Playa del Carmen, Mexico

The sun is streaming through the windows when we awake bright and early, so our morning run down 5th Avenue is a hotter affair than yesterday. We've decided to spend the first few days chilling on the beach before our schedule of adventures kicks in - Coman's determined we should both relax - so after breakfast we slather on copious quantities of sun-block and pack our hotel beach bag with ipods, books, magazines and plenty more sun cream.

However, while we're prepared for the UV rays, we're still blissfully unaware of just how stressful beach holidays can be due to other guests. Any notion of total serenity is kicked laughably into touch once we get to the sand.

Our booking is meant to ensure us a private space on the beach, with daybeds and waiter service, away from the more hectic holidaymakers staying in 'regular' rooms. So we trot down to the chi-chi area, where black 'Palace Diamond Elite' flags are flying and settle in on the super-comfy beds, gazing out at the fabulous azure and turquoise sea before us. Aaah, this is very 'us'.

Sadly the beach nazi on patrol soon wanders over and tells us we don't have the correct wristbands. Despite our protestations that we are Concierge Level, don't'cha'know, and are upgrading futher to the Honeymoon Suite tomorrow, we are firmly told that only black Diamond Elite wristband users can sit here. Transpires these are guests who have taken timeshares in the hotel and return regularly to be treated as superior beings.

We, with our white and gold Concierge wristbands, are shown another section of the beach where similar daybeds reside, but lesser mortals play volleyball right in front of you and spring-break style frat boys get drunk nearby on flimsy sun-loungers. Hmmmm. Not quite what we were expecting but we're assured we'll get the same service and at least the volleyball-playing chaps are rather easy on the eye. So we settle in again and get on with soaking up the rays and generally chilling out.

We're about thirty minutes in before a total prick of a man, sporting a yellow wristband, his vile spoilt princess of a wife, and their two bratty kids, saunter over and insist we move as they had 'reserved' this sun lounger by virtue of putting their rolled-up towels down there earlier.

"Ah, you must be mistaken," we tell them politely. "We were given this daybed by the hotel staff and these towels were provided for us."

But there's no reasoning with the arrogant, perfect-teethed banker and even less with his Stepford bride of Frankenstein so we're kicked off our bed with utter rudeness and are now homeless on the beach.

Another guest nearby gestures us over and tells us she'll come find us later as she has something to say about this particular "asshole", and with that we go back into the hotel to see if we can find anyone to tell us exactly where the hell we're meant to relax, seeing as we've actually paid to have our own private space on the beach.

Jorge, who is on the public relations desk today, apologises profusely and says we should indeed be able to sit where we were. Telling us to wait for ten minutes or so on the terrace he disappears to sort it... and never returns.

While we wait fruitlessly for him the woman from the beach appears and explains "Towel Games". Seems Americans are as notorious as Germans for getting up super early, putting down towels on preferred loungers and then buggering off for hours, expecting to have their cake and eat it.

Lynne, as she introduces herself, is a regular guest from Chicago and a black wristband wearer, but sits in the Concierge area as she finds the other Elite guests obnoxious. And she reveals the wristband wars that take place on the beach each day as people fight for space. It's not what we were expecting for our relaxing holiday and there's no way we're going to partake in this nonsense. We need to nip this in the bud right now.

As we ponder our options Nora, one of the beach waitresses, comes over and tells us she's found us a daybed next to the ghastly family - which she's done by kicking out two other yellow-wristband wearers from that area. When we enquire why Mr Asshole, sporting the very same yellow wristband, is allowed to stay she confesses it's because people are scared of him. Well, she's not factored on the wrath of two outraged homosexuals!!

Coman heads off to find Jorge and has some stern words about his no-show and the behaviour of those particular guests and sure enough, within minutes the beach nazi who'd originally moved us from the Elite area appears and with tails between their legs, arrogance well and truly deflated, the family finds itself booted over to the flimsy sunloungers nearby and our Concierge area is asshole-free.

To confound them even further Jorge hurries on to the beach in full view of their resentful eyes, with an ice-bucket, a bottle of champagne and a promise that from now on, and for every day of our stay, we will have a reserved daybed in the Concierge area and VIP service guaranteed.

Nora and Lynne are delighted at this turn of events, as are we, but maybe the universe is slightly less enamoured of this swift justice as the minute I'm settled back into the daybed hoping that finally we can relax, a seagull flies overhead and craps right between my legs. Urgh!!

It could have been worse though as to the right of us a wedding is just getting underway and the bride is gliding across the sand with the seagulls circling overhead, so at least they deposited on me rather than ruining her big day.

And what a day! This is the schmalziest wedding we've ever seen as Tess and Stephen sobbingly make their way through their vows in front of bridesmaids dressed in black and guests clad in what can only be described as casual wear. Once pronounced man and wife they walk up to the beach bar, still sobbing, to a quite amazing FM rock soundtrack whilst all the other holidaymakers gaze on with varying degrees of amusement.

Finally, the beach quietens down and with a scorching afternoon ahead of us, we take a dip in the beautifully warm clear blue sea and stretch out in the sun. By 4pm the sun is starting to disappear behind the hotel and we're exhausted by all the dramas. Mindful of the fact we have a late night to come we decide that a siesta is in order and retire to the room for a champagne-induced snooze.