Goan 'av a go if you think yer 'ard enough.

Ricky hated buses. He'd spent the two-and-a-half hour journey south across Goa staring at a goat and sitting on something uncomfortable, which he'd later found to be a cockerel. The locals had been a bit funny as well, they kept making kung-fu hand chopping movements and noises at him, no idea what that was about. Though after he'd tried his time honoured trick of just starring unnervingly at them from 14 inches away they'd soon piped down.

He'd left the Portuguese imperial splendor of Panjim behind and got on the 40p special bus down to Palolem. He'd been sorry to leave Panjim, he'd had a hell of a time. The locals had dubbed him Richardo Soggardinho -Little Soggy Ricky - though the meaning was somewhat lost in being translated from Portuguese to Konkani to English.

Safely holed up in Palolem, he immediately holed up in the town's finest hotel (£7pppn) and headed for the D.I. to give the curl some much-needed fresh air - after all those hours on the bus he smelt like a dirty football sock. The water was safe, the locals assured him, though he wasn't sure whether this meant he wouldn't be eaten or whether it meant he'd avoid swallowing something previously eaten by someone else.

Ricky had picked up two new friends along the way, MeGiulia and Matt. Together they got ready for what should be a highlight of the trip - Silent Disco. Ricky whacked on a bit of Old Spice/Lynx Java as he prepared for the night. The air was pregnant with expectation.

He was excited by the idea of silent disco - a club with no sound system, where all music is played though individual speakers - because as someone who was silent a lot of the time and who also liked banging phat beats, it ticked all the boxes. Apart from a lack of Only Fools and Horses on a big screen. For some reason, there wasn't a channel on the headphones for the UK's finest situation comedy of the last 30 years. Funny country.

After two hours he was ready. He smelt good, his head was polished so much it looked like a disco ball. He'd even changed his pants.

But when he got there, he felt curiously deflated. The music was a sonic explosion in his ears but he found the experience weird. He'd been eying up some woman and using the "fishing rod"

methods to reel her in but she didn't bite. Strange, it had never failed before. She'd taken her headphones of and whispered something about chicken oriental or something, he'd not quite made it out in the patter of stomping feet.

Ricky consoled himself later in the week by heading out for some real fishing. Out on the waters of the Indian Ocean he'd bagged himself some slippery wrigglers and headed back to the beach with the crew for a top class nosh. Though when he'd put it like this to Giulia he'd got a funny look.

After that it was back to the hut for an early night. For some reason, buses in Goa only travelled in darkness, so he had to be up for 5am. To continue the Adventures of Ricky Schmuck.

Mumbai Blues

Schmuck stepped out of Mumbai International and into an inferno.

It was 9am and already the city was hot like hell. A bead of perspiration ran like an al-fresco piss along his pate and into his eyes. Quickly he took a handkerchief from his pocket, tied knots in four corners and places across his head. That was better.

He stepped out and hailed a cab for his hotel. A man walking by shouted something that sounded like "Hey you Chinaman" but he couldn't be sure. The cab didn't have air con - it was like an oven. The bead of sweat was joined by friends on his wide forehead under the hankie.

The hotel was nice - Schmuck wanted a few nights of luxury before hitting the backtrack trail. The bellhop welcomed him to his room, addressing him strangely, pronouncing his name "Kiu Pa" and bowing from the waist. Most odd.

After stowing his clothes - mostly thongs - and having a quick shower, he again felt brave enough to hit the streets to see this city, once a proud symbol of Britain's Empire. But also, he hoped, of a beer for 7p.

He stepped out of the hotel and into a maelstrom. The traffic rules seemed to be based on Darwinian theory - survival of the fittest. Luckily, Schmuck knew how to play by those rules, having been raised in the badboy ghetto of Weybourne. What seemed like chaos to others was like manna, soothing his nerves. His written off Peugeot 106 was a testament to living life literally in the fast lane. And you don't indicate your direction in life.

Dodgy traffic like a bodypopping scarecrow he crossed the street to what passed for a pavement. Immediately he was mobbed. Locals converged on him from all sides. This is how Jesus felt, he thought.

He beat a hasty retreat to the station. He needed to get a rain ticket to Goa. He was approached again, by an Indian man. This one was older and better dressed than the rest. He offered his help to Schmuck, who was feeling the heat by this time, sweating like a G20 policeman watching a home video. Between them they managed to get Schmuck a ticket to Goa. He thanked the man profusely. His reply was a touch odd: "Your Confucius, he say, man with smooth scalp may have no rooftop garden, but his seeds grow strong roots elsewhere."

After four days of being pawed at Schmuck got his train to Goa. Golden sands and palm tees stretched as far as he could see. He had an idle flashback to his previous life - up to his thighs in mud, wrestling a piece of string into a straight line for a building to follow, while the heavens opened above him with the roar of Concorde. Fuck that, he thought, succinctly.

And he was not wrong. The next few days consisted of waking up in a hammock on the beach, checking he hadn't been a) robbed or b) bottom raided and then heading off to buy a can of Indian lager for 3p. He'd met up with a great group of people. or some reason they kept calling him "Miyagi", but he could handle that. His knotted hankie became a thing of the past as his already swarthy skin became used to the harsh Indian sun.

As he lay back upon the sand, his chest hair curl catching the last of the sun's dying rays, he thought about how much fun he was having and wondered: Does anywhere round here show Only Fools and Horses?