Lewie London

Oi, what’s all this then, mates? I’m down Sukhumvit last night expecting the usual parade of sweaty Indian sex-tourists, dodgy Thai blokes whisperin’ “ping pong show boss” every three steps, some Nigerian geezer tryin’ to flog me a suitcase of black dollars or lynch my bank account with a crypto scheme that’s basically a bin on fire. And what do I get? Nothin’. Ghost town. Like someone called last orders on sin itself. Whole place feels like Nana Plaza’s been raided by the Ghostbusters. Where’s all the filth gone? It’s spooky, mate. You could hear a cockroach having a scratch. And don’t come at me with that “it’s the low, rainy season, bruv” ballocks. I’ve been terrorisin’ Sukhumvit since before most of these TikTok muppets knew how to tie their shoelaces. Rainy season, hot season, nuclear winter, floods, protests, don’t matter, Sukhumvit’s always been buzzing like a dodgy neon sign outside a short-time hotel. A-Rab lads doing 5 geezers on one slapper, old blokes from Hull looking for love with a pension and a dodgy knee, Russians wearin’ trackies tucked into their socks. Rain don’t stop that lot. Monsoon season’s usually just free aircon for the street drinkers. Now? Tumbleweeds, bruv. Even the tailor shops are sittin’ there like “Boss, where you go?” I’m outside Soi 11, scratchin’ me head, thinkin’, where’s all the tight-arse Aussie blokes in vests screaming about rugby? Where’s the Americans, arguing about whether Trump smells like your Nan's wizard sleeves or expired orange spray paint? Where’s that weird Scandinavian bloke that’s always got only one flip-flop and a Chang in each hand? Nothing. Nana’s emptier than me biscuit tin after a family visit. Bangkok’s supposed to be chaos in a Hawaiian shirt, now it’s like someone put the whole city on airplane mode. Nah, I’m not buyin’ it. I ain’t seen it this dead since Covid lockdown where even the soi dogs looked depressed. And the excuses don’t wash. This ain’t tourist season we’re talking about, this is lifestyle tourism. These lads don’t come for temples, they come all year round for cheap whiskey, bad decisions, and mysterious crotch rashes. Now? Gone. Not even one desperate geezer trying to sell me dodgy Ray-Bans made from melted Coke bottles. So what is it then? Global recession? CIA poisoned the street food? Did someone finally tell ‘em about Bangkok Belly and now they’ve all bottled it? Feels off, mate. Streets this quiet give me the fear. Feels like we’re due for something stupid to kick off, and I’m not talkin’ about Khao San Road lads on mushrooms, I mean proper chaos. Bangkok without bottom of the barrel tourists is like a curry without spice, still technically a meal, but what’s the point?

Lads, can someone tell me when exactly Bangkok’s roads turned into a warzone? No, seriously, when did the streets go from smooth silk to pothole bingo? Used to be, ten years back, I’d take the harken Fireblade out late at night, Bangkok all lit up, cool breeze, empty streets, mate, it was high-speed poetry. Proper freedom. You could tear it up from World Trade to Bang Na, lean into the corners like Rossi, not a care in the world. Midnight Bangkok on two wheels? Pure bliss. Now? All you got left is Rama 9 and Vibhivadee, barely. Otherwise, it's like riding through a scrapyard blindfolded. Every single road’s been dug up, patched, dug up again, patched again, repeat that about fifty times, but no one ever bothered to actually repave the thing. It’s just holes patched with more holes. You’re not riding anymore, you’re surviving. Suspension’s screaming, rims getting buckled, and don’t get me started on the manhole covers sitting two inches above the tarmac like they’re out here doing parkour. I don’t know who’s running the show, BMA and city planning must’ve been handed over to someone’s cousin’s mate who’s never seen a road in his life. Used to be you could cruise at 3 AM, nothing but you, the hum of the engine, and the city lights stretching ahead like a runway. Now? Every hundred meters there’s a trench like they’re about to lay fiber optics straight to the center of the Earth. What happened to the pride in the roads, eh? Thailand’s got some of the craziest bikers in the world as it is and now they’re stuck dodging potholes like playing hopscotch on acid. It’s embarrassing. The bikes deserve better, we deserve better. Bangkok used to be a nighttime playground for riders, now it’s a demolition derby for scooters with bald tires. I swear, if I hit one more raised drain cover, I’m writing a strongly worded letter to someone’s mum. Sort it out, Bangkok.

