I try not to strip off in Spain.. I’m a red ringer for Enrique Iglesias...
my favE funny photos of thE wEEk
You would think I would have learned a lesson by now. Nope, no chance…
1998 – arrived in Paris at the height of summer for the World Cup and, despite the searing 90-degree heat, I didn’t apply a lick of suncream.
Yep, I took the old “it’s the same sun as we get in Scotland” approach.
A few days later, my Radio Scotland producer Stephen Hollywood and co-host Stuart Cosgrove guffawed with delight in our hotel as a French doctor – after confirming I had “severe sunstroke” – harpooned my bahookie with a giant hypodermic needle.
And if you think that was embarrassing, you ain’t heard nothing yet.
This “visite” by a “docteur” had been abbreviated on my receipt by the French quack which meant, on our return home two weeks later, I tried to claim back 50 francs from the BBC for “VD”…
(No worries. The form shot through the system with zero fuss after I cunningly got my wee pal Chick Young to sign it…)
2001 – on holiday in Las Vegas at the Luxor Hotel, I fell asleep (face down) next to the pool (that was the last time I ever drank pints of tequila) and, three or fours hours later, a concerned American woman KICKED me awake.
Why? Well, basically, a thick plume of SMOKE was billowing off my back!
A quick dash to the local medical centre (or “center” as the Yanks insist on spelling it) confirmed I had thirddegree burns.
I basically looked – and smelled – like a giant crispy bacon Frazzle.
Painkillers the size of horse pills were diagnosed and, to help soothe my flame-grilled skin, I was also given Cup-a-Soup style sachets of powder that turned a bathtub of lukewarm water into a blissfully comforting porridge.
Of course, the real fun began 24 hours later on the flight home.
Have you tried sitting on a plane for TEN HOURS without your back touching the seat? 2024 – How the hell can a grown man who’ll be 55 tomorrow (or “1” as my Celtic-daft pals insist) make the same mistake again?
In Benidorm last week, the pool at our lovely hotel (the highly recommended H10 Porto Poniente in the Old Town) was on the fifth floor which meant that, even though it was 25C in the shade, the light refreshing breeze made a total daftie like yours truly think: “Ach, it’s not THAT hot…”
WRONG! And that explains why,
later thatnight, Iswapped our comfortable bed for a wee plastic stool in the shower where I sprayed icy water on my legs (they were like big Squashies) until the rest of my body was colder than Leonardo DiCaprio’s at the end of Titanic and I could bear it no longer.
Honestly, folks, if a hosepipe ban had been announced in Benidorm this week, I’d have accepted full responsibility.
On Instagram, my followers (who were loving every minute of it, the swines) suggested all sorts of weird and
wonderful remedies: natural yoghurt, strawberry ice cream, aloe vera, slices of tomato and – my favourite – “get blootered until you pass out”.
However, when I finally crawled into bed, I opted for the old classic – Viagra. Doesn’t cure the sunburn, but it DOES keep the sheets off your legs…
PS. My sunburn could have been a lot worse in Benidorm but, thankfully, I was wearing a T-shirt the day I got roasted. I never strip off in Spain in case autograph hunters think I’m Enrique Iglesias.
PPS. Spare a thought for my pal Stephen. Totally hacked off with the non-stop rain (and I swear this is true) he booked flights last week for him and his wife… to Dubai!
My followers suggested all kinds of weird remedies with my favourite.. get blootered til you pass out