A STEAL OF A MEAL - OR EAT YOUR HEART OUT HESTON!

So here we were in Luang Prabang. A UNESCO-listed French colonial-style former royal capital straddling the mighty Mekong surrounded by lush, green mountains. And what a difference from Siem Reap where noise and pollution hang over you like a dirty blanket as you ricochet your way among the ancient monuments.

What do I remember most about Luang Prabang? Was it the longtail boat trip upriver - into Heart of Darkness/ Apocalypse Now territory like some latter-day Colonel Walter E. Kurtz figure swanning up the Mekong? Was it the sight of rows of saffron-robed monks silently collecting alms every morning at 6 am? Or the magnificent royal palace, a host of sloping-roof temples, cobbled ancient lanes and alleyways?

You guessed right - it wasn’t any of those touristy things. It was food. But, I hear you cry, Laotian cuisine isn’t exactly world-renowned. When was the last time, after all, you went to a Laotian restaurant in London? But this wasn’t any old food. This was street food. But not the kind you can pick up in any of the food stalls lining the streets of Luang Prabang.

This was street food from a bug cart.

P reminded me of our joint new year’s resolution to eat more adventurously. And we now had just the opportunity as soon as we heard about a wizened old transsexual selling a selection of delicious snacks from a cart. Crickets of various sizes, large, black deep-fried scorpions, giant cockroaches, meal worms and large water bugs.

But the timing never seemed right. The carts seem to appear at odd hours before vanishing into the night so, after a few days of disappointment, we’d almost given up. Then, on our last night, as we were just about to return to the hotel, a cart suddenly appeared.

Bugs! Whoopee! The vendor, the gnarled old transsexual, excitedly helped us choose the bug courses. It was oddly reminiscent of ordering from a cheese trolley full of exquisite delicacies at some Michelin-starred French restaurant. Anyway, I got a small scoop of each bug - ten in total. All were deep fried and sprinkled with pepper. Before starting to eat, we glanced at each other as if for reassurance we hadn’t completely lost it. But for those of a nervous disposition, better skip the rest now.

Two varieties of lizards. Soft and slimy. Surprisingly tasteless.

Meal worms. Like school-style tapioca pudding. Revolting to look at. Even worse to eat.

Tiny yellow snakes. Similar to eel, but more delicate and white like fish. Supposed to be good for you, I reminded P several times. An aphrodisiac apparently. A view not shared by P it transpired later that night.

Crickets. Crunchy, tasted like potato crisps. I could snack on these any time of day.

Huge grasshopper. Not surprisingly I suppose, tasted grassy like some Sauvignon Blanc wines do. Wouldn’t hesitate to try again.

Malengdaa water bug. Resembling a giant cockroach, this is the insect that’s ground into chilli paste here and in Thailand. A bug jam souvenir you can buy in any supermarket. In the event, this one wasn't remotely interesting. But the most difficult to bu-n-g in the mouth!

Various kinds of maggots. This was the highlight of the meal. One tasted like almonds, another of cream - all juicy and sweet.

Left this almost till last. Black scorpion. Couldn’t bring myself to put the stinger bit in my mouth but downed the rest of the tail in a couple of quick bites. After all the build up, a bit of a let down. Flavourless.

The rest were small and indistinguishable - maybe other types of crickets or spiders or merely bits and pieces of legs, wings and assorted antennae.

All in all, a steal of a meal at 13,000 Lao Kip (=£1)!

ADDENDUM: No dogs were involved in the preparation of this post. Least of all any known blood relatives of Lola (Sra. Noriega's "guard dog") above.

MY BRUSH WITH THE RICH & (QUITE) FAMOUS...

We had already had a taste of life on this huge floating gin palace in the Mediterranean when we used to accompany E and other friends for 14 juillet firework celebrations off Cannes and then skirt the coast westwards to St Tropez or eastwards to Monte Carlo and Portofino. Often if time was short, we would all take a helicopter from Nice airport direct to wherever the yacht happened to be moored to ensure a quick getaway.

