Mexico is a great big beautiful country. But not near the border with California. Here, it’s a dirty, tawdry stinkpot, infested with partying Americans and unscrupulous Mexicans who will provide anything for them. It’s a place where morals don’t seem to count and anything goes. At least, that’s what I hoped as I headed across the border on a bus, in the first days of my long student holiday.

At dusk, I reached Ensenada, a town about 75 miles south of the border, threw my bags in a friendly hotel and walked across the dirt road to the nearest bar.

There was a woman standing just inside the door, so I said hello politely. She lifted her top, showed me her breasts and asked how much I was prepared to pay for a good time. This was a bit more than I had expected. I was only saying hello.

Inside, condensation was pouring off the black walls and the bar was jammed with people, young and old, Mexican and American, all of them drunk. In a situation like that, there’s only one thing to do: join in. When I reached into my pocket, however, I found that my wallet had been taken. It was Friday night, and the banks were closed until Monday, but there was no way I was going to sit in my hotel for the next 50-odd hours.

So I looked at this town of loose morals and remembered my student training. I would go “dreadnoughting”: I waited until someone left their drink unattended while they went dancing or to the toilet, then stealthily moved in, downed their drink and moved on before they came back. It’s a cheap - and effective - way of getting drunk, though it’s not without its risks.

After about an hour, I knew I was drunk - I just didn’t know how much. So, when I saw a beautiful Mexican woman partying with her friends, I decided to go for it. She didn’t speak much English, I didn’t speak much Spanish.It didn’t seem to matter much.We danced, we kissed, we danced closer, mainly because, I think, she was supporting my weight. We went outside.

Up against a wall at the back of the bar, we started to make hot Mexican love. We started, but we never finished. Something I’d drunk (perhaps everything I’d drunk) disagreed with me, and what began as a rumble in my tummy turned into a violent, volcanic rush. I was sick all over myself, narrowly missing my Spanish lady. Even down Mexico way, some things are beyond acceptable - as I crouched in the alley, my last memory of my lady was her leaving in a hurry, pulling up her knickers as she went inside.

I staggered back to the hotel and flopped onto my bed. For about a minute. Then I had to get up, stagger to the bathroom and carry on. For two hours. Empty and exhausted, I finally got back to my bed and slept, on and off, for 48 hours.

The final insult came when I went to check out on Monday morning, after being rescued by a money transfer. The friendly hotel manager turned out to be a little too friendly. He told me that he hoped I didn’t mind, but while I’d been sprawled there stark naked on the bed, he’d been watching me through my window. Anything goes is fine in theory, but not when it’s your wallet, pride and dignity that are heading south. I grabbed my stuff and headed north.

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