Mitton's Blog

Unheeded warnings of a costly kind

2012-02-01T20:21:00.000-08:00

Part 1 March 1989,

I'd been living on a kibbutz in Israel for 4 months when I first met Roly.

The kibbutz, for anybody that does not know, is a collective community, usually based around agriculture. In short, a commune, where all the money made gets shared equally between the kibbuttzniks (people who live on the kibbutz). The way, it works, or should I say used to work, is that the kibbutz would ask for volunteers from all over the world to come and work there for peanuts (approx £20 a month). So, what would we gain from all this? Well, the answer to this is, a bloody good time, in the prime of our lives (I was 19), surrounded by like minded young folk, who had no responsibilities apart from cleaning up after partying and having protected sex. I must admit here, that whilst I was a legend on the party scene, during my 5 months on Kvutzat Schiller, I drew a sexual duck (for non cricket fans - this does not mean that I drew a picture of a duck in suspenders and crotchless panties - it means I did not get lucky). Despite, being forewarned of the many sexual diseases that I would return with and how many notches I would scribe on my bedpost, my efforts to prevent the former whilst increase the latter by purchase of a mega box of condoms before my departure from England, went unrewarded. In fact I only took the plastic wrapper of the mega box of condoms so that at first glance I did not look like such a loser.

Roly, who was of Swiss descent, was identifiable by a rather large lump in the middle of his forehead and his extremely well defined calf muscles. I assumed that the large calves came from hiking around the Swiss mountains, whereas I knew that the large lump in the middle of his forehead was acquired by drunkenly walking into an orange tree, 2 years earlier. A few days before Roly came to the kibbutz, Danny one of the fellow kibbutz volunteers and all round dick head, had warned us of his arrival. He told us that we would hear Roly's arrival before we actually saw it and that the first thing that we would notice would be his lump. No mention here of his well defined calves (maybe that's a personal thing). The only other information other we managed to glean from Danny, was that Roly's use of the English language was limited to one sentence. Danny, may have been a dick head but his knowledge of Roly was extremely accurate.

"I am Swiss cunt, I am Swiss cunt, I am Swiss cunt", is the mantra I hear as I hang from my orange tree. It's round about 8 am and as usual I am already behind on my orange picking quota of ten large crates, as I day dream from the confines of my tree. My day dream broken, I look down, and from a height of about 10 ft I notice a rather large lump protruding from beneath a mop of hair. "Ah ah", Roly has arrived, I think to myself, as I descend the wooden ladder. "Hi, I'm Andy", I say and offer him my hand". Roly, looks me in the eye with a big smile and says "I am Swiss cunt".

Over the next month, I attempt to have a few conversations with Roly but as you can imagine, this is almost impossible with somebody of such limited English vocabulary.

"So, when were you here before Roly"? - "I am Swiss cunt".

"How long did you stay"? "I am Swiss cunt".

"I hear that you have a masters degree in applied linguistics"? "I am Swiss cunt".

However, one day, there's a breakthrough. I walk from my room to the grassy patch where the volunteers hang out, and there before me, is Roly seemingly engaged in dialogue - and not a "I am Swiss cunt", to be heard. Granted, the dialogue is not the queen's English, but he's telling a story and people are laughing. Danny, stands amongst the gathering crowd and helps Roly with his tale. He's obviously heard it many time before, but he still joins in with the raucous laughter as the tale unfolds. The tale goes as follows.

Roly, had made a trip to London a few years earlier to see the sights. On day one, he met a guy in the street, who he had befriended and decided to go for a drink with. The guy obviously realised at an early stage that he was not dealing with Einstein and had pounced upon this vulnerability. Roly had been guided to a little sleaze shop in the Soho (sex area of London- to those who are unfamiliar), where he had purchased a round of beers for himself and his new friend. Roly and his new friend, sat for a while before the bar maid came over and demanded the cash for the drinks. He then got out his wallet and fumbled for the money. At which point, the bar maid got angry and demanded £320 quid from Roly, who turned to his new mate for help. No surprises in guessing what happened next. His new mate also turned on Roly and threatened to give him a kicking if he did not produce the cash. Poor Roly, insinuated that he did not have the cash on him, but this held no ground with his two aggressors who took him by force to his hotel room. They took the cash and left, whilst Roly's holiday came to an impromptu end. The next day he departed for Switzerland broken and broke.

At the time, I remember being shocked by the tale, whilst wondering about the validity of such an event. However, myself and all the other bystanders, love the story and laughed like demented hyenas. Two years seem to have softened the blow for Roly, who chortles along, his laughter only punctuated by his shouts of "I am Swiss cunt".

Now, you could say that this was a warning. But as you are to find out, a warning that falls on deaf ears.

Part 2 September 1990

My mate Chris and I have decided to go on a road trip to East Anglia. A mate of Chris's is working at a holiday camp down there and says that we can stay for free. I have been back from Israel now for around a year and I am itching for a little adventure. On our return from the holiday camp we see sign posts for London and we spontaneously decide to head for the bright lights. The decision goes something like this.

Me: "Shall we head to London", I half jokingly mutter.

Chris: (who was never known for his financial fortitude) "I've spent all my money", he replies.

Me: "Really, I thought I saw a bundle in your wallet! Come on let's go to a strip show".

Strip show, it appears are the magic words to a 20 year olds libido, and override any tight arsed behaviour that the subject may have previously displayed. As quickly as you can say "hormonal imbalance", I have changed the direction of the car and we are heading for the big smoke. Two country bumpkins with the street cred of a Christmas jumper, heading for certain gloom. In retrospect, our naivety of city life was so evident,that we may as well have been driving a tractor.

Rather surprisingly, once we are in Central London, we find Soho with great ease. However, we are not so diligent in our attempts to find a cheap car park (or maybe there just are none). Our libido's eventually get the better of us and we park the car in the nearest available spot, before taking a ticket from the machine. Epic FAIL number 1 or number 2 if you include the decision to go to London in the first place.

Like kids in a sweet shop we are instantly attracted to the area. A proliferation of sex shops, peep shows, street whores and strip venues, combined with bright lights and lots of noise, is enough to make our adrenalin levels soar. Taking this into consideration, in combination with the fact that we are wetter behind the ears than passengers on the Costa Concordia, it is no great surprise that we immediately enter the first establishment that we are touted into. A neon sign above the door alerting us the fact that it's a strip show.

Before, the rather attractive, middle aged, female Cockney tout has time to finish the following sentence. "Alwight boys", you want to see some naked girls", we are descending numerous staircases into the dragons lair. Our juvenile excitement absorbing any fear that we should be feeling right now, the smiles on our countenances wider than the widest Cockney wide boy. Our eyes transfixed on the wiggle of the touts tight buttocks, as she lures us down the staircases. I turn to Chris and scrunch up my face in a "Whooaahhh" kind of way. He responds with his own facial contortions. We are about to enter into a new dimension.

At the bottom of the staircases we pass through a straggly curtain, into a dimly lit and absurdly small room. The bar, which occupies one whole wall of the room, has no bar tender as we approach, but this soon changes with the metamorphic transformation of our tout into a bar maid.

"What'cha drinking boys"?, she asks us with neither pleasantness nor vitriol.
"Erm, have you got lager", I nervously reply?
"Course", she responds "Carlsberg, alwight for is it lads"?.

We both reply with an affirmative nod of the head before we are told to take a seat. It must be stated here that given the compactness of the room, our choice of seats does not overwhelm us. In fact, had we not been the only customers in the club (since 1972), we may have been left with no other option than to stand. It's either the small leather booth to the left of the bar, or the small leather booth to the right of the bar. We opt for the right, the booth nearest the door as it arbitrarily occurs - not that our naivety even recognises this fact at the time.

Our bar maid/tout walks over to the booth carrying two pints of Carlsberg, which she deposits with little care on our small table.

"Will, you be requiring any company"? she inquires, as she prises us apart so that she can sit in the middle of us.

"Erm, what time does the show start"?, I ask. Although, by this point I am wondering where the show is actually going to take place. This is like none of the strip joints that I had ever seen in 1970s detective shows. There's barely room to move in this darkened dungeon, never mind swing a boa and a pair of knickers.

She ignores my line of questioning and once again asks us if we will be requiring any company. Only this time there is an air of irritation to her voice which instantly fills me with fear. Chris, it seems is not feeling the bad vibes and asks.

"How much"?

"Not much luv", she replies in a condescending tone.

"No, I'm ok thanks", he responds whilst his hand subconsciously moves to his back pocket to protect his wallet.

"Well then boys, you'd better pay up", she informs us, with venom in her voice.

And that's it. It's taken a while for the penny to drop but it finally does. It's like I've just put my penny in the fruit machine (gambling machine to the none English), pulled the lever and watched as the wheels spin. Before the metaphoric wheels have even come to rest, I have foreseen 3 images of Roly's face, complete with big lump, displayed in my minds eye. Above face number one is the number 3, face number 2 is the number 2 and finally face number 3, the number O. The figure, £320, then explodes to be replaced by the words "I am Swiss cunt".

Like Roly, some years before. We've been had. Our pants have been well and truly pulled down and our arses spanked.

Chris, remains oblivious to the fraudulent events that are unravelling around us. Blissfully unaware of the financial quagmire that we have just stepped into.

The bar maid/tout strides off, hastily writes out the bill and returns to the table. She then thrusts the paper at us. I make no attempt to take it from her, so Chris (for the first time in our lives) grabs it. By now, I am almost excited at the prospect of seeing him look at it. Oh what glee to see a tight fisted friend examine an over inflated bill. My eyes are firmly focused on his facial expression as he unravels the paper and stares in initial disbelief. But wait, he's thought of something and his grimace softens. I am given little time to muse over his change of expression, before he enlightens me with the following classic sentence, which will stick with me for the rest of my life.

"You appear to have put your decimal point in the wrong place", he naively interjects. At which point, I almost burst out laughing and have to grab my sides to prevent from doing so.

"Don't be so fucking cheeky, now pay the fucking money", she screeches.

My curiosity is now well and truly aroused, prompting me to lean over and examine the bill. With the figure of £320 quid firmly etched in my mind, I am pleasantly surpised to see that we are only being charged £78.40 for our two pints of Carlsberg. The irony, if ever we needed more irony, of it is, we haven't even sipped the froth off probably the most expensive lager in the world.

Chris is still trying to argue that she must mean 7.84, causing our fraudsters behaviour to become even more beligerent. His realisation that she does actually mean 78.40 is comfirmed with an expression of pain.

I know full well that my wallet holds but 20 quid and I offer this to Chris. "You're going to have to make up the rest", I tell him. He opens up his own wallet and takes out a further 30 quid. Our offer of 50 quid is met with irrational disdain. I mean 50quid, and we've not even taken a sip. Once again she screeches "Give me the fucking money".

I decide that enough is enough, leaving the 50 quid on the table, I tell Chris "Come on, we're out of here". Despite his pain at leaving his money on the table, he follows me, as I push past the woman and head for the stairs. This is when she hits some kind of emergency switch which alerts an extremely large doorman of our escape plan. From the bottom of the second staircase, I look up, see the bright lights of the street and think that I am home free. A few steps later, I look up and see that the whole staicase is blocked by a mountain of a man whose frame blocks out every trace of street light. It's like a human solar eclipse. Afore him, is a rather mean looking dog which he has on a tight leash. Why a man of such stature would need such a beast is beyond me. But I am assuming that he is in no mood for a debate on this issue.

"And where the fuck do you think that you are going lads"?, he growls.

I timidly inform him that we have no money, hoping that he has a soft spot for my pathetic whimperings. It turns out that this is not the case.

"Ok, you have 2 choices. You either give us the money, right fucking now or I escort you to the cash point where you give me the money".

Faced with an Hobson's choice of epic proportions we go for the latter of the two options. He escorts up the remaining stairs and we re-emerge into a busy Soho street. Where, for the first time today, our lucks appears to change. A police man is walking past, at exactly the right moment.

"Excuse me, help", I beggingly plea.

The police man looks at me with disinterest.

"We've just paid £78.40 for two beers and were hoping you could help us", I say without pausing for breath.

The police man says "Well, what do you want me to do about it"? Before he exits into the crowd. "Great", I think. If the police are not even prepared to help us, we're goosed.

Suddenly, in a bizarre twist of fate, the doorman turns 180 degrees in his demands and tells us to leave.

"Go on, fuck off, get out of here before I change my mind", he barks at us, before adding "And don't ever come back".

Chris and I head off into the Soho crowd, as quickly as the police man before us. My brain is trying to assimilate what has just occurred within the space of the past 30 minutes. But all that is running through my mind, are the words "And don't ever come back". I know door men are not really known for their brain capacity, and we may look like country bumpkins, but I mean, come on why would we ever go back to a bar that's just tried to charge us £78.40 for the froth of 2 beers? It's not every day when you think you've got lucky by only paying 50 quid for 2 pints of Carlsberg.

Our return to the car park is met by equally bad news. We have been charged 20 quid for our brief stay there.

The country bumpkins trip to London is complete, only another 30 quid's worth of petrol back to Lancashire and we're back to safe ground.

I don't see Chris for another 4 months after our return home, and as for London, it's another 5 years before I dare to return.

In search of the school girl panties vending machine

2012-01-26T03:35:00.000-08:00

Many years ago, I remember reading an article on the sale of used school girls panties from vending machines on the streets of Japan. According to the article, this was a market that was driven by Japanese businessmen, whose perversions had created a veritable gold mine. Now, I am sure that 90 percent of men are excited by the mere mention of Japanese school girls panties. Add the word "used" to the front of these 4 words though and the percentage of those that would admit to still being excited, would probably dramatically decrease (please note the use of the word "admit").

Mention that you are going to Japan these days and people's number 1 question is often focussed on this very topic. We may expect, statements along the line of, "Wow, Japan, I'd love to see Mount Fuji in Autumn", or "You're going to Japan, I've always wanted to see the Golden Temple in Kyoto". Alas no, it seems that the urban myth of the Japanese school girls panties, vending machine is the issue on the tip of many people's tongues (and yes there was a filthy pun intended there).

But is this an urban myth, or does such a vending machine really exist? With an impending trip to Tokyo, I decided to do some Internet research and upon inputting the words "Japanese school girls panties, vending machine" into Google, I was inundated with hits. After, maybe 30 mins of carefully filtering through these results, I was left more confused than when I began. Photo's of these vending machines abounded, although others said that Japanese law had been changed over a decade ago and such machines had been outlawed. It was decided, my trip to Tokyo would focus on this weird and wacky phenomenon and the Japanese school girls panties, vending machine would be my Holy Grail.

A coincidence means that I will start my trip travelling with Taryn, a fellow British, English teacher in Korea. I meet Taryn at Changwon's Namsan bus terminal and we head to Gimhae airport. Before we have already boarded the plane, Taryn informs me that she has had several requests from people, to bring her a pair of used Japanese school girls panties back from Tokyo. "Excellent", I think to myself, I have chosen the right focus for my trip. Taryn, informs me that she will not actually be fulfilling these requests and I assume that at some point there will be a parting of the ways, so that we can both fulfil our hobbies. She is more interested in Japanese art, than panties, although I guess that it could be argued that this is art. A collision of colours, so to speak. Like a Jackson Pollock of bodily fluids, especially when the Japanese business men have finished with them.

A trip to the Imperial Palace, is rather uninteresting, so we head to Shinjuku, the very heart of technological Japan. The streets that you see in "Lost in Translation", a sort of real life "Blade Runner". Huge animated screens dominate the front of buildings, a proliferation of fashion empires such as Gucci and Louis Vuitton, with hordes of professional shoppers peering through their windows in awe, at the latest designs, and people dressed up to the nines in every possible type of fashion, scurrying across multiple road crossings in search of their own Holy Grails.

The juxtaposition of poverty and wealth, as ever in these mega metropolises is extremely evident. Homelessness is rife in Tokyo, the demographic, mainly that of middle aged men. I later try to understand why this is the case and I am led to believe that this was caused by the Asian financial crash of the late 90s. The men in question, full of great shame, decided to up and leave their families, with their tails firmly between their legs. In Tokyo, they would become invisible - just another statistic, swathed in cardboard in the rain. Given Japan's penchant for suicide, I assume that these are the ones that are too scared to carry it out. Their life's without purpose, but their survival instinct stronger than their desire to remove themselves from this world.

Walking through Shinjuku station, I think that we are passing a urinal, the stench of urine is overwhelming and causes me to wretch. I turn around just in time, to notice that a particularly vile looking (and smelling creature) is almost upon me. I rush off, like Usian Bolt leaving the starting blocks, to escape my terrifying fate. Of course, I feel desperately sad when I think about the future that these people have to face, and my mind is consumed with thoughts of how they can survive, with no goals or rewards. My sadness apart, I still find it particularly amusing when we see a tramp couple (yes,I know that this is politically incorrect), having a domestic, by employment of a series of inarticulate grunts. The source of this argument appears to be that the male vagrant, has found a porn magazine which he is hastily flicking through, with his back turned to his irate lady friend. The lady in question is hunched beyond repair and pushing a trolley full of cardboard and paper, from where I guess the horny male has found his prize. Mr Tramp is shielding himself against the wall, with his back turned, not only to his wife but also the hundreds of people that are walking through the underground station shopping mall in search of their Louis Vuitton bags. He in turn, is on search of his penis. Most people seem to ignore the scene that unfolds before them, although how they can ignore the awful smell, is beyond me. Taryn and I try, unsuccessfully to get a sneaky camera shot of the whole episode.

After a ridiculously expensive bowl of soup (normal by Tokyo standards) and a failed trip to a free art gallery, which it turns out is in fact a shop, Taryn looks exhausted and heads off home. I have my suspicions that she is heading for the area of Ginza and its supposed many art galleries, and my suspicions are later confirmed. Anyway, perfect - now to find my Holy Grail.

I know that Kabukichio is the main red light district of Tokyo and is very close to Shinjuku. Where better a place to start my quest than this? I follow a Lonely Planet walking tour of the Shinjuku area which if I navigate correctly will take me to the seedy part of town. Ironically enough, the portal to this district of adult entertainment turns out to be via a temple named Hanazono-jinja. I locate the temple, take a few minutes to watch people praying and then head off through the rear exit into an area called "Golden Gai". "Golden Gai", is a succession of narrow streets, which play host to over 220 drinking dens. These dens are small, bohemian and often xenophobic. Allowing access to nobody but the Japanese. The whole area is an insight into how Japan looked before their post war economic miracle. The Yakuza (Japanese mafia), where actually paid to burn these type of areas down, to make way for economic development in the form of shopping malls and office blocks. The fact that "Golden Gai" still survives today is only down to the endeavours of some of the areas supporters who took turns to guard it at night, to save it from the arsonist's torches.

I contemplate a drink in one of the "Golden Gai" drinking dens but after asking around, I realise that I am too early. "Oh well", I think to myself, "the Holy Grail of perverts is possibly around the next corner". Kabukichio is magnetic North and my loins are the compass. I look ahead and notice activity of a very animated kind, afore me. And there it is, Kabukichio, in all it's pinkness (pink is to Japan, what blue is to the West). A warren of sexual activity.

As I wander the streets, I try to take in my surroundings. Tall, neon illuminated buildings surround me in every direction, each advertising "girlie shows" and indeed the male equivalent. Peep shows, sex shops, strip shows, live sex shows and dvd masturbation cabins. Then there's more specialist stuff advertised, including the ubiquitous "Soapland" establishments. Later research tells me that this is a place where people pay $500 to have have a bath with a prostitute (just a tad overpriced I'd say).

My search for the Holy Grail, continues in a porn dvd room. I am convinced that if anywhere is going to yield results, it's going to be this place. I wander countless aisles, all stacked with an interesting range of Japanese porn. Whatever the perversion, the Japanese school girl seems to be central to its theme. The store is completely full of Japanese men of every age, who have a little pink basket full of porn dvd's. I watch, as they take these baskets to the cash desk, often pausing at one of the shelves of sex toys to stock up on lube or more interestingly, fake rubber vaginas. I observe,as they pay up and disappear through a discrete entrance to what I later find out, is a masturbation room, complete with a comfy sofa, massive screen, tissue dispenser and sink (don't ask). To an outsider, it all seems very civil. The most basic of human impulses, dispensed of in a suitable environment. The men go to such establishments on their way home from work, to rid themselves of their daily stresses. Once they have been relieved of their sexual burdens, they re-enter the relative normality of Japanese society, with their briefcases and their umbrellas replacing their cock's and their lube.

Satisfied with my observations of this side of Japanese life, but dissatisfied in the unsuccessful completion of my task, I head back out into Tokyo's sex filled streets.
Grabbing, an overpriced can of beer from a convenience store, I wander around looking for vending machines. These are so common in Japan however, that when I spot one, my initial excitement is soon replaced by disappointment when I realise that it is actually dispensing beer, or coffee, or snacks or plastic vaginas or lube. I am about to terminate my search and go home, when out of the corner of my eye I spot my "Holy Grail". There it is, in all its pinkness. A vending machine, clearly displaying a picture of a posterior clad in a pair of cotton panties. The machine, is positioned outside a sex shop, the owner of which is sitting outside cautiously guarding his gold mine. I really want to take a photo, but I do not have the nerve. How will his reaction be? Earlier in the day, I tried to take a photo of a pachinko gambling palace and was warned not to. Surely this guy does not want me taking pictures of his holiest of holy. Rather suspiciously, I loiter around the shop entrance, taking casual sips of my beer to help my nerves. The guy does not go, so I hatch a new plan. Ok, so If I can't get a photo - I'll have to purchase the wares.

With the bravery of a Kamikaze pilot, I swoop at the machine and under closer observation note that the price is 5000 yen (approximately 5 quid). With cowardice of an Italian cruise liner captain I make my retreat, to a quiet corner where I can retrieve the said amount from my wallet. In retrospect, taking a photo would have been easier but the goal posts have now been changed. I find a 5000 yen coin, wait for a time when there are fewer people passing by and I charge at the vending machine.

The coin slot is the same as those bubble gum or toy machines machines that you find in the streets in England. In theory, you drop the cash into the slot, turn the little handle and an egg containing your prize falls into a compartment below. With the stealth and accuracy of a Sumo wrestler, I launch at the machine and throw my money into the slot. I grab the handle and with shaking hands and give it a twist. I then watch with horror, as the coin flies through the air (in slow motion), eventually hitting the ground. This is only the beginning of the drama. What had started off as a highly surreptitious act, soon develops into a street drama. The coin, upon hitting the ground, does a few revolutions of the vending machine, which in turn alerts the attention of half of the street. Not known for their hostility, the kind people of Tokyo decide to come to my aid.

Typically, the coin comes to rest under the vending machine, far enough under to not be able to retrieve it. Anywhere, else - no problem. I would just cut my losses and head out of their with my head down. The gathering masses, are having none of it however. I am a guest in Tokyo and they will help me all they can. A couple of guys heave up the machine, whilst I lie on my stomach and pull out the coin. Not satisfied with this, one of the guys takes the coin from my hand, places it in the slot, turns the handle, retrieves the plastic egg containing the panties and hands it to me. I nervously tell him "Arigato" and head off to a less crowded place.

Upon opening the egg, I am greatly perturbed that the panties are neither school girls nor used. They are in fact, a terrible colour of purple, whilst the picture inside is of a mature lady wearing a blue pair of pants that look nothing like the ones in my egg. This disappointment leads me back to the machine to take a photo anyway. The whole act seems less seedy when the contents of the egg are of a less naughty nature.

So, I can neither prove or disprove whether the Japanese used school girls panties, vending machines is indeed an urban myth. But at least I managed to return home with my girlfriend a present from Tokyo.

A Mongolian Comedy part 2 - Whose gonna run with your wild horses (not us that's for sure).

2011-12-20T23:01:00.000-08:00

After what feels like and eternity, we are beyond the communist block architecture of U.B (it takes us so long to escape that I already feel that I am qualified to use the initials). Instantly, as if by magic, the grass becomes lushly green and the azure skies seem to go on forever, punctuated by mash potato clouds, which look almost edible. But it is the vast open landscape that gets me the most. Of course, I have the worst seat in the van, at this point (one that faces backwards)and therefore I get to see UB's ugly cityscape, disappearing as the van bumps off in the direction of Central Mongolia.

Saskia, Gerrard and Danielle, meanwhile are treated to the delights of Mongolia from the relative luxury of a forward facing seat. Over the period of the next 10 days, I am to learn that you take the luxuries whilst you can whilst in Mongolia. They are few and far between. This is a country, where a "real toilet" is as rare as Sikh in a crash helmet and a packet of wet wipes is as welcome as a power shower in a 5 star hotel. Indeed, the over excitement that I feel, when we make one of the few shop stops over the period of the next 10 days, increases my heart beat so acutely, that I will ultimately, probably lose 5 years of my life.

Saskia, who know's a little French becomes our interpreter. I am thanking my lucky stars, that I never continued my own endeavours into learning the French language, beyond "Bon jour, je mapelle Andy". She is coping well now, but I imagine after 10 days of translating the conversation, it can all become a tad tedious - especially because Gerrard's hearing is virtually non-existent. After a while, when the beauty of the landscape has become slightly more passe, I sit and listen to their conversation, whilst trying to understand the dialogue.

Gerrard: "En what is your nom, my petit pois d'allemagne?"
Saskia: "Zaskia, is mine naam, dat is Zaskia wiz ein S".
Gerrard: "Pardon madamme", je nom, je nom".
Saskia: "Dat is mine naam, Zaskia wiz ein S".
Gerrard: "Catherine, Sally, oh no, no, no, no, no - c'est bon".
Saskia: "Nine, het is Zaskia wiz ein S".

Actually as it turns out, my imagined dialogue is not far wrong and it only clicks with Gerrard on day 5, that her name is in fact Saskia (with an s). Suddenly, after a quiet period of after dinner reflection Gerrard bursts into animation and shouts "Ah ah Saskia, c'est bon".

Danielle's irritation towards Saskia is already starting to surface. By the end of the trip, you could cut the atmosphere between Danielle and Saskia with a knife, right now you could just about prod it with a fork. Danielle, is not one for hiding her disdain and Saskia's ever increasing selfishness becomes more apparent with every passing kilometre. Saskia, has extremely long legs and they seem to want to take up every bit of available space in the van, regardless of what stands in their way. I am convinced that her legs increase in length, in direct proportion to Danielle's annoyance.

We are told that the highlight of today is going to be a glimpse of Mongolia's famous wild horses. The chances of this seem to diminish rapidly when the only petrol station for miles appears to be either closed, out of fuel or they simply can't be arsed to sell us any gas. Our driver informs us that we will try again tomorrow and we head back in the direction whence we just came. Soon, we leave the sealed road surface and take one of Mongolia's abundant small tracks that heads off into the distant hills. I am assuming that satellite navigation would not have a clue where to send you in a country where dirt tracks criss-cross across the landscape in every conceivable direction. Our scepticism at the drivers knowledge and driving skills increases with haste, as the van appears to hit every seemingly avoidable bump on the track. It's almost as if he is testing our endurance levels, the judgment of which, is the amount of screaming we do, as our skulls make another dent in the van roof. I look at the disgust on Saskia's face and know that she's longing for some "Vorsprung durch Technik", right now.

A sign post informs us that we have entered a national park, but to be honest, it looks no different than the rest of Mongolia (which is not a bad thing). A sudden increase in tourist camps, full of luxury gers, is the only indication that this geographical metamorphous has occurred. We enter one of the tourist camps, for a shop and toilet stop, and I take a nosey in one of the gers. It's pretty plush, with a detailed carpet and some ornate furniture around the place. It is certainly not worth the infeasible amount of extra money that these suckers pay though. The authenticity of the the whole Mongolia experience is surely detracted from, by electing for such perceived luxury.

We are now on the hunt for the Mongolian wild horses, the increased attentitiveness of the driver to his surroundings is testament to this fact. A pity that this further awareness does not extend to the actual road. Whilst the anxiety level of the rest of the vans occupants intensifies with every near miss, Gerrard seems to be positely enjoying himself. "Oui, oui , oui c'est bon", he screams as all 4 wheels leave the ground. Maybe this is what happens when one is in the twilight years of their life. You literally, don't give a damn.

Somewhere in all the excitement, the azure skies have turned black, although sunlight is still penetrating the clouds and illuminating the landscape in such a manner that it looks like it's been touched by the hand of god. The colours are magnificent, almost like they look when lsd enters one's system and perception of everything is infinitely heightened. We quickly make another toilet stop before the heavens open up. The driver mumbles something to the guide, who then informs us all that the little bushes that we see dominating the landscape are in fact poisonous and therefore all contact with the skin should be avoided at all costs. I pay particular attention to this warning because I am wearing shorts and don't fancy a hospital stop in this lovely but I assume medically backwards land.

Urgently wishing to empty my bladder, I vigorously slide open the van door and jump out. "Argh, argh, arrgh", I inarticulately yell, as I realise that I have jumped straight into a poisonous plant. "Nice one numb nuts", I think to myself and cast an angry look in his direction. His vacuous countenance, does little to suggest that this is a man, who has just given a poisonous plant warning and then parked right in front of the aforementioned plant. Fortunately, the plant is either not as poisonous as he suggests or I am as hard as nails. The scales, I guess are balanced more in the favour of his stupidity. I wonder to myself if I should piss on my legs just in case the sting takes a while to surface, but decide against it when it occurs to me that I always urinate down my legs regardless.

Whilst we are all pissing, nature decides to brighten up our lives once more with a fantastic double rainbow. Under the beautiful light of one of natures finest treats, we all make our own golden rainbows and head back to the van. However, we are soon to find out that not all the soldiers have returned to the barracks (read on).

Our first indication that something is happening comes when the driver's grunts become almost intelligible. It is apparent that he has spotted something, and he brings the van to a sudden halt. In the few seconds that have elapsed, as this latest scene has been panning out, I have noticed out of the corner of my eye that Danielle seems to be going through her own personal drama. The look of anguish on her face is testament to this fact. I am about to enquire what the problem is, but before I do so, the guide shouts "There, there, look on the horizon". I cast my eyes in the direction that she points but I am rewarded by nothing. After, a minute or so, I turn my attention back to Danielle and following the requests that she makes via her discrete head gestures, my eyes divert in the direction of Gerrard's groin area. For my efforts, I am rewarded, not by a glimpse of a Mongolian wild horse but instead by a French wild snake, which is currently hanging out of the side of his shorts.

It's a close call to say what we see more of over the next 10 days, the famous Mongolian wild horse, or the lesser known by equally frequently spotted French wild snake.

A Mongolian Comedy Part 1 Leaving Ulan Bator

2011-12-08T03:19:00.000-08:00

When I decided to do take a 2 week trip around Mongolia, I did not expect a picnic in the Ardennes, nor did I expect to be end up upside down in ancient Russian van splattered in my travel partners blood. But when you like to travel as much as I do, you pays your money and you takes your chances.

After two uneventful days in Ulan Bator, my travel partner Danielle and I, board our van. Over the past few days we have seen many battered old Russian mini-vans around town and have become quite excited about the prospect of travelling around Mongolia in such a vehicle. Needless to say, we are both disappointed when we are herded into a rather modern looking Nissan. Little did we know that this luxury would only last until we got to the outskirts of Ulan Bator. A few days later and we would be begging for the plush seats of the Nissan.

Whilst we were waiting for the Nissan to arrive and be loaded, Danielle and I had the first glimpse of 2 of our new travel partners. The first, a young German girl by the name of Saskia, conversed with us for a while and seemed pleasant enough. Over the course of the next 10 days, we are to find out that these pleasantries do not extend to the sharing of the forward facing seats. The only luxury that one gets on a trip of such undertaking. Of course I had heard of, and witnessed for myself, the Germans laying their towels out on the sun beds at 5 am on the Costa del Sol. What I did not realise however was that this behaviour was a common German trait, to be displayed in any location outside of the Fatherland. Exchange the towels for an inflatable head cushion and a rather large bag (full of things, that were self consumed), and there you have Saskia, relaxing in her luxuriously comfy, forward facing seat, stuffing her face with the aforementioned goodies.

During breakfast, a commotion had broken out in one of the common areas of the Golden Gobi guest house. My curious disposition had got the better of me, as often it does, and I found myself witnessing a scene of great hilarity. A very aged gentleman of French origin, was stumbling around the place, closely followed by a legion of people, who were helping him search for his hat. It soon became apparent that the gentleman was of seriously impaired vision and hearing to match. His English, it would seem, did not extend to anything beyond "Oh no, no, no - oh, no, no , no , no , no , no", with a "C'est bon", thrown in at the end of every sentence of No's. After 2 minutes of hilarious observation, it became blatantly obvious that this was not just any old man. He was a stubborn character, with I assumed, a few stories to tell (to anybody with a knowledge of French). I never would have guessed that within the hour, I would be escorting him around the supermarket, helping him to fill his basket with cheese, red wine and any other French goody, he could get his hands on. - "Yes, yes, yes, yes , yes - c'est bon". Our search to find him a hat, is however in vain. This was to become my job for the rest of the trip.

So there, we have it -or so we thought. A luxurious Nissan, with a driver whose name I could never remember, a selfish (forward facing German), a fantastically stubborn Frenchman, Danielle and myself (you can make your own judgements about me and Danielle - we'll learn more about Danielle later). Oh yes, and our 1st guide - whose name I have long since forgotten and who we thought was amazing, until she turned weird on day 2 and disappeared without even saying goodbye.

Prior research for the trip had led Danielle and I to believe that we would be lucky if we only had 6 people crammed into an ancient Russian van. Our cosy little party of 5, stretched out in our deluxe Nissan people carrier, felt too good to be true, and that's because it wasn't. Within a day there would be 8 of us packed like sardines into the most decrepit mini-van in the whole of Mongolia.

Mongolia, let me tell you, is the 4th least densely populated country on Earth, only preceded by Western Sahara, the Falkland Islands, and at number 1, Greenland. With land mass of 1,564,116 km2, and a population of only 1.7 million people, one would expect better movement than a Jane Fonda workout. This, we were to find out, is not the case. Leaving, Ulan Bator is by no means a pleasant experience. Whilst being the only truly nomadic country in the world these days, with people dwelling all over this vast and pleasant land in their gers (which I will discuss later) - it's capital city, does not share the rest of the country's spatial harmony. A mass of vehicles fight to get out of the place, with the blaring of horns, shouting of expletives and general mayhem, making for a positively uncomfortable experience (especially when you need to take a piss). Our driver, whose knowledge of the city, we wrongly assume, is second to none, decides to take a short cut over the most bumpy terrain a man is likely to encounter in his existence on this planet. Maybe a moon buggy, could have conquered this environment, but our Nissan is certainly no veteran of a lunar lanscape and consequently we were thrown around the van like a bunch of pinballs. It does not take a cartographer to lead us to the conclusion that we are lost. That's right, less than an hour into our trip around the 19th largest country in the World and our driver does not appear to have a clue where he is going. In retrospect, we should have seen this as a sign of things to come.

Only 5 percent of Mongolia's roads are paved, mainly in and around Ulan Bator. We are now lost somewhere within the city's limits and there is not a sealed surface to be seen. Although, we can see green rolling hills in the distance, which by the way remind me of the Sound of Music, the immediate landscape is more reminiscent of an apocalyptic wasteland. We've already seen enough gers to satisfy our gerosity, and our patience is running thin. But hey! we have only another 10 days to go.

By the time we reach our first destination, somewhere on the outskirts of Ulan Bator or U.B as the locals like to call it, we are battered and bruised and have seen more used toilet paper than a peep show cabinet floor (more on this later - the paper, not the peep show). Rather than pity him, I am beginning to envy Gerrard's (French guy)visual and aural impairments. And then we see it! The Green Goddess, the Russian Rattler, The Soviet Sausage - call it what you will, it is now that we see our chariot for the next 10 days and it would not look out of place in a scrap yard. With reluctance we exit our luxurious Nissan Wet Dream, and as we enter the new vehicle, our destiny's are sealed. I offer to assist Gerrard to the best seat, but before I am able to do so, Saskia has pole vaulted him and landed facing forward in the proposed spot. "Gerrard, are you ok"? I ask him in my attempted best French accent. "Oui, oui, oui, oui - c'est bon", he avidly replies. Our journey begins.

Eulogy

2011-12-01T20:24:00.001-08:00

In many regards my dad and I could not have been more dissimilar. My dad, it would seem, was a man that could turn his hand to anything. His mind eternally consumed with thoughts of his next invention. It was commonplace for him to disappear halfway through Tomorrow’s World, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures or indeed Blue Peter – as a new thought exploded in his mind. The noises that emerged from his garage, in the following hours –the bubbling of chemicals, grinding of his lathe and that goddam air compressor were a source of constant irritation to the my mum, Janet and I, as we tried to keep up with Deidre Barlow, Bet Lynch and Rita Fairclough’s latest love affairs on Coronation Street , “Macolm, shut that bloody garage door, it’s freezing in here and I can’t hear the telly became my mum’s mantra.

I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).

Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.

It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.

Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.

“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.

Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.

“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.

With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.

Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.

Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.

“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.

“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.

But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.

“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.

“I think he’s taking it back off again”.

My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said

“Malc, what are you doing”.

To which, my dad responded.

“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.

I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.

Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.

If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.
In many regards my dad and I could not have been more dissimilar. My dad, it would seem, was a man that could turn his hand to anything. His mind eternally consumed with thoughts of his next invention. It was commonplace for him to disappear halfway through Tomorrow’s World, The Royal Institution Christmas lectures or indeed Blue Peter – as a new thought exploded in his mind. The noises that emerged from his garage, in the following hours –the bubbling of chemicals, grinding of his lathe and that goddam air compressor were a source of constant irritation to the my mum, Janet and I, as we tried to keep up with Deidre Barlow, Bet Lynch and Rita Fairclough’s latest love affairs on Coronation Street , “Macolm, shut that bloody garage door, it’s freezing in here and I can’t hear the telly became my mum’s mantra.

I, on the other hand feel a great sense of achievement if I manage to screw a light bulb into its socket, and have been known to give up on this task on more than one occasion. My mum constantly urged me to go and watch my dad in action, “go on love, you learn by watching, how do you think you dad learnt. I sometimes followed her advice but it always ended in disaster. My interest never lasted beyond 5 minutes, before my mind would wander and my dad was left speaking to himself. Eventually, he would shake his head in disbelief, at the heir to his throne’s gross incompetence. My role in the family business was to make him cups of coffee (which usually went cold).

Then again, there are many of my dad’s characteristics which I share. My love of the simple things in life, our extreme curiosity for everything and our mildly eccentric behaviour (mildly – who am I kidding?). Most of all, I have my dad to thank for the humorous way that I perceive the world. My dad was funny, a source of constant amusement to all those that knew him. Oh yeah, one other thing, his element of surprise. You never really knew what you were going to get with my dad – be it a Timothy Mouse story under the covers at midnight, a new puppy after a visit to a factory – or for his biggest trick – a new sister popped out of his hat – and we are grateful for her.
I could literally tell you hundreds of stories to exemplify all of his many characteristics and I really wish that I had the time – instead, I have narrowed it down to one tale, which I am going to share with you now.

It was a cold winters night in 1990. My friend Chris and I were on a double date and we decided to take them to the Waterside Inn in Summerseat. At the time I was driving a mini and on the way home I had my first puncture ever. I got out of the car, surveyed the damage and then quickly got back in again because it was bloody freezing. I informed my mate and the girls of the situation and of course this was met by a hostile reception.

Fortunately, there was a working telephone box nearby and I was able to ring my parents – who I hasten to add, were sleeping,
“Dad, I’ve had a puncture”, I nervously told him.
“Well bloody fix it then”, came his reply.

“I can’t”, I meekly responded.
“Why, have you not got a jack”? He spat back at me.

Thankfully, he had now given me an excuse for my futile behaviour.
“No dad, I have no jack”, I excitedly responded. To which he replied.

“Right, we’re coming, and if I get there and find a jack, I’ll bloody marmalise you”.
Marmalisation was always his favoured punishment, although we never actually did find out what it actually was.

With haste, I returned to the car, my teeth chattering in the cold night air. Of course, the girls were whining when I told them that we would have to wait for 30 minutes for them to arrive.

Quite, how it never occurred to me to actually search for a jack, it is hard for me to comprehend now. But if I would have found one, I guess that I would have thrown it in the bushes. When my dad opened the boot and the first thing that he saw was the jack – I wish that I had have done.

Rightfully, my dad was fuming and immediately ordered us all out of the car, much to the disdain of the girls.

“Right, now bloody watch this – I’ll show you once and once only”.

“Right dad”, I said, knowing full well that my level of concentration would only last for the first 30 seconds. With haste, my dad took off the offending wheel and replaced it with the spare.

But wait, what was he doing, he appeared to be taking it back off again.

“What’s he doing”? Screamed one of the girls- to which I repled.

“I think he’s taking it back off again”.

My mum, oblivious to my dad’s intentions, said

“Malc, what are you doing”.

To which, my dad responded.

“If he bloody watched me, he’ll know what to do. Kath, get in the car”.