On one occasion, paparazzi must have somehow inveigled their way aboard when I later discovered back in the UK photographs of P and myself splattered all over Tatler taken during a spectacular onboard party attended by a number of household names. Champagne must have been flowing very freely that night since none of us had the least inkling we were being snapped…

This time, though, E asked P where we were going to spend the Christmas break that year. When P replied we’d intended to fly to Malaysia to escape the worst of the British winter, E immediately offered him the loan of the 130 foot cruiser! Fully crewed, it could pick us up from Langkawi where we had intended to spend Christmas and take us anywhere in South East Asia!

We were already familiar with the vessel, having often stayed in one of its double staterooms. This time though we had time to explore further her interior and huge sundeck with its bar and lounge area. And the yacht took us along the Malaysian coast to Thailand where we stopped off at any island along the way that took our fancy. And there’s no shortage of those - Phang Nga Bay alone has 67!

And so we lazily cruised the Andaman Sea sailing from Krabi and Ko Phi Phi to the Trang Archipelago and beyond, making the most of the speed boats and wet skis to explore dramatic limestone ‘karsts’ or crags, which rise from the water’s edge and valley floors to sheer vertical heights in excess of 900 meters and the hidden bays - ‘hongs’ - within.

Needless to say champagne again flowed like water and we were consulted daily by the chef about meals that would have put any land-based three star Michelin restaurant to shame.

For a couple of blissful weeks, we lived in a parallel universe. As far from the mundaneness of life as is humanly possible. Waited on by a crew used to providing the highest standards of service concomitant with a pleasure craft of that class. In short, a universe of extreme wealth, supreme luxury.

But like all good things, the trip came to an end and we returned to ‘normal’, everyday life. For P, the invitation had been accepted without fear or favour. But I can quite see how tempting it must be for, say, a politician in a billionaire’s yacht or villa. And, moreover, how difficult not to be seduced by the power and influence such wealth wields...

DERIPASKA'S YACHT: POLITICS & THE SEDUCTION OF WEALTH

There’s been a lot of hype in the press recently about Peter Mandelson’s and George Osborne’s sojourn on a Russian billionaire’s yacht in Corfu. And how politicians are too easily bowled over by a freebie holiday.

As a result, we have the sleazy spectacle of a Labour Business Secretary and a Tory Shadow Chancellor exchanging insults about who behaved more shabbily on Oleg Deripaska's yacht. As for George Osborne, all he's accused of is trying to find a legal way for Deripaska to donate £50,000 to the Tory party. An amount he'd probably have found down the back of one of the yacht's sofas and which wouldn't have paid for a spin nurse, let alone a spin doctor.

And as for Peter Mandelson, questions are still being asked. The Sunday Times alone has been doggedly gnawing at the bone on its front page for the past three weeks...

Indeed, it’s all too easy to dismiss such behaviour as outright grubby and sordid. Yet should you find yourself in an environment of extreme wealth and utter luxury - an environment to which you are not wholly accustomed - it would take some superhuman willpower not to be wowed. Not to mention seduced.

I mention this since I had the great good fortune to experience this way of life at first hand, albeit for a short period. Or should I say misfortune since, like the old cliché, it’s only when you see for yourself how the super rich live that you start to understand that, yes, they are different…

My own brush with the super rich (and quite famous) took place in the heady days of the early nineties when Sloanes and Thatcherite excess went hand in hand. My partner (P) was working as CFO (Chief Financial Officer) for an extremely successful entrepreneur (E) who had set up a large number of companies. Together with the Chairman, P and E formed what came to be known as the Triumvirate running this mini empire stretching across several continents.

As was usual in that pre-credit crunch era - when mergers, acquisitions and MBOs (Management Buy Outs) were commonplace - P worked all God’s hours and then some (as colleagues in the U.S. put it) to ensure the company’s continuing profitability. (A source of tension then as now, it has to be said). Nevertheless he was well remunerated and we also found ourselves in private marquees at all the events of the ‘season’ - Chelsea, Henley, Wimbledon, Ascot - plus seats at Glyndebourne, Covent Garden etc.

Moreover, since P and E also became close friends in the course of all the frantic, highly charged late-night business activity, E also insisted on showing his gratitude in other ways. Namely the loan of his superb ocean-going yacht (pictured above) that has featured in a number of films including the Bond movie, The Living Daylights.