Hey you, it's time to get off Ernie's cloud now

Don't believe everything you read in the brochures, they don't say it changes when the sun goes down.

And when it came up again, global time zones saw us straight into a full English breakfast treat – the rugby world cup final.

So we commandeered this room at a friendly bar and proceeded to confuse the passing locals with songs they'd never heard, about a sport they didn't understand.

Johnny Wilkinson swung his boot low and the rest was history, with an historic celebration duly following.

My mate fell off his chair and we made it to our sweet chariot (dodgy taxi) before El Landlord, delighted by such a busy trade before 9am, even noticed the mess we'd made. Don't ask. Result.

My fuzzy memory of events was sharpened this week when one of the lads posted pictures of said bash on Facebook. At first I failed to recognise a) the year b) the place c) the event d) my friends and e) even my floppy-fringed former self.

The waistlines were thinner, the hair darker, we all looked a lot more than 10 years younger and, as the memories came flooding back, it quickly seemed like it all happened just yesterday.

If only. An entire decade has flown past.

Where once we sat around talking about new brides, new babies and new jobs, it's now ex-brides, grandbabies and how long before we can afford to retire.

Now, I don't normally use Facebook, so apologies if I've missed your birthday, forgotten to 'like' your holiday snaps or not mentioned what I had for dinner last Tuesday.

But flicking through after the Barca episode I came across the sad news that my old English teacher had died.

Peter Knowles was a great bloke; dry, droll, inspirational and with a former career as a milkman that gave us seventies schoolkids a ready-made nickname.

Thanks to Benny Hill, he was known as 'Ernie' long before I arrived.

Not that anyone ever dared mention it in his earshot; even while giving up his time to coach us at football, he was always 'Sir'.

He never quite took to me; I was far too gobby, a Tucker Jenkins try-hard. Still am, obviously.

But he liked my brother and lent him his Who and Rolling Stones albums, which was probably the best education we could have had.

In a way I've got him to thank for nearly 30 years making a good living as a writer and even longer listening to great music. He died not long after retiring and, while he'd no doubt have had a wry smile at the many tributes from scallies and the studious alike, he deserved a lot longer to put his feet up.

To quote some other little-known songwriter, life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.

And it's flashing past before our eyes, right here, right now, today, as you read this very page.

So if you want that dream trip, set off now.

If you crave that fancy new car, get it now.

If you hate your job and you're unhappy with your life, change it. Now.

Don't bank on doing it later. Who knows if 'later' will ever arrive?

Because time didn't really stand still that day in Barcelona.

It never does.

RIP, Sir.