On the Whitechapel Road yesterday

I saw a man licking a plate.

It wasn't even 9am!

Efrain Sipe Mamani

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I am now the proud owner of a new child. His name is Efrain, and he is from Bolivia.

I sponsored him through Action Aid (who, I have just realised, are a Christian organisation. Nevermind). I would fully recommend you do the same.

All this means I can supervise Efrain's upbringing, nurture him from afar, and then when I am old he can look after me, as no doubt he will be a famous doctor by then.

(Everyone wants the best for their children. I am no different...)

Deer oh dear

Does exactly what it says on the tin, this one.

Crazy Leaf

Here is an Indian man who looks like Borat (he's actually none other than tiger expert Neel Gogate), demonstrating how to make a leaf go crazy! (It's actually very easy...)

Tracking a Tiger

Say what you like about The S*n, but they do provide you with excellent press trips abroad to look for tigers in places such as India (should your name be Rico Sprengiko – which fortunately for me, mine is).

With little over a week to prepare I hastily sent off for my visa and received a number of last minute vaccinations, finding myself at Heathrow Airport at some ungodly hour on Monday morning.

After a typically mundane flight I arrived in Mumbai* with the rest of the fortunate crew, and was fast escorted out of the Airport and into a taxi. Evidently press trips remove the need to do anything for yourself and thus there is no time for culture shock.

I admitted my being slightly unnerved at finding myself in the middle seat of the taxi, without a belt, in the middle of the notorious Mumbai traffic. The Daily Mail columnist on the trip helpfully commented that it was "the Diana seat". With stereotypes fully enforced I held my breath and prayed for a paparazzi-free trip to the hotel.

At the hotel we had our every wish granted by tip-hungry porters, despite much unnecessary confusion over the ordering of bottled water and my being banished back into my room by aforementioned porters whenever I tried to add my own thirsty opinion to the matter. Thus we were duly overcharged for the water (along with several large bottles of extra strong beer). Feeling a little hard done by I had my first of what would be several socially awkward encounters with lower-caste Indian men, as he waited in the room for a tip, and I waited what felt like an eternity for him to do something (speak, leave, juggle, anything really).

Eventually I went to bed, a full 90 minutes before my scheduled wake-up call, with a feeling of mild intoxication that was to stay with me for the duration of the trip.

The following morning I spectacularly increased my shameful carbon footprint by taking two short-haul flights to the centre of the land - ‘Kipling country’ – where the Jungle Book’s Shere Khan** awaited me. The highlight of this short display of environmental negligence was helping the air steward with his props for the safety instructions, which he had casually laid out on my fold-out tray. Sadly it looked as though the feeling wasn’t mutual, as when it came to the second flight the steward went through his routine from the row behind. A blatant snub that left my knowledge of airline emergency procedure in jeopardy, as I was too busy being helpful to listen to the previous announcement and too busy crying to listen to the second. I did, however, enjoy an almost completely tolerable curry lunch, which served to halve the pain.

Another incident that tainted this otherwise uneventful flight was a security alert over an unaccounted for item of hand luggage. The flight crew - displaying remarkably British reserve – enquired locally about the bag, then paraded it up and down the aisle, before finally making an announcement over the tannoy. When these methods proved fruitless, they took the only course of action possible. They woke up the only sleeping man on the entire flight, who then confirmed it was indeed his.

Upon arrival at the Pench camp, our first location for tiger-hunting safari, I was taken to my luxury tent and informed that I, along with the only other male trip member, was to receive the best tent on offer. This only served to confirm my opinion that sexism, far from an embarrassing, Neanderthal pastime, is the future, and my own democratic right. I mulled over the point during my curry dinner and soon decided that my time would be better spent asking our guide about his decision to sport a beard rather than the traditional moustache.

Unfortunately by morning my canvas paradise had soured somewhat, thanks mainly to a sea of ants that were in the process of dying in my recently fumigated shower. Deciding that at five am I was in no state to rectify the situation, I drank the rest of my coffee that had been delivered with the wake-up call and headed out dirty for my morning safari.