I’ll never forget my mum’s anxious face, as they drove off into the dark, cold January, Lancashire night –leaving behind 4 disbelieving figures and a car which had only 3 functioning wheels.

Anyway, to cut a long a little bit shorter. Put the wheel back on I did, and after that night I took great pride in changing many a puncture. I even get excited these days when I get one.

If you need a light bulb or a tyre changing, I’m your man. Although, the moral of this story has been lost on me. My current car, has no jack and I’ve known about this for years. Dad, close your ears.

All that glitters is not a glow worm (Erm, are you sure dad?)

2011-07-14T22:14:00.000-07:00

To say that my dad is slightly pessimistic, is like saying that the American government is slightly corrupt, or male Korean pop stars are slightly effeminate. To say that my dad is a little resolute in his thinking, is like saying the Israeli's are a little trigger happy or the South African's are a little racist.

That is to say, my dad is a pessimistic, resolute prick at times. But he's funny and I love him, as do most people - and that's why he gets away with it (usually).

The Mittons are on a tour of New Zealand in a campervan. Now if that is not a recipe for disaster I don't know what is! In fact there are far too many incidents to document in one story, so here is a quick summary of some of the events that occurred in the run up to us arriving at Te Ana-au Caves (where this story plays out).

Day 1 - My parents emerge late at the airport arrivals gate, where I am waiting for them. Mum is flummoxed because she has lost her sleeping bag on the carousel (never to be retrieved). By 8 o'clock that evening, the sleeping bag incident is irrelevant, as she realises that she has left her travel bag containing passports, air tickets and $5000 NZ in cash - on the bus. Amazingly we get it back. The holiday continues in similar vain. During the 4 week period, we almost kill an endangered species bird (by feeding it a jelly bean), we break the campervan windscreen, leave the porta toilet at a beauty spot by mistake, crash the campervan 4 times (all of which are worthy of their own stories), and for the grand finale, our camper van gets broken into, whilst we bathe at Hotwater Bay. This time we lose the aforementioned travel bag forever, including the passports, air tickets and around $3000 NZ in cash. My dad also gets his rucksack stolen and spends much of the remaining part of the holiday wearing my mum's clothing - including her tights. He seems a little too comfortable with this situation if I am to be honest.

We arrive on the banks of Te-Ana-au Lake late in the afternoon. Like most of New Zealand, the scenery is magnificent. However, the scenery is not our primary reason for being here. We are here to see glow worms. Or should I say, my mum and I are here to see glow worms. My dad, meanwhile seems resolute in proving that they do not really exist and are just a ploy by the New Zealand tourist board to get people to part with their hard earned cash (We're pretty good at that without an excuse). As we wait for the boat to take us through the glow worm caves, we sit in the cafe/museum, and educate ourselves on these most peculiar of insects. After much evaluation of the photo's and information available to him, dad comes up with his theory, which he feels obliged to share with the rest of the eagerly awaiting customers.

"They're not real you know", he informs everybody. "They spray paint the cavern roof with some kind of phospherant spray", he interjects. He says this with such conviction that the people around start to take note, and half believe the pessimistic dribble that he spouts. The kids faces drop, as if they have just found out that Santa Claus is really their dad. They turn to their parents, for confirmation of any truth in my dad's theory. The parents scowl at my dad and try to convince their kids that is indeed not the case. They have just forked out a small fortune to take their kids through one of natures magical kingdoms and some lunatic is adamant on disproving that the phenomenon even exists. When my dad returns to our table, he attempts to sit on an invisible chair (which a disgruntled parent is currently sitting on)and he consequently crashes to the floor. This is met by more than a few chortles around the room (he is to have a sore arse for the rest of the holiday).

Eventually, the boat, which is going to propel us through the cavern, arrives. We are assigned a guide, who helps us with our life jackets and gives us a run down on the do's and don’ts of our trip.

There is an air of authority to the guide's voice as he delivers his speech. Most people listen intently and nod their heads in agreement, at what he has to say. My dad however, was never the type to abide by the rules, especially when he has got it into his head that the glow worms don't even exist. He turns to me and my mum, and tells us that this is nonsense, "They're only saying it to cover their tracks", he rather loudly informs us. Once again, The Mitton's become the focus of everybody else's agitation

Here are the rules.

Rule 1. Please do not touch formations. Stalactites and stalagmites take a long time to form. They are easily discoloured by people touching them and the more fragile formations can break. Please help us protect the beauty of the cave.

Rule 2.. To protect the cave atmosphere and for the enjoyment and consideration of others, we ask that you do not smoke in the cave.
All photography is strictly forbidden. This includes non-flash photography and video.

Rule 3.. Keep quiet at all times, especially in the boat and on the jetties.

The 4th and final rule is relayed to us in such a serious manner, that only a fool would not obey it.

Rule 4. Under no circumstances must anybody attempt to touch the glow worms.

With our life jackets on and these rules firmly established, we head off into to the darkness, our guide pulling us, by aid of an overhead rope. Inside the cavern, it is pitch black and I mean pitch black. I place my hand in front of what I believe to be my face - I see nothing. In combination with the silence and cold, this leads to quite an eerie trip through the cavern, until we reach the magical kingdom of the glow worm caves.

If you didn't know better, you may think that you are in an observatory or a planetarium, looking out at a galaxy of twinkling stars. A feast of celestial activity, metres above our heads. Indeed, this is what the Maori's first thought when they discovered the caves. I can feel the gasps of pleasure and wonderment as the others on the boat take in this fantastic spectacle. For the next few minutes, our boat silently cuts its way through the water, as we all admire one of nature's treats. Everybody, that is except my dad, who it transpires has been hatching a plan.

Suddenly, I become aware of one particular glow worm which has broken away from the cluster. In my head, it's a breakaway planet, floating in space. It's incandescent glow, drawing me in, entrancing me, like I have never been entranced before. However, with 5 seconds, I am to be rudely snapped out of my hypnosis, as the vessel that protects us from the icy cavern waters, shudders violently, first to the left and then to the right. In a split second, the tranquility of the cave is shattered by the extended vocal chords of the tour guide as he booms the following sentence,

"You stupid man, I told you not to touch the glow worms"

Of course, my mum and I, and all the boat, as it turns out - know straight away who is responsible for this sudden interlude in proceedings. With a mixture of fear and embarrassment I slowly turn my head to the left, where my father is sitting.

The sheer darkness of the cave is penetrated by an enormous beam of light, at the end of which my father's ridiculous grinning face is illuminated. The torch beam, swiftly moves to the left, to reveal my dad's hand with a clearly defined glow worm balanced on the end of his finger. The whole scene is not too dissimilar from E.T, when he tries to phone home. Once again, the silence of the cavern is broken by the tutting of a boatful of disgruntled customers.

My dad responds with the only defence that he has left in his arsenal of stubbornness.

"I told you that they are not real", he whispers, with the conviction of a battered housewife.

Our pleasure trip terminated early, our party head back for the jetty. The serenity of the cave, is now punctuated by customer's complaints, my dad's whispering denials and me and my mum's frenetic giggles.

Battle of the jesters

2011-07-07T22:15:00.001-07:00

Dangerous Dave's equally dangerous friend, Steve Carter is giving a party at his far from humble abode, located in a village on the outskirts of Cardiff. This guy is pretentious with a capital P. He's the worst type of rich person, one that came from humble beginnings and feels like he has something to prove. One of Thatcher's children educated at the new breed of dumbed down university, which afforded the peasantry the opportunity to go out and make something of their life's. Steve is the type of guy that nobody actually likes but many people follow him around in the knowledge that he will share his mounds of cocaine and bottles of champagne with them if they tell him what he wants to hear.

It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon in July 2006 and my mate Toddy and I are driving down to Steve's party, with thoughts of free cocaine and champagne firmly etched on our minds. The party has a medieval theme with a strict fancy dress code. I have decided to wear a jester outfit which I actually have already lying in the wardrobe, awaiting such an occasion.

Toddy and I are chatting away and 4 hours have passed before we know it. As we drive through the outlying quaint little Welsh villages we crack open a beer to try and get ourselves in the mood. We eventually find "Castle Carter" and park up outside the gates. Dangerous Dave, who is living with Steve at the time, comes out to greet us and we chat to him whilst we don our outfits in the car. We then enter the back garden via a side entrance between the house and the granny flat.

The party has been going on all afternoon and consequently the huge back garden is alive with very drunken, very rowdy medieval characters. At the far end of the garden on the grass there is a huge inflatable castle with 2 fighting podiums in the middle of it. On the patio, there is a pig rotating on a spit, a table bearing lots of food and a huge, velvet seated, gold painted throne. Steve is dressed in a kings outfit complete with a crown and is sitting on the throne overseeing his kingdom and serfdom. As I stand for a quiet moment trying to take all this in, I hear a noise behind me and feel a hand slap down on my shoulder. I quickly spin around to be confronted by another jester. Unlike me, this jester has been drinking all day and judging by his loud and obnoxious behaviour he has some other issues going on. This guy is literally frothing from the mouth, falling around and speaking in such an inarticulate manner that it is impossible to know what he is saying. My concentrated efforts to read his lips are broken by the ringing of a bell to my left. The ringer of the bell is a guy dressed in a town crier outfit, who has been ordered by King Steve to make the public announcements all day. His announcement goes as follows, "Ladies and gentlemen, please prepare for today's main event THE B-A-T-T-L-E of the J-E-S-T-E-R's". At this news, the crowd erupt into a frenzy of cheering, the alcohol crazed jester punches the air and my arse drops to my feet.

Two minutes later I am on the podium, feeling stone cold sober and holding a large fighting baton in my hands. All I want to do is get this out of the way so that I can enjoy a few beers and some food. The town crier announces that on the count of three, he will ring his bell and the fight will commence. Three, two, one "rinnnggggg riinnnnggg", and we're off. I immediately batter the other jester with one hard clobbering thrust of the baton. His drunken state does not lend itself to such a hit and he falls straight off the podium. Unfortunately for me he falls forwards, lunging at me as he falls to the deck. I too am knocked from my podium and hit the inflatable castle with such force that I bounce up, somersault in the air, land on top of the castle wall and am consequently bounced with force, first 3 ft in the air and then 6ft to the ground. I land flat on my back, with a sickening crunch of my head on the hard floor. Once more the crowd erupt.

I know that I have hurt myself but pride kicks in and I am on my feet before I know it. I walk back towards the crowd with my head held high but avoiding their gaze. I'm heading straight for the buffet, when I detect from the sound of the crowd that they are not satisfied with this performance. They are chanting "jesters, jesters" as they demand a rematch. Rather foolishly I give in to their demands and take my place on the podium.

The town crier counts down, the bell rings and again I smash the jester with a blow which knocks him straight off his podium. What happens next is unbelievable! The jester falls forward, lunges at me and knocks me off my podium, I hit the bouncy surface, bounce in the air, hitting the top of the castle, propelling my 3 feet in the air before I crash down on the grass below, landing flat on my back. This sound familiar? It's a carbon copy of what has just happened not 5 minutes earlier. My head even hits the ground with the same intensity. Once more the crowd erupt.

This time I am down for slightly longer but my pride resurrects me. I walk towards them, head held high and arms triumphantly in the air. They cry out for more but I snub their demands and stride past them to get myself a well earned beer. I fear that I am slightly concussed and my ribs are in absolute agony. For the next half and hour I put up a show that all is good before retiring to a dark and quiet room upstairs, like a dog that is preparing to die.

One for the ladies

2011-06-30T21:03:00.000-07:00

The Italia 1990 football world cup was memorable for so many reasons; England's semi final showdown with Germany, Gazza's tears as he got sent off, Linneker's subsequent gestures to the bench, Pearce and Waddle's penalty misses, and me getting caught masturbating by my dad.

I am sure it's happened to us all at some point during in our life's, but I doubt that many have crossed as many boundaries as I did, that fateful Sunday night in June of 1990. So, here is a warning to any youngsters, or indeed oldsters that fancy a quick fiddle, when the circumstances are far from cordial. Please read and take note. If I myself had listened to such good advice all those years ago, the following story may never have happened.

Deep breath - so here it goes.

It's Sunday night and England are playing Egypt in a first round tie of Italia 90. I've been eagerly awaiting the world cup for, well 4 years actually. However, illness has meant that I have been bed bound for the past week and something unprecedented has occurred. Yes, that's right, you got it! I have not had a five knuckle shuffle for a whole 7 days. Right now, I'm feeling much better, and consequently, I am fully aware that my balls are the size of water melons. The sterility of the game does not help my predicament, neither does the fact that I know my dad has got a stash of porn in his bedroom, some 5 metres to the South East of where I lie, as the compass points.

We live in a modern house. You know, one of those Barrett type affairs. Those alive in the 80’s may remember the advert. Where a helicopter flies over the housing estate, and by sheer luck the houses do not blow away. To say that they were not well made is a understatement. From my room, I can hear my mum farting downstairs, and that's with all the doors closed. There's no sneaking into your room, in this house - the floor boards have a life of their own. They creak and groan, like they are ready to consume you for standing on them. It's a 4 bed roomed house, but if you put all 4 rooms together, you could make one normal size room. I can hear my mum and dad watching the game downstairs, in fact if I turned the volume off on my portable tv, I could quite easily listen to the game. You could say, the raid that I am planning on my dad's bedroom is more like a suicide mission really, but so is the nature of the swollen beasts, that are currently forcing my legs apart.

My mum and dad sleep in different rooms, for whatever reasons. When my sister, flew the nest (literally a nest), he moved into her room. Well, I call it a room - it is more like a box. It's approx 6ft long and 4 ft wide, and to add insult to injury, a large portion of it, is taken up by a big wooden cube which covers the top of the stairs. The top of the cube is now used to store his books, including my current objects of affection (his mucky book collection). I first discovered these in the late 70's when my 10 year old friend and I went rummaging through dad's cupboards and found a huge pile. Nothing outrageous like, not by today's standards. This was in the days before people realised that women even had an arsehole. It was all soft porn back then, Fiesta, Playboy, Escort and the likes. Thank god for that. God knows how I would be now if I was reared on Red tube, Tube 8 and Porn Hub (commission there for advertising). I dread to think how the youth of today are going to be in the future. Anyway, our secret, did not stay a secret for long. In our excitement, we knocked the pile over and in a circus like fashion did not manage to re-assemble it before my mum came home and caught us sliding around in the ocean of porn, that was now the bedroom floor. We were informed by my mum that dad was looking after the magazines for a friend whilst he went on holiday. I must admit, even at 10 years old, I found this a strange concept.

Back to the story. So, I've made up my mind. I am going to endure the first half of the game and then when half time comes I am going to carry out my daring raid. I'll be in and out of there in a matter of minutes, right? No wrong - if only life were so uncomplicated. As soon as the half time whistle blows, 2 things, which are not to work in my favour, occur. Firstly, Dave Grime my mate comes knocking on the door, and my mum sends him upstairs (bastard). Secondly, and even more instrumental in my downfall - the telephone rings and my dad picks it up. I can actually hear the whole conversation. I am not exaggerating about the sound proofing of the house.

So, Dave walks through the bedroom door, as I am making my exit (I almost take his eye out). I make an excuse that I am going for a shit and he should wait in my room. He complies and I hotfoot it to my dad's porn emporium. I know the routine, big "Nightmare before Christmas strides", so as not to be attacked by the floor boards. Downstairs, I hear my dad on the phone, talking about a book that he is in possession of. There was never going to be a bigger warning sign, of the events to follow than that. Unfortunately, testosterone has fully enveloped my body and it is the point of no return.

Once in his box room, I head straight for his Model Engineer collection and count down six editions. I know that this is where it starts. At this point I have about 200 fingers and they all seem to be doing different things at different times. Fortunately I have enough composure to grab my favoured copy of Fiesta, before plonking myself down on his single bed. Before you know it, my pants are round my knees and my inflated member is in my hand. Hastily I flick through the pages for my favourite picture.

Meanwhile, my dad has interrupted his phone conversation and is making his way up the stairs in search of the book that he has just been conversing over. Of course, I hear him coming up ever stair and somewhere in the realms of my rational mind - I know that this can only spell, one gigantic FAIL for me. They say, a standing prick has no conscience, and a lust fill mind, it turns out, has no modicum of common sense. I live in hope, that he is either going to the bathroom, or he is going to go into my mum's bedroom (despite the fact that all his books are in his room). Undeterred in my mission, I tug away at an accelerated pace, whilst flicking hastily through the pages of Fiesta.

I am assuming that you are picturing the scene in your minds right now (god help you). But there are to be a few extra twists in this tale, which make it even more remarkable. The only plus point is that my dad is a mad professor type and therefore slightly absent minded. This delays my destiny by at least 20 long seconds, whilst he rummages for "THE BOOK".

Those that are familiar with Fiesta, will know that there are a few pages in the magazine dedicated to the readers wife's. These are the pages where Mrs Miggins from next door, gets her flange out, for all and sundry to witness. But also in the magazine, there is a page dedicated to the reader's husbands (or should I say the readers)? This page is labeled "One for the ladies" and depicts such terrible scenes, as Billy Smooth from Grimsby with his John Thomas in full glory. Can you guess what happened next?

So, dad bursts through the door in search of "THE BOOK", just as I am about to explode a weeks worth of pent up aggression. I hear the door, and in an act of bare faced cheek (and desperation), I flick through the pages with increased haste.
As he enters the room, there I am, spread eagled on his bed, pants around my knees, penis in hand and yes, you've guessed it - the magazine wide open with a picture of Ron from Huddersfiled proudly displaying his cock. Does it get any worse than that? Yes, it does, comes my reply. You've heard people say that when they have had an accident, it all happens in slow motion. Well, this was certainly an accident and yes it did happen in slow motion. I actually see a weeks worth of sperm flying through the air, as dad comes through the door. It seems to linger, in suspended animation, as if a porn cameraman is trying to capture that golden cumshot. It almost hits dad as he enters the room. Fortunately, the mad professor, absent mindedness in him, is to my benefit.

Unbelievably, in a room that size, he fails to notice me, frozen to his bed, as if rigamortis has set in. He walks straight to the pile of books and negligently searches through them -in search of "THE BOOK". For 20 long seconds, I think I have actually got away with my daring raid, until he turns around and witnesses the whole sorry scene - Ron from Huddersfield an all. With a comedic edge, he lets out a cry of "WHOOOPS". Seriously, that is the way he reacts, with a big "WHOOPS". I'm not sure what I was expecting! Despite my terrible situation I find this amusing. He then scurries off through the door and halfway back down the stairs. It is only then, that he realises that he has forgotten "THE BOOK" - and who can blame him? He turns around and comes back up the stairs, arresting his progression outside his bedroom door. Which he knocks on and utters the following words "Andrew, you haven’t seen my book on lead mining in the Yorkshire Dales have you? Seriously, all this, and my downfall is a book on lead mining in the Yorkshire Dales.

"Hold on", I mutter, and attempt to rise from my unfortunate position. At this point my pants slip from my knees to my ankles and I fall to the ground. Dragging myself up, I stumble to the solid wooden cube that doubles as a bookcase, where I stare at the books, like a rabbit hypnotised in car headlights. Unable to compose myself, enough to fully realise the enormity of the task in hand. After much fumbling, I locate "THE BOOK" and upon nervously, making my dad aware of this fact, his hand appears around the side of his own bedroom door. As if this story needed any more humour, his hand is making grabbing motions in mid air, not dissimilar, from the hand in the Addams family. It continues to do so, until I place "THE BOOK" within the grasp of his fingers. He thanks me for my efforts and trundles off downstairs.

I return with haste to the safety of my own bedroom, where I am met by the sentence "Fuck me lad, that was a long shit".

England, beat Egypt 1 - 0

You butter believe it's not a woman

2011-06-14T03:43:00.000-07:00

You know those mornings, when you wake up the day after a big session, and you immediately realise that something is not quite right? That terrible moment of realisation when the video recorder in your mind is set to rewind and you are paralysed by a memory from the night before. "Oh fuck!, I didn't text the ex girlfriend - please no"?, or "shit!, I didn't get my cock out in the bar again - did I"?, and other such questions. How many times have your intoxicated blunders resulted in you uttering the following sentence? "That's it, I am never drinking again!"

The tale that I am about to relay, exemplifies these 2 points perfectly. This story, unlike most of my other bizarre antics, remained untold for many years - for reasons which will become obvious. But, as with everything in life, time has diluted the incident and age has ensured that I don't actually give a fuck.

"If it's funny, it's in".

Slowly, I force one of my eyes open and peer around the room. As always after a heavy drinking session, I see that my clothes are strewn across the bedroom floor. Nothing alarming there! My next observation however, does leave me feeling slightly anxious. My bedroom door, which is connected to the kitchen that I share with my very conservative neighbour, is wide open. "Fuck"!, I think to myself - "I hope that I was under the covers when she walked past". I am given scant little time to dwell on this thought before the next level of anxiety kicks in.

I can't actually remember whether it was the sound of breathing or the sense of hot air on the back of my neck, that alerted me to the presence of the person lying behind me. Initially, this thought excites me. The possibility of a day of passion, supersedes any worries I may have, that my neighbour may have witnessed my actions of the previous night. However, the sudden flow of blood to my loins will not last for long.

Although the person does not speak, I can feel that they are awake. I sense their eyes peering into the back of my head. I want to turn around and face my prize, but I am a little nervous - "What if she's a minger"? I casually think to myself. However, curiosity soon gets the better of me and I turn over. What I am confronted by will haunt me for the rest of my life.

It's difficult to say whether it is the toothless grin, the weather beaten face or the beard which scares me the most. Although, a combination of the three was never going to be a winning formula. In total shock, I roll over to get away from this thing that occupies my bed, and in doing so my body makes contact with a solid object beneath the covers. Grateful for the distraction, I delve under the duvet to retrieve the said object. Great! Just when I thought that things could not get any worse, I re-emerge with a pot of butter in my hand.

He chooses this moment to speak for the first time.

"Alreet big man", he barks at me. (At least I think that's what he says).

"Fantastic", I think to myself, as if this situation needed a new twist of drama. He's from fucking Glasgow! The strong accent, whilst being easily mistaken for a Neanderthal man, is not mistakable as being Glaswegian.

Right now, my mind is all consumed with thoughts that should never occur, in any man's life time. These are not the normal, after drink muses, such as - Did I eat a pizza last night? How the fuck did I get home? Did I spend all my money? I would welcome these questions with open arms. The questions currently at the forefront of my mind, are of the following calibre:- Have I been date raped? Is my anal virginity still intact? Did I willingly invite this person back to my apartment? Has my neighbour witnessed this? How am I going to get rid of him?

The next 3 hours are uncomfortable to say the least. Imagine that you are on a speed date and have 3 minutes with the most awkward date ever. Exchange the minutes for hours and you have some idea of how it feels to share your bed with a naked, drunken, Glaswegian - who it turns out, is a Glasgow Rangers football hooligan.

During this 3 hours, I find out that Gary (he is quick to personalise our Sunday morning bed in), is from the Govan area of Glasgow, and likes nothing better than to smash people's faces in at football matches. He, moved to Holland (for that's where this story unfolds), 5 years ago - to escape his violent past. The conversation goes something like this:

Gary: "Ye see big man - where i'm fro - yoove either got to ren fasht or be a feighter - I'm feckin both, big man" - he chortles to himself. (he is telling me that if you are from Glasgow, you either have to run fast or be a fighter - Gary is both - in case you were wondering).

I make no retort, I am still trying to work out what in Christ's name, he is talking about (and what he's doing in my bed).

Gary: "Aye, I alwaes carried a blade big man. Wae yoost te tape tee blades togetha, we a gap tween big man. Da gash would be so big, hospitals, could'ne fix da faces" - this is met by a further bout of laughter. (Ok, here - he has just told me that he used to tape 2 blades together, so that his victims would be left with a cut too big for the hospitals to properly fix).

Yeah, you heard me right! I am lying in bed with a naked, Glaswegian psychopath. Who likes nothing better than slashing peoples faces, in such a manner that hospitals can't fix them. Now, I'd be lying if I told you that I did not like new experiences. I have found myself in more weird situations than most people would ever experience in 10 life times. Right now though, I am feeling much less comfortable than I wish to feel

The conversation continues in a similar vein for 3 hours, during which time, I hear a lot of things that I don't really want to hear - bottles in faces, knifes through necks, broken jaws, gouged out eyes etc etc etc. With each new tale, Gary seems to be exciting himself more. At one point, he tells me the story of the first black player in Scotland, Mark Walters, and how every fruit shop in Glasgow sold out of banana's at his debut game. Gary, cries with laughter, as he recalls how the pitch was literally covered in banana's, which took the stewards half an hour to clear up.

The only break I get, during this 3 hours, is when Gary goes to the toilet. During which time, I check the butter pot for penis imprints and my arse hole for any evidence of foul play. Thankfully, the pot reveals nothing more than a few old bread crumbs, and my arse hole does not feel like it's been jousted.

Eventually, Gary's blood/alcohol level and stories of football violence, both dry up, and he decides to head off.

I quickly return my neighbours butter to the fridge, close the door, withdraw beneath the duvet, and vow never to drink alcohol again.

A few weeks later, I am informed by my neighbour that she will be moving out.

Excuse me, someone stole my mum! - Varanassi, oh Varanassi.

2011-05-05T22:45:00.000-07:00

My arrival in Varanassi could not have been stranger. Of course, like all the other tourists, I am here to witness death - death on a large scale. You see, all deceased Hindu's are sent to Varanassi to be cremated or disposed of (by other means), on the banks of the River Ganges. According to popular Hindu belief, the soul passes through a cycle of successive lives (Samsara), and its next incarnation is always dependent on how the previous life was lived. It is Hindu belief that if a person dies or is cremated in Varanassi there is a good chance that the cycle of life and death will be broken. Although I have done my research on Varanassi, also known as Benares and one of the oldest cities in the world, nothing could have prepared me for the reality of what I was about to witness.

The train pulls into Varanassi station, I gather my possessions and step onto the platform. The journey from Calcutta has been long and arduous. All I want now is a comfortable guesthouse with as little aggravation as possible. Naturally, this is never the case in India (and that's what makes it so special). Before my foot has even stepped on the platform, there is a commotion breaking out, not 30 paces to my right. Despite my travel fatigue, my curious disposition gets the better of me and I push my way through the gathering crowd. When I see the focus of the crowd's attention, I wish that I had not bothered. Ok, I am a self confessed death tourist, but I was not expecting to see a pile of dead bodies, quite so soon. Five seconds ago, I was hungry - my appetite seems to have disappeared as quickly as the crowd of bystanders amassed.

The bodies, I discover, have just arrived (probably on the same sleeper train as me). It turns out that this is perfectly normal for Varanassi. Over the course of the next few days, I am to observe dead bodies in many different forms and in a whole variety of strange places. The city has more than it's fair share of those that are dying and those that are dead (a little like Eastbourne I guess). Add to this, the tourists here to witness death and thousands of nonchalant cows, and you've pretty much summed up the demographic of Varanassi.

It's a case of, get the dead (or dying) there by any means possible. It used to be, that poor families, often threw their dead onto trains which were bound for the worlds biggest crematorium. The trains would arrive with dead people strewn in the aisles, toilets or even on the roof. I believe that this practice has been all but outlawed by the introduction of police that are employed to stop the sneaky antics of the poor. However, those that succeed in getting their dead to Varanassi by this means, are rewarded by a free funeral in the local, government run incinerator. The incinerator being the cheapest form of cremation and reserved for those of low caste.

By the time I find my guesthouse, I have already witnessed a human carcass on the roof rack of a car and another one in a rickshaw. Strangely, I am beginning to get used to it already. How malleable the mind is!

The next day, I awake early. I am kind of excited at the prospects of seeing funeral rituals on the ghats of the Ganges. First it's time to have breakfast. I wander the streets in search of a suitably relaxing environment in which to dine. Walking anywhere in Varanassi it turns out, is nigh on impossible. The whole place is overrun by those damn sacred cows. Seriously, they are everywhere. They sit there, in the middle of the road, as though they own the place (which in fact they do). Unlike the West, where the cow is practically seen as a walking hamburger, in India the cow is deemed to be the symbol of the Earth - because it gives so much and asks for nothing in return. It is Hindu belief that the cow acts as a surrogate mother by providing dairy products to human beings. It is not uncommon to see cars backed all the way down the road because nobody dare disturb the cow. Nobody that is, with the exception of old ladies - who seem to make no qualms about hitting the cows with sticks. If it was not for the actions of the old ladies, I fear that the whole place would grind to a halt.

My battle of wits and patience with the holy cows, is duly rewarded, when I chance upon a little oasis of calm within the walls of this bizarre bovine kingdom. However, I am only given enough respite, to order and have my breakfast served, before I hear an almighty crashing sound behind me. I turn around and witness 3 wayward cows, who are casually ambling through the courtyard, without a care in the world. The fact that my table is knocked over and my food trampled on, may under normal circumstances, have left me feeling victimised. By the time that the trio of beasts have been rounded up, however, every table in the restaurant has been destroyed. The waiter's futile attempts to rid the restaurant of the cows, by gently whispering in their ears, yields scant result. Of course, it is only when an old lady arrives with a stick, that the cows flee in fear. The very appearance of the baton wielding pensioner is enough to prompt one cow to make a mountain of manure.
Once the cows have made their exit, the restaurant returns to normal in the bat of an eyelid. My table is up righted and food replaced so fast, that I am left wondering whether I actually witnessed the event at all. For the staff it would seem, this sort of thing is an everyday, possibly every hour occurrence.

After breakfast I head for the ghats. So, what are the ghats? These are steps which lead down to a holy river, and can be found in many parts of South Asia. There are almost 100 ghats in Varanassi. Most are used only for the purpose of bathing, but others are used for cremations. Without hesitation, I head for one of the latter. I don't actually recall the name of the ghat in question, but what I witness there, will be forever etched in my mind.

Along the way, I pass a multitude of ghats. Although serenity exudes at each of them, it is difficult not to wonder how these people survive as long as they do. The locals, perform their ablutions in the same water, that they wash their clothes, brush their teeth, swim, wash their fruit and vegetables and remarkably drink. The river is saturated with flotsam and jetsam, ranging from flowers and pieces of timber, to human faeces and an array of dead animals. I am astounded to see that the waters are also frequented by river dolphins. If these observations are not enough to put anybody off, a quick dip in the Ganges, the next piece of information most certainly will be.

I reach a ghat used for cremation, where I stand and observe, the most perculiar of experiences that I am ever likely to encounter in my life again. I note that the ghat is only occupied by men (I am later to find out that women are not allowed). The men are all busy carrying the bodies of their dead relatives to the water's edge, where they cleanse them in the holy river. They are then laid out on pieces of wood, doused in ghee and sprinkled with sandalwood powder, before being ignited. Around me bodies burn on the ghats, set at different levels on the steps. Upon inquiry, I am to discover that the lower down the steps that a body is burnt, the lower the caste. Those that are cremated closest to the river, are known as the untouchables, whereas the Brahmins (highest caste) are burnt at the top of the steps. Now, here comes the strangest part (oh yes, it gets more bizarre). There are 8 classes of people that do not get burnt on the ghats for various reasons. This group includes lepers, sadhus (Indian holy men), pregnant women, children and those that have been bitten by a cobra. Children are deemed pure already, as is, I assume the case with pregnant women and sadhus. Those that have been bitten by a cobra escape the fire because Shiva, the Hindu god that presides over Varanassi wears a cobra around his neck; a bite from the snake is considered to be a blessing. So, how do the lepers escape the flames? I thought that they would have been first on the fire, to rid of their diseased bodies. In Hindu culture however, leprosy is seen to be a mark of god (I guess, it's nice that this gives them hope during their lives). What, therefore happens to this elite group?

The bodies of the elite are not cremated; oh no! that would be far too easy. They are, wait for it - bound in cloth, weighted down and thrown to the river bed. Seriously, they are disposed of in the river, which begs the question - how in Shiva's name can the locals still be alive when they are blatantly drinking from these waters. I have no answer to this question.

As, I stand and watch the spectacle unfold. I am transfixed by the sight of bodies returning from whence they came. It does not take long for a body to be reduced to a pile of ashes. A life, extinguished before my very eyes. I am so hypnotised by the whole event, that I fail to realise that the dust raining down on my head, is the ashes of those that are burning around me. I turn, and am about to leave, when there is a massive explosion behind me. I spin on my axis, my heart murmuring and my legs shaking. I am faced by a group of locals, whose laughter is aimed in my direction. They point at their own heads and make explosive gestures. I eventually realise that they are telling me that the human skull explodes when it reaches a certain temperature. Who would have known?

I've seen enough, although in a weird fashion, the whole surreal experience has been spiritually uplifting. As, I walk away, a dog with an object in its mouth, captures my attention. Upon closer inspection, I see that it is a human hand. I am later to find out that the hands and the feet are the toughest part of the body and often do not burn. The local dogs surround the funeral pyres and wait for these limbs to fall off. When they do, they grab them and scarper for a nice little feast.

A week after leaving Varanassi, I go to a local police station to report a stolen camera. It takes approximately 3 hours to log a police report. Later in my trip, I relay the story of my lengthy police report to a fellow traveller. He tells, me that he had a similar experience whilst in Varanassi. As he sat in the police station waiting, he could hear a guy wailing in the opposite waiting room. After hours of waiting, the traveller approached the desk sergeant, and with irritation in his voice, asked why it was taking so long. To which the desk sergeant replied, "You think that you are having a bad day, see that guy over there, he is having a worse day - he has lost his mum". It turns out that the guy has had his suitcase, containing his dead mother, stolen whilst checking into a hotel in Varanassi. One, can only imagine the scene, when the thief opened the case.

Involuntarily feeding the fish

2011-04-27T18:32:00.000-07:00

It's early June of 2006 and I am lying on a large flat rock. The sun is beaming down upon my out of shape frame, causing beads of sweat to drip from my hairy chest and belly. I watch on, in a mixture of fascination and contempt, as the droplets turn into a mini stream, which runs down my torso and forms a well in my belly button. I use the fingers of my left hand to periodically flick the well empty, whilst the fingers of my right hand turn the pages of my book. It is with tragic irony that I am reading, "A Picture of Dorian Gray", a novel obsessed with fading beauty. Fortunately, there is not a soul around to witness my unsightly, but necessary actions.

That, this cove is secluded is certainly no coincidence. After spending a week surrounded by people that I shared no common interest or desire to be with, I decide that a day of complete solitude to end my holiday, will do me a world of good. You see, I am always the first to advocate solo travel and have been, ever since my first sojourn alone, back in the late 80s. Nobody, to tell you what to do, no hesitation over who likes what and who does not, no arguments over money, nobody to tell you when to get up etc. Of course, there is a trade off. Nobody to share the experiences, nobody to take photo's of you, and often, more hefty accommodation bills. However, this trip has not been great. Insecurities in myself, compounded by a cold, have resulted in me becoming more insular than I have become accustomed.

The few days I spent in Athens this week were nice enough. Of course, one feels an overwhelming sense of fascination when wandering around the birthplace of modern civilisation. "Oh, yeah" - look over there the Acropolis, "wow, there's the Parthenon", and so on and so forth. Contrary to what I had been led to believe, I even liked the look of the city, with it's many hills and it's winding streets. The pollution was kind of bad but I had been forewarned and it was not as bad as I expected. But, for me something was missing. I just wasn't feeling my alone time and although I sporadically talked to people, I could not find anybody that really aroused my interest.

Athens was followed by a ferry trip to the beautiful island of Santorini, one of great natural wonders of the world. Once again, it was beautiful, and the hiring of a scooter to transport myself around the island, temporarily lifted my dark mood. But this holiday just was not happening for me.

From Santorini, I caught a ferry to Ios. Upon docking, I was picked up by a minibus and taken to Dimitris campsite on the other side of the island. I have been on Ios for 3 days now and realise that this is not the place that I want to be. A verbal assault on some idiot who decided it was funny to kick a live octopus around the sand (much to the amusement of the other beach bums), alienated me from the rest of the party revellers. Solitude sounded like the perfect answer. "Voila", or whatever they say in Greece - here I lie, in my secluded glory. Well, me and Oscar Wilde.

I am officially the worlds worst sunbather. I have the concentration of a ADHD kid on a pint of orange juice. Half an hours gone and I have read the same 2 pages of Dorian Gray at least 50 times. Emptying my belly button has become a bit of a bind, so I decide to eliminate this process by swimming instead. My rock is literally a foot drop into the warm, blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The following routine ensues - sunbathe 5 minutes, read 2 pages (same 2 pages), jump in the water, rinse out belly button, maybe have a piss and then get back on my rock.

Over the course of the week, my body has started to become a nice shade of brown. I don't care what anybody says, a golden suntan makes a person look much better. Why do you think we all get sex on holiday? I observe that the region which is covered by my shorts is still milk bottle white. I start thinking, how nice it would be if I could have an all over tan. No more, milky white arse. By this point, I have been in the cove for the best part of 2 hours and as of yet, I have not seen so much as a crab, never mind a person. I am pretty sure that I am safe. Tentatively, I ease my shorts down, my head spinning from side to side, exhibiting the behaviour of a man that is carrying out a criminal act. With one final pull, I toss my shorts to the side in an act of self rebellion.

Wow, how wonderfully liberating it is, to lie starkers, starfish on my rock. In my new state of nakedness, my concentration levels are at least doubled. Finally, I am able to complete my 2 pages of Dorian Gray (actually this is probably down to the fact that I am sweating less in my natural form and therefore I am relieved of belly button duty). I close my eyes and absorb those amazing feelings of exhilaration as the sun soaks into your mind and body. Life is perfect, how could anything ruin this day?

Of course, this being me, it does not take long until this last question is answered.
It starts with a groaning in my stomach, which soon turns into spasms. Typical, that this happens just as I am feeling peaceful on my rock and my usual fidgeting has started to dissipate. I am feeling far too relaxed for all this. Don't get me wrong, I love shitting as much as the next man. If I was not feeling so perfectly relaxed, and circumstances permitted, I would enjoy nothing more than dumping my load. I try to ignore the bowel irritation for as long as humanely possible, but it soon it becomes apparent that it is not going to go away. Within a very quick period of time my pleasure receptors have switched from joy to pain and I am darting for the Mediterranean Sea.

I am not sure if I'm spurting diarrhoea before I hit the water, but I sure as hell am as I submerge. For the second time in 15 minutes, I am feeling quite liberated and I must say, there is something to be said about depositing straight into the ocean. But wait! What is this dark shadow that is following me around? and "what the fuck" is that tickling sensation around my posterior? 'For Christ's sake, I can't believe it'! There is a swarm of fish literally eating out of my arsehole, as I spurt. Hastily, I head for the sanctuary of my rock. I never was a great swimmer, but today, propelled by an arse full of fish - I am the man from Atlantis. I positively leap out of the water onto my rock, after single arsedly doing my bit for the biodiversity of the whole region.

I lay face down on the rock. My heart is pumping, the heat is bearing down on the back of my neck. Thank god, I've escaped! Who knows what fate a man could suffer at the mouth of a thousand fish. But wait! something is not right. I feel that something is not right. I am gripped by a new fear. Slowly, I turn my head and, lo and behold, there is a pleasure cruiser not 20 yrds away. Worse than that, a congregation of people are standing on deck looking in my direction. In shame, I lay my head back down on the rock and wait till the boat is out of sight.

I can't be sure, but I think they may have just witnessed the whole sorry spectacle.

How I accidently gave away my car

2011-04-04T20:04:00.000-07:00

So how does one accidentally give away a car? Not any old car either! A car that had been given to me some months earlier by my dad, and was my mum's car before she unexpectedly died in 2002.

Well, the story begins a week earlier than the event itself, with a camping trip to Wales. After failing to unite 2 sets of friends who had pitched their tents on opposite sides of the stream, I decide to give up and get drunk instead. However the more drunk I get, the more indecisive as to which side of the stream I want to be on, I become. On one side of the stream, my best friends are sat reminiscing about our good times together, whilst getting wretchedly drunk. On the other side of the stream, the air is permeated by the sweet smell of grass and in my head there is a prospect of sex with an incredibly drunk and sexy blond (I say in my head because in reality her boyfriend is with her and he is much better looking and bigger than I am).

As often happens when my head is consumed with these kind of decisions, I get more drunk than I normally would and end up being abusive to my good mates, before darting out of the tent to chance my drunken luck with the blond on the other side of the stream. The stream, it turns out is not what it first appears. That is, there is a 4ft ravine on either side of it, which I end up falling straight down and cracking my ribs on the other side of the bank. The pain I incur would probably have been bearable, had I not done a carbon copy of the fall on the way back to my friends side of the river, after a failed attempt to get a grope of the blond. My friends hear my cries of pain as my ribs hit the river bank, but instead of coming to my aid, they rightly decide to laugh at my dilemma. In a mixture of pain and anger I lie prostrate, my feet dangling in the stream, my body immobilised.

I awake the next morning, to the most incredible pain. I have no idea how I have made it back to my tent, but that's where I lie. I am in the foetal position, pain shooting through my rib cage. With my friends aid, I manage to pack up my camping gear and drive back to Liverpool.

