SoCal1990

Lads, I don’t know what it is, but it seems the stars simply refuse to align and let me live here in peace and happiness. As you lot know, my Harley’s still in the shop being fixed up as new, so I decided: Why not embrace the local lifestyle a bit more? Money is never an issue for me, so when Bob does something, he does it proper. So, I went out and bought myself a brand new f***-all Bangkok tuk-tuk, direct from the factory. Not just any new tuk-tuk, mind you. No mates, a bright neon pink, fully customized, balls-to-the-wall, chromed-out, LED light-blazing, speaker-blasting, wide tired, absolute behemoth of a machine. Even Elon the Don would be proud of this whack-a-doodle. Plus I demand respect and admiration and I planned to cruise down Beach Road like the man-god that I am. What I got instead? A one-way ticket to more sheer, unrelenting humiliation. Now, mind you, it’s a Monday night, the air is thick with heat and possible bad decisions, and I’m sitting in my brand-new tuk-tuk, parked up on Beach Road, feeling like the absolute Patts legend that I am. I’ve got my colorful marijuana print shirt unbuttoned halfway down because I’m a Big Baller, my ten baht gold chain gleaming under the neon glow, aviators reflecting in the city lights, and a juicy kebab dripping grease all over my snakeskin loafers while I puff on a nice big Bob Marley style fatty all at the same time. Cause that’s how I roll boys. I’m then about to bounce over to Soi 6, bask in the admiration of the masses with my new ride, and maybe engage in a bit of salami swordplay if I fancy. Life is good. But no, disaster, again. Out of nowhere, four fat Indian tourists suddenly pile into the back. One of them, an excitable bloke in a fake Gucci tracksuit, leans forward. “Brother, Pattaya Walking Street, quick quick.” I nearly choked on my kebab. “Oi mate, what? I’m not your bloody personal chauffeur.” He laughs. “No problem, brother. Two hundred baht, okay.” Before I can even react, his mate starts barking directions like he’s my copilot. “Fast fast. Good driver. We pay you good tip.” Lads, I was f****** fuming. I turn around, kebab in one hand, burning spliff in the other, and I hit them with my most pissed off stare. They had really gotten my back up. “Do I look like some two-bit tuk-tuk driver to you sweaty chavs.” They look at my tuk-tuk. They look at my outfit. They look at the giant neon sign above my head flashing "Big Kahuna Bob" in blinding blue letters. Then back at me. “Yes, brother.” Before I can even begin to explain the sheer levels of disrespect, one of them pulls out a handful of crumpled up twenty baht notes and starts shoving them in my face. Do I look like some tuk-tuk-riding peasant? Like I’m desperate for their sweaty little stack of crumpled baht? Like I’m not an international stallion and a respected local dignitary? I nearly launched my kebab at his head. “Out. Now. Cu**s.” They argue for a bit, muttering something in Hindi, a bit of head wobble, but finally, they get out, but not before one of the cheeky plonkers takes a selfie with me and instantly uploads it to his IG captioning it "Good tuk-tuk driver, very happy." Mates. I was seething. But before I can even fully process what just happened three six foot tall ladyboys suddenly jump in the back like a tactical assault team. “Wow, Daddy Bob, sexy new tuk-tuk neh.” Do they know me? One of them throws an arm around to hug me, practically strangling me in a cloud of coconut-scented perfume and a bulging bicep. Another one is pressing every button on the dashboard like she’s trying to launch a missile strike. The third one cranks the speakers to max volume and starts trying to have a right fiddle with my bait and tackle. Now we’re blasting out hard-hitting Thai techno so loud that people are actively covering their ears. I haven’t even agreed to take them anywhere, but suddenly one of them grabs the handlebars. “I drive Daddy. You relax neh Khun Bob.” I try to protest, but at this point, I have completely lost control of my own life. She stomps on the gas pedal and the tuk-tuk lunges forward. I am no longer a man. I am cargo. Cargo in an led-light-lit, bass-blasting, ladyboy-piloted missile careening through the streets of Pattaya. We’re screaming down Beach Road, music blaring, lights flashing, Ladyboy number one is yelling Go faster Big Daddy Bob, and Ladyboy number two is hanging out the side, catcalling tourists. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a passing storefront window. My open Hawaiian shirt is flapping wildly like a silk cape. My gold chain is bouncing like I’m in a rap video. I look like a man who has completely lost control of his last ounce of dignity. Just when I think this night can’t get any worse, my phone pings. It’s Harry the Hummer. "Where u at matey? Bar girls asking for u." Mates. I don’t even know anymore. All I wanted was an ounce of respect. Instead, I’ve become the captain of a neon-lit clown car filled with hyperactive ladyboys and blaring bass so loud it’s probably rupturing eardrums all over South Pattaya. Tuk-tuks don’t make you a mensch. They make you a joke. And in my case a joke with a hostage crisis and a minor hearing disorder. Best regards, Original Bob.

