Now, before you entirely lose the run of yourself, let me explain that I am aware of the fact that we in Northern Ireland are technically British, too (for at least as long as the Good Doctor lives), but, as my sociologist friends used to mutter, participant observation tends to weaken this hypothesis.

Our (their) traditions, according to Lonely Planet, are being eroded by an obsession with TV talent shows, junk food, porn, vandalism and nuisance behaviour caused by binge-drinking. We (they) idolise celebrities "even though their 'celebrity' status is based on little more than the ability to sing a jolly tune, look good in tight trousers, or kick a ball in the right direction". At which point Lonely Planet begins to sound like my granny complaining about Top of the Pops in 1972.

But then again I am, perhaps, in the wrong place to take a measured view on the demise of British culture. I would even go so far as to say that where I am at the moment is one of the few places on earth where modern British culture stands at its most naked and proud.

I am, for good or ill, in Tenerife, where Britons come to feel at home. As befits a doughty seafaring nation, this clutch of small Spanish islands off the West Coast of Africa has for decades been paradise to the British working man. Northern Irelanders are well represented, too, but tend to stick together and frequent their own watering-holes where the Guinness is on tap and a rendering of Danny Boy is never far away.

As I write this I pick up a flyer announcing the imminent appearance of Fat Ba****d Roy Chubby Brown at the Hereford Bull Pub. Further inquiries confirm that this is not the original Fat Ba****d but, alas, an impersonator. And so it goes, ersatz Rod Stewarts are also in season. The ghosts of old television shows haunt the casual observer. It's as if Only Fools and Horses and Rising Damp never came off the air. I deem this odd until I realise that most of the ex-pats who own and have named the various pubs have been here for a number of years. Time stands still for the person who leaves home. Leonard Rossiter lives on and Del Boy is still young.

Surreal sights abound. Very fat tattooed people sit in the shade gloomily watching old Billy Connolly and Jim Davidson videos. Nothing less than 20 years old survives. No DVDs of The Office, Extras or The Peep Show here. Too cynical perhaps. Nobody likes a smartarse here. No, the old values maintain. Get that Big British Breakfast into you and make a start on the pints.

But it's easy to poke fun. Those who put The Lonely Planet Guide to Britain together have obviously paid scant attention to the history of the English-speaking peoples if they believe that the current behaviour of the average young Brit is anything new.

For increasingly obscure reasons, I have recently spent considerable time researching 17th and 18th century British seafarers. The ragbag of British sailors who conquered the world were the same people I am surrounded by in Tenerife. Plucked from all kinds of backgrounds, they cut a swathe through the seven seas. They were rowdy, drunken, immoral and they conquered the world.

Why? Because they were confident. And, in passing, isn't that what we Northern Irelanders lack - belief in ourselves? Educationalists claim that modern British children are often rude and aggressive because they are taught to be interested in only themselves. This may well be true, but it also creates a person who fears nothing or no one.

One of my heroes, a 17th century English explorer called William Dampier, was a drunkard, liar, pirate, slaver and coward. Nevertheless, he was in Australia 100 years before Captain Cook.

Let the Lonely Planet write what they like about the demise of British culture. They can never accuse Brits of being shrinking violets. Remember, even the Beatles were yobs.