I awoke at three thirty, just two hours after I went to bed and half an hour before the alarm was due to wake me anyway. I knew that I would pay for this later. Sleep has it’s own way of gaining revenge when you stop it having its way with you. ‘Forget me last night did you ya bastard? Well I’m back!’ Being diabetic I had to inject myself then wait half an hour before eating something. I used this extra time to finish the last bits of packing, stow my medication in my hand luggage in case my bag got lost along the way and empty the fridge of anything that would go off. Bye bye mushrooms and milk. See you in hell.

I walked the two hundred or so yards to the cab office rather than have the taxi pull up outside, diesel engine running, waking my lovely neighbours. I wish they had the same consideration for others. Actually they’re all alright apart from Kenny the nutter who thinks nothing of playing Rivers Of Babylon by Boney M several times over at full volume three o clock in the morning. I wonder if he’ll change it to Mary’s Boy Child for Christmas? When I was young if you went to the Coach and Horses in Ickenham and selected Mary’s Boy Child by Johnny Mathis on the jukebox you got Fuck Off by Wayne County and the Electric Chairs instead. “If you don’t want to fuck me baby, baby fuck off!” That’s my kind of Christmas spirit.

I dumped my bags at the cab office and went across the road to the Village Bakery. Where else at quarter to five in the morning can you get a cup of hot chocolate and a sandwich made from freshly baked bread? I loaded my bags into the boot while Shabbir the cabbie set the coordinates to Gatwick South in his satnav. “Have you never been to Gatwick before?” I asked him. “No” he replied as he executed a three point turn and set off in the wrong direction. That’s the thing with travelling, it’s full of incidents and occurrences guaranteed to piss you off but it gets you there. I had an uneasy feeling there would be more to come. I was proved right fifty minutes later when his satnav took as past the giant sign that said Gatwick South Terminal and delivered us at the North. “Why didn’t you fly from Terminal Five?” Shabbir asked “I know where that is!”

I was at the airport two and a half hours before the flight. Unable to check in online for this flight I had phoned the airline to see what seats were available. I could’ve selected a seat if I had paid £9.50 for the privilege so I took pot luck at the check in and got the aisle seat row two. “Is the seat in front of that available, you know the one with the extra leg room?” I asked the check in girl. “Sorry no sir” she lied. I knew it was as I could’ve reserved it for fifty quid over the phone. I expect she was still hoping to sell it but it remained vacant throughout the flight as I sat cramped behind it.

Still painless so far but I had yet to tackle airport security. Now I must say I have no problem at all with strict security checks. Better safe than sorry. I queued up with jacket rucksack and metal objects in the tray. The guard seemed to be selecting every twentieth person to be subjected to further scrutiny because a few in front of me were taken to one side. He must’ve been only picking those who smiled at him and wished him good morning because he ordered me “Over there!” before another officer instructed me to remove my shoes. I have trouble doing this without sitting down and I think they thought I was being awkward. I was then placed in a full body scanner and told to raise both arms. I can only lift one arm due to a frozen shoulder so I was passed to another officer ” This one only raised one arm” and subjected to a full body search. If the scan hadn’t found anything then what would he? I was wearing tight jeans and a t shirt, surely not concealing an AK47? Even so he ran his hands over every part of my body apart from my genitals including running his hand around inside my waistband. I hoped he was enjoying it because I wasn’t.

In front of me in the queue had been a passenger wearing a burka. They were allowed to pass freely whilst it was impossible to confirm their gender let alone if they were really who their passport said they were. Anything could’ve been concealed under there. I read recently in the paper of another chap who had endured the same experience as I and had voiced his concerns. He had been arrested for racist remarks, kept in a cell for three hours, released without charge and missed his flight. I decided to keep my own counsel. All this time my rucksack money and jacket had been waiting unattended at the end of the belt where anyone could’ve walked off with them. Security? Don’t make me laugh. I retrieved my shoes, collected my belongings and walked on through. There was an easel with sheets of paper and a marker pen where passengers were encouraged to leave their comments. Someone had drawn a smiley face. I suspect it may have been a member of staff. I was going to draw a knob and a pair of bollocks but you only have to fart to get arrested at an airport now so I decided against it.

