DRIVEN to despair by this shoddy excuse for a summer I spent much of Saturday afternoon at a travel agent, along with a huddle of other morose Brits, united in the knowledge that we have about as much chance of experiencing a glorious heatwave as being kidnapped by a troop of murderous Morris dancers -- if not less so. Such is the way with good old, rain-soaked, perennially disappointing Blighty.

This got me to thinking about Brits abroad, and how, despite the hundreds of different countries and cultures there are to explore, so many twenty-somethings choose to spent their precious two weeks holiday a year sipping vodka by the bucketload, dancing to Whigfield under the flashing disco lights, snogging anything in human form and throwing up on the beach. Not just once but every night.

Not for nothing have we Brits got the worst reputation of all the holidaymakers in the world. Magaluf, Tenerife, Benidorm, Ibiza -- now it is the turn of Faliraki where a group of Britons were recently arrested due to lewd behaviour. Of course this won't deter those in pursuit of a hedonistic holiday -- hundreds more will head out to resorts like this over the next few weeks and in a month they'll be mass of sunburn, dangly bits and vomit -- our citizens doing us proud once again.

Scarily enough this is not dissimilar to what's going on every Saturday night in our towns and cities (minus the sunburn, of course). However, add a bit of sun tan lotion and a sniff of cheap booze and you have yourself a totally different animal.

Somehow, because you are thousands of miles away, what you do on holiday doesn't count. Hence Sex On The Beach, back home just a naughtily-titled cocktail, now becomes a mission statement. Bets are taken to see who can pull the most people. Beer is consumed as if Britain were in the grip of prohibition.

Clothes take on skimpy, almost microscopic proportions and morals disappear as quickly as the milk-bottle pallor.

Of course we're not all like this. Having been through a similar holiday experience a few years ago I would rather stick knitting needles in my eyes than endure anything like it again. But try telling the Spanish taxi driver that all British women aren't tarts after they have seen hordes of half-cut British birds dancing around with their skirts over their heads and miming lewd acts with fruit. Try convincing the Greek waiter who has to watch the lads fighting and weeing up the side of his restaurant every night that all British blokes aren't yobs.

Yes, I'm afraid our reputation is well deserved. But perhaps we could be forgiven if only these people would appreciate that they have left Britain behind them. But instead they favour cafes serving egg and chips, read the same old tawdry tabloids and crowd around TV screens showing re-runs of Only Fools And Horses and Jim Davidson.

In fact, if Britain had the sunshine, they'd probably take two weeks off and do all this at home.

Come to think of it, perhaps I don't mind that Blighty is so rain-soaked after all.