Moses - you know him, he's the biblical figure who looked a bit like Charlton Heston - led his people to wander in the desert for 40 years.  Slightly less famous was Admiral Richard Byrd, who does not look like Charlton Heston, but who did spend almost four months in the Antarctic, almost killing himself with the carbon monoxide emissions from the stove that was his only source of heat and light.

Less famous still is me.  How does my story compare to those mentioned above?  Well, I endured the last 48 hours without internet access.

Those of us who live here have always thought of this little corner - or crevice - of the world as being just that little bit further back than the back of beyond.  We don't have bears and wolves, we don't have deformed villagers who speak in hushed tones of a great evil, we don't have roaming bands of thieves who obey no law of man nor god.

And to compound our deprivation, from about 4pm on Friday we also didn't have the internet when some local yokel put a pitchfork through... I don't know, the magic internet portal, or whatever.

I think my experience is fairly typical, and my actions normal, for anyone in a similar crisis.  The nine key stages I went through were denial, anger, bargaining, cannibalism, depression, devil worship, acceptance, relapse into cannibalism and acceptance.  Though I have to admit the real low point was when I contacted AOL technical support.

Incidentally, if you've ever had to call their technical support, you'll be aware of the labyrinthine routes necessary to access a human being; routes that make the plot of The Da Vinci Code look even simpler and more predictable.

Eventually I reach someone - in India, not that I mind.  It's just that the technical support opening hours are 10am to 10pm our time.  So we have people in India working back shift and night shift to fix our computers, but nobody available during their daytime, when presumably their time would be cheaper.  And nobody would be quite so strongly inclined to not give an elephant's ass.

The gentleman informs me that my internet is not working.

"I just told you that," I reply.

He explains that what he means is: it's not my fault it's not working, it's his.

I had presumed as much.

He tells me it will all be fixed within 24 hours.

10 minutes later it's working again.  Rather than being happy about it, I am now convinced that AOL's technical support are randomly switching off bits of the internet for a bit of a laugh.  They've been out drinking and dancing in perfect step with forty of their identically dressed friends (you've seen the films, you know what goes on).  They've got their curry and lager buzz on, they come in to do their night job and decide to fuck with their formal colonial masters - just to show us that they can.

If you could see the shape of the affected region from space, it would look like a penis drawn on the UK.  I'll bet you a rupee it would.

My first encounter with John Steinbeck was in high school, where an aging, convivial but unpleasant smelling English teacher with a beard who is now dead (so is the rest of him) made us read Of Mice And Men.  It was not the first book I had ever read, so I found many of the words familiar; some of them I had even used myself and the conjunctions were like old friends who would come around four or five times a sentence.

But I had never before read anything that was so comprehensively depressing.

John Steinbeck wrote dust bowl dreams and American realities.  His characters were hoary handed sons of the soil, men made old before their time by hard work and defeat, women with beauty that only existed to fade.  His whole catalogue of work is similar.  Nobody will ever make a successful film musical out of a John Steinbeck novel.

I'm off work today and watching a film on Channel 4, which just happens to be The Red Pony.  I'm not familiar with the story, but as far as I can work out John Steinbeck - who wrote the story and the screenplay - has peopled his tale with the following:

The grandpa - an old man who once led a wagon train across the plains.  He tells stories which nobody, including him, like and he will probably die by the end of the film.

The father - he lives under the shadow of his wife's father's achievements.  He is a simple farmer who aint done diddly.  He will probably survive the film, but will never be happy and would die if there was a sequel.

The mother - is a woman in a Steinbeck novel.  She exists is a source of sexual tension.  Famously, there is only ever one woman in John Steinbeck's mid-west that is worth sleeping with and / or murdering.  The only other woman in the film of The Red Pony is played by the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard of Oz.  Sadly, there are no flying monkeys.

The farm hand - quiet chap who clearly wants to plough the mother more than the father's fields.  He is generally better than the father and knows a thing or two about ponies.  You suspect he will get shot at some point.

The son - is played by one of those "introducing" actors who never work again.  He has the cheery disposition of a child who will die of TB, or be kicked to death by his own pony.

The red pony - is very nice, though perhaps a little out of its depth as the eponymous star of its own Hollywood movie.  It will almost certainly die, or sleep with the mother and be shot by the father, or kick the son to death and run off to be eaten by coyotes before the end of the film.

At no point will there be any big musical number or any decent jokes.

I hate John Steinbeck.

