(fFor a bit of fun, you may think up your own creative responses. The best ones sent to me on a postcard will win a special keyring and the third year of my degree, if they fancy it):

"So you're ALL going out?"

"NOBODY is going to watch Eurovision with me?"

"You mean I have to assemble my own vague attempt at continental party snacks, largely involving pepperami, petit filous and a packet of Ainsley Harrison instant cous cous?

"Nobody will join me in marvelling at the eight new countries to have grown out of the Baltic region this year?

"Who do I threaten with GBH (Glittery Big Hair) when they talk over Terry Wogan?

"Am I meant to beseech the name of Katrina and the Waves to put a damnable end to political voting for evermore, by MYSELF?"

"Seriously?

"Bah. If anybody wants me, I'll be in Worthing."

Not that I would suggest for a moment that our fine town is the ideal backdrop to the kind of tangerine taste-void that makes Dancing on Ice look like Newsnight, the mirrorball underwear of Latvian transvestites reflecting little spots of light off the pier in a unifying moment of cross-continental beauty.

No. That would probably be Crawley.

But I won't deny that when waxed chests and singing turkeys meet abject national failure, home is where I want to be.

Perhaps it's a comfort to know that while nobody loves Britain, my mother still loves me (though if I represented the country in a diamante-edged blazer, I believe I would love myself a little less).

It could be because my brothers are the only other humans of my acquaintance to truly appreciate subtitled lyrics at the push of the sacred red button.

Or maybe it's the faint memory of happier times, the spectre of my nine-year-old self weeping along to the victory performance of Love Shine a Light, 1997.

The pride! The hope! Maybe D-ream had it right, and things CAN only get better!

Perhaps that Mr Blair will turn the country into an enormous roller disco and Ronan Keating's solo projects will never happen!

I believe if I examined the lounge carpet very closely, I would find a rogue Ribena stain to commemorate the douze-point shock that officially declared My Country Is Great.

Eleven years on, cynicism our only friend unless you count San Marino*, I had to come back to Worthing.

Because Worthing, and don't take this the wrong way folks, appreciates the bittersweet plight of the eternal runner-up.

Brighton is forever destined to be our cooler, more attractive older brother, the one with a Lotus and a girlfriend and a job with a little nameplate on his desk who always gets the most space on the Christmas family newsletter.

(London, incidentally, doesn't care about winning or losing. It just flicks you on the forehead and takes your lunch money).

Brighton beach got mods, rockers and Fatboy Slim, ours got several thousand tonnes of old wood.

Their Pavilion belonged to the Prince Regent, ours belongs to former Crossroads stars in touring 70s tribute shows.

Even Littlehampton, with its arty 'conceptual' café, is moving up the ranks like a precocious younger sister in a tap-dancing ensemble.

But still we remain chipper.

And just because I can tell you ARE taking this the wrong way, I am going to unleash a bit of a Worthingite love-in, in the form of a big juicy plug for the town's best, and not just by default as a sole contender, independent record boutique.

Formerly Random Rules, the new, spruced up and snazzier Revolutionary Music (off Warwick Street, down Warwick Lane, which I've always secretly suspected houses Diagon Alley, should you manage to tap the right bit of wall) stocks a refreshing range of indie, rock, folk, jazz, dance and electronica, as well as artwork and other interesting caboodle from local creative types.

It may just be the place to shake off the Euroblues and rediscover taste… my nine-year-old self had to move on a some point, but it seems not necessarily out of Worthing.

There, you can forgive me now.

*Four whole points.

If I knew where the dickens you were I'd come over there and kiss you all. I don't imagine this would take long.

Editor: Here's a link to on for anyone else who doesn't know where Sclickan Marino is.

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