I love it when Arsene Wenger disappears.
It’s such bliss when I don’t have to watch his one-dimensional under-achievers.
It’s heavenly.
It’s almost as good as my morning swim round a superyacht in Trois Ilets in 1976.
On Friday morning I walked out to the edge of the lagoon and the beautiful ship had vanished, sailed before I got up. Nobody called them superyachts in those days but this was a ship with the contours of a jet aircraft and if you can afford one of those, you hang out in the Caribbean.
As I was saying, no Arsenal is almost as much fun as dancing to In The Midnight Hour in Manchester discotheques.
Almost as mood-enhancing as reading P.G. Woodhouse in Split airport. The characters in the village of Steeple Bumpleigh made me smile and giggle all the way home to Heathrow.
Almost as nice as scoffing pancakes standing up in the kitchen last night and then watching Foyle’s War with the ever-loving wife who cooked the fourth as I ate the third.
We had a week in Barbados before hopping over to Martinique on a tiny Liat plane.
Jan had said,”Every island is different,you’ll be surprised.”
And I was.
More to life than football?
Definitely.