In a time of reality TV when any feckless gobsheen with attention seeking disorder can get their  "pre-op-post-op, pickpocketing arsewipe, I married a fencepost, I'm orange hideous and from Essex, benefit scrounging, what happened in Costa Del Twat, dysfunctional fucknuckle family, look at the seeping wound on my cock, check out my spoilt 16 year old brat, I'm a smackhead feel sorry for me.... Oh and 'Miranda', cos the REALITY is she just isn't fucking funny" vomit inducing features on our screens, I want to hark back to the days when not every tool with a camera wanted to shove it in your face, film your day and give you the impression that you are an important part of the televisual celebrity icon list as opposed to just being the embarrassing cocksmear that you are.
A time when mobiles didn't exist, except for those massive bloody lumps donned by lah dee dah estate agents and the odd builder who had obviously mistaken it for a breeze block with a receiver on it. A time when a pint was 84p and a tenner would drink you through the night with a kebab and a cab home. When Bros and E17 were lighting up the charts..... I didn't say it was all fucking roses did I? Thankfully the Manchester music scene was machetteing its way through all the shit and bilge. A time when football was still the working mans game and not the lucrative money spinning upper class past time with all their little scarfee warfee's tied in that fucking annoying 'I'm from good stock' fashion, Yeah you know who you are with your Ralph Lauren polo shirt collars turned up!!

So, Where are we? The small Bedfordshire town of Leighton Buzzard, (Late and be buggered to the locals), The lovable Acid House era of the late eighties when buying hash involved a variety of wonderful smelling brown nuggets not one concoction of plastic, hair, petrol and cat shit now known as council trash hash. When my friends and I, no more than mere whippersnappers at the tender age of 18, were considering our futures and drinking ourselves senseless in the 'Sun Pub' week in week out, with no apparent end to the humdrum in sight. Yup, it was fucking boring, living for the weekend which was no more than getting shitfaced, having a curry, a punch-up and the usual small town bullshit and mentality, albeit a lovely town. So when the idea of a holiday to the Costa Brava with four friends came along it seemed like the perfect pick me up and for the three of us that ended up staying there for two years instead of two weeks the journey was about begin and all hell about to be let loose. Thank fuck!