Well, I'm slowly - when I have time, that is - turning this blog into a kind of autobiographical novel. So this is the first chapter below. Let me know what you think or if it really offends you, turns you on or whatever.

The passing of a true Global Cult ought to be dramatic, memorable, world-shaking. There ought to be mass suicides, heaps of gunfire, the Headquarters set alight, explosions in slow motion and all the rest of it. A Real Cult should go out in a blaze of blood and glory.

But no such thing happened with Nowhere Children Inc. Godfrey did not go out with his weapons of mass destruction (or WMD as I would have would put it) firing, intent on taking as many FBI agents with him as possible. Nor did he place a Walther PPK pistol to his temple as enemy tanks rolled towards his underground bunker. Instead, he sat quietly and contentedly enjoying one of Charles Rochester’s favourite cigars in his study while awaiting a hurricane at home. A bit of an anti-climax, you might say.

Luckily for the more bloodthirsty readers, I wrote this final Company report before setting off on my backpacking holiday in Thailand.

I was awoken just after 4am, about an hour before dawn, by the unmistakable sound of automatic weapon fire. I sprang naked out of bed, as lithe and quick at a jungle cat. I crouched by the window but could see nothing.

I wasted no more time. Six and a half seconds latter, I was running downstairs, barefoot with a Glock 17 pistol in my hand.

The odds were stacked high against me but I was not worried. I was SAFA – and I was armed with my weapon of choice. A Glock Model 17 is the only model in the Glock range designed to take amphibious spring cups. These spring cups allow the pistol to be fired underwater and are not standard issue. Luckily, my replica Glock 17 had been marinized and I was ready for just about anything that might come my way. Even if they decided to attack from the depths of the swimming pool, I could still take them out.

“Let them come!” I thought as I burst out of the front door and went into a rolling dive. Even as I was rolling, my mind was clicking like a computer. They would need a diversion… probably at the gates. The real attack would be most likely come from the woods. There would know what they were up against this time. They would know that I was here, they would know my background, my training… and…

And, and…what? I paused at my laptop and then clicked on the save tab of his word document. I realised suddenly that all that was finished now. That part of my life was over. I was no longer in a Cult. I was no longer SAFA. I closed the lip of my laptop. I was free!

I got up and went over to the old green Army rucksack leaning against the wardrobe. I had bought it from a government surplus store two days ago. It was already stuffed to bursting point with clothes for the tropics, mosquito repellent, emergency rations, medicines, first aid kit, sun cream, camera, hand-powered torch and all sorts of stuff.

I bent down and rummaged in the front pocket. Had I packed condoms? Yes, I had. Backpacking through south-east Asia was going to be the adventure of a lifetime…and the soldier in me wanted to be as prepared as possible.

On Sunday I went to Honfleur - a medieval seaside town about 180km west of Paris.
The town itself was stunning with narrow cobbled streets full of romantic looking buildings in a state of glorious decay.
But it was hot - so hot! And the "15 minute" walk to the beach turned out to be only 15 minutes if you happened to walk at 50 miles per hour...
When we finally got there, we found that the sea had gone off on holiday, leaving only burning hot sands and mud stretching as far as the eye could see. The heat was killing and there was no shade.
I found it all a bit too much - especially as we soon ran out of water. But my hostess was in her element.
"I am going to get a tan," she announced and proceeded to roast herself topless.
Remembering my desert training, I curled up into a defensive ball and covered myself completely with a big towel. I then prepared to collect my own urine and waited patiently for a camel. It was pure textbook stuff.
The drive to Honfleur was also very interesting. The French countryside was glorious on that hot, sunny afternoon. Most of the houses were thatched with shutters and there were bright flowers everywhere.
We drove through a lovely forest. I noticed a plastic carrier bag tied to a stick by a nice little secluded path that led off into the trees. A short distance down this idyllic trail, but still visible from the road, a young woman was waiting.
I thought nothing of it at first - perhaps she was writing poetry or maybe starting to think about it. But as we drove on, I began to notice more plastic bags on sticks, indicating more secluded trails and more scantily dressed women lying in wait.
It began to feel like something out of the Odyssey. Fortunately, my hostess was driving and I was not rowing so there was no need to fill my ears with wax or bid my men bind me to the mast.
Another lucky escape then.

Now that I've got my obitury out of the way, I can get on with my life.

I am now in Paris for a week. I only just managed to catch my flight yesterday. My planned rout was: Train to Exeter, bus to Exeter bus station and then another bus from the bus station to the airport. I checked it all out on the internet and it seemed that I should get there in plenty of time.

However, I had not banked on Public Transport!

The train was fine - we actually had a driver who bothered to turn up on time - but the connecting bus to the bus station did not show up. I asked a bus driver where it was and he said "It's the next bus"

I got on the next bus and asked if this was the bus going to the station. He said "No, that bus isn't turning up - he's lost somewhere."

The bus driver then told me that he was going to the station as the other bus was lost so, sonewhat relieved, I paid my fare and sat down.