The next week is not pleasant. I walk around like somebody that is desperate for a shit. Too scared to make any sudden movements, in case I do any more damage. But it's bearable; at least until I am out with the girls on my counselling course and sneeze with a little too much vigour. Fuck me, the pain is so intense that I spin around to see if I have just been hit by a sniper's bullet. I am forced to go home early and retire immediately to bed.

The intensity of the pain does not lend itself to sleep. I lie there all night, my body enveloped in pain - afraid to move. I have made the decision not to go to work long before my alarm clock goes off.

Around 10 am, I text my friend Debbie and tell her of my predicament. She orders me to go to the Royal hospital. I am reluctant to do this because I know that there is nothing they can do for me (being somewhat of a veteran of the old rib injury). Anyway, take Debbie's advice I do, and I drive to the hospital, some 3 miles away. With the irony I have become accustomed, this turns out to be the most speed bumped route in the world. Each bump, I hit further inflames my pain until I can take no more. It suddenly dawns on me that my wallet is empty and therefore I am not going to be able to pay for the car park.

You can imagine my delight when I see a sign, down one of the seedy side streets that surround the Royal hospital. The sign informs me that I can pay 2 quid and stay all day. I enter the car park and drive into the first available space. I note that the car park is alarmingly empty for this time of day. Before I can exit the car, an apparition is upon me. The fact that this guy looks like he has not washed for some months and therefore smells like a sewer, should have alerted me that something was not quite right. He wears no uniform, no official badge and certainly no smile upon his face. He grunts at me and I detect from his hand gestures that he wants my none existent cash. I explain that I have none, but this neither quells his persistence nor aids my progression. The pain being unbearable by this point, I resort to more desperate measures and throw my keys at him. Yup, you're not hearing things. I have just thrown my car keys at a random stranger that couldn't look less official if he tried. In my head, he is going to hang them on a hook in his little hut, where they will stay until I have seen a nurse, had my x-rays, taken my pain killers and come back to collect my car. Call me what you will, naive, trusting, stupid etc. At that moment, all I could think about was getting some pain relief.

By the time that I have stumbled halfway to the Royal hospital, my mind has gained a modicum of rationality and I am starting to realise that I have just done something more than a little stupid. What was I thinking about? I turnaround and head back to the car park. By the time I get there, I am expecting nothing more than an empty space where my car was parked some minutes earlier. I am not disappointed (hold on a minute - yes I am). My hands clutch my head, my stomach drops through my arsehole and my ribs throb with renewed intensity. Afore my eyes there lies an empty space.

I am not given long to dwell on my predicament because before my mind has assimilated all this new information, a car comes flying around the corner and 2 bald guys jump out. For those that have seen Eastenders, these 2 characters could not have looked more like the Mitchell Brothers if they had made the effort. They cast a look in my direction and shout "What's the problem"? It was actually more crude than that but I only remember the sentiment and not the exact words. Now in hindsight (what a bastard it actually is!), I think that these guys were in on the whole scam (not that there is much of a scam needed when some idiot throws his keys at you). Lets, look at the evidence - they turn up right on queue and without knowing that there is a problem, they are asking me what is wrong, as though they know in advance. More importantly, they look like total criminals. Timidly I explain the events of the past 10 minutes.

The Mitchell Brothers, are visibly (probably faking) angered that a vagrant has been patrolling their car park, but tell me that this is not the first time that something like this has happened. Apparently, his trick is to wait until the boys go on errands and he then jumps in and collects 2 quid per car. Today is his lucky day, he has just been given a Nissan Almera.

The car park owners begrudgingly lend me their phone and I ring the police. I cringe as I relay the tale to them and the officer on the other side says "Now let me get this right........." - "Yes, officer, I gave the tramp my keys".

You thought that this couldn't get any worse right? Wrong, it gets much worse and all boils down to the fact that I have illegally insured my car using my dads address, so that my premium drops by 50 percent. I had often thought about this and come to the conclusion that if anything should happen to my car, I will say that I am indeed living with my dad and renting out my property in Liverpool - where I actually live. Now, this plan would perhaps have been all fine and dandy, had I not been consumed in pain and confusion. Obviously, this is not the case right now, and I inadvertently tell the police that I live at 99 Kings Road (my real address). Shit, I even catch myself doing it but my attempts to rectify the situation only result in an inarticulate mumble. By the time I come off the phone to the police, even I am convinced that I am the guilty one at the crime scene - Christ knows what the police think. As I wait for them to arrive, I ring the insurance company, who are about as convinced of my story, as England fans are about England ever winning the world cup again.

By the time the police have been and taken my statement, I am completely convinced that the guy who has taken my car, is now on his way to my house with the keys to rob me blind. The fact that there are many documents in my car giving my address, make this a very valid concern. I get a lift home from the police and after ascertaining that I have not been robbed. I head to the hospital where, guess what? They can do nothing for me.

That's not the end. It gets worse. To cut a long story short. The insurance company ring me up and want to send one of their people to my house. This is bad, this is real bad. My dad's house (which they think I live), is in Rossendale, a distance of some 50 miles away as the crow flies. In terms of public transport, it may as well be in a different country. With my car currently in the hands of a opportunist vagrant, public transport is my only option. The thought of public transport whilst harbouring an unbearable rib pain do not appeal to me in the slightest, but what can I do?

I arrive at my dad's early in the evening, after enduring numerous modes of transport and an equal amount of pain. Fortunately I have managed to delay the appointment until the following morning. It is only when I get back to my dads house, that I realise that, like a fool - I have forgotten all my documentation. My efforts have been totally in vain and my dad has to run me back to Liverpool again to pick up them up.

The next morning, the insurance woman arrives at 10 am, and my dad lets her in. I lie prostrate on the sofa, giving out winces of pain every 10 seconds to try and gain her sympathy. The lady, it turns out, is a real hard faced cow, who would show no sympathy if I lay there limbless. She reveals that she has been sent from the fraud division because my case stinks of it. I am cross examined for the next hour and eventually manage to convince her that I am more stupidly than criminally minded.

Two days later. I am walking through Liverpool and I receive a call from the insurance company. They have looked into my case and have decided that I shall receive no compensation. I am told that if I look at section 23, clause bla bla bla -I will see that if I give the keys to the person that takes my car, then I am not entitled to a penny.

Two weeks later, I receive a call from the police to say that they have found my car on some waste ground in Huyton.

And just when I thought I'd experienced everything

2011-03-24T03:31:00.000-07:00

No matter where you work in the world, or what job you do, there is always a certain euphoria that surrounds a Friday afternoon. This has been the one constant since my first day of work in 1986 at an electronics factory in Lancashire, to my current job as a teacher in Korea. There have been a number of different ways that I have celebrated this Friday afternoon feeling. In Australia, it would be a beer on the back of the tractor as we trundled back to our shack after a hard day of picking grapes or melons. In Israel, it was straight from the orange orchards to the lawn in front of our room, to down a bottle of arrack or vodka. In Holland, the electronics company that I worked for would finish early and we would all go upstairs to the canteen to eat snacks and drink beer together - whilst we laughed about the weeks events. Whilst in Liverpool it would be straight to the pub to get ridiculously drunk with my colleagues. Oh, hold on a minute, I see a trend emerging here. Maybe it is the need for alcohol after a working week that binds the world together (if the Muslims would adopt such Friday afternoon practices, perhaps we would not feel the need to bomb the shit out of them).

Korea, is slightly different. Essentially I spend my afternoons alone -which is fine by me. I don my Ipod earphones and shut the world outside. This is a course of action I necessarily take to either shield my ears from the repetitive greetings of the kids "teacher hello", "teacher goodbye" (yes kids, you are irritating little fucks), or the equally repetitive inane conversation of my fellow teachers. This usually takes the form of "what will you do this weekend"? To which I reply "I'm going to Busan" or "I'm going to a party at the Irish bar", or some other such pastime. Which invariably seems to blow their stacks, "Oh really" comes their reply, as though it is the most amazing thing on Earth. I then feel obliged to ask them what they will be doing, although I know for sure that the answer will bore the shit out of me, "I'm going to the library to study English", is an old favourite - sometimes varied with such responses as "I am going to The City 7 (shopping mall) or "I'm going to have coffee with my friends". Whatever the answer, you can guarantee that their imagination has not featured in it. In fact, I would go as far as to say, that there is no such thing as an imagination in this country. Unless of course, you include spending 5 hours making the class look preposterously untypical, in preparation for an open class (this is when the parents come to watch you teach - but actually might as well have gone to the circus to watch the clowns perform).

and so the story goes.

It's Friday afternoon and after a week in the limelight I have said my 500th and last "hello -goodbye" of the day and I am heading to my girlfriend Lee's house on my scooter. As often I do, I am singing at the top of my voice as I ride a long. I'm not sure if "Like a bat out of hell, I'll be gone when the morning comes", is an appropriate tune, for my little red step through scooter (complete with basket) - but that's my riding song. I'm excited, the weekend is upon me and I have a trip to Gyeongju planned.

I arrive at Lee's some 25 minutes later, leap off my steed and positively bounce up to her apartment. Within minutes it becomes obvious that Lee is not instilled with the same euphoria that I am feeling. In the knowledge that she did not have to work today, she spent last night partying with her friend. It is very apparent that our trip to Gyeongju is a non-starter and a quick revision of the plans is made. Leaping back on my scooter, I head to the nearest supermarket to stock up on supplies, this time I'm singing "Go grease lightening, you're burnin up the quarter mile". I grab as many bottles of red, as my rucksack, basket and back box will take (around 7) and head back to Lee's - for what looks like a heavy weekend.

Often, when I drink, I get incredibly tired but tonight I have the raging horn. Our bottles of red are interspersed with incredibly good and noisy sex (of which I will spare you the details). You know those nights? When alcohol and libido perfectly intertwine and you can't get enough of your partners intimate parts. Well, this was one of those nights. Our night begins at 6 pm and we are still periodically hammering away, way after the cock has crowed (I know, that was poor). Although it is October, the outside temperature is still too warm to leave the windows closed, especially on a passionate night like tonight. Eventually, we run out of wine and our animal like impulses are forced into submission. We fall into a deep sleep, somewhere around 7 am.

It's now 3 pm the following day, and we are trying to ease ourselves gently into Saturday evening. We lie in bed bedraggled, not wishing to become a part of the outside world and ignoring any texts or phone calls that we receive. Today we are out of commission and totally unprepared for what is about to happen. Suddenly the room is brought to life by the blurting of a strange alarm, the likes of which I have never heard before. Thinking that it comes from the sreet via the open window, I am not too concerned (Lee is more concerned because she recognises this as her own doorbell). Within seconds there comes a bang on the door, which sends shivers down both out spines. In Korea, the only people that ever bang on your door, are sales people or Jehovah's witnesses (one and the same thing actually). Of course, we are not in the mood for any of these charlatans (I mean, whoever is)? We choose to ignore the initial bangs, but the person on the other side is in no mood for our ignorance. The banging gets increasingly louder until the door is practically being kicked in. Being the gentleman I am, I inform Lee that she better answer the door and I retire under the sheets unable to face our predators.

From my vantage point on the left hand side of the bed, I can see Lee as she opens the door but the person on the other side of the door can neither see me, nor can I see them. The look on Lee's face alerts me to the fact that something untoward is going on. I hear a babbling of Korean tongue and detect a serious tone to the conversation. Well, I say conversation, it's more of a one sided affair, with Lee gettin vocally pounded by what I suspect is some Korean weirdo. Enveloped by curiousity and more than a little concern, I crane my neck forward and am shocked to see that there are a group of people standing in the doorway, headed by 2 uniformed police officers. Quickly, I dart back under the covers.

This scene is played out for at least the next half hour, during which time poor Lee has to stand and endure the vocal bombardment. Not wanting to add further impetus to the whole event, I remain under the covers (the fact that I am a complete coward, does not feature into it). At one point Lee comes back into the bedroom and gets her mobile. Returning to the police officer she relays a number to him. Eventually, the police officers and their entourage are satisfied enough to leave. However, they remain outside in a heated discussion for the best part of the next hour.

Lee returns to bed and we try to piece together what our eyes have just witnessed. She informs me that inbetween ranting and raving, the policeman has been playing a game of charades with her. The ESL teacher being well versed in the communication of charades, she has deduced from the devils horn gestures of the policeman, that the neighbours have been angered by our nocturnal groanings. What I didn't realise, is that the neighbours had been so annoyed that they had called on the landlady of the appartment block, who had in turn called the po po. That's right, the police had been brought in because we were too noisy having sex. Now call me a showoff, but I will add that too my repetoire of near arrests with little hesitation.

The only way Lee was ever going to get rid of the po po and posse of angry neighbours, was to let them know which school she taught at and to give the number of her co teacher. For the rest of the weekend Lee fears for that she will be released from her teaching position for being too vocal in bed.

As it turns out, the police don't get in touch with the school, although the landlady speaks to Lee's co teacher to inform her of the situation. It seems that there were complaints from all of the neighbours who demanded action from the landlady. Having no idea how to approach the situation, the police were brought in.

And just when I thought I'd experienced everything.

The teacher just took a shit

2011-03-10T22:43:00.000-08:00

I have encountered many a strange thing on my travels of the past 22 years. Gazelles that jump higher than houses, snake charmers that sit in the middle of the desert miles from human existence, dj's that play from army tanks at raves that last for weeks, a lawyer that lives in a flying saucer, 5 homosexual dogs copulating in a train like formation, a family of 8 people, none of which are wearing a crash helmet, on a motorcylce driving the wrong way down a one way street on the pavement, are events that immediately spring to mind. However, no matter how long I live or how far I travel, I will never get my head around the squat toilet.

It is difficult to recall when I first encountered this most primitive of devices. If I cast my mind back to the countries that I have visited, I guess that it was Egypt in 1989. Since that time I have visited far too many countries that rely on the squat toilet as their only aid to bodily relief. In Nepal, the squat toilet was taken one step further. Housed within a hastily thrown together bamboo shelter, was a hole in the ground. In the darkness that the shelter provided, it was hard to see what was down the hole, but when I heard a strange grunting noise and felt a snout encircling my arse hole, I was out of there before my load hit the pig in the face.

Anyway, I must not digress. Fast forward 22 years and I find myself teaching elementary school kids in Korea. Now, I am sure that if you cast your minds back to your time at school, you will remember that it was not, under any circustances ok, to take a dump in the school toilet. Personally speaking I only ever recall doing this once. Upon this occasion, I excused myself from class, ran off down the corridor at top speed, gripped with fear, a turtles head pushing through my underpants. I offloaded quicker than a B52 and was back in class so fast, that any suspicions that I had just performed the unspeakable were not aroused.

Call me presumptious, but I would have expected that as a teacher, I would have had the luxury of a teachers toilet. A place where I could go to escape the mayhem, that is the native English teachers life in Korea. For anybody reading this who has never worked in a Korean public school, you could not even imagine the adulation that comes with the position. Over the 2 years that I have been here I have come to get used to being mobbed by kids wherever I go in the school. There is no steady amble down the school corridors, no eating your lunch at a leisurely pace, no quiet rest between classes and certainly no relaxing time on the Thomas Crapper, newspaper in hand and mind at ease. That is to say, we are permanently on display. Every move I make is at lightening pace. Where possible, I time my walks down the corridors, to those times when the kids are in class. Even then, they spot me and wave at me whilst they are supposed to be concentrating on the teacher (It may just be in my mind, but I am sure that I see a twitch of hatred in the teachers's eye, when this occurs). I eat my dinner at record pace, every mouthful shovelled in, whilst trying to avoid the gaze of the kids. My ears deafened by their cries of "teacher Andy", "teacher Andy", my mind in meltdown, as I fight to remain calm.

It gets worse, believe me it gets worse. I only ever teach in the mornings, which means that I am free in the afternoons. During this time I try to remove myself from prying eyes as much as I can, which is never easy when the windows are only half frosted. There always seems to be an eye peering over the top of the frosted part. Outside my safe haven, the sounds of the kids screams, giggles and yells pollute the air. Much worse than this, the whistles of a hundred recorders blasting at once are a sound that are going to feature in my nightmares for the rest of my life. All distractions aside, I manage to achieve some sort of comfort level, and then it happens. Maybe it is the relative relaxation that forces my bowels into submission or maybe it is the fear of the squat toilet that creates a movement in my lower intestine. Whatever it is, I can fight it, but I can't make it go away.

Eventually, I give in, grab myself a handful of tissues, empty my trouser pockets in preparation and with my head hung low I head to the squat toilet. As always happens, the kids follow me down the corridor, tugging at my trousers and wanting to speak. On one occasion, the little monsters spotted the toilet paper hanging out of my pocket and I had to temporarily abort my mission.

The toilet blocks are on every floor, pink tiles for the girls and blue tiles for the boys. They are easy to locate because they are surrounded by an overwhelming stench of urine and kiddie poo (god, is there any worse smell than kiddy poo?). Upon entering the toilet block, I stealthily check to make sure none of the little fuckers are lurking behind the doors - which I kick open to avoid hand contact. And there it is, in all it's non glory - the ubiquitous squat toilet. Hastily, I lock the door and prepare myself for the ghastly experience.

There is a reason why Asians squat at any given opportunity - bus stops, shops, or sometimes even in the middle of the street. And the reason is - the squat toilet. Over many years of practising, these people could squat as an Olympic event. Their centre of gravity is so low that their arses almost touch the ground, their balance perfectly poised. As for myself, my balance is awful and preparation to perform my ablutions, is key to my success. And this is how it goes.

Standing on one leg, I take off one sandal with both hands. I then balance precariously on the sandal as I attempt to take off my trousers. On at least one occasion this has failed miserably and I have submerged my foot, complete with sock into the squat toilet. With trousers successfully off, I remove my under pants which I place on my head for want of a better place to put them. With these actions complete, I am ready to release the turtle, which I do with haste before I fall over. A stumble backwards or forwards obviously comes with the territory, although fortunately the toilet cubicle is so small and narrow, I am able to propel myself backwards and forwards without falling over. Rather like a pinball bouncing around a table. I am ever aware of any stirrings outside the cubicle because the fact that the native teacher is taking a shit, is a cause of constant amusement to the kids. I've had kids peeping both under and over, which is never great when you're sat with your underpants on your head. I can't even begin to imagine how I would have reacted if I'd seen Mr Bell, my English teacher balanced on a squatter with his pants on his head.

The wiping of my arse warrants a story all of it's own and takes almost as many attempts as flushing the offending article away afterwards does. As it makes it's journey into the overcongested, ill functioning Korean sewerage system, I sidle off down the corridor, attempting to blend in with the surroundings. As a 6ft bald English man in a school full of 4 ft Korean kids I fail miserably and my secret is out. The message is passed down the corridor "The teacher just took a shit".

In search of the golden egg

2011-01-27T22:21:00.000-08:00

Somewhere in the British Isles,
Set apart by many miles,
Twelve caskets lie beneath the ground,
In each - a scroll with ribbon round.
Upon each scroll to you is told
That you shall own an egg of gold.
If you carefully read this book,
It will tell you where to look.

Conundrum 1983 (The Cadbury's golden egg treasure hunt)

In 1979, a very eccentric artist by the name of Kit Williams, wrote a book called Masquerade. This book was no ordinary book. Within it's pages were a series of riddles and clues, which if unravelled, would lead to the location of a golden, jewel encrusted hare. The book sold 2 million copies worldwide, as the whole nation and beyond went treasure hunt mad. The treasure hunt lasted for 3 years until 1982, when the location of the hare was discovered by 2 teachers from Manchester. It was later revealed that a former girlfriend of Kit Williams had alerted the hare's discoverers to it's approximate location.

Masquerade, became the inspiration for a genre of books known today as "Armchair treasure hunts". In 1983 Cadbury's published their own armchair treasure hunt called "Conundrum". Within it's pages, the location to 12 golden eggs worth £10,000 each, was revealed. I was now 14 years old and eager to find treasure of any description. The publication of Conundrum could not have come at a more appropriate time in my life. Even more exciting, was the fact that one of the eggs was reported to be buried in Lancashire. When the local newspapers printed an article stating that there was an enormous amount of treasure hunting activity around the Holcombe Hill area, I could contain myself no longer. I had to have this book, and one of the golden eggs would be mine.

Conundrum was the talk of the school and just like the Rubik cube, a couple of years previous, everybody owned it. For a period of time in 1983, there was very little work getting done at my school because every student (and teacher), was totally absorbed in the search for the golden egg. However, only one page of the book was ever on view, for that was all that mattered in our neck of the woods. Indeed some of the kids had ripped this page out so that it could be less conspicuously scrutinised during class. The page in question was entitled "Easter Monday" and the picture depicted a typical Lancashire mill town scene, with smokey factory chimney's in the background, whilst in the foreground, children rolled eggs down a hillside whilst their parents watched on in admiration. Somewhere in the clues, was a sentence about "left over mutton", which whilst appearing to relate to leftovers from the previous days meal, many thought alluded to the Shoulder of Mutton pub. The Shoulder of Mutton pub being the only pub in the Village of Holcombe is located at the foot of Holcombe Hill. For many hundreds of years at Easter time, it has been a tradition for children to roll hard boiled painted eggs down Holcombe Hill. All in all there seemed far too many clues relating to the area for the golden egg not to be buried there. By the time my accomplice Mark Galbraith and I would arrive at the treasure hunt scene, Holcombe Hill was pock marked with the labours of a thousand speculative spades.

Due to our mutual love of reading, adventure and treasure hunting, my classmate Mark Galbraith and I were drawn together by the hunt for the golden egg. In the previous 3 years that we had been classmates, we had barely spoken 2 words. But this was it, our time had come. Our zealous minds, somehow managed to come together to create a mass of energy that (in our minds) would unearth an egg of gold. With this quest in mind we arranged to meet at my house the following Saturday morning.

Mark arrived around 9 am and we immediately began to ponder over "the book". In retrospect we were two complete imbeciles, without a hope in hell of unearthing anything apart from our own stupidity. The only reason that we were heading for Holcombe Hill, is because the local rag had informed us of extreme treasure hunting activity in that area. Beyond that, we could add no further impetus, apart from my own interjections at annoyingly regular intervals, of "yeah, but it says left over mutton and there's definitely a shoulder of mutton pub there". I just sort of assumed that we would arrive at our destination, stand in the car park of the Shoulder of Mutton pub and look left over the roof of the building. The precise burial point of the golden egg would then be miraculously presented to us by a ray of light from the skies, like a some divine intervention. I mean, if it happens to Indiana Jones then it can happen to me, right? Quite why we decided to take a metal detector with us, is therefore beyond any logic that I can now offer some 28 years later. If we had bothered to pay more attention to the rhyme at the front of the book, it would have been quite apparent that the eggs were never actually buried. With an infinite amount more pragmatism than Mark and I, Cadburys had only buried a casket containing a scroll of ownership to the golden eggs.

During Maths lesson, Mark and I had eagerly thrown a checklist together of all the things that we would require for a busy days treasure hunting. The list comprised of food (cheese and pickled onion sandwiches, Monster Munch crisps and biscuits), beverages (Vimto), an OS map of the area (which never got removed from its sleeve) , a compass (although none of us knew how to use it), a spade (which was overly used in an arbitrary manner) and last and very much least (useful), a metal detector. Like a demented monkey I rushed up and down the stairs to retrieve these items, whilst Mark waited. Being a person who is plagued by allergies and with summer fast approaching, I also grabbed a bottle of Olbas oil from my bookcase. For those that are not aware of the powers of Olbas oil, there is but one rule - DO NOT,repeat DO NOT , get this shit in your eyes. This stuff, is industrial strength. It will clear any nasal blockages. Get the stuff in your eyes however and you can say goodbye to your eyesight for at least an hour. Once again, there is therefore no logical explanation as to why I would tell Mark, upon his enquiry, that the Olbas oil would refresh his eyes if he were to dowse them in it. In actual fact it only proved to delay our start time by some considerable margin and instill a deep sense of mistrust in Mark to anything I would ever say again. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that blindness and mistrust are not two of the key skills required in the art of treasure hunting.

So, off we set, in the direction of Holcombe Hill some 5 miles away, as the crow flies. Unfortunately, the crow would not be flying on this day. The path that we elected to take, would partly follow the route that the pilgrims took in the 12th century, whilst on their way to Whalley Abbey. Dropping down through my parents estate, we took the snicket to the old railway lines, before descending to the area known as Snig Hole. From here we walked through Alden Vale, past the site of the old Porritts mills and then up through Sunnybank to the ancient landmark of Robin Hood's well. The well is rumoured to have been used by everyones favourite villain, as he passed through the area - no doubt robbing the rich and giving to the poor. Just beyond Robin Hood's Well, we chanced upon a small cairn with a badly eroded face etched into it. I instantly knew that this was a memorial to Ellen Strange. Ellen Strange, a local girl was murdered in 1761, as she walked back from Haslingden fair. The stone that we were now examining was placed on the site of her murder in 1978. During my lonesome wanderings, I had often searched for her final resting place to no avail. Was this to be an omen that today I would find the egg of gold?

We were now on Holcombe moor, a barren expanse of land which is also used by the army for training purposes due to it's hostile environment. The moor in this area was punctuated with markers telling us where we could and could not walk. This all added to the excitement of the day. By this point I had begun to realise that I had underestimated the length of the journey to Holcombe Hill. Mark was also becoming suspicious that the duration of our hike was going to be much longer the 2 hours that I had predicted. By the time we reached our destination some 4.5 hours later, I was still trying to convince him that I was right. The mood of the day was beginning to change.

"So, where do we start looking"? asked Mark.

Now wasn't that the million dollar question and one for which I did not really have an answer?

"Shoulder of Mutton", I hastily replied.

"But that's at the bottom of the hill and we are at the top".

"Shoulder of Mutton", I repeated with increased volume.

Twenty five minutes later, we were standing in the Shoulder of Mutton car park and contrary to my strong beliefs, there was to be no rays of heavenly sunshine prompting me where to dig. Trying to appear undeterred, I inform Mark that we must walk back up the hill from whence we just came. I also try to make him think that I know where to hunt with the metal detector, which we unsuccessfully do for the next hour whilst creating a multitude of shallow holes (boredom always set in before the holes got too deep). With fading optimism our digging becomes less frenetic with each new hole and eventually grinds to a halt. With an air of defeat, we decide to climb to the top of Holcombe Hill. Perched on the summit of the hill, is Peel Tower, which is named after Sir Robert Peel, a local boy that made it big. Sir Robert Peel was prime minister of England between 1841 and 1846 and is famed for passing the bill which would lead to the creation of the first British police force, known somewhat inaffectionately as Peelers.

To our disappointment we realise that there is no way of ascending the tower. The sour smell of defeat now permeates the air, so we decide to go for an amble to the rear of the tower in a last gasp attempt to spot any blatant treasure hunting clues. Spotting some rather large rocks, we sit for a while and discuss our route home. After, a few minutes, the mischievous imp inside me has kicked in and I decide that it would be a good idea to roll the gigantic boulder down the back of Holcombe Hill, in the direction of the mosque below. With all our strength, Mark and I try to heave the rock out of the position that it has remained in (possibly since the ice age). This rock is enormous though and definitely does not want to budge. With increased force, we build up some momentum and get the boulder rocking quite vigorously. It is only when the rock begins it's descent down Holcombe Hill, that we realise that this is indeed a very bad idea. By the time the remnant of the last ice age has demolished the first dry stone wall and vaulted a herd of petrified sheep, we realise that we could actually be in for a lot of trouble. Tentatively we watch as our bouncing bomb, either flattens or leaps over the top of each dry stone wall that it encounters. We live in hope that there is at least one immovable object to stand in the path of the disaster of killing a bunch of Muslims (although given the racist climate of the times, to some we would be heroes).
Just when we thought that it could not be any worse, we see notice that there is a red car approaching, on a road that we never even noticed was there. "Shit", we shout in unison. It really looks like the rock is on a collision path with the car.

In panic, we elect for the most cowardly option. With lightening pace, we both hotfoot it in the direction of what we think is home. In actual fact we have no idea what we are doing and any rational thought has been shocked right out of us. Driven by the possible consequences of idiotic actions, I run faster and further than I have ever run before. Unfortunately for us, we are running in the wrong direction. By the time we eventually stop running, we have no clue where we are and are about to find out that the compass is about as much use as the metal detector. Fortunately for us, Helmshore has a volcano shaped hill, called Tor, which serves as a fantastic landmark. Unfortunately for us, there is a similar shaped hill on the opposite side of the Rossendale Valley. By the time we reach the wrong volcano shaped hill, it is dusk. By the time we arrive back in Helmshore it is night time and my mum is about to call the police. We are still convinced that the police are searching for us and need a few days to fully believe that they are not. There are no reportings of occupants of a red car getting crushed to death or a mosque being flattened by a rolling rock.

By the time that the Lancashire golden egg is discovered, a few weeks later, in Billington some 25 miles from Holcombe Hill, Mark and I have totally lost interest.

Early adventures

2011-01-26T22:14:00.000-08:00

The Mittons arrived in Helmshore in the early Winter of 1976. Our house, a 1930's, semi-detached ex council house, did indeed possess, the fabled indoor bathroom, and central heating to which we had been promised. I also now had the luxury of my own bedroom, a front garden, a side garden and a back garden. OK, so the house was a wreck, which had to be stripped down to the bare essentials but that in itself was an adventure for a 5 year old. I mean, which 5 year old, would not enjoy crawling underneath uplifted floorboards on a journey to the centre of the Earth. Even more interesting to me, was Rossendale golf course. As far as I was concerned, this was miles of undiscovered territory. Situated in the foothills of the Pennines and possessing such features as ponds, woods, trenches, mounds and streams. It was a young adventurers dream. It soon became apparent that the uppity golfers did not share my enthusiasm, as they launched their missiles in my direction. My friend Darren Bell was actually hit in the chest by one of their whistling obes, as I sat next to him. One second we were talking about young boys stuff and the next he was howling like a werewolf, clutching his chest, whilst gasping for air in an attempt to breathe. In the distance, we could hear the launcher of the belligerent sphere, shouting his obscenities, whilst swinging his club around in anger. From here on in, it was war. The hundreds of golf balls in my bedroom cupboard were testimony to this fact.

For the next 15 years I was to spend almost everyday on the golf links in some context or another. If I wasn't adventuring, I was hunting for golf balls, taking a shortcut to school or from the age of 13 to 15, legitimately playing golf, as I rested my morals and joined the enemy. This was a failed coup, I hasten to add. I never have had good balance and this was clearly evident, as I swung my club, missed the ball and ended up on my arse, more often than not. As my friends seemed to improve on a daily basis, I regressed from bad to downright awful. The only shot that I ever got credit for, was a shot from a particularly deep bunker. Somehow I managed to emulate the sound of a ball being hit, as I picked it up and lobbed it at the green. Miracurously, the ball trundled across the green and fell into the hole, to the amazement of my friends to whom I had become a golfing burden. Within a few years, I had conceded, sold the clubs and immersed myself in the video game generation.

Although, the video game age, gripped me in it's time wasting grasp, I never lost my sense of adventure and the golf course provided this arena for many years. As my peers fell by the wayside, lost to such boring ativities as girls, I continued to surround myself with balls - golf balls. These days, I love to travel alone, unimpeded by other peoples whims and follies. Those solitary days on Rossendale golf course could well be responsible for this. Donned in a pair of Wellington boots and armed with an abundance of time, that never seems to be available in older age, I would wander the links, before heading off down the abandoned railway line or along the river bank to Irwell vale and beyond. Depending on which option I took, I would either look up and marvel at the Ravenshore viaduct or look down from this engineering masterpiece and gaze at the river Irwell. Here, at a place known by the locals as Little Blackpool, due to it's attraction as a place of leisure during times gone by, I would fantasise about entering Helmshore caves. In retrospect, the caves are not all that impressive, the water sluice, a legacy of the industrial revolution. However, in my mind they were a place where adventures were made, if I only dared to enter them. This, I never did, too scared to do so because I had watched "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" on tv and was scared that there was an angry Indian in there.

I was told that a box had been buried under the first brick of the Ravenshore Viaduct. This box was to be a time capsule, capturing artefacts of the time it was built. God, how much I wanted this box and would often puzzle myself over which brick was the first in this gigantic structure. Sometimes I would take a spade and make a futile attempt to find it. To me, that would have been a treasure trove worthy of any young boys dreams. Unfortunately, I never struck gold. In later days, when puberty had taken control of my body, the treasure I longed to find took on a more seedy edge. I seemed to have a nose to find porn magazines. I was famed amongst my friends for having an extra sense, which told me which bushes to look in, as if my erection were a divining rod. My adventures remained the same, only I was driven by different goals. It was during in these sexually confusing times, that I became all consumed in the thoughts of stumbling upon a porn shoot. I have no idea why, but an inner force told me that this would happen one
day. It was my fantasy that once I found my crock of sexual gold, I would be invited to join in the saucy shennanigans. Upon reflection, I am uncertain of what role they would have had for a snotty nosed, teenager, in wellington boots with pockets full of golf balls. But then again there seems to be a category for all these days. It is with a certain irony that 20 years later, whilst walking across England with an ex girlfriend, we would stumble upon a porn shoot, and no we were not asked to join in.

Mental photography

2011-01-24T20:24:00.000-08:00

People that are close to me often puzzle themselves over the fact that I remember past events with accurate precision, whilst I forget what I am saying during most sentences. Well, there is a reason for this! My mind is generally so awash with thoughts that I can never finish one sentence before the next thought has evolved into speech. This was later diagnosed as ADHD. Call it ADHD, call it mild autism, aspergers, OCD, or whatever the fuck you like. I think that it makes life infinitely more interesting and I would not change it for a normally functioning brain, not for all the brain cells in Mensa. My memory on the other hand is an extremely well functioning machine, which I constantly challenge with little mind games. From a young age, I developed (of my own accord), a number of little practices to help me remember experiences with all the vividness of the actual event.

The most effective of my memory techniques, was first used in January of 1976 and is something that I have used periodically throughout the rest of my life so far. Let me explain.

After almost 6 years of being the poorest and coldest family in the hamlet of Osbaldeston, my dad informed us that we were moving. We would spend one last Christmas in Sykes Cottage and then head to the Borough of Rossendale soon after. More specifically we would be heading to the village of Helmshore where my dad would have a job working for somebody that he had recently met. As you can imagine, this was all very upsetting for a 5 year old. My little world of Oak trees,hay stacked meadows, babbling brooks and wild adventures in Sykes Cottage garden, was about to be shattered. Not even, the promise of a house with a real bathroom could raise me from my inner sadness, although it helped to soften the blow.

I remember that last Christmas of 1975 with great fondness. As if it were a parting gift from Mother Nature, the snow fell with a whiteness, crispness and beauty that I don't recall ever experiencing again. I sat on the living room window ledge and watched as the snow engulfed all in it's wake. First the path disappeared, next the grass, followed by the surrounding hedge, the garden gate and finally the garden sheds. Like a sponge I soaked it all up, in the knowledge that this was the last time that I was ever going to experience these particular emotions. I expanded upon this thought and decided that I would turn my brain into a camera to capture this moment in time forever. From my window ledge perch I focused on the snow covered wonderland, that was Sykes Cottage garden. To add to the tangibility of this mental process, I then blinked my eyes, as though they were the shutter of the camera. The image was instantly captured and I knew would remain with me for the rest of my life.

Using this technique I have built up an ever increasing photograph album in my mind. Every time I think that I am in a unique location or a time of my life that I wish to capture, I take a snapshot with my mental camera and the image is confined to memory. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can recall that moment with the clarity of the event itself. However, with these pictures comes a depth of reality that a photograph could never capture. I am unsure how you would call this in terms of dimensions, i.e. 3D, 4D, 5D or 6D, but what I do know is that this technique has played it's part in enabling me to relive key moments of my life, whenever I require.

In my life time of travels, when keeping my rucksack to a bare minimum is of up most importance, my mental camera is always packed and ready to go and adds no weight to my journey.

Polly Parrot School

2011-01-19T04:18:00.000-08:00

Hailing from a hamlet in Lancashire, more than likely played a part in my desire to travel. Located, 5 miles to the North East of the grimy mill town of Blackburn, Osbaldeston could not be further away in terms of an idyllic setting to bring up your children. Higher Commons Lane, was home to some of the richest folk in Lancashire, our family were (fortunately) not amongst them. How different my life would have been, had that been the case! The Mitton's were possibly the poorest people in the hamlet, residing in a 16th century rented cottage "Sykes Cottage",at a cost of £6 per week (although this was waivered because my mum did the milk round for the neighbouring farm). This may sound fantastic, and probably would have been if the toilet were not outside and the house actually had a bathroom, instead of a sink in the kitchen that lifted up to reveal a bath.

From outside, the cottage looked just perfect and the large front garden certainly made up for the lack of heating and consequent dampness. The garden and the lane that fronted our house were our world. My sister and I would venture up and down Higher Commons lane, passing such landmarks as Lassie the farm dog on her wall top perch, the oak tree that I once got stuck up for hours (although the lowest branch was only 3 ft from the ground), and the hedge where my sister was bitten by a bat (which we nurtured and later released, only to find it upside down drowned in the paddling pool the following morning). If we went in the opposite direction, we would cross the babbling brook, where I painfully saw my toy hovercraft drift from my grasp, and beyond to the shed where I drank liquid from a very old bottle and caused a panic in the Mitton household resulting in the doctor rushing to our house. I only lived in Sykes Cottage for the first 6 years of my life, but these were the formative years and hold extremely fond memories for me.

During those 6 years, the sheer isolation of the place taught me many things. First and foremost, it taught me to be alone, as I wandered around the garden creating my own entertainment. I learnt to find pleasure in the intricacies of life. The joy of watching the seasons change, each season providing new attractions for an inquisitive young mind. Maybe, it was loneliness, that led me to the pleasures of twiddling. A strange yet, hypnotic habit that I taught myself at an early age and continued well beyond the age that it should have ceased. Twiddling, was a name conjured up by my overactive imagination. In the beginning, I would take a blade of grass and split it in two. Not any old grass mind, it had to be exactly the right colour, width and length, which is why only I, could ever pick it. I would then place the grass between my forefinger, thumb and index finger and manoeuvre it in a controlled manner. The pace of the twiddler, determined my mood or was the other way around. At times, the blade of grass would hardly be moving at all and I would feel calm and serene. The next moment the grass would be moving at a ferocious pace and I would feel ecstatic and full of the joys of the world. With twiddler in hand I would spend hours in a hypnotic state of pure zen bliss. Over the years, the twiddler evolved from grass to Iris leaves, Iris leaves to strips of plastic, strips of plastic to Christmas tinsel and finally to rubber bands. Rubber bands, of a certain thickness, were my preference for many years until I finally forced myself to kick the habit well into my twenties.

Of course, my twiddling habit did not go unnoticed and believe it or not other kids at my school wanted in. Maybe they saw the look of ecstasy on my face as I sped up and slowed down with twiddling precision. Jealous of my trance like state and oblivion to the world around me. For my habit was not confined to the privacy of my own space. My twiddler accompanied me everywhere I went, the school bus, the classroom, the playground, the dinner hall. You name it, my twiddler was there. In fact, you can safely say that my twiddler played it's part in me leaving school aged 16 with a very low level of educational achievement.

Such was their persistence to learn the art of twiddling, that I finally gave in and set up my own school of twiddling excellence. Even at a young age, I knew that this was an exercise in futility because twiddling was not something that could be taught, it was an innate feeling -a gift that only I was born with. But what the hell, Claire Mather wanted to learn and I would do anything to impress, the love of my infant school life. So it was, that a bunch of wannabe twiddlers gathered in Sykes Cottage garden, behind the newly constructed shed and the twiddling lessons commenced. The twiddling school was even given a name, a name which only the logic of a 5 year old mind could possible come up with.

Polly Parrot school, may have only run for two 15 mintute sessions over a period of a week but it will forever live on in my memory and hopefully the memories of all that attended.

I'm not a corporate wanker - get me outta here.

2010-10-27T22:11:00.000-07:00

When I left school in the summer of 1985 aged 16, with virtually no qualifications, I did not think for one minute that I would be returning there exactly half of my life later. However, faced with the awkward decision of which direction my life should take in my early thirties, I decided that education by the conventional definition, was an area which I lacked. Sixteen years of meaningful travel, interspersed by meaningless employment was all good and well but how employable was I in a field in which I wanted to be in? In fact, the main question, was the age old one -what do I actually want to do with my life? I mused over this for some time before deciding to apply for university, in a bid to escape from this question for another 3 years.

Not realising, what a joke the university system had become, I assumed that I did not have a cat in hells chance of gaining entry. However, it turns out that the entry requirement for me, was to write an essay on how my life experiences, travel and living abroad would qualify me for academic study. I wrote this lying on a beach in Dahab, Egypt and then typed up and emailed it from a beach side Internet cafe. I had just spent the previous 5 years living in Holland and was returning to England's fair shores via the Middle East. It all seemed rather fitting that I should be returning to Israel, as this was the first country that I properly travelled to, back in 1989. By the time I returned to England via, Egypt, Jordan, Israel and Turkey, I had gained entry into John Moores University, Liverpool, aged 32.

