Jamieson went to Ibiza for Rivals last year and not only found some actual people who support Coventry but got to see Dean Sturridge score a goal for QPR. Lucky git. This summer the editorial decision was taken that it was me who would go on the tour - damn right as well.

Half past six on the morning of Sunday July 23 2006 and somewhere in Kings Cross two bedraggled figures are looking for the Thameslink station in a state of alcohol induced confusion. "It was that Mexican food I'm telling you," says one looking for somewhere to be sick, "It was the fucking imported lager and you know it," replies the other. The QPR adventure for the Rivals team had begun.

The larger than originally planned night out, brought on by trying to forget Hull FC's shock defeat at Harlequins the day before, wasn't the best preparation for a flight to Naples for my brother Paul, but it was bloody terrible for me - with a ridiculous fear of flying brought on by bad experiences as a youngster and chronic air sickness brought on by being a tart. We both felt, looked and smelt rough.

Luckily having heard about my problem with planes everybody from the message board had come up with some helpful suggestions. Herbal remedies, drugs, alcoholic cocktails, relaxation techniques, trips to the doctor's for tranquilisers - everybody had a good idea. So I decided to try them all and, as a result, was pretty much oblivious to everything going on around me in the departure lounge at Gatwick where apparently we were told our aircraft had serious technical difficulties and would be delayed.

Outside an engineer was kicking the front tyre, presumably that's how they check the air pressure these days, and scratching his arse.

Gatwick were kind enough to play us some music over the tannoy system while we waited but despite that, by the time everybody boarded the plane they were all still singing the music from the Frosties advert.

Once on the plane the captain told us he was sorry for the delay, the plane was "working after all" (bit of a relief) and he expected we'd make most of the delay up between London and Naples by taking a short cut. Now forgive me here, I'm no aviation expert, but surely you take off, you fly where you're going and you land. Surely there can't be any short cuts? If it takes two hours to get to Naples it takes two hours - that's not a short cut, that's just the way. What would they have done if we'd been on time, given us an aerial tour of France?

My theory is the extra flight time is to give the cabin crew chance to force feed you whatever crap the airline kitchens have churned out.

Why do airlines do this? The food is shit and we're only up there for two and a half hours. American Airlines I can understand but surely your average Brit is able to sit quietly for two hours without needing something to eat? We'd barely got off the ground when the stewardesses were on their feet, racing round and cramming sandwiches into us. What is their obsession with us eating? They even try and force a scone down you between London and Newcastle for God's sake.

Anyway we arrived at Naples and waited for thirty minutes on the plane for a bus to take us to the terminal - a journey of approximately ten feet that could probably even have been walked by Dean Sturridge. We then proceeded through the stringent security checks which consisted of one pissed off bloke slowly waving everybody through, and arrived in the baggage hall. As usual at a European airport all the Brits rushed to the conveyer belt and, in most cases got as close to the hole the bags come through as possible (in one case actually leaning over and peering through the rubber strips) presumably in case their bag went round once at 50mph and was then never seen again.

And as usual at a European airport the baggage handlers on the other side thought this was hilarious, sent out one metal flight case and a blue bag with a tag on it that said "Destination Delhi" and clearly belonged to nobody here and then buggered off for a cigarette. When they returned they did sling a few bags on, but it was a good 45 minutes before the Rivals luggage appeared. Tracy, our travelling partner, seemed most miffed that her plan of buying a bright red suit case to stand out in this situation had also been thought of by 28 other people which resulted in people scanning hundreds of identical red suit cases for the slightest scratch or mark that could be used to identify it.

Once that madness was over it was out into Naples where a short lady with brown hair stood holding a sign above her head that simply said "Queens Park Rangers." If that was too simple to understand every now and again she would yell "Where are the fans of the Queer Power Rangers?" just to make sure we remained nice and confused.

This turned out to be our tour guide Rachael, recently escaped from some form of institution for the criminally insane, and once she'd decided we were all here - and having not done a head count or brought her list of names on the tour with her I'm not sure how she knew - she marched us through the carnage of the drop off zone outside and onto the bus.