Send me flowers
or kiss my hand in a public bar
when the distance between our lips is too much.
Wake me from dreams of you
with your fingers soft on my skin
or with a phone call.
Put yourself between me and myself
when I can't.
Tell me stories that show you
badly -- as we are
-- understanding that I understand.
Ask me home
because your heating is on the blink.
Refuse my best advice, because I'm a fraud.
Watch me undress, smiling.
Give me 5p like treasure
to treasure and lose amongst other change and mourn
because once it was yours
and given freely.
Forgive these accidents you don't notice.
Quiet me with your laugh
that terrifies and verrifies me.

But don't send me flowers.
I would do the same for you.

The Case of the Brown Derby

An Aristotle Mason Mystery

Part 4

The next two days went by in only forty-eight hours, though it seemed like less because of the time I spent sleeping.  I'd been bunked with seven other boys in a small room on the top floor and at the back St Dymphna's.  Our room was so cold at night it was used to store meat, while during the daytime it was so warm you could poach eggs simply by leaving them for five minutes in a damp patch.

However the room's position allowed me unfettered observation of the activity in the orphanage's high-walled courtyard.  Several times a day a truck would arrive; licence plates indicating that they were almost all from Canada.  A batch of orphans would be unloaded by the Reverend Mother and the three Marys.  But unlike the group I arrived with, they wouldn't be inspected like horses, having their teeth and the soles of their feet checked.  Sister Mary Beard and Sister Mary Limp would bark ferociously at the cowering orphans, scratch themselves tersely and spit while singing, not hymns, but bawdy sea shanties.

After a couple of days of scrutiny I was beginning to suspect those nuns weren't  all they appeared to be.

"That's a lot of orphans," Crutchey said.  The kid often sat next to me as I looked out of the window.  "I wonder where they all go".

"Into the orphanage, like we did," I replied.

"But after that, I mean.  There are only thirty bunk rooms in here and each one only holds eight -- which means the orphanage can only house a maximum of two hundred and forty".

"Kid, this is beginning to sound like the crappy filler a bad writer puts in a story to support some ludicrous and utterly implausible plot twist.  What's your point?"

"Well, counting us, there have been one-hundred and ninety-six orphans delivered through that back door in just the last two days.  And there were a lot of kids here when we arrived.  I didn't count them, but I think I saw over a hundred.  That makes about three hundred orphans".

"Of course!" I said triumphantly, with full knowledge that if anyone asked me later I would take the credit for this discovery.  "Three hundred is more than two hundred and forty".  I had always known that basic mathematics would one day come in handy.

"That means at least sixty are missing and probably more".

"You don't think they could have been adopted?"

"Sixty in two days?  Not a chance".

"God's bristles!  They're grinding up the bodies of the weak orphans and feeding them to us!" I said in alarm.  Crutchey was immediately sick all down his front.  "Ah, wait," I said, pointing at the vomit.  "That's just gruel: it's made from cardboard and old shoes -- there's no meat in that".

Crutchey gave a dry heave.

"That leaves us back where we started, Crutchey.  You stay here, I need to look around".

"I could come," Crutchey said, his face filthy with ground-in dirt, but his eyes shining with hope.

"There are lots of stairs in this place," I cautioned.

"I can hop down; I only have crippling, disfiguring polio in one leg".

"Actually, in addition to the fact that I don't like disabled people in general, I find you personally really annoying," I said, letting him down gently.

"Yeah, Crutchey; you're such an asshole," said our roommate Blind William, who was unique amongst all the blind, black children at the orphanage in that he had no musical skill whatsoever.  He couldn't even clap in time.  He would try to whistle but just end up spitting a fine spray of saliva into the air and making a long, rasping, low-pitched fart noise.

Crutchey faced-off against Blind William.  "I'm going to stick this crutch up your raisin and rum!"

Blind William raised his fists and said, rather predictably, "I'd like to see you try!"

Somebody yelled "cripple fight!", someone else "love a duck!" and I took the opportunity to slip out, pausing only briefly to bet three marbles on Blind William to win in the third round.  He wouldn't land a lot of punches, but the ones he did would really count; it was a well known fact that when people lost their sight they gained superhuman strength.

I made my way down the rickety stairs from the top floor to the front of the building.  I wiped the dust from a window pane and through the smear of clear glass I saw a truck, identical to the one that had brought me in through the back gates.  This one was being loaded up with orphans.  I watched as the truck drove off up the street and turned left.  Rushing down the long hall way I found another window and arrived just in time to see the truck turn left again into Unfortunate Street and drive up to the gatehouse of the orphanage.

Seeing that Agnetha and the three Marys were outside I rushed down stairs to the office.  Over the last few days I'd had the chance to study the layout of the building and I knew any evidence would be kept in the office that the Reverend Mother locked so carefully and whose key she wore on a chain around her wrist.

