I tried to flee the country at night, little realising that people only notice when you don't want them to notice. Suddenly everyone was eyeing me up, dressing me down, working me out. So I had a bad feeling when I walked up to the check-in desk at the airport. Particularly as I had developed a rather painful erection.

To my utter dismay the check-in clerk informed my passport was invalid, in that it ran out a month hence. He would not be budged from his idiotic standpoint, even when I licked his earhole. As a result I was refused passage on to the airplane. I thus retired disconsolately to my luxury cardboard box to contemplate my next move.

Bright the next morning I turned up at the passport office. Again I had a turgid sensation in my undergarments. The reason soon became clear as the official informed me that my photographs were insufficiently clear, given the stainage thereon, and my identity documents were falling apart. I informed him that the stainage was actually upon my face, and therefore could not be removed easily. He refused to accept this explanation.

I was thus forced to insert my application form, complete with pictures, old passport and £114 in cash, into his rear passage. My boot was then deployed smartly on his backside. Almost immediately a brand new passport issued from his mouth. I grabbed it and kissed it with glee, paying particular attention to the Royal Crest.

No sooner had I got on the bus to the airport when I saw this one-eyed midget shouting the word 'Now.' I said: 'For what reason?' and he said: 'How?' And I said: 'What does this mean?' and he screamed back: 'You're a cow ... give me some milk or else go home.' And I knew something was happening here, but rather than investigate further I ran into the terminal to claim my aisle seat and complementary sick bag.

My groinbell tolled loudly as soon as I presented my documents to the staff on duty. I was immediately interrogated as to the purpose of my visit. It appeared that possessing brand new travel documents are indicative of terrorist urges. And it was indeed true that I had a strange compulsion to detonate an explosive of some sort in my trousers as I regarded the ape-like security guard don rubber gloves with aplomb. Not only was my baggage thoroughly raped but my person was also patted down with excessive vigour. I was only fortunate that he did not detect the tumescent growth between my legs.

I thus finally escaped from Britain bowed, broken and humiliated. Truly I was the hobnob biscuit upon which Kafka, Freud and Pavlov had profusely ejaculated.

One fine summer I decided to abandon my restless wanderings around this detritus-ridden metropolis and bum a ride on various modes of transport headed for the continent. Forty-eight hours later I was tossed at the side of a layby in Southern Spain like a worn-out sex doll. Summoning my last reserves of energy, I limped into a small conurbation near Valencia. I forget its name now, but I have not forgotten the Bacchanalian scenes that greeted my optical nerves as I arrived. It appeared that there was to be a festival that day, and hordes of people were crowding into the centre of the town. I followed, convinced that this could only mean free food and drink and possible a woman of the loose variety. Imagine my delight when I discovered countless dreg-laden plastic cups littering the streets.

I was just savouring my 100th swig of wash-back when I heard a loud roar erupt. Heads swivelled, eyes lit up and no doubt organs were aroused. It appeared that a large truck was approaching, containing a mound of red vegetable matter. Several human beings of both sexes appeared to be distributing said foodstuff liberally without requesting payment. It was only when the vehicle drove past that I realised the items being dished out were tomatoes. I gleefully gathered up as many as my oversize hands allowed. Yet such was my confusion at receiving this unexpected windfall that I spent countless seconds musing on the true nature of the tomato - fruit or vegetable?

Erring on the side of fruit, I decided that I should gobble up my loot greedily before it was snatched away by one of the hundreds of marauding omnivores among the crowd.

This was of course a fatal mistake. No sooner had the last tomato slithered down my gullet than I realised nobody else was eating. Instead they were flinging their cargo at each other zealously, with no thought for the food wastage involved. It appeared that this was the true nature of the festival. I immediately determined to join in with gusto.

Alas, just as I wound back my awesome throwing arm - developed through years of onanism and glass tilting - when I experienced the unpleasant sensation of a missile slamming directly into my eyeball. I can assure you it felt more like a depleted uranium shell than a tomato. Mortally wounded, I slumped down to the street, which was by now a foot deep in crushed organic matter.

Unable to see, I was forced to crawl through the maze of legs and the sea of red mush back the way I had come. Ah, if only Moses were here, I thought. Half an hour later, as if a walking Bloody Mary, I finally surged into daylight and dry land. As I staggered away, vowing never to eat another tomato again, I realised I resembled something like the lone survivor of a US high school massacre.

Sadly I was quite unable to find any TV camera crews to give a first-hand account of my horrific ordeal.