The wicked, wicked Junglist posse.


It looks so tranquil, doesn’t it? And up to chapter 8 of ‘I am The Gloryhunter’…haven’t I been a good boy, writing all day and night…

Sort of.

If, on a rare foray into the alcoholic vicinity, you keep drinking like an utter dillweed, way past dark, on the wrong side of the chuffing island (I’m in the Perhentians in East Malaysia, by the way), then the only way back is through fifteen minutes of dense, pitch black jungle; jungle that makes all those jungle noises (not the same ones as General Levy).

At night without a torch or even a centimeter of sobriety, this is a tricky order. Made more daunting when some drunk Irish men warn you of the massive monitor lizards that might just nibble at you. Probably best to wait for daylight, hey. Only an utter twonk will decide he’s Tarzan and try to find his way back at this time of night.

But if he did try it, what will probably happen is that he’ll fall over approximately fifteen times, lose both shoes, maybe a little USB key that’s got an entire book backed up on it and perhaps, just perhaps, he’ll wake up the next morning, still in the jungle, on the floor, with an inexplicable broken toe. Just maybe that’ll happen.

There’s only so many drunken misadventures you can blame on alien abduction. I thought I’d left the horrors of Chang Beer behind me in Thailand a year ago, but they’ve shipped it in here just to torment me. At 6.4%, it’s lethal, especially as I’ve heard that the brewing process makes it a bit wonky, in that it could actually be anything between 6.4 and 20%.

Bring back the orangutans, or even Oranjeboom, all is forgiven.