As I expected, I found the door locked -- but the Reverend Mother hadn't counted on Aristotle Mason!  After only a few seconds of attention with my hand-tooled, professional quality lock picks, I lost all patience and kicked the door in.

I searched through the papers in the office and quickly found a large, official-seeming, leather-bound book.  Which turned out to be a bible.

After a little more searching I found leather-bound ledger that showed the movements of orphans.  Thousands of orphans given homes over the course of only a few months.  It seemed like a triumph, but looking more carefully I noticed the numbers of orphans in and out in a single day were almost always the same.  The names and dates of birth of those leaving and coming in remained the same, only the addresses they were supposedly going to changed -- and these had just been randomly chosen; I knew at least two of the addresses were offices rather than private homes.

I saw that Reverend Mother Agnetha's bedroom had a connecting door with the office and suddenly everything made perfect sense.

At the sound of voices I ran back into the hall, pulling the door into place and hid myself at the top of the stairwell next to the office.

"Mr Macintyre called," said Novice Mary as she walked up to the door.  "He said he'd sent the money for last month to the orphanage account and that he'd be in tomorrow to look at the books".

"Good," replied Agnetha, removing the key from her wrist chain and turning it in the lock.  The door fell off its hinges, but the lock remained on the end of the key.

"You don't know your own strength, Reverend Mother!" Mary said.

Agnetha said nothing.  She scanned the hallway, then looked up, her eyes fell on me like hounds and I ran back to my room where I was six marbles richer and only twenty-four hours from death.

It is your nearness undoes me
your charm is the distance between us
like fingers crossing

and uncrossing.

Fragile delight, I had forgotten
the quick-slow of your symphony
and how you play me
sharp

then flat.

Let's not focus on why, let's just say I did.  If we look too long at the why of the situation it's possible I'll end up wailing, gnashing my teeth and rending my garments.  And the care instruction labels on my garments has a big cross through rending, which makes me think the colours would probably run or something.

What did I do?  Well, I decided to have a look on Match.com.

Oh, how the mighty have descended imperceptibly slightly, you may crow.  And you would be justified in doing so.  I am after all now 27 years old and I have only ever brought home one person to meet my parents (and she was a bitch - that was a total mistake).  I have never been in what I would call a serious relationship.  Maybe it's my attraction to the insane that causes problems - or maybe it's the attraction that the insane feel towards me.

Whatever the reason, I'm probably in the best financial, physical and mental shape of my life (though none of those were actually high bars to clear) and I'm completely single.  And, yes dear reader, somewhat lonely.  It's times like this when I ask that age old question - why is nobody on MSN when I want to talk?

So I typed in my postcode and had a look at what came up.

Jesus!

Well, no, Jesus wasn't on Match.com, but if he had been he would have listed his age as 25.  Now either there are a lot of women out there who have had really rough lives, or everyone is lying about their age.  As frightening a collection of craggy-faced gurning matriarchs as I've ever seen - and to think these are the photos they choose to put online.

See my current profile picture?  That's the one.  I've had a bit of sun and my nose and cheeks are redder than they would be normally.  However, I have no problems with strangers seeing it (for example the 10 or 12 bands who ask me to be their friend every week).  The other pictures in my album, when I was a bit saggier than I am now, yes, I have no problems with them being shown either.  I would not however choose as an introductory image a picture of me in the pub after six pints with my top off.

So I didn't actually join.  But damn me I'm thinking about it.

"If you think that time will change your ways, don't wait too long".

I want to pay more for petrochemicals. I want to know that the little guy - the independent oil sheikh with wells pumping in his own back yard: the regular John Q Mohammed Clampet - is getting his fair share. Because, let's face it, the millionaires are getting reamed by the billionaires and its about time for the common man to stand up and say, to hell with being fair, I want to pay more for no reason to make the relatively wealthy even better off.

This is not an argument you hear often - but it is what happens. It was about 8:30pm and Liisa had briefly mentioned her search for fair trade orange juice for refreshment at an Amnesty International talk. I thought - why do we never hear anyone ask for fair trade oil? Or, for that matter, fair trade aluminium or copper, fair trade televisions or fair trade nuclear missiles?

Fair trade is based on a simple principle and it's probably easiest to discuss this when we're talking about a common fair trade product like bananas or coffee.

