'EARLIER THIS year, I decided never to fly again. It's not for environmental reasons, but because I am absolutely petrified of flying, and couldn't take it any more. I have about 20 fears of stuff that might happen, from plummeting into the sea to being blown to pieces, and every time I've been on a plane, I've thought, "Never again."
But, unless you're a millionaire and can cruise around the world on a yacht, the only way to go anywhere and see anything is to fly. And there was pressure from my now ex-girlfriend, who was a sun-worshipper and keen to jet off to exotic locations.
With the help of a Valium prescription, we did manage a couple of holidays to impressively far-flung destinations, such as Vancouver Island, which was particularly lovely.
But our last trip was a disaster from start to finish. We went to the Dominican Republic, a textbook paradise for those in the right frame of mind. I was not. I managed to lose my spectacles in the sea an hour after arriving, so had to wear my prescription sunglasses for the duration in order to see.
As a result, it was very dark, and everyone in the resort thought I was either a total arse or blind. Whichever they plumped for, they avoided me. Then my girlfriend also decided that I was a total arse - we ended up splitting up halfway through the stay.
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To punish me, she hid my Valium and told me that there was a hurricane heading our way, and that we'd be taking off in the middle of it. The flight home was actually okay, as I went to a local doctor and picked up some extremely strong Dominican Valium.
After takeoff, I had a brief moment of terror, during which I screamed, leapt up and grabbed a stranger to have someone to cling to, but then the mega-strength Valium kicked in and I passed out until we got home.
Long-haul flights are actually easier for me than short ones, because you have time between takeoff and landing to pretend that everything's normal, that it's perfectly ordinary to be suspended up there in a metal box. So, I've been as far as San Francisco, and loved it - the mountainous streets, the Victorian and modern architecture, the really diverse culture.
But it was on a short-haul flight that I made the final decision about air travel. I was going to Kilkenny. I sat next to a stranger who kept underlining doom-laden passages in his Bible. I suspected he was a fundamentalist intent on ending it all and taking us with him. I got off that plane, tore up my return ticket, booked a ferry home and felt this enormous weight being lifted from me.
Since then, I've tried to convince myself that all life is local, and that I could make Hunter S Thompson-style journeys and discover the soul of Scotland in places like Mull. In reality, I discovered Mull is a place where people go slightly mad and turn to drink, and found myself wondering why the Scottish tourist board even bothers to try to entice people, when it's always raining and everything is overpriced.
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There are some lovely parts of Scotland, such as Glenuig, way, way out on the west coast, which I happened on when touring. It was so remote, it didn't even appear on our map. It seemed such an unlikely spot for a comedy gig that we thought the promoter must be mistaken.
We were taken to this fantastically equipped village hall, from where we could see people descending from the surrounding hills, sticks and torches in hand, some of them stopping to tend a few sheep along the way. It was a bizarre gig, not least because the hall was unlicensed, and the audience sat sipping tea while we tried to make them laugh.
I think I'm quite Victorian at heart. I like the idea of travelling by rail and sea to far-flung outposts, dressed as Jack the Ripper, with a leather suitcase, carrying semi-pornographic etchings of tribal women with me at all times.
Mongolia appeals, as it's not possible to do luxury there, and I'd be forced to experience the country as it is, rather than opting for the best hotel. And, if I managed to get there, nobody could ever accuse me of not having been anywhere just because I'm too scared to fly.'