Alright, lads, just had the most bizarre experience at the local wet market yesterday afternoon. Thought I’d pop in to grab a few kilos of fresh mangoes and give my business to some nice, hard working local vendors; simple enough, right? Wrong. So I walk up to this vendor’s stall, which looks like it has nice stuff, but I know it's not going to be cheap. However, I’m willing to pay top price, expecting to get some really fresh, ripe fruit. What does he hand me? Overripe, bruised mangoes with small black spots on them that look like they’ve been through a smoothie blender. I ask him politely, in Thai no less, if he could kindly give me something fresher. What’s his response? A blank stare, a grunt, and then, get this, mates, he mutters something about me needing to go back to my own country if I don’t like how things are in Thailand. What? Really? I’m just asking for some decent fruit, and I'm here paying top price bruv. Come on, mate. At this point, I’m standing there trying to process it. You know me, I’m friendly, humble, extremely polite, respectful and, most of all, reasonable and I don't act out of emotion. I also don’t want to cause a scene, so I just let him toss the mangoes in my bag. Then he practically throws them at me. No apology, no response to my polite request to exchange them, nothing. Just a cold shoulder and a side order of attitude. Look, I’ve been here a while now and didn’t just land at Swampy 48 hours ago. I get it. Not everyone’s going to be thrilled to see a fluent Thai speaking farang buying mangoes in a local market. But am I really asking for too much? I spoke in Thai, I used the right words, was courteous the whole time, I tried to keep things friendly and amicable. And still, this is how I get treated? It also makes me wonder if his charging me such a high price, and giving me overripe mangoes was merely to rip me off because I’m a foreigner and he thinks I don't know anything about local quality standards or the price of things. Could be, right? I know people get stressed at times, but this kind of response? Feels a bit over the top, doesn’t it? Am I just unlucky, or does anyone else get this kind of treatment for trying to buy something as simple as a bag of mangoes at a local market? What happened to the Thai smile I first fell in love with, lads? A place where people at least pretended to be nice, even when they didn’t care about you. Now, it’s like every simple task turns into a confrontation. Sad. Best regards, Original Bob

Lenny the Licker and Nick the Nonce are fixing it up as we speak. They said give them a week. Meanwhile, I’m off to HK on Monday to get new clothes made.

Lads, let me tell you, I’ve suffered my share of great injustices in this place during my time here over the ages; crooked bar tabs, dodgy tailors, fake Rolexes, women who swear up and down they’ve never seen me before despite me single-handedly funding their sick buffalo repairs upcountry for months, but this latest one? This one takes all the mickey out of me mates. It all started a few days ago when I decided to get my laundry done. I hadn’t had any of my valuable threads washed since getting back to Thailand from Dubai. Now, as a man of fine distinction and high class, I don’t wear your average market-stall tat like some of the skint geezers slumming around Patts. No, my wardrobe is a carefully curated collection of high-quality, Hong Kong-tailored, Italian-cotton, investment-grade garments. So when it’s time to freshen them up, I don’t just toss them into some grimy, coin-operated youth-hostel washing machine. No, I go professional only. So I take my laundry to a sparkling new laundry shop just a few Sois off Buakhao recommended by Billy the Blagger. Small place, local operation, looks clean to me. The attentive woman behind the counter nods, smiles, and hands me a little slip to fill out. Smooth process, right? What could possibly go wrong? Well, everything lads. I return two days later, expecting my 24 beloved designer shirts to be professionally ironed and my 16 tailored trousers to be folded up nicely, smelling of jasmine-scented starch and ready for another week of me hitting the bar scene hard and looking more dapper than every other sweaty knob in town. But instead, the woman hands me a suspiciously lightweight plastic bag. I open it up and immediately feel a chill run down my spine. Inside, I find: • One neon-green tank top with “Full Moon Party” printed across the front. • A pair of cargo shorts that smell like motorbike exhaust and Soi 6 regret. • Two crusty socks, one torn nearly in half. • An old pair of underwear with a waistband stretched wider than a ladyboy’s departure lounge. • No sign at all of any of my actual expensive clothes. Now, at this point, I’m reasonably concerned. So I do what any man in my position would, I hold up the insulting looking tank top and say, “Oi, love, what the frigg is this tosh?” And do you know what she does? She nods at me, like a schoolteacher trying to explain the first 3 letters of the alphabet to a slow learner, and says, “Same same you bring. Look very good now, Khun Bob.” Lads, I nearly passed out from sheer rage. “Same same?” I hold up the torn sock. “You telling me I walked in here with this rag?” She nods again. “Yes, you give. You wear before sir.” Before? BEFORE?! Now, I’m not a violent man, but in that moment, I understood why some blokes snap and end up in a real legal jam over something daft. I demand she check again, and after much sighing, eye-rolling, and a quick chat with her sleepy mate in the back, she suddenly produces another bag. Finally. My actual clothes. Or so I think. I rip it open, and what do I see? • One of my white linen shirts… looking like it’s been used as a napkin at a somtam stall. • My favorite navy trousers… now featuring a weird bleach mark in the shape of Soi Cowboy over the crotch area. • My lucky pink polo… now somehow three sizes smaller. • And worst of all? My best collared dress shirt… now sporting what looks suspiciously like a bright red lipstick kiss on the collar. I look at her, petrified. She shrugs and delivers the final insult: “Like that when you bring, Khun Bob.” Like what when I bring?! Really, doll??? Lads, at this point, I knew there was no winning. I could argue, I could call the BIB, I could get a forensic investigator to analyze the stains and prove they weren’t mine, and it wouldn’t matter. The house always wins. So, there I was, standing outside the laundry shop, out 3,200 baht in laundry fees, and another 3,000 quid in ruined HK wardrobe kit, for the mere privilege of getting somebody else’s sweaty, lost tank top AND my own clothes destroyed. And do you know what the worst part is? The only thing they didn’t lose were the minging cargo shorts that looked like they’d been rescued from a bin along Beach Road. Like they knew I’d rather set myself on fire than wear them. So there’s your moral of the story, boys: If you value your wardrobe like I do, either do your own washing or accept that one day, you too may end up dressed like a backpacker named Nobby from Nottingham, drowning his sorrows in a piss-warm draft Leo beer. Now here I am, nothing left of me mates but a feeling of pure defeat. What would you do, lads, if you were standing here naked and wardrobeless in no more than my battered Doc Martins? Best regards, The Original Bob.