Alright, picture this, mates. Down in Patts and you’ve pulled not one but two absolute bump-and-grind rockets. Things are hotter than a microwave kebab at midnight. Clothes flying off like they owe gravity money, tongues doing laps, and your todger’s been on more missions than the space shuttle. Fast forward two hours of full-throttle graft on the giblets and somehow… still no fireworks. The big finale? AWOL. Everyone’s all smiles though, no hard feelings, but you tap out and call it. So what’s the next proper move, lads? Do you rally like a champ, hit the haunts and scoop up two more gobblers for round two? Or head back to the wee gaff alone, line up something top shelf online, and finish the job solo? Only asking for a mate. Obviously!

Now, now, you won’t believe this one. Old Donnie’s thrown himself a little shindig at his golf club in Virginia last night, yeah? But not just any dinner. This one was invite-only for the top 220 geezers who’ve gone all in on his knock-off Monopoly money, $TRUMP coin. We’re talking they all paid an average of over a million bucks just to scoff a steak next to the bloke last night. One punter even dropped $37.7 million. For that price, I’d expect gold-plated bogs and Ivanka giving me a foot massage during dessert. And the cherry on this grifting gateau? The top 25 got a VIP reception and a private tour. Private tour of what, exactly? The presidential bunker where he stores his spray tan? Maybe a sneak peek at Melania’s waxwork double? But here’s the absolute screamer: Trump’s crew still controls 80% of the whole bloody coin supply. Eighty percent! That’s not an investment, mate. That’s a cult with NFTs. They’ve raked in over $320 million in trading fees since January, which, by the way, is about the same time he forgot how doors work and started yelling about whales in the electric grid. Critics are calling it pay-to-play, senators are hinting it might be impeachable, and I’m over here wondering when this bloke’s next move is going to be selling naming rights to the White House. “Welcome to the MAGA Mortgage Freedom Palace, sponsored by Trumpcoin.” And who rocked up for the gala? None other than Justin Sun, Chinese billionaire and crypto wizard behind TRON. Top $TRUMP holder. Nothing suspicious there, nah, just a foreign billionaire buying front-row seats at the American democracy circus. Standard stuff, really. Meanwhile, the rest of us are here dodging late fees on our leccy bills while Trump’s flogging digital snake oil and throwing five-star dinner parties like it’s the end of the Roman Empire. Which, honestly, it might be. It’s not just a racket, mate. It’s a full-blown pantomime. Only instead of shouting “he’s behind you,” we’re all just yelling “he’s robbing you blind!” and somehow, half the crowd’s still clapping. https://www.businessinsider.com/trump-memecoin-dinner-attending-crypto-what-to-know-2025-5

I dunno what’s more knackered, Trump’s brain or his moral compass, but either way the geezer’s gone full pub fruit machine flashing ERROR. So he’s up there at a press conference, just saw this on Fox News on the tele, yeah, and the journos ask if he’s gonna give Biden a call, what with the poor sod just announcin’ he’s got stage four prostate cancer. Simple question, yeah? But instead of answerin’ like a normal human being, Trump goes, “He’s got stage nine cancer.” Stage nine, bruv, really? There ain’t even such a thing. That’s not a diagnosis, that’s a farkin’ Marvel sequel. Man’s just out ‘ere makin’ up numbers like he’s tryna skip the NHS queue. And this weren’t even in response to some medical inquiry or nuffin. Nah, the press just asked a basic question. And Trump, instead of sayin’ yeah or nah, starts bangin’ on about stage nine cancer for 2 minutes like he’s the ghost of Dr. Oz on meth. Stage four means serious, yeah. But stage nine? That’s a fookin’ fever dream you get from sniffin’ bleach in a tanning bed. Then just as you think the brain fog’s cleared, he pivots, completely unprovoked mind you, to brag about how he “aced” a cognitive test over at Walter Reid. Like what? You failed the basic biology one ten seconds ago, but now you’re Einstein ‘cos you remembered a picture of a camel? Sit down mate, you’re not solving quantum physics, you’re ticking boxes in a glorified memory game designed for people who’ve forgotten what year it is. And then he goes off about the autopen. The autopen! Like we’re all sat ‘ere wondering how Biden signs his letters while battlin’ cancer. Bruv, nobody asked. You brought it up like a nan on Facebook linking everything back to the war. And then he starts bangin' on about Biden's cognition when the subject was prostate cancer and a bloody 2 minute phone call. But the cherry on top? The box. The little box Trump picks up off a table next to his podium. Man tries to open it like it’s Pandora’s secret stash, fumblin’ like a drunk uncle at Christmas. Couldn’t work it out. Passes it to some other bloke who opens it in a sec like he’s poppin’ open a tin of Tetleys. And Trump’s stood there lookin’ like he just tried to defuse a bomb with oven mitts. Mate’s out ‘ere talkin’ cognitive tests while demonstratin’ he couldn’t win a fight with a sad, little, velvet-covered box that wasn't even locked. And we’re supposed to believe he’s sharp as a tack? Please, lads. The only thing sharp is the decline, and it’s steep as fark.

