Having spent the first week of my dream holiday in Kenya being violently sick with giardiasis, I was looking forward to a couple of days of relaxation and recovery on the beach in the idyllic east coast island of Lamu.

On my first day I treated myself to a new pair of trousers. That afternoon I had a visit from the trouser seller claiming the money I had given him was counterfeit. I inspected the note and, sure enough, all the £20 notes I had on me were, in fact, colour photocopies. So off I went with the trouser seller to the bank to ask their advice. Before I knew it, the police had been called and I was being marched through the streets of Lamu to the police station.

'Hello Mr Rock,' said the investigating officer.

'I can explain,' I said.

'You are from "Great Britain".'

'Yes.'

'Except that Britain is no longer Great is it?'

'Maybe not,' I conceded, slightly concerned as to where this was going.

'Other countries are much greater. Like Japan. And one day, Kenya!' He said, clearly enjoying himself.

'If you say so.'

'But England did give us one good thing. The penal code. Shall I tell you what the penal code you gave us says about the crime you have committed? Seven years in prison. Tomorrow you will go to court and then go to prison for seven years! This is your law!'

After two days of questioning on similar lines, the officer decided to change tack.

'Mr Rock. You say you got the money from a cash machine.

'Maybe you didn't. Maybe you got it on the black market.'

'I told you I didn't. Here is my cash-point receipt.' I explained yet again.

'I am sure you got it on the black market,' he said, giving me the impression that it was in my best interest to agree.

Not sure whether I was confessing to committing a crime worse than the first one I hadn't committed, I eventually agreed to sign a statement saying that I did get the money on the black market. A few minutes later I was released onto the streets of Lamu.

Now I had one major problem. I needed to get a boat off this island to get my return flight, but all of my money was now with the police and there was no way of accessing my bank account on Lamu.

I tried explaining my predicament to the local sailors but no one would let me hitch a lift until 'Captain Spliff' came up with a solution. 'Your shoes,' he said.

· Have you had a crap holiday? Please write in and tell us about it. The writer of any stories we publish will receive a copy of The Idler Book of Crap Holidays. Email crap.holidays@ observer.co.uk