For the next 3 years, I studied hard and for the first time in my life I had confidence and interest in what I was doing. It took me only a few weeks to realise that the level of education in the UK had dropped tremendously. I was not expecting Cambridge or Oxford but by the same token I was not expecting the lectures to resemble a chimps tea party. Despite my thoughts over this issue, I was still happy to leave John Moores with a First Class honours degree in Geography. An achievement that I would not have dreamt possible upon leaving school, all those years ago.

In May 2004, the following events happen. I leave university, I start in the world of employment, I split up with my girlfriend and I have to leave my house. In the confusion that is my life at this time, I take the first job that I am offered. This is not what I want but it is my introduction into the world of office work. It is my intention to find another, better job as soon as possible, however I end up staying at the company for 2 years. The job is in logistics, although my only qualifiable skill, is the fact that I speak Dutch. Who would have thought it? I go to university for 3 years to learn Geography and then get a job based on the fact that I speak Dutch.

Now, I am not a material man in any sense of the word. I lack nothing in my life and am very content with what I have. These are values that my family taught me and for which I am very grateful. I also attribute my non-materialistic ideals to years of travelling. If there is one thing that travelling has taught me (and there are lots),it is that there are very few things that a person actually needs in this life. In current times, most people seem to have lost sight of what is actually important. We fill our lives with possessions in an attempt to make ourselves happy, when in actual fact they only pose to make our life's more cumbersome. When you travel a lot to other countries, it becomes blatantly obvious, that the happiest people that you meet are generally those that have the least. With this in mind, it's a mystery to me why I would ever decide to get a job within a multi-national petroleum company but this I did and the consequences of my misguided actions will be forever documented in this story, least I am ever that foolish again.

I leave the logistics company in July 2006 and after a nice little trip to Athens, followed by some island hopping around the Greek Isles (travel is my indulgence), I start a job for Esso in Manchester. Once again, the job is based on the fact that I speak Dutch. The moment I walk into the office I know that I am going to hate this job and I am not wrong. The fact that I am to pray for the traffic lights to be on red, whilst driving to work for the next 6 months is testament to this fact.

The demographic of the Esso staff is, young, upwardly mobile, stand on your toes to get where I want to get, nobhead. Combine this with the fact that I have no clue what I am doing and the person training me seems to have even less of a clue than me, and you have an idea why I feel like a fish out of water. My role within the company is that of drystock management for all of the Esso petrol stations in Belgium. This may sound a lot but actually amounts to around 60. Drystock, refers to all the stuff that the Esso supermarket sells that is not wet i.e. petrol, oil, diesel. It is my job to look at the weekly inventory reports and use a computer program called SAP to enable me to work out what has happened to any missing stock. It is a job that involves thousands upon thousands of numbers, hundreds upon hundreds of spreadsheets, and far to many acronyms. In effect, this means that I have to look at thousands of meaningless (to me) numbers and try to work out why 500 cans of Red Bull went missing in a Brussels petrol station on a Tuesday afternoon in July. In this particular case, it turns out that a bunch of gypsies stole the lot when the guy behind the counter went to the toilet and did not follow procedures i.e. lock the door. I puzzled myself over this one for days before the manager of the petrol station rings me up and tells me what he has just witnessed on CCTV. I have already run my report by this time and put the loss down to waste (as if 500 cans of Red Bull are going to wasted). This is a little insight into why I was not suited to this job.

I last at the job for almost 6 months, although it feels like I am there for a lifetime. I am so totally inept at my job that I end up burning the midnight oil on almost a daily basis in an attempt to cover up my own futility. It also interferes with my viewing of the world cup in Germany this year, which to me is sacrilege. I have avidly watched every world cup since Argentina 78, when Archie Gemmill scored his wonder goal against the Argentines (forever immortalised in the film Trainspotting). I even get flown to Belgium to check out my petrol stations and generally have a jolly on the company expenses. On my first night, whilst drinking quality beers in a Brown cafe (traditional Belgium drinking establishment), I manage to alienate myself against the whole accountancy department by asking them "is accountancy not incredibly boring"?. I mean, what - I was only asking!

My demise is finally sealed when I am summoned to a meeting and asked why I have got an 8010 on 2 of my Belgium sites. Erm, hold on a minute, I think -tell me what one is and I may get back to you. It turns out that I am only the second person to achieve an 8010 in the 5 year existence of drystock management. Until, it is fully explained, I am not sure whether I am up for an Oscar or the boot. An 8010, for those that are interested (certainly not me), is the code for a site which has had a severe loss of stock for 3 consecutive months. I have managed this, with not 1 but 2 of my Belgium motorway sites. They eventually get a crack team in to help me investigate the sites and we find out that mass theft as been going on since long before I arrived. I am sort of used as a scape goat I guess. Anyway, this is the straw that breaks the camels back and I am fortunately given my P45 (sacked). At least this means that I will never have to endure another Esso Oscars ceremony (they seriously do that shit). The big boss, whose name I probably should not write (but will) Stuart Ross, dresses up like a pilot and conducts the whole evening as though we are all sat on a fucking airplane. I mean, for Christ's sake, no wonder the latest financial crash happened if all the companies are acting like imbeciles on company expenses. Watching the applauding masses, as those passengers that excelled in making Esso millions of pounds, approach the stage, was akin to watching a bunch of seals as the zoo keeper throws them another fish.

During my time at Esso, incidents that are worthy of a story are few and far between. I mean what can you expect in an environment where they have an annual Oscars ceremony and a weekly gathering on the 11th floor, where everybody can blow smoke up each others arses with little shame? However, during my first week at the company, I am subjected to something, which to me is so incredibly cringe worthy that I feel I need to tap my fingers on the keyboard in a coherent fashion.

Despite studying Information Technology for a year upon leaving school, in the infancy of this profession, as it happens. I am by no stretch of the imagination competent with computers. There was a time when I thought that reaching level 10 on Chuckie Egg, qualified me for the title of computer expert. However, technology passed me by in the 90s and I became something of a Luddite. Which is probably the reason why I missed an important email from Stuart "this is your captain speaking" Ross, summoning me to an introductory meeting. I am in the kitchen getting everybody coffee's (something I seemed to do a lot of during my time there (to try and hide my inadequacies in other areas), when my team leader says "What are you doing here?, you were supposed to be in a meeting on the 5th floor 10 minutes ago". With this I descend one floor with a gusto that I am never to rival during my time at Esso, except when I am leaving the car park at night.

I walk into a packed room which is laid out in a horseshoe formation. At one end there is a big screen, in front of which, Captain Birdseye is giving a speech. My entrance into the room, temporarily arrests his conversation as he turns and casts me a frightful glare, "Excuse me",he interjects, "this meeting, has been in progress for over 10 minutes, can you please take a seat". If I thought I was going to sneak into the meeting unnoticed, I was sadly mistaken. At least 20 heads all turn around to investigate, this idiot who dares to turn up late for such an important meeting. I nervously wave at my audience and take the only available seat. It does not take too long to wish that I never bothered.

The meeting lasts for around 40 minutes in total, although thankfully I only manage to catch the last 30. The subject of the meeting is, how fantastic Esso petrol stations are and how we, the general populous could not survive without their amazing services to humanity. The presentation, is full of forecasts, predictions, mind boggling figures and other such totally inane subject matter. I am so flabbergasted at the blatant self absorption of the speech, that I spend the majority of the time with my head spinning around in a meerkat like fashion, to try and read the other peoples expressions. This only confuses me more because everybody else seems to be, either seriously taken in by the figures or better at hiding their disgust than me. In actual fact I should have had the foresight to get up and walk out of the company there and then. It would have saved me a lot of frustration, a considerable amount of grey hairs and in the long run, my dignity, as I am rejected by the corporate monster for shaming them with an 8010. Nothing that I witnessed in that first painful 25 minutes of the meeting could have prepared me for the grand finale of the last 5 minutes though.

Suddenly, the big screen comes alive, as we the tortured (sorry I), are subjected to a 5 minute outburst of smiling happy faces. Happy faces of the Esso staff as they sell their wares to the unbelievably grateful customers. The happy faces of the customers as they fill the gaps in their life's with Esso products. The happy faces of diners in the Esso cafe as they fill their faces with delicious Esso sandwiches and wash them down with Esso coffee, from Esso emblazoned cups. But it's worse than that, as if it could get any worse! These images of total corporate ecstasy are played out to a backdrop of, wait for it -U2 It's a beautiful day. It's a mixture of culture and commerce that leaves me both baffled and bemused. Surely, I think I must have some allies in this sickening display of corporate horse shit. But no, my thoughts are drowned out by the rapturous applause of my colleagues. Assuming that this is the end of my own personal hell, I bolt for the door.

"Where the hell do you think you are going?", booms Stuart's voice. I spin around and upon noticing me, he raises the tempo, "Oh it's you again, you turn up here late and now you're leaving early -sit down, we have a question and answer session". For the second time in 30 minutes, I become the object of everyones attention. Coyly, I take my seat. I am secretly convinced that given the content of the presentation, nobody will have any questions. Obviously I underestimate the sycophantic nature of my colleagues because I could not have been more wrong. A rather tall, over elaborately dressed Norwegian young man stands up and starts his sentence off as follows: "Stuart, may I congratulate you on a most informative, perfectly executed presentation which was extremely interesting and an excellent way to give a new starter an insight into the way this company operates". This is followed by an equally sickly question and met with considerable applause. The next 20 minutes are filled with praise and questions of a similar nature and leave me with a deep sense of loathing for the environment that I am working in.

Eventually my nightmare ends and I am liberated from my corporate chains. I sidle out of the door along with my colleagues, whilst trying to measure their mood. I am convinced that I will find some allies in group somewhere. I mean at least 20 people have just suffered the same fete as me. I follow the herd down the corridor, my mind working overtime. I'm biding my time, to make my opinions known. Perfect, they all congregate around the lift area, as they await it's arrival. In an extremely miscalculated verbal assault, I shout out the following sentence "What a total and utter Esso wankfest". My outburst is met by total silence. One of those tumbleweed moments when you want to ground to open up and swallow you up. My comments are about as wanted as a fart in an astronauts suit. The lift arrives and as they all pile in, I head for the stairs, where I hang for 5 minutes until the coast is clear.

As punishment for my 2 8010's, I am fired less than 6 months later. I wonder to this day, how much stock actually went missing in those months that I worked for Esso. At least the petrol station assistant in Belgium had a chance of preventing the gypsies from stealing his red bull booty - he could have locked the door when he was having a shit. My only method of gypsy protection, was to watch screens full of fluctuating numbers. Which may have been all good and well, if I understood what they meant in the first place. One thing I know for sure, is that there was a hell of a lot of waste created during my time there.

Fancy "f*****g" Fillings

2010-10-20T22:08:00.000-07:00

When I arrived in Sydney on Friday 13Th November 1992, my sister had not long since left. Fortunately for me, this meant that I had people to welcome me, show me around and provide me with free accommodation. Within 2 hours of arriving in Sydney, my friend Ian and I had booked into a grubby Kings Cross hostel, found my sisters best friend, had a few beers on the harbour side, moved into a pub in Surrey Hills and booked out of the aforementioned grubby hostel. What a start to a country! Things could only get worse.

So, the first few weeks go well. We both have enough money to tide us by for a short while and we are we are living in a pub for free (does life get any better than this?). I routinely get up very late, have a bacon sandwich and a can of coke for brunch, chill out all afternoon and then drink in the bar in the evening. What better place to drink alcohol than directly under the place where you are staying. When you are suitably inebriated and fed up with the live jazz, you stagger up the stairs and fall into your pit -fantastic.

But as the old saying goes, money does indeed not grow on trees. By December, it was very apparent that we would need to find work. To be honest, this procedure was alien to me at this point in my life. All the other jobs that I had done were by word of mouth, government schemes or the Kibbutz. The thought of walking around shops, cafes, bars and the likes was a very uncomfortable one for me and therefore this method did not prove fruitful. I was basically making myself redundant before the person had a chance to respond.

"Hi, my name is er Andy, you don't have any er jobs do you"?, I would mutter, whilst already trying to exit the establishment.

To which the prospective employer would say either "No er I don't - now stop wasting my time". Obviously he did not say the last part but that's what was going on in my head. Needless to say, it was a while before I got my first job. During which time I received good advice, coffee machine training and bar pump practice. This came from my sisters best friend Andrea and her boyfriend Carlo, who was also the manager of the pub that we were staying in "The Strawberry Hills Hotel".

Ian on the other hand got a job fairly early on in a fried chicken restaurant, where he lasted all of one day. He then got a second job working for an office removal company, which lasted him for about a month. He quit, after he called his boss a prick to one of his colleagues, only to be asked the following morning by his boss, "So you think I'm a prick do you"? Awkward.

Eventually, the word of mouth method of getting a job comes up trumps and I gain employment as a kitchen hand in a gay restaurant. The restaurants name is JBF which it turns out, is short for Just Been Fucked. It is located right in the heart of Sydney's very gay area, where transvestites, trans genders and out and out gays, parade the streets in their legions. This completely distorts my impression of the Aussie male, who until this point I have regarded as the beer swilling, crocodile hunting, uncouth, real man type. I am the only straight person working at the restaurant and as a young, blond, skinny, relatively attractive (although I never thought it at the time) boy/man I am constantly teased. My arse is incessantly pinched as I bend over the sink to wash mountains of dishes. This, in combination with the fact that I have to work until 5 am, 5 nights a week and I have an irritable bowel, leads me to quit the job after a month.

I pick up my second job on the strength of my sisters impeccable reputation as a worker. I am offered a job in a coffee shop named Fancy Fillings, where my sister Janet was employed the previous year. Andrea is also working there and I suspect that she has put in a very good word. I have a very short interview during which time the lady seems much More interested in my sisters well being than my own skills. At the end of the interview she even says "Well, if you're half as good as your sister, you'll be very good"! At this stage in my life I am far from domesticated and I am already doubting that last statement before I exit the shop.

Fancy fillings is located right on Circular Quay within spitting distance of the glorious Sydney Opera House. The setting could not be any more perfect. I don't have to work until 10 am, so I take a leisurely breakfast on the water front, whilst looking out over the magnificent harbour and letting tranquility enter my soul. This is to be my first table waiting experience (and my last), and I am not totally certain that my overactive/non concentrating brain is up to the job. I have been told that lunch time on Circular Quay is a busy time and I am not convinced that the next 4 hours are going to be my finest. I'm not wrong.

Donned in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, I enter the shop and am immediately given an apron with the Fancy Fillings logo emblazoned on it. I then receive the basic instructions to my role. The tools of my trade are minimal and amount to a pen and a pad. I should walk to the tables, exchange pleasantries, take their order, write the order down, ensuring that the carbon paper is between the next 2 pages on the pad. I then keep, one of the papers for my own reference, whilst delivering the second paper to the kitchen so that they can make the food. Couldn't be more simple right?

All is going good and well until 11 am, mainly because we only have 3 customers until this point. Even with no customers, I am struggling with the carbon copy bit I must admit and have had to write out the order twice on 2 of the 3 orders. I use my forte as a talker to try and disguise my ineptitude in other areas. Unfortunately I use my talking skills a little too well and by the time it starts to get busy I am a little too chirpy.

By 11.45, Fancy Fillings is in full swing. The main clientele are office workers, eager for a quick feed before heading back off to their offices. These are mixed with tourists, who stroll along the Sydney water front and then relax for a drawn out lunch. There lies my problem, I am trying to please 2 sets of people at once, from 2 totally different demographics. A typical conversation with a tourist would go as follows.

Me: Good morning sir.
Customer: Good morning. Oh, you're English. Where in England are you from? I have an aunt in Chester.
Me: Oh really, I love Chester. Lovely shopping area there called the rows, it's the only split level Tudor style shopping mall in the world (I don't know this for sure but it sounds good).
Customer: Really. Do you know Amy Hatherthwaite, she works in the bakery there.
Me: No sorry (fucking numbnuts).

and so on and so on.

This would be all good and well in a tea room in a remote part of Scotland. However, I am to find out, that in a sandwich shop in the busiest office and tourist district of Sydney, idle banter is not so practical.

Conversely, a typical conversation with one of the office workers would go as follows:

Office worker: Excuse me, I have been sat here for 20 minutes and you have not been anywhere near my table. That lady has been here for 5 minutes and you are serving her. If you would stop talking so much and pay attention to who came first, you might be able to clear this place out a bit.

Me: Sorry sir, I did not notice.

What I have also failed to notice, is the fact that there are people queuing outside the door, the other staff have left their positions to try and help me out and there is an air of general discontent permeating Fancy Fillings. In fact this little sandwich shop on the Sydney quayside now resembles a disaster relief operation. In the commotion that ensues I manage to lose the order pad and pen more times than I find it and when I do eventually locate it, I succeed with perfect inevitability in forgetting to use the carbon copy paper. I am so flummoxed by the whole debacle that I give the one copy to the chef anyway and then have absolutely no idea, who to give the food to when it arrives at the chef's hatch. I am hoping that this will go unnoticed but when the other staff jump in to help, they demand to know what I have done with the carbon copies. There are 2 answers to this question, 1. I have no idea and 2. There never was one in the first place.

Throughout the whole pallava, my mantra goes as follows, "It will all be over soon, it will all be over soon", and it is. By 2pm Fancy Fillings has returned to an oasis of calm. Oh, it's a mess alright, slightly messier than normal I assume and there are a lot of full plates of food left over. These are the meals that I have lost the dockets for. The manager approaches me with my wages in her hand and a scowl upon her countenance. I rather embarrassingly take the money and make my way out of the door.

From circular quay, I take the subway back to Central Station. As I sit back to relax, I feel a rustling in my pockets, I stick my hands in and pull out a handful of dockets. So that's where they were I think. Once again I sit back and hear another rustling around my shorts area. I check my pockets. Nothing there. I sit back once more but once again hear a rustling. I stick my hand into my shorts and then into my underpants. Once more I pull out a handful of dockets. I vow never to wait tables again in my life.

How I lost my virginity (to a sofa)

2010-10-13T21:51:00.000-07:00

Although puberty came fairly early to me, my adult mind took a lot longer to develop. I swear that was still playing marbles and climbing trees when my mates were getting into pubs. Needless to say, it was a long time before I got my first girlfriend. Technically my first girlfriend was Wendy Beard who I met one drunken night at the Cat's Whiskers in Burnley. The event in question was the Accrington and Rossendale college disco, where I spent the whole evening with Wendy the vampire, sucking on my neck. The next morning I awoke with my head stuck to the pillow. Upon taking more experienced (not hard) peoples advice, I smeared my neck in toothpaste before going to sleep, in an attempt to try and hide my love trophies from my mum. Somehow, I got the toothpaste everywhere and ended up having to cut my hair, to free myself from my bed. This was the start of my first relationship, which lasted all of 4 weeks. I think I only saw Wendy twice before she dumped me for Red van Bob, who was rumoured to be her cousin. My lack of experience and his red van probably had a lot to do with my demise.

My first proper relationship started a year later, aged 17. I met Linda on the CB radio (I know, I'm a disgrace), when she was 15. She may have been 2 years younger than me but she was about 5 years more experienced, although unfortunately she was still a virgin. During my 3 years with Linda, I cut my wings in the sex world. We even bought one of those books that you always used to see for sale in the supplements of magazines. You know the ones, the joy of sex or something similarly titled, with a bearded man perfoming cunnilingus on a woman with a big hairy muff. From certain angles it resembled 2 cats fighting. We would read a chapter on foreplay and then spend the following week practising what we had read. Foreplay was as far as it got though, Linda was resolute on saving her cherry until she had 16 candles on the birthday cake.

I had to wait for 6 months until her 16th birthday, during which time I became an expert in the following activities, foreplay, finding places to perform foreplay and listening out for my mum's car. The relationship very nearly ended the first time that I groped her breasts. Her bra had some sort of furry attachment, which I mistook for body hair. Seriously, for a week after this event, until I tried again I thought that I had found myself a hairy chested freak. Fortunately I persisted and was able to progress from base to base until I was ready to score my first home run.

So, the big day arrived and after opening presents and exchanging pleasantries with Linda's family, we retired to Linda's budoir. The adrenalin pumping, we positively collapse onto Linda's bed and lunge into our well rehearsed foreplay routine. A lot of licking and flicking later and the moment arrives. By this time, my penis resembles and exocet missile, ready to be launched. I thrust forward, my target well and truly in the sights, but I come to a sudden and abrupt halt. Undeterred, I reverse the exocet and prepare for the second launch. Once more my thrust is blocked by it's target. Bloody hell I think, I was not expecting this, there appears to be something impeding my progress. I persist, and by the tenth relaunch I have managed to penetrate my target by at least 2 cm. By this time, Linda is in lots of pain and I am not feeling too great myself. We agree to try again later in the week.

Well, I havn't got the biggest missile in the armoury by any stretch of the imagination (or labias) but for once in my life, I am wishing to lose a few inches, instead of gaining a few. Oh, we try again alright, and try and try and try. It must be the longest virginity losing experience of all time. Look it up in the Guinness book of world records, Andy Mitton and Linda Knight July 1987. It takes us 3 bleeding (and I literally mean bleeding) weeks. The temperature outside is soaring and the tension inside is rising. By the 3rd week, I am determined to claim my prize. I inform Linda that stop is no longer part of our vocabulary and the next attempt will be a successful attempt. She acquiesces.

We choose a time when my parents are going to be out (which are few and far between) and decide that we are going to do our love making (if you can call it that)in the living room. We have worked out that the sofa is at a perfect height to enable me to get a good angle, whilst on my knees. Armed with the determination and missile as it happens, that wins wars, we take up out positions. I aim, I thrust and I am thwarted. Undeterred, once again I aim, I thrust and I am thwarted. The charade goes on and on until my patience has been saturated and Linda is about to cry.

"Right, that's it",I shout.

"This bastard is going in", and with that I throw on the turbo drive.

As I thrust forward, I feel a parting of the waves, oh my god, I'm in and it feels wonderful. I thrust and I thrust again and again and again - I have never experienced such feelings of pure ecstasy.

"I'm in , I'm in", is my battle cry, as I writhe around in pleasure. Unfortunately, my penis is not prepared for such feelngs of joy and by the 5th thrust, I have shed my load into what I believe to be an unsuspecting Linda (this was not in the script by the way).

I collapse forward, draped over the sofa, breathless and apologetic for my premature ending. It's only now that I realise that Linda's exclamations of excitement, sound suspiciously like fits of laughter, uncontrollable laughter. I ask her why she is laughing but she is so engrossed that she fails to answer. Each time she tries to tell me, she has to give up because she is laughing too hard.

"What's up"?, I bellow.

"You've, you've , you've -you've", she yells.

"I've what, tell me", I demand.

"You've , just shot your load all over your mums sofa", she shouts before bursting into more spurts of laughter.

I look down and see that penis is wedged between the cushions and the base of the sofa.

"Fuck", I cry out, "I've just lost my virginity to my mum's sofa".

Bonfire of the profanities

2010-10-07T00:03:00.000-07:00

I got my first car in the October of 1987 after passing my test on the 3rd attempt. To most people it did not seem like much but to me it was like a dream mobile. I remember picking up the car from Blackburn as if it was yesterday. My life savings of £325, bought me a P reg Ford Escort Mark 2, white with a black vinyl roof. A few weeks later during the first jet wash, I was to discover that it was actually red not white. But not to worry, apart from a leak (easily cured by drilling a hole in the floor) and a damaged big end (nobody told me that you needed to put oil in a car), it was a perfectly good runner. The advent of my first car also coincided with the advent of my first real girlfriend who I will refer to only as Linda in case she files a lawsuit. I very much doubt this will happen because for want of a better phrase, she was not the sharpest tool in the shed. I will never forget when one of the daily tabloids ran a front cover story entitled "Monkey's have their brains removed and are turned into cabbages", to which she replied "No way, I am never eating cabbages again". Anyway, intelligence played no part in the reasons why I thought that I loved her at the time, whilst an 18 year old libido which was being regularly serviced, did.

So, you see the Ford Escort Mark 2 was more than just a means of transport, it was my passport to unhindered sexual intercourse of an 18 year old kind. Living on a modern estate with houses made of paper and parents that never went out, this rusty white and red machine, doubled up as a mobile love motel which could be parked up anywhere within reason and possessed 2 seats that reclined right back. Perfect for any young lovers needs.
I have the car for approximately a month and everything has been going just sweet. Linda and I have found a spot down by Irwell Vale on a road that terminates by a bunch of old houses and a big old iron gate. We go there every night for 2 weeks and perform our sexual shenanigans in a variety of contorted positions before an angry house owner finally shoo's us away. I can only assume that Irwell Vale could not take such excitement. We are forced to look for a new home.

There were many rumours circulating at the time that Grane Road resevoirs were being used as a lovers lane, so that's precisely where I headed. I can't remember which of the 3 resevoirs we headed for but, whichever it was we found a secluded spot and commenced our teenage kicks. Very soon, I was all consumed with passion and although it was Winter, I was soon totally naked, as was Linda. All was going great, as we serviced each others parts, until a car full of young guys drove past and upon noticing us turned around. Linda, picked up on this immediately and demanded that we get dressed. I chose to ignore it and tried to drag her back down to my pleasure zone. The car turned around and came back, flashing it's main beam through our windows, it's windows wound down and boys hanging out shouting "dirty bastards". By now, Linda was frantic and had scrambled her clothes on. I, on the other hand was furious, my only concession to Linda's demands to get dressed was to place a sock on my inflated member. Quickly unreclining my seat I fasten my seatbelt and with sock on cock, I started the engine and exited the car park at a furious pace.
All consumed with passion and rage, I drove my dream mobile, flat out for around 4 miles across the wintery, dark moorland road. Like a maniac at the wheel, my erection maintained by the excitement and liberation of driving naked. Next to me, Linda half laughing, a third scared and slighly bewildered at the situation. I am convinced that we are going to continue our carnal delights when I have found a new place, I think Linda is running on a different agenda.

Eventually, we see a road that looks like it could offer us the perfect loving spot and I swing the car to the left to pursue this train of thought. One major point which i have neglected to point out until this point is the fact that this evening is November 5th or bonfire night to British people and others sporadically scattered around the world. On bonfire night the whole of the UK is alive with blazing piles of wood and fireworks illuminating the Winter skies. This fact aids us in the short term, providing a beacon for me to follow along the dark and windy country roads, but is my downfall in the long term because I am lured by the inviting glares of a thousand fires and fireworks. Against Linda's strong requests, I opt to drive down what can only be descibed as a tractor path, which is, I estimate at a 70 percent gradient. Of course, I have realised that this is a really silly idea but stubborness and passion are my driving forces. By now Linda is crying, the sock has fallen off my dick and I am having serious doubts as to whether or not I am going to be getting any loving tonight. Any hope that I may have reserved is well and truly extinguished within the next few moments as my beloved car nose dives into a 6 ft ditch.

A minutes silence follows, as we try to assimilate exactly what has just happened which is pretty difficult when you propped at a 90 degree angle with a seatbelt holding you in position. Once this mental equation has been calculated, I unclip my seat belt and like the 18 year old spoilt brat that I was, I leap out of the car, in all my nakedness screeching "my car, my beautiful car". The headlights of the car illuminating my naked torso, I frantically try to dig my car out of the ditch in which it is embedded. Linda, is still strapped in her seat, screaming in both fear and anger. I hear her screams in the background but these are overridden by my manic vocal gesticulations and the crascendo of the fireworks. I can only imagine how this scene would have looked to a passerby.

Linda, eventually liberates herself from the seatbelt and in a mixture of anger and pure panic, gets me to stop digging like a lunatic. She even manages to get me to recognise the sense of putting my clothes on before heading to the farm house in the far distance. At the farm house, I tentatively knock on the door and tell the farm that my girlfriend and I have been taking a leisurely Winters evening drive and have mistakingkly nose dived my car into a ditch. Fortunately the farmer and his wife do not shine a spot light on the elephant in the room and let us use their phone to ring my parents. It is obvious to all around, exactly what has happened but nobody passes comment, at least not that night.

The next day the farmer, being a typical farmer, charges me £30 to pull my car out of the ditch with his tractor. My mum, dad and uncle go to pick up the car whilst I go to work. Later my uncle breaks the silence as he passes comment abut the proliferation of condoms that littered the floor of my passion wagon. My car never drives the same again

First and final blind date

2010-09-30T22:57:00.000-07:00

My sex life started at a very young age, with some rather peculiar antics, which even I, am not prepared to elaborate on (Girls, you know who you are). By the time I was 8, I was a spent force. A drunken fumble in 1984, aged 15, with my sisters university flat mate, was a mere oasis in a desert of shyness. I left school in 1985, aged 16, a virgin and only having kissed 2 girls in my teenage years. So when the opportunity of a blind date turned up, I was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It's a particularly cold winters night in early December of 1985. There has been some early snow and a layer of fog has enveloped the Rossendale valley. The phone rings and I hear my mate Chris Mayer on the other end. The background noise, alerts me to the fact that Chris is in a phone box. I glance at my watch and see that it is 5.30pm. I make a mental note that he must be on the way home from work. His voice seems, sort of muffled and his words are spoken quickly. He informs that he is down to his last 10 pence, hence the rapid conversation.

I am writing this story, 25 years later, so the accuracy of the following conversation has obviously been tainted - but it went something like this.

Chris: Hi Andy

Me: Alright, what you up to?

Chris: I've set up a date for you.

Me: Really, who with?

(my imagination is aroused)

Chris: She's called Denise.

Me: What's she like?

Chris: erghh, not bad. She's a proper goer, I've heard.

Let me take a minute here to share some retrospective thoughts. 1, Why was he giving me an opportunity to lose my virginity, when he was himself a virgin. 2, Why was he giving me an opportunity of anything at all, when he was as desperate for a girlfriend as I was. Unfortunately my 16 year old, sex obsessed mind neglected to conjure up these thoughts at the time.

Me: Really (I'm feeling a stirring in my under carriage).

Chris: Yeah, she's really keen to meet you. I've told her loads about you.

Me: Oh yeah, what did you say?

Chris: I've told her that you have a motorbike.

This is true, for the past 6 months or so, I have been in possession of a Honda MT 50. When I bought it, I was totally taken in by the looks and extremely blase to the performance (it looks like a scramble bike with knobbly tyres). In hindsight I should have got a Yamaha FS1E, which in the words of my mates are like "shit off a shovel". However, my teenage judgement got the better of me and I ended up with a hairdryer on wheels.

Me: Where does she live?

Chris: Bacup.

Me: Fucking hell. I knew there had to be a catch.

Bacup, for anybody not familiar with the Rossendale valley, is the arse end of the world. A place where the following incidents have occurred. 1, A guy hand gliding over the town centre, was shot down by kids with air rifles. 2, A group of nuns, who had moved into the area to help out with social problems, had a dustbin on fire thrown through their window. 3, The Rossendale Free Press (local rag)reported on a guy that had been prosecuted on 26 accounts of necrophilia, at a Bacup morgue. 4, Chris and I had been attacked on 2 occasions by gangs of street youths. The second occasion Chris was left in hospital for 3 days. Needless to say, this place is rough and not a place that a 16 year old virgin riding a hair dryer really wants to go for his first blind date.

Chris: She said that you have to meet her at the main Bacup bus stop at 6.30.

Me: Ergh ergh.

By the time I have had time to compose myself, Chris's money has run out. I am left talking to the dialling tone.

Ten minutes later, I head off into a chilly, foggy, dark Rossendale evening, full of trepidation, but longing for some sexual action. As I trundle along, I am struggling to focus. My mind is all consumed with thoughts of a sexual nature. Oh god, please let me at least lose my finger virginity.

The journey between my parents home in Helmshore and Bacup town centre is around 7 miles, which in a car does not seem very far at all. However, on a cold winters night, on my Honda MT 50 hair dryer the journey seems to last forever. I hit the Queens Arms traffic lights in Rawtenstall (the half way point) and notice that the Burnley bus is stopped at the lights in the opposite direction. I know that this is the bus that Chris catches home from work, so I cast a glance through the windows. We notice each other at the same time and I wave to him. As he waves back, a large smile spreads across his face, which stinks of suspicion. I have no time to dwell on this because the lights change to green.

As I arrive at Bacup town centre, I notice a group of girls are hanging around the bus stop. I pull up on the opposite side of the road and consider my course of action. Shit, I was not expecting this. I cast a glance at my watch and see that it has already turned 6.30. Oh no, what am I to do? I contemplate turning around and heading back to Helmshore but am hesitant to do so because I am desperate for some action. What if she really is a goer? I can't let an opportunity like this fall by the wayside.

It's too late, my uncertain behaviour has grabbed the attention of the girls, who are now beckoning me over. I ride my moped over at super slow speed. In my mind I am sort of hoping that I never actually make it. Maybe I'll get hit by a bus on the way over and never have to face the girls. My shyness has totally kicked in now. My mind has won the battle, my libido retreats like a tortoise back into its shell.

I pull up at the bus stop and one of the girls shouts out, "Are you here to see Denise like?". I want to say no, but I hear myself saying "yes". It does not actually matter what I've said because the girls can't hear me. A mixture of nerves and a overall feeling of not wanting to be seen as resulted in me not pulling my helmet visor up. "What's he on about"? I hear one of the girls say. "I don't know ", one of the others interjects, "he's got his helmet on". Through my steamed up visor I can only make out the girls gleaming white stiletto heals. They are all wearing the same tacky shoes. "He must be fucking ugly", another of the girls shouts and they all cackle like witches. "Take your helmet off love, lets get a look at your fisog (face)". I am in the process of carrying out this latest request, when Denise is thrust upon me. I pull off my helmet to be faced by a rabid beast.

"Hey, he's not bad you know", the ringleader calls out, "I wouldn't mind having a dabble with him myself". "You can fuck off he's mine", are Denise's first words and with that she grabs my hand and claims me, as if I were her baggage on an airport carousel. "Come on love, lets go back to mine". She storms off up the hill, still holding my hand and I am forced to wheel my moped with my legs. "Good luck love", I hear one of the girls shout as I we disappear into the distance towards one of the roughest council estates in England.

Her house is fronted by a small garden which is covered in snow. An old battered fence surrounds the garden and there is a gate which is hanging by one hinge. A distinct path has been trodden through the snow to the front door and I elect to push my bike up this path for fear of it being stolen. This is no mean task because there is an incline to the front door. I slip and slide but eventually park it up in front of the front window. The task complete, I am beckoned into the house by Denise, with the promise of a cup of tea.

They say if you want to see what the girl is going to look like then you should see her mother. Her mother is the first thing that I see as I enter the house. It is plain to see where Denise acquired her bad looks. The mum has a face like a robbers dog and body that even Jerry Springer would reject from his show. Worse than that, are the tattoo's which adorn her arms. They are a mixture of very badly done real ones and home made ones which are even worse. The one that catches my attention the most is big, red love heart with an arrow cutting through it. The word mum is written in the middle of the heart. Is this in honour of her own mother? a present from one of the kids or is she self obsessed? My mind is awash with thoughts, caused by a mixture of nerves and genuine curiosity.

Mum: Ooooh our Denise, he looks freezing love. Bring him in and warm him up. (mum laughs at her own sentence).

We are ushered into the living room, where I see that Top of the Pops has just started. I am glad of the distraction. The next 30 mins are amongst the most uncomfortable of my entire existence to this day. The mum wanders into the kitchen and Denise plonks herself on the sofa and immediately wraps her legs around mine.

Denise: Are you gonna kiss me?

Me: Do you want me too? (obviously shitting myself).

Denise: What do you think?

I think that I have made a grave mistake. I think that Chris Mayer is a cunt. I think that I am never going on a blind date again. I think I'd better keep these thoughts to myself.

She gives me no time to articulate my thoughts anyway. I open my mouth to reply and find myself in the middle of an involuntary French kiss. She dives on me like a life guard on a drowning man and we wrestle around on the sofa. I think that she see's my spasms as kinky, she does not realise that I am trying to escape from her. My eyes dart around the living room and I am alarmed to see many, many photo's of kids. Sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters, niece's, nephews -you name it, they are there. I'm talking all 4 walls covered in photo's of children.

The mum walks back into the room, 3 cups of tea in her hand and immediately latches onto my focus of attention.

Mum: We love to have kids in this family love. Only our Denise to go now and that'll be my lot until the grand kids start having em. She's already had 2 abortions you know, she's waiting for Mr Right.

Denise, does not seem put off by her mothers re-entry to the living room or indeed her comments. She continues to probe her tongue around my mouth, with little regard for my lack of response or her mothers presence.

Mum: Oh, she likes you alright love. Come on our Denise, let the lad drink his tea.

Denise, eventually releases her clinch and I launch for my cup of tea. Tea in hand, I divert my attention to top of the pops. Denise and her mum continue to watch my every move in a rather uncomfortable fashion. They seem to be giving each other secret messages, thinking that I am not looking. I choose to ignore their behaviour and focus on top of the tops, and that's when they start to have a conversation as though I was not sitting right down next to them.

Mum: Fucking hell Denise, you've done alright there. He's better than the usual scum you bring home.

Denise: Yeah, he's from Helmshore - posh end of the valley.

Mum: Well, you better hang on to him. It's about time we saw some of yours on the wall.

In unison, their eyes flick around the walls in admiration of their family offspring, then come to rest on my cowering body. The mum flashes me a toothless smile and Denise's squeezes my hand. To add insult to injury, Jennifer Rush is on top of the pops bellowing out the Power of Love. Inside my mind I am hatching a plan.

If I pretend I am going to the toilet, I can be out of the front door, on my moped and down the path way before they even notice I am gone. Ok, there are a few flaws in this plan, as I am about to find out but it is worth a crack. Right now I am petrified, in fact I am wondering whether this is enough to put me off sex for life. The pictures of all those kids on the wall are going to be the cause of sweat drenched nightmares for years. Babies, horrible ugly babies, kids, grubby horrible kids, the mums toothless smile and oh god, the reassuring hand squeeze - all to the backdrop of Jennifer Rush (the power of love). That's it, I have to go.

Me: Erm, where's your toilet?

Mum: Denise love, show him where the toilet is (she had never bothered to ask my name).

Denise: Follow me babe, I'll take you up. (the grip on my hand tightens).

Me: No bother, I'll be back in a flash, I'm dying for a pee. (I break free from my shackles and head for the door).

Mum: Up the stairs and 2nd door on the left love.

For the past 5 minutes I have been fumbling through my pockets with my left hand, to try and locate the ignition key for my moped. I have singled it out from the bunch and now hold it firmly between my thumb and fore finger. I leave the living room, closing the door behind me and grab my helmet from the hallway . I lunge at the front door. "Fuck, fuck, fuck", the latch is on. As I fumble with the mechanism, the noise seems deafening. Through the closing titles of Top of the Pops, I hear Denise and her mum musing over what the noise is. I manage to sort the latch out just in time. As I bolt through the door, I see the handle on the living room door turn downwards.

I throw my helmet on, stick the key in the ignition and start the moped with lightning precision. By the time Denise and her mum have reached the front door, I am halfway down the snow filled garden. I hear them shouting obscenities as my bike crashes through the gate. The one hinge gives way and I literally take it with me. I am saved by the knobbly tyres on my MT50 hairdryer, which cut through the snow.

At the bottom of the estate, I cast a look back and am relieved to see that they have not given chase. I finally relax, as I head back to the posh end of the Valley.

Unlucky charms

2010-09-28T06:47:00.000-07:00

This tale starts almost a week into a trip to Burma. I've met up with my aptly named friend of 25 years, Dangerous Dave, who having just ended a 4 year marriage, is on his way to start a new life in Vietnam as an English teacher. To summarise, Dave and I met up a week earlier in Bangkok, before hopping on a flight to Yangon, a few days there and an horrendous overnight bus journey to the romantically titled Mandalay, where we hired 2 scooters and have spent a most enjoyable 4 days riding across Burma. This week in itself will eventually make it into one of my life stories but for now I will concentrate on the latter part of our trip.

The day begins with drama, is sandwiched with even more drama and ends in melodrama, worthy of any James Bond script. We are now in the beautiful Inle lake area, where we spent a dramatic, previous day in the middle of the lake, watching our supposedly experienced canoe captain, cowering from the rapturous cracks of thunder and almost blinding lightning strikes which threaten to bombard our vessel at a distance of approximately 100 metres. Even the usually unflappable Dangerous Dave is passing comment on how too close for comfort the strikes actually are. He exclaims that he has never seen lightning hit the water before. I assume it is nerves that drives our laughter, whilst in an seemingly unlaughable situation. That is, moored up to a post in the middle of an enormous lake, nature throwing all it as at us, with our captain, cowering in the back of the canoe, shielding himself with an umbrella. He assures us that, to his knowledge, only one person has ever died on the lake from a lightning strike. I am not convinced but it is the only consolation I have to offer my mind.

