Kirsty Bosley: My home-away-from-home on a sunshine escape break

In short, I have travelled 2,000 miles to do stuff that I could probably just do at home (if I had air con). That's just how I roll when I'm on a seaside holiday. I get hot and bothered and read books, it's a British way.

But as cranky and red as I might be, there are much more troublesome Brits abroad. And I'll tell you about a pair of them.

When I was younger, I went on my first ever holiday. It was a last minute special, two weeks all-inclusive to the Dominican Republic, three-star, £550. I feel I've got to tell you that, because it's what us Brits do when we nail a bargain – tell everyone about it. I also wore a lovely kaftan that I picked up for £10 from M&S, reduced from £30, but I digress.

There I was, a West Brom bab on holiday. On the first day, I coated my paper white, untattooed skin in factor 50 and went off to sunbathe. All day, with no reapplication. Later that evening, when I slapped after-sun on my crispy, cracked and bleeding shoulders, I realised the sun in the Dom Rep was not like the sun in the Black Country. Because of this I stayed under a massive brolly for the rest of the holiday. You live and learn.

"I hope you don't mind me asking," I said, set to ask anyway, "but are you from the Midlands?"

The men nodded. "West Brom," they told me. I couldn't believe my ears. How could it be that I'd travelled 4,200 miles and still found myself drinking next to two blokes from home? We'd booked the holiday on the internet, not at the local travel agent, which might have made sense, so it was a total fluke.

"And me!" I told them, enthused. "Oh ar!" the one man replied, "do you ever drink in the Billiard Hall?"

After a brief chat with my new pals Ron and Bill about the place we'd all just paid hundreds of pounds to escape for two weeks, I went back to my brolly business, and they carried on necking the inclusive, Caribbean rum in lieu of the creamy John Smith's they'd rather be supping.

The next day, I saw the men again, and we chatted some more. The pair were away on holiday alone, I learnt, and were enjoying being drunk in the sun. Very drunk, all of the time. Together, they loudly 'made friends' with other holidaymakers, from the quiet German couple on the loungers opposite to the Welsh family of four. Everyone smiled and nodded, but it became clear that our Bill and our Ron were, for want of a better term, trouble.

When I went down for breakfast the following day, Bill and Ron were nowhere to be seen. They didn't show up at the pool for mid-morning aerobics, couldn't be found for lunch and we didn't see them for dinner either. I felt a bit sad about it – they were a slice of home-away-from-home.

The next morning, I asked the friendly German couple whether the men had already left – I was sure they had arrived just a few days ago, the same as us. They looked shiftily to one another, thinking of the right words to say. I'd have thought it was because English was their second language, but that clearly wasn't the case.

"I know that they were at the hospital," the man said. "They went the night before last."

I felt a pang of concern. The West Brom blokes were loud, lairy and drunk, but they were friendly enough. "What happened?" I asked. "I'm not sure. . ." said the woman, uncomfortably. They knew more than they were letting on. Later that afternoon, I was lying on a lounger with my nose in a book when I heard a familiar laugh.

"Doddery old mon, ay 'e?" Bill said, his Black Country tones floating in on the air. I felt chuffed to see the retirees back. Ron stood there, leaning on a crutch, his leg in plaster. Once they'd settled under a brolly of their own, I wandered over to say hello.

"I thought you'd gone home!" I said. The pair cracked up. "Neeeeehw!" Ron said, shaking his head, "We've paid a fortune for this 'olidee!" He lifted his plastic cup of piña colada up. "No ice fer me, bab. It plays havoc with yer bowels you know, the werter in these foreign countries!"

It seemed that Ron's spirit hadn't dulled with the addition of a leg cast. I got him another piña colada and asked what had happened.

"He was playing silly beggars, wor 'e?" Bill said. Sounded about right. "He dived into that pool with all his clothes on!" he continued, pointing at the baby and toddler area. It was a deceptively deep looking blue tiled pool, with so little water in that it'd barely reach my ankle if I stood in it. Ron, fuelled by rum, had taken a running jump into it, hoping for a cannon ball and coming out with a broken ankle.

I didn't know what to say. I looked at him and shook my head. As I watched the sun gleaming off his cast, I thought about the Billiard Hall in West Bromwich, and then about how glad I was that they demolished the neighbouring Gala Baths in 2010.