Sunny afternoons in the Med.

Sunny afternoons in the Med.

In Italy they call it La Dolce Vita. In Britain we call it a good, old fashioned knees up and around the world it's a cue for the biggest party of them all. Most of us feel that irresistible need to just have a good time, to let ourselves go, abandoning ourselves joyfully to wild revelry, Maypole dancing in quaint British villages, singing at the top of our voices, generally kicking our shoes off and then drinking the night away into the wee small hours of the morning. Because that's what life should be about if not all the time.

It was a warm, sultry and lazy Friday afternoon in the middle of the Mediterranean and the passengers aboard the Marella cruiser were bracing themselves for what became an afternoon to remember. The sun drenched British holidaymakers were stretched out on their sun loungers dabbing on liberal amounts of Sun Factor 86 when suddenly it happened. Well, not exactly happened but it was certainly heard. In fact the whole of the Mediterranean must have heard it because somebody had deliberately cranked up the volume and the music was as sweet as a Black Forest Gateau from the 1970s.

Here we were somewhere between Spain and Italy and vast representations from England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and Republic of Ireland were oiling their vocal chords with moderate amounts of alcohol. There was an electricity in the air, a surge of Union Jack patriotism and our TUI (the old Thomson company) had welcomed onto the stage our cheerleaders with happy, clappy hands.

Suddenly the loud microphone boomed and blasted across the smooth as a pond sea and a combination of light blue shirted boys and girls attempted valiantly to make themselves heard above the din and commotion on board. It was time for karaoke everybody and this was that unforgettable moment when the whole of the British holidaymaking community forget where they are and just get on with the business of bellowing out boisterous disco songs that used to be the old currency at Pontins, Butlins and Havens roughly 40 years ago.

There is something very hearteningly predictable about the British holidaymaker that somehow make them stand out from the rest of the world. After a rousing rendition of Kool and the Gang's 'Ladies Night' the whole of the female population launched into an unashamedly pulsating song and dance routine, hands waving in the air, bodies moving and grooving to the funky disco beat. It was truly remarkable and truly British but that wasn't the end of this unique British holiday celebration.

At the end of the Kool and the Gang classic there was a sudden outbreak of Britain's favourite second dance movement. It's called the conga and it is, quite genuinely, the most amazing sight in western civilisation. If you've ever been to a British seaside hotel you'll know exactly what I mean. It is that outright and proud expression of Britain at its happiest and overjoyed.

 It is what most of the D-Day generation did when Hitler had been crushed into the ground and the Second World War had ended. It was what Britain did in Trafalgar Square when we knew that liberation was ours and fear was just a distant memory. The conga is not just an exhibition of some well rehearsed dance more of an outpouring of some crazy and deliriously funny routine that dates back to Roman times.

The conga is all about some silly attempt at achieving complete coordination on the dance floor when most of us have admittedly had too much to drink. We line up around the pool, hold onto each other for dear life and vaguely give the impression that we're still sober when the reality maybe different. Then hilariously we traipse around the boat clinging onto each other almost indifferently as if we hadn't a care in the world. We know that we've been abundantly fuelled by drink but we simply go wherever the person in front of us tells us to go.

By now as an impartial observer I was completely taken aback by this very British phenomenon, people staggering around a ship with all the carefree and light hearted ecstasy of the British abroad. We indulge ourselves in varying degrees: beautifully executed high kicking, dragging each other's T-shirts and multi tasking with cocktails in our hands at the same time. Just when I thought I'd seen everything and why ever not. There's no law which states that you can't do the conga when you're on holiday.

Then as if to redress the gender imbalance the men were required to get up and dance. I can't remember the name of the song now but it was sufficiently masculine and macho to make you feel good about yourself. In between whole hearted gulps of lager and the occasional football chant the men did what men have always done since the beginning of time. They revealed most of the tattoos on their chest and arms, swaying from side to side and then hollering out some obscure disco number from the 1970s. It was almost stereotypically English.

Meanwhile in the Squid and Anchor, the ship's fantastically and appropriately named pub, my wife spent an enjoyable hour or two playing bingo. Yes folks, the British were playing bingo in 152 degrees of heat in the middle of the Med. But hey who cares the Brits and bingo are totally inseparable and somehow very compatible with each other. And yet of all the many activities at their disposal the Brits do love their home comforts. In fact I'm sure I spotted a group of bingo callers from the Blackpool branch of Gala on board although this can never be confirmed.

So this is how our afternoons invariably panned out for my wife and I. I invariably spent as much time as I could find in the sun varnishing the whole of my chest with a bronzed tan which eventually resembled a traditional British sirloin steak. Then I discovered that parts of my body were now turning the colour of a well cooked beetroot and the red burn marks were in desperate need of a fire extinguisher.

I've now come to the conclusion that eventually my relationship with the sun and the essential act of sunbathing for inordinate lengths of time may fizzle out as I get older. But I still find that both the warm sunshine and that exhilaratingly relaxing heat still hits the right spot for me. I should perhaps find alternative methods of relaxation but for the time being the sunshine factor does it every time for me.

Back at the Squid and Anchor pub my wife was playing bingo and loving every moment of it all.  Then of course the Squid and Anchor played host to a regular round of on deck quizzes and the kind of frivolous goings on that some of us thought had been left behind at Butlins. There were some wonderful pianists and saxophonists who played us delightfully into the evening with softly delivered tunes that fell on our ears like the lightest drops of warm rain.

On one of many and innumerable tours around the ship you couldn't help but notice some of the shops, the vast and expansive, plush carpeted corridors, the two restaurants, the cafes and the brass railings on the 12 staircases that led onto a thousand decks or seemingly so. Of course cruising is the ultimate way of travelling and seeing the world, basking as we do in sybaritic luxury, gliding around in tuxedos, dinner jackets, bow ties and elegant dresses for the ladies. This was a night of utter pampering and people making a fuss of you. Nothing was too much trouble at any time during our holiday.

There was one day when the ship's magnificently well appointed jewellery shop had one of its special sales days and one of our assistants showed me some of the most high tech and classiest world globes you're ever likely to see. Now, at school most of us may still remember those wooden world globes that used to be the central feature of every geography lesson. Here were the new generation of whizzy, electronically operated globes that, as demonstrated by our kindly assistant, just seemed to glow and float in the air.

By now I'd decided to spend the latter part of my afternoon working out vigorously in the gym, something I'd discovered to be the most pleasant of surprises on our first cruise. I gingerly climbed onto the gym bike and pedalled like crazy for the best part of an hour. Apart from the fact that this was a deeply invigorating experience I almost felt I'd pushed myself too hard and would suffer the inevitable consequences the following morning. But this was never the case and you almost felt that you'd  travelled the same distance as Sir Bradley Wiggins.

So there are you another tale from the high seas everybody. I may have one more account of our cruise to tell you about but for now it's time to stare into the sunset from those splendid windows and gasp with wonder while the Mediterranean gently leaves behind it's diamonds, amethysts, topaz and rubies. Louis Armstrong certainly had a point when he wrote that song about the world.