How we ever made it out of that lake alive is only for god to answer but here we are a day later, leisurely breakfasting before setting off on out scooter for a 200 km stretch of mountainous terrain. In retrospect, we were never going to do this in one day, as it happens this was not written in the script anyway. Exiting the breakfast hall we meet our canoe captain, who appears to have much larger testicles than the last time we saw him. He wears a smile upon his countenance which is as wide as his frowns of yesterday were long. The reason for his joyous behaviour, we are to find out is the fact that we are all alive to enjoy another breakfast. Of the twenty or so canoes that were on the lake the previous day, one had been hit by lightning with the loss of one and serious injury of 2 others. It seems that our concerns were not unfounded after all.

We depart Inle Lake, glad to be alive and full of excitement for our forthcoming trip to Bagan. With far too much confidence, we crack on at a pace which is certainly far faster than the roads or our brakes should allow. Before we even leave the immediate area of the lake, I have been in a heart murmuring slide of the back wheel, which miraculously terminates before I slam into a wall. Dangerous Dave and I race through the mountains between Inle Lake and Kalauw, with pleasure pumping through our veins, as we pass everything on the road, including, cars, trucks, buffalo and cart, tractors, motorcycles and check points (which we are supposedly supposed to stop at). We reach our lunchtime destination of Kalauw in time for brunch. We have stayed here for 2 days already and therefore know the exact restaurant that we are heading for. The 7 sisters restaurant, run by -wait for it- the ancestors of 7 sisters. Great food, slow service but lovely people. The slow service is not too important because we have made up enough time to allow for a drawn out brunch.

Throughout the journey, Dave has decided that his helmet is not a necessity and in turn I have stupidly elected to discard of my own helmet. As we leave the 7 sisters restaurant, heartily foddered and watered, I tie my helmet to the back of my bike (much to the disdain of the 7 sisters ancestors) and we accelerate off into the distance with the staff waving us goodbye. Little do they know that I am to be back there within 15 minutes and then again within 30 minutes.

Dave sets the pace and I follow, not too far behind, shooting through the checkpoint on the edge of the village as we have become accustomed. We have been warned, that in this country of military junta, we will be stopped, cross examined and told to turn back. In reality, the guys at the checkpoint wave to us as we fly by, with no helmets and exceeding the speed limit by some considerable margin. What follows is a dangerous set of hairpin bends, which continue for around 10 km, as we make our way down the mountain. Rapidly descending the mountain, I briefly take note of the flower seller as she waves her wares at me. Our paths are to cross again in the very near future.

As often happens, my intuition tells me that something is not quite right. I turn around to discover that I have lost my helmet, somewhere on the mountain. Realising that Dave is too far ahead of me, I turn around and ride back up the mountain in search of my redundant head gear. Once again I ride past the flower seller, who is frantically waving her flowers at me. I casually think to myself, "It's a helmet I need love, not your flowers". It does not occur to me that she may have actually found my helmet. By now, Dave has managed to realise that I am no longer in his shadow and has met me on the mountain. I leave him searching for my helmet as I head back into the village. Before I know it, I am back at the 7 sisters and have been given a new helmet. With much determination I get the family to accept $10 from me and tell them that if I find my helmet, I will be back (I don't think for one minute that this will be a reality).

Once again I begin my descent of the mountain, taking a second to wave at the security check point guards, who are by now, almost too inanimate to lift their arms. In the distance, I see that Dave is standing next to the flower seller in a bus shelter type structure. I also notice that the flower seller is holding my helmet. She speaks no English but it is not hard to deduce that she has recovered my helmet and now wishes to sell me a flower (which turn out to be lucky charms). I delve in my wallet and give the lady $2. Dave also buys a flower which he wears around his neck. He informs me that this is the first lucky charm that he has ever bought. In hindsight of what is to come, I assume that this is going to be his last. This village is beginning to feel like the village of the damned. Will I ever escape? Off I go, back up to the 7 sisters restaurant to trade my helmet back in for $10. This time, the security post guards don't even bother to look.

Returning to the bus shelter, I give the flower seller the $10. The look on her face is enough for me to understand that she has never even seen a $10 note before. Upon further investigation, I notice a semi naked baby in the shelter. Dave later tells me that, through a process of gesticulations he understands this to be her child and the bus shelter to be her home. I leave, feeling happy to have given the lady the money but confused about global inequalities.

After, far too many false starts, Dangerous Dave and I finally set off, destination Bagan. Typically Dave sets the pace and I follow in relatively close pursuit. The scenery on this section of the trip is breathtaking, beautiful mountain valleys of lush greenness, farmers tending to their paddy fields, buffalo grazing by the roadside and people happily waving to us, oblivious to the poverty they exist in. Dave and I are really motoring by now and even running out of fuel does not break our spirit. I merely coast down the mountainside until I come across a roadside stall with bottles of fuel. These are everywhere in Burma and make life very convenient. What is slightly worrying however, is the fact that we are blatantly heading into storm. With each KM we cover, the sky turns a darker shade of grey.

I guess that a wiser man would say that the odds of finishing this trip in one piece are not in our favour. We are on bikes that have slightly defective braking mechanisms, going far too fast, down hairpin mountain bends, on roads that are so pot holed they can barely be defined as such. There are so many obstacles, such as buffalo, people, trucks and tractors, that at times it seems like you are playing a computer game. This is especially pertinent because I am listening to the Prodigy on my headphones, at full blast -thus setting my mood. Add to this that we are donned only in a pair of shorts with our crash helmets tied to the back of our bikes. Some may call it stupid, some may call it irresponsible, others reckless; I call it fun and a real sense of living.

Village after village passes us by and we are received by the same response at each one. Those lazing by the roadside, leap from their vegetative state to wave at us, roadside construction workers (usually ladies), leave their posts to frantically gesticulate, soldiers, police, farmers and just about any other profession you can think of, cast us a smile, as we race on by. This is life turned up to 11, I feel as alive as a man can get. The dark clouds looming on the horizon, it could be argued, are an indication of what is about to occur.

The roads have been particularly bad, as we approach our impromptu end. Just before the final village of our trip, we make one last stop to retrieve the water bottle which has flown out of Dave's basket. Examining Dave's bike, we think that he has cracked the frame in half. Fortunately it turns out that the plastic has come slightly loose. It would have come as no surprise if the frame was cracked in half, I must confess. With the damage report carried out we head off again, at lightning pace.

As we enter the final village, Dave, thankfully is in the lead by around 5 seconds. We cast our customary waves at the village folks and weave our way through the settlement. I see Dave disappear over the crest of a hill, although I am unaware that this will be the last time I will see him and his machine connected. As I race over the same hillside, I am confronted with a scene of carnage with Dave's bike spinning out of control and his body performing involuntary gymnastic moves. There are several trucks creating obstacles on the road and I am assuming these are the cause of Dave's spill. The cause of Dave's spill is revealed to me sooner than I would have liked, as my own front wheel hits a patch of oil and I wrestle with the steering column. I think that it is fortune rather than skill that ensures that I do not end up in the same bloody pile as Dave.

Let me tell you! if you are to have an accident of any kind, then I am the last person that you want around you. I have not got the foggiest idea what to do, despite completing a first aid course in 1985. My plan of action is to get off my bike slowly and hope that somebody that actually knows what they are doing turns up at the scene. My plan in this type of situation always seems to work. By the time I have reached the scene, Dave is surrounded by a gaggle of people and somebody has taken the lead. I quietly observe his injuries, take note that he is conscious and then tend to his bike in an effort to divert my mind. I inform Dave that his chain has fallen off and detect irritation in his voice at my seemingly low appreciation of the severity of his condition. Surprisingly he does not seem to mind, when I ask him if I can take photographs of the crash. I think, by now he realises that I am to be of little use as a medic.

Dave is hoisted off the ground and walked to a waiting scooter, his face has turned a strange shade of grey/green and he is hobbling pretty badly. There are injuries to the whole right side of his body, a lump on the back of his head and nasty looking cut on his left elbow. I do however note that his lucky charm appears to no longer be hanging around his neck. He is a little cautious about riding on the back of a bike to the hospital but he has little choice. His scooter/ambulance drives him off and I am left in charge of gathering his goods. I am happy to see that all the village appears to have gathered together to assist me in this task. We soon have his bike upright and his possessions gathered. Rather amusingly as, we gather his stuff together another scooter, bearing 2 people comes over the crest of the hill from the opposite direction and loses control on the oil slick. Somebody else goes to help and ends up falling on his arse. It is like the key stone cops out there.

A rather tubby man, who is semi naked, grabs Dave's scooter and gestures that I follow him as he pushes it away. We end up at a repair shop, where the proprietor puts the chain back on the bike. Despite my protests he accepts no compensation.
I then follow the tubby guy, through the village to the hospital. To make things worse, the heavens have opened up, as those once threatening dark clouds, release their pressure, all over the village. I am myself semi naked (and tubby, as it happens), as I fight my scooter through the cascading rain, like a world war 1 pilot through the bullet filled skies. People line the sides of the road to watch. Word has obviously got around that the idiots, who raced through the village not 10 minutes earlier, have met a well deserved sticky end. They display a mixture of emotions, ranging from laughter, excitement and sympathy. One guy, I note is particularly excited and jumps from leg to leg punching the air and laughing.

By the time I reach the hospital, Dave is lying prostrate on a wooden bed surrounded by nursing staff. Think world war 1 in the trenches. Imagine the makeshift hospitals that they had there and you've got a pretty good picture of the hospital where Dave now lies. There are many patients in the hospital, who appear to have terrible illnesses. However, Dave is seen to right away and he is given a level of attention which is worthy of any hospital in the world. The lady dealing with him, I note is wearing a fake Gucci t-shirt. I have no idea why but this seems to stick out in my mind. It seems ludicrous that these people hardly have enough money to eat, yet they want to be seen in a labelled top, albeit fake.

Word gets around the hospital and people appear from everywhere in their pyjamas. They surround Dave's bed and peer in bewilderment. The fact that his body is ripped to shit does not mean anything to them. The fact that there are 2 foreigners in this rarely visited neck of the woods is far more intriguing. Dressed in their white robes, they kind if resemble zombies, their vacant stares add to this conjecture.

Outside the rain crashes against the corrugated iron roof of the hospital, adding more atmosphere to the whole experience (not as though it needs any). Dave, as you can imagine is stressed out and seems to be taking his anguish out on me for not retrieving his bag, which contains some pain killers and a change of clothes. The bike is still at the repair shop, a good 3 minutes down the road. The semi naked, tubby man ensures me that he will bring it up when he has finished. I give it a few minutes before going to get it. When I eventually walk out of the door, I stand in a puddle and go up to my knee in soft mud and water. As I fight my way out of this quicksand like substance, the tubby man appears with the bike and bag. However, by the time I have fished out Dave's pain killers, the nurse has stitched him Rambo style without any form of sedative.

In a further twist to the tale, a doctor appears and takes control of the situation. He informs Dave that this is his lucky day because he is a district doctor based in Thazi (23 km away) and is only in the village because there has been an outbreak of dengue fever in the area. My mind is awash with 3 thoughts, 1, At least Dave's lucky charm was good for something, 2. Dengue fever must be the reason for the zombies, overall sickly appearance, 3. Fuck, can you actually catch that shit? The doctor then disappears to finish his lunch, which we have apparently disturbed.

Dave decides that he wants to freshen up a bit, which is hardly surprising since his body is full of road dirt, his shirt is hanging on by a thread and his arse is hanging out of his shorts. I prepare him some fresh clothes and assist him to the door, which he exits and walks full on into the pouring rain. The nursing staff and hangers on, then watch as Dave stands under one of the corners of the building and allows the water to cascade down onto his naked flesh. Rather amusingly they point out the best plants which I can use to wipe him down. It's as though this is an everyday occurrence.

It takes around an hour for the doctor to reappear and by this time we have got our possessions ready for a sharp exit. We make a very loose arrangement with the nurse to look after the bikes and give her the number of the guys that we hired the bikes from. We have arranged to drop the bikes off at 3 pm at Bagan airport in 4 days time. A plan with more holes in it than Dave's bleeding torso, especially since they asked for no deposit, passport or credit card. The village that we now find ourselves in is a good 150 km from Bagan airport and I begin to wonder what the outcome of this little arrangement is going to be. Right now, the most impending task is to get Dave to Thazi hospital for an x-ray of his knee which is where most of the pain is currently focused.

The doctor drives us to his hospital in Thazi, along 23 km of road, which has more holes than tarmac. The doctor is a rather peculiar chap, who laughs at the end of any sentence, whether it is funny or tragically serious. You know the type, you could tell him that you mum's died of cancer , your kids on a life support machine and your wife's left you, only to be met by a torrent of laughter - oh stop you're killing me. I am not too sure how much he English he understands but I find him a rather endearing character with an infectious personality (I hope that is the only infectious thing he has).
One of the first things he says to us, is, "I saw you riding through the village", this is followed by silence before he says "you were driving very fast". Of course this is met by his own laughter, "hahahha".

If we thought Thazi hospital was going to be any better than the previous affair then we are sadly mistaken. Ok, it's certainly bigger and therefore has even more zombie like patients surrounding us upon our arrival. We pull up in the car park and I escort Dave into the reception area. Within seconds the reception area is also full of patients, who are curious to know who, what and where these 2 strange specimens have been picked up from. There is a look of genuine bewilderment on their faces, as they make a circle around us and whisper to each other. Not knowing what else to do, I wave at them. Some timidly wave back and others remain vacant, staring at me as though I have just arrived from Mars. All the while Dave is filling in papers and answering questions. I take note that there are several dogs walking around the hospital with no apparent owner. Nobody, seems to acknowledge their existence and this includes doctors.

Eventually, Dave is ready to be transferred to the x-ray department. Well, I say transferred, what I actually mean is that Dave has to struggle to get up and then stumble 100 metres to a rather dingy looking outbuilding. During the 100 metre stumble, he encounters uneven ground, pond like puddles, huge drops and a wayward pig. The pig wanders the hospital grounds at its leisure, in what appears to be a never ending quest for food.

There is no door as such on the x-ray room, a moth eaten green curtain is draped across the open door frame. I muse over the function of this curtain. Is it to prevent access or to protect against radiation. The curtain is parted in the middle and resembles a pair of giants trousers. Dave disappears into the room and I stick my head through the curtains with catlike curiosity. Given the surroundings I am not expecting anything fancy, nor am I expecting the torture chamber of which I am confronted. Many years ago, I visited the S21 torture camp in Phenom Penh. The X-ray room at Thazi hospital does not look too dissimilar. As I leave the room of my own free will, the nonchalent pig is attempting to make his way in. I clap my hands and chase him off.

Dave re-emerges from his gamma chamber, shaking his head in disbelief at what he has just witnessed. Apparently, when the radiologist pushed the button to take the skeletal snap, the contraption not only made a large electrical sizzling noise but the lights in the hospital dimmed. Whilst he has been in there, the police and immigration and have arrived and are waiting to question us both.

What I have failed to mention until this point, is that it is actually illegal to hire motor cycles in Burma. The guys that we rented them off, were out to make a few quid and rented us their private bikes. Like I said, we exchanged no details apart from a telephone number and a time to meet at Bagan airport. Before we set off, we were warned by the hotel owner in Mandalay that we would not be able to make it accross Burma on scooters without getting stopped by the police. He did however back down on his convictions when he saw that we were going to completely ignore him anyway. He then changed it to "we should be ok, as long as nothing happens". These words are now ringing in my ears "as long as nothing happens". As we walk to the office to be interviewed by the police, I look at Dave's broken body and think, "Oh fuck".

There are 3 officials in total, 1 policeman and 2 immigration officers as far as I tell. I am expecting the worst but my feelings of anguish are soon alleviated when they begin their line of questioning. Using very broken English and poor translations, they seem to want a rundown of our iteniary for the past week. Where we've stayed, places we've been, what we've seen etc. We could have spun them any old bollocks to be honest and got way with it but we tell them the truth. All the while, I am waiting for them to ask me for my International driving license, which I blatantly don't have. Fortunately they never ask. They do however take photocopies of our passports. From what I can gather, they are more concerned about the reputation of their country as an safe place to travel. In actual fact, it is Dave and I that are unsafe to travel, Burma has served us incredibly well. The whole time that we are being questioned by the officials, the zombies have encircled us. We later find out that many of them are dying of malaria. I guess I should be happy that we have kept them entertained in the final stages of their life. Their curiosity reaches its zenith when Dave gets an injection of pain killer in his buttocks. I never knew that dying people could laugh so hard. I half expect to see them drop, there and then.

The laughing doctor has picked up on Dave's previous horrific injury, which ironically he sustained in another motor cycle crash. I say "picked up" but he would have had to be blind not to. Dave has a gash the size of a shark bite out of his right leg. It turns out that the laughing doctor is a master of skin grafts and is particularly interested in Dave's skin graft. Dave informs me that the doctor wants to show Dave one of his recently skin grafted patients. When I see a very sickly patient, hobbling accross the hospital forecourt, I do not for one moment think that this is the patient in question. The guys on deaths door and laughing boy has got him to walk from his bed, so that he can show off his handy work to Dave, who by the way does not give a fuck right now. The doctor is obviously proud of his hospital and to be honest we both have a great deal of admiration for him because he prides himself on the fact that the hospital does not accept any payments. The patients are all as poor as it gets. By use of a translator, I have a conversation with an old lady, who wears her arm in a sling and a smile on her face. It turns out that the lady has fallen in the paddy fields whilst picking rice. I can not even begin to comprehend the life's that thses people lead but it brings a lump to my throat that their are people that care about them and provide free medical care. It's a pity the taxi driver that the doctor hails for us, is not blessed with the same feelings of benevolence. We are charged $25 to take us 10 km tp Mektilla(cheeky bastard). As we exit the hospital car park, the doctor beckons our cab to stop and when we wind the window down. He shouts "good luck David". As our cab exits the hospital car park, we can still hear him laughing.

The journey to Mektilla, where we know of a great hotel on a beautiful lake (not that we care right now), takes a lot longer than it should do. The road is terrible and there are no lights to illuminate the way. Poor Dave gets bounced from pillar to post, whilst I am feeling less than comfortable in the back of the pickup truck. We arrive about an hour later and head to the Honey Hotel, which is in fact fully booked. To be fair, Dave did ask me to check out whether it was going to be full or not but I convinced him that I have never been rejected from an Asian guest house yet. Fortunately is too stressed and sick to rub my nose in this fact.

We end up, at another hotel on the other end of town, which is vastly overpriced, totally run down and full of over friendly staff, who appear only to be this way because they want tips. Dave settles in the best he can and I go off with one of the over friendly, tip hunting vultures to fetch some Chinese food. There are many worries on our minds right now but one of the most pressing one is about the scooter owners. We purposefully did not give the police their telephone number, but we are concerned that the nurse in charge of the bikes, did. Dave and I have vowed to ring the guys in the morning to sort it out. To recap, they are in Mandalay, a city that we left over 4 days ago and have been travelling away from ever since. Their scooters are hauled up in the first village hospital car park where we abandoned them after Dave's involuntary gymnastic display. This village is literally in the middle of nowhere, at least 300 km from the street where we picked the scooters up. My mind is all consumed in this issue, as I drift asleep.

Just when you thought this story could not get any stranger, the following morning adds a new twist. Dave and I awake fairly early and head out of our door for breakfast. As we emerge from our room, we are confronted by a familiar face. It takes a few seconds to recognise this face as the person that rented us the bike. Unbelievably, the guy has travelled down through the night with his friend and his uncle, on several buses. The nurse has rejected their plea's for the return of their bikes and has made them get a written confirmation from Dave and I, that we are OK and will not pursue this further. From the village hospital where Dave crashed, they have retraced our steps to the town hospital, where we encountered pigs, zombies and torture devices. The laughing doctor has directed them from there to the Honey Hotel, where he believed us to be. From there the manager has directed them to the overpriced shit hole where we now reside. As we slept, this band of super sleuths have travelled through the night. It is now 7.30 am and their efforts have been rewarded. Of course I write them the confirmation letter and in turn they try to help us find a private taxi driver that is not going to rape our wallets. As it happens, these are harder to find than a traffic policeman that gives a fuck in Burma. In our efforts to find a driver with a conscience however I am rewarded by the sight of a chain gang of prisoners crossing the road with balls and chaina on their feet (and I thought that this shit only happened in the movies). Rather bizarrely they all turn, smile and wave when they see me. I am happy to brighten up their lives.

We eventually book 3 seats on the bus to Bagan, 2 for Dave and his injured body and 1 for me. The bus is full to capacity and it is easy to see that somebody has been ejected from their seat to make way for the crippled foreigner.

Dave claims that he will never ride a motor bike without a helmet again. I doubt this very much. However, I don't doubt his claims that he will never purchase another lucky charm.

The importance of being Lee Mavers

2010-09-02T21:27:00.000-07:00

Oasis tickets for the recently opened Liverpool Echo arena, sold out in minutes. I made a cursory effort to purchase one but the Internet was constantly jammed and given that I had already seen them 3 times, I easily gave up.

It's now the day of the gig in late summer 2008 and the office is alive with Oasis banter. It seems like I was the only person in the office that did not get a ticket. I am taken in by the atmosphere surrounding the place and I decide that I want to see the concert. My efforts to make a purchase are however going unrewarded due to the ridiculous prices that I am being quoted. I am offered a glimmer of hope from a colleague who tells me that somebody that he knows got a returned ticket for the previous nights concert from the box office. I email a few friends and we decide to follow this optimistic route.

Glenn and his wife Debbie meet me at my house and we walk to the Arena, stopping at the Corburg pub on route for a beer and a tequila slammer to get us in the mood. As we approach the Echo Arena, there are many glum looking faces outside and it soon becomes apparent that any chance of getting a ticket is going to cost us a small fortune. You know that the game is over when every single tout is asking you for tickets. A substantial queue has also gathered around the box office, although this does not appear to be getting any shorter. Glenn and Debbie join this queue whilst I scout around unsuccessfully for a tout.

After a short time I join Glenn and Debbie in the queue and we anxiously wait for any activity. By this point I am assuming that we are pissing in the wind but thankfully we don't give up. A group of boisterous young scousers behind me are planning a raid on the doors. They ask me if I want to join them in their feeble plan and I decline. Before they decide to carry out their fiendish acts, the doors are opened and chaos ensues whilst 30 people try and get through a small doorway in an every man for himself scenario. Glenn and Debbie are successful in getting through the first doors but I have the doors shut in my face. I can see Glenn and Debbie through the glass doors but there is no way of joining them. Fortunately for me they bargain with one of the door officials and I am finally able to join them.

Although we have penetrated the first doorway, we then enter a second queue. It appears that we will be successful but it is a long drawn out process and a process that is hindered by a totally arrogant Southern scumbag who cons us out of our place and then lies about it afterwards. At first it seems like this is the final nail in the coffin but eventually we are given the opportunity to buy tickets at face value. We hurriedly make this purchase and are ushered into the man arena. We have missed seeing the first couple of songs by now but at least we have been able to hear them.

Ignoring our allocated positioning, we make our way to the bottom of one of the stairwells from where we have a reasonable view. This is much to the stewards annoyance but her efforts to retrieve us are unsuccessful. It's a great thought to think that hundreds of people have paid 5 times more than us and have probably got a much worse view.

The band are OK but my excitement is driven much more by the fact that we managed to beat all the odds to watch the gig. We sing along to the Oasis classics and try to convince ourselves that we like some of the songs that weren't on the first 2 albums or the Masterplan. Noel converses with the crowd on a few occasions, mainly to introduce songs. On one such occasion, he says " and this one is for Lee Mavers", before he launches into the "Importance of being idle". Now, for anybody that does not know, Lee Mavers is a true Liverpool legend, who will forever be known to the majority for his amazing pop song "There she goes". In the late 80s and early 90s, Lee Mavers band The La's were tipped for the top, with their beautifully melodic tunes. What actually happened, is they brought out one good album and then disappeared. Apparently their second album which never evolved, was marred by the fact that Lee Mavers sought pure perfection and was never satisfied with the sound that was produced. This eventually led to the band going their separate ways. John Power went on to have a successful career with the band Cast, whilst Lee Mavers disappeared into a herion induced bubble somewhere in Huyton. The press labelled him a recluse and he was not seen or heard of for years, apart from when my mates spotted him buying toilet rolls at Tesco's in Huyton on several occasions.

The gig ends and Glenn, Debbie and I decide that we will go for a few beers. Although there are reams of people trying to get taxi's outside the arena, we are lucky and manage to get one fairly quickly. We hastily decide to go to Lark Lane to escape the crowds as much as anything else. Lark Lane is a great little Bohemian area about a 10 minute drive from city centre. The Lane (as it is affectionately known) is a unique blend of pubs, cafes, wine bars and shops and it makes a great alternative to going out in Liverpool centre.

We choose a pub called Vinyl which is a cellar bar and the only bar on the Lane with a late license. Surprisingly, the place is empty when we walk in apart from a couple of guys standing by the bar. Now at this point let me tell you that there is a recording studio on Lark Lane known as the Pink Windmill. This studio is owned by Andy McCluskey from the 80s legendary band Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark (OMD). Oasis recorded some of their first album in this recording studio and it was also the place where Atomic Kitten recorded "Whole again". It is not unusual to see Liverpool rock/pop stars, such as John Power (La's/Cast), Ian McCullough (Echo and the Bunnymen) or Pete Wylie (Mighty Wah) hanging around in one of the pubs. However, as I have mentioned before, Lee Mavers is a recluse and I personally have never seen him around during my 7 years in Liverpool. In fact I have recently read an article in the Guardian about his reclusive lifestyle. So, I am more than a little surprised when Glenn notices that one of the two guys at the bar is actually Lee Mavers.

So, let me clarify. Lee Maver's is a recluse. I have recently read an article on this in the Guardian. I've just been to an Oasis gig which I was unbelievably lucky to get in and now I have just bumped into this reclusive figure, whom Noel Gallagher (Oasis) has not 1 hr earlier been alluding too as idle. Even more bizarrely, Mavers and his mate are the only other customers in the bar. Glenn, then points out that the other guy with Lee Mavers is the drummer from the La's. Wow, this is too much, I have to talk to them.

Lee Mavers and the drummer go upstairs and I follow them in stalker like fashion. They get on to the street above and spark up their cigarettes. I sort of stand there, in an awkward fashion for a few seconds and then when it is obvious that I am not there for a smoke, I fire out and opening sentence. The sentence that I use is probably the worst sentence that I could have used and sparks off the following conversation.

Me: "erm, I went to see Oasis tonight and they dedicated one of their songs to you"

Lee Mavers: "Oh yeah, which song like"

Me: "The importance of being idle"

Lee Mavers: "The cheeky fucking twats, they're a fucking shit band"

Me: "erm"

Lee Mavers: "Do you know what I call those fuckers?"

Me: "erm"

Lee Mavers: "The fucking talentless brothers - they're fucking useless la"

La is an expression that all Scousers use and is a shortened version of lad. Even girls in Liverpool are referred to as la and it has been said that some scousers even refer to their own mum as la.

For many years I did not make the connection between the band name the La's and this overly used scouse abbreviation.

I quickly change the subject and tell them how good that they are looking for their years. In actual fact I am thinking how good they look considering they have been smack heads for years. The drummer picks up on this compliment and thanks me.

"Cheers la, it's years of hard drugs and partying that does it kid".

Lee Mavers, seems to take offence to the drummer soaking up the compliment and says,

"How can you say that he looks good? He's dressed like a fucking undertaker". (he actually does have an undertaker resemblence)

The drummer in turn takes offence to Lee Mavers abusive words and comes out with the following torrent of abuse.

"Fuck off, do you know what you are? I'll tell you what you are, you're the biggest waste of talent this country has ever seen". (I'm agreeing in my head).

Lee Mavers then mumbles something under his breath before shouting "Fuck off, anyway I am off to pick up my kids". With this he staggers off down Lark lane

It is 11 o'clockish on a midweek night and Lee Mavers is staggering off to meet his kids (I'll let you make you own judgements on that).

He is not more than 15 yards away, when the drummer shouts "That's it, run a fucking way, just like you always do Lee. You're a fucking waste of time".

Lee Mavers spins around, sticks 2 fingers up and shouts "fuck off" before disappearing around the corner. At which point, the undertaker drummer turns to me and says the following:

"You know what la! he only says that Oasis are shit because they are everything that he every wanted to become".

Right now I am feeling astounded at the argument that I have just started and therefore I take a short while to respond. My response once again has the articulacy of a Norris Green, North Face gangsta.

"Erm".

To which the drummer replies "He's a fucking prick la, full of shit".

With this he walks off and I go and join Glenn and Debbie to tell them what has just happened.

The story does not end here. There is one more twist.

I'm at work the next morning and of course I've told all my colleagues of my latest random event. It's a beautiful day and as per usual I go for a walk at lunch time. Inspired by the previous nights chance meeting, I stick the La's on my Ipod. I'm totally absorbed in it, until, hold on a minute - this track sounds totally like an Oasis track. A millisecond later I have it, "well goddamit, it's The importance of being idle".

Drunken driving - a very short story

2010-09-02T21:25:00.001-07:00

I've met up with my my mate Dangerous Dave at a pub in Manchester. I'm driving so decline on the beers. However we stay longer than we are meant to and my will power decreases by the round. I eventually have a beer and then another and another etc. Maybe surprisingly to some, this type of behaviour is a rarity in my life. I usually have the resolve to prevent it.

We decide to go back to Bury where Dave's mum lives and I am feeling majorly paranoid driving home stinking of alcohol. I'm on edge and therefore making more errors than usual. Minor errors like setting the windscreen wipers off instead of indicating and stopping at green traffic lights, nothing too extreme. Paranoia starts to get the better of me and I am convinced that I am going to get stopped by the police. As the paranoia increases my driving gets worse, until eventually I am a bundle of nerves and can hardly remember how to drive at all. I'm thinking too much about my every move and we all know the problems over thinking can cause. It's like when you're on a run on the pool table and you decide to think about a shot, you invariably mess the shot up.

I'm feeling so nervous that I make a fatal mistake and decide to take the back roads through Cheatham Hill. My reasoning is that I am less likely to get stopped because there will be less police. I give little regard to the the fact that I don't know the back roads of Cheatham Hill.

Ten minutes later and I have driven more in reverse than forward gear, as I keep entering cul-der-sac's. I am more than a little agitated by now and wishing myself back to Dave's mums. I look in my mirror, see a police car right up my rear end and I think "fuck it, the games up". The police car overtakes me and as I expect he pulls up in front of me. I pull my own vehicle up behind him and get out of the car. The police man driving the car gets out of his vehicle and we walk towards each other. My legs are wobbly and I'm fully expecting a driving ban. I estimate that 20 yards separates us at the start of our reverse duel. We meet at the 10 yard mark and I freeze in terror and await my fate. The police man walks straight past me and enters the newsagents a few feet to my left. I'm stood on the pavement, quite unable to assimilate what has just happened. It takes Dave's frantic gesticulations to penetrate my shock bubble and get me back into the car.

I drive back to Dave's mums with perfect control and coordination.

The 6 minute warning

2010-09-02T21:24:00.001-07:00

It's coming towards the end of summer camp and the excitement of being there is lessening by the day. It's around the middle of August and the weather is unbelievably hot. The kids are wearying of the camp, thus making our job harder. They have one special day when the kids parents turn up to relieve their guilt of sending their kids off to a boot camp for the whole summer. This is a spectacle to behold, with parents turning up in a whole host of flash cars, wearing very snazzy outfits and bearing tremendous gifts.

Al, the crazy chef is particularly stressed during this period, as he tries to impress the kids parents with his culinary delights. The kitchen hands are given the opportunity to show off their artistic sides in a mini competition to create the most beautiful fruit platter. Al, returns after 30 minutes of setting the task, only to find that I have balanced 2 cherries on top of 2 half melons in a breast like formation, with a triangular chunk of pineapple around 20 cm below. He looks at me, shakes his head and sends me off to the bug juice room to keep out of the way.

There have been rumours throughout the summer of a 6 minute warning. That is, if you do anything which is deemed to conflict with the camp ethos, you will get 6 minutes to vacate the premises. This is all fine and dandy, except that you will also lose your return airfare, which will be taken from the pitiful wages, which are being withheld until the end of the summer. Al, uses this 6 minute warning as a threat throughout the whole summer, to further manipulate the kitchen staff. He informs us of previous years victims of the 6 minute warning, including one year when the whole kitchen staff were apparently dismissed in one foul swoop. I have my doubts about whether the 6MW really exists or is just a tool to keep the Crane Lake staff under control (I liken this to rumours of god's existence). However, as the camp comes to the final few weeks, people begin to mysteriously disappear in a very short space of time. Like a camp counsellor who allegedly had sexual liaisons with a 13 yr old girl, who was staying on the camp.

One evening, a bunch of us decide to stride further afield to pursue our drinking exploits. For this purpose we are allowed to borrow the camp station wagon which we cram full of people. The station wagon is so full that we take a jeep as well. I elect to ride in the open back, exposed to the great outdoors and the beautiful Massachusetts night sky. I have travelled a lot in my life but I can safely say that I have never experienced night skies as beautiful as the ones that I saw during the summer of 1992. The stars were absolutely crammed into the sky, an astronomers wet dream of constellations.

I am lying in the back of the jeep on my own, completely absorbed in my thoughts and lost in the stars. Around me, the stillness of the Massachusetts night is permeated by the crazy sound of bull frogs, cicadas and other such creatures (I will elaborate on this later). It's one of those travel moments. I often do a trick where I take a conscious mental snapshot of a particular moment in time, which I can recall at any time with perfect clarity. This memory has just joined my mental slide show.

We arrive at our destination, which I think is somewhere in the Springfield region although my memory fails me on this. Anyway, our desired spot is a pub/bar on the outskirts of somewhere and it is in the rear car park of this bar that I alight the vehicle.

The evening is going good and the beer is flowing well. As per usual, I am quickly drunk and head off on one of many toilet stops. Upon my return I notice that somebody has left the storeroom door open, I enter the room and proceed to fill my pockets with bottles of beer. I sneak these back into the main bar and distribute them amongst my mates. I am to return to the storeroom for 5 sorties before I am suspected of my criminal acts and ejected from the premises.

It's around 15 minutes later and I am waiting outside the building for my friends to emerge. I hear the unmistakable sound of a fracas in the bar foyer and go to investigate. My friend Andy emerges through the front door of the bar in a very animated state. Behind him are the 2 Americans that work in the kitchen, Mike and DJ. Mike, happens to be Crazy Al's nephew and DJ is his best mate. Although the 2 boys are only 17, they are enormous and not to be messed with. DJ is actually the guy that drank the bug juice contaminated with my urine and consequently battered me with a chair. Never quite content with the punishment he administered he is looking for an excuse to have another go. In approximately 5 minutes I am going to afford him that opportunity.

Andy, is from Manchester, well Wythenshawe to be more precise. Wythenshawe, for those of you that have not heard of it's reputation, has been dubbed the largest council estate in Europe. It was originally created as a garden city in the 1930's but fast became an overspill city for the slums and squalor of Manchester. During the 1960's and 1970's, Wythenshawe developed it's reputation as as very bad place to live and a place to stay away from. So, as you can imagine, Andy is quite rough and ready and fancies himself as a bit of a hard man. Right now he is like raging bull, ripping off his shirt in a very aggressive manner and saying "Come on you American faggots, let's fucking have it Manchester style". Alarm bells are starting to ring in my head, of my own possible involvement in this dispute. As a none fighting person, I do not relish the possibilities of this challenge, even in my drunken state. As it turns out, alarm bells are not going to be the only thing that will be ringing in my head.

The argument intensifies and the 2 Americans start pushing Andy backwards towards a small playing field. As he flies backwards he notices me and shouts "Are you with me on this Andy kid"? I'm thinking "Like fuck, I'm with you on this", but what actually comes out of my mouth is "Too fucking right, lets kick some American arse".

They're on the playing field now and the Americans are circling their prey. Andy is still intent on the fact that he is going to have them both, but as far as I can see, he is about to get a proper pummeling. Andy throws the first punch which connects with Mike's head but all this does is infuriate him and provokes the counter attack. This happens quickly, Mike returns the punch which also connects with a sickening crack. DJ then grabs Andy from behind and bear hugs him up in the air. Mike lands a few punches whilst Andy is in the air and I am thinking "they've done this before, it's almost choreographed". My thoughts are cut short, as DJ drops Andy to the ground with a knee in the back. He falls to the floor in agony and gets repeatedly kicked in the head. This is my queue, I run in with arms flailing like a windmill, with no particular, accuracy, power, speed or conviction. I am halfway between the pair of them when it hits me "Thwaacckkkk". DJ, has right hooked me right in the temple and it feels like I have just run head first into a brick wall. I thought that seeing stars was something that only happened in cartoons, but right now I am seeing large cartoon stars, as I lie on my back with my body exposed to any further attack. DJ, pounces on me whilst Mike pounces on Andy. He says, "Are you giving up, you English pussy"?, to which I reply "Yes, get off me, my heads killing". Andy meanwhile is still hurling abuse, even though he is in no position to do so. In my mind I am urging him to stop and he eventually concedes. DJ lowers down on top of me with all his weight and says, "I ought to fucking finish you off right now, for pissing in the bug juice". With those words said, they both head off towards the pub, whilst Andy and I writhe around in pain.

Andy, is up on his feet, blood pouring from his head wounds. He is fuming and goes tearing off in the direction of the pub. I am unable to move and in retrospect, concussed. Besides my injuries, I have had my t-shirt ripped off my back and a gold chain given to me as a gift from my ex, snapped from around my neck. My head is literally throbbing, ringing and full of nothing but pain. Once again I hear an altercation in the distance and I think, "hold on hear we go". I drag myself up, just in time to see Andy racing after the camp station wagon, wielding some kind of implement. The station wagon suddenly stops, allowing Andy the chance to bring his implement crashing down at least 4 times on the vehicle windows, which break with a sickening smash of glass. The station wagon then accelerates off into the distance whilst Andy hurls abuse at it's passengers.

Thirty minutes later and Andy and I are heading off into the Massachusetts countryside, our bodies battered and our minds in other places. We have no idea where we are going or how far it is to Crane Lake camp. All we know is that it was a 30 minute drive to get to the bar and it is now 1.30am. It is pretty clear that Andy is going to get the 6 minute warning but I am hoping that if I can make it back on time, I can salvage my arse. This is when it all starts to get quite humorous.

We are staggering along like 2 war victims and all we can hear are absolutely crazy sounds coming from everywhere. We can pinpoint the bull frogs "whhoooaahhhhhoooaahh", and the cicada's "shhhiiiiiiiiiiiiii" but the night is literally alive with noises and some of them are too ridiculous for words. Besides that, the night is illuminated by stars and even more peculiarly, the bushes are alight with the flashes of fire flies. If you have never seen a fire fly, you are missing a treat. These guys are amazing with their amazing lamp like qualities which they use to attract mates or prey. The first time I saw them was in Israel when one mysteriously appeared in my kibbutz room , sparking a ghost hunt. In Massachusetts the bushes are full of them and it appears as if the bush is flashing on and off, as if you have your Christmas lights set on an annoying setting.

We have walked some distance by now and despite the pain and thoughts of expulsion from the camp, Andy and I are enjoying the banter. We are in fits of laughter brought about by these ridiculous noises that surround and generally enjoying the night walk. However, I eventually decide that I can't walk much further because I am so tired and I become desperate for sleep, this is probably further exacerbated by the concussion that I have sustained. We decide that we will try and get our head down for some rest somewhere, when as if by magic we spot an erected tent in someones massive back garden.

With any stealth that is humanly possible for men in our condition, we run across the garden and unzip the tent. Once inside we make ourselves as comfortable as possible and begin to relax. By now I have fully conditioned my mind to the fact I am going to suffer the 6 minute warning and financial consequences but "fuckit", it's all part of life's rich tapestry. I'm here now and at least I will be able to rest.

Andy and I, are chatting in whispered voices when all of a sudden the tent is illuminated by a powerful flashlight and a booming voice shouts "Get the fuck out of my tent guys, I know you're fucking in there, so I'll give you a count of 10 to get out of my fucking tent before I wrestle you out of my fucking tent". Andy and I look at each other and try to stifle our nervous laughter before getting up and exiting the tent. Once outside the guy pushes us to the ground and says "what the fuck are you doing in my tent". Where do we begin such a tale?

Ten minutes later and a tale seriously biased in our favour has been told. The guy, who turns out to be a professional wrestler, has taken pity on us and is seeing to Andy's wounds in the kitchen. We are given glasses of fruit juice and even more importantly we are offered a lift back to Crane Lake Camp, which we very willingly accept. The wrestler, drives and gives us advice all the way back to camp. Apparently, we are very lucky to have got into the right tent and if we would have been Americans we would have more than likely have been driven straight to the police station. With his piece said, he deposits outside the gates of the camp and bids us farewell. It's around 4 am by now and I have to be up at 7 to serve the kids breakfast. I lie in my bed staring at Harry the Hood, my head throbbing against the pillow.