The price of a cup of coffee from Starbucks is frankly ridiculous, while the amount of money that a coffee grower gets from this is tiny by comparison. We look at this and think - well, if the farmer didn't grow those beans, you'd have no damn coffee; therefore his share of the end price should be much larger. The farmer - John Q Hernandez - is obviously getting screwed over by Starbucks. And, in the interest of being unbiased, Mr Hernandez is also getting screwed by hundreds of other major and minor companies around the globe who buy coffee beans - I don't believe Starbucks is any worse than the average.

What fair trade is supposed to do is give the John Qs that little bit extra - their "fair" share. This seems to be reasonable - but let's test this.

First, the word "fair" is rather dubious. What is fair? Let's begin by saying that fair in this context is not in any way equal - no-one is suggesting that the coffee farmer, the guy in the field, should earn as much as John Q "Bones" McCoy, a skilled doctor, or John Q John Kavanah QC, a learned lawyer. Since fair is unequal, we must mean fair in relation to something else - reflecting the true value of the good or service they provide.

Under an entirely free market economy all goods and services would only be sold at an amount (in money) and an amount (in quantity) that was appropriate relative to the value of all other goods and services, in the context of the needs, proclivities and psychology of those affected by the market. This classical understanding of economics has not changed since Adam Smith, but our understanding of just how and where our market economy is not free has become more sophisticated.

Contrary to what many believe, the market for coffee beans is one of the best functioning of all markets. It does deliver a fair value (as described above) to the coffee farmer, the truck drivers and merchantmen sailors who bring the crop to market, the people who dry and roast the bean, the people who run coffee shops and all the other people in occupations that somehow feed into the massive supply chain which makes it possible for Starbucks to sell you frothy milky coffee for £2.50 a cup. And we know this with certainty for one very simple reason - fair trade coffee costs more.

If your normal cup of coffee was actually generating massive profits for Starbucks (et al) then it would be possible for an ethically minded company to set up and sell coffee at the same price to you and I, while choosing to take lower profits and deliver a larger share to the growers. The reason fair trade coffee costs more is because companies involved in the supply chain are making what is termed "normal profits" - an amount of money which gives them the same return on their investment (relative to risk) they could get elsewhere. If profits were higher then more suppliers would set up coffee shops or coffee plantations and competition would drive down prices, while if profits were lower some suppliers would go out of business, decreasing supply and thus increasing price, and so profits would return to "normal" levels.

Fair trade is an additional premium paid by customers not because the money that reaches the growers is an unfair amount, but because they believe that many people in the world are poor relative to them and that a small effort on the part of the developed world will make those in the developing world much better off.

This assumption is correct both in absolute and relative terms. Some people are very poor. What's more, in some parts of the world an increase of $100US in annual income could take someone from the kind of desperate, crushing poverty nobody with a Myspace profile will ever endure, to an income level which allows them to eat every day.

Fair trade therefore actually doesn't have anything to do with fairness (not in terms of equal income distributions, nor relative value), it's about charity. It's cleverly marketed charity, but it's a hand-out nonetheless. If we look at fair trade as a donation to a charity we then need to ask two very important questions - who is receiving it and what effect is it having?

Fair trade products are, without exception, items produced for profit. When we are talking about coffee growers, we're discussing people who have sufficient financial means to invest in the production of a cash crop. The poorest people in the world do not have such resources; they are subsistence level farmers who grow and trade for their own consumption and they are the urban poor, the great mass which feeds on the refuse of cities and lives in shanty towns. By contrast the coffee growers (and all other producers of cash crops) are relatively wealthy.

As to the effect it is having, well simply it is making the production of coffee more profitable. The idea of paying more than you have to is perverse, whether we're discussing Mohammed Clampet's oil, "Bones" McCoy's medical care or Mr Hernandez's coffee beans. Because when we do it distorts the previous situation where the "normal profits" mentioned earlier existed. Most people who support free trade couldn't give a hoot about this, choosing to focus on the fact that coffee growers get more money.

But the implications of introducing additional money into a market are clear. More profit tends to increase supply but (even presuming the demand for coffee is perfectly price inelastic - the same amount is demanded regardless of price - which it isn't) demand remains at best the same. Growers have a clear incentive to become fair trade and potential growers have a clear incentive to enter the market, but there can be no corresponding increase in supply, because the quantity demanded has not changed.

When any market receives above normal profits which cannot be addressed by a change in supply the result is inflation. Coffee growers who produce beans do not do so without other inputs - the most significant of which is land. As profits increase, over time the amount which landowners can charge for rent increases, the value of land increases and the relative value of all other inputs to the process also increase until profits are reduced to normal levels. Although it is likely that these new normal levels are higher than they were before, it will be only by a fraction of the premium the growers receive, which is also only a fraction of the premium paid by the consumer. While making coffee growers slightly better off it also makes those who aren't coffee growers - but may be subsistence farmers - slightly worse off, because they must bear these increased costs without corresponding benefits. In general this is an inefficiency, a perversion of the market economy which actually results in almost everyone getting less than they could otherwise have.

