In the interests of accuracy, historical and otherwise, I mounted an expedition to the uncharted wastes of Hampshire yesterday. Bonz had offered to come as bodyguard until he realised where I was going, when he suddenly discovered he had an urgent appointment at the mouse agents. Whizzo was busy with the washing up, so I had to go alone.

Using the local form of jungle drums, I managed to make contact with one of the natives, who wasn't too hostile - stories of cannabilism abound - and who offered to guide me round darkest Pompey with the advantage of being able to speak the local lingo - a dialect based on hardly any consonants and loads of glottal stops, very few aspirates and substitution of f for th. It's almost incomprehensible to my untrained ear and needs a native or skilled linguist to interpret.

I set off having found a crude set of directions from Mr Google, which proved to be inaccurate and it wasn't long before I had to fight my way through the stampedes and ambushes of the modern road system, with the way roadworks are designed to cause maximum impedence to even the most seasoned traveller - which I am not. However, I managed to track my way to Portsmouth, or Porsmuff as the locals call it, and even found the area generally known as Southsea - but there the tracks ran out and I had to send for my translator to guide me to a safe place. Things were getting desperate, I'd eaten my last liquorice all-sort and needed a wee.

With my guide's help, I finally managed to hack my way through the jungle and reach her encampment, where I discovered such was the joy of seeing an emissary from civilisation, that they'd killed the fatted calf - well not quite but it sounds better than she got a leg of lamb from Sainsbury's.

After a cuppa and relief of Bladderkin, we set off for Debenham's Trading Post leaving our conveyance in the relative care of John Lewis whose Waitrose missionary station promised to take care of it. Debenham's provided us with two fresh killed jacket potatoes - never see any with trousers on, do you? So fortified with such delicacies we set off to explore the uncharted areas of Porsmuff 'n' Sarfsee.

It appears that the only people who were feared more than the wild natives of Fratton Park and their deposed chief Redsnap or some such name, whose debauched tribesmen slashed and burnt the jungle leaving large scars evident even to this day; were the French, presumably because their ability to slur consonants was even greater than the locals. So to keep them, their garlic flavoured ways, oh and their desire for world domination, the local tribesmen built a series of forts between Porsmuff and the Isle o' Wi. Looking at the way they were designed, I did wonder if they were actually more afraid of the Isle of Wight than the French. It's reputed that tribesmen further north hated the IoW enough to exile Wordsworth there, who tramped about the place reciting his greatest poems to anyone daft enough to listen. However, I digress - my guide and I easily penetrated the fort's defences and learned that if the French came after four in the afternoon, they were undefended and would enable the area to be overrun in a matter of years - remember the French stop for two hours for lunch and four hours for dinner. How d'you think they won Waterloo? The British I mean - they waited until the French stopped for lunch and attacked all the platforms at once, sending the miserable frogs back through the tunnel by dinner time. It was such a close run thing because Wellington's business dinner appointment only just finished in under the two hours.

I discovered that D day was fought not in France as I'd always thought, but in Porsmuff, they have a museum on the site. I'd always thought it was a much bigger affair - the invasion - but obviously not, probably involved the Fratton Park fraternity again. We didn't have time to look at the museum by the time we'd actually captured the fort and secured it - we um- closed the gate as we left after receiving a surrender in the form of a fridge magnet - when in Rome, if they write things on fridge magnets, who am I to argue?

The rest of the afternoon, as the light was fading we went behind the lines and infiltrated areas such as Spice town possibly the origins of the legends of a group of uncontrolled floosies who apparently sang bawdy songs very badly. Across the harbour, was a place called Turk town probably where they coralled turkeys prior to Christmas, assuming these heathens actually celebrated such things until relatively recent times.

I also learned that in days of yore, the natives had problems with the tabloids and groups of aggressive journalists formed press-gangs attacking anyone who was found on the streets after dark - presumably threatening to do an expose and hack their mobile phone accounts. We nearly got evicted from an Italian restaurant when I asked for a paparazzo with side order of fries. Obviously they have long memories in Porsmuff.

Back to base camp and an enjoyable dinner with mine hostess/guide/translator and another friendly native who came bearing trifles.

I escaped back to civilisation under cover of dark, picking up a caravan trail just north of the jungle which runs from East to West, and seems to merge somewhere near Porsmuff even though Kipling said never the twain would do so. Oh well just another hack.

I'd like to thank my hostess and fellow guest for their hospitality and the people and planning authorities for making an almost totally incomprehensible road system. It could be why the French never did attack - Napoleon saw a street plan.

Angharad.

Next time - How Nelson managed to sail HMS Victory despite it being encased in concrete.