Discounting visiting my Nan in Norfolk (because it’s in the same country not because it’s not supercool to visit one’s Nan in Norfolk); the Finale of the Hometown Weekend in Ireland (because I flew in to Letterkenny in Northern Ireland – technically the same country); and Cannes – where I was both abroad, and in a hotel (because I was working), I hadn’t had a proper holiday in over 4 years. So as soon as I’d procured a guaranteed paycheck for a few months to bankroll the project, I booked the tickets. Plus I’d promised the Mrs, Des’ree – who (because this is Sheen Unit and real names are forbidden) from this point forward shall be known as Paris – I’d take her away for her birthday (in April).

600 all too easily transferred pounds later (plus £18 extra per bag because it’s EasyJet), and I’m printing out the details. It’s 5 nights in the 5-star Hilton Hotel in Downtown Barcelona, plus flights there and back. One week before I booked it, an entire terminal’s worth of holiday companies decide to drink some low tax-bracket fuel and die a pathetic death. Leaving hundreds of suckers stranded in their respective dream-like destinations – poor bastards. Obviously I’m a little apprehensive booking my own, but this is Hilton and EasyJet, two huge multi-national conglomerates worthy of more out-of-court deals than a pretzel stand at The Hague. What could go wrong?

What indeed?

Now I’m not usually one to complain (as you know), and I don’t want to spend any more of this page than I must moaning myself into an early Stomach Ulcer induced, acid-coated grave. However I will just say, that when a flight is cancelled, and they email you to say ‘Your flight has been cancelled. Would you like another one an hour later?’ and you don’t reply for 5 days... Does an intelligent, well-run organisation like EasyJet not wonder why? When tens of people of the couple of hundred on the flight don’t reply, do they not think ‘Hmm, maybe we DIDN’T send that email after all’, ‘Maybe... and this is just an initial idea... we should call the forgetful passengers? To make sure?’ Or do they simply think ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. They probably just don’t want to go on holiday anymore. I bet those 20 people are all sat at home, RELIEVED they don’t have to worry about packing for their relaxing mini-break at a 5-star hotel in one of Europe’s favourite destinations.’

I’ve got news for you Stelios – that’s NOT the case. And it didn’t really require £850 going missing on a one-way ticket, a Heathrow hotel, and an extra day of travel... not spent sunbathing, to know that. But thank you for making sure. You are thorough.

Once we actually got to the place, put our bags down and showered off 32 hours of travel, you’ve never seen two people more ready to head into the darkening sunset of Barcelona town. Like ex-Gladiator Shadow, looking out for an empty tube seat with his huge pearly-white ‘Just done a fuck-load of cocaine’ eyes... we were ready. All the touristy things were shut, and thus our eyes were envious of them – 32 hours travel will do that to you. Nothing for it but to waltz around the thinning streets of the Old-town like you’ve downed a pint of Alice in Wonderland juice, and find a place to eat. It’s a cliché, but the first place we happened across served primarily tapas. A cross between a café and deli our uncertainties were I hope, not clear to anyone but ourselves. In the end, all we really required was to eat some food not melting into its own plastic container, so it was fine. A warm walk through a thousand nameless streets and accompanying useless thoughts to return for daylight shopping later, and the hotel (along with its comfortable bed) was miraculously presented to our feet.

260 hours of blissful sleep and it’s suddenly the second (first) day of our holiday! In which we spend it (much like the previous night), walking around the tiny Lego-built streets of Cuitat Vella (Old-town)... breaking up the day with cafés, shops, and architecture here and there. A cathedral (not that Cathedral, the other Cathedral), a market (that market), an Arc de Triomf (everywhere’s got one), and a zoo with no animals but some giant flowers... Coming across a small lake with rowing boats for hire, I thought ‘Yes Yes! I’ll have a bit of that! €5 to make myself feel like a man, rowing a lady about on some water for a bit... perhaps going a bit fast, or making her think we were heading for the edge of a waterfall... Brilliant! Maybe I’ll go all Pete Docherty with it and pull a Hugh Grant (In Bridget Jones’ Diary)!’ But I might get splashed. I don’t want that. ‘On second thoughts, let’s just coast around slowly, and occasionally look at some ducks.’

After an adventure on the high-seas, an appetite had been worked. Thanks to a Catalan friend and ex-resident, we weren’t short of choice. I opted for Italian and what turned out to be my pick of the (half-)week. If you’re in the city, and in the mood for Italian I strongly recommend it. La Locanda on the P/ d.la Doctor Joaquim P... something-or-other. I went for a Calzones (Calzone), surely the creamiest thing I’ve ever tasted. It’s open late too. We arrived at around 1am, and stayed until 2, no-one battered an eye. In the U.K. they’d have been flicking the lights on and off minutes after giving us the menu.