So we can demonstrate clearly that fair trade has advantages for wealthy land owners and those with interests in inputs with inelastic supplies. It has some marginal benefits for coffee growers, but it is an inflationary force and thus damages everyone who is not a coffee grower, from the subsistence farmer right through to the developed world consumer. In short, fair trade as a charitable donation is actually counter productive as it acts to concentrate wealth rather than distribute it.

Why then do we have fair trade? There are a number of arguments, but I as a critic would like to suggest that it is as a result of a fundamental misunderstanding about the function of a market economy. Consumers see the relative price of coffee and the return obtained by the growers and presume that corporations have made a conscious effort to exploit them. Corporations attempt to get the best deal they can, in the same way the consumer does and in the same way the growers do - self-interest is key to trade. If it wasn't in your interest to buy or sell something then you wouldn't do it. Prices resolve themselves around this concept. The market economy makes no assumptions about the worth of individuals, just the worth of the goods or services those individuals provide based on what others are prepared to pay for them and - crucially - what people are prepared to sell them for.

Any trade that happens without regard to this function of the market will always be unfair in some respect and it will tend to be most unfair to the disenfranchised - to the very poorest - and favour those who have an existing asset base.

Is the solution to abandon fair trade in favour of free trade? Yes. And not just for the reasons I've given, but also because it is a tiny market which distracts from a huge problem where action could significantly improve the lives of the poorest people in the world. Subsidy of agriculture in wealthy nations.

Buy me a pint, I'll talk some more.

Fuck you.

Needle in the hollow of my chest.
Ruin me with a word.
Be ignorant.

Give me nothing.
I don't want.

I am regret.

I've decided to share this on the grounds that I'll never do anything else with it.  The first 1,000 words of a book I'll never get around to writing.  It's not a full story, but I like it.

The Case Where The Butler Did It:

An Unfinished Aristotle Mason Mystery

Aristotle Mason, the greatest private detective in his price bracket, stepped out of his car and into a puddle. He knew, on a level beneath instinct, in the electric world of pulsing synapses and dreams, at the point where the material gave way to the ephemera of spirit, that it was raining. More conventional senses confirmed this and he closed his car door and peered through the black sheet of winter rain towards the lights of the building.

Though the lights from within were warm and inviting, a lightning bolt cast brief illumination over the ancient building, presenting all its features in relief. As if there were no lights, the house became a patchwork of shadow and gnawed bones. Mason would later say, "It seemed the most dire and foreboding building, but desperate need drove me onwards, fearing more with every step nearer I drew".

The sound of the knocker was booming and Mason waited under the slight shelter of a stone porch. He had heard rumours about what went on at English country houses. Dinner parties, charades, billiards, guided tours of extensive gardens in the summer months and incest - how he hated and despised almost all of them. And then of course there was the other thing; the thing that followed him like the sound of his footsteps.

Murder.

The door opened to reveal an aged retainer. It was being worn by an old butler who clearly was not willing to accept the dental standard that heredity had given him, but was making do with a limited budget. He creaked a smile.

"Good evening sir," the butler said. "How can I help you?"

"I'm lost. That's my car over there. I'm driving from London to Portsmouth. Can you give me directions?"

"If you would care to step inside I can show you a map".

"Thanks," Mason replied and stepped inside. The heavy door was closed and bolted behind him. Mason looked around at the house, the inside of which had that feeling of slightly worn opulence that he'd gotten used to with the English. Everything was two hundred years old; nothing was new or fresh. Every item of furniture had been urinated on by some mouldering half-senile relative who, in various degrees of youth, had sat for the portrait that now hung above it.

"Here we are sir," the butler said, rolling out a large piece of yellowed paper on the set of drawers he had retrieved it from. Mason approached and scrutinised the map carefully.

"I see," Mason said. "And this is a map of…?"

"Cairo," the butler supplied. "And the surrounding area".

"Not a map of here, then?"

"The general principles are the same, sir. It does show you all the roads and key landmarks".

"Yes… but those are the roads and key landmarks of Cairo".

"And the surrounding area," the butler said with emphasis, as if explaining something simple to someone simple. Mason tried a different approach.

"Is there anyone else here?" he asked. The butler looked slowly over his right shoulder and then scanned the room carefully all the way round to looking over his left shoulder - stopping briefly when his retainer got caught in his tie.

