What was the wildest sixth form holiday destination?

There was a simpler time: a time when alcohol was still relatively new, when you could still tank 15 shots of vodka without getting hungover – a time when the worries of the real world seemed like a lifetime away.

The sixth form holiday was the glimmering peak of this, a final moment in which you could act like a giant drunken baby before your degree and your real adult life began.

But which was the loosest, the maddest, the one with the least rules to follow and the most bad decisions? Decide below.

Ayia Napa

Ayia! Ayia! Ayia Fuckin’ Napa!

You’re downstairs in Castle club. You’ve braved the fucking scary female bouncer and the weird courtyard full of what you believe to be Russian mafiosos. You’re there because your mate read somewhere that it was once voted the best club in the world. You’re eight house vodkas and flat cokes in and you’re absolutely steaming. The deal Alice negotiated at the Bell Inn somehow included a whole bottle of sambuca, tickets to Carwash and three vodka mixers each. Gangs of angry Slavic men roam the strip, smashing necks and cashing cheques.

Then the night takes a turn: you end up at either Club Aqua, the one with the rancid pool in a fake cave at the back, or trek 15 minutes away to River Reggae, an X-rated Centre Parcs wild rapids ride, where beauty therapists from MIlton Keynes are fingered by labourers from Stevenage.

Ayia Napa has a reputation for being even madder than your standard clubbing holiday. It’s the year 13 to your your year 12 Zante: the biceps are bigger, the bar crawls filthier and you can inexplicably buy a three litre bottle of Smirnoff with a hand pump alongside “I’m in Napa Bitch” T-shirts.

We saw a guy walking up and down the strip shouting “which of you sluts wants to buy me cheesy chips?” wearing nothing but a pair of orange Superdry boxers. He got the chips AND he pulled. That’s Napa in a nutshell.

Magaluf

Geordie Shore once filmed an entire season in Magaluf. That’s so telling that it deserves repetition: Geordie Shore once filmed an entire season in Magaluf

And it’s bad. It really is that bad. But you and the boys didn’t know that. You didn’t know what it would be like to watch the pyroclastic flow of roided up squaddies from Macclesfield and Kellys from Scunthorpe glassing each other on the strip, falling out of Tokyo Joe’s and Carwash, all purple and orange under the bleeding neon lights. Shagaluf they call it, and when you’re in sixth form the idea of having sex with a Real Life Woman is desperately appealing. But how desperate?

15 free plastic glasses of Sex on the Beach down inside BCM, where the walls are sweating and Calvin Harris is playing a set that exists largely to soundtrack a dancefloor foam orgy that will put you off physical contact with other human beings for life, you begin to realise that you’re not that desperate. Not for this. Not here. Not ever again.

Malia

In terms of the absolute base-level of tragic sixth form holiday carnage, surely the place where the Inbetweeners Movie was set has to win?

Whether you were staying at the top of the strip with the moustachio-ed hotel manager who would ping your bra straps by the poolside, or down at the bottom where they’d fill hollowed-out watermelons with knock-off vodka and call it a “fishbowl”, Malia was the epitome of (a lack of) class.

And the strip was no less raucous – through the crowds of pink cargo shorts, Primark tank tops and weird penalty shoot-out machines, the neon-fronted nightclubs glowed like sambuca-soaked visions of heaven.

Candy was the sort of club you imagined grown-ups went to when you were a kid, filled with UV paint and smoke machines and terrible drunken decisions, while the rest of the strip was like a kind of glorious discount Las Vegas:the vague Irishness of Corkers, the looming plastic castle of Camelot, the party animal wildness of Safari and the space-age luminosity of Apollo. Even the names were so Malia: 69 Club? GoGo Lapdancing? Don’t mind if I do.

Malia was simple – it didn’t have the mock-classiness of Ibiza, or the booze cruise one-upmanship of Magaluf. Malia was one strip, one week, and one hell of a good fucking time.

Zante

From the moment you hit Zante you felt the Greek air change your blood for good. The Greeks are the loosest bastards, after all, and it’ll be far more than plates you’re smashing in Zakynthos.

After you’d settled down in your basic two-star and made friends with your new neighbours, it was time to hit the strip – via all-you-can-drink for 10 euros at 4play, of course. Harassed by promoters, you always fell for the bog-standard two shots and a Headfucker for five euros, and after a cheeky nos boost you’d find your way to the strip.

Soon enough you’d be getting dentist chaired in Wild Coyote, stumbling out to Linekers for another headfucker, and falling off the podium in Rescue because you thought it was “the biggest club in Europe” – or something. You’ll maybe end up in Aussies just in time to hear “Angels” or maybe you’ll stop by Cherry Bay, the only club that charges entry for no real reason.

