Lewie London

Nothin says birthday vibes like a dawn knock at the door and a fresh pair of shiny bracelets. Some blokes get cake and candles. This one gets cuffed before breakfast. That’s not a celebration, that’s a police procedural with balloons. Sixty six as well. Supposed to be playin golf, complainin about the weather, maybe cuttin into a Victoria sponge while pretendin you don’t care about the candles. Instead he’s lookin less like a sprightly senior and more like someone who’s accidentally aged ten years overnight tryin to remember where he left his dignity. And let’s be honest, gettin nicked on your own birthday is elite level bad timing. That’s not just unfortunate. That’s cosmic comedy. Imagine the card. Happy Birthday. Please face the wall. But here’s where it gets a bit sticky, yeah. Because when one of the posh lot ends up gettin escorted off like a bloke who’s had one too many at closing time, people start askin questions. Not screamin revolution. Just squintin a bit harder at the whole palace and perks setup. All them titles. All that ceremony. All that taxpayer dosh keepin the chandeliers polished. And then one of the family’s blowin out candles in a custody suite over some very unsavoury headlines instead of a drawing room. It don’t scream stability, does it. Now I’m not sayin guilt by association. That’s daft. But optics matter. And when the optics look like a birthday episode of Crimewatch, the public’s gonna murmur. That’s just how it goes. So yeah. Sixty six. Bit of cake. Bit of chaos. Bit of constitutional awkwardness. Only in Britain can a birthday party turn into a debate about the monarchy before the kettle’s even boiled. Lewie would say send him a card. But maybe leave the glitter out.

So it’s late afternoon and I’m out on me wee bike for a right spin, not headin' anywhere special, just ridin' because the cool air feels lighter than it has in months. Sun startin' to dip, traffic still loud but less angry, that sweet little window where Pattaya almost pretends to be civilized. I’m not rushin'. No plan. Just lettin' the road decide for me. I’m feelin' decent too. Not buzzed. Not grumpy. One of them rare neutral moods where your brain ain’t shoutin' at you and your shoulders aren’t wound up like a scaffold clamp. Those moments don’t come often here, so when they do you take em and don’t ask questions. I roll past a bloke on the pavement havin' a full blown meltdown at his phone. Proper finger jabbin' the screen like it owes him money. Whatever app he’s fightin' with is winnin'. He looks seconds away from throwin' it into traffic and blamin' the whole province for it. Further on there’s a lad on a scooter tryin' to start it by sheer willpower. Kick startin' it like he’s auditionin' for a Muay Thai warm up. Bike says no. He keeps kickin' anyway. Stubbornness is universal. I pull into me local petrol station, the small one with the uneven concrete and the pumps that beep like they’re tired of livin'. Kill the engine, swing me leg off, stretch me back a bit. Smell of fuel in the air, that sharp metallic tang that sticks in your nose. As I’m fillin' up I clock her rollin' in from the road. Mid size bike. Clean. Not flashy. She rides like she knows what she’s doin'. No wobble. No drama. Late twenties maybe. Hair tied back. Office clothes under a helmet. Normal. Which already makes her stand out. She pulls up one pump over, cuts the engine, hops off neat enough. Goes to lean the bike onto the stand and that’s when it happens. Not a crash. Not a smash. Just that horrible slow tilt you see comin' but can’t stop once it starts. The bike leans too far. Weight shifts. Gravity clocks in for its shift. She tries to catch it. Loses balance. Down she goes with it in this awkward half fall half sit that’s more embarrassing than painful. I’m movin' before I think. Drop me petrol cap. Two steps. Grab the bars. Kill switch off. We both get the bike upright again in one clumsy lift. Fuel sloshes. Attendant shouts somethin' unhelpful from the booth, as they do. She’s fine. No bumps. No bruises. No drama. Just stood there red faced and breathless starin' at the bike like it betrayed her personally. “You alright” I say. She nods fast. Laughs once. That laugh you do when your pride’s taken more damage than your body. “Thank you,” she says. Proper sweet. Looks me in the eye. Not just the quick polite glance. A real one. We stand there a second too long. That little pause where a moment could turn into somethin' else if you let it. She says she thought the stand was down. Says it’s been a long day. Mentions traffic. Mentions too much work. Mentions not enough sleep. All the usual stuff people say when they’re still shakin' a bit. I finish fillin' up. She steadies her bike. Hands still tremblin' just a touch. She smiles again and says maybe I