"No sir, it's just you and I". Mason attempted another different approach.

"Do you know the way to Portsmouth?"

"Not from here sir," the butler replied, shaking his head rustily.

"Well, I think I'll take my chances in the rain," Mason said and dipped his hat slightly, causing a small reservoir of rain water to dribble over his hand and down his sleeve. Mason turned and made for the front door but stopped almost immediately and with a jarring suddenness.

A door to one of the adjacent rooms had opened and a young woman wearing a beaded headdress had stuck her head out to see what was going on. Her eyes, Maya blue, fixed him where he stood and she spoke in the meow of the English aristocracy, something equal parts mellifluous and incomprehensible.

"Are you one of Bertie's friends?" she asked.

"No miss," Mason replied. "I'm on my way to Portsmouth and I'm lost".

She gasped a little and came fully into the hall. She was wearing a low-waisted blue evening dress whose line only hinted at the curves of her body. She approached, smiling, and said, half-questioning, "You're an American".

"Yes I am".

"Veronica Huxley," she said, extending her hand.

"Aristotle Mason," he replied, extending his own hand, taking hers, shaking it lightly then returning it undamaged.

"Do you have business in England Mr Mason?"

"I'm a private detective. The daughter of a shipping mogul was kidnapped and I was brought in to find her".

"Did you find her?"

"Yes. Bits of her. Enough to earn me sixty-two percent of my fee".

"Oh well done," she said, using the same words, but in a tone entirely different to that employed by the shipping mogul. "How terribly exciting. Oh you must stay, Mr Mason. We're having a dinner party and you simply can't go out in that weather again tonight. I insist".

"How can I refuse such a generous invitation?"

"You can say no," the butler interjected.

"Then you'll stay?" Veronica asked, awash with girlish excitement. "It's just through here". She disappeared through the door, leaving it open behind her. The sound of conversation flowed out into the hall.

"Can I have your coat and hat, sir?" the butler asked. Mason removed them and handed them to the butler. "That's very generous of you, sir. I also quite like the look of your watch. And does sir have any spare change?"

It all began 95 minutes later than originally intended. This was not unexpected, because Steven's Best Man, and the organiser of the Stag Weekend, is his brother Jason. For Jason, who has many other redeeming features, deadlines are something that happen elsewhere and arrangements are vague right up to the moment of taking place - or not.

So when I learned a couple of months back that Jason would be organising the Stag Weekend I agreed to go with the air of someone who says they'd like to be a space tourist. There was no real expectation of anything, save perhaps a dim suspicion that we'd all end up in the lounge of the Thorn Tree eating "meat" pies while an elderly stripper made the men present seriously consider vows of celibacy.

The appearance of Jason's car just after 6pm settled matters. Had Erwin Schrodinger known of Jason's car he would never have needed to construct the cat in the box thought experiment. As with the cat, positivism had lost out to determinism - though just by a whisker.

I had called shotgun several days before, in breach of the 1978 UN resolution against calling shotgun out-with sight of the vehicle. Steven nevertheless gave up his seat and we proceeded in a northerly direction towards the magic Kingdom of Fife and beyond to the dark, untamed wilderness of Perth & Kinross.

The car (a blue car, made at some point in the past by a car manufacturer) carried its five-person load uneasily along roads little better than dirt tracks in the shadows of forested mountains. We had truly abandoned the safety of Scotland's central belt, where the worst you could reasonably expect was a stabbing; and as our eyes scanned the timberline in our minds banjos duelled.

At an Aberfeldy hotel which had seen better days - though not many of them and none recent - the twelve strong stag party assembled. Me, Steven, Jason, Kevin, John, Tony, Heathcliff, Mickey-C, Big Carlos, Large Carlos, Peabo Bryson and The Hand. Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent, some because I don't remember or can't spell them.

In a hotel bar we sat amongst the hideous locals under the watchful eyes, under the single eyebrow, of the barmaid. The town drunk mashed the keys on the jukebox and danced with everyone who was willing (by himself) well beyond the length of the actual songs. I commented, "He could be the drunk for a much more important town". Jason replied, "Yeah, but like all drunks he lacks the necessary ambition". I agreed saying, "They don't know how lucky they are".

We want from bar to pub. Drink flowed, mostly into mouths, and the conversation turned, as it inevitably does, to the subject of the Thatcher government's unfounded promotion of robotics over human labour, which proved so costly that it made a substantial contribution to the decline of British manufacturing.