No need mate, I own Skynet.

Mates, let me tell you, I don’t know what it is, but the universe seems to have it out for me lately. Maybe it’s jealousy. Maybe it’s bad luck. Or maybe it’s just that Thailand simply cannot handle a man of my stature, good looks, and wealth roaring through the streets on a 900-pound chromed Milwaukee masterpiece. So, there I was, yesterday afternoon, taking my beloved Harley down Soi 6, heading to meet my old mate Pete the Porker for a few tins. I’m feeling good, looking sharp, got my aviators on, leather vest in this 36-degree heat because fashion is pain, and the engine purring like a high-class BJ Queen. I glide down the soi, weaving through the usual mix of punters, bar sluts, and wide-eyed first-timers still trying to process the sheer carnage of what they’ve just walked into. A few lovely ladies give me the nod (standard for a baller like me), and I’m thinking, Yeah, Bob, you know you’ve still got it. And then, disaster. Out of nowhere, some absolute tosser in a battered old Toyota Altis, looking like it's an old repainted Bangkok taxi, decides to stomp on the brakes right in front of me. No indication, no warning, nothing. I yank the brakes, but it’s too late. The front wheel locks up, the handlebars wobble, and suddenly, BOOM—I’m down. Bob, the king of Soi 6, now lying in the middle of the one lane Soi like a bruised mango, my Harley keeled over like a beached whale. For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own rage boiling over. And then, the laughter. Of course, the peanut gallery absolutely loved that one. Slappers cackling, motocy taxi drivers pointing, even some pasty bloke in cargo shorts gave me a thumbs up. Real funny, yeah? Watching a man’s ego get obliterated in broad daylight? I pick myself up, dust off my jeans, wipe off my boots, and turn to the idiot responsible for this catastrophe. He’s stepped out of his car now, a middle-aged local bloke in knockoff Ray-Bans and a shirt that says “Red Bull Champions 2014.” The type who probably spends his days cutting people off in traffic and his nights trying to convince karaoke girls that he’s a pilot. I hit him with my best intimidating mug-shot stare. “Mate, what the actual f*** was that?” The bloke shrugs. Shrugs! Like I just asked him what his favorite noodle stall is. Then he hits me with, “Farang not careful.” Farang not careful?! I nearly blew a gasket on the spot. I was gliding through that soi like a majestic panther before this absolute numpty of the highest order decided to pull a handbrake turn for no reason. I point to my bike. “You see that, yeah? That’s 2,800,000 baht of pure American steel you just laid out like a cheap deck chair.” Does he care? No. In fact, now he’s getting annoyed at me, like I’m the inconvenience in his day! A small crowd is gathering. More bar girls watching now, some old expat lads leaning against a bar railing, enjoying the show. Then, out of nowhere, this fella tries to walk back to his car like it’s case closed. Oh, no. Not today. Bob's not having it. I step in front of his door. “Oi, mate, not so fast. Who’s paying for the damage to my Harley?” He sighs, takes off his sunglasses, and says the words: “Not my problem farang.” And that’s when I knew it was game over. This was one of those classic Thailand moments where, no matter what, the farang is always in the wrong. I could have had a dashcam, sworn witness statements, and a handwritten apology from the grandfather of Pattaya himself, and I’d still be the one walking away with a lighter wallet and a fresh dose of humiliation. And sure enough, before I can argue further, a couple of motocy taxi runts start shaking their fingers at me. One even says, “You go too fast farang.” Mate, I was going ten kilometers an hour. I’ve seen coconuts roll faster. But what can you do? Welcome to Pattaya. I’m left standing there, sweaty, pissed off, my Harley scuffed up, while the fella hops back in his Toyota sh*tbox and drives off like nothing happened. And Pete the Porker? The useless sod is already at the bar, texting me “where u at bruv?” as I stand there in the middle of Soi 6, trying to piece together what’s left of my sense of humor. Moral of the story, lads? Driving in Thailand is like Thai go-go bar tabs, you never quite know how badly you’re getting shafted until it’s all already too late. Best regards, The Original Bob.

