"Whereby Paradise is Shattered by Sheena Easton"

In a few short hours we check out of our gorgeous resort, which has been home to us since we arrived in Bali one week ago. I thought I would feel devastated to leave, but instead I find myself anticipating the 10 or so miles we will be putting between us and the new inhabitants of the villa next door.

I should have known our peace would be shattered when they moved in yesterday, requiring a few local men to help them heave their cases of bottled beer.

The next clue came via a loud splash, whereby a rather heavyset man plopped himself into the pool like a giant seal, fully clothed in long shorts and big tight sports shirt, clutching one of the aforementioned beer bottles. Oh dear.

Soon his Missus wandered out in her low-cut lime green bathing suit, bringing fresh supplies of beer and a large canister of Salt n' Vinegar Pringles. The party was clearly about to kick-off.

It didn't take long to learn that this fifty-something couple hail from Perth, ("Pretty much the best city in the world to live i reckon!") Australia, and were on the tail end of an all-inclusive (pretty obvious from their waistlines) package tour.

They spent half an hour regaling us, menu item by menu item about their amazing holiday, bragging that it had included not just limitless supply of amazing food, but all the booze you could get down your neck as well...starting from 9:30am!

I walked away bemused, wondering about the logic of stuffing yourself silly for days and inflating your tummy to full paunch power with bloaty booze, when the tropical nature of Bali requires you to spend most of your time squeezed into a few tiny swatches of lycra.

I didn't have long to ponder this however, as suddenly I'm smack dab in the middle of a Butlins Holiday Camp Mixer as "Islands In The Stream" by Kenny Rogers, playing at FULL BLAST rings out over the compound. It's an assault on the senses that doesn't let up for the next few hours, despite weaving its way through the worst of popular music from the past thirty years.. eventually ending up at "Everything I Do, I Do It For You" by Bryan Adams.

When they had finally put away enough beer, maybe even engaged in some pre-dinner nookie (surely a likely result after one too many 'Bintangs' and all that Soft Rock) I spot the man trying vainly to zip up the back of his wife's LBD (little black dress) with what seems like a fair amount of difficulty. They then teeter tipsily out of here, 'one for the road' in hand, and it fell suddenly, gloriously silent.

Until we realised that without the cover of the "Now That's What We Call Cheesy Love Tunes 1992" on full blast, the screams and wrestling of our two monsters could be heard echoing throughout the compound.

Hmmm...Sheena Easton's 'My Baby Takes the Morning Train' at top volume or Dumpie letting out a blood-curdling yell as Egg belts him one after being pushed off the stairs into the garden?

Tough call.