I wake up and have come face to face with my assailants. They actually seem ok with me but take great pleasure in announcing that Andy will be thrown off camp. Right on queue, we hear him shouting outside and go to investigate. Ed, the camp director and one his beef cake hench men are escorting Andy off the premises. Andy turns to us with his his rucksack on his back, a large smile, stretched across his contorted face and in his unmistakable Manchester accent says "fuck em, they pay fuck all anyway". With this he exits the gates and I don't see him again until a meeting years later at his council house in Wythenshawe.

My headache takes a week to go away, the memory of drinking my urine will remain with DJ forever.

Al the crazy chef, Harry the Hood and the stupid bug juice man's revenge

2010-09-02T21:22:00.000-07:00

After saving like crazy for almost 2 years, I headed off to America on June 9th 1992. This was my first destination on my 2 year trip around the world and was supposed to be a gentle introduction. I first heard about Camp America during a brief encounter with an English guy at a train station in Cairo in 1989. The fire inside me had been ignited and upon my return from my trip to Egypt I began saving. To cut a long story short, I got a decent paid job, met a girl and fell back into normal life, which meant that my plans to travel were put on the back burner. It took me three years to finally execute my plans, after saving a wedge of cash and mourning a broken relationship.

You get 2 choices of work with Camp America, you are either a camp counsellor or a kitchen/maintenance worker. As a camp counsellor you eat, sleep and shit with the kids, whilst as a kitchen worker you work 3 shifts a day (breakfast, lunch and dinner) with free time between and after these times. To me at this stage of my life there was no competition between these 2 positions. I wanted to party and the position of kitchen worker suited me right to the ground. I bid my farewells to my family at Manchester airport, boarded a plane bound for Newark airport and was on my way. At the airport I was sat next to world snooker champion, Stephen Hendry and on the plane I was sat next to a member of a band called 25th May. In the 2 years previous to my departure I had been seeing lots of bands and had seen 25th of May on several occasions. I took these 2 signs as omens of the great times that lay ahead of me.

Arriving in New York was amazing and everything I expected New York to be. The New York skyline in the background with yellow taxi's everywhere and a cacophony of noise. Like a kid I was transfixed and remained silent throughout the whole hour trip. I have 2 prominent memories of the first night in the hotel. The first is hearing Billy Joel's, piano man for the first time and falling in love with the song. Whilst the second memory was ordering burger and chips and being given a burger and a bag of crisps. I mean who would order a burger and a bag of crisps? It just doesn't make sense.

The next day our group of 5, boarded a public bus and travelled through Upstate New York to Massachusetts. Our camp lay on the outskirts of a village called West Stockbridge, which is located a few miles into Massachusetts, close to the border with Upstate New York. West Stockbridge is in a beautiful area of America in the Berkshire Hills. The village is as quaint as it gets, white wooden buildings, with ornamental carts outside on beautifully manicured lawns. It is also very patriotic, each house displaying the Stars and Stripes from 20 ft high flag poles set in the grass. There were numerous shops in the village but they were all run by the Baldwin family, who I can only surmise were inbred.

The kitchen staff comprised of 13 British nationals, a couple of Americans and a Kiwi. The kitchen and dining room were set away from the rest of the camp and also housed our sleeping quarters, directly above the kitchen and second dining room. The chef was for want of a better description, a psychopathic lunatic. This guy was of African descent, and had a very vocal dislike for white people. He was quite small in stature, around 5ft 6 " and walked with a slight limp. However, he seemed to build this limp into his cool walk routine, which also saw him waving his hands around and generally trying to play "the man". Al, as he was named, also had a great fondness for Bill Cosby and the way that he walked was a reflection of this. He had a stocky frame and took great pride in abusing his power to either intimidate the boys or sexually harass the girls.

Revert to real time.

My room is just about big enough to house a bunk bed and a single bed. I share the room with Hugh, a quite eccentric guy from Devon and Daniel, a very sober and consequently boring guy from Macclesfield. Somehow, even though I am their senior, I end up on the top bunk with my face literally a foot away from the ceiling. There is a large graffiti picture of "Harry the hood" drawn on the ceiling which given my phobia of graffiti disturbs me immensely. Whose "Harry the Hood", I hear you exclaim. Harry the Hood is a strange faced cartoon guy that appears on the side of the milk cartons. I can only assume that at some point, one of the previous kitchen workers has drawn this picture (hold this thought, Harry the Hood will bizarrely turn up in a future tale). For the next 10 weeks, Harry the Hood is the first person I see when I wake up and the last person I see before I go to sleep at night.

We are awoken on the first morning by a banging of a frying pan on our room door, which is followed by Crazy Al (as he as been labelled), shouting at the top of his voice "Wake up, you white boys, sons of whore's, get the fuck out of your beds". Considering that until this point I had been in the middle of a beautiful sleep, with my eyes wide shut, I am more than a little disturbed and instantly wonder whether I have made the right decision to come to the summer camp. This is to be the routine and Al's mantra for the whole summer and we are later to find out that his tantrums are alcohol and drug induced.

I hurriedly get ready and rush down to the kitchen area, where Al is busy looking his staff up and down in a perverse fashion. I am later to find out that he has hand picked his staff from our submitted photographs. He will spend the rest of the summer trying to get us all into bed. After he has finished checking out our bits, we are allocated maintenance and cleaning jobs around the camp. The kids will not turn up for 2 weeks, so it is our job to make the camp homely before they arrive. My job is to paint all the green bits green and all the white bits white, which is no easy task given the amount of wooden huts around the place. The camp is set on a hill, with the kitchen building at the top and Crane Lake at the bottom. In between are all the outbuildings and playing fields.

Two weeks of hard labour later, the kids turn up and our peace is to be totally shattered. These kids are horrors, think Jewish American, loads of money and fired off to camps for the whole summer whilst their parents work and accumulate their wealth. These kids are spoilt, they have everything and want more. As far as these kids are concerned we are their slaves and they mean to make us work for our pittance of a wage. There are rumours that Vidal Sassoon's grandson is on the camp and it would not surprise me. As an example of how ludicrous these kids families are, one of the boys father's in my friends group of kids, sends him porn magazines on a regular basis. The kid is around 10 years old.

It is soon realised that I am useless as a kitchen hand and therefore I am fired off into a small room with a hatch looking out over the dining room and a large cool room behind it. In the cool room, amongst other things are 2 large containers which contain bug juice. If you are American and have been to camp, you will know what bug juice is. There are 2 types of bug juice, well at least on my camp there were. One is red and the other is a bright yellow, not dissimilar to the colour of urine. It is my job to pour 5, 2 litre bottles of this stuff into the large containers and then fill the containers up with water from a hose pipe. Whilst lunch and dinner is being served, it is my job to keep the kids watered whilst they ravage their burgers and chips. Boy, can these kids drink. They are drinking jugs of the stuff as fast as I can pour it. I am rushing around like a fool, trying to keep up with their greedy demands. However, as soon as I get back to my observation hatch, there are 20 hands raised up with empty jugs in them. If they deem me to not be moving fast enough, they start to bang their jugs like prisoners banging their cups on the bars of their cells. Some of them even shout "hey, stupid bug juice man, bring me some stupid bug juice" and other such derogatory chants. This particularly annoys me and prompts me to go slower.
Subconsciously I am plotting my revenge.

Throughout the whole summer, Crazy Al's behaviour becomes more and more erratic, as he indulges in his narcotic and alcohol habit. One of our tasks is to give the kids snacks at 3.30 pm to keep them going between meals (fat little bastards). However, Al often hits the bottle and then sleeps between shifts without telling us which snacks to give the kids. This results in one of the kitchen staff having to go and bang on his door and consequently suffer his wrath. It usually goes something like this, knock, knock "What, what do you want"? "erm Al, it's snack time, what shall we give them"? "Fuck, Christ, you fucking white boys are stupid, give then ice cream, give them ice cream man, yeah give them ice cream". He would then fall back into a deep sleep and we would feed the fat, gluttonous, little pigs ice cream.

Throughout the summer, the kitchen staff are partying like animals. We are literally going through a slab of beer each on a daily basis. Granted this stuff is weak but when consumed in the quantities that we are drinking it, it does the job. It becomes routine to finish our dinner time kitchen duties which finish around 7 pm and then the boys will then go off and have a game of football. A weak argument about the evening's pastimes then ensues before we inevitably head down into West Stockbridge to purchase slabs of beer.

One night we actually manage to break this routine and decide to do something more cultural like play cards or something along those lines. However, an hour into this new pastime and we are all getting shaky for ale. With a "fuck it" mentality to which we became accustomed over the summer of 1992, we head of into Baldwinsville to fetch the beer. However, our hesitance has ruined it for us, we get into town to find that the Baldwins have all gone to bed to produce more inbred Baldwins no doubt. We return to camp and a mist of confusion darkens our mood. What are we to do? By now we have forgotten that initially we had planned a none drinking night. Now, it's a crisis on a grand scale. We hold a meeting in my room and lots of idea's get thrown around before someone comes up with the gem of driving over the New York state border and purchasing our liquid gold at a truck stop. We dance around in glee at our saving solution before it is pointed out that we don't in fact have a vehicle. The person with the idea then interjects with the following show stopping statement "Well we could take the camp station wagon". Such is our desire for alcohol that we pay little heed to the consequences of this action and it's all systems go. Unfortunately for me I am the only one with a driving license and therefore get the job as chauffeur come delivery man. This fact is trivial when compared to the fact that somebody has got to retrieve the station wagon keys from Crazy Al's bedside cabinet whilst he sleeps. But who would be stupid enough to take on that task?

I tentatively turn the handle of Al's bedroom door and wince as it creaks open. The others are all located in the corridor trying to stifle their nervous giggles. I choose this point to inform the reader of Crazy Al's other hobby besides alcohol and drugs. The guy is obsessed with terrapins and has hundreds of the little blighters all over his floor. The majority are to be found in a paddling pool which is slap bang in the middle of his room but they are literally free to roam anywhere. With this in mind I have taken off my shoes and socks so that I can make careful strides across Al's floor and feel them out with my toes. I hasten to add that it is pitch black in Al's room and I only have a vague idea of where the keys will be. I estimate that I am half way across the floor when I encounter my first terrapin , fortunately my bare toes are sensitive enough not to crush him. My confidence rises and with beer on my mind I speed things up. This is to my detriment as it turns out. Within seconds I have fallen full length over the paddling pool, Al has turned on the light and is bolt upright in his bed. His face is totally illuminated and his eyes wide open. I brace myself for the onslaught as outside I hear the others giggling like a pack of hyenas. He looks directly at me, the whites of his eyeballs the size of pool balls and shouts "What's wrong with you boy give them ice cream, give them fucking ice cream". With his words released, he then switches out the light and falls back to sleep.

With balls of steel, I continue with my mission and grab the keys. My kitchen Buddy Dave and I then drive over the New York state border and grab the slabs. However, in my nervousness at what I have just been through I manage to leave the handbrake on and burn it out. This does not go unnoticed but blatant denial takes away any blame on my part. I think Al is onto me and have to tread carefully for the rest of the summer.

The kids become increasingly more beastly as the summer goes on and by the last week I am liable to explode. As, I say my sub conscience has been plotting it's revenge and by George it does not come any sweeter than this. It's a blazing hot Wednesday afternoon and my friend and I decide to join a group of the American camp counsellors at the nearby Card Lake. In the knowledge that I have to do the dinner shift, I tread cautiously with a few slow beers. This is all fine and dandy, until somebody offers me a tequila slammer, which turns into another tequila slammer and another etc etc. Before you know it, I am being carried back from Card Lake slumped over 2 guys shoulders. In the modicum of common sense that I have lurking in the depths of my rational mind, I assume that I can be thrown into my bug juice room and away from Al's prying eyes. Unfortunately, I assume wrong. When we get back to camp, Al has decided to throw a spontaneous bbq due to the hot weather. He spots me and shouts "Hey white boy, don't just stand there, serve them hot dogs". I am propped up behind the hot dog cauldron, in a manner not too dissimilar to 'Weekend at Bernies'.

Before long there is an enormous queue waiting for hot dogs and I am in no fit state to serve them. One of my friends has the sense to relieve me of my duties and tells me to hang out in the bug juice room. The story from here on in, has been told to me through the tales of those that witnessed the following. The guy that relieved me of my hot dog duties, comes to check on me in the bug juice room and finds me relieving myself into the large container of yellow bug juice. He is apparently in disbelief at what he witnesses and is concerned about how we are going to rectify the situation. The only way that we could rectify the situation it turns out is to notify the kitchen staff of my actions and let the kids get their daily dose of bug juice "who's the stupid bug juice man now"? Unfortunately for me, one of the American kitchen staff who nobody likes, is not notified and consequently get his fill of my salty fluid. This guy is enormous and not a person to mess with. After dinner I crash and burn in my bunk bed, only to be awoken by the brute in question, who is repeatedly bringing a metal chair crashing down onto my torso.

The story does not end there, in fact it takes an even more incredulous turn. Fast forward one year and I am at a youth hostel in Canberra, Australia. I have met a couple of guys that I have been hanging out with for a few days. We are sat having a few beers in the hostel when we coincidentally get talking about travelling through America. It turns out that one of the guys has also been on summer camp 2 years previously. I ask where his camp was located and am pleasantly surprised that he too was in Massachusetts. I ask him where and am even more surprised to narrow it down to the vicinity of Pittsfield. I tell him that my camp was also near to Pittsfield and was called Crane Lake Camp. The guy looks on stunned, he says something along the lines of "you're joking". It turns out that not only was this guy at the same camp but in the same top bunk. We literally go from country to state, to town, to village, to camp, to block, to room to bunk with 8 moves and finally arrive at "Harry the Hood", which we both shout out at the same time in amazement.

This was to be one of many "Small world" incidents that I have had in my life and they never fail to freak me out.

The ex president, Jehovah's witnesses, Kim Jong Il and swine flu

2010-09-02T21:18:00.000-07:00

After a relatively quiet period, three items dominate Korean news all at once. The Korean people's reaction to these items can can be seen as a reflection of the Korean mentality in general.

I am sat at home on a Saturday afternoon writing up my memoirs, when I decide to flick onto the BBC website to see what is going on in the world. Surprisingly the main headline is from South Korea where the ex president is reported to have fallen off a mountain. The fact that this has occurred just over the mountain from where I sit writing, adds an eery edge to the afternoon. Within the short BBC article there is a brief mention of the presidents fraudulent past and a suspicion of suicide. Oh no, I think sarcastically, foul play in South Korea - how can that be?

As I am reading the article there is a knock on the door. I answer and am confronted by two Jehovah's witnesses. Before I have chance to politely decline their conversation, one of them has put his foot in the door. He smiles and invites himself in. Within seconds, I am sat on the settee talking about the book of Revelations to the pair of them. They pick up on my every word and throw biblical references at me to fit all strands of conversation, no matter how hard I try to divert it away from the bible. I tell them that I am a Buddhist in an attempt to throw them off the scent. They then question me on Buddhism and obviously they know more than me on the subject. I decide to play them at their own game and not for the first time in my life I become the interrogator. I've got them on the back foot now, I can smell fear in the air. Ha ha they want to leave I can feel it. They're not leaving now I'm having fun. I question them about their faith and how long they have been followers. As I thought, they have been followers since birth. I insinuate the possibility that they may have been brainwashed. They laugh and look at me with piteous eyes. It's that glare. You know, the one of a religious person who walks around with a permanent smile on his face because he has a secret and you're not in on it. It's that look, the "oh god bless you child" look. I inform them that their ex president has died. They do not seem too interested. These are sales people, no different from a double glazing salesman. They have a product and they will do their up most to sell it to you. Double glazing salesmen fix a gaps in your windows, the Jehovah's Witnesses are trying to fix a gap in your life. I bore of the conversation and tell them that I have to rush off to see Terminator 4. As they are leaving the chief protagonist turns around and in a gloriously amusing Korean/Austrian accent says "I'll be back". I don't doubt it for a minute.

During the weekend I check the news and see that Kim Jong Il has been up to his tricks again. This time he has broken all his sanctions and carried out an underground nuclear test which is more powerful than the first H bomb on Hiroshima. The world is in uproar. The super powers are discussing how they will react to this latest act of defiance. Kim Jong Il loves to cause a rumpus. He's knocking on now and suffering from ill health. There is a big question mark over whether or not he will bow out in style i.e. taking half the world with him.

I go in to school on Monday, half expecting the conversation to be about Kim Jong Il, but as always the Southern half of the country fail to recognise him. It is very hard to get a conversation out of the South Koreans about Kim Jong. They are tired of his childish antics and do not believe for one minute that he will carry out his threats. They recognise, either rightly or wrongly, that he is playing with the Americans and it is my observation that some Koreans even admire him for this.

There is a definite gloom in the air and I am unsure what the source is. A few hours into the morning I ask Haemin (co teacher) if she had a nice weekend. Her response is a negative one, which prompts me to delve deeper. It turns out that she, like the rest of the population of South Korea have had an awful weekend because of the Ex President's suicide. I can only liken the feeling which surrounds the place to that which the UK experienced in 1997 when Diana left this mortal coil. This glum atmosphere continues throughout the week. In Changwon, as I imagine they have done in many other cities around South Korea, they have set up shrines. People queue up outside large tents to come and pay their last respects. They leave bouquets of flowers outside and then depart with their heads hung low.

The funeral takes place on Friday and is televised live. The people of Korea are glued to their screens and many hang flags out of their windows. A few weeks later and many of the flags are still hanging out of apartment windows. Given the Korean work ethic I am assuming this is out of respect and not laziness.

The final piece of news to hit the headlines in Korea and send shock waves through the land is that swine flu has eventually made it here. I have heard so many times over the past month that swine flu will not come to Korea. It appears that they are in denial of any of societies ills. Homosexuality is something that only happens in other countries, as is aids and drug abuse. Bad things seemingly do not happen in Korea and if they do they are because of the foreigners here.

I am first made aware that swine flu has hit Korea when my co teacher approaches me in a rather coy manner and hands me a letter. I take the letter from it's envelope and read it, as my co teacher rather tentatively looks on. The letter it turns out is a government health warning which all public schools have been instructed to pass on to their foreign teachers. I finish reading it and my co teacher politely asks me if I can stay from my friends this weekend. I can't believe it, they're all shitting bricks because they think that us "foreigners" are going to give them lurgee. I later find out that this same message has been given out to all the foreigners in public schools. There is also a story about an English teacher that has swine flu and has been locked in solitary confinement in his room in Gimhae. Apparently his girl friend is allowed to bring him food a few times a day.

There is a threat of all out nuclear warfare on their door step. The world is in major talks to see how to deal with the problem child of North Korea and all the while the Koreans are busy mourning their Ex President and trying to avoid the foreigner in case they get swine flu. The only people not trying to avoid us are the 2 comments:

Me and the chief got soul to soul

2010-09-02T21:17:00.000-07:00

I arrive in Nadi, Fiji in October 1992, approximately two years after my sister had visited this beautiful country and provided me with positive feedback. At this point in my travels I am fairly green and eager to follow the path that she had already trodden. As it turns out, and quite by chance, I end up following the her path with microscopic precision.

Ian, my travel partner and I are out sightseeing on our first day in Nadi, when we have a chance encounter with a guy who is intent on selling us a guided trip to his village in the mountains. The guys name is Pende, a name that will be forever etched in my memory for reasons that I am soon to reveal. We are taken to a nearby cafe, where we are treated to tea and biscuits whilst Pende shows us a little brochure that he has made. In the brochure are pictures of his isolated village, which is without proper sanitation, and has no electricity or gas supply. Now, this may not seem such an attractive proposition to many people but to Ian and I it sounds wonderful. With great excitement we sign on the dotted line and arrange for Pende to meet us the following day to transport us to the village.

We spend the rest of the day walking around Nadi and breathing in the culture. To me, this is what travelling is about. Just walking down the normal streets and seeing what's going on. It's all too easy for people to go on holiday or travelling and live their everyday lives in another country. There are precious few places in the world that are untouched by the polluted hand of mass tourism but it is possible to absorb other cultures anywhere if you just care to step off the beaten path. The beaten path is often only a hundred yards from the tourist super highway. The back streets where the old lady hangs out her washing, the young boy watches his dad fixing his car, the corner where the local youth have gathered, the bench where the 2 old guys complain about their wife's, all places where real life can be truly captured.

In Fiji it's hard to walk anywhere without finding a group of Fijian guys sat around a large container of what looks like dirty water, with a half coconut shell in their hands and totally bloodshot eyes. It was not long before we were beckoned over and asked to join them in their strange pursuits. Of course we were delighted. It turns out that this is kava, the ground up root of the kava plant. Kava actually means intoxicant in Greek and it's not difficult to see why. Consequently, the pace of life in the Fijian half of Fiji is extremely chilled out and they live in a totally manjana society. Their reluctance to do anything at pace is referred to as Fiji time and this is a very worthy definition. I say, the Fijian half of Fiji because there are almost half as many Indian's populating the country as Fijians. Not surprisingly given Britain's colonial past, Fiji was colonised by the Brit's who brought the Indian's over as slaves. The Indians being industrious have dominated the commercial market and are busy making money whilst the the Fijian's sit around drinking Kava and generally chilling out.

Ian and I are welcomed with open arms and although only one of the ten or so guys speaks English to any degree, there does not seem to be any problem communicating. As we are to find out later, the Fijian's are famed for their telepathic abilities, possibly down to the amount of kava they consume. They refer to this is Fiji speak. The ritual surrounding the kava goes as follows; a half coconut shell is immersed in the container of kava by the person about to consume. The rest of the gathering then clap 3 times and watch as the holder of the coconut shell necks the kava down in one. He then passes it to the next person in a clockwise fashion. We wait for our turn, full of curiosity and trepidation. Finally the coconut shell arrives in my possession and I adhere to the ritual. I report that the administered juice neither taste disgusting or nice. In fact it tastes like dirty water which is exactly how it looks. It does however give a strange numbing sensation to the back of the throat. Ian takes his dose and then we elect to leave, much to the disappointment of our new friends, who would quite willingly allow us to stay for the rest of our life's getting stoned with them.

The next morning we're up early and wait for Pende to arrive at the designated spot. He is true to his word and thankfully not running on Fiji time. We jump in the back of his utility wagon and we're off into the distant mountains, feeling free as eagles and excited at the thought of the forthcoming five days. Once we are well into the mountains a few hours from Nadi, Pende stops the vehicle and lets us stretch our legs. We stand and admire the beautiful island which is far greener than we both expected. I sense that this is going to be an everlasting memory in the making.

Our arrival in the village is met with much curiosity and excitement. As we drive by, the villagers come out to wave at us from the front of their wooden, straw roofed houses. They wear magnificent smiles upon their faces and look genuinely happy to receive us into their village. As always in these places of little wealth or communication with the outside world, the people are blissfully happy in their ignorance of other cultures. They are content with what little they have and they want for nothing (It would be interesting to return there in this age of information to see if they are still so happy). The truck eventually comes to a standstill and we jump off the back. We are shown to a little straw hut which are called bure's in Fiji. Our bure is about the size of a garden hut and just about fits our mattresses and rucksacks in it. I am thrilled with it and set about laying out my things. Pende says that he will come to pick us up later to take us for dinner.

We are awoken from out short nap by a tapping on the door. As is often the case when I am travelling it takes me a little while to work out where I actually am. Waking up in a bure, in an isolated mountain village, somewhere in the middle of Fiji can do strange things to a man's head. I open the door and am confronted by Pende who has come to get us for dinner. Outside it is absolutely pitch black. Remember, this village has no electricity supply and although it is only 5.30 pm it is completely dark already. I only know that it is Pende at the door because he illuminates his own face with a torch. Ian and I quickly get ready and follow Pende through the village. He casually informs us that we have been invited to eat dinner with the chief of the village. I am so excited at this prospect that I can't contain my conversation which ejaculates out of my mouth even faster than it normally does. I'm thinking, wow this is why I travel, going to have dinner with the chief of the village, it does not get much better than this.

The village is set out in a tier system with the chief living at the top of the tier. We eventually make it to his house and are welcomed by the chief into his humble abode. His eyes are glazed and it is apparent that he has been on the kava already. Inside there are a number of people gathered, mainly Fijian but also a German couple and a Japanese guy. To one side of the room is a large, low table which is laden with food. Taking pride of place in the middle of the room is a large cauldron of kava. The chief has an extremely friendly face which is honoured by a permanent smile. He proudly points out a sharks jaw and teeth which are hanging on his wall. Pende explains to us that the chief caught the shark himself and is very proud of his kill.

We eat dinner and make polite conversation with the other travellers in the room but in the back of my mind I am eager to have a proper session on the kava. I don't have to wait long. With the formality of dinner out of the way, the chief is eager to entertain his guests with a few coconut shells of his favourite poison. We form a circle of around ten people, which includes the German's and the Japanese guy plus a select group of Fijian's including the chief and Pende. The cauldron of kava sits in the middle of us and is calling out our names. I have decided that I am going to push the limits tonight and see how far this intoxicant can take me. Let the ceremony begin.

The chief is first up, he must have done this a million times but he maintains the enthusiasm of a teenager unhinging his first bra strap. The coconut shell is dipped into the cauldron, we all clap three times and the kava is downed in one. The chief seems proud of his achievement and looks to us for encouragement. I return his smile and I feel that he can sense my eagerness to join him in his intoxicating pursuits. However, I am fifth in line and have to wait until my fellow travellers have grimaced through their doses first. I can tell by the reaction of the others that this is going to be a short night for them. I am happy about this because it means that my turn will come more quickly. My turn comes and I knock the kava back with passion of a Jack Russel on heat. As I mentioned earlier, the taste is not unpleasant although I would not choose to drink it if it did not have a mind altering effect.

Within the hour the group has diminished to four people. All the backpackers have gone to bed including Ian. I am drinking with the hardcore kava drinkers now and I am determined to keep up with them. I estimate that we've have had up to ten rounds and I am feeling mildly euphoric. My band of kava brothers and I have a strong bond by now and it's all getting a bit touchy feely. The more kava we drink, the stronger this unspoken bond becomes. It is all very strange yet all very natural. I look into the eyes of my compadre's and I am filled with a deep sense of knowing. At one point I attempt to speak and the chief raises his finger to his lips. I instantly know what he means. There is no need for words, what we are experiencing here transcends language. This is Fiji speak, a telepathic form of communication. Drinking vast amounts of kava has opened a portal to another world. By the time that I have reached this level I am in a profoundly euphoric state.

The other two Fijians eventually leave and I am left alone with the chief. I am feeling utterly wasted but in a really, really nice way. My mind is filled with the Happy Monday's lyric, "Me and the chief got slowly stoned, me and the chief got soul to soul". The song won't got way, it circulates my mind with increasing intensity. I start to hum the tune and the chief listens and nods his head to my mumblings. At least I think he does but by this point I am not sure of anything. I have had a communication overload. Suddenly I am hit by the absurdity of the whole situation and I start to laugh. This starts as an inward laugh but I cannot contain it for long. The laughter is so deep that I feel as though my head is going to explode. I grab my sides to try and control it but my efforts are futile. I am utterly consumed by my own laughter and nothing is going to stop it. The laughter is contageous and before I know it the chief is also laughing. In a truly fantastic moment, the chief and I grab hold of each other, our eyes filled with joyful tears and our bodies shaking uncontrollably. We are literally howling with laughter and unable to do anything about it. Eventually, the laughter ends and it is time for me to leave. I attempt to stand up but this is not an easy task, my equilibrium in tatters. The chief helps me to my feet the best he can and I stagger for the door. When I open the door I am both amazed and jubilant that it is light. I had not considered the consequences of staggering back through the village to my bure in the darkness. As I stumble out of the door, I turn back and look at the chief. He looks me in the eye and waves, a moment engraved into my mind forever.

I arrive back at the bure and Ian awakes. He asks me what time it is but I have no clue or concern. For the past ten hours, time has been irrelevant, I have transcended both time and language. He asks me what I have been up to but I have no answer.

A week later I ring my sister to inform her of my adventure. She listens with interest before asking me the name of the guy who sold us the trip. I tell her Pende's name and she is in disbelief that she has coincidentally been to the same place and had a similar experience. However, she did not push the limits like I did and therefore had no clue of the power of Fiji speak.

The Pied Piper of Anmin

2010-09-02T21:16:00.001-07:00

After a rather lacklustre week on the teaching front I eagerly await a Friday evening locked away in my room. Friday afternoon is spent dreaming of pizza, red wine, good tunes and a film. Four forty arrives and I exit the school faster than the kids. I sit at the bus stop listening to Underworld, whilst reading the fantastic "Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" and basking in the late afternoon sunshine. I am perfectly content and happy to be a member of this fine planet. Even the reckless, stop start motion of the bus cannot erase the permanent grin from my face. I feel that nothing can penetrate my pleasure bubble or defuse me from my state of euphoria. How wrong I could be!

The bus approaches my stop and I lean forward to push the stop button. In the corner of my eye I catch the sight of somebody waving at me and I spin my body around 45 degrees for a closer inspection. I am confronted by my previously mentioned slipper wearing/ tae twondo kicking, teenage friend. I politely wave and ask how he is before walking off towards my house. It turns out that he is going in the same direction, so we walk together. He asks me where I live and I point my house out to him. He is not satisfied with this and asks if he can come and see. At this point I begin to sense that my plans may be disrupted but I do not decline his wishes.

An hour later and I am feeling more than a little worried that I may have to revise my plans. The teenager has made himself very much at home and is sprawled all over my bed drinking juice and dictating which music I should play. Eventually I think that he is going to leave, when out of the blue he asks me if I want to go hiking with him in 5 minutes time. Now one part of me is greatly distressed and thinking, like f**k I want to go hiking with you. However another part of me is thinking, it's a beautiful evening, the birds are singing and this may be an opportunity for me to get right into the Korean culture. I acquiesce and within minutes I am ascending Anmin Gogae (the beautiful mountain directly behind my house). By now my mindset is in a process of transition. I am thinking, this is lovely and I should do this more often in the evening. I have been afforded a perfect opportunity to learn first hand about Korean youth culture and Korean culture in general. In my usual manner I am firing questions at him like a malfunctioning machine gun and he is candidly providing me with answers. Once again I am happy and pleased with myself for adjusting my plans at such short notice.

One thing that first captures your attention in Korea is the fitness level of the majority of the population. Almost everybody exercises in one form or another. Hiking is the number one pass time, which I guess is not too surprising with 70 percent of the country being covered by mountains. However, cycling, speed walking, running and general exercising are also extremely popular. Outdoor gyms are prominent in every city, town and village and they are very well utilised. There are even gyms on the mountain sides and they are all free. So, my new friend and I are walking up the mountain at around 7 pm on a Friday evening and the mountain is literally heaving with people performing all of the pass times that I have just mentioned. It is not uncommon to be hiking up a mountain in Korea only to be overtaken by a very old person who is literally motoring at pace. The demographic is on the whole middle aged ladies all sporting massive peaked caps which is standard issue in Korea. I point out my observations to my friend and inform him that the majority of people in England are either getting drunk by this time on a Friday evening or rushing around trying to score drugs.

Fifty minutes later we reach the top of the mountain and are rewarded by the beautiful view. The mountain divides the 2 cities of Changwon and Jinhae with a tunnel going right through it to connect the 2 cities. Looking down from the mountain top, you can see the beautiful coast line of Jinhae on one side with islands jutting out from the sea as far as the eye can see. On the other side of the mountain you can see the more industrial city of Changwon which is consequently smog filled and much less attractive. At the top of the mountain are a number of eating establishments, which are in the form of permanently set up tents which sell anything from noodles, pancakes, toasties or even more elaborate dishes. My friend informs me that they are open till 11 at night and I feel excited at the prospect of riding up the mountain pass on my motorbike when I eventually get it and eating my dinner up there. My friend offers to buy me dinner but I tell him that I have the idea of eating pizza firmly etched on my mind and I am not willing to make concessions on this.

As we walk back down the mountain his mobile rings on many occasions and upon questioning him (i am not using his name because it is too difficult for me to remember), I find out that it is his parents and that they have invited me around to their house. By this point I have given up on my original plans and therefore agree. The prospect of experiencing Korean culture and hospitality excites me greatly.

Upon reaching Anmin dong (my village), I am ushered to a nearby bbq restaurant where I am informed his father is drinking. We enter the restaurant and not for the first time in Korea I am made to feel like a star. The occupants of the restaurant cannot do enough for me. I take off my shoes,as is custom and take my place on the heated floor, sat cross legged with a large group of drunken men and women. I have downed a few quick soju's (potato spirit) and am beginning to feel comfortable when I am ushered out of the building by my friend as soon as I was ushered in. I say my goodbyes and then walk across to my friends house to meet his mother. I am informed that my friends Father spends every night in the restaurant/bar before staggering home to bed. I am beginning to see that this is a common pattern in Korean society.

We are welcomed into the house by my friends mother who speaks absolutely no English and then a large pizza is ordered for me. The mother retires to the bedroom whilst my friend shows me his photographs and informs me of his plans to travel the world. Before long, his father returns home completely pie eyed and he attempts to converse with me in Korean. My friend acts as translator and it turns out that his dad who is a truck driver, is getting ready for work. Yeah, you heard right -he is completely pissed and is about to start his shift truck driving. He see's my dismay and through his translator I am told that i have introduced him to English customs now he is introducing me to Korean culture i.e. drink driving. He bids us farewell and staggers off to his truck.

I am starting to think that my evening is drawing to it's conclusion, when my friends phone rings and I am told that his friend wants to meet me. I am also asked if his friend can sleep at my house and if he can borrow 10 000 won (fiver). I find this rather cheeky but feel that I can't say too much because I have just been a recipient of his families hospitality. I agree and we head off to meet his friend, who turns out to be horribly drunk They sort of give themselves an invitation to my house and before I know it, half the youth population of Anmin dong are sat in my room on a proper booze and party session. I hear the phone keep ringing and then another knock at the door and in pops another 3 people; phone rings again, 2 more people at the door -the loop continues. These are kids that live with their parents until they are 30 yrs of age, with nowhere to go. They have found a weak link and the smoke signals have been sent out.

These are the rebels of Korean society and they have found me. Rebellious they may be but no matter how drunk they are, they are still instilled with a sense of Korean etiquette. I attempt to walk into my own apartment with my shoes on which provokes a nuclear reaction. I am told in no uncertain terms that this against their ethics. Later I try to pour a drink for myself and am met by an equal if not stronger reaction. It is deeply embedded into Korean society that you are not allowed to pour yourself a drink but instead somebody has to pour it for you. I keep forgetting and am almost lynched every time. I try to educate them on British music and pull out all the classics which are met by a sea of distaste. These kids, the rebels of Korean society, want to listen to K Pop and awful American gangster rap. What is K pop I hear you ask? Well the answer is - K pop is utter drivel. Take the worst British boy band and make them even more gay than they already are, with terribly camp dance routines and you have K pop. It is just one of the many inconsistencies of Korean society. They claim to be macho and fighters, yet almost every teenager has a poncey hairdo and carries a man bag. The boys walk down the street, holding hands or sit caressing each other, it's bizarre. Last night at my little impromptu party, there were 2 guys literally rubbing each other up, arms and legs entangled and playing with each others hair. At the same time they were talking about their love of cage fighting, telling me that there was no such thing as a homosexual in Korea and demanding to hear K pop. It just does not make sense.

I am beginning to think that they are never going to leave, when one of them decides that he has had enough and makes a quick dart. The others all jump up and with the choreography of a K pop band they totally clean up all the mess. What an arresting sight! A room full of very drunk Korean youth totally cleaning my house before they left. It's 2.30 am and I sit alone in my room, my Friday afternoon dreams shattered. I am trying to work out whether or not I have had a good time, when the phone rings. I pick it up thinking that it is somebody that has forgot something. It turns out to be the one of the former girlfriends of the guy that did my job before me. She is ringing from Taiwan but this does not seem to put her off from having an half hour conversation with me. It does not appear to bother her that I am not the person that she rang up to speak to.

Another interesting day in the life of Andy Mitton.

Mother Theresa and the American sharp shooters

2010-09-02T21:14:00.000-07:00

I have only been in Calcutta for a few hours when I ring home to find that my grandad has passed away. The timing could not have been worse because for the first time in my life I am travelling alone. I walk back from the telephone exchange with my head full of memories of the countless walks that my grandfather and I made over a period of 15 years. I am filled with a mixture of happy and sad feelings.

Arriving back at the guest house I retire to my room in a reflective mood. Sitting on the top bunk of my dingy bed I pick up my India, Lonely Planet book and beginning flicking through it with little enthusiasm. Although I am in a gloomy place I find myself attracted to a section of the guide book which talks about Mother Theresa and her Mission of Charities. The mission was set up by Mother Theresa in 1950 to help the homeless, the lepers, the hungry and the unwanted. At the bottom of the section there is a casual mention that if you go to her Mission of Charities at 5 a.m there is a glimmer of a chance that you may be able to meet Mother Theresa, if she is in the city. Apparently this is a big if because her constant crusade to help those in need takes her around the world as a regular occurrence. My interest is immediately captured and I make a decision to go to her mission the following morning. I am glad of the distraction and lie back full thoughts of meeting Mother Theresa, even though I believe this to be highly unlikely.

I am disturbed from my day dreams by the shaking of the bed frame underneath me. I crane my neck to check out the cause of this disturbance and I am confronted with a young Oriental guy who is occupying the bottom bunk. I spark up a conversation with him and although his English is not that great, I inform him of my plans for the following day. I think that he expresses an interest in coming but can't be too sure because of the language barrier. I do however establish that he is Japanese. Our conversation lasts for 15 minutes or so and eventually fizzles out. I resume my relaxed position on the top bunk, my thoughts filled with my grandads life, questions of mortality and the prospects of meeting Mother Theresa.

I am awoken by my alarm at 4.15 a.m and through half closed eyes I see the Japanese boy getting dressed. I have never been an early riser and had been sort of hoping that he had changed his mind, or simply misunderstood me in the first place. I amble from my bunk and get dressed. The dorm is full of sleeping bodies which means that there is no communication between my new Japanese friend and I. We exit the room together.

We can see from the Lonely Planet map that we are not too far away from the Mission of Charities and we miraculously make it there without incident. For those of you that have been to Calcutta you will realise that this was no mean feat. Even at 4.30 in the morning the place is literally buzzing with life and in some cases death. There are beggars that defy description literally everywhere, whole families sleeping on the street, people showering in the jet of the a broken water pipe and lepers reaching out for help, their eyes filled with the look of defeat.
When travelling through developing countries you almost get blase to these sorts of sights, If you let it get to you, it would literally destroy you. There is so much poverty, pain and utter devastation that it is impossible and dangerous to focus on any one issue. I guess that this is where Mother Theresa differed. She came to Calcutta from Albania, saw the utter desperation which permeates the city and decided that she could not allow this to happen. She dedicated her life to trying to help the people that I now saw before me.

We tentatively ring the doorbell of Mother Theresa's Mission of Charities and wait. There are few words between my latest travel partner and I, but we can both sense each others nervous excitement. We hear foot steps approaching and turn to look at each other. I see my own thoughts reflected in his eyes. What was the next hour going to bring? Would our early morning endeavours be rewarded by a glimpse of Mother Theresa? I suspect very strongly that I will be back in my hostel bunk within an hour, disappointed at our failed mission. As the door opens a flash thought enters my mind that maybe Mother Theresa will be standing behind it. The look on my Japanese friends face reveals that this has been a shared thought.

One of Mother Theresa's nuns invites us into the building and beckons for us to follow her. We are walked through the convent and led up some stairs. At the top off the stairs there is a large sign emblazoned across the wall, warning us that camera's are not allowed beyond this point. I have mixed feelings about this sign. On the one hand it re-ignites my excitement in the fact that Mother Theresa may well be around but on the other hand a feel guilt because I have a camera in my pocket. Beyond the sign, we are ushered into a fairly large room which is half full of nuns who are all sitting on the floor. We find a space on the floor and sit down amongst the nuns. My eyes glance around the room and I notice that we are not the only tourists in room. A middle aged couple sit in the corner of the room and at first glance I assume that they are American. The male half of the couple notices me looking at him and raises his hand to let on to me.

We have been sat in the room in absolute silence for about 10 minutes and I have fallen into a medative state, which vaguely resembles sleep. I am awoken from my quiet moment by the prodding finger of my Japanese friend and takes me a while to mentally piece together where I am. A Mother Superior type figure is stood at the front of the room and mass has commenced. At this point I give up on any hopes of seeing Mother Theresa because I assume that if was going to be around, she would now be delivering the mass. Inisde my mind, I am hoping that the mass will finish so that I can get back in my bed. I am fighting to keep my eyes open with the sound of the mass having a soporific affect on me.

I estimate that it is 20 minutes into the mass when the double doors of the room are opened and everybody's attention is immediately cast in that direction. The atmosphere distinctly changes, an energy seems to flow through the room and I am instilled with a ripple of excitement. The unmistakable small framed, extremely hunched figure of Mother Theresa comes walking into the room and heads in my direction. I look around and it is only now that I notice that the only space in the room is right next to me. My Japanese friend looks at me and I look back at him. Is this actually happening? That question is answered when Mother Theresa plonks herself right down next to me, leaving me in complete and utter shock. She remains there for the rest of the mass and I have an overwhelming urge to reach out my toe and touch her. My foot slides closer and closer to her rear but I am too scared to go the last inch. Just as I summon up courage the mass ends and Mother Theresa stands up.