Boys, right, let me tell you, life at the top with my kind of wealth isn’t always such smooth sailing like you good lads think. Even when you’re as newly Bitcoin minted as I am, there are days when the universe just decides to have a right laugh at your expense. Yesterday was one of those days mates. I was out for a casual afternoon stroll down Soi 6, as one does when one has more cash in wallet than sense innit. Feeling a bit frothy, I decided to treat myself to a short time with a particularly glamorous, tall, slim, long black hair, legs-for-days bit of kit. Top-tier stuff mates. So we get into the wee room, and just as we’re really getting down to proper business, disaster strikes. Mid-crank, I feel a pop in my lower back, followed by an explosion of pain. I collapse, fully naked, like an old water buffalo on its last legs. The cock-in-the-frock, now absolutely horrified, starts panicking, thinks maybe I need an ambulance. "Khun Bob, Khun Bob, you wunn go hoppi-tun?" she yelps. Me? A hospital? No chance. Not in this city. I pull myself together, grit my teeth, let out a solid fart, and waddle out the back of the bar like a swordsman returning from battle. But, I’m in absolute agony. Can’t stand up straight. Can’t sit down. Take a dump? Forget about it. Can’t move without wincing like I’ve just been kicked in the family jewels. But being the problem solver that I am, I decide to seek professional help. Enter: The Chiropractor. I limp my way into a baht bus and over to some clinic just off Pattaya Glahng Road that promises to “restore mobility and vitality”, perfect for a man with my troubles. The receptionist takes one look at me, all hunched over like Gollum after a big night out, and immediately she hands me some paperwork. I scratch my name out (Bob Smith, Financial Extraordinaire, Ladyboy Aficionado), and within minutes, I’m ushered into a room by a fella who looks like he hasn't graduated middle-school yet and who got his medical degree off Lazada. I try explaining my very delicate situation, but he barely listens. Before I know it, he’s got me face-down, on the table, muttering some nonsense about “unlocking nerve pathways.” Then—BANG. He twists my spine like he’s wringing out a wet towel. I yelp. Something shifts. Not in a good way either. He tells me relax Khun Bob. Relax mate? Right, I just spent 11,000 baht to get paralyzed by a bloke who learned his trade from YouTube tutorials. So I try to stand up, nope, worse than before. Now I’m hobbling like a 90-year-old noodle vendor who has just fallen down into the klong. The chiropractor pats me on the back (cheers, mate), tells me I'll feel much better in the morning after rubbing one out, a good night's sleep and suggests I book another session with him next week. So there I am, completely battered, walking back out into the sub-sois of BuaKhao, my wallet is lighter by 11,000 baht and with a back that clicks every time I inhale. Well, a lesser man would admit defeat, but not me. No, I do what any self-respecting, cash millionaire would do after an experience like that. I limp my way to the nearest beer bar, order a large whiskey soda, and pray that I wake up tomorrow with my spine still intact. Moral of the story, lads? If you’re gonna play, don't pull any fancy contortionist stunts. And if you’re gonna throw your back out, at least make sure it’s with a strong enough prozzie who’ll carry you out the room when all goes tits up. Best regards, The Original Bob.

