I woke at seven and lay there thinking, now should I take the Aston Martin, if I can find the keys, the Ferrari, if I can remember what it looks like, or the Range Rover, if I can remember where it is. I could hear water and I thought, f***ing hell, that swimming pool is leaking again, the new one, outside our bedroom, so we don't have to walk far to dive in. I must ring those lazy bastards in the office and get them to bring a proper washer this time.

I put on my hoodie and trackie bottoms and England carpet slippers, which is what I always wear to training, just to wind up those fashion maniacs. I opened the bedroom door, to have a slash in the pool, well it does help heat it up, but it wasn't there. Instead six poofy-looking blokes in white were poncing past. Oh, my God. I'm in hospital again. My metatarsal must have gone.

Then I realised. There's no training today. The season is over. We're on our hols, don't you know. Aye aye, sailor. Ship ahoy. Beats Fog on the Tyne any time.

We've hired this huge yacht, all white, about the length of the new Wembley, with a crew of 30, just for me and Charlene, plus four of me old mates from the council estate. I get more pleasure watching them enjoying themselves, ie getting blathered, than I do myself. My time will come, I keep telling Charlene. She says no. You'll always be on a diet. Just look at your dad.

We're in the South of France. I haven't seen much of South yet, cos we're on this boat all day. The captain gave me this sheet marked Itinerary on our first day. I think that's in Italy. "Nice," I said, and he said we're going there as well. Actually, I've no f***ing idea where we are, and don't give a toss. Just a relief not to be in a five-star hotel. I'm pig sick of them. They all look the same. That's why we've taken this boat. It also gets us away from the paps.

I staggered out on deck and a helicopter was hovering overhead. I could see someone waving, so I took me trackie bottom off and flashed them a bare arse. I shouldn't have done. Don't want to frighten the fish, ha ha. No, it's cos of my skin. I'm not s'posed to expose myself to the sun. It goes back to the peat bogs or the Highland clearances or something where all the gingernut Wayne Wrights originally came from. I just have to open the fridge door, the light comes on and I start peeling.

I stayed in my cabin all morning, listening on my iPod or playing a war game on my PlayStation. Oh, it's nice to get away, do something different. Now and again I looked out of the port hole where Charlene and the other girls were lying on the deck like potted shrimps. Funny how without clothes or big hair or other stuff they put on they look so much smaller.

The chef asked me what I wanted for lunch. I'm pissed off with pasta so I said fish and chips. I'm not in training. He sent someone off on our helicopter, yeah we have our own on board. He said they'll have some in Cannes. I didn't know you could get tinned fish and chips.

In the afternoon we chased the girls off the decks and they went to their cabins, saying they were going to have a siesta. I'm not sure if that's a cocktail or a small swim. Several of the ponces in white suits followed them to their cabins. Yeah, so they must have been having cocktails. What else could they have been doing? They can't half put it away.

Me and the lads then cleared the decks and took on the remaining ponces in a five-a-side. We stuffed them 145-0, which is what England should have done to Estonia. I watched that game on board, and then texted the lads. Stevie Gee says Becks has bought some skull full of diamonds for £50 million. It's a little present for Posh. It was heavier than he thought, which is how he really hurt his ankle, but he couldn't tell that to McClaren, could he?

In the evening, we went ashore, as we do most nights. Dunno where. Could have been Monty Pannazar or Roberto Carlos. We had a meal, bit of booze and a dance. I had to dance on my own. The girls were shagged, so they said. Nothing posh. Just an English bar. We stayed till breakfast, had a fry-up, don't tell the boss.

A waiter gave me The Sun and they had a photo of me on deck with the headline 'WAYNE ARSING AROUND'. Bastards. I've told Charlene it's not me but a photo of a jellyfish...

Hunter Davies's next book is The Bumper Book of Football, due out from Quercus in September.

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