Lewie London

Right, so early this morning I says to meself, “That’s it, I’ve had enough of this fake Thai cod and soggy chips rubbish in Patts. I’m makin’ me own fish and chips tonight, proper job.” So I’m off to the large Big C on the Sukhumvit Highway, yeah, to pick up some bits, taters, stuff to make the batter, oil, tin of mushy peas if I’m lucky, and a bottle of Lea and Perrins if the gods are smiling and that. Gotta be done proper or not at all, mates. I hop a baht bus off Soi Diana, nothing flash, just one of them red ones making the looping rounds from north to south, with no one in the back but some scruffy barefoot geezer snoring into his farm hat and a box of what looked like pineapples. I says to the driver, “Big C Sukhumvit, yeah?” It’s a standard 60 to 80 Baht fare for this location when you take one off his usual loop. He gives me the usual blank stare followed by that little nod like he’s Einstein in fake Ray Bans. So I jump in, feet up, vibing out, thinking about me crispy haddock and that first golden bite. Fifteen minutes later, I clock we’ve gone completely sideways. We’re out near bloody Jomtien and I’ve got no clue what’s going on. I knock on the side of the cab and go, “Oi, bruv, where’s me Big C?” Driver pulls over sharp and hops out, looking like I just insulted his nan. Starts wagging his finger and saying, “Private, 400 Baht pay now,” like I booked a bloody limo. I go, “You what? Sod off, mate. You’re taking the piss.” Told him I never agreed to that. I asked for Big C, not a grand tour of the Eastern Seaboard of Thailand. Now I’m starting to get me back up. Then some other geezer comes out from nowhere, standing by a noodle cart like he’s been planted there just for drama. They start with the finger-pointing, talking quick in Thai, giving it all that, and one of them says I’ll have to pay or they’re calling the coppers. I said, “Call ‘em then, go on. Let’s all have a butchers at how this plays out, shall we?” I weren’t about to get mugged off. I told ‘em, “You’re telling porky pies, mate. I never agreed to nothing private or no 400 Baht. I said Big C, full stop. Don’t you fackin' start and all.” If you’re gonna charge somebody a bunch of money above the standard fare then you should make it clear upfront. Bloke starts shouting, trying to wind me up, getting right in my face like he’s gonna get physical. I says, “Wind your neck in, pal. You don’t scare me. You’ve already hacked me right off and I’m two seconds from sitting down on the kerb and letting the whole street watch this unfold.” So I reach in me pocket, take out 200 Baht, slap it on the seat and go, “That’s more than fair for a cocked-up ride I didn’t even ask for. Take it or bugger off.” They weren’t happy, face like someone nicked their winning lottery ticket, but I’d had enough. I turned round, walked off towards Big C, drenched in sweat, shirt sticking to me back, muttering “Fackin’ hell” under me breath. Just wanted a cold bevvie at that point, a pint of Guinness would do me right and a seat near a big screen showing some footy on the tele. But honestly lads, what would you have done? Coughed up the full whack to keep things civil or told ‘em to stick it in his arse like I did?

Woke up this morning with a right stonker of a headache, shirt stuck to me chest and a taste in my mouth like I’d been licking a bulldog's arse for a week straight. Thought I’d slept funny or something, but then I clocked it, I’ve only gone and got a tattoo. FFS mates! Pulled the West Ham jersey off me chest and there it was, clear as day, a 3" long Harley-Davidson wings logo inked just below me collarbone. No clue how it got there. Nigel near pissed himself when he saw it. Said I’d been banging on all last night about “freedom” and “riding the open road in the north,” like I’m some big-shot biker. I ain’t even got a license, mates. We were out on Soi BuaKhao right, Red Bull buckets flying round like tits on a cow, ended up chatting to this bloke in the side soi next to the bar. He was right outside a dodgy looking tattoo shop wedged between a grass shop and some ladyboy pole dancing dump with pink lights and more cocks in frocks than a pride parade in Rio. Fella says he’ll do me a deal, 10,000 Baht right, pay half now, rest tomorrow. Apparently I nodded along like it was the bargain of the century. Anyway, this morning I’m sat there in me smalls in the flat, no shirt on, trying to stay cool in this heat, clutching a bottle of water and trying not to breathe too hard cause me head it throbbin like I gone smashed it with a can of beans, when there’s a knock on the door. It’s the tattoo bloke, what does he want? Stood there with some other geezer and a proper attitude. Says I still owe him 5,000 Baht for the ink or he’s calling the old bill. I told him to do one. Said I didn’t even want the bloody thing, and if he had any correct morals he wouldn’t be sticking needles in people who are half soaked and can’t even stand up straight. He reckons I signed something. Mate I was so off me b$llocks, I’d’ve signed a bargirl's soiled nickers if you handed them to me. He weren’t having it. Bit of shouting, bit of finger-pointing. Simon just stood there in his pants eating a mango scone like it was all perfectly normal. Eventually they buggered off in a huff, muttering God knows what in Thai. All I could make out was the word kwai or e-kwai or something like that. So now I’m sat here with cling film taped to me chest, a scabby Harley logo I didn’t ask for, and no idea what I’m meant to tell me mates at the pub when I get back. Might just say it’s a temporary sticker I got from a bag of crisps. But real talk, what would you lot have done? Paid the bloke to keep the peace or told him to jog on like I did? Twelve more days left in this overpriced Airbnb gaff and I’m already thinking of flying home early to The Old Dart.