Lemme get this straight, once upon a time, yeah, you’d clock someone sittin’ in the park with a sketchpad, feet up, not a care in the world except maybe which biscuit to dunk next. Now? You so much as pull out any piece of paper in public and someone thinks you’ve escaped from a mindfulness retreat. Used to be we did things. Proper things. Wrote letters, read words longer than four syllables, spoke to mates without it bein’ some digital hostage negotiation done in twenty text bubbles and four “yo, u there?” pings. Now it’s all eyes glued to glass screens, doom scrollin', suckin’ in rubbish like pigeons round a dropped bag of crisps. Mate’s havin’ an existential breakdown? Don’t ring him. Nah, just send a sad-face emoji and tag him in a meme about trauma bonding. Sorted. Journals? Nah bruv, it’s “content creation and social media monetization” now just record yourself scribblin’ thoughts next to a candle, colored mood lighting hitting your back wall and some fake ferns while whisperin’ affirmations like a budget monk in a Westfield loo cause everyone is an "influencer building their own personal brand" now, innit. Used to go down the pub and argue about footy with some bloke who smelled like pickled eggs. Now it’s just TikTok soundbites and reels by absolute wrong’uns with usernames like “TruthSeeker69” and a filter that makes ’em look like a cartoon lizard. Nobody remembers anything either. You ask someone for directions now and they stare at you like you’ve just asked how to reinvent fire. “Use the map app, matey” they say, like it’s some magic spell passed down through ancient tech wizards. And hobbies? What bloody hobbies? Build a shed? Paint a thing? Learn guitar? Nah, they’d rather pay £60 for a bean-shaped plushie that “heals your inner child” because Sharon from YouTube said it changed her aura. It’s like the whole planet’s gone soft in the head, buzzin’ off brain rot and dopamine squirts every time their phone pings. Anyway, I’m off to sit under a tree with a cuppa and an actual book. Not for the ’Gram, not for some ‘grounding’ exercise. Just to remember what it felt like to be a human and not bein' just another walking screen with legs.

