FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY...JIMI HENDRIX

It was January 1967. I was seventeen and still living with my parents in my hometown of Fraserburgh. It was a grey place and smelled of fish - a bit like some of the lassies I subsequently got to know there. Now Fraserburgh 1967 was a bit like the Fraserburgh 1867 - except that there was a bingo hall, the Electric Palace; and that's where I worked. It wasn't much of a job reading out numbers to a hundred and fifty smoking and blethering women but compared to getting tossed about the freezing Atlantic by forty foot waves in your uncle's trawler, it had a certain appeal. When your number was up in the Electric Palace it generally meant good news.

One Saturday, as I wandered down near the docks, on one of my intersession walkabouts, the heavens opened up. Believe me a rainstorm in the north-east of Scotland soon makes a mockery of Man's attempt to be impervious to it. Umbrellas, anoraks, wax jackets all prove to be a poor first line of defence. So, I jumped into one of the warehouses for cover.

After a couple of seconds I realised I was not alone. I wheeled round to be taken aback by the sight of a tall black man holding a guitar case. Now, the nearest I'd ever been to a black man was a picture of Pele, up on my bedroom wall, but summoning up the courage, I asked him if he was alright. Through chattering teeth I'm sure I heard him say 'I'm sold for King Coal'. Must be a sales rep for a heating company I thought. Although not a very good advert for them by the looks of him. But I felt so sorry for him, that I invited him back to the bingo hall, to get dried out and heated up. He thanked me, held out his wet hand, and introduced himself as Jimi...Jimi Hendrix.

We ran back through the sheeting rain to the Electric Palace, and once inside, set about getting dried. Since he was soaked through I suggested he might want to strip off and I would try to dry his trousers and shirt by putting them over the boiler. He looked at me warily, and quite out of the blue, asked me if I had a girlfriend. When I replied 'nearly', he just grunted, peeled off his clothes and handed them to me.

As we got warmed up, he told me that he was a musician from New York staying in London. He explained that things were moving so fast; recording sessions, writing songs, appearances on radio and tv shows, live performances, more recordings, and so on, that he felt he just had to get away from it all. So he had jumped on the first train, then the first bus, then walked and walked, till he arrived here, in Fraserburgh.

I told him that nobody would bother with him here. Compared with London and New York, Fraserburgh was like a different planet. He smiled and said Fraserburgh was cool, but I could see in his eyes he meant freezing. He asked if I'd heard his record 'Hey Joe' on the radio but I had to tell him all we ever heard were the shipping forecasts and farming outlook. At this point, I thought I'd better go and check Jimi's clothes. I was horrified to find that the heat had metamorphosed his shirt into a little lump of plastic, and his trousers had shrunk about four sizes. He looked at them and started laughing until the tears were streaming down his face. Eventually, when he settled down, he told me that it was just as well he kept his shit in the guitar case. To the uninitiated, it seemed a strange place to do a jobby, but then again my Uncle Archie would occasionally pish in the wardrobe. I managed to find a spare blouse that one of the cleaners kept in her locker for accidents and emergencies. At first he seemed reluctant to put it on, and I didn't blame him. It was a size 16 with a bold paisley pattern in green and brown and was a bit of an abomination on a sixty year old Fraserburgh wifey, let alone a tall, slim, black American. However when someone opened the front door and let a blast of cold North Sea air in he buttoned it up readily, and then fought his way into his trousers. The gender confusion caused by his big girl's blouse was more than compensated for by his shrunken trousers. They were now so tight onto his body, that clearly, he would not be hiding his light under a bushel, more like two bushels and a giant redwood.

I explained to Jimi that there was no transport back to Aberdeen until the next morning, but that he was welcome to spend the night at my house. Momentarily, he gave me the same look, as when previously enquiring about my girlfriend status. The only drawback was, that he would have to stay through the bingo session and the ceilidh that followed, before getting a lift back, with my parents. My mum wasn't a bingo goer, but she and dad always attended the ceilidh, faithfully. They'd come down in our old battered Morris Traveller. Dad would drive there, in silence, and Mum would drive him home, singing his head off.

Like myself, Jimi was no stranger to centre stage. He stood beside me and operated the machine whilst I called out the numbers. Despite no one winning the jackpot, the women seemed impressed by his balls, and for once, there was no shortage of volunteers to clear away the seats for the ceilidh. In jig time, the hall was ready, and the men started to come in from the pubs in their dribs and drabs - beery and animated.

As usual about ten o'clock, my parents appeared, and I introduced them to Jimi. I told them of his plight, and how I had suggested he stay overnight with us. Mum and Dad both looked at him, and then at each other, and then at me, and then at Jimi again. The world was moving too fast for them and it was starting to show. It seemed like an age before they agreed but when they did, I sighed with relief. Jimi slapped my dad on the back in appreciation, and called him a real brother, which I could see perplexed him, as he was an only child.
The band soon struck up, and with a magician's guile, people produced drink from their handbags, coat pockets and other orifices, and the ceilidh started in earnest. It went on for another three hours, and in that time Jimi learned the Strathspey, the Gay Gordons, Lord Elgin's Fancy, The Cock O' The North and Angus McKinnon's Hornpipe; the difference between a malt whisky and a grain whisky; between pale ale and export; rowies and baps; loons and quines, etc. While, everyone else learned that because his name was Jimi, it didn't mean he came from Glasgow.

As the place heated up, Jimi went to the kitchen to get some cold water to rinse his face. Suddenly, there was a blue flash, and an almighty bang. Jimi staggered out, with smoke coming from his head! He had inadvertently touched the ultra-violet fly killer light, mounted on the wall, and had sustained a nasty shock. Worse than that, it had turned his hair into something that resembled a giant brillo pad. It was one seriously tight perm. Despite protestations, Dad forced the best part of a half bottle of Glenlivet down Jimi's throat, assuring everyone it would help him; I think he was working on the kill or cure premise. Fortunately, the man came round, and a couple of cans of pale ale later, Jimi was stringing words together again. Not particularly nice words but enough to stop my Dad forcing the whisky bottle into his mouth.

As the night drew to a close, it was customary for the band to play the national anthem. So, I encouraged Jimi to go up with his guitar and join them. Fuelled by the drink, and probably still in a state of shock, he accepted. Now, these were the days of rudimentary knowledge of electrics. I mean, why have one 3-way adapter plugged into the mains when you can have half a dozen, all plugged into each other, to form an eighteen way adapter pyramid of death? And least, that's how the ceilidh band operated. Anyway, Jimi stepped up onto the stage, in his wee tight trousers, blouse, and burnt, frizzy hair, to great cheers. For many, the pantomime had come early. He plugged his guitar into a spare amp, and as the band, worse for wear themselves, started to play God Save The Queen, Jimi launched into The Star Spangled Banner. He played it with a style he was to become world renowned for, but in those remote times, and to our Andy Stewart ears, it was...well, different. To my horror, as I fought to catch the melody through the feedback, I could see smoke starting to come from his guitar. At first I thought it was a vestige from his previous accident. But no... Jimi soon saw it too, and wrestled his guitar to the ground; thumping it, sitting on it, blowing on it, to keep the flames from consuming his precious instrument. To those who had not observed the smoke, however, it just looked like a big, black American trying to shag his guitar. To their eternal credit the band played on, and as was traditional during the national anthem, the place quickly emptied of revellers.

