Rimini

After two weekends of frantic activity, followed by a birthday that was by turns wonderful and the very depths of misery, I was faced with the prospect of 3 days alone in Bra over the June bank holiday.

Lesser men would have crumbled. I headed south, in search of sun, booze and hedonism.

Rimini holds a special place in the Italian psyche. Much as Ibiza promises Brits frantic humping and cheap drugs, or the Baltic coast lures Germans with regimented sunloungers and efficient sausage service, so Rimini represents to Italians the very apex of sitting in street cafes quaffing latte, tight D & G t-shirts, and flouncing effeminatly by the sea.

The train from Porta Nouva was an 'Intercity', which means it costs twice as much, is fractionally quicker than a Regionale and some cockend is guarenteed to turn up an hour into your journey and demand 'their' seat. So I wedged myself into a sqaure of sunlight in the vestibule behind the engine and settled down for 4 hours of gentle slumber. This was disturbed when, lets call him 'Enrique', got on at Bologna, and ran over my hand with his wheeled suitcase. He was going to Rimini for the season he said, to work in an aubergine (he may have meant hotel, my Italian is not strong, and his English stretched to 'hello'). He was eager and fresh faced, just out of school, 18, never left Rome before. I did my part, flying the flag for Britain by grumpily reading my book and occasionally kicking the offending luggage that had invaded my sunny hidey-hole.

Bob's Jammin' Party Hostel (perhaps THE premier reggae themed hostel in all of Italy) was two blocks from the beach, remarkably clean, well stocked with hot water (despite my usual tank emptying prowess, I was defeated here) and inhabited by freaks. The pick of whom, the Number One Breakdancing Crew in Croatia, spent most of the evening tossing a frizbee up and down the street, catching it with a series of bone defying moves and deftly firing it back to another of their cohort, who would try to top them. We ended up drunk, on the beach, late that night, having 'Shot the Strip'. They were a good contrast to the tribes of miserable Germans, laconic Italians and pissed Brits who roamed between the strip-clubs; the standout being a loud Northern monkey, stood on a concrete bollard outside 'Dave's Bar' shouting "What can I say, she FOOKIN' wanted me mate, she's got FOOKIN' good taste, waaaahayyyy!" to anyone in ear shot.

So Rimini is wonderful; Blackpool by the Adriatic, with all the piss, kebabs, sex shows, happy hours and angry Northerners you'd expect. It's not very Italian, and I think that's why they flock there. You can't be cool all the time, after all.