That Guy: JC... yes, we've heard of him... but who is DC?

Dan Carter in Fiji. Photo / Supplied

I am writing this from a Fijian resort. It would be fair to say that nothing much interesting happens on holidays - that's what makes them so relaxing, I suppose - so holiday columns aren't always the most interesting reads.

They always sound a little like a school kid's "What I did in the Holidays" essay and hold your attention as much as your in-laws' slide shows of Europe.

This is because they consist primarily of "you kind of had to be there" content.

The following story is no different, so I might begin by saying: "You kind of had to be there but listen to this."

Yesterday I was in the kids' pool watching my son come down the hydro-slide.

After about his fifth unassisted descent, a large middle-aged man wearing small boy's Speedos approached me and informed me that "DC" was staying at the hotel next door.

I had no close friends called DC, so I assumed he must have been referring to somebody famous, whom we would both know by name and face.

Instinctively, I converted my Mojito-soaked frontal lobe into a scrabble board and began running DC name combinations through my head.

While my son struggled to escape the sucking vortex at the base of the hydro-slide, he continued to tell me how friendly "DC" was and how he was "just a regular guy eating breakfast".

By now, my process of elimination was paying dividends and I had managed to narrow DC's identity down to a few options: He was either Dick Cheney, Dave Clark from the 1960s group, The Dave Clark Five, Solid Gold Hits presenter Dick Clark or the late actor, David Carradine.

Through a further process of elimination I was able to remove David Carradine from the list, as he died on holiday recently while trying to enhance an orgasm through a process of self-strangulation using a belt.

Then the stranger gave me the biggest clue of all. He said that while he was interrupting DC's breakfast, DC had told him that his ankle was healing well.

Of course, the mysterious Speedo-wearing stranger was talking about New Zealand's one and only Dan Carter, who was obviously having a quiet holiday, perhaps as part of his recovery for a recent ankle operation.

Although the man at the pool had never met him before, he found it more economical to refer to him as DC and this was what made it so difficult for me to work out who the hell he was talking about.

He then suggested that I should go and chat to him or perhaps even hang out with him for the day.

The man assumed, I suspected, that I knew Dan or at least had met him a couple of times, so hanging out with him on holiday wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary.

He was correct, but I still wouldn't say I knew him well enough to call him DC.

So now I am stuck with an amusing mental image of my family crashing Dan and his partner's holiday.

I can just see Dan, with ankle still strapped, playing touch rugby with my son on the beach while I look on proudly from the pool bar.

We could change our dinner plans constantly to coincide with theirs and, over a few beers, Dan and I could discuss at length what went wrong with previous World Cup campaigns.

Providing he doesn't roll his ankle on the beach, it might be just what Dan needs to get back into peak physical and mental form for next year.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense, so I have since left a message at his hotel reception saying, "DC, will meet you for breakfast 9am, Regards, TG."

Then again, I suppose there is always a chance I will end up having breakfast with an ankle-strapped Dick Cheney or Dave Clark from The Dave Clark Five.