Catching up this week on the latest fortunes of “Bohdi the rogue tradie”, the “arch criminal” from Noosa who went troppo in Indonesia recently, my mind immediately defaulted to a bloke called Darren. Or Darin. Or Darryn.

I never learned how he spelt his name – our association lasted no more than four hours, but it was long enough to land me in jail in Germany. (Mum – if you’re reading this, the kettle’s boiling……)

It’s a long story, so it might be worth boiling a kettle of your own.

I hooked up with Darran / Darin / Daryn, a 20-something year old Canadian at the Hofbrauhaus in Munich during my extended travels around Europe. There was something about his crazy light blue eyes that suggested he’d be a fun companion with whom to swamp down a couple of steins. On account of those piercing eyes, he looked a bit like a husky, just with a lot less hair.

When he jumped up on the table, thumped his chest like Tarzan and with a flex of his pectoral muscles, popped open the studs on his brown leather jacket, it convinced me I’d found my night’s entertainment.

After the ‘D-man” got us kicked out of the Hofbrauhaus, we were gliding through the streets of Munich, looking for an alternative venue when without warning, my crazed Canadian companion darted off in the direction of Marienplatz. Think King George Square x 12.

Repeating a few of the primitive traits he had already displayed over the course of our short friendship, Dangerous D monkeyed up a flagpole in the middle of the square, and with the swift motion of his Swiss army knife, chopped down a festival flag.

Then in one fearless athletic moment, he dropped to the ground, picked up his souvenir, and charged off into the darkness of the night. Yahooing.

And that brought an end to my brief but boisterous association with the unhinged-husky-eyed Canadian hooligan.

Or so I thought.

Around 1am, I’m staggering back roughly in the direction of my youth hostel when my face becomes awash with flashing red and blue lights. Two burly local “Schutzman” climb out of their car, grab me, shove me up against the bonnet and handcuff me.

“Vhere ist your friend? Vee vant zee flag!” They were not happy.

Even before seven steins of beer, my high school German was never going to be good enough to explain that I’d only known this clown for four hours. Absence of fluency aside, it wouldn’t have mattered. In their eyes, I was guilty by association.

For the next two hours, I’m frog marched in handcuffs around the seedy underbelly of Munich, looking for the deranged Canadian, who in all likelihood was already tucked up in his kennel, fast asleep.

By some small miracle, we found the stolen flag in a rubbish bin about a kilometre from the scene of the crime. I trusted that would be the end of the matter.

“Nein – you are under arrest”. And with that, I was bundled into the back of the Mercedes police car – still handcuffed – and locked up.

For four days. (Mum – is that your phone? It could be urgent)

I don’t know how Bohdi was treated in Indonesia, where he slept, what he got to eat etc, but I’d be surprised if the environment was very hospitable. At best I’d call my experience “character-building”.

I got to meet some interesting people, including fellow countryman who by the time I’d arrived had already been an “inmate” for five nights. He explained he’d jumped into a lake at a camping ground, grabbed a duck and cooked it for dinner. I put the deed down as a bit of rural Victoria resourcefulness. The Germans apparently didn’t see it that way.

There was another young Italian kid who’d led police on a high speed car chase up through the Brenner Pass, into Austria. He could well have been cut from the same cloth as Darren/Darryn/Darin, but he was kind enough to offer me his bread. I politely declined because the bread was so old and dry, it squeaked when you rubbed it between your fingers.

All in all, not the best four days of my life.

Knowing all along I was innocent, my “hosts” eventually released me on the proviso that I “didn’t seek compensation from the German Government”. My lawyer, a woman of advanced age – perhaps 80 or 85, strongly recommended I didn’t. Wise woman. I bowed and ran, literally for kilometres without having the faintest idea where I was going. Some years earlier, I’d watched Midnight Express. The movie had stayed with me.

It goes to show, when travelling alone overseas, you don’t have to be doing too much wrong before you can find yourself in a whole world of pain. And that was decades before we were being filmed and photographed 20 to 24 hours a day.

Perhaps it’s just a sign of the “spirited” company I keep, but I know quite a few people who’ve had a night or two in the clink. Well educated, law abiding citizens who’ve just done something stupid, or been in the wrong company, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I remember for instance, talking to an architect mate whose daughter had been locked up in Japan.

“What’d you do about that,” I asked.

“Well I couldn’t do too much, because I’d been in jail in the same city at the same age!” he said sheepishly.

Fair play.

No-one’s suggesting that’s it OK to flagrantly disregard life’s common laws, or even bend the rules to breaking point. But there’s a big difference between criminal behaviour and young people doing stupid things.

Messing up used to be almost a “rite of passage”. Now because of the visibility and public nature of even the slightest indiscretion, those prone to the odd act of stupidity find themselves vilified on news websites, hungry for humiliating vision.

I don’t know Bohdi Risby-Jones from Adam, but it’s my bet he’s probably a pretty decent hard working young bloke who’s just had a really bad night on the drink, in a place where he shouldn’t have been on the drink in the first place. And quite rightly, it’s cost him a hefty price.

But all things said and done, I’d much prefer to have a beer with Bohdi, than some bland, timid, goody-two-shoes who’s never made a mistake in their life.

Just as long as I never have to have another beer with Darrin/Darren/Daryn.