New journal · August 2026
After a short break of 23 years (Nicky just popped in to Boots)…Bigadic’s back!
To anyone unfortunate enough to recall the ramblings of a pair of young round-the-world trippers back in 2003, I can only apologise. To everyone else? Yeah, probably the same.
I wouldn’t quite call it a double decade of downtime. We’ve had a bit going on.
Me and Nicky are still Me and Nicky. I suspect will always will be. Heck, I’d love that girl if she had five-and-a-half fingers and ten-and-a-half toes (she says it’s a bunion…fuckin thing’s got a knuckle!).
In the eight-and-a-half thousand days since our premature ejaculation from New Delhi and the world’s coldest airport, we’ve added a grand total of five little Me & Nicky’s - or is it Nicky & I’s - to the world’s population crisis. You can thank us later.
If it’s of any consolation, they’re among the most beautiful humans you’re ever likely to meet. But more of that, and them another time I’m sure.
Actually, I say ‘five’ - that’s not strictly true (and not strictly ‘we’). But that, too, is another story. A ‘beautiful woman does a beautiful thing’ story.
We recently re-stumbled on archived web pages from our round-the-world trip travel site - In Search Of Bigadic - from back in 2003. We entered a competition, won £12k and two round-the-world air tickets, and buggered off. We used the website to keep our friends and family updated on our journey whenever and wherever we could. I’ll share more of what we’ve managed to salvage at some point.
It was such a joy to rediscover the old online guestbooks in particular. It was like stumbling on buried treasure. Little nuggets of still-warm well wishes retrieved from their time-capsuled past.
Nicky and I sat on the sofa reading the entries with such nostalgia. Message after message from our ‘Yahoo Guestbook’ (which only allowed entries of 250 characters or le…) from mums, dads, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, family friends, old work colleagues - even the odd stranger or two - all digitally deep frozen since 2003.
In some cases, it was the first time we truly appreciated the impact our trip had on some of those close to us. The idea of “sod this, I’m retiring!” was mentioned more than once.
One post, from my mum, left me bawling on the sofa like Gazza on Spitting Image (without the dodgy accent, of course).
It wasn’t her comment in which she ruled out my prospects of getting a job on Baywatch. Nor was it her insistence that being ‘busted flat in Baton Rouge’ (which we were at the time, with a punctured tyre) must be worse than losing one’s ballbearings in Portaferry.
It was her comment that said: “We’re thinking about the pair of you. Good luck now that you’re really on the road. You’ve inspired us. We’re thinking of selling the house when we retire, buying a decent camper and spending our time exploring. Europe at least.”
My mum died a few years later without ever getting the chance to enjoy her retirement. My dad lasted a good while longer, though spent probably the last 15 years of his life in a wheelchair following a stroke. There was to be no camper van. No exploring. No “Europe at least”. They didn’t even get the chance to lose their ballbearings in Portaferry (though they did once burn out a clutch in Cushendun).
My utter heartbreak swallowed me whole. Just as I thought I might die from grief right there on the sofa, I was instantly dredged from the depths of my despair by her numerically-challenged sign-off: “By then you’ll be able to advi…”
Needless to say, when I finally stopped crying, I stomped all over those emotions and buried them way down deep in the pit of my soul - with all the rest of that shit - and forced the lid shut like a Bank Holiday bin day. Nothing to see here.
It really hit me. It was all a bit ‘message from the grave’-y. Bisto! After 23 years, it was an unexpected yet timely perspective on my mum’s retirement hopes two decades after she died without ever having the chance to realise them.
I looked at all of the other names in the guestbook and was struck by how much things have changed in 23 years - and yet how much has stayed the same.
And it made me think of my own situation - doing a job I can’t stand because without it I’d starve - and I realised that history could very easily repeat itself. I’m not really sure what happens next, but I’m not going to wait until I ‘retire’ before making the most of what we have right now. That much I do know.
So…I felt Bigadic calling and here we are. I’m keen to get the old stuff back online in some guise - and some new stuff, too - but I’m also keen not to have a nervous breakdown. All I’m asking of myself is forward movement.
For now I thought I’d share one of our journals, just for old time’s sake.
Nicky said it was probably her favourite, and who better to judge.
If you’re not fond of shit, you might want to give it a miss.
It’s the one where we empty the campervan loo...
Darwin, Australia · 2003
The Dump Station Journal
We finally arrived in the outskirts of Darwin on the Friday evening, booked ourselves into a campground for the night and relaxed. When we woke on the Saturday, the only task that remained before returning the van was to empty the loo.
