Jack Averty: There's no place like home so shout about it from the heart

Questions regarding whether Arsene Wenger should leave Arsenal (absolutely) and where my surname is from (it's Jersey/French) come in fourth and fifth respectively.

But anyway I'm digressing in a desperate attempt to pad this column out because I spent deadline evening enjoying two of the world's wonders, watching Luis Suarez dive and eating warm Shreddies.

So where do I live? Well in Birmingham, not too far from the city centre in a small one-bed flat. It's quite expensive and not spectacular, but it is a good location for someone who likes to walk into the centre and buy burritos from Grand Central. Being central is also great for someone who had absolutely no prior knowledge of the region before moving and used to think Dudley was part of Wolverhampton.

I've lived there for coming up to two years now, ever since I started my job at E&S towers.

But ask me where my home is and you will get a completely different answer, even though I don't live there anymore and haven't done so for the past six or so years.

You know the place that has got really beautiful cows, great tasting milk, is full of bankers (the b is exchangeable), was occupied by the Nazis during the Second World War, has world famous potatoes and is practically in France? That's my home. It's also known as Jersey. Please don't confuse it with Guernsey, it's almost as infuriating as having your surname pronounced as Avery.

Put it this way, if you're from Hednesford you do not want people saying you are from Cannock and vice versa. They're inexplicably your enemy, even though they are your neighbours.

Where are you from? Oh Willenhall, so you are from Wolverhampton right? You get my drift.

Anyway I cannot fathom ever saying that Jersey is not my home. I lived there for 18 years, the majority of my friends are there, as are my family and of course my two beautiful cats, one of whom I named Misty after the Pokemon trainer. I look forward to christening my children when the time comes.

It is a weird thing saying where home is. People vastly more intelligent than me will be in no doubt that Birmingham and my flat is home. It's where I live permanently and where my bills get sent.

But I am not having that. I am in the early stages of buying a house in Birmingham and even if that comes off I will not call it home, at least not straight away.

Home is where your best memories are, the place that when someone mentions it your eyes light up and you can't stop talking about it.

It's the place that makes you burst with pride and it's the place, dare I say it given my valentine's column, you love.

When someone mentions Jersey it sets me off, huge smile on my face, talking about how gorgeous the cows are, how the milk is basically cream, how beautiful the beaches are and how Jersey royal potatoes will change your life. I could go on and on but if it's good enough for former Albion owner Jeremy Peace then it's good enough for me.

Of course it's not perfect, or else I wouldn't be settling into the mainland and more specifically the West Midlands.

It's really not got a diverse range of jobs unless you are interested in finance and it's mind-bogglingly expensive.

A million pounds in Wolverhampton could get you The Highfields in Wightwick. Five bedrooms, a breakfast kitchen, morning room, lounge and bar, a dining room and a study, to list just some of the rooms. If you wanted something similar in Jersey, then try stumping up around the £4 million mark.

But that's irrelevant in this instance really, it's still home. I've left and I'm not going back anytime soon, but that doesn't stop me calling it home.

The West Midlands is a great place and I am thoroughly enjoying my time here but it just does not evoke the same feelings Jersey does. How is it right to call the region my home when that's the case?

It's the place I live, the place I probably will live for a long time and the place that could well become home – but not yet.

I'm sure all of you reading this feel the same way about a place like I do about Jersey and could eulogise about it in the same way – that's your home.

Despite my blindingly obvious affection for paradise island I try not to harp on about it too much because frankly who cares? My UK friends turn off quicker than the pretentious girl's light on Take Me Out whenever I bring it up.

But I felt compelled to write about it because I feel like too many people are too quick to forget about home and not show enough appreciation.

You should be proud of the place you call home, you should brag about it at every opportunity and be furious when someone tries to give it a bad name.

Where's home for you then? The Black Country. What's it like? Oh it's alright.

No it's not, it's brilliant and you love it, stop playing it down and shout it from the rooftops. Everyone has really strong feelings for the place they consider home but for some reason people bury them and try to play them down. If you don't tell everyone how great your home is then who will?

Your home is the best place in the world, and everybody should know about it.