If I'm to be honest, my stay in Hong Kong wasn’t just about sorting out my finances, naah, there’s always more to the story, innit. Had a couple of little “business meetings,” met a few "upstanding" characters, maybe did some “off-the-record” dealings with a few geezers… but we don’t need to get into all that. What happens in Wan Chai, stays in Wan Chai, yeah bruv? Now, let’s talk more about this new millionaire life of mine. I’m richer than my wildest dreams, and I’m not just talking about a hefty bag of change in my pocket, I’m talking real old-school wealth. Cash on hand, bitcoin stashed away, and a Hong Kong apartment at the top of The Peak with a view that’d make you dizzy. So what am I gonna do with all this newfound fortune? Well, first things first, I’ve got to get the ol’ face sorted, right? I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror, and let’s be honest, I could use a bit of a polish. Maybe a cheeky little eyebrow lift. Perhaps a subtle neck tug, some Botox, nothing too dramatic, but enough to ensure I don’t look like I’ve been living on soy sauce and instant noodles for the last four decades. I mean, the last 40 years were great, but Robert Smith should look like the future, not a fossil, right mates? And what about these other 40 BTC of mine you ask? I know some of you are wondering, am I gonna be cashing them out soon? Naah, lads, I’m just sitting tight, waiting for that golden moment when crypto goes back to the moon with Elon on board. When it happens, I’ll be laughing all the way to the bank. If not, I’ve got enough money now to buy a small country (or at least a small island in the Philippines). So, no stress there. But let’s not forget the real pressing matter, yeah? The important stuff. Like how I’m still absolutely killing the nightlife scene here in Soi 6. You better believe it. If I’ve got the money, I’m living large, taking my pick from the finest ladies and ladyboys, over 21 by at least a day, of course, just to make sure I’m keeping it classy. No surprises there. Got to keep things proper, yeah? Tonight you ask? A bit of dinner at that super posh hotel rooftop bar. Maybe a few rounds of tequila shots. Who knows? If I’m feeling generous, I might even treat the whole bar to a few rounds of imported whiskey again. So what’s next for moi? More wild nights, more lavish spending, and possibly a new house somewhere in the world. Tokyo? Sure. Rome? Maybe. Ibiza? Who knows, eh? Gotta keep it fresh, keep it unpredictable. Bob’s World, baby. Already picked up two more Rolex Daytonas in Doha when I flew back in. Anyway, that’s all for now boys. Stay tuned for tomorrow’s post when I tell you how I spent a million baht on a shopping spree for some blue suede shoes… and 20 mill for a brand-new McLaren that I didn’t need. But for tonight? Well, I’m off to dip my toes in a little “me time.” You know the drill. You ain't nutthin but a hound dog! Cheers, all you absolute legends! Bob.

A lighthearted fable and the latest satirical chapter in the saga of the legendary bob smith. Righty-o, lads, I was hoping for a fresh start after the tragic barber shop massacre earlier this morning, so I figured I’d sort out a small tooth filling that was festering in order to finally get my afternoon back on track. Nice, simple taking-care-of-bob day, right mates? No drama. Just in, out, smile, and choppers fully restored. But no. Not in this town. See, while I was in Spain, I popped into a dentist for a routine cleaning, and the bloke spotted a little cavity. “Nothing urgent,” he said. “Can wait until you’re back in Thailand,” he assured me. So, like a responsible man, I put it off. No rush, right? Fast forward to today. I stroll into this fancy dental clinic that I've passed by many times on Soi 69. It's got plush chairs, marble floors, jazz music playing softly in the background. Top-tier establishment, innit? No dodgy back-alley operations for bob the baller. No, no, no, no-way, mates. I'm feeling good. Feeling responsible that I'm going to get this sorted proper now. Dentist lady has me in the chair, tilted so far back that the coins start falling out of my Gucci jeans, takes one look under the theatre lights and says, “Before we fill it, let’s do an X-ray to see how deep it is, ok khun bob?” "Fair enough" I say. "Why not? Up to you na khrub." Then comes the bad news. My ‘tiny’ cavity? Not tiny. Not even close. The thing had gone full minging rogue. As septic as a back soi street drain during monsoon season. The root was dead. Tooth was beyond saving. And now, unless I wanted a flesh-eating infection crawling into my jawbone, the whole thing had to come out today. Before I can protest, she’s jabbing me with Novocaine like she’s trying to put down a suffering rhino. I lose count after the fifth injection. My tongue goes numb and hangs out of my mouth. My left ear starts tingling. I’m drooling like a Labrador in the hot sun. Then she gets to work. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a tooth pulled in the hub of dentistry, but let me tell you, it is not a dignified experience. She’s yanking, twisting, grunting, the whole shebang. I think she may have even farted once. At one point, I think she even puts a knee on my chest for extra leverage. Then suddenly, I hear a loud, sickening crack as the tooth finally gives up the ghost and it's out. And just like that, I’m down one molar. After paying the 55,700 baht bill, I’m now outside the clinic, on the street, half my face paralyzed, drooling like a giraffe with heatstroke, a kilo of cotton stuffed in my cheek like a prize pig at a county fair, can't control my mouth, looking like I’ve had a stroke on half my face, absolutely starving because I haven’t eaten in six and a half hours. Next, I stumble into 7-Eleven, thinking I’ll grab a premium, triple ham and cheese toasty, only to remember the dentist’s parting words: “No solid food for a week while it heals, neh khun bob.” A week. Bloody hell! So now, I’m on an all-liquid diet. Rice porridge, banana milkshakes, miso soup so thin you could drink it through a straw. The lady at the smoothie stand is now my new best friend and soon I'm to become king of the soy milk diet. Meanwhile, all I can think about is a nice plate of fish and chips with extra Lea & Perrins, something I won’t be chomping down anytime soon. So, lads, that’s me for the next seven days, face half-dangling, living on pre-chewed baby food, and wondering how a simple filling turned into this big-bob mess. Ever had your teeth betray you like this? Any tips on how to survive this hellish, soft-food prison? Lost my appetite and a molar, bob.