The ‘Dump’ Station
Wherever possible, we had tried to restrict our use of the onboard lav to ‘Number Ones’ only. However, that number was doubled on a couple of occasions when we really had no choice...well, we had, but have you ever tried balancing on a wheelie bin? So, for those of you who feel the need to know how to empty the loo of a campervan, here’s how it works...
Almost a week’s worth of, err, bodily functions numbered between zero and three exclusively, end up in a sturdy grey cannister which is accessible from the outside of the van. Actually, it’s kept locked in a little compartment although who might steal such a thing, Christ only knows. The cannister can be pulled from its lodging by means of a handy handle, and it’s almost identical to the cash boxes one sees Securicor guards carry in and out of banks. The disappointment of any thief who mistook one for the other would be nothing short of profound. Anyway, grey box in hand, you then proceed to the campground’s ‘dump station’ where a (very) dedicated toilet awaits the contents of said cannister. Nearby, you should also find a hose, handy for all those hard-to-reach nooks and crannies of a grey box full of shit. Before we go any further, I should also point out that this particular dump station was in a rather confined space, with nowhere to run to in the event of an emergency and very little fresh air.
I’m Melting! I’m Melting!
Nicola, god bless her, had volunteered to be at the ‘business end’ of the box - hey, she was the one who used it most! - while I was on hose duty. Ever so carefully, she unscrewed the lid and the instant it had been removed the fumes which rushed out created the sensation that our legs were melting. Instinctively, I hit the hose as Nicky tipped the box vertically, and a slow stream of ‘stuff’ started to gloop out from within. The fumes had now become a genuine chemical hazard and, if it hadn’t been for the fact that our eyes were on fire, we would have advised nearby campers to evacuate the area.
Then, just as one particularly solid-sounding clump caused something of a splash, Nicky started to wretch. And, oh, how she wretched. I made a tragic misjudgment in starting to laugh, an act which caused me to breathe in involuntarily, and the sudden rush of toxic fumes which scorched my trachea almost rendered me unconscious. By this stage, I was just waving the hose in the general direction of the loo while fighting to keep my head outside of the ridiculously confined enclosure of the dump station. Nicola was gallantly battling on, now wretching at a rate of 4w.p.s. and as close to vomiting as it’s possible to get without actually doing so, although making all the right noises.
Darwin...We Have a Problem!
Then...we got a blockage! The box still weighed about four-stone but all that was eminating from the spout was a pathetic trickle of decidedly dodgy-looking liquid. Well, that and the smell of Satan’s gaseous ass after he’s eaten a four-day-old feed of three onion bhajees, two prawn vindaloos and a side order of Bombay potato. Pleasant it was not. Nicola had now reached a state of perpetual wretching with her body convulsing in spasms. It was clear that she could no longer be held accountable for exactly where the contents of the box were being poured, making it necessary for us to swap duties.
Stop the Suffering
What the box needed now was a bloody good shake, which would mean putting the lid back on. As proud as I am to say that: “I was that soldier!” I can’t yet bring myself to provide you with any further details of that moment, other than to say that no human being in a civilised society should have to endure such suffering. A fortnight in a holding cell in Guantanamo Bay - with only General Tommy Franks, two electrodes and a car battery for company - would have been ‘a visit to the circus’ compared with putting that lid back on. I shook the box with as much force as my melting limbs allowed, unscrewed the lid and once again tipped the box vertically. What came out of the cannister this time was truly unbelievable. We squinted at each other through our burning retinas, trying to think when a horse might have had the opportunity to sneak into our campervan and relieve itself. That same horse must have skipped off into the sunset clicking its hoofs, like Morecambe and Wise singing ‘Bring Me Sunshine’. There is absolutely no way that that amount of excrement was the product of only two individuals, of that we’re certain...‘Sara Lee’ can’t pretend she’s entirely blameless!
Scarred Shitless!
With the cannister finally empty, I gave it one final rinse-out with the hose. Nicky had now been reduced to all fours on the grass, looking like she’d just been pepper-sprayed. I slid the cannister back into its compartment, locked the little door and threw away the key. We then washed our hands as if we were suffering from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, collapsed into the front seats of the van and let the deep psychological trauma begin to sink in.
And that was that. We drove into Darwin, dropped our bags off at a hostel, then returned the van to the Apollo depot. A short stroll brought us back into the town centre where we treated ourselves to a decent lunch, then took great delight in going to the public toilets of a nearby shopping centre and spent a good half-hour getting our own back!
