The plane bit is equally shit, and whilst you cut out the mind-numbing transfer, you instead have the joy of hiring a car.  Oh dear.

Firstly, why does it take at least 45 minutes to sort out your hire car at the airport?  It should go like this:

“Hello, my name is John Smith.  I have hired a VW Touran for a week.”

“Hello John, please can I see your driving licence and your booking reference.”

“Yes. Here you go.”

“Thank you, here are you keys. Please return the car before 10am next Saturday.  Have a nice holiday.”

It takes for EVER…during which time your kids have once again decided to disappear with drug-dealing Nazi sympathiser child-labour agents and eaten something poisonous off the floor.

Instead, it seems as if the guy behind the counter is programming (from scratch) in COBOL a computer programme that allows him to view and issue the booking, waiting until the factory has hand-built the car to order, and then whittling out of plastic with his bare hands a set of keys which he then hands to you (having tried to sell you all sorts of pointless upgrades / additional insurance in the meantime).  It takes for EVER…during which time your kids have once again decided to disappear with drug-dealing Nazi sympathiser child-labour agents and eaten something poisonous off the floor.

They will then tell you that there are no child seats available, and the kids will have to hold onto the roof rack / go in the roof box.  Your wife will cry.  Your kids will cheer.

Once you have the car, you then face the challenge of getting to the resort, dealing with 780 hairpin bends, crazy Johnny-foreigner drivers who will undertake you on a blind corner without a moment’s thought, snow and ice on the roads, more puking from car-sick kids and a near-hysterical spouse who can’t read a map for shit.

Assuming you make it to the resort without killing your family, you then spend all week shitting yourself that you are going to ding the hire car and end up paying 5000 Euros and regretting that you didn’t take out that extra insurance, or that you are going to put the wrong petrol in or that you are going to die because you weren’t sure whether you asked for winter tyres of not.

Too much stress.  Not fun.  Bad idea.