According to the time table, there should have been only one stop to the station but my bus ambled slowly through town, stopping frequently to pick up or drop off passengers. Sometimes it just stopped for the sheer hell of it and waited hopefully for people to board or unboard.

Finally, it gave itself a little shake and set off into the country at a steady trot - rather like a spaniel when it thinks it's onto a scent.

I looked at my watch and saw that I wasn't going to be able to catch the bus from the station to the airport. It was now quarter to five, my flight was at half five and I should haved checked in 15 minutes ago.

I turned to the lady next to me and asked how long it was until we got to the station.

"Oh, we passed it ten minutes ago," she said placidly. "Did you want to go there?"

"I thought the bus would stop in it," I said. "On the timetable it says that its the last stop and it pulls into row 26. I need to go to the airport."

"Oh no, that's the next bus," she said. "Well you've missed the bus to the airport - won't be another for an hour. I hope you weren't wanting to catch a plane!"

She laughed a little at the absurdity of such a possiblity.

"Yes," I said tersely. "That's why I want to go to the airport - to catch a plane!"

She stared wonderingly at me. "To catch a plane?! Well then, you'll miss it! Hang on, I'll go and speak to the driver."

"A plane?" repeated the driver wonderingly when he heard my story. "Where are you flying to to?"

"Paris," I said hopefully. "Do you know it?"

It seemed highly unlikely that the bus driver would have a private plane stashed away nearby, ready to fly me to France - but I was willing to clutch at even damp straws.

"Paris?" repeated the driver, his voice vibrating with joy. "Why, I used to have a girlfriend there!"

Suddenly everyone was very helpful. The driver got on his radio and asked head office if it might not be possible that I could pick up the airport bus on rout somewhere. It wasn't. A taxi was now the only option.

The next stop was the hospital. Out I leapt in search of a taxi. But there were no taxis. The only taxi driver I managed to find told me that he wasn't allowed to pick up passengers from the hospital. Perhaps it was against Health and Safety. I had no time to investigate. I leapt back on the bus again.

"Our next stop is the Met Office," said the driver. "If I was you I'd phone for a taxi to pick you up from there. We should be there in ten minutes if the traffic isn't too bad."

"A goodly idea," said I, feeling nevertheless that it was beginning to look like a lost cause. (It was now five minutes to five.) "Do you know the number of a local firm?"

He shook his head sorrowfully. "I don't use taxis," he said gloomily.

"Four three four three four three!" shouted the last remaining passenger on the bus.

"Thanks!" I said and rapidly dialed the number. I ordered the taxi and sat back as the bus screeched off towards the Met Office.

I got to the airport at 5.15 and ran to the flybe check in desk. There was nobody there. Even the other check in desks were deserted. I ran round the place a few times with my rucksack - perhaps people would be drawn to where the action was.

Finally a girl appeared at the far end of the building and approached me cautiously.

"Can I help?" she asked.

"LateformyflighttoParis!" I shouted breathlessly. "CanIgoonthrough?"

"I just go and ask my superviser," she said. "But I think you're too late - the gates are shut."

After about five minutes her superviser came through. "We were boarding twenty minutes ago," she told me sternly. "The gates are shut."

I saw that now was the time for the gloves to come off - it was my last chance. I pulled out my British Passport and thrust it at her. She took it and, with a sneer, opened it;

The Suicide Bomber's face with its long lank hair leered up from the battered pages...her hand flew to her mouth to stiffle a scream...

The gates were reopened and i was allowed to board.

Yossarian's World

Ben Taylor, who ascended peacefully to Heaven last Thursday, was a noted Psychic and Palm Reader who spent much of his life avoiding work and residing in a medieval castle in Cornwall.

A genuine interest in people from all walks of life led him to realise the horrors of Work and Responsibility and, for much of his adulthood, he was always one step ahead of these two social evils.

Ben Taylor was born Ben Taylor into the family of Taylors, who were well known for their wild and sometimes disturbing eccentricities. Along with his three sisters and two brothers he was educated at home. Afterwards, he followed the family tradition amongst the Taylor males by going to Trinity College, Oxford but failed to come away with any qualifications. In fact, to this day, there is still no record of him on their books.

He was a man of simple tastes and pleasures, the exception being an obsession with expensive cars. However, his dislike of responsibility meant that he never actually owned any of these cars but instead drove those belonging to friends or relatives.

He was fond of playing music and meeting unusual people. By his own admission, he never really grew up and, even in his late twenties, delighted in startling visitors by appearing suddenly in an afro wig. He wrote several books and short stories, none of which were ever published. He also wrote poetry and started the ‘Wu-Kih’ gene that was later to become a literary phenomenon when his elder sister Morn adopted it in her cult bestseller Yellow Mambo.

He regarded Birth and Marriage as self-inflicted miseries and also disliked long-term relationships. He preferred to live alone with either three dogs or cats and once remarked that “When animals are annoying, you can just shut them outside – but you can’t do that with wives and children, can you?”

At his request, at his funeral, his father read from the Book of Ecclesiastes, “Vanity of vanities, sayeth the Preacher. All is vanity…”