A lighthearted parody and satirical tribute to the legend that is bob smith, where even a simple haircut turns into a tragicomic masterpiece. Right, mates, now I’ve totally had it. I hadn't had my haircut since before I set off to Spain in September, so all I wanted was a little trim, just a bit of a clean up to the unruly looking sides, sort the top out a bit. Nothing fancy innit. Simple, right? In, out, looking sharp, back on the scene, ready to start netting all the ladies again. But no. Not in this town. I stroll into this fancy-looking barber shop, looked brand new. Big mirrors, head shot photos of men with great looking haircuts plastered all over the walls, comfy leather chairs, free tea and coffee service, shoulder massage if you want it, the works. Surely I've come to the right place. Tell the guy, “Just a tidy-up, mate, nothing drastic, just a bit of a trim off the sides and top.” The lad nods, smiles, acts like he clearly understands. And then, before I know it, he’s hacking away like Edward Scissorhands, except he’s got a personal vendetta against my scalp. Massive clumps of hair are flying everywhere, hair that took 5 years to nicely grow out is suddenly gone in just seconds and the mirror starts reflecting something… alarming. By the time he steps back, I look like I should be headlining an ‘80s synth-pop reunion tour. A full-blown plonker's mullet. Extra short on top, skin shining through, and extended party at the back, absolute train-wreck. I stare in horror. He just beams at me with a toothy smile, like he’s created a masterpiece. Not a hint of remorse. Not a flicker of “maybe I’ve ruined this bloke’s life for the next 5 years.” He's not owning up to any of it. Then, out of nowhere, he slaps something hot into my ears. I don’t even have time to protest before, RIP! Agony. White-hot, blinding pain. Apparently, I was getting my ear hair waxed. An extra free service. Without my consent. The sheer audacity of the little geezer! Finally, I stand up, defeated. I pay the bloke the 850 baht he wanted, ready to flee in shame. And as I’m about to escape, the shop owner chases after me. “No 200 Baht tip, something wrong sir, you not happy Khun bob?" No. Tip. TOSSER! Lads, I’ve lost all confidence. I look like an unemployed drummer from 1987. My head is a joke, my ears are on fire, and I’ve just forked out generously for the tragic privilege. Tell me, how hard is it to cut a handsome guy's hair properly? How? Has this same thing ever happened to you in the hub of hair salons? My life for the coming half decade was just destroyed in a Bangkok minute. Lost all my dignity, bob.