Or at least the conversation I was having did. And unusually I did not take it down that particular obscure track. I can't say that I agreed with Heathcliff's points, as British industry had been in decline well before the Thatcher era, and this situation was prolonged and exacerbated by the penchant of previous governments to nationalise failures rather than allow international markets to resolve themselves. However, I was incapacitated by drink, to say nothing of Heathcliff's captivating smile and the flashes of light that played in his eyes. We drew close together and Peabo Bryson began to softly croon, "Tonight there'll be no distance between us - what I want most to do, is to make love to you". "Piss off Bryson," I snapped, and he left, crestfallen - but the mood was broken.

We navigated our way back down the only street in the town. The police were waiting outside for us. We were outsiders, we were not local people, and we suspected that there might be some brutality due to us on account of our full sets of "purdy white teeth" or our "fancy tennis shoes". But our concern was unjustified. They sniffed us, growled slightly, but ran off into the night leaving us unmolested.

That night we mostly retired to our own rooms for sleep, except Jason, who curled up outside someone's door and had to be carried back to his room. I slept well and awoke before my alarm, knowing that today would be a Herculean ordeal. We were to raft down the flood-swollen, boulder-strewn river Tummel - the most dangerous of all the rivers you've never heard of - and I would have to squeeze my fat ass into a wetsuit.

After a wait for a minibus that did not arrive and a long drive through roads uncharted we arrived at the preparation site. Wet suits were issued and my concerns were unfounded. It turns out that I fit comfortably into an extra large size wetsuit - in case any of you are thinking about getting me one.

Immune to hangovers as I am (it is but one of my many super powers, which also include an excellent sense of spatial awareness and an unerring ability to detect Diet Coke near or past its sell-by date) I had enjoyed a hearty breakfast. This was a mistake. For while I was feeling otherwise fine, I had not counted on the pressure of the wetsuit, jacket and buoyancy aid against my stomach - nor of the minibus ride to the riverbank which could best be described as bouncy. I steeled myself and - through an act of will alone - managed to avoid throwing up over John who was sitting in front of me. I considered that even if someone is wearing entirely rented clothing and about to immerse themselves in running water, it is still a faux pas to vomit on them.

Let me say something at this point about the kind of companies that do white water rafting. This is not an area where there should be much doubt. Rivers do not tend to change course substantially over the course of a lifetime. Rivers are not like the American buffalo which once roamed over thousands of miles - they are sedentary rather than migratory. So, knowing where the rivers are, you would think it would be easy to set up say, a fucking path from the road to the river to allow access. Instead, the current situation is that customers must carry their raft over locked gates, through fields and down steep muddy inclines (yes, I fell several times and my group actually walked over me once).

Once we had made it to the river we were treated to a quick instruction session. Our guide, a mix of Australian barman and children's television presenter, told us that if he said ahead right, those of us on the right should paddle forwards. If he said back left, then those of us on the left should paddle backwards.

It's hard to conceive without experiencing it just how many problems those simple commands can cause.

It turns out that the crew not only did not know their left from their right, but were also slightly flummoxed by the difference between their front and their back. There were no instructions that involved arses and elbows, but I expect those would have been similarly misinterpreted.

With our shield of ignorance to protect us we launched our proud vessel upon the waters and the current carried us. The gentle swirl of the deep water over unseen obstacles soon gave way to the rush of white water. A picture is available in my pictures section. I'm the one who has an ill-fitting helmet that makes me look like Dan Dare's arch-enemy, the brain-heavy Mekon.

As our vessel encountered trouble it was Peabo Bryson who fell into the churning water. He cravenly attempted to claw himself back onboard, but we beat him with our paddles and he sank - resurfacing further down stream to point an accusatory finger and sing the Richard Marx cover, "Wherever you go, whatever you do, I will be right here waiting for you". He sank again with a trail of bubbles and there was no further sign - and though we all swore never to speak of the day we killed Peabo Bryson, should I ever mysteriously vanish then know that the water-logged zombie corpse of the two-time Grammy winner is almost certainly responsible.

We dragged the boat to shore by a grey metal bridge and were informed that we would be jumping from that bridge into the living river below. A drop which must have been 15 feet, but which I am perfectly happy to exaggerate to 20. Like fictional lemmings we hurled ourselves into the brown green water of the Tummel.

The time I spent in the air seemed impossibly long and for a brief moment it felt like the water must have been lowered even as I fell. Some trick, a joke gone wrong - or a cunning scheme of the zombie Peabo Bryson, Claire (who I used to love, but turned out to be mentally ill) and Mrs Macmillan, the primary school teacher who always hated me. Whatever the cause, this was where I was going to die.

I cried, "Fu-" and the river swallowed me.