When we got back to the house, mum retired for the night, while Dad, on his second wind, insisted we all have a wee half, as a nightcap.
The day had rained itself out, and left a cold clear night sky. So, fortified by the drink, we sat outside at the back door. Dad lit up his pipe, and Jimi set about rolling a cigarette. He was fairly generous with its composition. Paper rolled as big as that here, was normally used to start the coal fire. He lit his fag, took an enormous drag and held the smoke for what seemed like an eternity, before exhaling, grinning from ear to ear. Soon, a strange euphoria came over my Dad, and me and in no time at all, we were all grinning like a Buckie fishwife when the fleet's in - the American Seventh Fleet.

At that time of the year, atmospheric conditions can make the sky dance with colours: blues, indigos, lilacs, and purples. It is known to the world, as the Aurora Borealis, and to Scotland, the Northern Lights. But to Jimi, it was just 'a purple haze, man, a purple haze'. My Dad, who had gained a badge as a first-aider in the Boys Brigade, reckoned Jimi was still in shock, and insisted in showing him to his bed. Given my dad's drunken state, I should have helped, but it's always easy to be wise with the benefit of hindsight, so I left them both to it.

The next morning, I woke up with a bit of a head and the great smell of cooked breakfast in the nostrils. Immediately, I threw up over the patchwork quilt, convinced that my mum would never notice. Years later however, she was to comment, that it never failed to intrigue her, how the pattern kept changing, on an almost weekly basis. When I eventually surfaced, I could see by the look on my parents' face that something was amiss. Jimi appeared to have gone. Stolen away during the night. In fact, he had not even slept in his bed.

We sat at the breakfast table, with only the sound of my Dad, slurping his tea, breaking the silence. Then suddenly, I heard a moaning noise, coming from the hall cupboard. My Dad picked up a poker from the fireplace, and led the three of us, out of the kitchen. Steeling himself against possible attack from a wild cat, or bloodthirsty assailant, he whipped the door open. There, lying sleeping on the cupboard floor, was Jimi. He was curled up in a ball, with my grandad's old army tunic on top of him, to keep out the cold. Gently, we woke him up, and took him creaking and groaning, into the heat of the kitchen, with the tunic still wrapped around his shoulders. He sat, zombie-like, and moaned for a black coffee. Mum declared that too much whisky had given him a hangover, and proceeded to bind his head with an old chiffon scarf, soaked in vinegar - a traditional remedy for sore heads. Jimi was too far gone to protest.

Several gallons of Camp coffee later, Jimi appeared to come to. So we carried him to the car, and set off for the bus station, where the one and only bus to Aberdeen, on the Sabbath, awaited him.
In the car Dad told Jimi that he could keep the military jacket he was wearing. He explained how his father had worn it at the Battle of the Somme, but that it had been dry-cleaned since then.

All too soon, we were at the bus station, and it was time for farewells. Jimi had come to Fraserburgh a confused and lonely young man, and he was going back the same - except that now he was also knackered. To be fair though, he had also acquired skin-tight trousers, a blouse, bandanna, military-style jacket, wild hairstyle, and a stage act to match.

Quite what effect this image would come to have on his career, when he arrived back in London, could not have been predicted. But certainly, the folk at the bus station that morning, seemed convinced that they were witnessing the birth of a new showbusiness legend, a natural, and a worthy successor, to the likes of Charlie Caroli. With their laughter ringing in my ears, I gave Jimi a farewell handshake and he climbed onto the coach. As he turned back to wave, I swallowed hard to clear my throat, to ask him how he had enjoyed Fraserburgh.

His answer will stay with me forever, "Man, It was an experience!"

CHEWIN' THE KBs - RUCHAZIE RAPPERS

RUCHAZIE RAP

AS PART OF THE GLASGOW EAST END YOUNG OFFENDERS COMMUNITY SERVICE PROGRAMME (OR G.E.E.Y.O.C.P. FOR SHORT), B&B, DUFF HADDY & SWEET E. RAPPER, HAVE BEEN ORDERED TO EMPLOY THEIR DEBATABLE TALENTS OF GLASGA’ RAP, FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE UNFORTUNATE LOCAL COMMUNITY…

B&B
Hear me oot ah’m singin’
Your mince, ah’m mingin’
The sweat’s lashin’ aff me
An’ ma Y’s are wringin’
Ah cannae draw a breath
An’ ma eyes are stingin’
Ah’m walkin’ up an’ doon
Like ah’m no’ the full shilling

Geez a drink fae yer sink
Ah need a skoosh o’ watter
Ah’ve an awffy drooth in ma mooth
Cos ah’ve been oan the batter
It’s a fuckin’ crime
Ah hivnae time
Tae staun’ aroon’ an’ natter
Bu ah’ll tell ye wance
Yiv hid the chance
Tae hear his magic patter…

ENTER DUFF HADDY

DUFF HADDY
Ma name’s Duff Haddy an’ ah’m fae the Garngaddy
Ah sometimes lose the place an’ ah hiv tae take a maddy
Ah’ve been aff ma heid since ah wiz jist a wee laddie
Ma shrink has traced it back tae me when ma mammy left ma daddy

DUFF’S KREW
See the weans in the school they knew he used tae brick it
They’d always kid because he hid a special dinner ticket
They’d put a jobby oan a stick an’ force him then tae lick it
He suffered long and hard until he snapped an’ said right ‘fuck it’

DUFF HADDY
Ah’m first oot the traps tae take a flyin’ flakey
Ah gied ma da’ the malky cos he looked a total jakey
Ah damaged a’ ma haun an’ noo it’s left it bruised and shakey
Ah move it a’ the time noo jist tae stop it gettin’ achey

DUFF’S KREW
Noo duff is the man who rules by total fear
You’d piss yer pants by any chance if you knocked o’er his beer
He’s a victim o’ the system but before you shed a tear
He’s a grant supported rapper who’s on 50k a year

DUFF HADDY
Ma name’s Duff Haddy comin’ fae the Garngaddy
Ah sometimes lose the place an’ ah hiv tae take a maddy
The lot o’ youse are keysie cos ah’m no a total baddie
It’s the end o’ the rap an’ ah’m burstin’ fur the lavvy…

ENTER SWEET E. RAPPER

SWEET E. RAPPER
Haunds up! Staun up! Tae the music in yer napper
Your gantin’ when your pantin’ unless you're in the crapper
When yer heid is really buzzin’
An’ it’s goin’ like the clapper
The only way
Tae listen tae
The words of Sweet E. Rapper

Haunds up! Staun up! Yer deid when yer sittin’
Yer groovin’ when yer movin’ an’ the beat is really hittin’
When yer bum is making buttons
An’ yer feet are oan a flittin’
An’ in between
Yer fulla beans
You know yer really bitten

Haunds up! Staun up! Yer deid if you no clappin’
Your puffin’ daein’ nothin’ it’s me that’s daein’ the rappin’
If ah see you lookin’ glaikit
Then you’re gonnae get a slappin’
Don’t fuckin’ wait
Participate
An’ make the party happen

SWEET E. RAPPER, DUFF HADDY AND B&B (TOGETHER)
Haunds up! Staun up! Yer deid when yer quiet
Yer cookin’ when yer hoochin’ and yer lookin’ fur a riot
When the place is like a geggy
An’ ye feel ye waant tae buy it
The rhythm’s rife
It’s fulla life
Ye waant tae fuckin’ try it!