The next 5 minutes turn out to be the most surreal of my whole life. The Western couple in the corner of the room jump up and in the blink of an eye, the guy has whipped out a massive SLR camera and literally nailed Mother Theresa with the flash of his camera. She is walking out of the room at the time but is stopped in her tracks and illuminated. I expect a backlash from this given the large sign at the top of the stairs and the countless signs littered around the room warning of use of camera's. However Mother Theresa takes it all in her stride and says nothing. For the next couple of minutes she is hit from every camera angle possible by all 4 cameras of the tourists in the room. At one point she disappears and we all think that her patience has reached it's limit. However, she returns within minutes with gifts of rosary beads and bibles for us. I ask if I can have a photo with her and to my absolute amazement she lets me put my arm around her and get a photo.

We walk back to the hostel in disbelief of what has just happened. Not in my wildest dreams did I ever think that was going to be the outcome. As we walk down streets full of beggars and lepers I am instilled with a deep admiration for Mother Theresa and her mission to help the poor of Calcutta. I am deep in contemplation about the absurdity of the world and it's terrible disparities, when a rickshaw comes riding past me. The guy pulling the rickshaw is emaciated and as I later fnd out, has an average life expectancy of 40 years old. Conversely, the guy being pulled is fat and will no doubt live to a ripe old age. There are no answers to many of the worlds problems but turning our backs on the problems is a sure fire way to ensure that they remain.

Fast forward 3 years, to late August 1997. Princess Di has just lost her life in a car crash in the Alma tunnel in Paris and the world is in mass mourning. Princess Di is the darling of the press, her pictures adorning every magazine for almost 20 years. A week later whilst the world mourns the "Queen of hearts", a real "Queen of hearts" slips away in her Calcutta home. In the shock waves of Princess Diana's death, Mother Theresa's death passes by virtually unnoticed.

2010-09-02T21:12:00.000-07:00

All things must pass
That once shiny toy now litters the stream
The very same item that once was a dream
Bicycles owner no longer a boy
Is out chasing girls no time for the toy

That coveted job is now such a drag
Five years later and you've acquired a tag
If only you'd taken a different direction
You may not be showing such morbid reflection

Remember that holiday when we had so much fun
We talked all night long about the things that we'd done
These days we argue about the things we don't do
I'd rather watch porn than make love to you

That fantastic movie you watched everyday
It changed your life, you used to say
You watched it last week your mind at a loss
How could you have appreciated such utter dross

That beautiful girl that you pledged your soul
Has long gone and taken it all
She's now in her thirties, married with a kid
Totally oblivious to the harm that she did

Those dreams we had of changing the world
Of opening the oyster to reveal the pearl
The world stole our dreams and washed them away
They lie with the oyster on the bed of the bay

That bontempi organ covered in dust
That Volkswagon Combi now etched in rust
All gentle reminders of who we once were
The days are long gone, the memories a blur

The new born child once once swathed in love
Has departed this earth for the heavens above
All things must pass, this I have learnt
No time to regret those bridges we've burnt

Jimjibang experience

2010-09-02T21:11:00.000-07:00

My first foray into the charms of the jimjibang came a mere fortnight ago during my first trip to Busan. This it turns out was an inspired decision because I happened to chance upon the biggest Jimjibang on the Asian subcontinent. Circumnavigating the building for around half an hour, partly through fear and partly through not being able to find the entrance, I finally emerge into the complex. Is this the right place ? I ask myself. I appear to have arrived in an Austrian/German beer Keller. There is something rather disconcerting about seeing hundreds of Orientals adorned in lederhosen and serving steins of imported beer. The name of the place escapes my soju , saturated mind right now but was certainly of Austrian descent. The clues were there in advance but I missed them, possibly through fear.Anyway, back to the story. I walk through the Germanic complex and take the elevator to the second level. Here, there is a gender division and I am beckoned to the male section. Leaving my shoes at the door, I am given a locker key. Eventually I find my locker and remove my clothes. My mind is cast back to those awful high school days when there was an untold rush back to the showers so that nobody would see your pathetic childlike member. God help us if Wayne Nicholas was in there first with his enormous , hairy man thing.

It turns out that my fears are unfounded and in actual fact I am like the John Holmes of the changing rooms. Consequently, I positively stride through the changing rooms with a confident air that is alien to me. Upon a more profound inspection I decide that I am average but for one moment I am king of the penis world. In fact I am so carried away by my wave of phallic euphoria that I miss the jimjibang entrance and end up in the toilets. I am retrieved by a janitor, who casually examines my wares before directing me to the spa complex.

The next 2 hrs are spent wandering this enormous , glass domed complex, whilst dipping my body in pool, sauna, spa and bar both inside and out on the roof. I start to think, fuck it I'll pay a quid for the pyjamas and stay all night (perfectly feasible). when a guy of Afro Carribean origin crosses my path and totally steals my 15 mins of penis glory. I double take, quickly change direction and head for the changing room. Within 10 minutes I am on the tube, Changwon bound -tail firmly between legs.

Yang gok sports day

2010-09-02T21:10:00.001-07:00

What a day! The day started with a fanfare from an army division in full regalia. This included one troupe that were in a traditional uniform and did this weird dancing that resembled the whirling dervishes of Turkey. A full scale marching band paraded across the sports field throwing their rifles in the air and catching them in sort of little dance routine. I was awakened to the grandiose affair by the fanfare and emerged from my office to be confronted with thousands of parents and kids. The kids were all up one end and when they spotted me they erupted into spontaneous cheering and chanting of my name (it's easy to feel like a rock star over here). I did a little bow and took my place in the first aid tent.

A long speech later by the principal and a few bows, national anthem and lots of clapping and the games begin.

First event, tiny , cute kids pushing a massive inflatable ball around an obstacle course. An error in planning I was told, had meant that the ball was too big. Consequently, the kids were getting knocked down all over the place. The cutest game of the day involved tiny kids getting pulled around in little metal bathtubs with wheels on one end. Their parents (all on national holiday) pulled them around and obstacle course. One little girl went flying out of the tub and landed on her head. She was pulled around for the remainder of the race in floods of tears. When she finally emerged from the tub, she punched her dad. One of the parents fell and smashed his head open, blood everywhere. This happened much to the amusement of the rest of the crowd who fell around laughing whilst the guy was patched up.Throughout the whole day, one of the kids grandads with no teeth, glazed eyes and a rather large ear ring, staggered around the sports field pissed, reaping mayhem. Nobody seemed to mind and to be fair he was a very happy drunk.

Then came my moment of glory. I was tannoyed onto the sports field and joined in this game involving about a thousand people. It was like Simon says with a rather lively MC jumping around and shouting out a series of instructions with very loud crazy Korean house music in the background. If you lost the game you had to stand in a circle of about 50 people and dance a very silly dance. Every now and again one person was summoned into a circle of a thousand people and had to do this dance for about 2 mins whilst everybody laughed and clapped. The most silly dance was the object of the game. Well, bloody hell my turn came. The MC shouts "Mr Andy, do we have a Mr Andy ?". I was cheered into the arena and spent the next 2 mins waving my arms and legs around in a fashion not too dissimilar from Tim Booth from James. Actually, it was my normal dance but the punters loved it anyway. It attracted most attention from the drunk who decided to join me in the circle and hug me. I was rewarded with 2 bars of laundry soap for my efforts.

What a fantastic day!

Fame, signatures and the fabled arse rocket

2010-09-02T21:08:00.000-07:00

Warning, living in Korea can seriously inflate your ego. You could be the spawn of John Merrick and still be told that you are "a handsome man" on a daily basis. Granted this is generally by 10 year old boys but hey at my age, I'll take any compliments that are sent in my direction. Then there is the ritual parade through the village. Recently I have taken to wearing my headphones so that I don't have to endure the chanting of my name anymore. The novelty of rock star status soon wears thin let me tell you, in fact ask Victoria Beckham (hang on , bad example). I would like think that it is just me but I am assuming that is not. The kids in this country seriously love the the English speaking foreigner. I was alerted to this strange phenomenon on my first day in Korea, when hundreds of kids came to investigate my arrival to my school car park. I hear a fracas behind me and turn around to be mobbed by hundreds of kids "Hello, what is your name", "hello, how old are you", are you married?" - "no single" , gasp -shocked faces , "but you are so handsome" (brain ticks --well, thank you, could you please inform the female Western world for me).

I catch a bus to my second school on Thursdays and Fridays and have recently made a new friend at the bus stop. This is a young, well manicured man around 18 yrs of age. He first caught my attention when I saw him doing Tae kwondo kicks, using the bus shelter as his enemy. At this point I mentally labelled him as a thug and avoided his gaze. Miraculously, the next week he rather coyly crept up behind me and asked for my mobile number. In Korea the people generally only let their feelings out when they are rip roaringly drunk. In this case, the angst ridden teenager was trying to initiate contact in the only way he knew. After the initial conversation he sent me a text within the hour to say that he enjoyed our interesting conversation. To my knowledge he had not understood a word that I had said but i guess that could be deemed interesting. Anyway, fast forward 2 weeks (yesterday). I am stood waiting for the bus and the teenager in question comes darting down to the bus stop with sweat on his brow and an exaggerated breathing pattern. It is obvious that he has been in a rush although our bus is not due to arrive for 15 minutes. He sparks up the conversation by saying "Andy, Ive missed you so much". I've met the kid 3 times and he is already declaring that he has missed me. It is only now that I look down at his feet and notice that he appears to be wearing his mums slippers. He follows my gaze and immediately raises his hands to his head. It turns out that the kid was in such a rush to see me that he has run out of the house wearing his mums slippers. We laugh it off but there is no way that he is leaving me now. The bus arrives 15 minutes later and this guy, who was kicking the bus shelter with gusto a mere 2 weeks ago, now enters the bus adorned in his mums slippers. Today, he borrowed his dads car and drove me all the way to school. Innocent, bizarre and beautiful, I love this country.

Not to digress, let me begin to unravel the title of this story. Normally I teach enthusiastic 5th graders and "too cool for school" 6th graders. However on Thurs and Friday, I have 2 classes of 3rd graders (7 yrs old). Well, by god if I am a hero to the older students, I am a demi-god to the youngsters. In fact, so much of a demi-god that I am only allowed 15 mins with them as oppose to the 30 mins that I am paid to do. Apparently, if I do the allocated slot, they are too excited all afternoon and liable to wet themselves. I finish my 5/6th grader lessons and stealthily make my way down to the domain of the 3rd grader. Now on the 3rd floor there is a small staffroom which I use as my retreat but to get there I have basically got to run the gauntlet of 3rd graders. If I am spotted, which i always am, I have to take the hit and literally get mobbed by legions of small kids to whom, I'm a hero. Now, this may sound cute and for the first 2 minutes it is but after 10 minutes of being pulled in every direction by at least 50 kids, you start to fear for your life. It gets worse, somehow these little people have decided that it would be really good to get my autograph and I now spend 30 mins on Thurs and Fri signing autographs. I make a mental note of the length of the queue and 15 mins later look again whilst shaking my wrist to aid circulation of my overused limb. I realise that same children are turning up more than once and on many occasions they are asking for a minimum of three autographs. One little blighter wants ten autographs a week, apparently for his mum, dad, brothers, sisters and pet dog. Well, just when you thought this tale could not get more ridiculous, let me add the worst part of all.

I had been warned of the fabled arse rocket by fellow teachers but assumed that is was school specific. It was at least 3 weeks before I was anally assaulted. The young boys have come up with a little game which involves creeping around the floor in an army like manoeuvre, before popping up underneath you with their grubby little fingers in a rocket like formation (i.e 2 fingers protruding). This rocket has only one destination in mind and that is right up your arse hole. So I am signing autographs under duress, being dragged up and down the corridor by a battalion of kids, under the threat of an anal raid. Their strike rate is much more accurate than Operation Desert Storm, especially because I am visually impaired from the waist down and trying to sign autographs. They come from nowhere and once they start they cease to stop. Like a pack of hounds attacking a fox, a pride of lions summoning an antelope to it's death, a murder of vultures circling their carrion, these kids make their rectum sorties. How about the Korean teachers you ask? Well, they stand by and take in the spectacle. What better way to while away a Thursday and Friday afternoon than watching an Englishman getting anally prodded en masse?

Bhang lassi - part one

2010-09-02T21:06:00.001-07:00

My 4 month travel through India was a dry period in my life and to be honest I did not miss alcohol in the slightest. India is so full of life and unexpected delights that, for me at least there was not even a murmur of a blip in my resolution. In fact, the word resolution suggests that I had to force myself not to drink in the first place, this was certainly not the case. However, whilst hanging out in the absolutely beautiful little town of Pushkar in the state of Rajhastan, I was to discover a new poison. I'm not sure if I enjoyed the experience which I am about recount or not, but it certainly finds it's way into the story of my life

Pushkar, is one of the most beautiful and serene places that I have ever been. This tranquil town is built around a small, spirit enhancing lake, which is a sanctified spot and a place of great pilgrimage for Hindu's. The lake has 52 ghats surrounding it, which are used for both mundane purposes such as washing and bathing, as well as ritualistic rites. The ghats make a fantastic place to hang out and watch daily life unfold. You can be assured that you will never been alone on the ghats for long as a mixture of washer women, Sadhu's (religious men), travellers and livestock come to join you on the holy steps. The Sadhu's are as a strange and interesting bunch of people that you are ever likely to meet. These are men that have bowed out of societies rules and have opted to live away from or on the edge of society in order to focus on their spiritual development. They walk around naked but for a loin cloth and are often painted white with long dread locked hair. Pushkar in actual fact is a dry town, with alcohol strictly prohibited. This does not however prevent these strangest of India's folly's from wandering around the streets, chonging on the hashish pipes, which they claim helps them to attain spiritual freedom (and who am I to question this?)

I spend around a week in Pushkar, chilling out by the very definition of the word. Long, lazy lie ins, followed by extremely drawn out vegetarian buffets (this town is also meatless), and a slow paced amble around the town, punctuated with relaxation on the ghats. From this vantage point I take in the sunset over the lake before heading off for an even more drawn out dinner/supper buffet. There are travellers that get drawn into this lifestyle for years and I can totally understand why. Life is cheap, with only a few pounds a day needed to live a decent existence. Observation of life on the streets, offers a man more entertainment that he could ever need and if you require more then you are never very far from a bhang lassi.

So, there it is, my secret potion has been revealed. Bhang lassi, I hear you cry, what on earth is a bhang lassi. Well, despite sounding like animal porn, this is actually the liquidised form of marijuana and is perfectly legal in Rajasthan. In fact, it is actively encouraged with government shops throughout the whole state selling a whole host of bhang products such as bhang sweets, bhang chocolates and bhang cakes. Of course at the time I did not realise that it was marijuana although I did have my suspicions that something untoward was one of the ingredients, especially in light of the experience that I was about to have.

My travel partner for this part of my trip was a guy called Richard Stokes, who came from Worcester. Remember this name well , for he is to turn up again in my life (well in name anyway), some 6 years later, but for now he is just a guy with whom I share experiences. Richard, it turns out has been in India for the best part of a year and is on the run from the police for smashing a guys teeth in with an ashtray. I met Richard in Agra whilst visiting the Taj Mahal and for the next week I am bombarded with tales of his gangster lifestyle. Only one look into his blue piercing eyes is enough to dispel any thoughts that these tales have no foundation.

Besides Richard, I have also tagged along with 2 sisters from Devon, Lucy and Trina and their 2 travel partners Phil and Neil from Leeds. As often happens when travelling, I am to bump into this group throughout my travels in Rajhastan. After breakfast on one of my days in Pushkar, we begin a conversation about the fabled, mind bending potion, bhang lassi and as a consequence we decide that we will partake in some of Pushkar's finest when the sun sets. We bid each other farewell and arrange to meet at the market square around 5pm. I am excited at the prospect of this and can't wait for sunset. What will happen? How long will it last? Will I ever be the same again? These are the questions that are running through my mind as I sit on the ghats and watch the world go by.

At 5pm, I meet up with the 2 girls and 2 boys in the market square and we head for what I remember to be called the Rainbow cafe. You have to remember that this is 16 years ago and I am writing this account purely from memory. Subsequent Internet research has told me that there is indeed a Rainbow restaurant in Pushkar and I also see that there is a Sunset Cafe. I am positive that the cafe was one of the two. Anyway, this is where we meet and eat a small snack before the conversation turns to our evenings activities. I can tell by the nervous excitement that permeates the air that I have not been alone in my thoughts regarding the bhang lassi. There is a little banter about whether or not we should do it but we all know that it is a foregone conclusion. We are travellers, exploring the furthest regions that Earth has to offer, tonight it is time to explore the furthest regions of our minds.

After a short discussion it is decided that the 2 girls and Neil will share one glass of bhang lassi whilst myself and Phil will have one each. As far as I am concerned it is all or nothing. I mean how often will I get the opportunity to enjoy a mind enhancing drink, in the beautiful surroundings of India's finest province by a sacred lake, surrounded by Sadhu's? More often than I wish to remember as it happens, but anyway this train of thought offers me all the excuses I need. Three glasses of India's finest mind expander ordered, the girls tentatively sip their drinks whilst Phil and I knock ours back. I am not actually very good with horrible tastes and I have a 20 second fight with my senses to try and hold the stuff in. With the evenings entertainment ingested we head off back to the guest house.

Fifteen minutes have passed and our group have taken up refuge in Lucy and Trina's room. We are attempting to play cards but the excitement of our forthcoming journey is far too intense to concentrate on anything but the immediate future. I feel a tingling in my stomach and my feet begin to twitch. My thoughts begin to wander in random directions (nothing new there) but these directions are new to me. I look around and see that the others appear to be lost in their own minds. I turn to my fellow journey men/women, to ask if they are feeling the power of the bhang lassi, but decide that this is would be purely rhetoric, so keep my lips sealed. My mind is now a collage of thoughts and kaleidoscopic patterns and is struggling to deal with the sheer volume of new inputs. Unable to make any rational sense of what is happening to me I resort to laughter, a laughter which comes from deep with my colon and causes me to stop breathing for what seems like an eternity. The laughter starts off as a pleasurable experience but the novelty soon wears off and judging by the look on my friends faces, it has turned into a medical complaint.

Fortunately for me, the girls and Neil have not had a full glass of bhang lassi and are able to assist me in breathing. Normal breathing resumed, I decide that I want to be on my own in a horizontal position to try and enjoy the experience. Unfortunately for me, the girls room is on the second level of a two tier block and I have to negotiate the stairs. I get halfway down before losing my footing and almost going full length down the stairs. This incident prompts the girls into a rescue mission, which involves carrying me to bed with my arms around their shoulders. What I have not mentioned is that the boys blatantly fancy their chances with the two sisters and in my head they see this latest act as a charade to get the girls to my room. I say "in my head" because at this point paranoia has begun to get the better of me and I can't get to my room fast enough.

Once in the room I am deposited on my bed before the girls go back to their room. I can't wait for them to leave to be honest because I want to lie on the bed on my own and try and catch hold of some of my very irrational thoughts. The room, is small, with a single bed, a small bedside table, a tiled floor and shutters which do not quite shut properly, thus adding to my ever growing paranoia. The room is on the perimeter of a courtyard which is on ground level, which means that passers by can look through the slats in my shutters if they so wish and in my head that is exactly what they are doing right now. Thousands of pairs of eyes, staring through my shutters at my heavily sweating body and twisted mind. I swear that I can hear them muttering, as they discuss my predicament. With all the mental capacity I possess I wrestle to try and regain control of my totally unfounded paranoia.

When I was younger, I had an obsession with monkeys and lizards. A pet monkey would always top my Christmas list. Although a real life monkey never materialised, the nearest I ever came was Harold Wilson, my grandma's concession to my primate pondering. Harold Wilson, was so named because he had a plastic pipe hanging from his plastic countenance. His body was comprised of a toilet roll with horribly sharp wires hanging out in all directions from which hung his fake fur. If I am to be honest, it was the most pathetic attempt at a toy monkey that ever existed and would never have found it's way into a modern toy shop due to it's very dangerous composition. But, I did not care because I loved him and realised that this was the nearest to a real monkey that I was ever going to acquire. I had not thought about Harold Wilson for many years, so lord only knows why he took this moment to appear in my corrupted consciousness.

There he was, Harold (the hazard) Wilson before my very eyes, his plastic face alive as he smoked bubbles out of his pipe. I sat and stared with a childlike fascination, as my oldest of allies blew his bubbles and nodded at me as if to say "yeah, it's me, last seen disappearing into the loft in 1980". Oh, no I think, Harold is annoyed about his final resting place and an annoyed toilet roll bodied, wiry monkey is the last thing I want to cope with. All the while, he's blowing his bubbles which are now floating around all over the room. Worse is to come, in the bat of an eyelid Harold's eyes have turned into those toy spectacles that you can get with springy eyes on the end. Not only have I got to contend with his continuous bubble blowing but now I have to get to grips with his manic springing eyes which are out of control. All, this motion finally gets too much for me and I begin to feel very queasy.

The pangs of sickness begin deep in my stomach and as my inner cheeks begin to salt up I try to prepare myself for the inevitable conclusion. Once again I am fighting with my mind and trying to keep the sickness at bay, whilst Harold Wilson's springing eyes decide that they are going to enter my mouth and peer down my throat to take a closer inspection of my lower intestine. As if that is not trippy enough, my own eyes are somehow cast into the vision of Harold's and I am left peering into my own intestines. My intestines have now taken on the form of a very brightly lit alphabet soup, like those alphabet sweets that you used to get as a kid, only much, much brighter. To recount, I am looking through the springy eyes of a plastic, wire and fur monkey named Harold Wilson, at my own intestines which have now turned into an neon, alphabet soup. The alphabet is cascading around like a fountain inside my stomach and not helping me keep down my sickness one slight iota.

Finally, after a closely run mental battle, Harold Wilson's eyes get the better of me and I sit bolt upright. What happens next takes an even more incredulous turn. My/Harold Wilson's eyes are confronted with a brightly coloured letter b, which weaves it way through my intestine and ejaculates out of my mouth, closely followed by an equally brightly coloured letter l, letter a, letter r and finally letter b. The word blarb exits my mouth, as I go through the motions of vomiting. This neon alphabet of a blarb then flies through the air, a distance of at least 8 ft before adhering itself to the wall. I have no time to admire my handiwork before the next series of blarbs lines up for it's attack and also sticks to the wall.

My blarbing continues until sunlight begins to enter through my window slats and illuminates my broken, blarbed out body. I estimate that I have been blarbing for a good 10 hrs at least and the result of this is a completely blarb decorated wall. With the determination that won wars and a body as listless as a person that has just run 10 marathons, I ejaculate my final blarb, which leaves me feeling both relieved and perversely proud. I collapse on the bed and feel as if I have just had multiple, multiple orgasms.

Over a day later I awake and feeling bewildered, I leave my room to try and find the others. I only find Richard Stokes, who informs me that their failed attempts to wake me has meant that they have moved onto the next destination without me. I'm astonishment as I try to piece the timescale together and realise that I have missed my reserved train to Jodphur. I vow never to touch bhang lassi again.

Korean Superloo

2010-09-02T21:03:00.001-07:00

My colleagues decide to take me out for a meal which in actual fact turns out to be an apology for missing my birthday the previous week. Their reasoning for the event goes unspoken and is only unravelled by my intense questioning upon their reluctance to let me pay for any of the bill. We go to a hotel into Changwon, a venue which is famous for children's first birthday celebrations ( a major event in Korea). The location is far classier to that, that I am accustomed and is also packed to capacity, as I am informed is the case every day. Thankfully my co-teachers have taken note of my vegetarianism and opted for a buffet style meal with lots of meatless options.

Although we are still waiting for one latecomer, we take our plates and begin foraging for food. There is no grace, no enjoy your meal, in fact the only etiquette is to fill your face as soon as possible whilst making lots of noise before rushing for seconds. I try to make polite conversation throughout the meal but I am left with the feeling that their hurried responses are reflections of their inner irritation of my small talk. With this in mind I set about filling my face. By the time the latecomer arrives everybody is finished. The next twenty minutes are spent in polite conversation, set to a background of slurps and grunts. I take this interlude to quietly slip off to the toilet.

The toilet itself is a fancy affair, marble tiled, modern hand dryers and porcelain bottles of hand soap with gold gilded caps. I find an empty cubicle and take my position. Halfway through the unspoken act I notice that I am in fact sat on a very space age contraption with lots of buttons and flashing lights. Me, being me, I give no thought whatsoever to the consequences of pushing all the buttons at once. At best I think that the seat may warm up or the toilet will speak to me. There follows a period of nothingness, which in retrospect I would describe as the calm before the storm. I would estimate that this time lapse was 4/5 seconds. Suddenly I am hit straight up the rectum by what can only be described as an jet wash of water (it seems that I have inadvertently set everything to full). In total panic I leap from the seat (I guess you could say it literally scared the shit out of me). With the stealth of a ninja I spin on my axis only to be hit full in the face by the water cannon. I duck and the torrent the scale of Niagara bombards the cubicle door. I am in a total flap by now and my mind goes blank. I throw my whole body into the path of the the water jet and am quickly soaked from head to foot. I fight my way through the jet and slam my hands down on all the buttons until eventually the water stops as suddenly as it started.

I emerge from the cubicle with much resemblance to the proverbial drowned rat. Things are worse than I could have possibly imagined, my bizarre bathroom behaviour has alerted the other patrons of the toilet, who are plentiful and eagerly waiting to perform their ablutions. To hide my inner turmoil, I raise my head, look them in the eye and positively stride out of the cubicle as if this is my normal routine. I hasten to inform that water is by this point, flooding under the cubicle door and in danger of flooding the whole bathroom. Undeterred by my sodden state I stride back into the corridor, past legions of first birthday babies. They are alerted to my presence by my squelchy shoe noises and all go quiet. I then return to my seat and try and blend in with the conversation. However my co-teachers have also been drawn in by my squelchy shoe noises and have looks of total horror on their faces. I am forced into an explanation of my shit house shenanigans and expect to be met by rapturous laughter. What actually happens is, they all fall silent and I get the feeling that I have brought great shame upon the teachers of Anmin elementary school.

There is a moral to this story but I doubt that I will adhere to it.

Crazy George, banana's and the wettest place in Australia

2010-09-02T21:00:00.000-07:00

In June of 1993, whilst travelling around Australia I find myself in an extremely weary place. This place is so weary that I can only imagine that it was crafted by the Devils own hand on the day that he realised that his arch enemy had miraculously resurrected. Tully is a small town in Northern Queensland. The only reason to go there is to work in either the sugar cane or banana plantations for which it is famed. It was the latter of these 2 reasons that brought me and Little Andy in this direction. The travellers grapevine had imparted us with the knowledge that Tully was the place to repair the financial damage inflicted in Cairns. We were not the first backpackers to arrive there for these reasons and I doubt very much that we were the last (unless they had heard my story). So, what exactly makes Tully such an awful place I hear you ask. This can be answered in 2 words, rain and mosquito's. Tully is down on record as being the wettest place in Australia and consequently it is a place infested by mosquito's.

We pitch our tent in the pouring rain and feeling weary already, go to check out the prospects of finding employment. The campsite is full of tents and it does not take long to find somebody eager to give us the bad news that there was very little work around. Little Andy takes the news worse than me, for he is in a far more desperate place. After talking to lots of people around the campsite, I begin to feel guilty because I am in a far more luxurious position than everybody that I talk to.

The way to get work around these parts, it turns out is to go to the local post office at 5am and wait for the prospective employers to turn up. With this information in mind Little Andy and I retire early to bed and set the alarm for 4.15 am. I guess that if there had been anything else to do around the campsite we may not have elected for this early sleeping arrangement. However, the only entertainment on the campsite comes in the form of a telephone box with a fluorescent tube. This in fact is a double whammy for we can either make a phone call or sit around the base of the phone and play cards in the light of the tube. This being Tully, even that pleasure was ruined because the mosquito's are drawn to the light, like a traveller drawn to an area of financial reward through hard labour.

There is no need for the alarm clock because we are awoken from a fitful sleep by the rain driving into the side of our rather inadequate tent. The tent was put up in haste which is reflected by the rather large puddle which has accumulated in the far corner the next morning. Most of the night has been spent trying to dodge mosquitos resulting in pockets of light sleep which are few and far between. We reluctantly emerge from the tent into the relentless rain and decide to skip the showers for which people are queuing around the block. Now, at this stage I am so convinced that I am not going to find employment that I have not taken any precautions in case I do. I leave the campsite, post office bound without eating any breakfast or making any lunch, in case I actually do manage to get a job. Deep down I harbour the thoughts of standing in front of the post office for 30 mins, whilst watching the few unlucky ones get picked up and whisked away to the banana plantations. After which I plan to return to the campsite and get back into my sleeping bag for a lovely sleep, followed by a leisurely breakfast in one of Tully's greasy spoon cafes.

Little Andy and I arrive at the post office and try to find shelter. It's 4.50 am and people are turning up in their droves. I take refuge from the rain and through tired eyes begin to take in the characters around me. What an interesting array of people! Of course there are the backpackers of the usual description, sun tanned, bodies toned from travel and travellers jobs and usually wearing similar clothes (back then cut off jeans and frayed t-shirts). But backpackers are in the minority here and by far outweighed by an odd assortment of itinerant workers. These are people that spend their lives chasing the harvest from season to season, whilst living in tents and drinking heavily. The average demographic appears to be male, aged 40 to 50 and of Australian or Australian Islander origin. It seems that to pick fruit you should have a long scruffy beard and wear a big hat with nothing on your feet.

Drawn in by this colourful bunch of characters and still heavily fatigued, my mind wanders off, as it often does, into some trance like state. Whilst I am in this state, the farmers begin to turn up in their 4 by 4's and small trucks and there is a mass surge of workers all trying to get noticed. In general these guys are big and look extremely menacing, not the type of guys that you want to be denying the opportunity to work. As they all surge forward I am caught up in their mass of bodies and dragged along like leaf in a whirlwind. Not only are they big and menacing but by god are they noisy. I am propelled along in their burly mass, dragged backwards and forwards, left and right and all I can hear is their desperate pleas for employment "Hey mate, over here", "Yo, me, I've got 15 yrs experience", "Hey, come on I really need this mate, I'm a great worker". Suddenly the crowd pushes backwards and I am miraculously ejected at great speed in a forwards trajectory. I have no idea how this happens but I end up slap bang in front of a farmer who seems impressed by my athletic endeavours and shouts "Hey, you boy, get in the jeep". There is no time to look around because I am grabbed by farmer and literally thrown into the back seat of his 4 by 4. Behind me the wild beasts beat their chests and shout out in frustrated anger at the farmers choice of hired hand. The farmer puts his foot down and the jeep roars off down Tully's main street, ugly faces glaring at me through the jeep window. I feel like a murderer emerging from a court house whilst the waiting mob vent their anger and hatred at his crimes.

I wait till we are off Tully's main street before I dare to sit upright in my seat. It is only then that I realise that there in fact 2 people sat in front of the jeep. The farmer, a rather slightly young man, appears to be Indian of origin and next to him sits an elderly lady who wears a headdress, sari and has the tell tale Hindu mark in the middle of the forehead. This all seems to add an even more bizarre edge to the whole scenario, I'm in the middle of Queensland but it feels like I'm in India. For a while I sit in reflective silence, bemused by my fortunate misfortune. I try to work out the relationship between the farmer and his front seat partner and come to the conclusion that it his mother.

After 15 minutes or so I am starting to wonder if we are anywhere near to the farmer’s plantation and I attempt to break the hitherto stony silence with my own personal brand of questioning. I have always been an inquisitive person and this often results in irritation of the recipient. I tentatively begin to fire my questions out "Are we anywhere near yet?", no response, "What's your name?”, still no response, "Is this your mother?". My final question rouses a response but not in my direction. The farmer and his mother (whether she likes it or not), begin babbling on at each other in a much accelerated tongue. This conversation goes on for the next 10 minutes or so during which time I can only guess what they are saying. In my head I reconstruct their conversation "Son, why exactly did you decide to choose this rather weak looking specimen of a man?", "mother, he chose himself, you should have seen the way that he fought his way through the pack of brutes and vagabonds to emerge triumphant in front of me". Mother and son fall silent again and I am left with my own thoughts. By now it is at least 30 minutes into the journey, we are travelling at over 100 kmh and there appears to be no end in sight. I decide that I will keep quiet until the journeys end. There is a bad air in the car and I don't want to further infuriate it.

After driving down a straight road for the best part of an hour through what looks like one endless banana plantation, the jeep slows down and makes a right turn. We travel down a dirt path which is completely waterlogged and would be totally impassable in any normal vehicle. At the end of the path there is a small concrete building which houses amongst other things, a tractor, a cart and some other farm yard machinery. I am summoned out of the jeep and thrown some gloves, which I drop (a sign of things to come). There is barely pause for breath before the Indian guy is on the tractor and gesturing that I should jump on the attached cart. I am wearing training shoes which are totally unsuitable for this terrain, which in places resembles a river. I forgot to mention that throughout this whole charade the rain has unabatedly continued to pour. The Indian then tells me to take off my shoes and work barefoot. Now this seems like pretty harsh advice but I follow his instruction without question. I am later informed that this is what the soldiers did in the trenches during the First World War to prevent them from getting trench foot.

Five bone crushing minutes later and we arrive at out destination. The farmer jumps off his tractor and urges me to follow. We trudge our way through rain sodden trees, mud literally squelching between my toes and upon some strides I am knee deep in water. The farmer is obviously used to every hollow of his land, seems to glide across the terrain like Robin Cousins winning Olympic figure skating gold. He shows obvious distress at my slow progress and makes angry gestures. I feel my own anger and frustration beginning to well up inside me. At this point I feel I should educate the reader on my previous banana picking experience some 3 years ago on a kibbutz in Israel. In short it ended disastrously because I was unable to handle the 35kg bunches of bananas. Now let me tell you, the banana's that I see before me in this Australian plantation are at least double the size of the ones in Israel and are beginning to strike fear into me. I know that there was no way that I could lift them and a plan to escape this ridiculous situation is already beginning to formulate.

Just when I thought the situation could not get any more surreal, an figure emerges from the trees. This latest addition to the whole debacle is around 6ft 5, sports a rather long and bushy red beard and is wearing an outfit that would not be out of place in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. His appearance on the plantation seems to anger the farmer who hurls abuse at him, "Where the fuck you been George? you're late now get your lazy arse on the tractor there's work to be done". George, who is visibly drunk, does not take kindly to the farmers tone of voice and lets out an inarticulate grunt. I think that George has just told the farmer to go and fuck himself but I cannot be sure of this because years of drug and alcohol abuse appear to have pickled George's brain. At this point the farmer jumps on the tractor and drives off into the distance. He makes no attempt to cover up the fact that he is extremely angry and we hear his cursing even though the tractor is well out of sight. I turn to George with the intentions of making conversation. However, when I look at him I notice that his eyes are completely skewiff. This throws me and I stall. Regaining my composure, I once again attempt to look him in the eyes whilst talking to him. I begin my conversation with "So George how long have you worked on the plantation?" He looks at me, or at least I think that he looks at me through one of his flittering eyes but he does not seem to register that I am there at all. I think that my English accent has melted his remaining brain cell and his brain has gone into overload. I persist with the conversation and after 10 minutes of questioning I have ascertained that George has worked on the plantation for 10 years, the farmer is an arsehole, the old lady is indeed the farmers mother and George is cultivating marijuana plants, the proceeds of which he will be using as a source of income, to liberate himself from the plantation.

In the distance we hear the tractor returning. When it finally appears in our field of vision, we see that the farmers anger has not abated. I wonder to myself if he was cursing all the way to wherever he has been and all the way back. He jumps off the tractor and grabs a machete from the trailer. I freeze in terror and think for one minute that he is going to finish us off. George, who after 10 years knows the routine, strides over to the tractor and jumps in the drivers seat. The farmer then walks up to the first banana tree in the row, grabs the biggest mother fucking bunch of bananas I've ever seen. With one hand he pulls it down to cutting height. He points at me and in insinuates that I should come over to him. I make my way barefoot through the muddy plantation, slipping with every second step and at one point going knee deep in a puddle. This does not amuse the farmer who seems to be growing ever more conscious of wasted time. Upon the farmers instruction I take my place under the bunch of bananas and position my shoulder under this enormous mass. I am conscious of the farmer taking a swing with the machete and just about hear the "thwack" of the machete hitting the stalk of he bunch before I feel a gigantic weight on my shoulder. I am immediately knocked from my feet and end up in a pile on the floor, the bunch of bananas on top of me. The farmer, who is not amused, offers no assistance but instead cuts the next bunch himself, and proceeds to miraculously cut another bunch with one hand. He then positively strides across the muddy terrain with a 75 kg bunch of bananas on either shoulder before depositing them onto the awaiting trailer. Throughout this feat of human endurance I remain in a bundle on the floor. I watch on in amazement like a child watching the world’s strongest man. In fact I remain in this position for the next 10 minutes before regaining a modicum of composure and attempting to get my bananas to their destination. I eventually manage to get the bunch to the trailer, through a mixture of shoulder carrying, carrying in my arms and out and out dragging. It takes a further 2 minutes to get my bunch onto the trailer, although from the shouts of disapproval, "don't damage my bananas”, I understand that I have not done this right.

The next hour continues in similar vain, we take position, the farmer swings his machete, I fall down, the farmer shouts, I remain immobile, the farmer carries 2 bunches at once, I get up and drag my bunch to the trailer, I take a breather, farmer looks on in disbelief, I summon up all my energy and heave the bananas onto the trailer, farmer shouts that I'm damaging his bananas, I curse to myself and the loop repeats. I begin to wonder at George's involvement in this operation. How has George managed to get the job of driving the tractor? To my understanding all that George has to do is drive the tractor 10 yards every 5 minutes (15 minutes today) and then sit off waiting for us to fill up the trailer whilst he dreams of his dope cartel. Eventually the trailer is full and George sets off on his merry way back to the unloading shed. I take a breather whilst the farmer sits and glares at me. I am wondering how "Crazy George" as I have labeled him, is going to unload the trailer alone, when hear him returning. I assume that there must be a larger stock of trailers than I have first seen.

Things are about to take a turn for the worse. Crazy George appears at the bottom of our row of banana trees at an alarming pace. He is driving the tractor in a most erratic fashion and seems to be out of control. Halfway down the row of trees he loses control of the tractor completely and ploughs into at least 3 banana trees, totally obliterating them. The farmer goes ballistic, "watch my fucking trees, you crazy fuck!". George emerges from the carnage and immediately gives the farmer the finger, "fuck you". At this point whole hell breaks loose with abuse being thrown around in what I can only describe as abuse tennis; "You useless bastard", "fuck you", "look at my trees", "fuck you", "you're fired", "fuck you". I watch on in a mixture of amusement, excitement and fear. Inside I feel a sense of relief that the pressure has been lifted from my own futility. George, who has just been sacked disappears off into the undergrowth. The farmer turns to me and points to the trailer. He reverses the tractor to dislodge it from the broken banana trees and we head off into the murky plantation.

Five minutes later we are sat under a make shift veranda which extends from the concrete outbuilding. Our shield is in the form of corrugated plastic, which accentuates the patter of the driving rain. The farmer and his mother are sat to my right with their backs to me. They have laid out a picnic blanket and are tucking in to a lavish Indian feast. My stomach at this point is knotted with hunger and provides bass to the rhythm section of the pattering rain. The vocals are added by the farmer and his mother who have reverted back to their accelerated mother tongue. Every now and again, in-between filling their faces with chapatti's, pakoras and bhajis, they cast an evil glare in my direction and their conversation takes on a more aggressive tone. Once again I find myself imagining what they are saying; "I told you that he was useless", "Oh, he's worse than useless, he is costing me money". "Of course we won't be paying him", "No, he should be paying us"," you should see him sat on his lazy English arse whilst I carry 2 bunches of bananas to the trailer", "Oh mother, I've fired George by the way, you are going to have to drive the tractor this afternoon". They wash down their feast with a large container of water. I am so thirsty that I am catching the rain drops from the end of my nose but I am too scared or proud or both to ask them for their canteen. They make no effort to offer me any. To me, this is the final straw. I have been on the plantation for a morning. I assume that I am not going to get paid and I no longer care. I know that I am just one step away from going out in a blaze of glory.