A whirlwind nod to the legend that is bob smith. His unique brand of failures and misfortune are dearly missed, wherever his current escapades may have taken him… Well, lads, I’m back. After a few months in Spain living the good life with Willy the Whinger, it’s time for a new bob. No more heavy boozing, no more all night tranny patrols in Alicante, and certainly no more greasy, extra crispy KFC bathing in fatty curry sauce in Patts. I’ve joined an exclusive gym here in my new hometown; Hua Hin, a fitness mecca where only the rich and astute, like myself, may enter. This is where I’ll get back in shape, turn my life around, reinvent myself, and most importantly meet a proper woman. Mrs. Smith is out of the picture now. She got too fat while I was away to even try and plonk her anymore, so I gave her 6 million baht, cash, and sent her on her way. No more tatted bar prozzies, maybe just on special occasions. From now on, it’s only classy, self made Thai ladies with abs and Platinum Amex cards for Bob. Or so I thought. The first thing that hits me when I walk into this haven of pristine health is not the smell of sweat and hard work, it’s the money. Perfect place for bob, right? Wrong. This is not just any gym. It is a fashion show. The women look like they have stepped straight off a magazine cover, designer leggings, skin tight crop tops, flaunting oversized chesticles, and perfect makeup, gliding gracefully between machines like they were born to be there. Even in my $1,800 LV track suit and my gold Rolex, I still felt a bit underdressed. I head for the treadmill, figuring it is a safe place me to start. Just ease into it. I select a comfortable jogging speed while stealing the occasional glance at the stunner gracefully galloping next to me. She is effortlessly gliding along, not even breaking a half sweat. In an attempt to impress the little lass, I notch up the speed a bit. Then a bit more. Big mistake Bobby Bumbles! My foot lands wrong, the treadmill launches me backward, and I crash straight into a pile of stacked gym mats. Absolute silence. Nobody is arsed. Nobody even gives a toss. I peel myself off the floor, take a deep breath, and do what any self respecting man of my level would do, I act like it never happened. Moving on, I decide to hit the weights. Back in the day, I could handle a decent bench press, so I load up what should be a good warm up amount. Lower the bar for the first rep and suddenly, it feels like a car is parked on my chest. My arms shake, my vision blurs, and just before I pass out, a gym staff member rushes over to rescue me. Brilliant. Now I am officially the weakest farang in the gym. Determined to salvage my dignity, I attempt to redeem myself with a Pilates class. Simple enough, right mates? A bit of stretching, deep breathing, how hard can it be? And then, right in the middle of a downward bend, disaster strikes. A noise. Loud. Unmistakable. Mine!!! I am not sure if I blew a mega fart out that tore the seat of my pants or if my contorted position created the crater in the tracksuit seam along the edge of my anose, but either way, I was clearly done after that with half my purple undershorts now hanging out and exposed. Nobody says a word, but I can feel the judgment. The silence is deafening. The instructor does not even look at me. Minger! She just moves on like I no longer exist, as if I ever did anyway. That was the moment I knew this was not really my scene. So I stormed straight up to the front desk and canceled my membership instantly. No refund, fine. They can keep the 220,000 baht I paid for the next three months. I do not want their stupid, overpriced, freezing cold, torture chamber anyway FFS. Turns out the gym life is not for me lads. Time to come up with a new plan I reckon. Maybe get one of those little designer chick magnet dogs that women love to hug and go jogging in the park with it to see what floats along my way from the opposite sex. Or maybe just a few cold tins at The Pig and Whistle while I think through an alternative plan. Any thoughts on how I can rescue myself from here? lost dignity, bob.

Another satirical tribute in fond memory of the original, hapless, Bob Smith. His waylaid wisdom is greatly missed, wherever his rugged adventures may now be taking him… Alright, lads, gather ‘round, cause I need to vent, yet again. Last night was meant to be one for the books. My old mate Gary-the-Gimp is back in town from Birmingham, so we did what any respectable, upstanding pair of English country gentlemen would do, we hit Soi 6 for a few cold bevies and a bit of cultural, happy-ending enrichment. Started off alright, a few frosty tins at a loud, packed bar, some fun and games, rubbed up against much of the local female talent, some of them ladyboys, Gimps doesn't mind them, and you know how it goes (I boom boom you, ok?). Nothing too crazy, just a respectable night out between two fine, worldly, British scholars sharing knowledge. Meanwhile, after we’d had our fill of fraternizing with all the happy slappers, we decided to call it a night like the responsible, posh blokes that we are. Gimps stumbles off in one direction for his hotel with his wife-of-the-night in tow, and I, alone, tapped out, and in my infinite Asian-old-hand wisdom, head to the end of Soi 6/1 by Second Road to hop a motorbike taxi and quickly get back home to the eagerly awaiting mrs. smith. And that’s where the night took a harrowing sharp turn. I grab one of these helmetless hooligans, tell him where I live (clearly and politely, IN THAI, mind you), I know he at least understood when I said the second word in the name of my apt block "Mansion" because he repeated it back to me "Mann-Chunnn!". Then I hopped on the back and well, lads, let me tell you, I might as well have signed up for a zip-line wedgie. This absolute lunatic, prolly on meth, wearing only flip-flops and loose, baggy, football trousers, took off like he was being chased by the village headman. Zero regard for potholes, speed bumps, or human life. Every time we hit a divot, I felt my spine pop itself back out again. At one point, I swear we caught air. It was like racing in the sidecar division at the TT Races over on the Isle innit. I’m gripping on for dear life, internally drafting my own obituary, thinking, “This is it, this is how the great bob smith taps out and leaves this earth with a smear, splattered across Pattaya Second Road like a poorly made kebab with lots of extra ketchup.” Then, to top it all off, the plonker takes me to the wrong apartment block. I glance down at the shiny, new Rolex on my wrist, it's already 2:20 am, and I tell him, “No, mate, not this mansion.” The geezer just laughs at me, turns around, and speeds off again, taking me on another scenic detour, this time through half of the abandoned buildings on Third Road. By the time we finally get to MY flat on the backside of Buakhao, I’m shaken, battered, and questioning every life decision that ever led me to this moment. And THEN, oh, and get this, the best part of it all, the little rice-rocket-jockey tries to fleece me. The ride should’ve been 60 baht max. The git knows it. I know it. He tells me 200. 200 BATH!? That much for a journey that nearly ended in my untimely demise and almost had me doing my shorts into a state? And for the mere pleasure of having my internal organs rearranged? I tell him “Mate, you’re having a laugh.” He starts getting shirty, raising his voice, acting like I’m an unreasonable Cheap-Charlie. At this point, I’m knackered, butt-bruised from the ride, half snookered from all the Leo, and I’m not about to get into a street scuffle with a 5-foot-nothing Somchai in front of my flat over a mere 140 baht grift attempt. So I throw the arse-hat 100 just to get rid of the tosser, and he speeds off shouting "farang key-nok", probably to go on to terrorize another poor, drunken sod. So, I ask you, boys, is it just me? Or has basic decency already gone out the window here in The Land of Smiles? You try to support the locals, buy their services, spread the quid around, try to do things right for the struggling and working classes of this country, in a dignified way, with kindness and politeness, and this is the treatment you get? No manners, no respect, just outright piss-taking??? Really??? sigh bob.

