The Day I Met the King and Queen of Entitlement

Some travellers are demanding. Some are quirky. And then there are those who redefine the very concept of entitlement—towering as high as the Iron Lady with vertigo (and twice as wobbly).

Before we even met, their greatest concern wasn’t the itinerary, the food, or the hotels. No, their burning question was: “How old is she?” They were convinced this must be my very first tour ever, and they had nobly decided to “teach me a lesson.” Spoiler: the only lesson given was a crash course in good manners—by me, to them.

Thankfully, I wasn’t alone. This trip had a ride-along from the office. Perfect timing. At last someone from HQ would see that no, we tour leaders don’t invent these stories between two glasses of wine in a dingy café. This circus? It’s real.

The Entitlements had already terrorised my colleague on the pre-trip—a man so gentle, cultured, and kind that baby lambs look aggressive next to him. They ate him alive with their “we know everything about everything, especially touring” routine. When he handed the group over to me, you could see despair in his eyes.

So there we were, opening meeting. I introduced myself, set the tone, explained the tour. Curtain up. Their little theatre began: correcting me, grandstanding, performing for their imaginary spotlight. They expected: “Yes, of course you’re right, let me kiss your VIP arse…” What they got instead: a polite smile and silence. Not on my stage. Here, it’s play fair or go home.

Their philosophy was simple: VIP equals spotlight. My philosophy? “Who wants does not get.” So they adapted. If they couldn’t be the experts, they would be the repeaters. Every briefing turned into Groundhog Day: the same questions, asked minutes after I had answered them—three times. Yes, there are stupid questions: they’re the ones that have already been answered in neon lights. Soon it became a private joke in the group: I’d ask, “Any questions?” and we’d all silently bet which Entitlement would bellow first: “Yes, I have a couple!” (Always with a capital “I.” Always with a trumpet fanfare of self-importance.)

Then came the seating saga. They saved an entire row of four seats—for their daypacks. The next day, they claimed the whole front row for themselves. Enough. I called a group meeting and instated official seat rotation. I even added, truthfully: “In decades of touring, I’ve never had to do this—with adults.” I never saw them up front again. Victory, by shame.

But Mr Entitlement wasn’t finished. Every single morning, chest puffed, chin raised, voice dripping with imperial authority, he’d march over and declare: “I have a request.” By week two, this was our daily comedy sketch. The group would snicker before he even opened his mouth. My only challenge? Not fainting—because it became obvious he was also allergic to showers.

On the train, some polite ladies offered them the window seats. Their reply? In perfect duet: “Yes, those must be our seats. We are VIPs.” My poor ride-along nearly choked on her cashews.

And the hotel fiasco. They demanded “a superior room on the top floor.” Small detail: superior rooms only existed on the cool first floor. Third floor? Standard rooms, baking hot. We gave them one anyway. The lift broke down. Reader, I could have kissed that lift. I plan to bring it cake next time for giving me the joy of watching them pant their way upstairs daily, red-faced and furious.

The pièce de résistance? A home visit with local hosts. In Winocratia, inviting strangers into your home is an act of immense generosity. The Entitlements demanded embarrassing personal stories. Our hosts froze. The group froze. The silence that followed was deafening. It was the sound of their VIP crown slipping.

By the end, they thought they’d tested me. In reality, they’d tested the patience of twenty travellers, one tour leader, one office rep, three bus drivers, a hotel receptionist, and one heroic lift. Verdict? Guilty. Sentence? Eternal banishment to the back row of the bus—with no shower privileges.

And the nickname “The Entitlements”? That wasn’t even mine. A fellow traveller coined it. That’s the thing about arrogance: it brands itself.

So beware, dear entitled travellers. Keep it up and you might just earn yourself a nickname, a black mark with a tour operator, and a starring role in a blog post.