CHEWIN' THE KBs - RONALD VILLIERS

THE P45 CLAUS

RONALD VILLIERS, DRESSED AS SANTA CLAUS, BUT WITH TRADEMARK SCARF STILL ROUND HIS NECK AND TUCKED UNDER HIS ROBE’S BELT, SITS UNCOMFORTABLY ON A LARGE ORNATE CHAIR IN A GROTTO, FLANKED BY TWO MODEL REINDEER. HIS ENGLISH STORE MANAGER STANDS BEFORE HIM, SPEAKING TO HIM TERSELY.

MANAGER
Right Ronald, we had a lot of complaints from the kids yesterday…

RONALD
Aye, well it was taking me a wee while tae get intae character… I was trying tae find ma motivation.

MANAGER
I’ll give you motivation Ronald…P45! Now I’m watching you. Screw up one more time, and you’re out the door, alright?

THE MANAGER JABS THE DIRECTION OUT WITH HIS THUMB, BEFORE TURNING TO EXIT. RONALD FOLLOWS HIS DEPARTURE.

RONALD
Oh, right, thanks. Aye, ah think I’ve got it noo. Nae worries.

SURE OF THE MANAGER’S DEPARTURE HE SETTLES BACK IN HIS SEAT AND CONTINUES..

RONALD
Awffy touchy there. For nothin’ an’ a’.

A SMALL CHILD STRIDES PURPOSEFULLY FORWARD AND SITS ON HIS KNEE. RONALD KICKS INTO ACTION.

RONALD
Yo-ho-ho…ho! What d’ye want for yer Christmas, then?

CHILD
(Precociously)
You’re not the real Santa!

RONALD
Aye, ah um! Don’t be kerryin’ oan, noo. Eh...yo-ho-ho…ho! Whit have ye asked Santa for?...eh, me!...eh, whit did ye ask me for?

CHILD
I sent you a letter! Did you not get it?

RONALD IS FEARFUL OF PUTTING A FOOT WRONG.

RONALD
Eh, no…aye! I mean…I get loadsa letters, but they're a’ up at the North Pole…an’ I’m doon here tae the end o’ next week. Can ye no’ mind whit was in it?

CHILD
I asked the real Santa for a laptop, a nintendo wii, an ipod and a mobile phone.

RONALD
Eh, right y’are...an’ a selection box, eh? Wee chocolate things a’ wrapped up in silver paper...in a wee box an’ that…wi’ snakes an’ ladders on the back, eh?

RONALD LEANS OVER TO A SACK A PULLS OUT A SMALL PRESENT WHICH HE HOLDS BEFORE THE CHILD.

RONALD
Have you been a good wee boay...or lassie? Eh...whit ur ye?

CHILD
(Annoyed)
I’m a boy!

PETULANTLY, THE CHILD GRABS THE PARCEL AND LEAPS FROM HIS KNEE.

CHILD
You’re the worst Santa, ever!...and you smell of chips!

AS THE CHILD STORMS OFF, THE MANAGER ENTERS WITH RONALD’S HAT AND COAT

MANAGER
Right, Ronald. I’ve seen enough. Merry Christmas.

HE TOSSES THE CLOTHES AT RONALD AND EXITS. RONALD TAKES OFF HIS SANTA SUIT AND PUTS ON HIS COAT AND HAT.

RONALD
That’s right enough what they say that…never work wi’ children…

RONALD GLANCES INDIGNANTLY AT THE MODEL RUDOLPH THE REINDEER WHOSE NOSE IS FLASHING, AS HE LEAVES.

…or animals!

CHEWIN' THE KBs - JACK AND VICTOR

WAITING FOR GORDON

JACK & VICTOR WAIT AT THE BOTTOM OF A BLEAK LOOKING BLOCK OF FLATS FOR THEIR MATE, GORDON, WHO WILL MAKE UP A THREESOME FOR THE BOWLS COMPETITION…

JACK
Where the hell is he? That’s quarter past. We’re gaunny be bloody late noo! He’s aye the same.

VICTOR
We’ll gie him five mair minutes then we gauny hiv tae go up for him.

JACK LOOKS UP AT THE BLOCK OF FLATS.

JACK
He’s a bloody nuisance, so he is!

VICTOR
We should’ve got auld Andy oot the sheltered housin’.

THE TWO HAPLESS FRIENDS MAKE THEIR WAY TO THE LIFTS ONLY TO FIND BOTH OF THEM OUT OF ORDER. UNFORTUNATELY GORDON LIVES ON THE TWELFTH FLOOR. WITH BOWLING BAGS IN HAND, THEY SET OFF UP THE STAIRS. SOME TIME LATER THEY ARRIVE, BREATHLESS, AT THE TWELFTH.

VICTOR
I’ll stick these bowls up his arse when ah get a haud o’ him.

JACK
Whit? Yer new bowls?

VICTOR SHAKES HIS HEAD IN DISGUST AND THE TWO MAKE THEIR WAY TO GORDON’S DOOR, WHICH IS SLIGHTLY OPEN. JACK & VICTOR ENTER.

JACK
Are you there, Gordon? It’s Jack an’ Victor. Are ye there?

THEY ENTER THE LIVING ROOM. GORDON, WITH HIS BACK TO THEM, IS SEATED IN AN ARMCHAIR FACING THE TELEVISION.

VICTOR
He’s fell asleep watching the bloody telly!

JACK
Nae wonder wi’ that keech on. That ‘Loose Women’ would put anybody tae sleep. Come on, Gordon! Gie yersel’ a shake. The bowls competition starts in hauf an’ hour.

VICTOR
He’s no’ even shaved yet. We’ll be here a’ day. Come on you!

GORDON DOES NOT STIR. THEY SHAKE HIM AGAIN.

VICTOR
Here Jack, he’s bloody freezin’!

JACK TOUCHING RADIATOR.

JACK
Nae wonder. The tight-fisted auld bastard’ll no’ run his heatin’.

VICTOR
Jack, this is no’ lookin’ good.

JACK
Aye, we’re gauny have tae forfeit the tie at this rate.

VICTOR
Naw, I mean, I think Gordon’s…deid!

JACK COMES OVER TO INSPECT HIM CLOSER, AND DOES SOME RUDIMENTARY EXAMINATION. HE TAKES A MIRROR DOWN AND HOLDS IT OVER THE OLD MAN’S NOSE & MOUTH TO CHECK FOR BREATH. HE THEN TAKES HIS BOWLING BADGE OUT OF HIS LAPEL AND STICKS IT INTO GORDON.

JACK
Jeezus Christ, so he is!

THEY BOTH INVOLUNTARILY STEP BACK FROM THE BODY.

VICTOR
We’re gauny have tae phone the polis an’ a doctor an’ a’ that.

JACK
Y’know, I don’t even know if he’s got a phone.

THEY SEARCH THE HOUSE FOR A PHONE. IN DOING SO THEY COME ACROSS HIS TEA LAID OUT ON THE KITCHEN TABLE.

JACK
His home help must’ve left a wee bit o’ tea oot for him last night tae heat up for his dinner.

JACK INVESTIGATES.

JACK
Nice pork luncheon meat wi’ mashed totties, wee bit carrot and peas. And plenty o’ it. No’ a bad wee tightener, that.

VICTOR
Oh, don’t be touching it, Jack! It might be contaminated

JACK
Och, don’t be daft you. He never even got to eat it. Anyway, [HE PICKS UP TIN THAT IT CAME FROM] it’s only three days past it’s sell by date. That’s practically brand new for pork luncheon meat.

