Authentic Spanish villages, lively sea fronts and undiscovered gems: It's the new travel lexicon

Tongue firmly in cheek, Pat Fitzpatrick presents his travel glossary. Read on for what those shiny brochures are really trying to tell you...

All Inclusive: You have a gin and tonic for breakfast, just because you can. It goes really well for a while, and then you wake up face-down in a paella.

Short stroll to the seafront: As long as you are Rob Heffernan.

Lively Sea Front: Your life assurance policy is invalid after 10 pm.

Travel Agent: Someone who hopes you haven’t heard of the internet.

No Frills Airline: “I’m sorry madam, if you really wanted to sit next to your two-year-old son, you should have booked seats together. But look, I’m sure he’ll be fine in among that rugby club stag party. I always say, you’re never too young to start drinking lukewarm Heineken on a plane with a bunch of strangers. Oh look, he’s even started flashing the group of nuns in row eight. Anyway, would you like to buy a scratch-card?”

Untouched by western civilisation: What’s that smell? (It’s you, by the way.)

Ancient Pilgrim’s Route: A place where men in their mid-40s go because their friend went on one last year, and he said it attracts a lot of hot Swedish women.

Short Transfer at Heathrow: Ha Ha. Gotcha.

Car hire from €4 a day: A member of the local mafia will ‘mind’ your kids at the airport until you agree to take their excess insurance cover. An employee name-badged Hitmanio will check the car for scratches on return and confirm you owe him seven grand. You will say, are you threatening to take my kids again. He will say yes. You will say great, I’ve been with them for non-stop for a fortnight and I’m losing the will to live.

Authentic Spanish Village: Almost completely empty because everyone under 40 moved to Ireland to find a job. The only English speakers are Gordon and his wife Bess, from Birmingham. They have talked to no one but each other in the past 12 months, and you can see it’s putting a real strain on their relationship.

Kids Club, 11am to 2pm daily: Or as Mom and Dad call it, sexy time. (For the first few days anyway, you don’t want people think you’re addicted to it.)

I just booked three weeks in Florida: We’re pulling in six figures between the two of us; I feel sorry for people who can only afford Portugal.

#TakesMyBreathAway: I’m on Sherkin Island, I’m new to Instagram and you’d swear I never saw a rocky cover before. Please don’t mute my posts, there will be another one along in three minutes. #Wow.

Flash Sale: Because who wouldn’t want to fly to Doncaster for €9.99? (Anyone who has ever been to Doncaster before, as it turns out.)

Undiscovered gem: There won’t be a pub called The Pissed Paddy full of people in Kildare jerseys.

Perennial favourite: There will be a pub called The Pissed Paddy, full of people in Kildare jerseys. And yes, they are showing the match.

Unspoiled coastline: You’ll have to ‘go’ behind a rock and someone will capture the moment on YouTube.

Local Market Every Tuesday: Other countries sell tat as well.

Local Cuisine: “This menu is all seafood, Gerry. When is someone going to tell them that Irish people hate fish? We’ll go and get Shepherd’s Pie over at The Pissed Paddy. I bet you anything they’re showing the match.”

Local Charm: A good-looking waiter says ‘dia duit’ as you walk past his seafront restaurant in Crete. You go red (he’s ridiculous looking to be honest) and stop to look at the menu. Then you think, hang on a minute, I’ve got a great tan, great figure, people often say I could be Dutch — how did he know I’m Irish? (Your Penneys shorts. And sorry, but we don’t get the same tan as Dutch people. Nobody does.)

Stunning Art Galleries: More like stunning air conditioning. The definition of an Irish intellectual is someone who visits an art gallery in Spain when it isn’t roasting outside.

Villa: A house up the mountain with its own pool, and no one around to spoil the stunning views. It’s also the subject of a horror movie called The Villa, whose trailer starts, “Dave and Caitriona thought it would nice to have the kids to themselves for three weeks. Then they went to THE VILLA.” Cue small girl saying “Mommy, will you play with me?” Be very afraid.

Mini-Disco: Where Dad tries to take a video of little Sophie dancing to Despacito, without including the hot German mom who looks like Claire Danes. She’s been in his last three videos ‘by accident’ and even he’s starting to find it a bit creepy.

House Swap: You’ve found a couple with a seafront apartment in Barcelona who are happy to swap for your semi-d in Mallow. (Nice one. Maybe they’ve never heard of Google Street View. Say nothing.) You can’t figure out where to hide your Rampant Rabbit around the house so you bring it on the plane in your hand luggage. The lady at security decides to take a look through your bag, in front of your kids. Seven minutes later (seven!), you’re the talk of Mallow. (Thanks for nothing, Facebook Live.)

Journey Time to the Airport: There are two types of people when it comes to getting to the airport. The first likes to get there two hours before the flight closes; the second is divorced. That’s what happens when you can’t bring the kids to the toilet before getting on the plane, because the flight is closing. Let’s just say the definition of ‘terror’ is when you are inside an aeroplane toilet watching your two-year-old have a whizz, and the pilot announces you are about to experience some turbulence. Seriously, it’s going to look like you wet yourself, and now you have to walk all the way back to row 22. This means divorce.

Happy Hour: Can anyone remember what room we’re in? Or hotel, for that matter. And who are are you?