Lewie London

Right, so here’s one for ya, mates. Everyone’s kickin’ off over this Epstein 50th birthday letter from Trump fiasco, yeah? Trump’s out there screamin’ it’s fake news, sayin’ he’s gonna sue everyone from the Wall Street Journal to the Mar a Largo gardener. Shoutin’ about how it ain’t his letter, never drew no dirty doodles, none of it’s him. But here’s what really cooked my noodle, yeah, not once did Trump say to Murdoch or the WSJ, “Go on then, show it to the world and let them see it's a fake letter.” Nope. He’s threatenin’ to sue, but not demandin’ they slap it on every front page from Bangkok to Birmingham. Funny that, innit? Now here’s where it gets even juicier. Who’s the loudest one screamin’ to release the letter? Not Trump. Nah, it’s his own bloody running mate, JD Vance. All over Twitter, shoutin’ about transparency, lettin’ the people see it. And I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, hold on, why would Trump’s own lad be wantin’ this birthday letter out there? Unless… maybe Vance reckons if this letter’s as bad as it sounds, it ain’t Trump who’s endin’ up still livin' large in the White House. It’s him, Vance. Trump goes down in flames, resigns or gets impeached, and bang, Vance is slidin’ into the big man's chair with a grin like the Cheshire Cat in a fish market. And you can’t tell me this ain’t crossed a few minds in their camp. This lot ain’t exactly the Three Musketeers, more like a pack of alley cats eyein’ each other’s lunch. Trump’s shoutin’ fake news, Vance is demandin’ show us the goods, and the rest of ‘em are probably pickin’ curtains for the Oval Office. You could not make this up, lads. American politics, where your best mate’s already practisin’ his victory speech before your arse has even warmed the chair.

Oh, and get this, during the same wizard-of-words summit, Trump also went off about Uncle John having “three degrees in nuclear, chemical and math.” Three degrees bruv? Nuclear? Chemical? Math? Really? Mate, that’s campaign podium fan fiction 101. For the record, Uncle John had an engineering degree, a physics degree, and a PhD in electrical engineering. No nuclear, no chemical, and definitely no advanced maths badge from Hogwarts. Bloke was smart, yeah, but Trump’s out here makin’ him sound like Professor X with a side hustle in nuclear wizardry. I swear, if this geezer keeps goin’, next week he’ll be claimin’ his uncle invented time travel and taught Einstein how to boil an egg. America, lads… where the fairy tales come with a side order of lunacy.

So I’m sat there with me feet up, munchin’ on some spicy pork skins from 7-Eleven, doom scrollin’ through me phone, when I nearly choke on a chili flake. Donald Trump, yeah, the guy with the vein problems in his legs, was at a tech summit in Pennsylvania, wafflin’ on about how his uncle, some geezer named Dr. John Trump, taught the bloody Unabomber at MIT. You what, mate? Did I fall asleep and wake up in a Looney Tunes sketch? First off, couple facts for the slow kids in the room. Uncle Johnny carked it in 1985, yeah? Kaczynski, the Unabomber nutter, was off the rails in the late seventies and only got nabbed in 1996. So unless the bloke was teachin’ from the afterlife, I’m callin’ full blown bullsh*t on this one. Second, Ted Kaczynski never set foot in MIT. Did Harvard, did Michigan, taught in California, but MIT? Nah. Not a chance, mate. Closest he got to MIT was probably readin’ the name on a packet of biscuits. And then, just for a laugh, Trump goes on to say his uncle was the longest servin’ professor at MIT. Turns out, that’s bloody cobblers too. He was there a while, fair play, but not some immortal Yoda of science, not by a mile. Now, don’t get me wrong lads, I ain’t got a dog in Yankee politics, but Christ almighty mate, what is it with these politicians and makin’ up absolute fairy tales about their families? One minute it’s “my uncle discovered electricity,” next it’ll be “my great gran taught Bruce Lee kung fu in her garden shed.” Honestly, you couldn’t script this nonsense. Makes me wonder if the poor sod even believes half the guff comin’ out his own gob, or if he’s just freewheelin’ through life like one of them Pattaya blokes who reckons he was a spy for MI6 but can’t even spell embassy. Anyway, that’s your global leadership update for the day. Blokes runnin’ countries out here talkin’ bigger porkies than a Soi Cowboy bar girl tryin' to get you to bar-fine her. No wonder we all buggered off to Thailand. Life’s simpler when the biggest lie you hear is, “I love you long time.”