VICTOR
Gie’s a bit then, ya greedy bugger!

THE TWO THEN MOOCH AROUND THE FLAT FINDING ITEMS THAT GORDON HAS BORROWED AT SOME TIME BUT HAS FAILED TO RETURN, INCLUDING A PRIZED BOWLING SHIELD.

JACK
Ah kept asking him for this! It was my turn to have it!

JACK ADDS THE SHIELD TO OTHER ITEMS HE AND VICTOR HAVE ACCRUED. SOON, THEY NEED TO BORROW GORDON’S WASHING BASKET TO PUT ALL THE STUFF INTO. REALISING NOW THAT THERE IS NO PHONE IN THE HOUSE THEY MAKE TO GO OUT THE DOOR WITH THEIR RECLAIMED POSSESSIONS. AS THEY DO, A NEIGHBOUR AND TWO POLICEMEN ENTER AND CATCH THEM ‘RED-HANDED’. THEY TRY TO EXPLAIN THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES, THAT THEY FOUND GORDON ‘BROON BREID’ WHEN THEY ENTERED, BUT THE POLICEMEN DECIDE TO TAKE THEM DOWN TO THE STATION FOR QUESTIONING. PROTESTATIONS THAT THE BOWLS MATCH STARTS IN TWENTY MINUTES FALLS ON DEAF EARS.

DOWN AT THE POLICE STATION THEY ARE FORCED TO WAIT ALONGSIDE A HARDENED CRIMINAL. HE LAUGHS OFF THEIR TALE OF INNOCENCE, AND CHASTISES THEM FOR COMMITTING CRIMES AT THEIR AGE. IN TIME, THEY ARE INTERVIEWED AND DULY RELEASED WITHOUT CHARGE, THOUGH THE WASHING BASKET FULL OF THEIR POSSESSION IS RETAINED. WITH THE BOWLS MATCH MISSED, AND WELL OUT OF THEIR WAY, THEY MAKE FOR HOME, REFLECTING ON LIFE AS THEY DO SO.

JACK
Poor Gordon, eh? Y’see that’s what happens when you live alone at oor age. Ye never know when the auld grim reaper’s gawnny call. One minute pork luncheon meat, the next…dead meat.

VICTOR SHIVERS AT THE PROSPECT.

VICTOR
It’s a bugger bein’ on yer Jack Jones, eh?

JACK
Aye.

VICTOR
Still, at least when you’re on your own, you’ve got yer privacy, eh?. I mean ye’ve no’ got emdy in yer hoose, rakin’ aboot a’ yer stuff.

JACK PULLS OUT THE BOWLING SHIELD FROM INSIDE HIS JACKET AND ADMIRES IT.

JACK [WINKS] Aye, there is that.

THE BACKPACKER - DAY 1

Base Camp, Somewhere in Northern Thailand

I’m really excited about this jungle trek. It’s a completely new experience for me. I’ve always liked walking. Nearly every lunchtime I go for a walk in Hyde Park - so it seems a natural choice for me to go on this jungle adventure holiday.

There’s six in our party - that includes me. We met up for the first time last night for drinks and introductions in a little wooden shack they call a hotel. My fellow travellers seem like a friendly bunch. There are two girls in the group – Maria from Stockholm (who’s a bit of a looker) and Morag from Dundee (who’s not). The three other guys are Matt from Kent, Phil from Cambridge, and Thijs ( I think it might be pronounced ‘Teesh’ – either that or he sneezed when he introduced himself) and he’s from Eindhoven. Everyone can speak English – well, apart from Morag – so that will help. Our two guides are rather amusingly called Hy and Lo - and wait for it – they come from a village called Phuk Me. Honest, that's what they told me.

Everyone drank beer at the get-together last night except me – I didn’t want to get too bagged up the night before we set off. The bottle of wine I was drinking - which I’d bought at a nearby general store - tasted awful, but I managed to drink three glasses of it. It was only after I started vomiting and had temporary blindness that one of the guides laughingly told me in his pidgin English that it was bleach. Still, in some ways I think my retching may have helped the group to bond quicker.

It’s been a three hour journey in a rickety old army truck to get us to our starting point proper. All the while the undergrowth has got denser and more luxuriant, and the air has got hotter and more humid. I wish I had brought looser fitting underpants.

We’re going to have to cover about 15-20km per day to complete our round trip in the allocated eight days – so that should be quite a challenge - especially as we have to carry all our supplies with us - and we have to cut a path through the jungle. Everyone's rucksack looks better than mine. I should have bought a new one instead of borrowing Dave from the office's. The Isle of Wight Festival badge on it should have been the giveaway.

Before we depart, Hy gathers us round and he says a Buddhist prayer for eternal good luck. But no sooner had we set off, and Lo cut the first frond off a giant fern to begin a path for us, than the heavens open up and we are deluged by an equatorial rainstorm.

We've had to abandon our plans for the day as it is still bucketing down and nightfall is coming. We are currently huddled together in the back of the truck listening to Thijs playing U2 songs on his mouth organ. Lo says he will say the prayer tomorrow.

THE BACKPACKER - DAY 2

Camp 1, Somewhere in Northern Thailand

The day started off badly. I swatted a large creepy-crawly off Thijs’s head but knocked him unconscious in the process. It was compounded by the fact he was still sleeping when I did it. It was still dark inside the truck, and purely by reflex, I attacked the insect by using a wheel brace that just happened to be beside me. I feel terrible about the incident – as indeed, does Thijs. It turns out we have an excellent first aid kit with us.

It was mid-morning before we managed to set off. The ground is very muddy underfoot and no doubt it is going to slow us up considerably. Morag is nearest to me and chats incessantly – fortunately, for the most part, I can’t understand her. For some strange reason she keeps referring to me as ‘Ken’. We trek for almost two hours before stopping. With the exception of our guides, we are completely knackered – especially Thijs – although this may be concussion. We have a cup of tea and some food and take a well-earned rest. I say food, it was chapattis filled with a curried ‘meat’. Maria is a vegetarian so she has a tin of peaches. I think I will be a vegetarian until I get home.

Matt and Phil have a light-hearted (I think) argument about football. Matt’s a Chelsea supporter and Phil supports Cambridge United. Maria listens to her Ipod with her eyes closed and Thijs is reading a book called the ‘Nostradamus & the Extra-Terrestrial Code of the Holy Grail’. Morag is comparing hunting knives with Hy and Lo.

Not wishing to end up with trench foot, I took off my boots and socks to dry my feet a bit, only to find I had left my towel back at the hotel. I had to use my Radiohead t-shirt to do the drying – Hail to the Thief! After an hour’s rest we set off again. We seem to be going uphill although it’s hard to tell looking at Maria – she’s a really fit girl (I must ask her if she is single).

There are some beautiful and interesting plants here but I’m told most of them are variously poisonous, carnivorous, or disintegrate when you touch them. I’ve taken quite a few photos of one that apparently only blooms for one day each year – what timing – it was beautiful, too.

Hy and Lo’s smoking is getting a bit annoying. They smoke unfiltered triple-strength Chinese cigarettes, constantly. Granted the smoke keeps a lot of the insects at bay, but cancer through passive smoking is too high a price to pay in my books. Although no one else seems to be bothered about it, I’m going to have a word with them tomorrow.