Clock this madness, lads. Trump’s only gone and announced his latest load of shiny golden manure: a “Golden Dome” missile defense system. Sounds less like national security and more like a geezer’s knock-off vape shop in Slough. You half expect him to throw in a free doner kebab with every Patriot missile. He reckons this golden umbrella’s gonna save the Yanks from “next-generation threats.” What, like truth? Sanity? Basic governance? Rule of law? Maybe even democracy? And guess who’s been tapped to run this sci-fi farce? Some geezer from the bloody Space Force. Thought that was merely a p*sstake from a Ricky Gervais sketch. Now it’s apparently the backbone of Trump’s war plan. What next? Buzz Lightyear as Defence Secretary? Elon Musk supplying Mars lasers? It’s like Star Wars meets QVC: “Act now and get two golden domes for the price of one Mar-a-Largo cheeseburger, plus a free Trump golf course umbrella!” And now he’s bangin’ on about how this golden dome fantasy’s only gonna cost a cheeky $25 billion to kick off, tucked nice and quiet into his “One Big Beautiful Bill”, which, let’s be honest, sounds like something you’d name a dodgy geezer who does VAT scams out the back of a kebab van. But here’s the rub lads, the Congressional Budget Office’s piped up sayin’ the real cost could balloon to over $500 billion just for the space bits. Half a trillion quid so Trump can play Buck Rogers with taxpayer cash while tellin’ us it’s a bargain. Mate, for that money I want the dome to make me tea, give me a rub and a tug, and time-travel me back to when leaders weren’t absolute fruitcakes. And would you believe it, Canada’s stickin’ its polite little nose in now. Their defence minister’s pipin’ up sayin’ it’s in their “national interest.” Course it is, mate. Who wouldn’t wanna sit under a massive overpriced American umbrella built by the same crew that gave us exploding toilets and $300 army spanners? In a few years we’ll all be under Trump’s dome, drinkin’ radioactive rainwater and listenin’ to Kid Rock play the national anthem through a megaphone while Kanye twerks to the beat. But let’s not get twisted, this ain’t about defence. This is Trump doin’ what he always does best: buildin’ big tacky monuments to his own ego while tellin’ working people to eat dirt. You remember the wall? How’s that concrete catastrophe workin’ out? Bloke couldn’t even patch a small hole in one of his Chinese made MAGA red-caps, now he wants to wrap the world in a giant gold colander like it’s a bloody Christmas turkey. So while Donny plays galactic dictator with the US defence budget, the rest of the normal world is tryin’ to figure out if it can still afford a tin of beans that ain’t been tariffed to death. And meanwhile, real crises like healthcare and the maddening cost of housing in America still all get swept under the golden rug. Priorities, innit. https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cwy33n484x0o

So, Trump’s been on the blower with Putin for two bleedin’ hours, right? Goes on Truth Social after, boasting of great progress. But let’s be honest, mate, if that chat had any real substance, I’m the Queen of England. He’s now sayin’ that any deal to end the war’s gotta be between Ukraine and Russia, like he’s just the bloke passin’ the ball. Funny, innit? Just days ago, he was bangin’ on about how he needed to sit down with Putin to sort things out. Now he’s takin’ a backseat, actin’ like he’s not the one who’s been center stage all this time. Meanwhile, Putin’s playin’ hardball, still refusin’ to agree to a 30-day ceasefire and still demandin’ Ukraine give up territory and stay outta NATO. Zelensky’s not havin’ it, never was, obviously, and European leaders are lookin’ on, scratchin’ their gobs, wonderin’ what Trump’s actually bringin’ to the table. So, after all the fanfare, what’s changed? Nowt. Trump’s big, beautiful phone call turned out to be all mouth and no trousers. No breakthroughs, no real plans, just the same old song and dance. And while he’s busy patting himself on the back, the rest of us lot are left wonderin’ if he’s actually got a clue what he’s doin’. The Art of the Nothing Burger.

Have a butcher’s at this, lads: Trump and his GOP mates are pushin’ through a massive $3.8 trillion tax cut package, you know that, right? They’re actin’ like it’s a free pint for everyone, but Jim Millstein from Guggenheim Securities is shoutin’ from the rooftops that this could lead to a fiscal disaster if a recession hits. He’s sayin’ that the current $2.4 trillion annual US government deficit could balloon to $4 trillion. That’s not just a hole in the pocket; that’s your trousers fallin’ down in the middle of a fish market, mate. And get this, the whole plan assumes the economy’s gonna keep chuggin’ along nicely. But if we hit a rough patch, like we have in the past six recessions, tax revenues drop and government spendin’ goes up. It’s like bettin’ your last quid on a three-legged horse and expectin’ a win. Now, we all know last week Moody’s has gone and downgraded the U.S. credit rating from Aaa to Aa1, joinin’ the other agencies in sayin’ the U.S. ain’t as creditworthy as it used to be. But this ain’t just a slap on the wrist that Trump wants you to think; it’s a full-on kick up the backside, warnin’ that the country’s fiscal house is in disarray. And what’s Trump doin’? He’s still brushin’ it off, callin’ Moody’s a “lagging indicator” and focusin’ on takin’ shots at his political opponents on social media instead. Next thing we will be hearin' it was caused by the deep state, Hunter's laptop, Hillary's emails, and the usual rubbish tropes. Meanwhile, the bond market’s throwin’ a wobbly. Yields on the 30-year bond have breached 5%, the highest since November 2023. Investors are gettin’ jittery, and the dollar’s takin’ a hit. The brewing collapse is like watchin’ a pub brawl in slow motion where everyone’s too drunk to throw a proper punch. So, while Trump’s out there sellin’ this tax cut as a “beautiful” deal, the rest of the Yanks are left holdin’ the bill. It’s a classic case of the rich gettin’ richer and the man on the street gettin’ the short end of the stick.