Now I don’t mean to be rude lads, but some of you lot out there are walkin’ round Thailand lookin’ like someone’s just nicked your last Isan sausage and farted in your banana shake. Miserable faces, short fuses, and grumblin’ like the green curry been made without chili. So I gotta ask… is this lot as crabby as a $2 tart’s knickers, or what? You know the ones I mean. Them blokes sat on a bar stool at noon, arms folded, scowlin’ into their Singha like it just insulted their mum. Or the ones marchin’ through Big C like they’re leadin’ a protest against cheap shampoo and loud flip-flops. Always moanin’, about the weather, the girls, the food, the traffic, the other foreigners, the government, the visas, the heat, the taxes. Mate, if life’s that miserable, maybe Thailand ain’t the problem… maybe it’s just you? Look, I get it mates. We all have our days. Maybe you got overcharged on a taxi ride. Maybe your regular massage bird’s ghosted you for a bloke with a motorbike, a fatter wallet, and slightly more hair. Maybe you ordered fried rice and they gave you fried lice, it happens bruv. But lighten up, yeah? You’re in paradise, innit. There’s a cold bevy in every direction, and at least four tarts in arms length ready to call you “P’Daddy” if you just smile halfway convincin’. We didn’t come all this way to sulk, did we? You wanna be miserable, book a Ryanair flight and stand in the passport queue at Stansted for six hours. That’s proper misery. Out here, we should all be laughin’ more, flirtin’ badly, sweatin’ freely, and enjoyin’ life even when it smells vaguely of sewage and grilled squid. So cheer up, lads. You ain’t stuck in traffic on the M25. You’re sweatin’ on the streets in the tropics with your comfy sandals and your dignity half intact. That’s livin’, innit? So go grab a cold one, crack a smile, and for the love of Chang, get those metaphorical knickers unbunched.

Right lads, I’ve been meanin’ to say this for a while now, and I don’t care if it ruffles a few feathers, Thai women mates, every last one of ‘em, are completely and utterly bonkers. And I don’t mean that in a rude way, nah. I say it with a cheeky grin and a thousand-yard stare, like a bloke who’s been to war and come back with souvenirs and a peg leg. I’ve had me flings with all sorts, bar girls, office birds, uni students, shop girls, full-time housecats with no job but endless online shopping and mood swings. Doesn’t matter where they work or if they don’t work at all. You peel back that polite wai and sweet smile, and you’ll find a fresh brand of lunacy unique to this lovely corner of the world. One minute it’s all “P’Lewie, gin khao rue yahng ka?” and the next it’s a full-blown interrogation ‘cause you didn’t react to her changing her shampoo. I’ve had girls cry over cartoon characters, disappear for three days over a dream they had where I cheated on them, and once get so upset I forgot to press heart on her LINE sticker she didn’t speak to me for two full days, and we were living in the same room. And don’t even think bein’ a gentleman gets you anywhere. Nah. You treat ‘em too nice, they think you’re up to somethin’. You play it cool, they cry and call you unromantic. Try to split the bill? You’re stingy. Pay for everything? You’re clearly a sponsor now and her cousin needs a new phone. Logic? Out the window, mate. Thai women don’t live in the realm of logic. They operate on vibes, emotional tides, and a rotating calendar of unspoken rules that shift depending on the moon, her menstrual cycle, or whether her favorite geeky celebrity just posted a sad quote on Instagram. And yet, we keep goin’ back, don’t we? ’Cause they’re sweet, they’re funny, they’ll laugh at your crap jokes, look after you when you’re sick, bring you cut-up fruit for no reason, and know how to wear pajamas to 7-Eleven like it’s the Met Gala. But make no mistake, every Thai girl I’ve ever dated has been completely mental and I've given up tryin' with them anymore. Still, I wouldn’t change my past experiences with Thai birds. I’ve dated sane birds back in London. Give me the unpredictable mood swings and spicy somtam sulks any day. Least it keeps you on your toes. So yeah, mates. Thai women, mad as a bag of squirrels, and somehow we love ‘em for it. Disagree?