The Indians have digested their lunch and it's time for the fields again. The farmer has fired up the tractor and pointed to my place on the trailer, as if I were his farm dog. I take my place once again we drive off to the plantations. When we arrive at our row of trees, Crazy George is back and working hard. I start to build a picture in my mind that the scene that I earlier witnessed is just part of their normal routine. Like some comic double act (farmer and George), every scene ends in George being sacked and then in the next act he magically reappears, whilst the crowd fall about hysterically. We continue with the banana harvesting in the same fashion that the morning session ended. I am getting tired both mentally and physically and feel that I cannot last much longer, when a rather long and petrifying snake passes between my legs. Now snakes are not something that don't normally scare me but when they are passing right between your legs they give cause for concern. I cry out in alarm "a snake, a snake". At this point Crazy George proves that he is indeed human after all by pointing and laughing like a hysterical hyena. He shouts "It's not the snakes you want to worry about look at the size of this spider". I look over and indeed there is an immense spider clinging to the side of one of the banana bunches. Even the farmer finds this funny and they both fall about laughing and pointing at me. They hit me with comment after comment "you're not scared of rats are you?" hahaha, "there's rats a plenty" hahaha, "don't worry about the snakes, they only make you ill for a week", hahahahah, "the spiders though, don't go anywhere near the spiders" hahahaha. They are particularly happy with their last comment, so pleased that the farmer appears to forget that he is hours behind schedule. Their laughing eventually subsides and we take our positions under the next banana tree. The farmer swipes his machete, I brace myself ready for the hit, the bananas crash down onto my inadequate frame, I stagger forward, I've done it, I've held the bunch. On wobbly legs and still harnessing the momentum of the fallen bananas, I drive towards the trailer with the determination of a marathon runner in the last half mile. I see a puddle in front of me but attempt no evasive action. I am being driven by a higher force, I am superhuman, no puddle can stand in my way.

I'm drowning or at least that's how it feels. Sinking deeper and deeper into a muddy pool, my life flashes before me. I'm gasping for air, an enormous weight bearing down on me, my resistance is futile. My mind is racing, is this how death feels? What happens next? Who will meet me at the pearly gates? Suddenly I hit the bottom of the pool and I regain my composure. I am fully submerged in murky, insect and reptile infested water. My arms are aloft and still holding onto a 75 kg bunch of bananas, intent on delivering them to the trailer. I emerge from the pool with the resolve of a raging bull and I'm driving forwards towards the trailer. When through the buzzing of the anger I am feeling, I hear the farmer shout "watch me fucking banana's". This is it, the straw that broke the camels back, the magic trigger. I run at the farmer, with an unsurpassed rage, the banana's aloft and my mind intent on killing him. As I approach him I find a strength that I did know I possessed and I launch the 75 kg bunch at him, whilst screaming "fuck, your fucking bananas". The banana's hit him plum in the chest and he goes down in crumpled heap. I give him no time to react, I look down on him and bare my teeth. I am frothing at the bit and in no mood for any back chat. The farmer and indeed Crazy George feel the anger in me and remain silent. I turn around and storm of into the distance without pause for thought.

I continue in this state for what seems like hours but can only be 5 minutes tops. Gradually I am returned from my elevated spiritual position to the material world. I begin to gather my thoughts, right I'm on a banana plantation - ok, I'm miles from the campsite I'll refer to as home - ok, it's mid afternoon - ok, the place is rat, spider and snake infested - ok and oh Christ, oh no, shit, he's got my shoes - not ok. I am contemplating this thought when in the corner of my eye I catch sight of the farmer and Crazy George. It seems that in my resolve to get off the plantation, I have gone in a full circle. I pass the farmer and we glare at each other (George just looks on bewildered). This little charade goes on for the best part of the next hour, as every path I take turns out to be a cul-de-sac. I am forced to turn around and walk passed the farmer again, each time we glare. Eventually I swallow my pride and dare to ask the farmer the way off his plantation. Once again he glares at me, only this time he tells me to "f*ck off".

I estimate that it takes me at least another hour to navigate my way off his plantation and back to the road. I make a detour en route to retrieve my shoes from the concrete outbuilding. The farmer’s mother glares at me and I give her the finger. Putting on my shoes I walked to the road and begin walking in the direction from whence I came around 7 hours ago. The road is long and straight so at least I can not get lost. I am fatigued but full of determination and looking forward to telling Little Andy my tale. After around 2 hours walking the fatigue begins to overrule the determination and I feel myself fading. I have an overwhelming urge to relieve myself but I am scared that a car will come sailing past as I am in mid flow. Thus far, I hasten to add absolutely no vehicle has gone down this road.

Eventually the urge to urinate takes over my whole mind and I venture from the road to a nearby cluster of trees. I ask you men, what pleasure can compare with a long overdue release of urine. I am in mid orgasmic flow when in the distance I hear what I think is the rumbling of a vehicle in the near distance. What a dilemma! Am I to break off mid-flow and try and hail this vehicle or should I continue and take the consequences on the chin afterwards. Not for the first time in my life, I am 2 minds. In my hesitation I do the worst thing possible, I emerge from the trees with my penis still hanging out of my flies. I am running after a vehicle, completely covered in mud with my penis hanging out of my flies, p*ss cascading into the air and my arms flapping. To my dismay and probably theirs, the car visibly accelerates. To add to my misery I am now covered in mud and my own urine.

Eventually, I am picked up by a bunch of hippies in a VW combi. I relax in the back of their campervan whilst relaying the day’s events. The hippies are only too happy to listen to my tales and empathise with my situation. They even detour from their path by some considerable km’s and deposit me on the campsite gateway. Darkness has now well and truly fallen and the campsite is quiet except for a small gathering around the payphone playing cards. All I can think about is my sleeping bag, the story can wait for another day. I climb into my tent and fall asleep with great ease, happy in the knowledge that I will not have join the crowds outside the post office the following morning or ever again

Scootering through Laos

2010-09-02T20:53:00.001-07:00

I arrive in Laos after spending 3 days visiting Angkor Wat in Cambodia. After a few days on the travellers island of Don Det, in an area called 4000 islands, I get an overnight sleeper bus to Vientiane. Now this in itself is an experience. A bus full of bunk beds, which due to their narrowness I assume the top bunk is just for me. Think again, I am just settling down and trying to stretch my legs in a diagonal manner, when a Chinese, middle aged man gets on with me and reduces my sleeping space considerably more than is remotely comfortable. I've been having weird dreams over the past few weeks, actually lucid dreams, which are way cool by the way. I am convinced these are brought on by the malaria pills that I have been taking. In one of the dreams I actually thought that I had got off the bus, walked to department store, eaten an ice cream, then got back on another bus, only to wake up and realise that none of this as actually happened. So, here I am on the narrowest of bunk beds, having lucid dreams with a middle aged, Chinese man next to me. I wake in the middle of the night to find that we are spooning.

Exiting the bus the following morning at 8am in Vientiane, I quickly grab breakfast in a very French looking cafe before hurriedly reducing my 2 bags to one bag, with the notion of hiring a scooter and driving a few hundred km up to Vang Vieng. Eventually I find a hotel that will store my bags and go in search of a scooter shop. No problems there, except that they are not keen on me leaving the area. A few white lies later and I am on my way through the Laotian mountains, donned only in a pair of shorts and loving life. My favourite days in life are when I am in a hot country, on a motorcycle, Ipod playing my favourite tunes and no cares in the world. Laos, it turns out is a perfect country to do this. Loads of roadside entertainment, lots of happy smiling faces and once out of Vientiane, not much traffic to contend with. In fact once I have gone around 30 km , the only vehicles that I encounter are weird looking tractors that are ubiquitous, throughout Laos and one old white vehicle full of happy smiling faces and a large camera. The camera periodically pokes out of the back window and snaps photo's of me, accompanied by pure smiles and waving hands. This continues for around 100 km when we keep bumping into each other on the road to Vang Vieng. In fact, once I have arrived in Vang Vieng I spot them again and this well rehearsed ritual continues.

I spend, longer than anticipated in Vang Vieng drawn in by it's charms and "Special menu's". I leave on the Saturday, late morning for the 250 km ride back to Vientiane, excited at the prospect of my journey. Once again, I am taken in by the Laotian rural charms and the freedom of riding my scooter. My Ipod is filling my soul with the pleasure that only music can and life is turned up to max. Life is beautiful and I feel invincible, a man in motion, an eagle soaring through the mountains, a dolphin gliding through the water. Nothing can stop me now is my mantra, so when I hear my chain sliding around on the back cog as I change gear, I turn up my Ipod and pretend that all is good. When my bike no longer reacts to my throttle, I accept that I have a problem and draw to a halt.

I am not a person to get stressed by such an incident, especially when travelling. I see it as life's big adventure and am totally convinced that I can get the problem sorted within a short period of time and with minimum stress. My optimism on this occasion is fueled by the fact that the type of chicken chaser bike that I am riding are ubiquitous throughout South East Asia, out numbering cars by a large margin. Therefore shops that fix these bikes are equally as widespread and cost very little. As far as I am concerned fortune has favoured me, in as far as the chain has not rapped itself around the back wheel and therefore I am able to push my scooter to the next village. In actual fact, in some perverse sense I am happy when this kind of thing occurs because A, I see it as a test of character and B, it makes life more interesting.

I push the bike for around 15 minutes before I come across a village. Haha, I think, a simple matter of finding the first shop and I will be back on the road. So, by the time I have approached the third bike repair shop and been knocked back, my optimism is beginning to diminish slightly. The problem arises because although it is only 3 o'clock on Saturday afternoon, the whole male population of the village are well and truly drunk. The routine goes as follows, I push the bike to the shop and the woman of the business comes to investigate what this foreigner is looking for. Communication via a common tongue is not an option here, so my English teaching skills and particularly my miming skills come in very useful. I point at the bike and gesticulate that there is a major malfunction. The lady in question, cranes her head over the counter and homes in on my back wheel. She then pulls her face in a manner that breaks my optimism before gesticulating back at me that her husband is inebriated and has in fact got no interest in fixing my scooter. Now, the Laotian lack of enthusiasm for earning money has until this point sparked my admiration for them, but right now I am beginning to wish that they were a little more interested in my American dollar.

I approach the 4th shop with a visibly more pessimistic outlook. This time the routine varies slightly. A bunch of scruffy, semi-clad kids are mooching around in front of the shop and come to investigate before the female proprietor's wife can do her face pulling routine. One of the kids, has got down on his hands and knees and given the entangled chain a proper look at before what I assume is his mother can get to me. The lady arrives, as I have become accustomed and the usual routine ensues, I point, she looks, I wait, she pulls her face and points in the back to her very drunken husband. However, this time as I am about to leave, the kid walks off and grabs a paper and pen, hastily scribbles something down and passes me the paper. I look at the paper and realise that he has written me a quotation to fix the bike. The estimate is given in Laos kip but my rapid calculations work out that he wants around $26. I am in no position to argue, no matter how much the kid wants and cannot get my money out of my wallet fast enough. I am still pondering over the idea of who is actually going to fix the bike when the I look down and see that the kid has already got the back wheel off. As if by magic the drunken father arrives on the scene from the back of the shop and grabs me by the arm. The father is not only crippled by alcohol consumption but also by a withered left leg. We do some kind of drunken, crippled waltz across the shop to where is equally drunken friends are wistfully awaiting his return.

Funny how life can change in the bat of an eyelid, one minute I am pushing my crippled scooter around a village in what I assume is an act of futility and the next I am drinking myself futile with a cripple. Drinking whiskey I urge to inform, was not high on the list of my Saturday afternoon activities, prior to my act of misfortune but now it appears I have no choice. Much to my resistance, the father has poured me a large tumbler of imitation Johnnie Walker and his chums are watching me with eager eyes, their clapping hands, prompting me to down it in one. I soon work out that I am not going to talk my way out of this, despite my best miming act, that I have got to fly back to Korea the day after. Reluctantly I give in and slam the tumbler in one. The men cheer, I have become one of them. I look into their eyes and can estimate from their degree of bloodshot that they have been drinking for at least 2 days. If I had any illusions that I was going to get away with one glass of whiskey, they were soon to be shattered. The guys have done one loop of the table and I found myself with another full glass before the burning sensation in my stomach has had chance to even think about extinguishing itself from the first shot. The drunks begin their clapping and I increase their happiness with one swift flick of the wrist.

At least an hour has passed and I am as mentally crippled as the cripple is physically malfunctioning. I estimate that I have gone 10 rounds and only the sheer exhilaration of the whole event is keeping me upright. By now, the kid has completed my bike and the wife has brought me 3 lots of food, curiously lettuce and noodles. After the 3rd whiskey, I became as eager to drink it as they were to force feed me it. Nobody seems to acknowledge the fact my bike is once again roadworthy and that includes me. I am enjoying their hospitality and the randomness of the whole event as much as they are enjoying my company. This to me is what travelling is about. Just imagine for one minute that the chain had not fallen off my bike. Granted, I would still have been having a pleasant ride back to Vientiane and an adventure more than most holiday makers ever encounter but I would have missed out on all this, hallelujah to mishaps, that's all I can say.

It takes a great deal of mental dexterity to drag myself away from the whole debacle but pragmatism eventually regains control of me. With great reluctance, I bid farewell to my whiskey swilling partners, thank the lady for the food and give an extra big goodbye to my saviour the kid. We have a brief, conversation of mime, during which time, I think that I establish that the kid is 8 years of age. This discussion is greatly aided by my drunken state, a mental state which I find enables communication when conversation is not an option. With wobbly legs I mount my scooter, wave a hazy goodbye to my new friends and drive off into the late afternoon sun.

Jaisalmer, the thief and the aggressive policemen

2010-09-01T09:43:00.001-07:00

I arrive a day later than anticipated in Jaisalmer due to reasons disclosed in a previous story. My travel companions whom I had earlier met in Jodphur, 2 boys from Leeds and 2 sisters from Devon have arrived a day earlier and have taken up lodgings somewhere in this desert town. It's April of 1994, long before the masses have got mobile phones or email access. In those days, travel was so much different, if you didn't see the person around the town then you may never see them again. However, most travellers were taking the same route around Asia, so it was not uncommon to bump into the same people throughout this largest of continents. I find the nearest guest house, drop off my bags and go off to search for them.

It is not long before I find the quartet in question, who are feasting in an outdoor cafe. I take a seat and we exchange tales of our bhang lassi hallucinogenic escapades. Feeling relaxed, I sit back with my hands behind my head and waves of pleasure running through my body. It is late afternoon and the sun is slowly beginning it's descent. I take in the view and what a fantastic view it is. Jaisalmer lies in the heart of the Thar desert and stands on a ridge of orange sandstone crowned by a magnificent fort. All around are gloriously crafted sandstone buildings, which are now beautifully illuminated by the late afternoon sun. It is breathtaking and the most deserty place that you could ever imagine. I feel like I am on the film set for Lawrence of Arabia.

The next few days are spent in awe of the place. Our routine is to meet up to breakfast on a roof terrace which overlooks the Thar desert. This in itself is so relaxing that we make it as leisurely as possible with much coffee and excited conversation about our future plans. After breakfast we walk around the walled town and take in the everyday sights, the old lady peddling her wares, the children playing in the street, the dogs dreaming as they shelter from the sun and other such desert town activities. We walk around the market stalls and examine the arts and crafts which are for sale at very low prices. All talk is about what we will buy before we leave India and how much profit we stand to make. Retrospectively speaking, I did actually manage to make a tidy profit by buying and selling chillums and pipes. These were purchased at 30p each in India and knocked out for £10 each at the Corn Exchange in Manchester.

On day 3, our quintet head off into the Thar desert on camel back. At first my camel does not seem to enjoy my company and constantly spins his head around to glare at me. I am wary that camels spit and therefore I am on my guard. Fortunately my camel is not a spitter. A few hours into my first day of trekking, Colin (as I affectionately name him) has taken a liking to me and his glares have turned into loving glances. We are now a happy union of man and beast, strolling across the desert with all the time in the world. When we stop for food and water breaks,Colin lowers himself gently to the ground and lets me alight his humpy body with dignity.

We spend 2 days and 1 night in the desert and see some wondrous sights. As dusk falls on the first day we see an apparition in the distance. As we approach, the figure of a hunched up old man is revealed to us. This guy is swathed in robes and wears a headdress. He plays a flute and before him a cobra sways to his every musical note. Now, call me a sceptic but I am assuming that this guy does not sit all day playing his flute to an audience of a trillion grains of sand. Though at the time I was so excited that we had chanced upon this nomadic, indigenous, desert person. From a retrospective vantage point of 15 years, I now believe that this guy was strategically positioned on a tourist super highway awaiting other Colin the camel's and crew's to arrive on an hourly basis and fill his tin cup with rupee's.

It is with even deeper glee that we see a gazelle in the desert and my god can those boys jump. I swear this gazelle was jumping around like a defective computer game. He must have been jumping as high as a house, well a bungalow at least. I have never seen an animal travel so fast and erratic as that gazelle. I pity the man who hunts the gazelle, I imagine him to be emaciated from lack of food and trying to keep up with this most frenzied of beasts. Colin, who is lazy and plodding along at an almost negative pace, does not even notice my excitement up on his back. The contrast between the camel and the gazelle is immense. All Colin does of any interest is fart. His blast of anal wind seems to give him great satisfaction, which is evident from the twitching of his nose directly after his rectum rumbles.

As daylight fades, we find a cluster of high sand dunes and set up camp. Even when night falls it is fairly warm in the Thar desert. This is contrary to my expectations. I always thought that the desert was virtually uninhabitable by night as the temperatures plummeted. Maybe we just had a warm night. The sand dunes are surprisingly comfortable and elevate our bodies to the perfect position to stare at the endless constellations of stars. We lie there in stony silence, totally motionless, all lost in our own thoughts. I am coming to the end of my 2 year life changing trip, I have recently lost 2 close members of my family, my resources are all but gone, I have got to find a job pretty dam soon etc etc etc. Tonight none of this matters, tonight I'm in a beautiful desert staring at billions of stars and I'm untouchable. I've just turned 25, I'm at a very happy stage of my life and as far as I am concerned nothing can go wrong. How wrong I could be?

When we get back to Jaisalmer we all book in at the guest house that I was staying at. The hospitality of the owner is second to none. This is maybe partly because he is trying to get his guest house recognised by the Lonely Planet but also because he is a genuinely lovely person. I am only too happy to recommend his place to my friends and they seem happy to go there. We all go off in our separate directions and agree to meet at reception in an hours time.

I take a shower and return to the bedroom. As I am drying myself, the shutters start to gently tap against the wall and I am alerted to a strange whistling noise outside. I walk over to the small sandstone window and peer out. I am confronted by a most peculiar and arresting site. The wind is picking up with each second and with it comes the desert sand, which is swirling around in all directions and resembling mini whirlwinds. Anything which has not been secured is crashing around into the buildings which have shutters protecting them from such an event. The force of the wind is so strong that visibility has been reduced to less than a few metres. I stand and watch in excitement for a few minutes. Suddenly the place is thrown into complete darkness as the electricity supply is evidently wiped out by the storm. I hear the yells of anxiety from the girls in the next room and decide to go and check on them. This is a task which with only a glimmer of light would take a few seconds to complete but with zero light it proves very difficult. I cannot even see my hand when it is a few inches in front of my face. With outstretched arms I stumble around the room desperately trying to remember the position of the furniture. It takes several stubbed toes and bashed shins before I eventually mentally map the room enough to find the doorway.

Our group congregate on the landing and everyone describes how they have just gone through exactly the same rigmarole as me. The guest house owner who is well prepared for desert storms, supplies us with a couple of lanterns and we head downstairs. The ferocity of the storm is so hard that we decide to eat dinner with the guest house owners. Dinner lasts for a few hours and is interspersed with much chat. We're dining by candlelight, outside a storm is raging and we're in the middle of a desert. Travelling doesn't get much better than this. We are all excited, as if we are electrically charged by the roaring tempest. After dinner we all retire to the room which the boy's share. Here, we play cards by candlelight for a few hours before I go off to bed. As I enter my bedroom I feel a strange tingling sensation and sense that somebody has been in my room. I am extremely tired so I ignore my inner feelings and get into my bed. I soon fall into a deeply satisfying slumber, my mind bulging with new tales to be relayed in the future.

The next morning I gather my stuff together and go downstairs to settle the bill. The others are waiting for me and have already paid up. I retrieve my money belt from my bag and go to unzip it. That's strange I think, it is already unzipped. I reach inside expecting to find a fat bunch of rupee's, however there only appears to be a few notes in there. A feeling of unease runs through my nervous system. Hastily, I check my pockets, no nothing there. I pull everything out of my rucksack, nothing there either. By now I am in a panic and the idea that I have been robbed has entered my mind. The others look on and are sharing my thoughts. The guest house owner also watches my frantic actions and he is looking both confused and anxious. I mentally retrace my actions of the previous evening, all the time focusing on the feeling of unease which I had experienced before falling asleep. Once I am satisfied that I no longer have the money, I yell out, "I've been robbed".The guest house owner, who is genuinely surprised says "Mr Andy, this cannot be". The dialogue between the guest house owner and myself goes something like this:

"Seriously, my money it's gone",
"Mr Andy, this good guest house, this happen never",
"I'm sorry, but it has, I'm telling you I've been robbed"
"Mr Andy, no this happen never, it cannot be, we good people",
"I'm not accusing you, I am just telling you that my money was there yesterday and today it's gone".
"Mr Andy please, check again, this not happen, no this not happen never",
"I've checked everywhere, it's gone, I know it's gone, I can feel it was stolen",
"Oh no, I am so so much shame, I feel so bad".

By this time I am feeling sorry for the guest house owner, at no point have I ever felt that he was in on this. He is as innocent as I am, I trust this guy implicitly. He believes me as much as I believe him and we start the investigation process together. Suddenly, he seems to have a great realisation and bursts into life. He goes into the guest house and shouts something to his son in his mother tongue. The son quickly dashes off into the town and the guest house owner ushers us of to the roof top terrace where we normally dine. He asks to have our breakfast and wait until he comes back. We follow his guidance. What happens next is like something from a James Bond movie.

To coin a phrase, all hell breaks loose. The normally peaceful town of Jaisalmer bursts into life. People seem to appear from everywhere. The town is comprised of lots of small alleyways and all of these alleyways are full of people, who appear to be checking every doorway. They seem to be searching with intent, as though they know the object of their desire. From our perfect vantage point we can see everything that is going on. Eventually, it seems that the town has been fully searched and the search party which is around a hundred people, run off into the desert. The party is led by members of the police force, who are waving their batons in the air as they run.

The search party who look like legions of ants from where we are sat, are off in every direction. I estimate that they are a distance of around a km from where we sit, when they come to a sudden halt. They all gather together and then start walking back towards the town. As they get closer we see that there is a guy at the front of the posse and this guy is being beaten by several policemen. They are hitting him with sticks, kicking him and generally torturing him as they progress towards the town. The procession enters the town and disappears from view.

A few minutes later, we hear a commotion downstairs in the restaurant before the guest house owner appears on the roof terrace and shouts "Mr Andy, come quickly, Mr Andy we catch thief". Behind him are a line of people who are all excitedly gesturing for me to follow them. My friends and I follow the posse down the stairs and onto the street. There are people everywhere but the majority seem to be congregated around one house, where they are peering through a window. As we approach, the crowd make way for our group and we enter the house. Once inside I am amazed to see that the captured guy is sat on a chair with his arms tied behind him and blood pouring from his face. A police officer, who appears to be in charge of the torturous operation stands in front of the guy and is wielding a large stick. He see's me enter the room, quickly raises his stick in the air and with one long hard swing brings it crashing down. There is a sickening crack as the stick connects with the guys head and he is completely knocked over along with the chair to which he is tied. Three of the other policemen who are watching on, run up to the thief and hoist the chair back to an upright position. The chief torturer then walks over to me with a big smile on his face and passes me the stick. I stare back at him dumbfounded. Inside I know that he wants me have my turn with the stick but I am playing dumb because this is the last thing on Earth I want to do. I estimate that the guy has stolen around £20 from me and for his light fingered frolics he has had the living crap kicked out of him.

The police do not seem too happy that I have abstained from their burglar battering practices and give him a few extra cracks on my behalf. In the back of my mind I'm thinking "God, I hope that I really have had my money knicked and it is not stashed somewhere in my bag". I look at the thief and feel terribly sorry for him. Although, at this stage in my travels £20 means a lot to me, in the bigger picture it means a hell of a lot more to him. Within a month, I will be back in England and earning more money in a week than he probably earns in a year. I turn and leave the torture chamber, my head in pieces. The guest house owner follows me outside and awkwardly asks me how much I have had stolen. By the tone of his voice I can hear that he is going to repay me every penny of the stolen cash. With this in mind I give a very low estimate. He digs his hand deep into his robe pocket and gives me the money back. There is no point protesting, this is for the honour and reputation of his guest house. I shake his hand and tell him that he is a good man. As a passing comment before I leave, I ask him what happened to the money. It transpires that the thief, had used the money to get extremely drunk and then he had visited the prostitutes. The search party had found him collapsed in the sand dunes. As I walk away, I'm thinking to myself, "Oh well, at least he didn't squander it".

A few days later I ring my gran and I casually tell her that I have been robbed. Little beknown to me, she plays Chinese whispers with the message and before you know it, I've been robbed, hi -jacked, raped and murdered. I had planned to surprise my parents with my trip back home. However, I arrive at Heathrow and they are all awaiting my arrival. My sister has done her Miss Marple act and much against the airlines policies she has pleaded with them to find out if there was an Andrew Mitton on any of the flights to London. Once she is supplied with this information, they have raced off down to London to await my arrival. My mum is convinced that it is not me that will emerge through the arrivals gate but an Indian thief that has stolen my ticket and assumed my identity. I emerge triumphant back on English soil after 2 years, 4 continents, 15 countries, a few thefts, numerous close shaves and thousands of stories. I walk through the arrivals gates at Heathrow and there they all are, mum, dad and sister. I am amazed to see them as they are happy to see me.

How to take advantage of a near death experience

2010-09-01T05:45:00.001-07:00

July 25th 2000 is a date I will never forget and even if I did, all I would have to do is type "Concorde crash" into Google and I would have my date.

So, what exactly happened on this date in the year 2000, besides Concorde crashing? Well the story goes like this:

Having spent a fantastic and very eventful month travelling around Central America I am now at Managua airport in Nicaragua awaiting a flight which will take me to New York. From New York I will catch a connecting flight to Amsterdam. I bump into a Norwegian girl at Managua airport and I am pleasantly surprised. This girl is sexy and I am talking leather trousers and lots of cleavage sexy. I've bumped into this girl a few times during my month in Central America but she has always been in a larger group and has not really paid me any attention. Now, she is alone and seems pleased to be in my company. This is all to change, by tomorrow morning, after a rather dramatic flight to Amsterdam, she is practically sprinting to get away from me.

We arrive at JFK airport and see a large crowd gathered around a television screen. I go to investigate and find out that they are all watching the news because Concorde has just crashed in Paris. I'm stood there, watching the news and thinking "why does this always happen when I am just about to board a plane"? This thought is circulating my mind when I hear the announcement that my flight is ready to board. Nervously, I walk to the boarding gate and await my fate. Although I have spent a large proportion of my life travelling, I am not a fan of flying at all and dread every journey. Concorde crashing has intensified this fear ten fold.

The plane is enormous, one of those 3, 5, 3 seated affairs and I'm in the middle of the plane on the left hand side. I feel penned in and therefore even more uneasy. I'm sat next to 2 off duty flight attendants who are overtly gay. I politely make conversation with them as the engines are fired up and we are towed to the runway. This is the worst part for me and usually the point where my palms start to sweat and my legs get all jiggly. Nerves have got the better of me and I'm talking in an accelerated tongue. Those that have flown with me will know the routine and will also know that I am to get worse as the flight goes on. I jump at any sign of turbulence and often grab the hand of the person who is sat next to me, even if they are a stranger.

We're on the runway and the tension is building within me. The engines are roaring and we have started the dreaded taxi down the runway. The plane is gathering speed now and the sound of the engines are almost drowned out by the sound of my own heart beat. Then we reach that moment of complete terror when the wheels of the plane leave the ground and the nose of the plane starts to rise at an alarmingly scary angle. This is the point when I dig my feet into the ground, my mind full of thoughts about crashing. The point where I am trying to fill my mind with thoughts of previously successful flights that I have been on and attempt to calm myself by calculating how many successful flights there are every day from any given airport. As always I am losing the mental battle and can only think of crashing. These thoughts are dramatically interrupted by an extremely loud bang, followed by a very, very scary shuddering of the plane. I estimate that we have been airborne for less than a minute and the plane is at this point poised at an almost rocket like angle.

A moment of absolute silence ensues and seems to last for much longer than it actually does. Fear has gripped the plane and you could hear a pin drop right now, as everybody is frozen in sheer terror. The first person who I hear talking is one of the gay flight attendants next to me. He seems relatively calm and is telling me not too worry because this is all routine stuff. He tells me that we have almost definitely had an engine failure on the middle engine and that we should hear the captains message very soon, informing us of an emergency landing back at JFK. I am desperately trying to believe him on this but my pessimism is confirmed when there is another even louder bang, followed by an even more intense shuddering, which lasts for around 10 seconds.

This time there is no silence, the plane literally erupts into a frenzy of panic. I can't even begin to describe the fear which surrounds me. Men, women and children are screaming and crying, people are sat in their seats praying, Muslims are on their hands and knee's praying to Allah and Catholics have got rosary beads raised in the air. I, for once am sat in silence, in deep contemplation of my destiny. Around me I hear the noise and see the panic but I have gone into a catatonic state. Besides me I hear the gay flight attendants babbling on about the captains announcement but now there is an element of desperation about their voices. I look up and see one of the plane's flight attendants sat in one of the emergency chairs, with beads of sweat literally dripping off her. My mind is all consumed with how death will feel. I have questions going through my mind, such as "How will I actually die? Will my neck snap upon impact with the seat in front of me or will I get sucked out of the plane before it makes it's nose dive to Earth? Does fear actually smell, or is it confused with the smell of people soiling their underwear?

This state of utter pandemonium continues for around 20, very long minutes and this is only punctuated by the captains long overdue announcement. The announcement goes something like this "Ladies and gentlemen, you may have realised that we have had a malfunction with one of the engines, we have in fact lost our middle engine but we have 2 more engines which are functioning perfectly, so there is no need to worry. We could fly this plane on one engine if we needed to! We will now circle JFK airport for approximately 20 minutes whilst we dump the fuel before landing. Please do not be alarmed by number of emergency vehicles on the runway. This is a routine emergency landing and there is no need to worry". Now from this announcement I have picked out the following, lost the middle engine, fuel dump, emergency landing and emergency vehicles. I have to hand it to the captain, there is an air of calm around his voice but calm is not a word to describe the atmosphere inside the fuselage.

I am sat watching the big screen at the front of our section. All that the screen displays is a little green image of a plane which is going around in circles. We are by now, I assume dumping the fuel. I decide to look out of the window and wish that I had never bothered. There is a fleet of red lights down below us and I'm talking hundreds. I quickly shut down the window flap and vow not to peep out again until the plane has touched down. I break this vow within seconds, a pattern which is to repeat itself until we do actually land. It goes like this, flap up, red lights everywhere, sheer panic, flap quickly back down, look at screen, see plane circling, flap up, red lights, panic, flap down, look at screen etc etc. I am gradually working myself into a frenzy, which is not aided by the panic which surrounds me. Even the gay boys are panicking now and there's nothing more dramatic than a gay person flapping. The only thought that is going through my mind is "Will the little screen image of the plane actually explode when the plane obviously crashes". There is no question in my mind as to whether the plane will crash or not. As far as I am concerned this plane and all it's passengers are on their final journey.

The captain decides to update us on the planes progress, "Ladies and gentlemen, the plane has dumped enough fuel and we will shortly begin our descent, please remain calm for the remaining part of the journey, thank you". The plane does indeed start it's descent and the passengers once again go silent. This is a very leery silence and the only thing that you can hear is the heavy breathing of all the passengers. The sound of the wheels being lowered is a welcome relief but not enough to convince me that we are not going to crash. The sound of the breathing gets louder the closer that we get to the runway. I look out of the window and see that we have almost landed. I brace myself and put my hands to my head as the wheels touch down.

Oh my god, we've made it, we've actually touched down. Am I dead? I don't think so! Now, I am not a fan of passengers bursting into spontaneous applause upon planes landing. This type of behaviour is usually the domain of the cheap package holiday passengers. However, these passengers have burst into the loudest and most dramatic applause that I have ever heard and I am the one hooting the loudest. I am dancing, punching the air and literally shaking hands and kissing everybody around me. It is at this point that I spot the sexy Norwegian girl, who looks me in the eye, holds out her arms and bursts out crying whilst enveloping me. I am so excited by the landing that I only take a cursory glance at her buxom breasts.

From here on in, we are mollycoddled by the airline, possibly through the fear of being sued. We are ushered through the airport by a team of staff, who are there to serve our every need. I am not sure what role these guys normally play but tonight they are here to kiss our arses. We are given telephone cards to ring our loved ones, we are taken to the presidential suite where we are given lots of nice food and most importantly we are plied with alcohol of every description. I ring my parents to inform them of the situation and then get on with the important business of getting drunk. We are told that a new plane will be ready for us in 4 hours and until then we will be wined and dined. I take full advantage of this situation and encourage the sexy Norwegian to join me in my quest to get inebriated. She does not take much encouragement and matches me beverage for beverage. By the time our new plane is ready to board, we are well and truly spannered. In fact, I don't think that there is one person boarding that plane that it is not spannered. The numbers boarding the new jumbo are seriously depleted. Through drunken eyes, I estimate that there are at least 30 percent of the original passengers missing and who can blame them?

The Norwegian girl wants to take a seat next to me and this is possible because the gay boys turn out to be amongst the absentee's. This fact, does not instill me with confidence. You can only imagine the fear that I feel as the plane takes off, a fear that is to stay with me for the until the alcohol takes control. On the plus side, the sexy Norwegian is clinging onto me for dear life, as we continue our mission to get plastered. I'm on the wine by now and heading for total meltdown. This is a bad mistake because I am a nervous and emotional wreck and in no mental state to handle vast amounts of alcohol, especially at high altitude. Before I know it, I'm a gibbering wreck and my libido has regained control. I'm all over the sexy Norwegian, who is still frozen in fear. However, it seems to be me that she is fearing and not the plane crashing. Now, I can see that the reader may think at this point that I am blatantly taking advantage of the poor girls state of mind but as I see it, the alcohol is taking advantage of my state of mind.

I wake up and have no clue where I am. I feel something below me and realise that I am in fact sprawled all over the Norwegian girl who is lying there with her eyes wide open. I have no idea, at what point I fell asleep but it would appear that sleep was not on my mind when this eventually happened. I quickly disentangle myself and try to act like nothing has happened. The Norwegian does not utter a word to me now until we depart at Amsterdam airport. As, we collect our bags at the carousel, I bid her farewell and she grunts something at me as she sprints off towards customs control. I gather my bag and make my way as slowly as possible to the train station, in fear that our paths will cross once more.

Teenage Embarassment

2010-05-31T05:59:00.000-07:00

There's a reason why I still run around like a teenager as I enter my 5th decade and that is, an overprotective family. Whilst other teenagers were off chasing girls, smoking cigarettes and other such adolescent activities, I was climbing trees and searching for golf balls on the local links. Not that I did not enjoy these activities but it can become more than a little embarrassing when you're 18 years old and your grandma is coming to look after you because your mum is going out for the day. Mind you, the only time that I was allowed the freedom of the house (due to a logistical issue not a choice), my parents returned home to the dismay of finding a police car parked up outside. My new found freedom had gone to both my head and my trigger finger. A mixture of peer pressure and showing off, ensured that one of the neighbours, Mrs Eslick got hit in the arse with a pellet from my air rifle. The air rifle, until that point had been kept a secret from my parents. It was never to be seen again. I may have shot Mrs Eslick up the arse but in doing so, I shot myself in the foot. That was my freedom gone for another few years.

The height of my teenage embarrassment came one beautiful summers evening when a bunch of the cooler kids embarked upon a camping trip in the hills beyond Sunnybank cottages. I pleaded in vain to go on the camping trip but there was no way my mum was having it. We fought all day but in the end the only concession she gave was the chance to sleep in the back garden in our extremely old play tent. I reluctantly accepted the offer and pitched my tent in our small back garden. It wasn't until my tent was erected that I conceived the idea of waiting for my parents to go to sleep before sneaking into the hills to join the cool kids, in a frenzy of teenage pleasures.

Around 11 pm, as I expect, my parents come out to take a check on me. We chat for a short while before they retire to bed. I wait for another half hour or so, until all the lights are out and the toilet has been flushed several times and then I steal away into the night. With the stealth of a ninja I make my through the estate and through the snicket (small passage way), which leads on to the disused railway. I weave my way down through the farm yard and alongside the park, following the river to the main road. Fortunately it is a bright moonlit night and I am able to navigate the derelict site of the old Porrits mill without incident. With excitement and trepidation, I pass Sunnybank cottages and enter the woods where the unruly teenagers have set up camp. In the near distance I can hear the sound of the frolicking youths, as they drunkenly dance around the camp fire. I psyche myself up and enter the encampment.

Not being down with the cool kids and not having drunk a drop of alcohol, I am feeling more than a little nervous at this point. How will the cool kids react to me? Will they realise that I was forbidden to camp with them and have escaped from my play tent in the back garden? How much do they know? These questions are soon answered as I am hit by a torrent of abuse from my peers. My response, is of course to drink alcohol at an accelerated rate in an attempt to fit in as soon as possible. I do this a little too well and end up in a fight with Aaron Lord, who happens to be a black belt at karate. My drunken ego has taken hold and before I know it, I am being wrestled to the floor and upon my refusal to concede, Aaron brings his fist crashing down into my nose (breaking it for the first time). To make matters worse, one of the other boys has taken advantage of my prostrate position to stub a cigarette out on my cheek. Through the blur of my 2 pains, I can hear the laughter of the teenagers, which drives me on to rejoin the group in an attempt to distract my urge to cry.

I sit around the fire, trying to make idle chat with my tormentors, although inside I am fighting back pain and resentment (oh the joys of adolescence). However, it would appear that my fight with Aaron Lord has won me some credibility and I am even offered a beer from one of the boys. I take this as a sign, a turning point of my pubescent career as a cool kid. Against all the odds of an overprotective mum and a play tent in the back garden I have broken through the barriers of teenage angst and entered the realms of the cool. The group retires indoors and I am even offered a place in one of the tents, where we finish out beer by torch light.

Eventually, the torches are off and stillness falls upon our camp. Finding a small space, I lie back, my mind whirring with the events of the past few hours. Nose and cheek in pain but excited at the prospect of no longer having to avoid the places where the cool kids hang out. The air outside is still and there is little noise apart from the breathing and occasional snore of those around me. The camp is at one end of a valley in the middle of the countryside and it is the middle of the morning. As the my thoughts start to dissipate, my mind settles and I begin to drift to sleep. That is, until I hear a familiar noise in the distance and my mind tunes itself into this familiar frequency. It takes only a few seconds to realise that this is fact the noise of my parents Chrysler Alpine, which any Alpine owner will tell you, sounds like a bag of nails.

I cower in my sleeping bag, my mind awash with thoughts of how I can make my escape. I know that this is going to be embarrassing. I am unprepared for just how embarrassing it turns out to be. I do not concern myself with thoughts of my parents anger or any punishment I may receive. My only concern is for the embarrassment that I am going to face when my parents finally work out which tent I am in.

They're out of the car now and I can hear them walking towards the encampment. The light of their torch, creates a silhouette on the side of the tent and the cracking of branches under their feet causes some of the others to wake up. Their footsteps get closer and closer, until the they are standing literally a foot from me, only the material of the tent keeps us apart. By now many of the other youths have awoken and are shouting at the top of their voices, demanding to know who has dared to enter their encampment. In an attempt to redeem the situation somewhat, I try to whisper to them without waking those that sleep up, "I'm in here". This is an epic fail. By now almost everybody is awake and they all hear my pathetic whimpers.

I hear the tent doors being unzipped before my dad's head emerges through the flaps, a big cheesy grin on his face, illuminated by the beam of his own torch. A mili-second later, he is joined in the flaps by my mum, who has an equally cheesy grin on her face and is holding a tupperware box of sandwiches and a flask of coffee, "Oh Malcolm, here he is god bless him, here you are love, I've brought you some goodies to share with your friends". If there was every a time I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me, that was it. Here I am, a mollycoddled teenager, trying to prove himself to the boys, by fighting, drinking, smoking and hopefully indulging in pleasures of the female body and it has all be ruined by my over protective parents. I would rather them have dragged me out of the tent, kicking and screaming than this. Around me, I can hear the sniggers of my peers, as they relish what they are witnessing.

My parents hang around for what seems an eternity but in reality is around 5 minutes. I try to hide my swollen nose and cigerette burned cheek from my mum's protective eyes, to no avail , "Oh look Malcolm, what's happened to his face, oh, come here love what's happened?". "Nothing has happened mum", I spit back with vitriole. "Can you leave please?". She eventually, reluctantly does leave and I am left to face the flack from all the cool kids, who give me the wanker sign, as they help themselves to my coffee and sandwiches.

I am left, dwelling on the fact that I was almost up there with the cool kids but will now have to avoid the places that they hangout for another 5 years at least.