For the first time since coming here, I am reminded that I am in a Muslim country. Indonesia was too, but Bali has always remained profoundly Hindu, and astutely commercial. And the diving communities around Semporna are so international and fluid that were it not for a big Mosque in town, you could be forgiven for thinking that there was no religion there at all.

But Sandakan is different. In each of my previous bolt-holes, night life came to life at night, as it were, once the heat of the day had had a chance to cool off. So I had become accustomed to refreshing myself with a shower and a decent nap before pottering out.

Here I awoke after my power nap to ask my good man at the desk, who is called Geoff (no kidding), where I might get a beer. It was immediately clear I had said The Wrong Thing. Geoff was determined not to show his disappointment, nor to fail to rise to the challenge, but this would take a map, 15 directions, and seemingly crampons, donkeys and Sherpas to execute.

My brain began to hurt and I broke into a sweat just trying to play back the directions to Geoff. It was a principle now. Geoff, my man, I will not let you down.

I had to find a Chinese restaurant at the corner of this and that, and appear to order food, which I didn't need to eat, but they would be open and sell me beers, but no liquor.

Crikey.

Poor Geoff. He was there behind reception, sporting a 5-seasons-old Liverpool away strip. He knew I was a Liverpudlian, and it was his chance to do his bit for the city that gave it's name to His football team.

There was absolutely no way I was going to change my mind now, no matter how much I wanted to.

I found it. Eventually. Gurkhas would have turned back, but not me. I found it. I ordered my Tiger beer. I drank it.

Now, I'm not one for reality shows. And the shabbiest of the ilk is I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! But if I ever were to appear on that programme, and do a Bushtucker Trial, the producers would drop me in a vat of cockroaches for sure, and guarantee themselves TV Gold as I crapped myself, live. Cockroaches are my nemesis. Where others who win a million on the lottery might devote themselves to curing awful diseases, I would be tempted to take the fight to the disease-bearing b*****s.

So imagine my joy when the biggest cockroach imaginable tottered out onto the floor in this bar, to stretch his vile little legs.

Now I am a size 12 (UK). In the insect kingdom, I am known as the Arriving Storm. I fancy my chances.

But this little mite is HUGE. He enjoys diplomatic plates, creates his own micro climate, and has gravitational pull. He killed JFK and Diana, allegedly (I'm scared of his lawyers). He does adverts for products which promise lustrous leg-hair, and may do a season in Vegas. Scorpions have his name tattooed on their sting. When sharks see his scuttle, they sing "duh-duh, duh-duh, ... ". The lad has serious game.

I tread on him. Yeah. That's for Geoff, pal.