I had no time to worry that the vegetation rich water might contain hungry creatures - possible angry that I had just hit them - as the current carried me further on. I headed for the surface and realised that I was swimming in natural water for the first time since childhood. Despite this realisation, coming out of the river I forgot it was not a swimming pool and basically fell over in a number of different directions for about 10 seconds.

It was then I realised that I must have hit the water testicles first. I contemplated this in near silence for a number of minutes while breathing deeply and wondering if waterborne tapeworm eggs were even at that moment settling into my ear.

We returned to our boats, paddled to the collection point and were quickly peeling ourselves out of our wetsuits back at base camp. We all engaged in that masculine ritual where everyone pretends to be completely relaxed while partially naked, but is in fact flexing and holding their stomachs in. I am not good at either of these things, but the compression effect of the wet suit at least kept things from wobbling too much as I dripped back into my clothes.

Lunch was the next order of the day and after a brief detour back to the hotel to change clothes we decided that Aberfeldy didn't offer enough dining opportunities (it offered none). We headed for the big city bright lights of metropolitan Perth.

Really, if you're looking for discount outdoor clothing or anything made from wool or sugar, you couldn't come to a better place than Perth. The Hand said, "I'm going to get some Millions on the way back [from lunch]," referring to the chewy candy which is readily available to children, but in scarce supply to adults. Jason interjected, "You can get Millions at the shop round the corner from where I live," and the group acknowledged silently that he was the alpha male of the pack.

Perth is one of those tourist trap places that don't really exist as viable communities but are, as Heathcliff observed, "Places where you stop for lunch on the way to somewhere else". I said, "If that were true you'd think the parking would be better". Heathcliff observed the nature of local authority government astutely saying, "You'd think so".

We had lunch at an eatery (which is like a restaurant but you order at the bar and widescreen TVs display obscure sports matches) and were served pleasant food unpleasantly. I remarked to Jason, "That barmaid was both unattractive and surly. If you were pretty you could get away with that attitude, but if you're going to be plain you'd better be friendly". I made the same remark to Kevin afterwards because I enjoyed the symmetry of my phrasing. I am, in fact, sometimes very easily pleased with myself without any good reason and I spent the rest of the afternoon basking in the warm glow of my own adoration.

A collective decision was reached that we were all too old to go on the miniature bumper cars at the amusement park, such as it was, and we headed back to the hotel for a much deserved nap before our evening barbecue.

The less said about the barbecue the better. But in the interests of explaining why least is best, I'll briefly explain. We'd paid about £17 each for a barbecue, which it turns out we were not allowed to enjoy outdoors, but due to neighbour disputes we had to eat inside. The actual food was crap and in some cases only partially cooked. We would all have been much better off taking our money to the Indian across the street. He had his own restaurant and everything.

This is about where I part company with the group. At the hotel karaoke Jason performed a song from The Commitments which reminded those who had forgotten exactly why he gets paid to sing. I looked through the song book and was devastated to discover that they didn't have any Eagles or Blues Brothers songs or that Have A Nice Day which I can sing exactly like Kelly Jones does it. I considered taking up John's challenge of singing Copacabana, but the mike was being dominated by the town drunk and I thought better than to try to steal it away - or touch it without gloves.

I went to bed - my limit for human interaction for the day having been reached and exceeded. The rest of the boys continued until about 5am, with calls coming in to the police, radiators coming off walls and Jason apparently laughing and falling over fast asleep from a standing position. I was not there to observe this and I can't decide if the funniest sound effect to sum it up would be Ha-ha-thud! or Hee-hee-clump! Kevin ended up sleeping on Jason's floor as it seemed that when he tried to get into our room at 5am, I could not be roused. At 3am I would have felt guilty, at 5am it was his own damn fault.

Steven told me about the events of the previous night at Sunday breakfast (prepared by the barbecue chef from the previous evening, a silver haired crone who didn't bring me any damn toast) and he lamented having only brought two t-shirts with him since one had beer on it and the other drool. I helpfully commented, "If only you got both stains on one". Steven did not actually smack his head in realisation, but I could tell he was grateful for the advice.

We left the hotel quickly - mostly to conceal the damage done to it - and John took control of the car as the only person sober and insured. As a parting gift from Perth & Kinross we passed through the eerie Radio 4 Triangle. A confluence of forces whose boundaries are defined by the leylines that cross at Scone Castle, Kinross and Glendarroch, within which it is only possible to get reception for BBC Radio 4 and foreign clarinet music. And as we crossed the Forth Road Bridge back into civilized lands we were grateful to have escaped with our lives, but mindful that the wedding itself was less than a week away.