The coach journey to Sorrento is not a short one. On the way back at the end of the week it took us well over an hour, but on the way there it was closer to three because of the most horrendous traffic jam I've ever witnessed in my life. There is one road into Sorrento from Naples, a windy two laned affair that clings onto the side of a cliff for dear life, often threatening to slant slightly and tip you all into the sea 300 feet below.

This road was solid traffic in both directions the whole way. The size of our bus and the tightness of the corners meant that every fifteen yards or so we'd have to stop and our driver, Gerardo would have to lean out of his window and negotiate with the drivers on the other side to try and get us some space. While doing this Gerardo was also chatting up Rachael, adjusting the radio, speaking to somebody on a mobile phone and trying to drive the bus which every now and again would lurch violently in a random direction and dangle thirty QPR supporters out over the bay.

"Clap you hands for Gerardo" Rachael said as we finally made it to Sorrento - I felt like clapping him round the back of the head never mind giving him a round of applause. Bloody lunatic.

The hotel was conveniently situated in the middle of nowhere - a fifteen to twenty minute walk into town. The walk had to be made along the same horrendous coast road we'd arrived on and there was no footpath. Failing that there was a bus service that ran every twenty minutes, or rather it was supposed to run every twenty minutes but basically ran when the driver could be arsed and stopped at about half ten at night rather than, as the timetable suggested, one in the morning.

It was a nice enough place though. They'd lumped all three of us in together despite requests for two rooms but it didn't matter, there were three separate beds and the place was comfortable. The air conditioning unit refused to come on when we first arrived - it later transpired that this was because we had the window open but in the meantime Paul and Tracy had decided to dismantle the unit all over the bed. Once they'd done that they both realised neither of them had any knowledge of electronics at all so they put it back together as best they could and rehung it. Sdadly after this, even when we closed the windows, it was never the same again.

Paul came up with an ingenious solution to boost the air conditioning - stretch the hairdryer out of the bathroom and put it on a cold setting. While experimenting with this the hair dryer was dropped and smashed on the floor. He also ripped the shower curtain down, showered anyway and left six inches of water on the bathroom floor. Not bad for the first ten minutes you may think but it's about par for the course with my brother.

We braved the coast road and tried to make town for something to eat but bottled it halfway down and dived into a restaurant we'd seen from the bus. The food was decent, sadly several thousand insects thought the same about us and ate our legs.

All in all I was glad to get to bed after a long day. Approximate temperature in room at bed time - forty four degrees.

Day two was game day, Sorrento vs Queens Park Rangers. There were posters up for the game all around the town and a decent crowd filled two of the three sides at Sorrento's odd little ground down by the sea front. Think Grimsby with palm trees and, well you're not even halfway there but you get what I mean - football, the sea, it was all there.

Rachael and her bus turned up on time to pick us up - she'd invested in a QPR pin badge for her lapel and arrived at the hotel hanging out of the window of the bus screaming "QUEER POWER RANGERS" at everybody waiting on the kerbside.

We arrived at the ground about an hour and a half before the kick off and consulted a man at the gate about refreshments in the stadium. "I'm sorry sir there is no alcohol on sale in the stadium but if you'd care to turn left, walk behind this stand to the other end there is a bar that will serve you" he said in flawless English. Being English and naturally distrustful of foreigners the general consensus among the coach party was that he was "probably talking bollocks" and must mean the hotel directly behind the away end.

With its four stars, gold interior and wedding in full swing this was clearly not where the man on the gate had intended is to go but we gatecrashed nonetheless and were punished by having to pay six euros for half a pint of lager served by a snooty barman. As it turned out there was a lovely bar just a little further up the street where we were meant to be doing bottles of Peroni for two euros. Wallets lightened and time ticking on we headed back to the stadium where Gianni Paladini was outside telling all the fans there'd been a problem with the pitch and he thought "Gary Waddock might play for us tonight."

Oh how we laughed, good one Gianni.

