Xmas '99: "Bonsoir? Bonjour? Hello? C'est ma voiture, mon Volkswagen, mon Beetle... erm... il est morte!" How on earth did I manage to be bent double with my

John gets beaten at the Tour de la Jardin by Oliver 'Batman' Clark

face pressed up against an emergency telephone, affecting an utterly useless Allo Allo French accent, in a howling wind, in pissing rain, with about three hours left of the 2nd millennium?

Christmas had been jolly pleasant, Louise and me living the easy life at my Mum & Dad's, drinking the bar dry at Pio's, and promising to give each other presents next year. Pio, who stepped off the boat from Napoli about 40 years ago but is still wrestling with the Queen's English was very impressed with our proposals for 2000: "Maximillian Sciandri! Mama!" he said, pouring my 9th Becks of Boxing Day. Then we'd piled into the 1974 yellow 1303 on the 29th of December, loaded to the rafters with our bikes on the roof to begin the trek to Le Haute Garonne. It looked like I'd had it lowered for an evening of driving at 3 mph up and down Sothend Sea Front with Pete Tong rattling the hubcaps, and our baseball caps pulled down tightly over temples unburdened by large iq's. Ha.

We stopped off at Sam & Andy Lyons to bid some tearful farewells to our beautiful little chocolate labrador, Kit, and promised to be back for her in March when her passport has been issued. I can just see her now, camped out on the pavement with her sandwiches as the queue of hopeful holidaymakers stretches round the block like every other Easter.

France was a scene of utter devastation as we drove down from St Malo. Somebody told us there'd been a storm, but I happen to know that Matt Illingworth had popped over there for a day or two after Christmas. Having spent last Christmas Eve in the company of the great man, plus the famous Xmas Drinking Disaster of 1994 at the back of my memory, I recognised the signs. On that latter occassion, Matt, me and my brother-in-law had put away the equivalent of the entire annual alcohol consumption of the Holy Roman Empire between us. Matt then got up on Christmas morning while Gary and myself were still taliking on our respective Great White Bathroom Telephones and rode up to his Nan's, 50 miles yonder in Bishop's Stortford. It was many years before he revealed he'd had to walk up the hills, though. A shrine to Matt's achievements is beginning to build on the new hangover website, www.hedstart.com Check it out when you can.

John and 'Clarence'

So we made it down there ok, and checked in to our new flat in downtown Pibrac. We drove up to the ski station at Le Mortis high in the Pyrrenees on New Year's Eve with Julian & Tracie Clark, Spencer & Melissa Smith and Spence's friend, Mr X. I'd love to tell you his real name, but if I did, I wouldn't be able to tell you that Mr X has just passed his audition to feature in a movie. What's so secret about that, I hear you cry, esteemed reader. Well, let's just say it's not the type of movie set where actors cry, "What's my motivation for this scene Mr Copolla?", you're much more likely to hear Mr X appealing "Fluffer needed on set, I'm losing wood!" I also believe that an HIV clear certificate is not always mandatory at your average "Bill" episode production.

We stopped off to take pictures at the Casartelli memorial at the bottom of the Portet D'Aspet, checked out the spot where Joop Zoetemelk ploughed into the back of Luis Ocana and inadvertently handed Merckx another Tour victory on the Col de Mente then wound our way back to Toulouse in a fulfilled and relaxed state of mind. It was shortly after this blissful state was reached that the engine in the Beetle started to sound like a low flying Lancaster bomber in trouble. We made it to within 20km of Toulouse when it gave one last hideous gasp and breathed it's last.

It could have been worse though. Monsieur Michel Oliver's Recovery Service took Clarence (don't laugh) off to a better place and we limped back into Pibrac with the aid of a taxi. So when the rest of you were watching the "Wall of Fire" (oh yeah?) or joining arms for a slurred "Should Auld Aquaintance Be Forgot," Louise and I were tucked up under the covers, dead to the world. Question for you: If we used to call duvets "continental quilts", how come they haven't got them on the continent?