What Happens In Kavos - TV review

"You wouldn't want your parents to know what we get up to," a gurning, bleached blonde man-boy told the camera, as though, like, you'know, the cameraman wouldn't send his hard drive to the producers and, like, you'know, like, nobody back home would ever see it.

That's what drinking 15 shots before talking to a TV reporter does to your brain. Durr.

The immortal, beautiful invincible young people who visit Kavos hoping for the time of their lives were revealed in all of their tawdry, vulnerability. Broken-ankled men with jeans halfway around their ankles and builders' bum protruding from their boxers tried to stagger on crutches back to the bar.

Laughing-gas-ingesting, painkiller-taking drunks with stitches in head wounds went back to 'the strip' to, er, how to put this: swill down condoms with a lager chaser. Classy. Oh well, what happens in Kavos.... and, of course, their parents will never know.

Kavos made Prince Harry seem like a vestal virgin. Strip poker in Vegas, ha, Harry is a lightweight not fit to sup an eggnog. At least he did his naked shimmy thingie in the comfort of a hotel room: the folk staying in Kavos were not so bashful.

The poor Greeks. Each morning, moustached Greek men, heavy-bottomed septuagenarians women and unlucky dogs found themselves awash in a sea of vomit, broken bottles, blood and worse. Ah well, it doesn't matter. What happens in Kavos, eh?

McDonalds workers, builders, students and those who should know better sought sun, sea, sex and one Euro cocktails – and ended up with broken backs.

It was a theatre of the absurd: Ross, a man who probably wasn't at the front of the queue when his school was handing out A levels, wanted to prove himself a 'top lad' – so took the cast off his broken ankle to improve his chances with the ladies. "I haven't got a medical degree," he later reasoned. "The doctor is smarter than me." No, get away.

Kavos was a smart programme. It resisted the temptation to resort to freak show TV, instead, it told a plain and simple story about an island that cashed in on the vanity, braggadocio and ego of stupid, stupid Brits. The difference between the doctors and their patients was alarming.

Calm, patient medics patched up the foolish and bewildered – and spoke about the importance of their work. They deserved medals. And a good night's sleep. And a holiday in the Maldives, or somewhere similarly quiet, where the worst excesses of binge drinking are but a distant memory.

Many of the kids enjoying their first holiday without parents, in an environment awash with cheap booze, ended up on desolation row. "First lads' holiday and I'm gonna lose my finger," said Chris, who'd punched his way through a glass door after falling out with his buddies. And his job, back in Blighty? A bricklayer, naturally. A man who needs his fingers.

Kavos made for depressing viewing. Broken dreams and shattered promises; twentysomethings unable to hold their booze, fat men in tutus, mentalist drinking-sleeping-around wannabes – all were revealed in their vainglorious imbecility. But then that doesn't matter, right. 'Cause what 'appens in Kavos, stays in Kavos.

Innit.

Andy Richardson