GETTING THE PHANGAN OF IT.

The parties leading up to the Full Moon Party are arguably better than the night itself. First night on Phangan was the infamous Coral Bungalows Pool Party, perhaps best renamed as Clamydia Orgy or STI Soup (though not as marketable, quite). In the warmth of the murky water the crowds of revellers seemed to have forgotten that just because this doesn't look like Blackpool with its WKD-vom covered teens, babies half hanging out under their miniskirts, doesn't mean the STIs aren't just as rife. Obvz none of this stopped us jumping in fully clothed; hey we're in paradise, how ill could we get?

Next in the Full Moon build up came the Jungle Experience, a 'rave' (thanks for teaching me this word Annie Mac) for a few thousand people under the jungle canopy, though sadly my darling bezzie Ciabattz was too ill - *cough* pool party - to accompany us... We replaced her with Wez, a friendly lad AND FATHER from London who at best could be described as spontaneous, at worse psychopathic. Clam-Eyes reappeared, the beneficiary of one of our favourite nicknames from Phi-Phi, he was cursed blessed with such name as he was a crustration, complete with beard, sneakily peeping out of its shell. Can't say he was exactly excited to see us, a crabby clam is no fun.

It seemed like a great idea to head to the beach after this gathering (not quite sure what constitutes a 'rave' but I'm pretty sure I've never been to one and that they perhaps only existed in the 90s, or in Human Traffic; soz Annie it's Friday and everyone's behaving). The last we saw of Wez (until later, oh the best was yet to come) was him being dragged along by a tuk-tuk screaming at us that he was 'going to Eden'. Orright Wez. At the beach the BFF and I spent our taxi money on a bucket of rum, then sat and wept on the beach about not having enough money to get home, luckily we had our bucket to help us get through this; what came first the chicken or the egg? After a swim we hopped in a tuk-tuk, arriving back to find Wez surrounded by comatose Swedes, 'I've never done Valium before so we all snorted twelve.' Good job guys. After slapping the Swedes silly, nipple twisting and soaking them with beer to check they weren't dead, we took ourselves off to bed, leaving Wez unguarded and free to burst in on Ciabattz. Having wrestled with 'the face that keeps staring at me from your backpack', arguing with the man he could see in the corner and screaming at Ciabattz for having green hair (she didn't) he passed out. Cheers Wez, wherever you are now, hopefully alive, we still owe you for that tuk-tuk.

Crescent moon? Nope... Half moon? Nah. Man in the moon? No, wait it can't be, shit it really is... woah it's a full moon. We got our UV on, aztec sleeves, warrior paint, every bodypart wanted to be neon; if you can't beat them - and why would you want to beat them? - JOIN THEM BABY. Hop in a tuk-tuk and off we go. After a month of Steve Aoki and Armand van Helden remixes of every song you've ever liked ever (and even more that you don't), here was drum and bass finally. Spent a few hours getting my stomp on with Angel Gabriel, one of the now-recovered Swedes. This cherub face had eyes bluer than the ocean that surrounded us and hair like pissed-in cotton wool. We wanted to put him in a nativity. Later I wrote my (overly complicated) name in the sand for a boy called Julio and he remembered it and we are now looking forward to our future together as the best of (Facebook) friends.

 THESE ARE NOT MY FRIENDS

Image courtesy of Google

As the hype promised it would, the Full Moon Party provided us with the best moment of travelling so far; no not the music or dancing in the sea at sunrise, not an acid-filled Wez burying in the sand with the millions of frogs he believed he was surrounded by, not even my angel faced boy, but my BFF being beaten about the face with the shit-covered stick the proprietor of the horrible loos used to clean her kingdom. Perhaps when this woman tells you the loos are closed don't piss on the building. Though to be fair, BFF had a point when she screeched, whilst pulling up her knickers and staggering away, 'NOT ON MY FACE YOU FUCKING BITCH.' Anywhere else lady, but don't hate on the money maker.

RYAN (leader of the PiCs)

Post Full-Moon (time on Phangan exists in a Pre-FM/Post-FM format) there were forced nights out whilst trying to avoid bouts of torrential rain and torrential diarrhea. Herds of Aussies - or dancing Penises in Caps - were all we enountered, as they were loving the rain glistening off their hard (gross), shaved abs. One of the PiCs (Penis-in-Caps, keep up), Ryan told us his fave surfer friend dude man had just been attacked by a shark in Perth and only half his bod had been recovered. Gnarly bro. Can't wait for surfing.