saved her day. Maybe she owes me a thank you bevie sometime. Light tone. No pressure. Just floatin' it out there. And for a split second I think yeah maybe. Why not. But then the moment shifts. Petrol station noise rushes back in. Horns. A truck pulls up. Someone revs too hard for no reason. I nod. Smile back. Tell her no worries. Happens to the best of us. Say ride safe. She looks a tiny bit surprised. Or maybe that’s just me imaginin' it. Often too hard to tell with moments like that. She gets back on the bike. This time slow. Careful. Checks the stand twice. Rides off clean. I finish up. Pay. Put me helmet back on. As I pull out another scooter stalls behind me and a kid nearly drops a crate of eggs. Life doesn’t pause for sentiment here. It barely notices it happened. I ride off down the road feelin' oddly calm. No numbers swapped. No what ifs chased. Just did a decent thing for another nice person and let it end where it should. Thailand’s like that. Sometimes you don’t need a story. You just need to be there when someone tips over and help em back up. Then you carry on. Another easy day, another easier drama. Peace out mates.

So the new year’s been rollin’ in gentle like. Cool weather. Less aggro. Me takin’ it easy for once. And instead of perchin’ meself on the usual bar stool at me local like a pub gargoyle, I decide to do somethin’ radical and head down to the beach at dusk. Bit of sand. Bit of sea air. Give the liver a breather. So I’m wanderin’ down Beach Road mates when Pattaya immediately reminds me exactly where I am. First up, I pass an Indian git lookin’ like he’s just lost an argument with physics and a ladyboy. Shirt all twisted. One eye squintin’, a nip of blood on the temple. Gold neck chain mysteriously vanished he's moanin'. Reckon he was makin' his way over to the cop shop to file one. Couple of minutes later I clock two Arab mugs further down havin’ a proper set to. Not wild swings, just that tight angry grabby sort of scrap. One of them’s pointin’ at a motorbike like it’s personally betrayed him. Could be money. Could be ego. Could be PCX envy. Fek nose. I keep walkin’. Eyes forward. Not my rodeo. I hit the sand just as the sky starts doin’ that soft orange fade thing. Sit meself down, bag beside me, shoes off, sippin’ some cold olong tea from seven, just listenin’ to the water and feelin’ smug about survivin’ another day in paradise without endin’ up in a state, again... Then along come these two lasses. Already half cut. You can hear it in the laughs before you even see ’em. One of them is alright, a bit portly. The other one stops you from thinkin’ altogether. Not your standard Pattaya look. Proper fit. Athletic lookin'. No flab anywhere. Long shiny black hair nearly down to her waist. Big almond eyes. No tats. Skin like she’s never met a fryer. The sort of girl who makes you double check you’re not accidentally sittin’ in the wrong country. They wobble past me, gigglin’, and next thing I know the tasty one clips me bag and goes down like a dropped dumpling. Straight into me lap. We both freeze for half a second. Then she cracks up laughin’. Big open laugh. I laugh too because what else you gonna do. She throws her arms round me neck like I’ve just saved her from drownin’ rather than gravity. Apologies all round. Still laughin’. Still close. Booze does that. We get talkin’. The usual easy chat. Where you come from. How long you stay here. Reveals she’s got a boyfriend back home. Or here. Or somewhere. Hard to pin down. Says they’re havin’ problems. Says maybe we hang out tonight. Nothing heavy. Just said casual. But her eyes are swimmin’. Not tipsy. Proper drunk. I clock the signs quick. First off, I already had a rub and tug earlier over by Buakhao and I’m not entirely convinced there’s another round left in me chamber. Second, drunk girls with boyfriend drama are a full time job with unpaid overtime. So I smile. Keep it light. Say another time maybe, love. She nods like she understands. She grabs me phone, adds me on LINE, gives me a quick squeeze, and staggers off with her mate down the sand. Probably won’t remember me anyway. I sit there a bit longer. Sky goin’ purple. Sea slappin’ about quietly. I check the LINE contact once. Do not open it. But do not delete it either. Behind me someone’s shoutin’ again. Somewhere else a motorbike taxi driver is bein’ chased by a soi dog. And I’m just sat there thinkin’ how funny it is that the one time some high quality growler actually lands right in your lap, you stand up, brush the sand off your shorts and out your bum, and decide you’ve had enough excitement for one evening'. So I sling me bag over me shoulder, head back inland, and leave the beach to the drinkers, the fighters, and the romantics who still think tonight’s gonna fix everything. Bless them. Lewie out.