A heartfelt fable and a tribute to the Real Bob Smith, wherever he may be. Alright, lads, I need to get this off my chest. What has happened to customer service in Thailand? Back in the day, when I first came here, you could walk into a bar or restaurant, be greeted with a smile, a cold beer would show up right away and you would actually be treated like a paying customer. Now? You’d think I’d walked in and personally insulted the entire family of the restaurant owner just by sitting down and smiling. Case in point is last night. I went to this so-called “expat-friendly” bar on Koh Samet, just looking to unwind with a cold one and a plate of food after a long day. Ordered a simple meal of steak, well-done, side of chips, nothing fancy innit. I even asked politely in Thai (I always make the effort, you know me right), and what do I get? A blank stare, a half-hearted grunt, and the waitress shuffling off like I’d just asked her to solve a physics equation. Food comes out. Steak’s bleeding, chips are ice cold. So, as any normal person would, I politely call her over and say, “Excuse me, khrap, steak mai suk, fries yen mak mak na khrap.” (For you lot who don’t speak Thai, that means “undercooked steak, very cold fries.” See? Polite. Respectful.) And then, BAM! Full not having it attitude. Eye roll, huffing, snatches the plate away like I’d personally offended her ancestors. Ten minutes later, food comes back. The steak? Burnt to a crisp.The chips? Same cold, soggy mess. And to top it off, she practically slammed the plate down on the table like she was about to challenge me to a Muay Thai fight. No apology, no “sorry for the mix-up Khun Bob,” nothing. Now, I get it that times are tough and people are stressed, but why is it that farangs like me seem to get treated worse than the local soi dogs these days? I was polite. I was patient. I even spoke their language! And yet, this is the treatment I get? It’s not the first time, either. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had similar experiences. Is it Tik-Tok poisoning their minds? Economic stress? Just a general hatred of handsome, well dressed farangs like me now? I had the Rolex on. They could see I'm not a slouch. I don’t know, but Thailand is not the same place I first fell in love with mates. So I ask, is anyone else experiencing this, or am I just extremely unlucky? Bob.

No, I didn't. I'm not the OP.

Covid was definitely a Darwinian move of sorts. If we’re talking about large-scale, man-made disasters that could have been prevented, COVID-19 definitely ranks near the top. A lab-engineered virus, funded by its eventual victims, allowed to leak (or worse, deliberately spread), then covered up for just long enough to ensure maximum global carnage, it’s almost too on-the-nose as a case study in human folly. But is it the worst example in history? The closest parallels are probably nuclear disasters and ideological purges. The Chernobyl meltdown in 1986 was a mix of human error, bad science, and political negligence, leading to thousands of deaths and generations of suffering. But even that didn’t reshape the world the way COVID did. The Great Leap Forward (1958-1962) is another contender, Mao’s disastrous policies led to the deaths of an estimated 30-45 million people through starvation, all because of delusional central planning. Then there’s World War I, a completely avoidable conflict sparked by a diplomatic blunder, costing millions of lives and setting the stage for even worse carnage in WWII. But COVID has something uniquely Darwinian about it, it wasn’t just a case of mass death, but of selective survival. The ones who took precautions, adapted, and stayed ahead of the curve made it through, while others didn’t. The pandemic revealed deep flaws in governance, medical preparedness, and public intelligence, all wrapped up in one tragic, preventable hot mess. And now, with the world moving on, the people who funded the whole operation are still in charge. What could go wrong, again?