With a couple of hours to kill before flying I was at a loss as to what to do. In a previous life I would’ve spent this time wisely, consuming eight or so pints of cider. However being what is termed politely a ‘reformed hell raiser’ I decided to shop. I bought some paperbacks and a pair of Nike flip flops. I chose the flip flops because they were size twelve, well made and at £13.34 the cheapest in my size. It was only when I wore them later that I realised they had a lime green trim. What the fuck was I thinking? I’m not a very good shopper.

The flight left on time and Captain Tobias Wilcox told us we would arrive forty minutes early. Actually that wasn’t his name, I’m just checking to see how old you are. I was seated next to a nice couple called Ann and Andy. Well she seemed nice, she offered me a sweet and fell asleep for most of the flight but Andy was chatty. I asked him if he knew Jason Moore. Once on a flight my pal Jason got chatting to the guy next to him and it turned out the guy knew me so now when I fly I always ask if they know Jason just in case. Andy didn’t but I’ll try again on the way back. I asked them where they were from. “Somewhere between Aylesbury and High Wycombe” he said ” You won’t have heard of it”. ” Go on then, I bet I have” I countered. “A little place called Princes Risborough ” he informed me. Haven’t heard of it? Did Louisa ride her horse up by Whyteleaf Cross for nothing? Did John Otway not mount his Snow White stallion and charge on down the track crying “Look out Princes Risborough I’m back!” for a joke? Turns out they knew my neck of the woods too, they cycle the canal towpaths and frequent some of our canal side pubs.

True to his word Captain Wilcox landed us three hours and forty minutes after we left Gatwick at Las Palmas airport. Quickly off the plane, baggage collected and before I knew it I was in a brand new e class Mercedes driven by a nice Dutchman called Rolf and we were on our way to Puerto Rico and the Blue Star Apartments.

Now I only paid three hundred and two pounds for this holiday, flights and accommodation. The flight had been very good so I expected the accommodation to be a bit shit and I wasn’t disappointed. I won’t go on about it as I believe you get what you pay for in life and as I paid next to fuck all that is what I got. The only classy thing about the Blue Star was their logo which is like the Star on the Newcastle Brown Ale bottles that used to adorn Newcastle United’s shirts. Just as the toon have gone downhill from those heady days under King Kevin Keegan and have recently advertised the thieves Northern Rock and the pay day loaning scumbags Wonga on their kit, so the Blue Star had clearly seen better days. I accessed my apartment by descending in a rickety funicular that was full of cleaners with their trollies and maintenance men with 8×4 sheets of shuttering ply to the swimming pool level where I had to trundle my suitcase under the poolside shower, I was just daring one of the little shits to turn it on, and down the – yes- thirty nine steps to what was to be my home for the next week next to a tennis court and children’s playground.

From the apartment I could hear the drilling and hammering going on around the pool yet the other guests seemed to be enjoying themselves. I discovered that some were on an all-inclusive option, imagine being stuck at Stalag Blue Star for a week because all your drinks and food were already paid for!

I ventured off to the nearby Europa Centre to do a small supermarket shop and eat. I dined in Mambos, too late for the all-day breakfast- it’s not all day then is it?- I decided to sample the local culture and chose pie chips and mushy peas. By now it had started to rain and I was the only customer. The lady serving was watching an old episode of Benidorm on the big screen and it was the only bit of sunshine I saw that afternoon. I went back to the apartment and at six o clock I thought I’d lay down for a couple of hours. When I awoke it was quarter past midnight. I thought about going out but what was I going to do as a teetotaller? Go and have a glass of water? Deciding tomorrow would be another day I went back to bed.