I would like to say a few brief words about me, lest any of you who read this column do not know me personally, or have garnered your impressions of my personage from the odd photos around the site and the tales of my, usually ill-advised, diversions and happenings.

I am a shade under 6 feet tall and weigh 102 kilograms. That would make me a fatty, were it not for the satisfying fact that genetics and a long-term job involving dangerously heavy materials have actually made the majority of that large number of kilograms muscle. It is not to say that I am attractive without a shirt on, apart fom the large and diverting tattoo upon my stomach (tactically placed there several years ago as a guard against the less-attractive and all-too noticeable alternative that I would one day have a beer belly) but I'm not too shabby either. I look big enough for most guys not to want to pick a fight, and that is the best thing: not being involved in fights.

At the time of the tattoo I was about 19 or 20 and had no real beer belly - hell I was fairly trim back in those days, 6 or so years ago - but I knew from my ritual consumption of narcotics of many kinds that I would, inevitably, switch to legal means of recreation pretty shortly, and when I moved North indeed I did.

I lived in Yorkshire - it sounds more romantic to say Yorkshire, as I always do, and to hide the truth which is that I lived in Kingston-Upon-Hull, which is itself as romantic as a three-week-dead ferret covered in nitroglycerine with a note attached saying "Strike a match, honey XXX".
I lived there from the age of 21 to the age of 23, more or less, and frankly the best two reasons for me going legitimate when it comes to getting off one's face were the fact I had left all my colourful and interesting contacts and suppliers 211 miles South of me and therefor beyond a reasonable phonecall asking for `a bag of this` or `a gram or three of that`. The second reason was that I was doing pretty well with the drinking until I split up from my first serious girlfriend and sought solace and refuge the multiple investment in a wonderful deal of `8 cans strong lager £5` from the supermarket 2 minutes from my front door.

That's the gritty stuff out of the way - what I cannot say about what I engaged myself upon, and with, in the years from 16 to 21 is just about everything, because almost none of it was in any way legal, often it was dangerous and mostly it was stupid. Also I would be compelled to name names, and the one rule of those environments is that whatever happens, whether you get arrested with everyone's stash and have to take the fall, is that you Do Not Stitch Up Your Mates.
It is an unwritten rule everyone abided by - friends of mine have served time in prison for not giving up their friends, and it was only expected; and when they come out they are shown a great amount of respect, and particularly from those who could have suffered but didn't, a lot of help getting them back on their feet, financially stable where possible and jobs and good housing and suchlike are usually found on their behalf by the rest of the tribe, or whoever is left of it by that time anyway.

In any case it is a dangerous way to live and it was costly, damaging to your health and mentally risky to say the least.
But my gosh, was it fun.

I moved back home from Hull at the age of 23, or it could have been 22 but closing on my birthday, and resumed a position at my previous place of work for a higher salary, better job prospects (there weren't ever really any, but I was in a good position to take over the - very lucrative - company at one point, if only the boss wasn't the kind of man he was, which is to say the kind who never wants to sell up and will work to his dying day) and a nicer comfy desk all of my own, when everyone else had to share the front romm (mwahahaha etc.).
He (the boss) grew up very poor as a pig farmer's son, made a success of himself with a series of intriguing jobs (window cleaner, auctioneer, used car salesman) and ended up, and is still, a millionairre, although you'd have to tie him down and hit him with sticks to make him ever admit it.

The work was good - I was damn good at my job and it involved a lot of varied and difficult tasks - and as an added bonus the physical side of things enabled me to turn a lot of my favourite dish in the whole world; pizza; into actual proper human muscle tissue, rather than just become a big fat ball of mozarella, which is probably what I actually deserved because I ate a LOT of pizza - I used to have one for breakfast for Christ's sake and then have another 3 full meals a day on top.

The problem was that I got, famously, and unexpectedly, the Seven Year Itch, as I had technically been employed - had known the same people; colleagues, suppliers, dealers and many of the customers - for seven years, despite my 2 year break, and although I had previously quit twice as well (and not many people can say they have been employed by the same company 4 times) I just got cabin fever with the whole thing.

At the same time, for 2 years or so since I had returned, I had developed another addiction - to a sport called airsoft, or rather, to the sporting equipment. Airsoft is paintball but with realistic guns: they are precise 1:1 replicas of the real thing, they fire fully automatically and a lot faster than paintball, and thanks to the fact that airsoft is basically Japanese, whereas paintball is basically American, the guns themselves are accurate and very long ranging, making the actual sport itself far more realistic and interesting than running around in a blue jumpsuit behind giant inflatable remnants of bouncy castles, which is what most of paintball is.

Anyway long-story-short I saved and spent all my money (well, all but what was needed to get smashed-drunk every night) for two whole years on airsoft guns and I imported them from Hong Kong, where even despite the shipping costs they are on average 25% cheaper than if bought in the UK. So I spent a lot time looking at pretty sales websites, and an awful lot of money in wire transfers and PayPal payments.

I spent about £20,000 on the equipment and the weapons, in fact, which is what psychologists might call a `pathological interest` but I just acknowledge it as my inner geek manifesting itself more gloriously than most people ever have the guts or gumption to.
By the time it came ot an end, I had 115 `proper` airsoft guns (i.e.not including the dozen or so `BB guns` of the kind that people buy from air-rifle and fishing shops, county fairs and market stalls).
It was the 3rd largest collection of airsoft guns (by my reckoning) in the UK, and the 5th or 6th largest in Europe, and I was by far the youngest of anyone in the top ten of that list, so I had a real dedication (read: obsession) to the `cause`.
These were all the proper thing and I have watched a good many - too many - films to deny the fact that I love guns. I love the mechanics of them and the coolness and power and respect and performance associated with them, and almost no-one understands this bit, but I really loved the feel of a gun in my hand; and these were all perfect replicas to the last tiny detail of the real thing, so if someone were to chuck me a genuine firearm there is a very good chance that I could operate it, as all high-end airsoft weapons work exactly like the real things.

But things change, we grow tired even of those things we hold dearest, and I decided, after another crushing heartbreak, as it happens (bit of a running theme here, what?) to sell everything that I owned and go travelling around the world.

So here I am. I made over £13,000 selling the airsoft guns and equipment, and between the beginnings of the sale and the time I finally left I had only drunk £4,500 of it in my local pub.

I have an amusing tale or three to tell about that, too, but I'm saving it for later.

Anyway with one thing and another, and a lot of help from certain wonderful people, here I am and this is what I now do. This is hardly my life story - but an explanation of immediate events and the few important driving factors behind why, and how, I manage to be here, travelling for several years through dozens of countries, meeting and befriending and insulting a variety of interesting people along the way.
And I hope that maybe some of this has been of interest to some of you; it has done me some good, I think, to say this much to you all.