(The Tramp was uncharacteristically absent from the last Curry Club – what's up with that? Here's the scoop, straight from The Tramp's mouth ...)

Dark times call for drastic and dangerous measures and so it was that I found myself scouring the streets of Glenrothes on the evening of May 21, hunting for a curry. This was the first time since the inaugural meeting of TATTGOC that Trampy and myself, the two founding fathers of our brotherhood, were not BOTH present to enjoy the warm, glowing, warming glow and boisterous banter of the world's foremost band of curry adventurers. Work commitments had conspired to strand me in Fife, surrounded by Frenchmen, and with nary a curry in sight … What would YOU do in that situation? How committed to the club would YOU be? There was nothing else for it: I resolved to stage my own one-man Curry Club meeting by plunging headlong into the unknown and seeking a curry from somewhere in The Kingdom Of Fife.

I wasn’t going to let finishing after 9pm hold me back so, with my curry senses tingling, I found myself strangely drawn to Leslie. A small satellite town of Glenrothes, Leslie initially seemed to be shut for the night until I stumbled across The Reya Tandoori (according to the website "the kind of indian restuarant [sic] that columbus was searching for") on the High Street. Upon entering The Reya I was hit by a powerful odour, although it did not at first seem like exotic spices. But with the little hand now past 10 there was no time to find another establishment – it would have to be here or nowhere …

Although claiming to be open until 11pm the waitress looked a little disappointed when I entered. Had she had perhaps forgotten to flip over the “open/closed” sign? In any case, she had to duck behind the scenes to confer with the chef: would he cook me up one of the house specialities? Yes, the waitress informed me, yes he would. With a Lamb Nentara (described in the menu as “selected pieces cooked with cashew nuts, yoghurt, mashed green chillies and almond powder”) ordered up, and a half pint of Tiger to sip while I waited, a bit of banter with the waitress revealed that they'd been thinking of closing up shop and scarpering, so I had ruined their early night. C'est la vie, as they say in France.

Jumping into my trusty steed The White Bullet, I was back at my hotel in no time and ready to tune into the spiritual vibe being transmitted by the official Curry Clubbers back at Casa Del Bulldoza et TBW. A few muddled text messages had come through from the A-team and a quick call to an already pretty boozy Trampy confirmed that the first meeting without me was already a roaring success. Then I heard that, emboldened by his temporary rise to power in my absence, The Bulldosa was attempting to turn the tables and have me barred.

Thoroughly depressed with this news I sat myself down on the edge of my bed and tucked into a predictably average curry. The peshwari naan wasn’t half bad though. As disappointing as my one-man Curry Club was it does mean that another restaurant can be ticked off the list. And at least I didn’t lose all my possessions in the process (I’m looking at you, Rabbie Shankar …)