If you're not clued up - in the past, some larva burst out of the ocean like a huge prehistoric zit and formed a volcanic mass that someone would later decided was a great place to throw a party on and call 'Lanzarote' (ACE).

Then we found our way to the beach where a crowd had gathered around a dying shark. A guy who I'd not seen since First School called Alistair was there, turns out the reason I'd been unable to find him on Facebook was because he'd spent a lot of time living in a cave by the ocean where his signal wasn't great.

"Let's rain dance some ants out of these holes" he said and placed his iPod onto the floor of the shark's mouth where the gleaming cavern of death provided the perfect amplification for his 1990s-heavy playlist. The party was long, wild and tribal but with our flight due it was time to hit the terminal and pray to sweet Jesus that we weren't packing over 15kg.

After we de-boarded and collected our luggage in a peeing-it-down Luton (LTN) it turned out that I did have something to declare. A round lump I'd taken for an undigested meatball burst a legion of ants all down my nice shirt. As it dawned that we'd never be able to crunch them all with our flip flops, silent tears streamed down the taxi driver's face as the ecological makeup of the British ant community would be changed forever.

I'm not too clear how much of that last night occurred as I'd forgotten my holiday hat and taken enough sun to the dome to extinct a rhino.

Lanzarote; Island of the Gods