So I’m out for a wander near Soi Buakhao yesterday afternoon, yeah. Just killin’ time before me happy ending massage, sweatin’ my bullocks off in the shade, when I clock this little roadside stall I ain’t seen before. Got a few plastic chairs, somtam flyin’ off the pestle, a small fish tank bubbling like madd, and one of them tiny wireless speakers blarin’ out luk thung like the DJ’s underwater. Proper local vibe. Anyway, I’m parched and peckish, so I figure I’ll grab somethin’ quick. This older bird behind the stall flashes me a cheeky grin and asks if I want “goong ten.” Now I’ve heard that phrase before, but it ain’t clicked yet. “Dancing shrimp,” she says, smilin’ like she’s about to prank me on Thai telly. I nod like a mug and go, “Yeah, alright love, gimme one of them.” Big mistake. She starts scoopin’ these tiny glassy shrimp, and I kid you not mates, they’re still bloody alive. Chuckin’ ’em in a plastic cup, tossin’ in lime juice, chili, fish sauce, shallots, the works. She’s mixin’ it all up while the shrimp are flippin’ around like they’ve just been tasered. The cup’s bouncin’ in her hand like a bingo machine. I’m just stood there thinkin’, “Surely this is the prep stage. She’s gonna cook it… right?” Nah. Wrong. She plops the whole thing in front of me with a spoon and goes, “Aroi mak, na ka!” Big smile. Me heart sinks. I sit there, tryin’ to act like I’ve done this before, but these little sods are still twitchin’ about, one tries to crawl out like he’s seen the light. I scoop up a bite and, no lie mates, it’s like munchin’ on foil wrap with a solid kick, literally. Lime, chili, crunch, panic. Mouth’s on fire, tongue confused, and I swear one of ’em winked at me on the way down. Thai bloke at the next table’s lovin’ it, cacklin’ away, handin’ me a tissue like I’ve just run a marathon. I’m tryin’ to keep me composure but my lips are numb and I’ve got shrimp legs stuck in between me teeth. Felt like I just lost a food dare on the Jackass show. Can only imagine what me next trip to the bog will be like. Managed to finish half the cup before I gave up and passed the rest back. The stall lady gave me a thumbs up like I’d won something. All I’d won was mild gob trauma and a sudden distrust of anything served in a see-through cup. Walked off burpin’ coriander and regret, swearin’ I’d never eat anything again that’s still blinkin’. Patts, innit. One minute you’re just after a snack, next thing you’re mouth-deep in a shrimp rave. Alas, just another normal Tuesday in paradise, lads. https://www.instagram.com/reel/DL27xS-PCLy