The safari itself, the very purpose of the trip, was suitably exciting. Though tigers were not readily presenting themselves to our jeep, the first few spotted deer kept me entertained (they were to become as common as moustaches) while the sighting of the odd monkey was, in my delirious morning state, practically orgasmic.

The majority of the trip was, however, a sea of trees and vines. I took the opportunity of some quiet time to ask our guide if there were any interesting fish in any of the streams we passed through. “Yes” came the monosyllabic reply.

But it was the elusive tiger that was to dominate our minds. We picked up a trail from a few recently laid paw prints and suddenly our guides were at action stations. We’d speed on down a track, grinding to a halt at seemingly random intervals before silence (save for the odd bit of Hindi murmuring) prevailed.

As we neared what would be the day’s climax we saw frenzied deer, tails in the air, clearly aware of imminent danger - and the calls of a variety of tree-dwelling birds, not to mention monkeys, alerting the jungle’s fauna to the presence of an apex predator.

Sadly all the attention must have had an adverse effect on our prey. And we were left with an anti-climactic fresh paw print, confirming our cat had left the scene just minutes before our arrival.

We were left with hope of what was to come, which nearly made up for the lack of real action. Almost content, I returned to the camp to find the pleasant sight of a recently cleansed shower cubicle. That evening we sat and drank whiskey around a faltering campfire. Though unimpressed I stopped short of informing our hosts that a good blaze amounted to more than a few wood shavings, some damp logs and three litres of lighter fluid, but I silently passed judgement nonetheless, and had curry for dinner.

The following day and we were off to a new national park – Kanha - a mere 4 hour drive away that I spent sleeping rather than utterly terrified, as those who had chosen to remain awake and aware of all our near misses on mental main roads had been.

After the radiant delights of Camp Pench I was shocked to find an improvement at Kanha. The hotel next to the park was nothing short of decadent - I even had my own slippers (which upon leaving I shamelessly stole. Obviously). Feeling the very picture of royalty, I headed to the restaurant for my curry dinner and on to bed, pausing only to drink several gin & tonics.

I had a good feeling about the next morning as I rose before dawn once more. The main reason for this was my tiger-themed socks, an obvious good-luck charm that made my intentions quite clear. The safari began fruitlessly as ever. An eagle at a distance of about a mile and a solitary kingfisher were the only animals of note to add to the plague of deer and occasional troupe of ever-fascinating monkeys.

By this point I had started seeing tigers everywhere except where it mattered – in reality. I had also developed the strange idea that they wore bowler hats, and could often be seen striding purposefully over London bridge, cane in paw, perhaps smoking pipes.

As we stopped off for our curry breakfast however, word got round that a tiger had been successfully tracked, and was being monitored by elephants in anticipation of our arrival. Fortunately it wasn’t going anywhere fast, as it had just made a kill and was too full to move. Which is more than could be said for us, delaying our first meal of the day as we did, to be sure of catching our first true opportunity. At double speed we headed out once more, making our way to a patch of grassland where the familiar trunked sight of Colonel Hathi was to greet us.

I climbed the ladder aboard the beast and we set off on a bumpy ride to our meeting with Shere Khan (or Sheila Khan as her gender dictated). Though I could not see the elephant that was carrying me I got the distinct impression that balance wasn’t its forte, as we negotiated out way through admittedly marshy land with difficulty.

And there it was, the great tigress lying glistening in the morning sun, its coat dazzling in the long green grass. We bribed our elephant-operators to allow us more time than was customary in the presence of Sheila, and I took pictures and video as if my life depended on it.

As suddenly as it had all happened it was over, Hathi made its way back to base with me in tow, helpless to do anything about it. The one good thing to come of our return to base was breakfast, about three hours overdue but highlighted by a cheeky crow that made off into a tree with a rice krispy bar without quite knowing what to do with it.

On the way back to camp we almost ran over a small brown mammal, that would otherwise have gone unmentioned save for the fact that it had been our guide’s third sighting in four years. It went by the less-than-glamorous name of a wood shrew.

It was also on the return journey that I decided to go for a second opinion, hopefully with a little elaboration, on my fish question. “Are there any interesting fish in these streams?” I asked at an opportune moment. “No” came the reply. I covered my disappointment by spotting a wild boar, which quickly departed.

