A great drip of sumptuous brown mud rolled down the tip of her beautifully carved nose before hanging on the tip like a swollen apple ready to drop. I gazed deep into her dazzling blue eyes and she back into mine and we knew, right there and then that something sensational was about to erupt between us. There would be fireworks, of that there was no doubt, and as her breast heaved with excitement and I felt a stirring in my loins, we leapt at each other once more. Her strength was greater than mine, but I was more lithe, and we grappled and grabbed at each other like wild beasts. This is the tale of how I met Julie Andrews at a mud wrestling contest in the grounds of Buckingham Palace in the late seventies. I, a mere stripling at seventeen; her a buxom and ravishing vision of womanhood. Who knew that our lives would be so suddenly changed? Long we wrestled that day, before spending many a night cavorting throughout the taverns and brothels of Westminster, money being less than a thought in our pursuit of debauchery. Every night we shared a new experience, be it go-karting in our underwear or dolphin surfing down the River Fleet. The lamp-lit darkness was ours and the days were spent sleeping, cradled exhausted in one another's arms, the sweat of our rambunctiousness steaming off us, mingling into a miasma of lust and unbridled passion.

It was with great regret then that I had to bid her farewell on that frosty August evening in May, a single tear rolling down her perfect cheek as I stood upon the platform in Ouagadougou station. As the coal scented steam drifted between us and the train rolled away with a gentle lurch, she looked down at her feet in sorrow. We would never see each other again, but I would forever remember the tantalizing scent of her shoelaces and the uproarious guffaw of her hearty laugh. Hanging out of the carriage door I watched her receding into obscurity until she was no more than a dot on the horizon. Our time was over, yet our passion would live on throughout the centuries.

Knowing that I must move on, I receded into the train which would bear me henceforth unto Managua, Nicaragua. I had taken it upon myself to find enlightenment, which I was assured was to be found atop a great mountain, for it is in such places where the heart is free and the mind may wander unconstrained. The journey itself took two interminable hours during which I thought of nothing but my dear Julie. In fact, truth be told, that is a lie. I also thought of my trousers and dear Genghis Khan who had won them from me in that game long ago. I wondered where he was and whether he still wore my Levi 501s. Perhaps I would find insight upon this journey as I had not on any journey before. There grew within me a foreboding of something momentous and, before long, I was eager to reach my destination. When we arrived, I stepped down onto the brown earth and lifted my eyes up to the sky. A great torrent of rain lashed down from the clouds but I cared not for this dowsing. My life was about to change once again, and I set off through the bustling markets and down the scent filled alleyways. It was at this point that a small monkey, riding a dog, began to follow me. He was black of face and golden furred, with eyes that bore into me like the augers of a wheelwright. I tried to evade him by slipping in and out of market stalls, changing my attire several times and rubbing horse faces over myself in order to disguise my scent, but he could not be foxed. Clearly I was pitted against an adversary of cunning mind who could not be fooled by mere sleight of hand.

Realising that I could not shake my tail, I decided to press on regardless. I purchased a walking stick from a cheese vendor on a street corner and began to pick my way through the streets towards the mountains, the monkey-dog combination always in tow some twenty-or-so yards behind. It took some hours to escape the confines of the city, but eventually I found myself staring upwards at the green slopes, the summit of the mountain wreathed in cloud. Dense forest carpeted the land before me and it wasn't long before I was wishing I'd brought my Swiss Army knife. Undeterred though, I continued my struggle. Branches and vines lashed at my face and often I was beset by spiders, scorpions and all manner of unknown creatures. So thick and unforgiving was this web-like foliage that you can imagine my surprise when, after hacking through some of the thickest, most knife-resistant boughs I had yet encountered, I came upon Elvis Costello, naked as the day he was born, swinging through the trees before a pack of adoring kangaroos. Back and forth he swooshed, wheeling and arcing through the air like an angry tiger on hot coals, with many an 'ooh' and 'ahh' from the adoring marsupials. Just as I thought the scene couldn't get any stranger, Tilda Swinton charged into the clearing brandishing a koala high above her head, ready to strike at Costello with all the force she could muster. Before I could yell 'look out!', she was upon him, legs wrapped around his waist, crushing him to the floor and pushing the bewildered animal into his face.

Like a snake though, he twisted and contorted until he was free of her grip, spinning around until he had the koala between his hands, whereupon a struggle to take hold of the animal ensued. Neither of them heeded its distressed grunts and wails as they wrenched it to and fro. Finally, with one great jerk, he wrenched its grey form from her grasp. Would he strike her down, or taunt her viciously? Indeed not. Instead he spun upon his heels and dashed into the forest like an impala, leaping easily over fallen trunks and tangling vines. Swinton pulled back her lips in a snarl of hatred and dashed after him, yelling and roaring with threats and promises of doom and torment. For the remains of that day, I could hear the sounds of their game of cat and mouse echoing amongst the trees from here ad there around the mountainside.

Alone again, save for the monkey who followed me still and the kangaroos who milled around, bewildered by this turn of events, I continued my journey toward the summit. After a time the trees gave way to bare rock and screed which slipped and shifted underfoot. Over and again I slipped on the unsteady surface, pushing my hands down before me in an effort to steady myself. Before long the bitter stones has shredded my fingers and palms in a hundred places. My back and neck burned from the wretched gaze of the sun which had turned my skin to a swollen, angry red. My legs ached and screamed with the effort, but I struggled on against the slope. Then the rains came, the clouds building up like a city of skyscrapers which came from nowhere in what seemed like an instant. They boiled up against the mountain side like breakers in the ocean smashing against a cliff face. They opened, the cool water sloughing down my face and pouring down my back. Blessed relief it was, for as it flowed it carried away the heat of my struggle and I was rejuvenated, for a time. On I climbed, through the clouds until finally, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon, a plateau was spread out before me. There was no life here, just the bare rock as dry as a desert. I cast my eyes this way and that and saw, some four feet in the distance, a shack of gnarled and sun-bleached wood.

What I saw when I approached to rude hut will have to wait for another day, when I shall also regale you with the yarn of how I met Ban Ki-Moon at a Pantera concert in the O2 Arena.