So there you are, possibly joined by members of your family, in a large, cavernous shop with a name that ends in “World”,”urrys” or “omet”. You are about to handover a large amount of money to someone young enough still to have fairly impressive acne but old enough to convince you that he knows a lot about PCs. Whilst the first may be true, the second is almost certainly not. He/she usually has a coloured shirt on (purple probably) and he/she is a simpleton. The only person in fart-smelling distance more stupid than them at the moment is you.

It was dark, warm and Plymouth Hoe was as quiet as the moon. Three friends were sitting in a burgundy Rover 214SE in the only filled parking space on the seafront. It seemed like a mad and crazy idea – let’s go and eat our chips up on the Hoe said I as we stood crammed in a steamy chip shop 10 minutes earlier. It’s the kind of improvisational and impetuous thing I do about once every three years so no-one should have really been surprised. Indeed they weren’t. Instead they were a bit pissed. Just a bit.