Disaster strikes. It looks like I’m the first one who needs to go to the loo. It was those bloody chapattis. I made my excuses and wandered slightly off route to undertake the necessary. As I squatted down, I noticed a little alien body attached to my privates. I let out such a high-pitched scream I even surprised myself. Lo came running and found me distraught. When I showed him the cause, he burst out laughing and then burnt off what turned out to be a leech, from my testicles. I’m sure the sound of his laughter (and Hy’s, who he just naturally had to tell immediately) will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I felt compelled to tell everyone at the campfire that night, and the ones that were listening were quite sympathetic – except Morag. She asked “Did ye shit yersel’ afore or efter ye came across the wee leach on yer heehaws?” Ha, bloody, ha, monkeywoman.

It’s our first night under canvas. The tents we have are easy to erect and hold two comfortably. Tonight I’m sharing with Phil. We put up our tube-framed hammocks, jump in, then pull over our mosquito nets. We’re both so tired after the first part of the trek, we crash out without much conversation. Looking forward to hopefully a good night’s sleep as tomorrow’s trek is up a mountain.

THE BACKPACKER - DAY 3

Camp 2, approx 20km from Camp 1, Somewhere in Northern Thailand

I hardly got a wink of sleep last night due to Phil grinding his teeth. In desperation I put a stick of Wrigley’s gum in between his teeth - but this only induced a coughing fit that lasted twenty minutes, before he reverted back to type and started grinding his teeth again. I ended up plugging in my Ipod as a distraction and fell asleep listening to The Strokes. I think I’ve got tinnitus now.

Breakfast is coffee and a couple of health food bars – you know the ones: full of nuts and seeds and obscure dried fruit. They’re quite tasty, actually. I have two and three mugs of coffee with sugar. I don’t normally take sugar but after last night’s sleepless nightmare I need the energy. I am a bit pissed with Phil, as he looks the picture of health and I feel like Stephen Hawkings sickly brother.

In no time at all the camp is dismantled and we are on our way. I think the sheer effort of carrying a heavy rucksack in such heat precludes anyone from too much conversation – either that or this is introvert city.

On the journey I approach Hy and state my views re: the excessive smoking. He merely grins and thrusts a pack of cigarettes into my hand and points to my groin. It’s safe to say my point has completely gone over his small head.

The walk uphill is slippery and arduous. Although it is extremely warm I have no idea why my bum, in particular, is getting fiercely hot. I leave it for another twenty minutes or so before I can take no more and am forced to approach one of the guides. Once again I have to endure a hideously embarrassing situation and show Hy my bottom – who in turn fails to recognise my anguish by cheerfully calling over Lo to have a look. Fighting back tears of laughter, they tell me in their horrible broken English, that my bottom must have touched the leaf of a poisonous plant when doing pooey-pooey. As I recall, I did use some leaves as toilet paper. Lo gave me some horrible smelly, yellow jelly to apply that gave me instant relief – though I did have to endure the indignity of it staining my khaki shorts bright orange in the offending area.

The strange high-pitched hissing noise as we walked along turned out to be Thijs breathing. Unbeknownst to him, Matt had hooked the not inconsiderable weight of his own tent and sleeping bag onto the back of Thijs' rucksack. It’s quite literally a super wheeze – but I shall have to watch Matt.

At one stage I thought I might get through the day without making a social faux pas – but no. During the last stage of the day’s trek, the lovely Maria was in front of me, just wearing a vest. I couldn’t help but notice a large leech on her back and thought it was only decent to get rid of it. Although I’m a non-smoker, I quickly lit up one of the cigarettes Hy gave me and stubbed it out on the little bugger. Maria’s scream could be heard in the neighbouring country. It transpired the ‘leech’ was a mole i.e. a skin blemish. If ever someone misjudged a situation. The poor girl didn’t stop shaking the whole night – despite having the yellow jelly smeared several times over her wound. I suspect I am persona non grata with her now – or the Swedish equivalent. I’ll try and make it up to her tomorrow.

Jack the Lad, Matt, managed to remove his tent and sleeping bag just before Thijs collapsed with exhaustion. I’m sharing with him (Matt) tonight so I’ll have to sleep with one eye open. But Jeez, I’m tired.

THE BACKPACKER - DAY 4

Camp 3, approx 18km from Camp 2, Somewhere in Northern Thailand

I feel justified in my lack of trust of Matt. He knew I was dog-tired last night. He saw me crash out fully-clothed into my hammock and he didn’t pull the mosquito net over me. Thanks to him I now have a face like a pizza. “ I thought you was gonna get up again.” Yeah, right. I head for the yellow jelly.

Over breakfast, Maria gives me a pained smile. Morag does nothing to endear herself to me “Hey youse, ye ken who this is, dain't ye? It’s the elephant man!” she brays. One presumes she is alluding to my mozzy bites. Matt and Phil smirk in tandem. Thijs acknowledges my state benignly - as befits a man of his intellect (or continuing concussion).

It's four days into the trek now and I am beginning to feel an antipathy towards certain members of the group. I have already identified those who must be traded to save the remainders' lives should we be attacked by cannibals and the proposal put to us.

The day’s trek goes well. We make good progress. The vegetation starts to thin out and the ground underfoot becomes easier to negotiate. As a result, the group’s spirits are high and we start singing together as we walk. Strangely, it is Thijs who leads off the community singing, with – not surprisingly – a U2 song: Angel of Harlem. Morag – not surprisingly – does a Proclaimers song: 500 Miles – which I must confess she was excellent at - mainly because she looks like them. Phil sings Reach for the Stars by S-Club 7 and rather disturbingly performs the accompanying dance routine. Maria – not surprisingly – sang an ABBA song: Thank You for the Music, which went down well in an unimaginative way. I gave my all singing the old Frank Sinatra standard: New York, New York. I was wonderful. There was a real sense of togetherness. It took Matt to kill the mood by singing Blue is the Colour – apparently some Chelsea supporters song. You can understand why people on the continent think we are divs.

I got chatting to Phil. He’s a tall, rangey kind of bloke with a shaven head. For the first time I notice he has a facial tic. It looks like he’s about to break into a smile every couple of minutes or so and then doesn’t. It’s quite disconcerting because you’ve got to stop yourself from joining in. Anyway, we were having this conversation and quite out of the blue he tells me he’s bisexual. And we were talking about motors up till then. Where do you go from there? I just cleared my throat, said that was nice, then started to take some photographs of the scenery.

After lunch of crackers, chickpea paste and chocolate, we reach the top of the mountain and find that it is actually a huge plateau. Then we take in the view beneath us. It is quite unbelievable – principally due to the fact that we are nowhere near as high up as we thought we were. In fact, it’s not a mountain we’ve been climbing – it’s just a hill. Hy and Lo open a bottle of some weird champagne-like stuff to celebrate as if we have just climbed Annapurna. I can’t buy in to the celebration and sit down and sulk at the contrivance. As I look around I’m delighted to find that the rest of the group are equally bemused. Morag comes and sits down beside me “Fuckin’ keech, eh? Ken, ma street’s oan a bigger hill than this.” I barely understand her but I recognise the sentiment.