Two hours, five goals against and after watching our goalkeeper who left ten years ago play up front we trooped out of the ground realising that one; Gianni hadn't been too far wrong and two; this could possibly have been the biggest waste of our time ever.

Sorrento had clearly done quite well last season, maybe even won their league, and this was the first chance for their fans to see the team after this. Consequently the players and coaching staff were introduced individually before the match to rapturous applause from the home fans. They tried the same with the Rangers players - well they tried it with Jake Cole first but when he had to emerge to near total silence and nervously wave at everybody they gave up and just let everyone run out together.

The bar at half time was very agreeable, although they wouldn't let me bring my glass bottles back into the ground. By the time I'd transferred all the beer into plastic water bottles the man on the gate had gone and I could have just wandered in with a firearm if I'd wanted.

The following day was the inaugural Rivals trip to the beach - except Sorrento doesn't really do beaches, they do jagged rocks. We all cut our feet to pieces, swan around for a bit and got in the way of the fishermen and then retreated to a bar built on the rocks and accessible only via the water, or an Indiana Jones style wooden walkway across the rocks. Can't imagine they get a lot of passing trade but it seemed busy enough. The only beer they had was BOCK! Which, at 6.5%, set us up nicely for a more clumsy second swim, more cut feet and a long walk back up to the hotel.

Later in the week we tried again to find a beach, we were sure we'd seen one further round the coast while drowning, but when we did get there it was packed, about the size of a penalty area, covered in black sand and used nappies and the sea looked like a toilet used by two hundred people, which on further reflection after I'd swum in it - it was.

Temperature in room at bed time twenty nine degrees - the air conditioning was now working but turned itself off when it thought the room was cold enough, not when we thought it was.

We decided on Wednesday that we'd catch the train to Pompeii and do something cultural. Mrs Clive and Mother Clive would have been seriously unimpressed if I'd travelled to a beautiful and significant part of the world and spent the whole time dodging nappies in the sea and drinking BOCK! lager.

The train is definitely the way to travel. Not particularly comfortable and, on a busy line with just one multi directional track running through pitch black tunnels, probably not the safest but every now and again we'd catch a site of Gerardo hanging his bus out over the sea on the coast road again and quite frankly being hit head on by another train is preferable to that.

Rather than spend eight hours going round with a guide, stopping every five feet to notice this mark on a wall or this stone on a ground, we got ourselves a map and a free guide book and with me reading and Paul remembering something he may have seen on television once we made the following conclusions - the people that lived in Pompeii all those years ago liked bath houses and places to worship, they liked a posh house and the auditorium (capacity 20 000) is still a damn site better than Kenilworth Road despite earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and about three thousand years of disrepair. Pompeii actually does look like present day Luton in parts and in others is a whole lot nicer.

Paul did manage to break a few things, including a tap with a queue of a hundred people at it waiting for water. Honestly the place survives a volcanic eruption, numerous earthquakes, two world wars and years of clumsy tourists plodding around but it was no match for my brother. Idiot.

It took us about four hours to go round the whole place, it really is massive, but that included a stop for some much needed water. The temperature didn't dip down below about thirty three degrees the whole time we were out there.

Later that evening I journeyed up to the players' hotel to interview Cook, Milanese and Ward, while Paul and Tracy went into town and tried not to cause too much trouble. While out on the town Paul (underage it should be said) was challenged to drink a yard of ale by a boisterous barman and then booed by the whole pub for refusing. They said he was a baby and, in drinking terms, he is!

The players' hotel was a glorious five star affair. I introduced myself to it by putting my hand on the sign that said "This rotating door is automatic, do not push" and pushing it, breaking it in the process and getting stuck. I sat in one of the leather seats in the lobby and looked around at the gold palm tree decorations and sweeping staircases. There was me with my notebook and three quarter length shorts. I remembered that Simpsons episode where Homer is looking for a new bar to drink in, he walks into an up market establishment and the waiter walks over to him and, with a big smile, says "Sir could you leave right now without making a fuss?"