Forget all the usual New Year’s rubbish about getting jacked, makin’ bank, or jetting off to some newfound hotspot. This year I’ve got one goal: don’t overthink things Lewie. Keep it simple, stay sane, enjoy the chaos. That means, Thumbs down on me posts? Fine. Your problem, not mine. Your dog died? Tough luck, not my circus. Besides, you'll get over it. A bird from Tinder flakes after three dates? She’s gone. Who cares why. Move on. Dozens more mingers where she came from. Farted on line in 7-Eleven and someone looked? Let ‘em. I did me part for science. Beer at the pub? Cold, wet, goin' in me gob. Stop stressin’ over fancy craft lager. Missed your favourite street food stall? Eat somethin’ else, life’s too short to mourn rice with a fried egg on it. Massage tart messed up your happy ending? Relax, she'll forget your name too. Tiny burn on your pizza? Eat it FFS, it’s still pizza. Neighbour’s dog barking at 3am? Let him have his existential crisis, I’ve got Netflix to watch. Took home a woman, discovered the plumbing was off. Not me circus, not me monkeys. Basically, if it spins your head, raises your blood pressure, or steals energy from drinking, eating, sleeping, or a bit of casual flirtation, it ain’t worth thinkin’ about. One year, one rule: chill. Don’t overthink. Enjoy. Survive.

Just another relaxin' afternoon on Beach Road, yeah, me usual local, tall circular bar stools that spin, more tarts on offer along the coast than in a patisserie, sea breeze just about cuttin’ through the heat. I’m on me third Chang, not rushin’ anywhere, just watchin’ the scooters buzz past and wonderin’ how none of them ever collide. Reckon they got Nvidia chips helpin' keep it all on the ups. Then me phone buzzes. It’s Boris the Biscuit. Now when Boris rings with intel, you listen up. The man has never once sent me to a bad bar, a dodgy curry joint, or a bad spot of any kind. He’s got a gift. And today he’s absolutely fizzin’. “Lewie,” he goes, “mate, you need to try this new strain. Unreal. Smells like cat piss, no porkies.” Cat piss? Bloody hell. I sit there starin’ at me beer, rollin’ that sentence around in me head. Cat piss does not usually feature in the top ten aromas I’m chasin’. When I think of top gear I’m thinkin’ notes of Myrcene, Limonene, Caryophyllene, but Boris is adamant. Says it hits like a freight train. Opens your mind. Says it's like a "different and special" local lass. I finish me beer, weigh it up, and think sod it. Curiosity has killed many a cat and possibly created this weed. So I saunter over to Buakhao to the wee little bud shop Boris was gushing about. I walk in and straight up ask for it. No shame. “I want the flower that smells like cat piss.” The girl behind the counter smiles like she’s heard that sentence more times than she ever expected. She grabs a big jar filled with shaggy, purple-shaded nuggets and drops it on the counter. “Litter Box is the name of the strain,” she says. Of course it is. She cracks the lid and I’ll be honest, lads, it smells exactly like a cat has just committed a crime. Proper feline bog vibes. I laugh. She laughs. Boris was not lyin’. I buy a bit and since I’ve got nowhere to be and the shop’s got comfy chairs and chill music, I decide to have a smoke right there on campus. Why not. Dim lights. Soft cushions. That fake calm that weed shops always have. The girl brings me a bevy. We chat a bit. Nothing flirty. Just casual. I’m half baked now, thinkin’ about how strange life is that I’m voluntarily inhalin’ something that smells like tiger urine. She comes closer to explain the strain. Leans in. Real friendly. I clock she’s very attractive. Better lookin’ than many birds if I’m honest. Nice face. Good skin. Everything works. Then she leans in a bit more and gives me a right hard, but playful squeeze where no squeeze should be if you’re planning on havin' children. And that’s when it clicks. Ah. Right. Ladyboy. Fair play, I say nothin’ dramatic. I don’t jump. I don’t panic. This ain’t me first rodeo. I just gently move her hand away and laugh. “Sorry love,” I say, “not my thing.” She laughs too. No offence taken. Cool as