SO the Northern Lights are back. Big f**king deal, you might say. Well, it is for those of us who blew four grand to see the f**kers in Norway seven years ago. 

It was our wedding anniversary and I had big dreams. A week in New York watching the best of Broadway. The Grand Canyon. Seeing Venezuela’s Angel Falls with my own two eyes. But my wife had a better idea.

‘I’ve always wanted to see the Northern Lights,’ she said, and like a dick I agreed. So we paid a frankly staggering sum and headed to Tromsø for two weeks of 22-hour nights.

There was bugger all to do. A pint cost £18 and you couldn’t even buy booze at the weekend. I mean the mountains are impressive, but in that cold? You don’t stay out gazing at them.

Yes, when the clouds cleared and it showed up, the old aurora borealis was pretty impressive. Yes, we held mittens and convinced ourselves it was worth it. Yes, we showed everyone photos and bragged.

But now? When it’s in British skies every other Wednesday? When every prick and his kids can see them just by stepping into the garden? Well I look a proper arsehole, don’t I?

Norway? They’re marketing tours to see them in Wigan now: a pie, a pint and the Northern Lights. Up in Newcastle they’re just a colourful background to a fight in a taxi queue.

They’re common. So for our anniversary next year we’re off to Easter Island to see the mo’ai. Those bastards aren’t marching to in Doncaster any time soon.