The reception staff looked at me with disdain. Mind you the lobby was about as big as Loftus Road so there were far enough away for me to pretend I hadn't seen them. They were less impressed with Marc Nygaard arriving back from training with his shirt off it must be said.

While waiting to interview the players I was accosted by Antonio Caliendo who was delighted with his days work. It seems he was unhappy about the quality of cheese served at dinner in the hotel so he'd been out during the day and bought some of his own that they could use instead. He spent the evening insisting everybody try is mozzarella like some Italian version of Alan Partridge. It was all very surreal.

The players were all very nice to me, though I pity the poor Burnley midfielder that has to mark Nick Ward on day one. He's like a caged animal at the moment, craving some competitive football. He looks just the kind of character we need, ready to run through brick walls for the team.

I'd got a taxi up to the hotel, twenty euros for five minutes, so I decided to walk back into town and locate the others. It seems that in Sorrento the worse the mode of transport the more it costs. A return train ticket to Pompeii (half an hour one way) cost under two euros, a taxi to anywhere is at least twenty euros and, back to our hotel it was forty. A horse and cart would charge you a hundred euros - I knew this through eavesdropping on a hilarious northern couple who'd come out to get married.

Northern couples in foreign places are hilarious, full stop. The ridiculous sun burn, the fact they spend the whole time in "The English Pub" and the way they say things like "didn't reckon much to that there Pompeii, it's all falling down" just crack me up.

While I was trying to talk to Lee Cook without remarking on the fact that he was only wearing a towel Tracy and Paul had found a very strong contender for our "Worst live act in Sorrento" award. They'd stumbled into a bar called "Tiffany's" which was in fact a rock walled cave deep under the main square.

It was dark, and small and the bar maid had given up and gone shopping leaving the bar to them. In the corner a large man with a mullet not unlike Ray Von from Phoenix Nights was belting out Barry White and Robbie Williams numbers to twenty people while playing an electronic keyboard.

Someone had given Tracy/Tracy had stolen a tambourine and she was merrily tapping along to the out of time rhythm when I arrived.

Quite frankly I thought this guy was possibly the worst live act I'd ever seen, never mind just in Sorrento but, miracle of miracles we found a worse one the day after. Temperature in room at bed time thirty three degrees - kicked the air conditioning unit and went to sleep.

The following day we got the chance to see the players train. Or rather we got the chance to see the horrible coach journey the players were having to make to training every day. Ninety minutes on the coast road thanks to an accident this time. Quite frankly I can't believe there aren't accidents on there at every turn. One of the written rules is that you give way to cars overtaking coming the other way - so if somebody decides to drive on your side of the road it's your job to get out of the way, not there's to pull back in. The unwritten rule is whoever has the loudest horn gets right of way at the corner, so our bus would accelerate towards a blind bend, sound the horn and then swing round on the wrong side of the road and hope for the best. Gavin, another QPR fan on the tour, remarked that "it makes you realise that we just don't use the car horn enough at home do we?"

We did get the chance to see Troy, the youngest member of our travelling group, lean out of the bus window and shout to Paul Jones "Oi Paul, I'm half Welsh" which kept everybody amused for a while. To his credit Jones found Troy again afterwards and gave him his gloves.

There was heavy traffic leaving the ground afterwards which did give us the chance to watch the players getting up on their bus and doing their songs - Martin Rowlands and Gareth Ainsworth were the instigators it seemed. Luckily we didn't have sound.

After training we ate in one of the squares in town at a place advertising "live music." It's worth pointing out at this stage that everywhere we went to eat classed "a green salad" as a small handful of wet lettuce and "a salad with tomatoes" as a plate of three tomatoes cut into slices. Another thing, if you order a sword fish stake or a breast of chicken, that's all you get. No salad, not veg, no chips, no potatoes. Just one lonely looking piece of swordfish in the middle of a massive plate. It's like they're offended you didn't buy a pizza or pasta.