So, remember Trump sayin' “I’ll end the Ukraine war in 24 hours,” chest puffed out like a rooster on coke. Well we’re well into his reign now, and what’s he done? Sweet eff all. Now, Vice President JD Vance is on Fox News sayin’ the U.S. might “walk away” from negotiations if Russia doesn’t start playin’ ball. Seems like the 24-hour peace plan has turned into a never-ending saga. Vance reckons Russia’s demands are off the charts, askin’ for territories they haven’t even taken yet. He says if the Russians aren’t serious, the U.S. will pack up and leave the table. But hang on, wasn’t Trump the one boastin’ he’d have this all sorted in a flash? Now his own VP’s admitin’ it’s a right mess. And Vance, bless him, is actin’ like he’s cracked geopolitics ’cause he read a blog post. “We need real movement from Russia,” he says. Bruv, the only movement you’re gettin’ is when Putin farts in your general direction. Meanwhile, Trump’s out here callin’ for a 30-day ceasefire, but Putin’s not havin’ it. Zelenskyy’s caught in the middle, tryin’ to keep his country from fallin’ apart while the U.S. flip-flops on its promises. It’s like watchin’ a pub brawl where the bloke who started it suddenly wants to play peacemaker. And let’s not forget, Trump’s the same geezer who paused military aid to Ukraine and suggested regime change in Kyiv. Now he’s actin’ like he’s the only one who can bring peace. It’s all a bit rich, yeah? So, next time Trump starts flappin’ his gums about quick fixes and easy wins, maybe take it with a pinch of salt. Seems like his grand plans are about as solid as a house of cards in a wind tunnel. Bloke can’t even negotiate a decent sandwich, let alone peace in Eastern Europe. At this rate, Ukraine’ll be sortin’ it themselves while the Yanks are still arguin’ over who gets the last chicken wing at Mar-a-Lago. Proper shambles, innit?

Lads, you ain’t gonna believe this one. Kid Rock, that crusty old bootlicker with a mullet and a MAGA fetish, only went and shut down his Big Ass Honky Tonk Rock N’ Roll Steakhouse in Nashville. Why? Cos ICE was circlin’ the block, and half his kitchen crew didn’t have the paperwork, if you catch me drift. Yeah, the same geezer always bangin’ on about “law and order” and “protect our borders” was sneakily usherin’ his chefs out the back before Uncle Sam slapped on the cuffs. You couldn’t script it. Word is, on a packed Saturday night, the management pulled the plug and told the undocumented lot to leg it before the Feds came crashin’ through the doors. All hush-hush, like. Turns out ICE nicked nearly 200 people across the area, most of ‘em with squeaky clean records. So much for goin’ after “the dangerous ones”, innit? Meanwhile, Mr. America First is in the kitchen whisperin’ “scarper, mate” to the very people flippin’ his steaks. It’s rich, innit? Bloke swans around like some patriotic prophet, wavin’ flags and takin’ selfies with Trump, then quietly relies on the same immigrants his idol wants deported. All that red, white and blue rubbish goes out the window when the profit margin’s lookin’ a bit dodgy. Big Ass Honky Tonk? More like Big Ass Bell End, if you ask me. And it ain’t just Kid Rock. His mate Steve Smith shut his joints too, soon as the ICE vans started prowlin’. Looks like the whole MAGA mob knows full well who’s really keepin’ their businesses tickin’. All talk on the telly, all panic out the back door. Honestly, it’s like watchin’ a panto where the villains write their own punchlines.