Hy and Lo’s mock celebrations are cut short by the sound of a wild animal's roar coming from the nearby undergrowth. They bark at us to get behind them as they reach for their rifles, which for some strange reason I take cognizance of for the first time. As we huddle behind them, the roar goes up again. "Tiger! Tiger!" Lo shouts. We all duck down – well known avoidance tactics when dealing with fierce wild animals i.e. if you don’t look at it, it won’t see you. Not. Hy and Lo fire off a couple of shots in the direction of the roar. We all stand up then there’s another roar and we all squat down again. Then, quite unbelievably, Matt parts from the group and charges into the undergrowth towards the sound. Seconds later he appears and we spontaneously laugh and cheer his return – even Hy and Lo. Morag articulates our individual thoughts perfectly “Yer a mad bastard, Matt!” Matt takes the acclaim then utters “Well, you can’t be too frightened of a mobile phone!” he says gleefully holding one aloft and pressing it so we can hear the ringtone of a 'tiger roar'. “Har! Har! Har! You should ‘ave seen your faces” he says, grinning. The prank just didn’t translate to Hy and he raises his rifle towards Matt’s head. Only the timely intervention of Lo, with presumably some Thai advice on anger management, allows Matt more time on the planet. Thijs approaches Matt “No more tricks Matt or I shall have to kill you.” he says rather matter-of-factly. The atmosphere is decidedly icy. As if to dissipate it, Maria gives us all a hug and says we should move on before it gets dark.

We walk on silently, each reflecting on the serious turn of events of the day. However the silence is soon broken by the sound of farting, then ten seconds later more farting, and then again. Without speaking, Matt holds his mobile phone aloft. I can see his shoulders shake with merriment. Roll on nightfall.

THE BACKPACKER - DAY 5

Camp 4, approx 20km from Camp 3, Somewhere in Northern Thailand

It was a strange old night. I shared a tent with Thijs for the first time. He’s quite an enigmatic chap really. I am beginning to think he might be a spy or an assassin – and not the interior designer he claims to be. Certainly last night, the way he said he would kill Matt, didn’t sound like the words of a man devoted to spatial awareness. Anyway I made sure I apologised again for bludgeoning him with the wheel brace. We had a chat about everyone in the group. What a revelation he was! I was amazed at how much information he had gleaned about everyone. I mean, I had hardly even seen him speak. For instance, he knew Phil was a graphic designer and bisexual and that he’d left his wife for a double glazing salesman from Ely. I quipped that must have been a real pane for her - but it was lost on Thijs. “Yes, much pain”, he responded. He also knew that the gorgeous Maria worked in the University of Stockholm and that she was here to get over the untimely death of her long-time boyfriend. (Excellent news – she’s single). He knew that Morag owns a pet grooming business and wants to get travel out of her system before she settles down – Gawd help whoever with. I feel she should have saved her money for plastic surgery and elocution lessons. He knew that Matt is an estate agent – which is not a surprise. But then again, who would buy from him? His mum? A blind deaf masochist? The mere thought of having to endure his cheeky chappie sales pitch makes my stomach feel queasy.

Now call it an alternative take on conversational etiquette - or call it continental differences - but I was right in the middle of explaining the nuances of being a product specialist in a telecommunications company, when Thijs turns over and goes to sleep. What's that about? For badness, I jabber on inanely for the next twenty minutes or so. I would have talked for longer but I heard a couple of loud shushes from outside the tent. I shut up and go to sleep.

The next morning as we packed up after breakfast, I saw some weird looking prints beside the tent. I called Hy over and he tells the group that they were made by a giant lizard (probably a ‘monit-ur luzzard’ says Morag)
"That’s all I need - a giant reptile that doesn’t like the sound of my voice", I jest to the group.
Matt kidnaps my joke. “I work beside one of those”, he quips.
“A monitor lizard?” asks an amazed Maria
“Na-ah! A giant reptile that doesn’t like the sound of my voice”, grins Matt.
“In your office? In London?”, Maria continues.
“Yeah!!! It’s my boss – he’s the giant reptile that doesn’t like the sound of my voice! Ha!”, states Matt, now with a weak smile.
“And he has this reptile in his office?”, asks Thijs.
“Oh, fuck off!” snaps an exasperated Matt, and he storms off, leaving Maria and Thijs looking at each other, blankly.
It was wonderful to watch his attempt at a joke crumble under the pressure of a logic that would make Mister Spock seem like Ken Dodd.

The day’s trek up until mid-afternoon was fairly uneventful. The heat, humidity, mosquitoes, and muddy ground underfoot, for some reason, had become more tolerable. It wasn’t until Morag fell down a hole – some kind of animal trap, actually – that things started to go awry. Fortunately(?) she was unhurt, but since the pit was about eight feet deep, it was a bit of a logistical nightmare trying to get her out. Initially, Hy held his (unloaded) rifle out for Morag to get hold of, but when she started to pull herself up, the barrel sheared off. I don’t know who uttered the most profanities, Hy or Morag. However, it was Morag’s temper that made her propel the sheared barrel out of the pit with such a force, that when it hit Thijs on the temple, he fell like a sack of yams. Phil made for the first aid kit, whilst Matt consoled(?) Maria, who for some reason started to go a bit jittery. Lo then shouted abuse at Hy for apparently either stealing the rope, not packing it, or both. Hy then went to a tree and macheted off a large branch to use as a rescue pole, whilst Lo scrambled into the pit to comfort and console the cursing Morag. Matt was strangely subdued - and being a prize tit, fabulously superfluous. In true war photographer fashion, I detached myself from the chaos and clicked away on my fabby digital camera, recording history – or possible litigation. Amidst the confusion, Maria called me over to help Phil support Thijs, as he hobbled over to an open area where he could lie more comfortably. Unbelievably, I handed over my camera to Matt to look after. In the short space of time it took me to get Thijs moved 10 metres or so and walk back, the twat had deleted all the photos on the disc – probably about eighty of them. What compounded it all, was I was actually thinking of changing the memory card in it this morning. Rare plants and flowers – one that apparently only blooms for a day, endangered wildlife, stunning scenery, special moments of the group, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Gone. Forever.

“I just wanted to ‘ave a gander at yer photos. I must ‘ave pressed the wrong button. I'm gutted , bro’ “ he uttered, by dint of an apology.

I wanted to kill him. Really. And throw him in that pit.

In my desolation, I failed to notice that Hy and Lo had successfully extricated Morag from her trap. My spirits were not even lifted by the sight of her covered in mud and rotting vegetation, and spitting out animal droppings.
“See if ah fun’ who fuckin’ put that therr, ah’ll fuckin’ malky thaim, so ah wull”, she ranted in broad Dundee-ese (or somesuch).

It was agreed we should set up camp soonest and just chill out. Where Thijs lay prostrate seemed the obvious place. Lo went off into the bushes and came back half an hour later with a small (dead) wild pig draped around his neck. Soon the smell of the best organic bacon you have ever tasted filled the air. Even Maria succumbed and guiltily ate some – comfort food, I suspect. Great as it was, I wish I could have enjoyed the food better but my mind was on the lost photos.

I share with Phil tonight and fortunately for Matt he shares with Thijs. I’m too annoyed to write any more.

THE BACKPACKER - DAY 6

Camp 5, approx 12-16km from Camp 4, Somewhere in Northern Thailand

Fortunately last night finished uneventfully. I swapped Ipods with Phil and listened to his life in music: ambient, acoustic, thrash metal and country & western. It was as eclectic a taste as you could get – jeez, if ever there was a cry for help. I dozed off wondering how much his therapist charges.

