I’d been away a long time – teaching in Asia, hitching and busking my way round Australia. I was getting more and more into playing music. It seemed I’d found a profession I could pursue in perfect parallel with my drinking career. It wasn’t till I was fevered out of my mind in Thailand, though, that I realised I had to make an album.

Dengue is related to Ebola and you wouldn’t want to introduce it to your parents. When it’s haemorrhagic, there’s a decent chance of bleeding to death in an unsightly manner. My platelets were disappearing and things were getting sketchy.

The previous day on Koh Tao, I’d convinced myself I was grand and tried to go scuba diving. I couldn’t even lift my tank. This was probably for the best. Shortly after returning to shore I walked into a bar, ordered a drink and then passed out. Fortunately, I’d mentioned something about needing to see a doctor so they didn’t just think I was lit.

When I came to in the clinic next door I’d started to lose the plot a little. Bits of me were going numb and I was petrified they’d decide to amputate my hands. I pleaded for clemency – telling them I was a guitar player and asking them to take my feet instead. Having no intention of butchering me, the nurses had a good giggle, gave me some pain killers and put me on the ferry to the mainland.

I took the motorbike taxi to the cheap hospital as I wanted to buy CDs and T-shirts on the Khao San road on the way out of Bangkok. It was there that things took a turn for the transcendental.

I was drifting out to the far reaches of the cosmos when the crackly transmission came through that it was time to make my mind up..

I leapt through the looking glass at an early age – mainlining moonbeams with the white rabbit. Anything to silence the crackpot analyst practicing in my cranium. Now peace beckoned like a sleepy lover calling me back to bed. The universe would take me back with open arms. There was nothing to fear.

When it hit me it felt like I’d been wired to the mains.

I’d had more welcome residents of late – fledgling songs, chirping away at the back of my mind, impatient to be written. It’d be a shame if I succumbed to contagion before they had the chance to take flight.

If I could just get home and make a record, it might go some way to redeeming me for all the years of pissing about and the stupid things I’d done.

After a few days I came out of it. Absolutely famished. Evidently, it was customary for people’s loved ones to bring them food and it just hadn’t occurred to the staff to feed me. I’m a big fan of saline solution, but I needed sustenance.

Off to market I went – resplendent in my backless gown, drip trundling along beside me as I tottered across the motorway bridge. No one batted an eyelid. Thai people do unimpressed as well as anyone from Belfast. I was just another frazzled farang with an appetite.

When I got back to the ward the nurses gave me a scolding. An escapee patient was the last thing they needed. I didn’t mind. I was content as I settled down to my banquet. I finally knew what I was meant to be doing.

So there you go. If it hadn’t been for that mosquito, I might have decided to do something sensible instead. As for the songs, I meant them when I wrote them, and I did my best to make them sound as good as I could.

Fly my pretties, fly.