Shipped out like sardines by Ruin Air (Ryanair) to that cultural capital on the continent, Benidorm, for Dave’s stag-do of sun, sangria, sea, shots and shenanigans. A holiday in the hi-rise hotels from hell, classy its not, Blackpool in the sun it is. No pretensions about this place, its cheap booze and generous measures. Now I’m back and suffering the kind of sunburn that thermo-nuclear bombs could deliver from aircraft of the British V bomber force. My skin’s like leather, I look like a crocodile, you could make a suitcase out of me. Starting to peel and looking like the singing detective. Don’t even mention Sticky Vicky “magic show,” I’m still traumatised. Decorum prohibits me from listing her show here.