Right, so I’m scrollin’ through me feed down the pub the other day, just killin’ time between me midday nap and a cheeky oil massage up the soi, and up pops this bird I vaguely knew back in school, bit of a wallflower back then yeah, used to cry durin’ maths and once tried to sell bath bombs made of salt and glitter. Fook me, now she’s callin’ herself a life coach. Full-on inspirational quotes, selfie videos in her flat wearin’ skintight activewear with no sign of sweat, but a big bloody camel toe and bangin’ on about “transformational alignment” and “holding space for emotional truth.” I nearly barfed in me chips. And it got me thinkin’, who the fekk is hirin’ these people? Who wakes up one day and thinks, “Y’know what I need? Some random stranger in see-through yoga pants and a minge gap the size of the Grand Canyon to teach me how to live.” Live? Mate, you’re already doin’ it. You woke up. That’s the assignment. You nailed it, bruv. No one’s forgot how. You don’t see dolphins hiring dolphin coaches or pigeons needin’ motivational pigeons on rooftops shoutin’, “Believe in yourself, mate! Flap bloody harder!” Half of these so-called coaches look like they’re on meth. I reckon they need some help themselves, and are just one stubbed toe away from a complete meltdown. Eyes twitchin’, voices too calm to be normal, and that weird glazed look like they’ve just downed a bottle of Rescue Remedy and a chia smoothie. And they’ve always “just come back” from some retreat in Bali where they sat in a circle with other lost souls bangin’ on drums and cryin’ about their inner child. Newsflash, love: if your biggest trauma is your dad didn’t clap loud enough at your school play, you might not be qualified to guide others through a midlife crisis. And don’t get me started on the “certifications.” You click their link and it says they’ve got a diploma in Sacred Awakening from some online temple that looks like it was designed in Microsoft Paint. That ain’t a qualification, it’s a bloody scam with a pastel colour scheme. Look, I get that people need a bit of help sometimes, yeah. We all hit a rough patch now and then. But you know what used to sort that out? Mates down the pub. A long walk. A good cry in the shower followed by a good chicken choke and a fry-up. Not some muppet on Instagram charging you £100 an hour to tell you “You are enough” while sniffin’ patchouli oil and postin’ selfies in front of a Himalayan salt lamp. Let’s be honest now, “life coach” is just a title people slap on themselves when they’ve burned through every other gainful employment option and can’t even hold down a food delivery job. It’s career karaoke. Doin’ the motions without actually havin’ a voice. Just another reminder that the world’s gone bloody bonkers, lads. And I’m sittin’ here tryin’ to figure out if I can charge for tellin’ people to stop bein’ daft and just go outside once in a while. Maybe I’ll print some business cards. “Lewie London - Unofficial Consultant in Gettin’ On With It.” Innit.

Got a call yesterday afternoon from Rupert again. Bloke’s voice cracklin’ with excitement like a kid on the mornin’ of the TT races. Turns out it’s gonna be his last night in Pattaya before he’s off back to Blighty until who knows when, and he wants to tick somethin’ off his bucket list; a proper soapy, two birds at once, the full sudsy experience he’s never dared try. Says he needs a wingman to tag along though, moral support like. I tells him straight, mate, I ain’t climbin’ in any tubs tonight, but I’ll ride shotgun if you like. So we rock up to this soapy joint out on Second Road by the Big-C, you know the one, neon signs brighter than a UFO landing, giant fishbowl with two dozen tarts sittin’ behind glass like goldfish in gowns. Rupert’s eyes light up like he’s found Willy Wonka’s golden ticket. He points at two cuties sittin’ close together, then hands over a stack of big white notes to the gal in charge, and they’re off to the races before I’ve even had time to order meself a cold bevy. Next thing, I’m sittin’ there in the lounge with a Coke and a big ol’ grin, watchin’ footy on the big telly, and lettin' the world go by. Few punters shufflin’ in and out, staff flittin’ about with cold neck towels, the usual soapy ballet. Then a couple of the jockeys who run the floor suddenly saunter over for a chinwag with the solo Londoner sittin’ by his lonesome. These are the blokes who mainly attempt to get punters to take the salad dodgers for go, those ones sufferin’ from involuntary celibacy. Proper friendly lads, laughin’ their arses off, practicin’ their English on me. One thing leads to another and they start gigglin’ like naughty schoolboys, askin’ if Rupert’s me mate upstairs. I nod, tells ’em he’s treatin’ himself before headin’ back home. That’s when they drop the bomb. Turns out the two girls Rupert picked are a bit of a famous duo. Let’s just call them “Squeals and Straps.” One’s notorious for squealin’ like a piglet soon as the action starts, makin’ noises that could wake a dead soi dog. The other’s got a habit of whippin’ out a strap-on halfway through the business then havin’ a slash and takin’ punters for a spin that includes a golden splash in the eyes that they didn’t see comin’. I near spit me Coke all over the floor. Rupert thinks he’s on cloud nine, two stunners all to himself, and he’s about to find himself in a stereo squeal session with a side order of peggin’ and a surprise rinse. And the best bit? He’ll probably never breathe a word about it to me when he debriefs me on the caper. He’ll just sit there starin’ into his drink, rememberin’ the night he tried to leave Pattaya with a bang but nearly left with a limp. About an hour and a half later, Rupert staggers down lookin’ like he’s been chased through a steam room by a pack of angry Kimotos, hair stickin’ up, shirt clingin’ like clingfilm, eyes dartin’ about like he’s seen the end of days. He drops into the chair next to me, gaspin’ for breath, and croaks, “Mate… that was mental… but I’m not sure if I’m proud of it or if I need a shrink.” I just slid him over me Coke cause he looked proper trollied. I kept me poker face, and tried not to choke laughin’ as I pictured him squealin’ along with his new best mates upstairs. Just another day in Land of the Smurfs, lads. Even when you’re not playin’, Pattaya finds a way to give you a memory that sends you home with a cheeky grin.

