Cliff Richard had the right idea. Get some mates together, grab a spare London bus -and get the Hell out of England! Smart move from the celebrated asexual sex symbol. By the way, it was raining all the way down to Dover. Just like now.
I’ve lost count how many childhood memories of summer holidays are cloaked in a blanket of dank, damp, dark, dreary drizzle. North Wales was the norm, that well-known land of the rising sun. If the sun ever had its hat on it was because it was pissing down. We didn’t do abroad, though.
But soon I did! When I hit fifteen I hotfooted down to the passport office, half-inched my brother’s backpack and took off. Still remember the first time I saw foreign shores. Ostend. It’s a Belgian Blackpool, but to me it could have been Hawaii. Even copped off on the ferry! Happy days.