In the morning I woke to the sound of commotion. Bleary-eyed, I spilled out of the tent. Thijs had Matt in a headlock with Phil and Morag trying to pull them apart. It seemed that whilst moving about inside the tent Matt had ‘inadvertently’ banged against Thijs’s already tender head. For Thijs this had been the tipping point that was now encouraging him to squeeze the life force out of Matt. Unfortunately he released his grip.
“You nutter!” spat Matt., “I could ‘ave ‘ad you! I’m a Chelsea ‘ead’unter! The Firm, mate! The Firm!
“Please, no more fighting!” says an exasperated Maria, “Be good. Shake hands. We are all in this together.”
Those beautifully intoned (if somewhat stilted) comments seemed to do the trick.
“Right. Let’s aw gee each ither a hug” utters the articulate one.
Although I took the gesture to be a fairly token one, I must admit I was looking forward to hugging Maria. But before I know it, Phil has himself draped around me and is sobbing into my neck. Worse still, his nose is running.
“Whoa, Phil. What’s wrong?” I enquire with maximum heterosexual concern. Maria goes to him and hugs him affectionately for at least two minutes.
“I miss him , guys. I miss him so much” he sniffs.
“Michael, huh?” empathises Thijs (how on earth does Thijs the Trappist monk get to know so much?)
“Yeah. Look I’m sorry folks. Just ignore me. I’m feeling a bit lonely right now.”
“Fuck me!!” says Matt, exaggeratedly.
The emotionally stable members of the group turn and stare at him, increduously.
“Hey, it wasn’t an invite!. It’s just that those geezers Hy and Lo appear to ‘ave disappeared.

Sure enough, our stoic little Thailanders had indeed effed off. A search of the camp only produces a map – wrapped in a bright red protective plastic covering and suspiciously located under a sole rock in the middle of the camp. It is the first time we have clapped eyes on a map of any description. Cripes! What a spiffing adventure this is going to be now. All we need now is some sticky buns and lashings of lemonade. So this must be the part where we are left to our own devices and have to fend for ourselves. Can we make it to the next camp? Who will be the natural leader? What will we find out about ourselves…I mean, as people? Yeah, right. It’s another embarrassingly contrived situation.

We have an emergency group meeting, during which we discover, according to the map, we have only trekked about fifty-eight clicks, instead of the anticipated seventy kilometres. I check my pedometer that I bought as a special offer with Kelloggs Bran Flakes – two hundred and fifty-two kilometres! Even with my distressed padding about the camp I couldn’t have walked an extra hundred and ninety-odd kilometres. When I get home I’ll demand my £5.99 back. Anyway we agree to miss out Camp 6 and head straight for Camp 7 since they look equidistant from Camp 5. In a rather childish show of hands, Thijs is voted to lead our intrepid group of explorers, with Phil bringing up the rear (so to speak). We stumble across a path of sorts, and without too much effort, make our way through the vegetation.

Sneakily, I have positioned myself behind Maria. After staring at her bum for forty minutes of the trek I break out of my fantasy and begin to look at other parts of her. Disturbingly. several ‘flaws’ begin to manifest themselves,viz: her hair colour may not be natural; her ankles are quite chunky; she has quite long, hairy arms (albeit blonde hairs); oh, and she has multiple ear piercings. I only wish I wasn’t so good looking and these things didn’t matter. I have a quick look back at Morag, who is picking something out of her teeth with a hunting knife, and things are once again put in perspective. Thank heavens for ugly women.

To be honest, as each day passes the trek has become less and less enjoyable. It is almost dark when we get to what we reckon is the proposed site for Camp 7. For his sterling work as guide, Thijs gets a pat on the back from most of us and foolishly a rub on the head from Matt, who seeing him wince in pain, immediately protests his innocence.

In theory, tonight is the second last night, but if the map is to be believed we still have another 36km to endure over the next two days. Given the distance we have covered so far that would be a big ask. To think I knocked back the opportunity of a cycling holiday in East Anglia.

We are now old hands at setting up the tents and getting the night fire lit. Not surprisingly, the topic of conversation after eats is the disappearance of Hy and Lo. The general consensus is that it’s all part of the package and travelling on our own is a hoot. I’m not with them on that one. Then Morag, the laterally-shaped lateral thinker intones that “It’s easy tae fun(?) oot the score(?)” and she proposes that Matt, the sole mobile phone possessor, should phone the trek organisers for information. It’s a eureka moment that is only eclipsed by Matt’s subsequent announcement, after rumbling about in his backpack, that he can’t find his mobile…or his Ipod…or his money…or his passport. With complete disregard for his circumstances, we immediately check our own backpacks. It’s a similar tale for us all. Even my top of the range digital camera with no photos in it...gone. The thieving little bastards! Morag ensures the group that if she catches them she’ll turn them into full-blown lady-boys.

Deflated, we review the situation and agree that it would be better to get a good night’s sleep before tackling our new-found dilemma.

THE BACKPACKER - DAY 7

Camp 7, approx 18km? from Camp 5, Somewhere in Northern Thailand

Coo-coo-uh! Coo-coo-uh! Ah, the velvety tones of the wood pigeon. It’s a beautiful summer’s morning. Morning Mood from the Greig’s Peer Gynt suite now gently permeates my ears and the smell of sizzling bacon starts to fill the air invitingly. I reach out for the bacon sandwich proffered lovingly by my nan. Wait a minute! My nan’s been dead for ten years! Aaargh! A dream!

“Up ye get, mate!” It’s Matt’s dulcet tones. Woe, woe and thrice woe.
“Apparently we’re gonna kick on in about an hour.” he informs me.

I drag myself up, rub my eyes, and focus on the real world. Matt’s ugly mush fills my vista. His face looks half-finished. Has the man no redeeming features?

“There’s a brew up outside if you want some. Café Matte. Geddit?”

He disappears out the tent flap and I flop back down. I think I’m cracking. This promised to be the holiday of a lifetime in a positive, life enhancing way and now it’s the fucking unexpurgated version of Dante’s Inferno. I actually catch myself saying the word ‘sigh’ as I get up (again). Before you can say ‘damp stinking clothes’, I’m dressed and out among my fellow campers.

“Ooh-yah! Bliddy good coffee, Matt!” says Morag, navvy-style.
“Just what I need, man.” says Phil, slurping his dregs, before re-filling.

Being Scandinavian types, Maria and Thijs eat some kind of chipboard crackers washed down with sensible water. I pour some coffee into a mug and sit down amongst them. The coffee is like tar only not as nice tasting. Diligent as ever, Thijs has been studying the map. He reckons it will take us eight hours good yomp to get to the finish line, where we can demand our money back, hang Hy and Lo, and scrub the smell of damp and decay out of our skins. Any order will do.

