On the instruction to dis-robe, I naturally tried to lighten the atmosphere by quoting Peter Cook: "There are only three persons permitted to see me in the pink: Mrs Stephenson, that's the Mem Sahib, Ritchie Veraswami, that's my batman, and Major EJ Trothwaite Ponsonby, and that's my doctor - request refused, and that's that."

In two shakes of a welder's gauntlet I was stark b-naked, revealing what one customs officer referred to as ‘the last turkey in the shop'.

I could tire you with my other export trip disasters: the hand grenade in the bag at Tel Aviv; the planted packet of dancing dust in LA, but as we're told the economic clouds are gathering I suppose we'd better stay positive and say OK, if Britain does go down khazi, what about tapping up Johnny Foreigner for a bit of business?

Step one presumably is making sure that before we attempt a sale in distant parts, our price list isn't met with howls of laughter, a bag over our head, and a short taxi ride into the forest with a big lad called Vlad.

Post Internet this isn't difficult of course, especially as many companies in our game have automated online quoting systems to let you know exactly what the score is. But if we want to get a real feel for, let's say the Norwegian market, perhaps a few phone calls are in order.

You'll no doubt get through to a chap called Stig Thundercock who will speak better English than we do - tell him you're organising an exhibition of fishing rods in Kroderen, and need some embroidered jumpers ready to collect at the Roll Mop Exhibition Centre.

If his prices are way more than yours (which they probably will be) you're in business - always worth a quick butchers at the exchange rate of course.

So what are the next barriers to crash through? Logistics naturally - that's what we used to call ‘how much will it cost me to get the stuff over there', before we had spotty youths titled ‘Head of Integrated Logistical Export Solutions'. Clearly if it's going to require a Chinouk helicopter, two camels and a bloke whose first name is Sherpa, it's not going to happen, but I like the look of Northern Europe.

We can't assume about the continent though; remember the fiendish French video machine ploy? They were quite happy to receive them as imports, but they all had to go through a check point on the top of Mont Dangereuse. Many a good lorry driver was lost in a goat attack - so I guess all barriers need assessing.

Still, they can afford it, and we can get it there - now what can go wrong?

Cultural issues - often overlooked, but if we stick with Norway there's no point launching our export campaign during the Festival of Thor. If everyone's had 10 helmet horns of Viking juice and are throwing hammers at each other, the opportunities will narrow.

And a quick word with Michael Fish of course - if it's that time of year when to attempt an al fresco widdle can result in organ loss, no point trying to flog them a load of sun visors.

Language - obvious, but maybe we shouldn't be immediately put off. If you really think you can sell thermal grundies to the Ukkcluck McClukks, but don't speak polar bear, there will be an interpreter who does.

We know they like the price; we can ship it; it's the right time of year; we're down with the culture; we can communicate effectively; we know they need what we do because, well, everyone does these days; and it's not Zimbabwe so we might just be welcome.

Now how in the Devil's briefcase do we find a customer? And it might be worth remembering, that just because we're big in schoolwear over here for example, doesn't mean we can't do a blinder in corporatewear over there.

Market research... we'd all rather snog a rabid wolf... but fortunately export chaps do say the best bet is to get yourself over there and that's got to be half fun. What better excuse to sit on the Rive Gauche snaffling the old douze huitres at the Throttled Oyster (set menu fifteen euros, ask for a bloke called Michelle), than market research - I'll be home on Friday love.

If we want to sell to the trade we can always check out the indigenous trade publications - Das Printvare und Promoleather Vaistcoaten, a good source of leads in Bavaria.

And trade shows of course - I know I know, you get to spend three days in a matching tie and handkerchief combo, grow a carbuncle on your nozzle due to bad air con and have a coffee induced heart spasm - but they work I think, and give us a chance to have a crack at specific sectors.

Trade visits? Laid on by your local chamber of commerce - worst case scenario is you're in a hotel with Big Barry from Bristol explaining his new range of butt plugs, but the local knowledge the chamber will have is a real leg up.

And what about local agents? I love those lads. You can have your very own man in Istanbul with a glamorous name like Temizkanoglu. He'll know every back alley, every duck every dive, and if all goes well you'll be invited to the birthday party of his little Fakir.

OR - stuff all of the above. Slip into your silken lounge loons, spark up a smooth cheroot and turn on the computer. Because no matter how hard we all try to geographically focus our enquiries, we will get requests for work from all over the world. We either reply politely or press delete, but what if for example you had a warm and loving relationship with a T-shirt printer in Pigsknuckle Arkansas? Maybe he would big you up and forward you all his accidental UK enquiries.

Reciprocally, when Billy Ray Jim Bob Clampett contacts you with an enquiry about embroidered mule hats, you can ping that off to your special friend. Unlikely? Well we do a bit, and if we made a bit more effort I think we could do a lot more.

So if the credit crunch turns out to be more than a breakfast cereal; if after eighteen months of waking up to ‘Your house is now worth less than a packet of crisps' the country collectively breaks wind and locks all the doors, maybe we'll look further afield - a fleet of small boats out of Dover on an impossible mission? We did alright last time.

Cheers,

Paul

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