I realise that what I’m about to say makes me sound like a big shitbag – which I guess is OK because that’s what I am – but I really don’t like flying. I could claim that it’s the crying babies, the elbow wrestling for that single skinny armrest between the two seats or the horrible artificial atmosphere, but in reality I’m afraid of plunging screaming to my death in a huge fireball.

We had some fairly nasty turbulence on the way from Paris to Budapest on Sunday, and I have to admit I shat not just a brick, but an entire building site replete with hairy-arsed builders shouting sexual abuse at women, illegal immigrants working on dodgy scaffolding and many a wheelbarrow.

Frankly, I can do without being reminded that I am in metal bullet tearing through the sky and very much pinning my hopes on the mechanics not having forgotten to tighten that all-important bolt. I am considering starting a petition to ban turbulence, or at least to have heavy-duty sedatives available at the airplane entrance instead of newspapers.

Considering this background, imagine how I feel about having to fly Tajik airlines in September this year. I’m very much looking forward to the Habitat for Humanity house build in Tajikistan, but I suspect the building site I plopped out may well be dwarfed by the pants-kakking I will be doing on an ancient Soviet aircraft.

Believe it or not, I went to church on Sunday (not by personal choice and not as a means of worship), and I wasn’t repelled at the front door by a large flash of lightning. I’m rather disappointed, as this means I’m not being evil enough. I’ll need to start hatching plans to up my evil quotient. Maybe I should get an upside-down cross tattooed on my forehead. Mind you, the only problem with that is if I stand on my head it won’t be satanic any more. I wonder if this is a probable for satanic gymnasts, or for Christian gymnasts for that matter? Tumbles could be very confusing: evil, good, evil, good, evil, good.

Believe it or not, I went to church on Sunday (not by personal choice and not as a means of worship), and I wasn’t repelled at the front door by a large flash of lightning. I’m rather disappointed, as this means I’m not being evil enough. I’ll need to start hatching plans to up my evil quotient. Maybe I should get an upside-down cross tattooed on my forehead. Mind you, the only problem with that is if I stand on my head it won’t be satanic any more. I wonder if this is a probable for satanic gymnasts, or for Christian gymnasts for that matter? Tumbles could be very confusing: evil, good, evil, good, evil, good.

And so, farewell to Stephen (name changed to protect the identity in case the coppers are in tow), Budapest’s answer to Arthur Daley. He is finally, for the last time, honest governor, leaving town to go back to London, where he will probably be exchanging large dollops of filthy lucre with shady-looking characters up back alleys for a living.

Stephen is the man whose various enterprises have included flying to Switzerland to fill his suitcase up with duty-free fags to sell on in the UK, driving a Rolls Royce across Europe to flog it in Budapest (still looking for a buyer) and various other slightly-dubious-but-probably-not-worth-a-year-in-jail-locked-up-with-a-serial-killer type transactions.

If Budapest wasn’t so hot, he would have been wearing a sheepskin jacket.

Thanks for the farewell barbecue, Stefan, I mean Stephen, and I look forward to seeing you in handcuffs on TV being taking to jail after defrauding some rich middle-class old lady out of her nest egg.

And so, farewell to Stephen (name changed to protect the identity in case the coppers are in tow), Budapest’s answer to Arthur Daley. He is finally, for the last time, honest governor, leaving town to go back to London, where he will probably be exchanging large dollops of filthy lucre with shady-looking characters up back alleys for a living.

Stephen is the man whose various enterprises have included flying to Switzerland to fill his suitcase up with duty-free fags to sell on in the UK, driving a Rolls Royce across Europe to flog it in Budapest (still looking for a buyer) and various other slightly-dubious-but-probably-not-worth-a-year-in-jail-locked-up-with-a-serial-killer type transactions.

If Budapest wasn’t so hot, he would have been wearing a sheepskin jacket.

Thanks for the farewell barbecue, Stefan, I mean Stephen, and I look forward to seeing you in handcuffs on TV being taking to jail after defrauding some rich middle-class old lady out of her nest egg.

I received possibly the greatest present known to humankind at the weekend. I’m not talking about the gift of love, or friendship, or any of that namby-pamby nonsense. I’m talking about a practical book that could one day save my life: The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks.

I would urge everyone who cares about ensuring the future safety of themselves and their family to rush out and buy this book now. It is eye-opening. Zombies are OUT THERE! And they are ready to STRIKE AT ANY MINUTE! I can’t believe there has been so much media hysteria over Bird Flu, Iran and Bin Laden when the largest threat to the world as we know it is being overlooked. Don’t delay. Invest in your future and buy this book today (even though it doesn’t have a section on Zombie Cows).

Nats is now possibly in for Wife of the Year award, as long as my other three don’t do anything outstanding before the ceremony.