My New Junglist Posse

A new adventure is about to put me from nuts to neck in khaki, and possibly into the jaws of some big stinking animal or other with a trunk or claws or teeth the size of Cornetto cones…

It starts in July – when I travel to South Africa to begin making a web series about my ups, downs, affairs with giraffes and punch ups with hyenas while training to become a safari field guide. Yes, a safari field guide. Possibly only slightly more dangerous than the Isle of Dogs, but still, me, as a safari field guide. Absurd.

Six months out in the bush, or field, or jungly effort, or whatever they call it out there. Six months of early mornings studying types of grass and clouds and zebra bums. I’ve already bought a book called ‘Scorpions of South Africa’…I could never have imagined something like that being in my Amazon account history.

Yup, it’s an ever so slight excursion from life in the docklands sneering at bankers, and I expect there’ll be a few elephantine mistakes with hilarious consequences. I’ll update this page with videos and links nearer the time, should I survive a rhino ramming its horn up my pipes.

It’s been quite some time since I was ITV’s Gloryhunter, and the subsequent book getting me nominated for Best New Writer at the British Sports Book Awards (at which I got drunk and booed Andre Agassi). What since? I rejoined the real world, whatever the by-jiggedy that means, to earn some of that money stuff. I don’t particularly belong in the real world, so after winning a travel blogging competition (see posts below), the travel company who ran it offered me the chance to travel around their resorts making video reviews of beaches. Life really has been a beach this year. But more about that when their campaign starts and the videos are released.

In the meantime, I’m running in that London Marathon…I don’t mean right at this minute, I mean in a couple of weeks. If you can muster the purse power to sponsor me, you’ll find my Oxfam page here:

Go on, I’ve put my body through all sorts of unholy, unnatural ridiculousness for this. I run like an ironing board. The other day I ran 17 miles and afterwards, I’m sure I weed out my spleen. In the words of Bob Geldof, ‘Give me your f****** money’. (Please).