watch this Gladys". She marched across the floor but her foot caught a patch of grease and she proceeded to sail across the dining room with arms outstretched and mouth wide open, wherepon she landed head first in the donkey stew. The stacked plates leapt in the air and crashed all over the floor with an ear shattering sound.
On the final night we were treated to a fire eater. I should say that the "entertainment" had been so bad it was actually good, especially after several bottles of Cava. The fire eater was roughly 80 years old and clearly drunk as he alarmingly staggered around with various things on fire. He managed to set fire to the curtains behind him and we were all evacuated from the hotel, which pretty much burnt down.