Day 26 – Havana to London

I spent my last few hours in Cuba ordering every single item from the breakfast buffet menu, none of which was very good hence I kept ordering, and enjoying a PIna Colada, which was exceptionally good, on the veranda.

I gave out the last of my local currency to the beggar at the hotel gates, who looked at me like I had handed him a fresh dog poo – it was easily enough for three slices of pizza, five scoops of ice cream or seven cones of peanuts so I don't know what he was moaning about, especially if he was attending a childrens party later in the day.

Having had to endure an hour long wait at customs getting into the country three weeks ago, I was expecting the security staff on the way out to be happy to get rid of me as quickly as possible, alas not. Having nearly lost the will to live queuing for check-in followed by passport control, I was informed when I reached the front that I needed to pay a departure tax first for which, of course, I needed to go to a separate desk. With the final security leg cleared I could at last relax for the fifteen odd minutes I had left before my plane departed for London.

Day 25 – Havana

After a hellish three weeks of Mojitos, Pina Coladas, lobsters, outrageous cigars and 30 degree heat, I decide to treat myself to a bit of luxury and book into the luxurious Nacional Hotel following in the exalted footsteps of Brando, Flynn, Sinatra, Churchill and Hemingway amongst others.

I cruise into the ornate lobby dressed in my customary backpacker attire – scruffy shorts, scruffy shirt (I have given most of my clothes away) and scruffy bag clinking noisily with cheap bottles of rum.

After inquiring what rooms were available the receptionist haughtily stated 'The rooms are 170CUC' as she looked down her nose at us. Handily, this proofed to be the perfect angle for CIara to thrust her Platinum Mastercard up the snotty cow's nose. Having removed the card she launched her charm offensive in a last ditch attempt to get a tip from us – the fool!

The room, whilst a little past it's best – not helped by the blind that I managed to pull down – had spectacular views of the ocean, promenade and lush gardens. I made full use of the swimming pool and only ventured from the hotel grounds to stock up on supplies of champagne, peanuts and more cigars (weirdly you could smoke in the rooms and lobby but not the halls). At eight times the price of most of the other places we have been staying it was a little extravagant and I certainly felt a bit guilty when asked for money on the streets 'Leave it out, I am not staying at The Natio… oh, here you are'.

Day 24 – Havana

It's amazing how quickly you get used to a country, Havana seems far less hectic than when I arrived three weeks ago, helped by the fact that I have worked out how the dual currency works, everything seems a lot easier.

My day starts with a tour around Havana's largest cigar factory where the myth of Cuban cigars being rolled on the thighs of virgins is quickly dispelled, but advertising works and I guess that line is always going to sound better than 'Rolled on the dirty desk of a crone'.

Next stop on the Keith Richards itinery was the rum museum where the process of making Havana Club was shown – there is no Bacardi in Cuba, Fidel sent them packing for being capitalist imperialist pig-dogs. The tour included a tasting session of the various Havana Club varieties served by a girl with the longest legs and the shortest skirt I have seen in quite a while. Personally, I would have her rolling smokes in the cigar factory and selling them for £200 a piece.

In the evening I visit the National Theatre. I had taken the guided tour of the building earlier in the day and was left a little disappointed, after relieving me of my money a bored and sulky looking woman whisked me around two rooms in about six minutes giving such nuggets of information as "This was not always theatre', before wandering off and leaving me wondering if that was the end.

Whilst there I had noticed that an opera (La Dulcia Moor) was playing in the evening and as we queued for the £36 tickets a rather shady looking character in a long coat and trilby hat appeared from a fog of cigar smoke (I seem to attract the attention of shady street dealers in the same way that Angeline Jolie attracts the attention of African adoption agencies) 'Senor, you want tickets? I have'. Before I could say 'Isn't that the lead actress?' we were being led through the stage door, across the backstage and into the Presidential seats so called as they are favoured by Fidel himself. The shady character was given a nice little earner and the next time I saw him he was operating the main spotlight.