STAYING CALM IN SHARM

My girlfriend says I've got an anger problem.

"Bull****" I say, "that traffic warden deserved the public oral humiliation" "But you told him you were going to find his family and take out a contract on them. You said you knew the Albanians that would do it. You also said you would not rest until anyone he's ever known is rotting in a pus-filled-hell-grave. Don't you think that's a bit excessive?"

I don't reply.

"He didn't even give you a ticket..." she finishes.

OK. Maybe she has a point.

So I think there's only one way to show her I can change. Then she can stop bloody well giving me articles out of magazines written by earnest tanktopped beardy Swiss psychologists – who deserve a smacking in my book. So let's go to a place that not only can inspire, but also deeply frustrate, irritate, annihilate and get even Mother Bleedin' Theresa – in a state.

Lets go to Sharm el Sheikh. It always starts at the airport, doesn't it? And I'm talking back home here in Blighty. A friend once commented, in the days before the joyous Eurotunnel, that a cross channel ferry was the nearest he got to being on a council estate.

Well that's all over for P&O, so step forward Gatwick Airport. Proud owner of the "Place - with - most - people - I - normally - try - to - avoid" award 2002-8. A trick to miss the Burberried queues is to travel first class on the Gatwick Express. This may sound a bit excessive, but it's only 7 quid more than regular class AND the last time I went I was given an Express Pass to go straight to the front of the Customs queue. Awesome. That will save you an hour. And once plane-side the best place to hide from the troglodytes screaming at their kids across the lounge "Lee, come and get your Ritalin.." is of course a bookshop. For obvious reasons...

To find out how to resist the temptation to murder in Sharm, you'll first need to get your hands on London Diver Magazine. It's free. What are you waiting for?