anything. Says half the blokes in here say the same thing then forget after two joints and a Chang. I tell her she’s gorgeous, better lookin’ than two thirds of the women in this town, but the plumbing’s wrong for me. Simple as that. No judgement. No confusion. Just facts. She nods like we’re discussin’ the weather. I finish the spliff in peace. I thank her. She thanks me. No awkwardness. No drama. Just two adults acknowledgin’ reality. I step back out onto Soi White Lotus, sun still blazin’, head buzzin’ nicely, thinkin’ to meself how only in Pattaya can you start the day with a beer on Beach Road, end up smokin’ moggy spray smelling herb, in a lounge chair, and have a polite conversation about sexual preferences while getting groped by the bud tender. And for the record, mates, the weed was unreal. Hit like a sack of kitty litter. Happy new year, lads...

So I’m sat last night in this little Lebanese joint down the Arab Quarter over by The Marine Plaza Hotel, yeah. One of those places where the tables are so close you could accidentally propose to the people eating next to you just by reaching for the salt. I’d had enough of Thai food for the day. Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But sometimes a bloke just wants chicken shawarma, hummus, some tabbouleh, and something that tastes like it hasn’t been deep fried or doused in chili by accident. I’m halfway through me plate, garlic sauce all over me fingers, when I clock the pair sat next to me. Bloke looks Arab, late forties maybe, crisp shirt, neat beard, relaxed confidence. Opposite him is this blond Russian looking bird. Tall. Proper looker. Sharp cheekbones, cool eyes, the kind of woman who looks like she knows what rent costs on three continents. She’s young. Late twenties maybe. Early thirties at a push. And they do not look like they belong in the same chapter of life. Anyway, I don’t give it much thought. Pattaya go Pattaya. He gets up to head to the bog and as he slides past my chair his elbow clips the edge of the table and her phone goes sailing off like it’s making a break from the frontline. Pure instinct, I catch it mid air like I’m auditioning for a Marvel film. Hand it right back to her. No drama. She smiles. Says thank you. Proper thank you. The bloke checks the screen. No damage. Gives me a nod and a smile. Then he heads off to the loo. The moment he’s gone she leans in. Quick talk. Low voice. Efficient. She tells me he pays her rent. Covers her monthly expenses. Comes to visit a few times a year. Nice enough guy. No complaints. Just how things are. She's got a comfortable ride. As she’s talking, the phone lights up in her hand. I catch a glimpse. Sender's name in Cyrillic text. Short message preview. "Money Sent!" That’s it. Nothing romantic. Nothing dramatic. Just a transaction confirmed. She clocks my eyes flick down and smiles again. Like she knows exactly what I just understood. She asks how long I’ve lived here. Says I seem calm. Writes her WhatsApp number on a napkin while she’s talking, like she’s ordering dessert. Slides it toward me. The waiter comes over right then and starts clearing plates. The napkin sticks to the hummus smear at the edge and nearly goes with them. For half a second I hesitate. Then I grab it without thinking and stuff it in me pocket. Instant regret. The bloke comes back from the toilet smiling like nothing in the world could trouble him. Too relaxed. Too comfortable. He even offers me a bit of his bread. What a kind geezer. We finish eating in polite silence. No tension. No drama. Just cutlery and aircon. I get up first. Nod to him. Smile to her. Say a casual goodbye like this was all perfectly normal. As I turn to leave, I glance back once. She’s already looking at her phone. That’s it. Outside, Pattaya hits me in the face. Noise. Baht buses. Life carrying on. I pull the napkin out, look at the number once, then fold it back up and stick it in me pocket. The food was decent. Not mind blowing if I'm to be honest. But it hit the spot. Some things look better on the menu than they do once you know what they’re made from. And that’s alright. Peace out... Lewie.

