What always astounds me, is where the hell these people go after you land. I think I've told the story before, but went with a mate last year who isn't massively into dance music. Likes it, but wouldn't have gone to Ibiza if it wasn't for the fact I'd been and he knew I was telling the truth about the place.
On the plane out, the usual dicks making noise and being rowdy, and I assured him that this would be a one off. Sure enough, he was astonished the rest of the week that we barely saw any English people the whole time. I assume these people are the sorts who max out their credit cards in Ocean Beach on the first day, then spend the rest of the time in their hotel room.
I did find it funny one year where some right lad was giving it the all most of the way across France. Nothing nasty, just thought he was brilliant. You know the sort - steroid user (nothing against that BTW, I'm just describing him), tattoos, vest top, snapback. Then we hit that horrible clear-air turbulence that comes off the Pyrenees. He suddenly turned into a small child and was hunched up in his seat with his head in his hands, basically crying with fear. His mates, along with most people around him, were laughing their arses off at him.