So now Trump’s gettin’ all misty-eyed and sendin’ warm wishes to Biden over the cancer news, yeah? Proper statesman act, all “Melania and I are deeply saddened” like he’s some kind of holy saint instead of the geezer who’s been callin’ the man senile, brain-dead, and a threat to the nation for the last five bleedin’ years. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t wish that diagnosis on me worst enemy, but Trump playin’ the sympathy card is like gettin’ hugged by a thief who just snatched your wallet. This is the same bloke who ran around for 4 years sayin’ Biden’s fit for the care home, called Jill his “handler,” and said the only thing he’s qualified to run is a bath. And now suddenly he’s Father Theresa, offerin’ thoughts and prayers like he ain’t spent half his life mockin’ anyone who shows weakness. I mean, it’s rich innit? Trump, the man who thinks empathy’s a brand of cologne. You can clock what this is really about though, can’t ya? He’s just tryna look presidential, play the nice guy card for the cameras while his son’s questioned how the cancer went undetected and implied a possible cover-up by First Lady Jill Biden. Rubbish innit. These lot couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery, let alone muster genuine compassion. It’s just another PR move from a bloke who treats tragedy like a photo op. If Trump had his way, Biden would be stuffed in a mobility scooter and wheeled into Guantanamo. But now it’s all, “Wishing you strength, Joe.” Pull the other one, mate. You ain’t foolin’ no one. Behind that fake grin’s a man already makin’ PowerPoint slides titled “Presidency For Life.” He’s not prayin’ for Biden’s recovery, he’s practisin’ his acceptance speech for another 4 years in 2028. So yeah, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t light a candle for Trump’s newfound soul. The man’s about as genuine as a Thai Rolex. When the cameras turn off, he’s probably back to screamin’ “Sleepy Joe’s got woke tumours from Hunter's laptop” down at Mar-a-Lago over a well-done steak. Compassion, me arse.

Yesterday was another madd day. Rupert’s out here literally tryin’ to do the whole “cultural immersion” bit, full tilt. The lad didn't learn fark all from that dog's dinner he gobbled down at the market the other day. And now, he's wearin’ linen trousers like he’s about to open a yoga retreat and askin' me rubbish like if I’ve “found my inner centre.” I'm starting to think the blokes lost the plot. Then he says he's read another bit on a travel site about this “sacred village brew” made by spirits, mountain witches or some guff like that. I says, “Mate, if it comes in an old, reused M-150 bottle with a lizard packed in it, it’s probably not gettin’ reviewed on TripAdvisor.” But no, he’s determined. Says he wants the “real distilled taste of Thailand" experience, none of the usual Chang and Sangsom tat. Next thing I know, we’re sat on plastic stools in someone’s front yard just outside Mae Rim, surrounded by old uncles playin’ cards, chewin' up betel nut like it's gum-drops and shoutin’ at the noisy chickens runnin' round the gaff. One of the blokes pulls out a plastic jug filled with what looks like (used) mop water, and inside is this long, coiled centipede, floatin’ like it’s meditatin’ in a spirit bath. Just what Rupe was on about I reckon. So Rupe clocks it and goes, “Oiy, is all those legs symbolic, must be the real deal, eh Lewie?” I tells him, “Yeah, mate, symbolises you might wake up blind, but just YOLO it bruv.” Now he’s neckin’ it like it’s Ribena. Big gulps. Proper theatrical. Swirls it round his gob like he’s at a Napa Valley tasting. He goes, “Hmm, earthy." I says "Yeah, with notes of stale petrol, rancid Red Bull and decomposed chaos.” Three glasses in, his face starts meltin’ like candle wax. He’s sweatin’ like he’s in a confession booth, eyes goin’ two different directions, speakin’ in cursive. Stands up, tries to Wai the uncles, and instead walks straight into a clothesline, takin’ out some auntie's knickers and her Hello Kitty sock collection. Then he starts shoutin’ in French for no reason. Keeps yellin’ “Fromage!” at a dog. One of the uncles tries to give him water but he thinks it’s more moonshine and legs it behind a tree, mutterin’ something about Ayahuasca visions and the centipede bein’ his “spirit guide.” Eventually, we get him in a pickup and back to the hotel where he collapses into bed fully clothed, clutchin’ a camphor Yah-Dom inhaler like it’s a relic from the Ark of the Covenant. I head back to my flat. He spends the night blowing mince into his bog, whisperin' to me over FaceTime, “I met God. He was wearing a pink sarong and had a tiger tattoo on his arm.” I told him straight, “You didn’t meet God, mate, that pink Pah-Toong you seen, you're havin' right old ladyboy flash backs from that massage joint. What really happened is you met Uncle Somchai’s centipede hooch. Now drink some electrolytes and say goodbye to your stomach lining.” Welcome to Thailand, again, Rupert. Cultural immersion complete.