Right then bruv, picture this. I’m laid out flat on a massage bed off Second Road about five hours back, lights low, Cafe Del Mar music burbling away, eyes closed and hands crossed in front of me bits like a compliant hostage. I’ve done the full morning. Heat. Traffic. Noise. Brain fried. But I’ve just puffed through a proper fatty and all I want now is forty five minutes of silence, bliss, and a pair of strong hands undoing the damage life’s done to me shoulders. Curtain drawn. World shut out. Livin' the dream. Then I hear it. A cough. A shuffle. The rustle of a towel next door. Next thing I know, a voice comes drifting through the curtain gap where we can just see each other's peepers, like a ghost that missed its stop. “Mate… can I ask you something.” I don’t answer. I shut me eyes. Play dead. Everyone knows if you don’t respond quickly enough there’s still a chance they’ll leave you alone. Nah, no such luck. He bangs on. “Sorry mate, yeah. Just… bit of a weird one.” And that’s how it starts. Always polite. Always apologetic. Like I’ve volunteered to be Thailand’s expat emotional support line. He tells me he’s been here ten months. Met a girl early on. Not a bar one, like. A proper gal. Works a normal job at a tour company. Gentle. Kind. Makes him tom-yum on her days off. Talks about the future. Proper stuff. I’m lying there thinking great, lovely, congratulations, please stop talking. But no. He says things have been getting serious. Really serious. Talking about moving in together. Getting a dog. Talking about family. So she takes him up country to meet her mum. Big step. Big emotions. He’s nervous. Wants to impress. Buys fruit and one of those neatly wrapped gift baskets with the little glass jars of chicken soup in them. That fancy tonic guff that everyone swears is good for longevity. Wears a shirt with buttons to cover his tats. Then comes the moment. They’re sat in the mum’s house. Plastic chairs. Fan wobbling in the corner. Mum’s smiling. Chatting away in his broken Thai. Girlfriend pops outside to answer a call from a mate. And that’s when mum says it. Not malicious. Not dramatic. Just casual. Like she’s commenting on the weather. “My son very happy now.” Silence. The bloke says he laughed at first. Thought it was a translation thing. Maybe cultural. Maybe mum’s just old fashioned. So he gently corrects her. Smiling. Polite. “No, no, your daughter.” And the mum looks confused. “No,” she says. “My son. Before surgery.” The geezer says his stomach dropped through the floor. Like missing a step in the dark. Like the massage table giving way under me arse. He tells me he just sat there smiling while his brain did backflips. All the memories replaying at once. Every shower. Every angle. Every reach-around. Every moment that suddenly made a horrible kind of sense. He says when she came back in the room he couldn’t even look at her. Just nodded. Smiled. Died quietly inside. By now the massage has stopped. I’ve got an elbow in me spine and a stranger pouring his soul out through a polyester curtain. He asks me, in a small voice, like I'm the sage who's got all the answers to the universe. “Mate… what would you do.” I don’t know what to say. I didn’t come here for this. I came here for knots and oil and maybe a light tickle under the hood if the stars aligned. Instead I’ve been handed the emotional equivalent of a three alarm fire. So I say the only thing you can say. “That’s rough, mate, but go with your heart.” He sighs. Long one. Says he really loved her. Thought she was the one. Thought he’d finally cracked the code, instead he went full homo without even applyin'. Then the curtain twitches. His masseuse comes back. Mine does too. The moment’s gone. Confession over. World resumes. Thank heavens. As I leave, he won’t look over at me. Only stares at the ceiling like a man who’s just watched his future evaporate between a coconut and a car crash. And that’s Pattaya for you. You book a massage for your shoulders and end up carrying someone else’s entire life story on your back instead. Lewie out.

