Mmmmmmmmmmm weddings are for getting really drunk and making a tit out of yourself, right? I bleeding hope so or I just did all this last weekend wrong. Teetering around slapping hands on arses is all good clean fun when you are that close to the equator.

Ah Curacao. No such thing as sexual harassment on the island residents lovingly refer to as the Twilight Zone. It’s 3 and a half years since I left and the cute boys I hired can still recount with glee the many tales of my inappropriate behaviour towards them. [For the record, EVERYTHING is ALWAYS in the bottom drawer].

“Maccers!” they shouted when I arrived, for indeed it was they who named me, “Remember when you told me you’d fire me if I ever wore another short sleeved shirt with a tie?”

“Ay pet.” I replied. “I do that. See, sometimes I helped. I wasn’t always jiggling around in your pockets for “change”.”

Ah Curacao. Where the Dutch will regale you with their stories of deep fat frying. It’s not for the faint-hearted. Or for those who can’t drink and drive.