On the way home we drove through villages in the open-topped jeep, I, perched on the top seat, waved at the children like I was the queen, while they screamed ta-taa as many times as possible before I disappeared from sight.

Back at camp, and after what officially became the longest shower in the history of man, I headed out for my appointment with an Indian masseuse. A few moments later I found myself completely naked, which was quite a shock as I had signed up for a back massage. After covering me in all manner of essential oils, so that I was lubricated to within an inch of my life, the masseuse began his work.

Half an hour later, and with not an inch of my body left untouched (well, perhaps a few inches, steadily shrinking) the massage was over, and I felt once more like Mr Soft. I bounced off my soft mattress, onto the soft stone floor and over to my soft, soft clothes. Pausing slightly to flash the masseuse’s wife in the next room, I dressed, thanked my man, and departed for a slap-up curry dinner, which passed almost without incident.

Another evening, another campfire, another disappointment. I decided that campfires throughout the land must solely be indulged in when the English were in town, and that therefore no Englishman can ever have set foot in India before me. I, was a trailblazer of the highest order, and would probably be buried next to Marco Polo.

Tonight was certainly the night for treats, as we were next subjected to a severe bout of tribal dancing in the dark. I was mildly entertained for three to four minutes, but forty long minutes after that was pushing it really, particularly as there had been no discernable difference in any of the dances.

Still, like a good tourist I headed over to the group to thank them individually for what had been an energetic display of mediocrity. I had my photo taken, shook hands, kissed babies, and felt a little like Jesus probably did at the feeding of the 5000. Unfortunately my nirvana was short-lived, as I soon realised I had not provided any bread or fish. It took several of the tribesmen rubbing their hands together before I realised that they had not wanted my blessing but my money, which was back in my hotel room and staying there. Fortunately our tour guide was at hand to lend some cash, but not before I had felt awkward, stupid and faintly colonial for approximately five minutes.

As this was to be our last night, I, with a couple of the others, decided to have a few drinks. Our Indian hosts had other ideas though and promptly shut the bar. Alas, they did not do so before I was anything other than tipsy, my being in such a state dictating that I must reason with them, in the good name of intoxication. Unfortunately those unlucky few left waiting for us to go to bed did not speak English, and were in no mood to start now. I was immune to their responses, trying every trick in the book to convince them to let me have alcohol including, I am ashamed to say, asking if I could steal it, and then demanding prescription drugs. A few more awkward silences later and I took the only course of action appropriate. I went to bed.

We headed out for a final safari in the morning; though it was so dark I suspected we were actually still in the previous night. As the sun rose we encountered a pack of wild dogs, which looked disappointingly rather like large foxes. We also saw a herd of bison, the male of which was HUGE. MASSIVE. And loaded with muscles. Apparently it was still only two thirds of the size of the largest bison. That was the most impressive fact I had heard all trip. Honestly, it was huge. I was still mulling this over as I ate my hearty curry lunch.

The route back to London was rather less than interesting though; a 24-hour trip preceded only by that final curry lunch. We did have the opportunity to sit in a hotel bar for an hour though, which looked like it had never had a customer and didn’t quite know what to do when faced with eight English tourists demanding cocktails. I took pity and ordered a pint of beer, which arrived in a 250ml bottle.

Overall the Indian men I encountered (I have a feeling the women aren’t allowed out, as this is the most logical explanation of their absence) were fantastic: Polite, courteous and moustachioed. Indeed the best moustache came right at the very end of my break, and was the icing upon a memorable trip, even for an amnesiac like myself.

*Everybody calls it Bombay, rendering the name-change utter pointless bureaucracy.
**Disney paid for the trip, hence the unashamedly obvious referencing. Apologies.

How to ruin a good birthday sing-song

James's 26th. A birthday to remember. Sadly both James and I were inebriated before the party even started, and combined to mess things up and then spill red wine on the floor.

Which is exactly what I'm doing here.

How to ruin a good birthday sing-song

James's 26th. A birthday to remember. Sadly both James and I were inebriated before the party even started, and combined to mess things up and then spill red wine on the floor.

Which is exactly what I'm doing here.