Hello diary, it’s me, Steve.

It’s like our mam used to say when we were kids: be careful what you wish for. It was true when I said I wished I could fly and Mad Uncle Togga threw us off the church hall roof, and it’s true now.

I had my reservations about two weeks in the Caribbean – what would the tea and coffee-making facilities be like, would they have Lovejoy on the telly, would Fred try and make us drink Linseed martinis with a sparkler in – and it gives me no pleasure to say I have been proved right about the place.

Sure, all of us want to be a millionaire but not at all costs. We make sacrifices, I accept that: for instance, I’m willing to play cricket. And if absolutely necessary, abroad. But seeing your lass used as a plaything for a billionaire?

Maybe that’s how they go on in Texas. Apparently they shoot turkeys there, for fun. Can you imagine, being a little turkey, all peaceful like and eating your corn or rice or whatever it is they eat and then suddenly Sir Allen Stanford creeps up, shoots you in the face, bounces you up and down on his lap and then shoots you in the face again? No thanks. Not for me. Not even for two million.

Sir Stanford was well out of order with them girls. Matt Prior’s lass was very upset: she told us that there’s only one bloke she wants to bounce her on his lap and that’s her Matt, and if he drops her, well so be it, the lad’s a 110 per center and everyone drops things occasionally and it’s how you react that matters.

Then when all the lads got sick off the foreign food that was the final straw for me. I’m not one to say I told you so, but that’s the abroad hat-trick, isn’t it? Having to play cricket, them natives trying to have their way with your womenfolk and you’re stuck in the toilet praying for death.

That’s not to say the money wouldn’t be welcome. But in future, maybe we could hold the event round my way in Ashington. We’ll get a local sponsor no problem: what’s Sir Stanford got that Northern Rock haven’t? And we’ll have the game on the local rec.

Alright, maybe we won’t get a million each, but at least nobody will get ill on mam’s cooking and I personally guarantee nobody will get bounced on a lap nor shot in the face neither, providing Uncle Togga’s kept well tethered up in the yard.

Alan Tyers found Harmy’s diary by Allen Stanford’s swimming pool