Back in the saddle again.

Been on holiday. Miss me? Thought not.

Bogged off to stay with mates in the States for a fortnight, and had myself a time! Won't bore you with the details (yet!) but suffice to say that my promise to keep up with the blogging was as thick as a Key Lime Piecrust.

Really pleased to be back though. Holidays are all very well, but there comes a time when the hotel fresh sheets, bad coffee and funny money gets you pining for home.

But what a palava getting out of the USA is! You'd expect a bit of a security thing getting into the land of the free, but they've made buggering about in uniforms a fine art.

The fun started with an internal flight out of Fort Lauderdale up to JFK in New York. Somebody had decided the me and our lass looked like trouble, so right in front of everyone we were given the full frisk. Shoes off. Belt off. Arms outstretched.

The rivets on my jeans have never attracted so much attention! My Odour Eaters were scrutinised, my belt given a serious looking at. Meanwhile our lass is sat there surrounded by a gaggle of new yawk homies waiting for her turn to be prodded and patted.

I suppose we owe it all to mad bastard shoe bomber Richard Ried for putting us Brits up to the top of the dodgy list.

Anyway we changed at JFK and clocked in with Richard Branson's lot. Did this mean we were safe from the official heavy petters? Not on your nelly. The entire jumbo was about to leave, but me and the gal were given yet another comprehensive going over. Us and two african kids.

So ten hours later we were putting the kettle on and feeling well pleased to be home.

Isn't it strange getting back after time away, to find all the usual landmarks have changed. I left the place with four wannabes hogging the Fame Academy screen and I get back to find the talented kids had been chucked out. The big contract - the car, the flat, the media attention - went to some Glasweigan thunderbird puppet who joins Gareth Gates, Darius and the rest of the karaoke toyboys clogging up the pop charts.

At least Ainslie and Sinead (do these people not have sirnames?) had a touch of indie spirit about them, and the Lamar feller's probably the finest soul voice this country's seen since Craig David two-stepped up to the plate. But no, we had to suffer yet another grinning Peter Pan who will never grow up win the damn loot. And I missed it all. Sad bastard that I am.

I was hoping that the soaps might have turned up the heat in time for christmas, a re-introduction of hanging especially for Phil Mitchell on Eastenders perhaps, or much overdue drugs bust for Steve McDonald in Corrie.

I'm not that interested in Cheriegate and how that sad looking Aussie dude Peter Foster ends up with a tasty looking broad like that Jane Caplin. Or why Leeds United are persisting with a bunch of second-raters in midfield when they've got David Batty and Oly Dacourt in the squad. (El Tel my backside. Last night's Bolton result was a fluke if you ask me...)

It's the little stuff that I missed the most. The weather in centigrade. Roundabouts on the roads. Footie on the telly. A news broadcast that doesn't lead with a carcrash roundup. A decent cup of tea.

I can do with all the travel excitement but I don't think I'm cut out for being away from home comforts for too long.

Its good to be back. And, yes, the blog will be updated daily once again. Ta for sticking with us.

Blogga.