So Rupert’s tryin’ to be all “when in Rome” after readin’ one of them travel blogs written by some Chelsea bird who says eatin’ street food is the “soul of Thailand.” Next thing I know, he’s draggin’ me down some back-alley fresh market near the edge of the old city with an action cam strapped to his noggin like he’s doin’ a bloody Vice documentary. He starts pointin’ at every stall like a toddler at a petting zoo, askin’ the locals what’s this and what’s that. Comes across this geezer grillin’ skewers of what looks like small chicken chunks but slightly more… sinewy, then sees him dipping it in a thick, shiny red/orange sauce. Rupert’s eyes light up like he’s discovered the lost city of Atlantis. No questions asked. “That one,” he says, “looks rustic.” Sign says “Noo Nah,” but I don’t intervene. Rupert seems determined, and who am I to be a bit of a mood-hoover when he wants to go full native. Bloke hands it over with a grin and a thumbs-up. Rupe takes a massive bite, chews it up with vigor, swallows, sucks in a second bit and goes, “Hmm, bit earthy, smells and tastes kind a like duck crossed with rabbit skin.” Then asks the vendor what it is. The man shows him a picture on his phone of a rat with a smile on so wide you’d think he’d just heard the best story about Farage and milkshakes ever. Randy Rupe goes pale. Starts swayin’ like he’s about to faint into a basket of fermented fish. I'm thinking he's about to start blowing sick everywhere. Then he whispers “Lewie, did I just eat Remy from Ratatouille?” I tells him, “Nah mate, Remy wore a little chef hat and apron. This one probably chewed through a proper power cable behind a 7-Eleven, got Darwinized, and died an honourable death.” Later, the lad reckons he'd spend an hour garglin’ Listerine and Googlin’ if rats can give you rabies through digestion. But before we left the market, vendor tries to upsell him on deep-fried frog legs as a palate cleanser. Rupert tells him he’s full. My mate's goin’ full vegan now. Won’t even touch a ham toasty or a pizza with a bit of proper sausage on it. By the end of it all, he’s then posted inside a Boots chemist askin’ if activated charcoal can scrub food regret out your anoose.

You seen what Trump’s barkin’ on about now? Gone off his nut over Bruce Springsteen of all people. Called him a dried out prune with “atrophied skin” like he’s the bloody manager of a Holland & Barrett gone rogue. Man’s triggered because The Boss told a Manchester crowd he’s a treasonous toe-rag runnin’ a rogue government. Which, let’s be honest, is about as controversial as sayin’ Wetherspoons does a ropey fry-up. So now Trump’s throwin’ his usual toys out the pram, callin’ Bruce “overrated,” “pushy,” “dumb as a rock,” and all that jazz. He even said Bruce should “KEEP HIS MOUTH SHUT until he gets back in the country” like he’s some kinda airport security officer at JFK with a grudge. Mate, he’s not runnin’ a border patrol, he’s just fumin’ ‘cos someone called him out and did it in a leather jacket while singin’ Born in The USA. And it weren’t just Bruce catchin’ strays. Out the blue, Trump took a potshot at Taylor Swift too, like he’s got beef with Spotify now. Said ever since he wrote “I HATE TAYLOR SWIFT” she’s “no longer hot.” That’s not politics, bruv, that’s what you hear from bitter blokes down the boozer after four pints and a rejection on Tinder. Next he’ll be claimin’ Adele’s album gave him IBS. Truth is, Trump’s not playing public servant, or even president anymore, he’s on a full-blown vendetta tour. If someone sells more tickets than him, sings in tune, or don’t fancy givin’ him a reacharound, they’re public enemy number one. And Bruce? He’s just the latest on the list of Americans who don’t fancy lettin’ a sun-dried fascist with a fake tan turn the country into a dictatorship wrapped in a MAGA hat. Fair play to The Boss, I say. Give the prune hell. https://www.theguardian.com/music/2025/may/16/donald-trump-attacks-bruce-springsteen