‘I say, your engine’s nice and tight,’ says Surfy Steve. ‘And the steering is sensitive too…but that might just be the used tissue on the drive axle. Did you leave that there on purpose as a talking point?’   I glance over at this pie-faced young perisher in the driving seat and groan inwardly. This

Half of the attraction is the chase – at least, from the man’s point of view. The uncertainty of whether a woman will melt into his embrace is an adrenalin-pumping rollercoaster. Isn’t this a little unfair, though? A woman simply needs to turn up naked with a beer…and the deal is sealed. Well, that’s oversimplifying,

(A little something I wrote in 2009) I’ve always liked travel. Come to think of it, I’ve always liked women, too. I happen to be in Zagreb, Croatia…and the ravishing Ivana is my city guide. The situation could hardly be improved: the city is beguiling, and Ivana’s sleeveless red frock swirls tastefully, tantalisingly around her

Here you are already skim-reading – you may not want to travel to Marrakech – just in case I’ve written something saucy. Well, I haven’t. So why have I written three blogs on Marrakech, without so much as a token toilet joke? Well, because my notes were originally intended for Wanderlust magazine – an On

Well, strike me down with a lipstick. Watching Michelin Mat’s brother, Nick, order a meal is like witnessing the build-up to penetrative sex. He deliberates agonisingly over the menu, fingering the page as though silkily caressing a woman’s thigh – the slow, erotic preliminary to the certainty ahead. ‘The portion is very big,’ says the

Chilling may well seem like a pipedream whilst threading your way through the hubbub of Marraech’s souks. But here are five places to totally relax: 1) Head to Terrasse des Epices and stressful thoughts of haggling and bustle will soon evaporate. This rooftop terrace restaurant, catering well for vegetarians is a veritable oasis above the

‘This way, sir – lubbly jubbly.’ Amid the tumult of helmetless motorcyclists riding pell-mell through a gaggle of school children, a phlegmatic babouche seller catches my attention with his snappy badinage. Armed with my rehearsed ‘Salaam-Alaikum’, I falter. But we shake hands and smile as an imperilling, throttle-zealous wrist passes within two inches of a

It was a shambles. Trucks loaded with U2’s equipment were peeling off in different directions: left, right and centre like the Wacky Races. Hapless colleagues were led through the centre of St. Petersburg; others were seen heading the wrong way round the ring road. Oh, what a rigmarole. It became increasingly clear that our armed