So mates, do you really need "feck you money" to stop givin a toss? It is a question I see pop up online and down the pub every now and again, whenever some mug starts bangin on about freedom and success. Meanin, do you need serious money to stop carin what other people think about you? Proper flush with cash. Rolls Royce level vibes. The kind of bein minted where you could tell your boss to shove his job up his arse and still sleep like a baby. And I reckon that is mostly ball-locks that. Now don’t get me wrong, havin money helps. Anyone who tells you it doesn’t is lyin through their teeth while askin you to spot them a tenner. Money takes the edge off life. It buys comfort. It buys more options. It buys a bit of peace and quiet when things get loud. And you can't go short-time without it. Fair play. But this idea that you need a fat bank balance to stop givin a toss what other people think is one of the biggest urban myths goin. The real trick is age. Mileage. Wear and tear, mates. When you are young you care about everything. What shoes you got on. Who looked at you funny. Who didn’t text back. Who might be talkin sh*te behind your back. Imagine carin if some muppet gives you a bloody thumb up or down on a forum? FFS, not disapproval from someone who you've never even met, lads! Heaven forbid. Then somewhere along the line you hit your forties or fifties and somethin magical happens. You wake up one mornin and realise you simply cannot be arsed anymore. Not in a smug way. Calm and peaceful like. Like your brain has finally installed a filter. You have already been skint. You have already been embarrassed. You have already been wrong. You have already been talked about. And guess what. You survived all of it. The world did not end. No one died. Life just carried on like nothin happened. That is when you realise you do not need proper money. You just need proper experience, a pint of Guinness, and a fat spliff. Most of the blokes I see stressin about what other people think are not poor. Nah, they are just still tryin to impress an audience that stopped watchin years ago. Meanwhile the calmest geezer in the room is usually the one in a faded T-shirt, drinkin a cheap Leo beer, laughin at his own jokes, completely unbothered. Not rich. Just done with the nonsense. So nah, you do not need a yacht or a penthouse to stop carin. You just need time, a few hard knocks, and the quiet realization that most people are far too busy worryin about themselves than to worry about you. That is the real feck you money, lads. And it don't even cost a penny.

I’ve noticed this thing on forums, yeah. Doesn’t matter what the subject is. Pattaya immigration office woes, Thai bank account headaches, damaged motorbikes, damaged egos, happy ending massages, rent, aircon settings, beer brands. There’s always a certain type lurking about, just hovering like a mosquito near a bare ankle, waiting for the chance to have a little nibble. Someone posts something harmless. Sometimes it’s a bit daft, sometimes it’s perfectly normal. Doesn’t matter. Within minutes, here comes Captain Bell-End, cracking his knuckles and lining up a reply like he’s been training for this moment his whole feckin life. Not because he actually could care less about the topic. He couldn’t give a toss about the latest find in domestic travel, the newest Matcha shops, politics, crime, air pollution, floods, road deaths, graft or whatever’s being discussed. What he cares about is the opening. The little crack in the door where he can stick his boot in and have a go at someone. That’s why I call it sniping. It’s not a disagreement. It’s not a debate. It’s someone who’s had a sh*te day, a proper miserable life, or just has a git personality, and they need somewhere to dump it. Forums are perfect for that. No consequences, no eye contact yeah, no chance of getting a foot right up your arse. Just pure, consequence-free trolling and pettiness. They’ll act offended like as if you’ve personally insulted their nan with your original post. They’ll pretend they’re deeply invested in the subject. But you can tell straight away they’re not. It’s all performance like. They’re just bored, annoyed, and itching for a cyber-scrap that doesn’t involve putting their knickers on and leaving their squeaky old lounge chair. Then comes the best part. The original poster bites back. Maybe polite at first. Then a bit sharper. Before you know it, the whole thing has spiraled into two old geezers typing essays at each other over something neither of them can even remember about. Reads like two old mingers arguing over who nicked whose milk money back in grade school. And the rest of the forum just sits there watching, munching popcorn, thinking thank me ball-locks it’s not me on the hit list today. That’s forum life in a nutshell. Sometimes it's about sharing information. But often it's not about helping each other out. It's just a digital town square full of people who’d never say a word in real life, suddenly finding their voice once there’s a keyboard and no risk involved. Merry Xmas Eve, Mates...