Admittedly €10 is a bit much to watch a film. It’s almost 9-quid. But it’s a good set-up at least. You’re in bed, there’s a big TV, you’re sleepy. And the only thing you can get on ‘Hilton-TV’ is fucking BBC News 24! Let me ask you this the so-called ‘Hilton’... which one of those 5 stars is Sky Sports?!

Day 3(2) sees us visit the famous Casa Baillo. That one that that bloke Mr. Gaudi built. I’m not sure I know what all the fuss is about to be honest. So he built a house... he didn’t do it standing on his fucking head did he? It’s a pretty big house yeah, I wouldn’t want to put the effort in to do all that. But once inside I found out he didn’t even do most of it himself, he got a team of people to help him! What exactly is so special about being a real-estate developer? Nice digs though – and makes for some cool pictures – as you can tell. After tea over at Gaudi’s (in which he was too rude to even show up for), we visited Barceloneta (the addition of ‘eta’ means it’s by the port I assume – and now I’m considering renaming past LeedsMeUp Sheen Unit event ‘Whitbyeta’. Perhaps not. There’s a shopping mall there! So we get cracking and experience what the Spanish/Catalan shopping scene is like. ‘You can’t BUY this kind of culture’ we think, stepping out of Bershka with a bag full of €100’s worth of clothes. But what’s this... I’m a bit parched, well of course. It is 26° after all. ‘Why don’t we rest up for a bit Love? Get ourselves a drink.’ I don’t suggest because I don’t talk like that. ‘Maybe a bit of grub too.’ So we find a table that seems to be attached to some sort of café, and await a waiter. Opening up a menu to see no drinks, anywhere. Only foreign names for various foods, accompanied by calculator-worthy numbers. ‘Oh...’ is the instant thought. It’s not that I’m too cheap to eat in a place like this (even though a meal would cost an extra night in the hotel – once sat down, I’d be too proud to back down). It’s just... we weren’t really hungry, and this doesn’t seem the sort of place to take kindly to people sharing a Cola Light. Our fears were confirmed when a wordless waiter brings over a plate of bread and pretending not to notice us. This is the sort of place that expects you to spend SO much on expensive salad, the waiters bring over free bread without even asking you! We clearly don’t belong here. So we scarper (obviously), getting away at speed. Willing an angry hand not to wrap itself over my shoulder makes my legs move a littl faster than an innocent man’s might deliver. Suddenly I realised the waiters CAN see us, and we look like we’re running out on the bill – so I slow down. We get away with it, YES! I’m halfway across the bridge back to the mainland when Paris says “Where’s the Bershka bag?” “FUCK!” Cue her watching me run back into the restaurant, search around people’s feet, then shamefully be taken in to the kitchen where it hangs, all the while she’s stood pointing and laughing like a northern bald man.

Me: (In Spanish, with an incredibly good Spanish accent) “Excuse me, have you picked up a bag from these tables? I left my bag.”

Waiter: (In perfect English) “A bag? Hmmm.... you don’t mean... that bag?” (Points to the correct bag, attached to an old rope, swinging over a pit of fire and crocodiles). “Nope. We haven’t seen that bag.”

Me: “Err.... Yes, that bag.”

Waiter: “You not hungry?”

Me: “No! Er.... my err... Girlfriend... she was... ill. She’s feeling ill... we had to leave....”

Me: “Sorry.”

Thanks to BBC News 24, I now know that Barcelona leads the table of worldwide cities, in which you’re most likely to be pick-pocketed. Handy information whilst spending days clutching your passport, not sure how to work the hotel room safe. But it served an interesting thought. I’ve never been pick-pocketed... I’ve been to the top three in the list (Barcelona, Paris, Rome), and I live in London (in the top ten), but there’s always time. That very night, as if to prove the advantages of British TV, a Korean man gets on the underground. Two quick seconds later, and he’s been barged into, the carriage doors have closed, he’s checked his bum-bag and is now banging on the closed doors, screaming to be let out so he can chase down the sonofabitch responsible. Well if you’re going to carry your passport and a million dollars in untraceable bonds (as I imagine he must have been) in a frigging a 1992 fashion statement, then you’d be jumping around like a Latin footballer too.

Our last day was only a few hours long. Scheduling our way back to the hotel by six to make it to the aeropuerto on time, we got up early and hired a pair of bikes to go cycling around the local park. Only it turns out that the local park (on the map) is not a park at all. It’s a hill factory with a production order error, and a car park full of unused stock. A relaxing afternoon cycling around lakes and fountains becomes 4-hours of pushing heavy bikes with broken iron baskets up a marathon-long dirt path, greeted rudely by a gravel basketball court and fuck-all else. But hey, riding down a road out of the Alton Towers Rough Guide, was something else.

Tips for visiting Barcelona: Have a go at rowing, it’s fun; choose a hotel with ‘British TV’; keep your bum-bag close to your chest; make sure you read a menu before you sit down; that park isn’t really a park; and whatever you do... don’t fly EasyJet.