So me old mate Rupert’s blown back into town last night like a wrecking ball, yeah. Rings me up, says "Lewie we gotta hit our old haunt off Soi Diana", the bar we used to crawl into for days back when our wallets were plumper. Ain’t been there in ages now, so I reckoned why not, bit of draft beer, bit of banter, maybe see a few familiar lasses. We rock up, barely park our arses before Rupert’s already got two tarts hangin’ off him like a pair of wedding ornaments, buyin’ them lady drinks like it's all free. Bell’s ringin’, music’s blarin’, and I’m left standin’ there holding me bell-end like the quiet one, talkin’ with the mamasan, catchin’ up on the happenings. Then I spot somethin’ different. One of the girls ain’t quite what she seems, tall, bit of an Adam’s apple, feet bigger than mine, veiny hands, voice like she’s swallowed a harmonica. Ladyboy, clear as day once you clock it. So I leans over, yeah, casual like, and I ask the mamasan what’s the story morning glory. Thought it was a girly bar, not a mixed sausage buffet? She just cackles like I’ve asked why water’s wet. Tells me that ladyboy’s the most popular unit they’ve got, gets taken in the back room for ST more than any of the girls. I nearly snorted me beer right across the table. Couldn’t wrap me gob around it at first. Then she lays it out. Says there’s blokes who want a ladyboy but haven’t got the bullocks to flop into a ladyboy bar for one. So they come here, where the front of house is all girls, then quietly slip round back with the ladyboy under everyone’s noses. Perfect cover. No one the wiser. Bit of face saved, bar makes bank. Everyone’s chuffed to bits. Sat there watchin’ Rupert get his ears nibbled by a pair of twenty-year-olds while I’m havin’ me mind blown about secret ladyboy action in what I thought was a straight-up bearded-clam bar. Place never stops teachin’ you new tricks, I swear lads. Even a bar full of pretty girls can turn out to be the perfect spot for blokes sneakin’ away for a round of peekaboo with a secret set of danglies.

Alright, things with the gayest breakup of the year are turning proper mental. I’m sittin’ here in me gaff scrollin’ through the news, yeah, and I see Elon Musk’s gone full kamikaze, takin’ potshots at Trump like he’s got a death wish. Now I don’t care if you think Musk is a space wizard or just a Silicon Valley bell-end, but you’d think a geezer smart enough to stick a car on Mars would know not to poke the world’s most *edited* with a big stick. What’s Elon playin’ at, seriously? He’s got more government contracts than a Tory donor, right? NASA, military satellites, billions in tax credits for his Teslas, the lot. Trump’s the kind of bloke who’d yank those contracts faster than a Pattaya bar girl nicks you for 10,000 Baht short-time. He’s already joked about denaturalizing and deportin’ Elon back to South Africa, and you know when Trump jokes it’s only funny until someone’s got an ICE agent at their door. And let’s not forget, Trump’s that same bloke who just dropped a dozen MOPS on Iran like he was clearin’ old stock before a new sale. Think he wouldn’t drop one on a Tesla factory if he’s feelin’ spicy? Elon’s sittin’ there on Twitter like he’s invincible, but one wrong tweet and he could be watchin’ SpaceX launches from a prison yard. Thing is, how the fekk did Elon even end up here? One minute Trump’s callin’ him the greatest innovator since sliced bread, next minute he’s under the bus with tire marks across his mug. You’d think a so-called genius woulda seen it comin’, but nah, man’s blindsided worse than a rookie in a Muay Thai ring. It’s like Elon’s playin’ with fire while standin’ in a petrol station, but instead of worryin’, he’s shoutin’ “Hold my blunt!” to the nearest journalist. Gotta admire the bullocks on him, but Jesus wept, the lad’s got everything to lose and sweet F-all to gain. So here’s me question for you lot: is Elon a strategic mastermind makin’ moves we can’t see, or is he another knobhead who’s about to get his empire smashed by the biggest ego on the planet? Pattaya’s got mad stories, but even the ladyboys here wouldn’t bet against Trump when he’s in a mood. What you reckon? Elon’s next move gonna be sendin’ a Tesla to the moon so he can hide out when Trump comes knockin’?