So I’m wanderin’ through Central Festival the other day, yeah, just havin’ a butcher’s at the usual chaos of tourists and overpriced donuts. Then I clock this absolute mug struttin’ about in a white Louis Vuitton track suit that looked less “designer luxe” and more “I just rocked up in me nan’s old pajamas.” Proper shiny, like he’d polished it himself with elbow grease and delusions of grandeur. He’s tryin’ to walk like he owns the shop, chest puffed, bling-bling watch gleamin’ like a lighthouse, noddin’ at people like they should be bowin’ to him. Then he opens his gob, right? And out comes his version of the Queen’s English. British accent? More like a butchered mishmash of posh posh posh and chav, like the unwanted love child of the BBC and EastEnders. Makes you wanna apologise to England on behalf of him. Proper crime against the mother tongue, mates. And here’s the kicker: all that puffed-up swagger, all that ego on display, he didn’t notice a stray bucket left by some poor mop pusher on the polished floor. Next thing I know, he’s doin’ a full-on slapstick tango, feet flailing like a gecko on ice, arms windmilling, before he lands flat on his arse like a rejected bar-tart. I swear I nearly dropped me coffee laughin’ lads. Thinkin’ he’s buggered off, right? Turns out he’s more like a poofter on wheels, tryin’ to gather his pride and legs at the same time, scrabblin’ about while I just stroll off sippin’ me iced decaf, leavin’ him to wrestle with the floor. Poor plonker. And the dignity of the Aisles? Well, it died with that git, mates.

So I’m wanderin’ down Walking Street last night, mindin’ me own, lettin’ the neon batter me eyeballs like a tuk tuk with no brakes. Usual muppet circus. Russians practicin’ their power stares, Indians rehearsin’ their wedding dance steps, Germans pumped full of hormones, lads from Essex lookin’ at every bar like it’s a career opportunity. You know the scene. Up ahead I clock this Indian geezer dressed like he's just robbed the Taj Mahal and givin’ it the big romance routine to a Thai girl who’s clearly not havin’ any of it. One look and I can tell she ain’t a freelancer. Nah, no nightclub glitter, no come hither grin, just a tired face, work apron pokin’ out her bag, and that polite panic smile Thai girls get when they’re two seconds from bolting. She ain’t tryin’ to pull. She’s tryin’ to escape. The Bombay bampot leans in closer, loud voice, flappy hands, the whole performance. She tries to step round him and he shuffles to block her like some budget nightclub bodyguard. I’m watchin’, thinkin’ mate, this is the wrong sport. She ain’t playin’, yeah. Then she moves again and he lunges in front of her, and that’s when I drift over casual as anything. I step in front of him like I’m just passin’ through, put me foot out a touch, proper innocent, and the geezer goes right over it. Flat on his face. Sounded like someone dropped a ripe durian off a sixth floor balcony. Whole crowd stops. No one says a word. Just another Pattaya moment, plonker on the floor, future regrets settlin’ in. He stays down makin’ wee groans, so I turns to the girl, ask if she’s alright. She gives me this soft wai like I just rescued her from a burning building instead of from just some mug with more one-week old cologne than common sense. Says thank you, asks if we can walk away before he gets his legs back. Fair point. So we head toward Beach Road. Once we’re clear, she tells me she works at one of them seafood joints by the sand, was on her way home but she’s dreading it because her boyfriend’s been runnin’ round like a soi dog in mating season. Says she doesn’t want to deal with him tonight, doesn’t even want to go back. Then she looks up shyly and says she wants to buy me a drink to say thank you. Next thing I know we’re sat at a quiet street bar with a couple of cold ones in a side soi, chattin’ easy as anything. Lovely girl, sweet heart, proper steady energy, none of that nightclub madness. And halfway through her second drink she drops the hint. Says she doesn’t want to go home. Says she’d rather stay with me tonight. Now don’t get me wrong, mates, I’m tempted. I’m human, FFS. Woman like that lookin’ at you soft under the bar lights, that’ll melt your noodle. But I’m not new here. Thai lads can flip like a fried egg sometimes, sweet one minute, swingin’ with a heavy blunt object the next, especially if they reckon some foreigner’s been keepin’ their girl company. Last thing I need is some jealous fruit cake turnin’ up at me room with a bottle of lao khao, a machete and bravery in liquid form. So I take a breath, smile, and let her down gentle. Tell her it’s better she stays at a friend’s place or finds a cheap room for the night. She looks disappointed for a blink, then gives me this grateful little smile that could calm a monsoon. Says I’m a good man. Then she disappears into the stream of people like she was never there. I finish me drink, take a proper puff of me vape, and stroll off thinkin’ sometimes Pattaya hands you a wild night, and sometimes it hands you a choice. And every now and then, the move made with your bigger head is the right one.