The live music came courtesy of a perma-tanned, pre op transsexual in a giant frizzy wig. Think of that woman that used to serve the drinks in Cheers are you're sort of on the right lines. She was belting out some cover versions of various god awful songs - including the Copa Cabaña - however she stopped short of doing Whitney Houston's "I'll always love you" which ruined the sweepstake we had going at our table.

What didn't help was every time we got round to my five minute time slot on the Whitney sweepstake this god awful signer put some circus style music on while she had a fag and a swig from a bottle of wine - both of which improved her voice no end. When it became clear there would be no Whitney rendition we took to taking the piss by seeing if we could applaud louder than anybody else and generally draw attention to ourselves. The waiter was most put out by this and kept encouraging us to pay our bill and leave.

About halfway through the "act" a large gentleman (like twenty five stone large) sat close to the singer and was a cause of great hilarity as first of all he mopped the sweat from his brow, neck, chest and delicate area with the table cloth and then cried at Celine Dion's Titanic theme. I mean fair enough we'd all had a good cry at some point during the night such was the quality of singing but he seemed to be moved by the song.

Just as we almost couldn't take the hilarity any more he jumped up, was introduced as tonight's special guest, and belted out an opera classic - turns out he was some kind of famous tenor, and a bloody good one at that!

Still I pity the poor sods who live in the flats above that restaurant. It seems she's their one and only act - three hours a night, every night of the week. If I lived there I'd have hidden in the trees and shot her long ago.

Temperature in room at bed time twenty eight degrees - more like it, but by morning it was back up towards forty. The unit had lulled us into a false sense of security and then cooked us during the night. Bastard.

Friday was match day two. We enjoyed lunch at the excellent Pizzeria over the road from the hotel (Tracy found to her cost that a sausage and chip pizza is actually exactly what it says on the tin) and then Rachael turned up to collect us all at half five. She'd really got into the swing of things now and was decked out in a slinky black number that said "Queen" on it - plus her Rangers badge of course. She even got an England 'We are QPR' flag from somewhere and wrapped herself in that. She's coming to England to study next year and has vowed to attend a home game - believe me you'll know her if she sits near you. Mad as a box of frogs!

With traffic surprisingly good this time around we arrived at the ground two hours before kick off. Luckily the hosts had provided entertainment. They blasted Jennifer Rush over the speaker system, then John and Yoko's Christmas song, then when we pointed out it wasn't Christmas they went back to Jennifer Rush - five more times.

The toilets were absolutely disgusting - and looked out onto the pitch so the players warming up kept shooting us nervous glances as we waved to them from the urinals. The bar ran out of beer way before the start of the match (no BOCK! either) and quite frankly it was the most bizarre place I've ever watched football in my life.

The referee's turned up in dark suits and shades looking for all the world like they'd been paid vast amounts to ensure Nick Ward's leg was broken off.

The players came out together ten minutes before kick off and were asked to stand in line for the national anthems! They played the second verse of the English one which confused everybody and then the Italian one was sung with gusto by the locals.

Now it should be said that San Antonio's ground is in the middle of an area not dissimilar to war torn Stoke on Trent. It should also be said that some of Rangers' more boisterous support had found their way to the game so the atmosphere, while not quite white hot, was certainly tasty and after the match the Rangers fans were kept in for ten minutes while outside was cleared.

Jennifer Rush got another airing at half time but for me the most bizarre thing on the night was when Polish Paul, everybody's best mate at Rangers, emerged through the gloom of the evening ten minutes before kick off. Not only did he make the start but he sat all the way through it ("How you finding it Paul?" "Long") and gave us a lift back afterwards as well.

He even made a late play for our "worst live act in Sorrento" award - clearing a karaoke bar with Elvis' 'Wonder of you'. After a while some custom returned so he got up again and did 'Rhinestone Cowboy' and after that they closed the bar and slung us out despite some drunk Irish girls demanding an encore.

Sorrento is a gorgeous part of the world with excellent café's bars and restaurants. There's so much to see and do and frankly I wouldn't hesitate to go back - I think I'd just try and pick a week when QPR aren't in town next time.

Recommended.

Photo: Action Images

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