HOW the Mediterraneans must long for summer to come around. I bet they pine their way through the bleak southern winter, clinging to the one bright spot on the horizon: the return of us Brits come next July.

I'm sure the locals of Faliraki and Kavos can't wait to get the beers in as the tattooed cream of English society pours off the tour operator's coach and straight into the bar, gagging for the first 8am session of the season.

I wonder if they write to the papers about it, just as we in Britain like to record the first cuckoos of spring.

And I've often thought how the street sweepers must get nostalgic for the tidal wave of sick and pee on which we ride back into town each holiday season.

I must confess, I hadn't given much thought to the special thrill we give Mediterranean hospital workers and police before now. But 2006 looks like being a vintage year for Brits abroad in the Med.

In Crete, for example, how they must have relished having to deal with the aftermath of John Hogan's decision to leap from his fourth-floor hotel balcony with his two young kids under his arms.

Hogan's son, Liam, six, died, and his two-year-old daughter, Mia, only escaped the same fate because she landed on top of her Dad.

She was lucky; she only got a broken arm, so that must have made things a bit easier for the Greeks.

They just had to patch her up, deal with her Dad's multiple injuries, sort out a round-the-clock police guard and launch a murder investigation. Oh, and watch out that Hogan doesn't come to any harm now he's on hunger strike.

In Cyprus, too, it must have been delightful to inform the family of a 17-year-old moped rider that their son had died, allegedly after a Brit became upset about his 16-year-old daughter being asked to dance in a nightclub.

They'll miss us dreadfully if terrorism and global warming keep us confined to British shores.

Happy days, though, for British seaside hospitals, cop shops and cleansing services.

I can't help feeling sorry for the poor old York fire officers who seem about to lose their station poles in a panic over health and safety issues. I must have missed all the reports about the lads and lasses banging their bums or straining their ankles as they tried to hit the ground running.

I've always thought that firefighters looked really happy in their work; much more so than policemen, for example.

And I've always thought one reason for that was the childish fun of sliding down the pole on their way to every "shout".

It would be tragic if they lost their job satisfaction; but I may have hit on a solution.

I hear there's a pole-dancing club about to open in York, and the girls will no doubt need somewhere to practise. That should keep the firefighters happy. Well, the blokes, at any rate The Archbishop of York has my profound admiration for his principled stand on peace. I think it's absolutely right that a man of God should express his concern for those who are suffering in conflict, and that he should make full use of his high profile to draw attention to the horrors of war.

The unworthy side of me can't help wondering, though, what he chose for his first meal after a week without food; how much weight he lost while fasting; and whether he has any diet tips he'd like to share?