Don’t go to Goa

Though I’m entirely basing my opinion on 3 night spent in trashy touristy Candolim…

… I hated I every second that I spent in Goa.

The following is a lesson that being impulsive is not always a good option.

Having done not much research into Goa, aside from that we thought we’d head North, we split a cab from the train station with an Aussie guy heading in the same direction.

He had an apartment booked with a spare bedroom which he offered to us at a reasonable price.

It turned out we’d moved in with the Southern Hemisphere’s biggest bullshitter.

According to him, he was Alan Sugar, Howard Marks, Carl Cox, Bruce Lee and the Dalai Lama, all rolled into one.

According to me, he was a conceited prick.

He took class A drugs in a family restaurant, propositioned married woman and generally offended my senses every time he opened his probably-botoxed mouth.

Candolim is an awful place. Its Blackpool meets Benidorm. If Croydon is the arsehole of England, then Candolim is the sunburnt beer belly of India. 500km south of Mumbai and hoards of retired, mostly-fat, mostly-British tourists rent sun-loungers and eat roast dinners and hot pots and Heinz baked beans.

I am sure more people there would recognize Noel Edmonds than Gandhi.

Even the ATMs spoke with a Yorkshire accent. ‘Insert t’card and enter t’pin number.’

When in Rome, perhaps Matt?

No. I just couldn’t get into the swing of things and I never felt comfortable there. I had to guiltily avoid eye contact with a freely-roaming road cow after eating steak and chips.

Other miserable things of note are that I fell off a scooter. And, after taking an ill-advised lift home with an inebriated woman, had a minor car crash. No wounds that didn’t heal within a couple of days, but signs telling me that I should get the hell out of Goa.