Woke up this morning feeling like I’d been run over by a bloody baht bus, back stiff as a seaman out on shore leave and neck creaking like a dodgy door. Happens every so often, so off I trundle to me usual traditional massage joint that opens early, the one tucked down that Buakhao side soi near the joint that does proper NY pizza by the slice. I pop in for a rub every fortnight religiously, whether I’m in bits or not, just to keep meself limber. Me usual gal's named Lek, which always gives me a right chuckle ’cause she’s built like a rugby prop, nothing “small” about that big bird, but today she weren’t there. The receptionist suggests another bird named Noi. Now Noi is proper compact. But, I shrug and go with it anyway, reckon they’re all trained the same, even the little 40kg ones. As I’m getting settled, Noi asks if I want the same as usual and then leans in real close, sniffing me neck like she’s checking if I’m powdered up. I says, yeah love, but a bit unusual that sniff bit? No worries lads, we plod on. In I go, she gets cracking on me back, kneading out the knots, and I’m already feeling like a new Lewie. Then she flips me over to work on me front, like they normally do, a bit after midway into the gig, and I’m just drifting off with me gob hanging open, probably snoring. Next, she leans in and goes, “You Lewie, Lek customer?” I mumbles "yeah", eyes half shut. She smiles and says, “I know how Lek do for you, na. I give you same same ok, na.” I’m thinking brilliant, she knows just how to sort me out with that front shoulder rub I like. Next thing I know, I feel something wet and fuzzy pressing down on me face. I open me eyes and she’s completely in the nip, doing the full gym floor splits across me cakehole like she’s auditioning for bloody Cirque du Soleil. Proper "bloody hell" moment, lads. I thought, well, yeah, it’s already on the menu, might as well tuck in. And fair play, no complaint about an unexpected face massage from the bearded walnut. But I’m lying there afterwards scratching me noggin thinkin', since when did Lek give anyone this kind of “usual”? She’s never so much as gotten within 6” of me bell-end before, let alone dropped her giblets on me chops, followed by a bang-tidy tug. As I paid up, I threw in a nice tip for the gal. God bless her private parts. Then I'm legging it out the door thinking next time someone asks if I want the “usual” then better to inquire what's on the menu first or I might get some ladyboy's meat and two veg parked across me arse or maybe a copper at the door slapping on the cuffs. As I'm makin' me escape, the receptionist leans over the counter with a grin bigger than a lottery winner and goes, “Good massage today, na?” like she’d been watching the whole bloody Lewie show on VHS reruns. Bet there’s a fekkin CCTV back there showing the shop minders who gets what behind them dodgy curtains. Thailand, eh? Never a quiet one.

