JUST done something I haven´t done for years.
Been on a beach holiday abroad, somewhere hot and sunny - and enjoyed it.
It´s odd that I enjoyed it, because I don´t much like heat or sunshine. Or abroad, come to that.
But I was in the company of my new (seven weeks now) sweetheart, Posh Boots, and that made everything seem enjoyable somehow.
Also, there was the daring Spiderman stunt that I pulled. More of that later...
We stayed in Spain at my sister Princess Stephanie of Wigan´s place near Ayamonte, close to the border with Portugal.
The trip didn´t start well however, and that´s because of how bloody awful British airports have become.

We flew out from Manchester Airport, which I´m old enough to still call Ringway. The queues for everything were horrendous and the aiport staff unpleasant. Airlines and airports show ever more contempt for passengers with each passing year.
Posh Boots had to suffer the indignity of having her body searched by an airport security lass who looked like that butch lesbian warder off Prisoner Cell Block H. I sailed straight through, mind.
There is a disgusting corporate image thing going on at this airport. None of the shops and cafes is what I would call genuine, for instance. They are all branches of crap international capitalism.You know the sort of thing... Milly Molly Mandy´s Pennsylvanian Cookie Emporium etc.
That particular overpriced coffee shack had a customer comments book - so I took the opportunity of putting in writing just where I thought they could shove their over-priced cookies.
Of course John Lennon Airport in Liverpool is no better - with it surly staff and fatuous marketing slogans plastered everywhere, including self-congratulatory bulls***t about how zealously they introduced the hateful smoking ban.
Liverpool´s airport, which I´m old enough to still call Speke Airport, has a vapid slogan "Above Us Only Sky", which is a line from John Lennon´s, Godless, loveless, inhumane anthem, Imagine.
As others have observed - considering how many people over the years have had their cars broken into at JLA´s car parks - a better slogan for the airport would be another line from the song....namely "Imagine No Possessions".
(I´m digressing now, but a much finer use of the only skies above concept is to be found in Roddy Frame´s beautiful song Big Ben from his Surf album. Here´s the line ... "But at my best I do believe in love / I can´t concieve of only sky above".)
We noticed the change in airport culture as soon as we landed at Faro. That Portugese airport is so chilled out and homely. The brigands of international capitalism are banished from its concourses.
The airport cafe is simply called Faro Airport Cafe and sells good, basic stuff - not a cookie nor a microwaved Uncle Sam McMuffinburger in sight.
And you can smoke in the cafe as you can in nearly all cafes, bars and restuarants in this part of the world. In fact you are heartily encouraged to smoke at the airport cafe.
A huge, jaunty sign, depicting a lovely big cigarette with smoke curling enticely from its tip, informs you: this is the smoking area lads and lasses - c´mon over and relax.
We hired a car to drive to drive us from Faro to our Steph´s summer palace.
Posh Boots did all the driving while we were in Spain, and only mounted the kerb on five occasions. That´s pretty good going, considering the state of Spanish roads and the fact that they all drive on the wrong side of the road over there.
I only shouted at her once during these trangressions: "For f****´s sake, whaddaya think yer doin´!" You know how it is on holiday - tempers get frayed. We didn´t have a proper row while in Spain, though, which is pretty amazing, considering how grumpy I am. She´s far too good for me, you know: beautiful, kind-hearted, even-tempered and intelligent.
While in Spain we mainly dined in beach restaurants on simple grilled seafood and chicken dishes, plus fish stews etc., and lots of chilled Rioja and Mateus Rose.
Eating out together each night was a bit of a problem, mind, because Posh Boots (being a petite size ten) doesn´t eat very much at all - whereas I have the appetitite of a trencherman who keeps a pet gannet.
One evening I criticised her for simply pushing bits of food around her plate like a person with an eating disorder and for being a faddy eater, like a teenager. Told you I was grumpy. And I´m slightly ashamed of saying all that now.
Anyway, she responded angrily by asking if I´d prefer it if she was a big fat slapper from Birkenhead, who shuffles off to the kebab shop each night, still, wearing her pyjamas.
"Well, since you ask, luv, that´s the kind of girlfriend I´m used to, and at least I´d never be short of somewhere to park me bike." She was not amused by my retort.
Days later, however, Posh Boots was to prove me wrong about her eating habits by going up for FIVE servings of a buffet in a posh hotel and clearing her plate.
There was a slight kerfuffle when we were seated by an intimidating maitre d right by the buffet´s soup station. We didn´t like all the clatter of plates and the gormless chatter of middle aged, provincial British holidaymakers right by our ear as they ladled out their Cream of Aspargus.
"You´ll need to bring up a couple of bowls, Beryl!¨ guffawed one fella in a strong Brummie accent. Arrgh!
Posh Boots demanded of the matre d that he move us to a quieter table at this point. He was not someone to be messed with. He resembled the late dictator of Portugal, Antonio Salazar - a handsome man, despite a cruel streak and a total lack of interest in democracy and social justice.
We did get moved, but only to a table right next to the dessert station. As our meal progressed this got busier and noiser and in the end was even more irritating than the soup station.
Like all practised dictators, you see, our maitre d knew how to administer punishment slyly.
Most of the time in Spain we went out for long walks. I must say my new deck shoes - bought at that special cheapo Clarks shop for Liverpool in Williamson Square, which manages to sell middle class shoes to working class Scousers - were very comfortable throughout, worn with and without socks.
The rest of the time we swam in the sea and in a pool and just relaxed. It was very pleasant.
If I have one criticism it is that Spanish people (and most of our fellow holidaymakers were Spanish) are so bloody noisy.
There doesn´t seem to be any dynamic to their speech at all. They shout. REALLY LOUD. All the time. Even when they are standing face to face.
And to English ears, of course, the language isn´t attractive. It is a coarse, nasally sort of lingo. If people have to be banging on all the time in a forieign language, I prefer it to be in French. That nearly always sounds pleasant to me.
Now, I said me and Posh Boots didn´t have even one proper argument while we were away together.
But there was a tense time when we locked ourselves outside of our Steph´s place. We´d left the keys on the inside of the door and it has deadlocked shut on us.
Phone calls to managing agents had to be made and they said an emergency locksmith would have to be called out (at a price) if we couldn´t get in.
In the end, I climbed in through an upper balcony window we´d left open to retrieve the keys. It meant scaling a sheer wall, high above ground level.
I tell you, I didn´t even think about the danger, I was up there like Spiderman to save the day - and to save spending 6o Euros on getting a locksmith out on a Sunday!
We had a great time out there in Spain, but as always on returning from holidays abroad, the homecoming was brilliant.
Our friend Jezza picked us up from the airport, and as we drove into Warren Drive, I was thinking there is nowhere on this bounden Earth as beautiful as Wallasey on the northern tip of the Wirral Peninsula.
Viva New Brighton!

• Post to:
•  del.icio.us
•  Digg
•  Newsvine
•  Nowpublic
•  Reddit