Because the beaches are actually quite nice, you can get away with telling your mum you’re going on a girly holiday to get some relaxing time too. You can send her pictures of you looking cute by the pool, before you head out on a topless booze cruise with the boys from next door.

Kos

Kos was the perfect destination for middle-class first time holiday-goers with nervous parents. Kardamena (pity the fool who ended up in Kos Town instead) is a smaller area than Malia and Kavos etc and with a smaller strip – but boy, do said middle-class first-time holiday goers know how to get loose.

You made your way down the strip drinking those legendary deals: two cocktails and five shots for five euros. After the music turned off in the bars at midnight, everyone made a beeline for one of the two clubs: Starlight or Status – but you were always too fucked to get bored of them, and it was so small that you ended up seeing (and getting with) the same people again and again.

Of course, you didn’t miss the biggest part of your week there: the Starlight foam party. Some sordid business went on under all that foam.

The best part of all was that you could feel relatively good about yourself after all that having dinner at one of the cute restaurants by the seafront: having steak and chips with a free cocktail almost made you forget that you’d been sick by the hotel pool that morning after too many Mars bar shots. Almost.

Kavos

Having a Channel 4 show made about it named “What happens in Kavos stays in Kavos” explains it all really, doesn’t it?

Whether you were posing for a pic outside Rolling Stones with your squad all draped awkwardly over the wheel or slut dropping to Sean Paul on the pole in Mojo’s, Kavos had it all. Admittedly on the cheaper end of the sixth form holiday spectrum, what Kavos lacks in luxury it makes up for in cheapness.

The Headfuckers in Rolling Stones – six shots for five euros – and the colourful bucket drinks in Atlantis which knocked you out with every sip. You loved it so much you’ve probably still got your full moon party T-shirt hanging on your bedroom wall haven’t you?

Marbella

The main party street in Marbella, Puerto Banus, is a sweaty, slimy, hellish corridor of people slurping drinks out of small glasses and each other’s orifices. And when you’re 17, this is basically the most fun thing you could possibly imagine.

You were thrilled to discover that everything is cheap and no-one is wearing any clothes – you’d never felt this grown-up or alive, and you’re not entirely sure if you have since. You thought every promoter was flirting with you (no, hun) and you couldn’t get enough of the Irish bars – which is lucky, because for some reason they’re everywhere.

Before you discover that actually, objectification is really grim, it’s quite fun getting chatted up by every slimy 40-year old Spaniard who you trip over on the way to buy fags (which were so easy to buy).

Ibiza

You forked out a whole year’s salary from your part-time job to come here, or you got your parents to pay – either way it was worth it.

You’ll live like royalty at night, spending hundreds of euros on drinks in Space or Club Tropicana or Ushuaia, before you head back to your grimy villa in the morning to sleep until sunset. F*** Me I’m Famous? You might not be, but you certainly act like it.

Tenerife

Ostensibly a family resort, Playa de Las Americas was actually a hedonistic playground for the restless 18-year-old who couldn’t afford Ibiza and weren’t cool enough for Ayia Napa.

You were spoilt for choice on the strip – Mett Bar, Tramps, Harry’s all blending into one sticky, half-naked, second-base orgy, and once you’d had enough 50 cent shots it started to feel like you just might be in a world-renowned club like Amnesia or Pacha rather than the smoking area of the third biggest branch of Lineker’s.

In the day you could prove you were a truly mad bastard by taking on the 100ft vertical drop on the Tower of Power at Siam Park, which also had a tsunami wave machine. It was too sick.

You went interrailing instead

The lads holiday is basically a glorified hometown pub crawl with more sun and sex. It’s predictable, uncouth and nightmarishly basic. At least that’s what you told yourself when you and Sam set off for Amsterdam and planned to meander down through Berlin, Prague, Krakow, Budapest, Zagreb and Split.

It was going to be a more refined, cultured experience – a European On The Road defined by hedonism, drugs, clubbing and Scandinavian girls. This would be your awakening. But, of course, it wasn’t.

Instead, you smoked too much weed, lost your train pass, got turned away at Berghain, got mugged, ran out of money, got bored of each other and, on the nighttrain, hungover and sandwiched between a snoring Bosnian and Australian couple having sex, you began to wonder if sunbathing by a pool with a bunch of Brits watching the pre-season football was such a bad idea after all.

You didn’t go

For ages you joked about a holiday, planning which outfits you were going to wear by pointing at the slimmest celebrities in Heat magazine, but secretly you knew you were never going to “have enough money”. It was a long seven years, but you still couldn’t manage to find a group of people who were able to organise a week abroad.

Not that anyone would ever admit it, until it was suddenly summer and no-one had even looked up a flight cost: “We can always go next year when we all come back from uni!”

Yeah, right.

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