Was sitting at me favourite local khao man gai stall this arvo, you know, the one on the corner there on Central Road by that 7-Eleven with the three dodgy dogs sleeping in front. Just me, a plate of boiled chicken and rice, two bowls of that clear soup with the boiled radish and a Chang beer to keep me gob well lubricated. Proper peaceful. Then this fella on a motorbike pulls up next to mine, tries to park, and lightly taps me old scooter. Not a proper smash, just a little nudge that made it tip over with a clang. I weren’t fussed, a friend heading back to Blighty for 9 months donated it to me the other day. The bike’s well aged and looking worse for wear than some of them old slappers on Soi 6, and there weren’t a scratch that wasn’t there before. Bloke jumps off straight away, full of apologies, says he’ll pay for any damage. I wave him off, tell him it’s nothing. So he goes and pays for me lunch instead and brings over another Chang. Top bloke, I’m thinking. We get to chatting, couple of geezers with sweaty brows and cold beers. Turns out we’ve crossed paths before, had a laugh trying to get the same temperamental ATM to work outside Central Festival about a month back. We were both swearing at the machine and ended up going to another one next door together. One thing leads to another, and he goes, “Do you have girlfriend now?” I tells him nah, just enjoying meself out here. He whips out his phone and shows me a pic of his sister, early thirties, proper sort, big almond shaped eyes, works as a nurse at one of the government hospitals in Patts. Says she’s looking for a kind bloke and reckons I could be the ticket. Then he starts giving me the full family CV, says he’s got one brother who works construction up in Nakhon Sawan, and another brother who’s a policeman here in Pattaya. Before I can even think, he’s already tapping his screen, and next thing I know we’re on a video call with his sister. She picks up looking half-asleep in her nurse’s scrubs, eyes wide with confusion as some sweaty farang is waving from a plastic chair next to a chicken cart. I stammered a few words, then pretended the signal was cutting out and killed the call. Gotta admit, I was tempted. She looked like a doll. But truth is, I’ve had one messy break-up too many in my long history of bad dating choices and I’m only a couple months into me nine month break out here. Last thing I need is getting roped into dinner dates with someone’s sister, having the whole family expecting wedding bells, and knowing one of the brothers has a badge. I’ve come to Thailand to clear me head, not fill it with more drama. So I told him she looked lovely, but I’m keeping me head down for now. He took it well, finished his lunch, wished me the best, and off he went into the traffic like nothing happened. Funny how you can go for a quiet plate of chicken and end up with your bike on the ground and nearly video calling your future in-laws.

Right lads, got some fresh Pattaya madness for ya. So I decided to haul me sorry arse back to the gym yesterday, not ‘cause it’ll ever turn me into some Dorian Yates, mind you, but more ‘cause I’ve been havin’ a bit of luck lately chattin’ up the local talent between sets. Thought I’d keep the momentum goin’, I reckon. Well, turns out yesterday was a proper write-off. Soon as I walk in, I clock this geezer I’ve seen knocking about in there maybe once or twice every fortnight. Looks normal enough, bit pale like he’s allergic to sunlight and all that, but lads, this geezer stinks. And I don’t say that lightly about anyone, mates. I mean the odd whiff of sweat like a bloke who’s put in a shift, fair game. Nah. I mean this bloke’s got a proper nostril-curdlin’ pong. Like someone’s stored raw onions in his armpits for a month. Smell so thick you could spread it on toast. This gym ain’t exactly Wembley Stadium either, yeah. And when it gets busy it can turn into a right sweatbox, and then his personal cloud of death gas fills the whole place quicker than a cheap vape. I see a couple of Thai lads bailin’ halfway through their sets, shakin’ their heads, leavin’ early, eyes waterin’ like they’ve been peel­ing onions themselves. Now here’s where it gets juicy. One of the trainers, nice bloke but not what you’d call confrontational, sidles up to me lookin’ like he’s about to ask me to help him bury a body. Quiet voice, he goes, “Lewie, maybe you talk with him na? He same-same you.” Same-same me, mate? Cheers for the subtle hint, bruv. Just ‘cause the lad’s speakin’ the Queen’s don’t mean I wanna be ambassador for the stinkin’ unwashed. And it’s not like he’s bangin’ up the equipment or throwing the weights, then the staff’d be all over him like seagulls on chips. But a sensitive subject like reekin’ up the joint? Nah, they’re hopin’ I’ll do their dirty work just ‘cause we both order blood sausage for brekki. So I gave it the old polite dodge, told ‘em sorry boys, I ain’t about to sit him down for a personal hygiene intervention. I come here to flirt with girls who may never date me and maybe lift a dumbbell or two, not to play social worker for the armpit assassin. And here’s the thing that does me head in: it ain’t hard, is it? Bit of roll-on, a quick squirt of Old Spice or whatever your poison is, and Bob’s your uncle, bosh, problem solved. Yet here we are, a grown man in a small gym turning the air into a biological weapon. Left me scratchin’ me gob all the way home. How can you be adult enough to sign a gym contract and load up on protein shakes, but not clock you’re fumigating half the room every time you raise your arms? Gym life in Patts, lads. Never dull, but sometimes it’s bloody hard on the nose.

