James Griffin: Survival of the fittest in coastal NZ

My name is Bear, Bear Grylls. A host of the phenomenally successful worldwide smash-hit TV series Man vs Wild, I've been to some of the most inhospitable places on Earth. I've drunk my own urine to survive in the Gobi Desert of Southern Mongolia; I've drunk the urine of passing tribesmen to survive in the Kalahari Desert in Namibia; I've drunk the urine of a snow leopard to survive in the freezing Pamir Mountains of Tajikistan. But never have I faced such a frightening prospect as, armed only with a pocket knife, a camera crew, the production resources of the Discovery Channel and my years of experience in the British Special Forces, I try to survive the summer holiday period in a coastal New Zealand town.

The first thing you notice, when you parachute into a coastal New Zealand town over the Christmas/New Year holiday season, is how the population of the normally sleepy seaside hamlet has expanded way beyond the abilities of society to cope. I can see, right from the kick-off, my problems here won't be the same as on the freezing tundra of northern Canada or the fetid rainforests of Myanmar.

Yes, the weather here is changeable in the extreme and one can experience many climates in a single afternoon; and yes, the New Zealand sun is remarkably ferocious, but I can fashion a hat out of palm fronds to deal with that.

No, the threat here, in this seething cauldron of humanity, is the local wildlife and how drunk they are most of the time. The key to my survival is to be on the alert for the various tribes as they stagger about their territory, engaging in their social rituals. If I am to escape here in one piece I must go unnoticed until I can build a raft out of flax and paddle to safety.

The loudest and probably the most prevalent of all the sub-tribes of summer in a coastal New Zealand town are the No Shirt Boys. They can be seen everywhere, in their brightly-coloured board shorts, carrying their half-empty boxes of beer at all times of the day and night. They are nomadic, moving round the environment in search of the next party. Why they don't wear shirts is a mystery, though it is possibly some kind of mating display.

In their natural surroundings - lying on the beach or leaning against cars - the No Shirt Boys are relatively easy to deal with as one crosses this dangerous territory. I find that a brief nod of the head and a muttered "wassup" will placate them and let you pass unhindered, especially if - as I am - you are wearing a shirt.

The exception to this is if one stumbles accidentally into the lair of the No Shirt Boys - a bar in which they gather en masse, especially on New Year's Eve, to witness musical displays by such role-models as Jordan Luck. Several years ago an unsuspecting family wandered into the Mangawhai Tavern during a Shapeshifter concert. They were never seen again. Of more danger to me, because I am a television celebrity trying to go unnoticed as I work my way to safety, are the roving bands of Shrieking RTD Girls.

Their shoulders and backs are red from too much time at the beach, hanging out. In their uniform of tank-top and cut-off shorts, clutching the local brew (a mix of sugar and alcohol) that gives them their name and fuels them as they hunt in packs, Shrieking RTD Girls can appear anywhere, at any time. They surround their unsuspecting victims, demanding more RTDs whilst simultaneously texting more of their kind to join the party. If I am to escape the clutches of these packs of marauding pleasure-seekers, with their "whatever" attitude and their offhand, cutting remarks, I have to rely on the fact that even though I am a TV celebrity - their natural prey - I have never appeared on Shortland Street, so they probably won't recognise me.

Also I am, by their standards, way old and wearing a shirt so, to them, I am rendered invisible, despite the fact I have a camera crew with me. But just as I think I've escaped this hell on Earth, as I'm looking for a river or a road that will lead me to safety, I hear the cry of the Feral Parents - another species that inhabits coastal holiday New Zealand.

From through a cloud of barbecue smoke, a red-faced man with a chardonnay in his hand calls to me: "Hey, are you that fella off the tele? Come and have a feed. Sharon, get the man a beer!"

Two hours of the hospitality of the Feral Parent later, I'm drinking shot glasses of my own urine, because it seemed like a good idea at the time. So near, but yet so far.