My name is Rudolph Tarquinne Gunderfelt-Smythe XVI. I was born to a  sponge merchant and a nail designer in Harrogate in the year of Our Lord 1921.

It was when I was a mere lad that I first felt the call of the world, tales of the long and open road having trickled down to my ears from the limpet tradesmen and weasel farmers which used to frequent the house of my aunt Georgina. She was a busty lady, the type who could take your eye out with a twitch of a well aimed mammary gland. I would sit at the foot of her stairs of an evening, swigging milk from a hip flask that her great nephew had given me as a golden handshake, whilst the heavy booted men stomped and thudded around the cobblestoned kitchen with their tales of NASDAQ and pork futures. I lusted for the gold paved streets of Rochdale and the steamy brothels of Wyre Piddle. So distant they seemed from my little dark corner of the north of England, yet in my mind's eye I could smell the sweet smell of sweaty goat herders and the musky scent of polished shoulder pads. I longed to set out from that front door, to stride bravely across the land in search of naught but adventure and intrigue, and so it was with great joy that one day I discovered that National Express laid on bus journeys around this great island, with tickets from just a fiver, terms and conditions apply!

One night, whilst my parents snored beneath a duvet of finest moose down, I snuck out from my box room and packed my things into a dog leather knapsack. I took little, for my slight shoulders were not strong in those days; just a toothbrush, a copy of the Teach Yourself Guide to Crochet and a golf tee. Inching the door open, careful not to elicit the squeeeaaaak of the small shrew my father kept in a bottle next to the coat stand, I crept out into the night. The street was dimly lit by the light of the bull rushes, yet to me the night was filled with the glorious light of excitement and wonder. I stole a glance at my ticket, already grimy from my sweaty, Camembert coated hands. I was going to Stevenage! Even the name sounded tantalising and throbbing with excitement as I turned it around in my mind. What wonders would I find there, what adventures? My heart pounded in my chest as I raced up the lane, past the gate made from pig feathers and out into the street. Down the road I pelted until there, before the Camelherder's Arms I saw it, a gleaming chariot of beige and brown twinkling in the rusty moonlight. My salvation was waiting for me on four wheels of glory and I could not have been more thrilled with anticipation and trepidation. My sojourn into the world had begun.

Now it was upon this bus, at a service station between Wednesbury and Strathclyde, that I first met Genghis Khan. Heavily laden with a sack full of No. 8 spanners, he wheezed and groaned his way up the steps and onto the bus. It appears that he'd not already purchased a ticket for this ill fated journey, and so he was forced to lay down his load and search for half a florin in the pocket of his Bermuda shorts. As he fumbled around, the spanners made a beautiful jingling sound as they jostled back and forth with the rumbling of the engine of our conveyance. Finally, he pulled from his garment not a silver coin, but the latest copy of 'Nuts' magazine. So overjoyed was the driver of our vehicle to see the scantily clad young man on the front cover that he immediately allowed the brutal warlord to board free of charge. I shrank back in my seat, hoping that the cruel looking stranger, standing there in his bright shorts, string vest and steel dunce cap, would choose a seat, any seat but mine. Alas, the carriage was too full and he dragged his still clinking sack over to where I sat and slumped down onto the seat. He stank of Chanel No.5 and cream tea and I almost gagged at the stench, my eyes watering with the sticky sweetness. My pain was short lived though, for no sooner had he sat down than he rearranged his underwear and pulled out a game of snakes and ladders. I was thrilled, having been the under 65's champion for the last 72 years in a row. Yet I had underestimated this traveller from the far East. Deftly he cast the dice upon the board and, time and time again, he demonstrated a mastery of the runged stairs and the scaled serpents. It was not long before I had lost everything to him, save for my 1943 Swimsuit Barbie and my rubber cocktail shaker. These I would not lose, so naked and ashamed, I declared him champion of boardgames and bid him leave me be. Looking down at me from under those bushy eyebrows, he patted me on the hairless knee and, moving his gnarled hand one point two three inches closer to my thigh he told me not to be afraid. From that moment we were fast friends, Genghis and I.

We travelled together for some fourteen months. At the end of this time, when finally we reached Droitwich, we bade each other farewell. Not ashamed am I to admit that I shed a tear, nay, many tears at his departure. Upon leaving he gave me a gift, a shoebox, filled with pile cream and a plastic ham sandwich. I treasure that box still and, as you shall see, it has rarely been far from my side except for a foul and terrible year I spent moonlighting as an investment banker away from my job as a dog breeder in Mumbai. But I digress. For now, the night grows long and I grow weary. I shall continue my tale another day, when I tell you the story of how I met J.K. Rowling whilst panning for gold in the jungles of Eritrea. Sleep well.