Right, so Trump’s gone and bombed three Iranian nuclear sites with B2 stealth bombers and a dozen MOPS, reckons he “totally obliterated” their nuclear programme. Then, like he’s Batman patting himself on the back, he tells Iran’s supreme leader, Ayatollah Khamenei, “You got beat to hell,” even brags he had intel on Khamenei’s hideout and spared him from an assassination plot. And here’s the best bit: Trump apparently can’t wrap his noggin around why the Supreme Leader ain’t ringing him up to say thanks for “saving him from an ugly death.” Like he’s gutted he didn’t get a thank-you card for not sending the Grim Reaper round. Proper narcissist behaviour, that innit. Meanwhile, Khamenei’s down there yelling “Death to America” at funerals of Iranian commanders, while U.S. Senate just blocked Democrats’ attempt to force Trump to get Congress’s permission for military action. So basically, Trump’s gone full rogue commander-in-chief, bombing first and asking questions later, all while Congress sits on its arse watching him run amuck. Then we’ve got Trump dropping the line about “Make Iran Great Again” and hinting at regime change if they don’t surrender unconditionally. Yet, at the same time, he refuses to assassinate Khamenei, saying, “They ain’t killed an American yet so leave him be.” It’s like a weird mix of Tarzan and Mr Nice Guy, you get bombs one minute, back-patting the next. Ask me, it’s a shambles, post-dramatic war talk, veiled threats, military escalation, and nobody seems to care about the rule book. Congress get brow-beaten into silence, Iran’s slobbering chants that’ll fuel another round, and Trump’s just on stage, grinning with self-praise for “peace through strength.” Real sophisticated diplomacy, that. The Nobel Peace Prize, my anoose! My verdict? Trump’s playing war like it’s WWE, tweeting and flexing bombs while folks at home worry about sunshine and the price of avo toast. The region’s heating up faster than a Bangkok tuk-tuk in traffic and the rest of the world’s watching him juggle missiles like he’s got three live grenades in his hands and no idea which one’s gonna go off first.

So I’m down the gym yesterday morn, yeah. Me usual twice-a-week shuffle on the treadmill, whether I need it or not lads, bit of token bicep curling to keep the bingo wings at bay. Not there to break records, nah, just keep the pipes in working order, know what I mean? Anyway, I clock this bird across the way, strugglin’ with the lat pulldown like she’s tryin’ to launch a space rocket backwards. She’s leanin’ so far back she’s practically horizontal, legs kickin’ all about like she’s wrestlin’ an angry ghost. Thought she was gonna catapult herself straight through the bloody mirror, mates. So I stroll over, all casual, give her the nod, and drop a quick tip on how not to snap her spine like a KitKat. She blushes, says thanks in that cute way Thai girls do when they know they’ve just made a total muppet of themselves. Then she asks if I could show her a couple more machines so she doesn’t end up in traction. One thing leads to another, we’re movin’ around the gym floor together, me showin’ her how not to turn herself into a pretzel on the leg press, her laughing at me dumb jokes about gym bros who skip leg day. Turns out she’s a grad student here on a gap year from Chiang Mai, loves her durian smoothies, and hates cardio even more than I do, reckons burpees were invented by Satan himself. Can’t argue with that bit. After an hour of muckin’ about, she says she’s starvin’ and asks if I fancy joinin’ her for lunch at the noodle gaff across the street. Next thing I know we’re sat there slurpin’ tom yum together, talkin’ about everything from Thai soap operas with more plot twists than a government cabinet reshuffle to how the gym mirrors make you look like a boiled prawn. Before we part ways she flashes me her Line ID on a QR and I add her. Then she says we should train together again soon. Sweet one, but this is Pattaya, problem is you never know if you’re helpin’ a damsel in distress or starin’ down the barrel of your next cautionary tale. What do you reckon? Give her a go?