We gather our things and set off. The first hour or so was, by previous experience, fairly uneventful. Light jungle, boggy under foot, a damp pervasive heat, and lots of weird noises. We were making disturbingly excellent progress, principally due to Morag’s lead. She was almost walking as fast as she was talking. Maria asks her to slow down as Phil appears to lagging behind. We look round and see Phil, without his pack, pulling a face with his two front teeth prominent and 2 upright fingers of each hand at either side of his head. It was instantly recognisable as a man impersonating a rabbit. At first we thought it was a joke and made light of it. But when he just stared back at us impassively, twitched his nose, then hopped into the dense undergrowth, our collective hearts sank. I ran after him, leaving Matt with Maria and Morag, who by now appeared to be speaking in tongues.
Praying that he hadn’t dug a burrow, we searched and shouted for an eternity (= 10 mins). It was just by chance that I looked up at a tree branch, only to see Phil perched on it…naked. I called Thijs over. From the permanently pained expression on his face, I can see that even he is within a day or so of the loony bin. Surprisingly it only takes the promise of some millet spray and a cuttle fish to get Phil out of the tree. We dress him and then trudge silently back to the others like shellshocked Nam veterans back from another mission. Phil gets hugged and we sit down to take stock. Suddenly a lightbulb explodes in Maria’s head.
“The coffee!! Could it have been the coffee?”
“Mat what did you do to the coffee” asks Thijs sternly.
“Nuffink. I only made it super strength because I thought we all need a little caffeine lift to ring us all back up.”
“And nothing else” enquires Maria.
“Nah!”
“Are you sure?” Me, Thijs and Maria, all ask as one voice.
“Course I am fucking sure! I even cleaned out the pot and dried it with a lea……. “
“With what Matt?” Thijs enquires somewhat darkly.
“A leaf….just a leaf… to get the dregs out of the bottom.”
Maria does her CSI.
“That’s it. The chemicals off the leaf must have re-acted with the caffeine in the coffee.”
“And with my anti-depressants” says a recovering Phill in a monotone voice.
“Nay wonder Ah felt ah wiz goin’ fuckin’ raj!” No one has a clue what the man-woman means. You know Morag could be a Martian – the language, the looks, the gait.

We rest. We gird our loins. We move on. Only seven or so hours till camp. Spiffing! Matt’s stupidity aside, once again nature has picked at our collective scab. It is really just down to endurance now. Can we make it to the end vivo intacto?

THE BACKPACKER - DAY 8

The journey home, Somewhere in Northern Thailand

It was the longest journey ever last night. We walked until we more or less dropped. The primal will to get to the end and get home drove us on. Now expert in setting up camp, the time between finding a suitable spot to climbing into our sleeping bags was minimal. Little was said. I think we all wanted to be in our own heads. We knew the next day was (hopefully) our last and the day of the big push.

“Rise and shine ya lazy bastards! Let’s get tore in! Come on youse!”
The fog horn that is Morag ripped me from my slumber. For sure I will miss her – as one would miss a painful sexually transmitted disease. Maria has made the coffee. Matt grins sheepishly at it. Unthreatened, because she has made it, I take some. It tastes like nectar. We sit round the fire smiling. Today’s the day. Thijs shows us our route to Nirvana on the map. Phil gets up, his hair is growing in. Jeez, it looks white!
“Guys will you mind all holding hands, please?” he asks.
Everyone complies. Then he says “God, thank you for getting us to this day. Please see us safe to the end. Amen.”
Err…right Phil. The Almighty has been on top form so far.

“Lets do it!” says Maria, a fleeting perviness, and then I realise that she is addressing everyone and she means commencing the walk. 20 km – maybe less. We pack up and go. About 10 km into the walk we see another human being! A native chap (hark at me, all colonial) in a wide brimmed hat, sitting on a cart pulled by an ox. I say ox but I don’t really know what it is. It’s not a horse though – unless it is made of playdough. The man grins at us and waves. I recognise that benign grin.
“You knobbers” it says, “ You’ve been had!”
We wave back.
“Chungat Li!” shouts Thijs, pointing in one direction.
“Chungat Li” responds the native, pointing in a direction of about 90 degrees difference.
"Chungat Li!?” says a surprised Thijs with a corrected point.
“Chungat Li” smiles the chap, maintaining his point.
This is where we find out that Chungat Li actually means ‘deathtrap’ and not the town that was our starting point. However, no-one is in any mood to be put off by premature loss of life and we crack on in the new direction to Chungat Li. The scrub gets thicker but the semblance of a track is there. Very slightly disconcerting is the fact that it looks as if it is leading us into a jungle. But hey ho! we have a new found confidence. As Jefferson Airplane were wont to carouse when they reincarnated as Jefferson Starship, ‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now!’

Morag, who is leading our merry band, goes out her way to stand on a snake with her tackety boots. Who knows if it was poisonous: an endangered species; or the buddhist re-incarnation of Princess Diana, it’s fucking dead now. And we all cheer. Even Thijs and Maria. Yes, the jungle does strange things to you. But wait, now the jungle has a definite path. That’s good! And the more we walk into it the more paths we see joining it - and the more defined it becomes. We decide to take a break in a clearing adjacent to the junction of our main path with three (yep, count them) smaller paths.

We’re high on the scent of freedom. Demob giggly. All friends in adversity. Blood brothers and sisters. It does feel good. My, how I love these short sentences.

Refreshed and re-charged, we’re off. This is it – the last leg. Out of the blue Thijs starts to sing ‘Hi-ho, Hi-ho, it’s off to home we go’. Gleefully, we all join in. Matt embellishes with descant, bird noises, burps and farts.

Unbelievably, the path has transformed itself into monobloc with a coping stone edge! About 100 metres ahead there’s a metal archway with flowers woven through it. Inexplicably, we all break into a run and rush towards it. We burst through the arch together.

“Aaargh!” A man and a woman scream, as they leap out of a hammock. We appear to be in the garden of someone’s apartment.
“Please ! Please!” they beg, “We have no money!”
“Calm doon! Calm doon! Neither hiv we!” barks Morag, indifferent to their alarm.
“We are just backpackers completing our journey. Can you tell us where we are?” quoth I.
“You scared us, guys!” says the bloke (Australian)
“You are in the Jungle Dream Apartments” says his Sheila (for she is Australian, too).
“Is this Chungat Li? asks Thijs, still perplexed at his map-reading skill going horribly awry.
“Close enough. It’s about five clicks away. You can get the courtesy bus into it. You guys okay? Oz boy sees us as the deranged beings we have become.
“ Are you lost or something?” enquires Oz girl nervously.
“Nope! We’re home…or getting there.” I state imperiously.
“We are sorry to burst in on you.” says Thijs, gathering himself from his outburst of normality.
“No worries. We just got a bit spooked. Look, there’s a bus leaves about now if you’re interested” says the bloke – obviously keen to get shot of us (and who wouldn’t be?).

We follow his directions, apologise again, and commandeer the minibus into Chungat Li.
It’s a short, weird journey. Ever closer to the end, I reflect on how I have bonded with this strange disparate bunch of people – but only through common trauma I think.

The bus stops outside Thai Adventure Treks (yes, TAT) and we spew out. What took place next is a story of its own but suffice to say Morag drew her hunting knife and threatened the staff with it, Thijs (mistakenly) got hit on the head again by a Thai policeman and was hospitalised, Matt disappeared, Phil broke down again and got comforted by Maria (I know he’s an emotional wreck but I can’t help feel he’s actually winning her affection by it. What a bastard). And me? I’m going to write a strongly worded letter of complaint. Well, quite frankly I thought to escape back home with my life and, albeit a very small amount, of my dignity intact, was a bonus.

Sure I’ll miss them all. I’ll keep in touch. Maybe. Who am I kidding?

I take my seat on the Airbus home. In 16 or so hours I’ll be back in my flat in Blighty. Joy. There’s two spare seats next to me so I hope that no one comes and I’ll be able to stretch out and start the much-needed recuperation process.
I’m dog-tired and can feel my eyes closing ever...so... s-l-o-w-l-y.
“Wotcha, mate!”
Matt sits down breezily, beside me.
Shit! This is like Lost! I did die.