I just couldn't believe it when a club in New York wanted me to come and play for them. I got a call from my mate Dave who's cousin's half sister's mate runs a club in Queens. They were doing an acid house night and they were after a cheap UK DJ to head the line-up - I would've been mad to have turned it down.

I've never been overseas before - or ever been on a plane - so I got so nervous on the flight (I'd had no sleep the night before I was so excited). I downed a bottle of Nytol. And, this is where it all blurs into a dark hole.

I woke up the next day back where I had started, slumped over my record box in the dingy immigration room at Gatwick Airport with a black eye and handcuffs on. I just couldn't believe my luck - I had been to the USA for two hours only to be sent straight back home again!

According to the officer in charge I was so off my head on prescription drugs on the plane I was groping all the Air Hostesses arses and announcing to the whole cabin that I was a famous British DJ going to New York to play records for a million dollars.

Of course, I had no work visa, so after one of the Hostess's lamped me one, it was game over and off I was back to Blighty. Typical.