Getting blotto in Magaluf or elsewhere is the Holy Fail

A temporary measure, we trust. Meanwhile, the allure of Magaluf as a fun venue for young persons seems eternal.

Earlier this week, another Scot sparked a vigorous online discussion after being filmed vowing to ignore new rules cracking down on drunkenness in the heat-bedevilled Spanish resort.

Hannah MacDonald, 19, from Perth, said: "[We're] here to get f****** mortal and just love life, we're not here to worry about drinking on the street, I do enough of that in Scotland."

I'm outraged. Do they not teach grammar in schools nowadays? As for the sentiments, I have some sympathy, while remaining troubled about the passage that speaks of loving life.

But, first, let me clarify something briskly: I will never visit Magaluf. Not in these good trousers. Pictures of the resort on yonder internet show what appears to consist of a beach with Wester Hailes attached to it. An area called The Strip features manifold bars where it's a rare patron who brings a book of Victorian poetry.

Despite Jenna's polite reference to "Maga", my researchers tell me the M at the start of Magaluf is often replaced with Sh. Intrigued, I asked if the resort was also renowned for its cormorants. No one could say.

I become more innocent as I get older. When I was young, before my brain hardened into its current impenetrable crust, I sent off for information about a young person's travel club that I thought might broaden my mind.

Alas, soon, stories started to appear in the popular prints about what went on during the club's jaunts - I'll spare you the details, hinting only at stimulants and carnality - and the quarterly magazine that arrived for me through the post became an object of suspicion and embarrassment in our family's Amish household. Not Amish. Atheist. Knew it began with an A.

I never went on a trip. As for drink, our generation's introduction to it was carried out in grim local pubs where old men in nine layers of clothing silently dripped snot into flat half pints. To be among other young persons merrily roistering must seem like an improvement.

It's a measure of how far our society has progressed. That's why I'm against it. Sixty-odd years ago, persons that age - at least the males - would have been pressed into national service. Two weeks in Magaluf or two years of national service?

I advocate the latter. Discipline and order: these are the qualities I believe should be instilled into others. You say: "Well, at least in Magaluf they don't teach you to kill people." True, but neither in Magaluf do they show you how to march in straight lines and keep your footwear shiny.

In Magaluf, they teach you how to neck shots of Jagermeister. I've imbibed this fiendish German drink just once and, as I pointed out in the subsequent court case, recall nothing of the experience beyond copiously vomiting on what at first I took to be a pot plant but turned out to be a hat. With an elderly person in it. So much for a bit of Dutch courage before giving the Greater Leith Pensioners' League annual lecture.

I jest. But, seriously, it's getting blotto that's the real problem. Take it from me, young persons. It's not the Holy Grail. It's the Holy Fail. As for carnality, that can easily end in marriage. It's supermarket lager for you after that, my lad. Maximum of two cans. Once a week.

As educated readers know, the pop band Toy Dolls, best known for their punk-rock version of Nellie the Elephant, also penned a tune called I've Had Enough o' Magaluf. The sentiment remains sound.

Yesterday, a knowing Herald reader online asked plaintively: "Why can't young people go to Largs or Millport for their holidays?" That is a good point, well put. Though Largs has stringent by-laws, I understand you can still have sex in Millport. They've got forms for it at the post office.

In the meantime, considering those who just wanted a laugh in Magaluf, we hope Jenna gets well soon and that Hannah keeps on rockin' (in moderation).