So I wander down to the local post office yesterday, yeah. Figure I’ll do something nice for once and send a birthday card to me dear auntie Brenda back in Blighty. Thought it’d make her chuffed, y’know, her favourite nephew still alive, sober enough for once to buy a stamp, and sentimental enough to remember the date. Now, the post office in this town’s a right scene. You’ve got blokes tryin’ to send mystery boxes to Nigeria, old expats moanin’ about queue numbers like it’s a tax office, and half the counter staff lookin’ like they’d rather be anywhere else but there. I write me auntie’s address on the envelope, then lick it shut, sweatin’ me tits off under them flickerin’ fluorescent lights, thinkin’ this’ll be easy. How hard can it be to post a bloody card? Turns out, harder than passing a breathalyser at 3am. Whilst I’m waitin’ in the single item customer express queue, the Yank next to me’s tryin’ to argue that his half-melted jar of peanut butter ain’t gonna break in the post, the clerk’s havin’ none of it, shakin’ her head like she’s dealt with this circus too many times. Then some old Russian bird barges in front of everyone yellin’ about her lost parcel from Vladivostok, nearly takes me knee out with her shopping bag. I’m standin’ there in the middle of it all, still sweatin’ like a kebab in July, thinkin’ all I wanted to do was post one bloody card, not star in a live episode of Farang Tirades: Pattaya Edition. Eventually the chaos dies down a bit. Suddenly it's time for me to step up to the counter, whilst feelin’ like I’ve just survived war of the muppets. Now I'm being polite like, flashin' me signature smile, while the lady behind the counter eyes me card like it’s radioactive. “You cannot send na,” she says. I go, “Eh? It’s a card, love, not a kilo of China-White.” She shakes her head, says somethin’ about “incorrect size envelope” and “no glue seal.” I’m standin’ there tryin’ to work out if she’s takin’ the piss or if I’m in the middle of a Kafka novel with aircon. So I’m flappin’ around, tryin’ to sort it out, and that’s when I hear this soft voice behind me say, “You need tape, yes?” I turn round, and there she is. Cute as a button. Maybe late 20s, early 30s, big brown almond shaped eyes, hair flowin' like she just stepped out of a shampoo ad. She’s got that gentle smile that could make you forget where you parked your motorbike. She’s holdin’ a parcel, all neat and tidy, like she’s done this postal game a few times before. She offers me some of her tape and helps seal me auntie’s card with a level of care you’d expect from someone wrapping the crown jewels. We get chattin’, turns out she used to work at a bank in Bangkok, came down here to help her sister run a new café with her brother. Real nice girl. Calm energy. None of that chaos you get from the nightlife bird lot. When it’s all sorted, she laughs and says, “You good heart. Sending love to family.” I’m thinkin’, well yeah, or tryin’ to anyway. Then she tilts her head and goes, “You want to eat noodle? Across the street, very good tom yum, pet, arroy mahk, na.” Now normally, I’d be all over that. Cute bird, kind gesture, easy chat, that’s a textbook Lewie setup. But then I glance down at the parcel in her hand. Big brown box with the address scribbled across it in neat writing. “Mr. Graham Swift - Chichester, United Kingdom.” Graham. Bloody Graham. Always a bleeding Graham geezer in the story somewhere, innit. So I smile, thank her for the help, tell her I’ve got a mate waitin’ for me up the soi, maybe next time yeah, and off I shuffle like a polite mug. Could’ve been a lovely bowl of noodles, maybe a bit of flirtin’ after, or… who knows. But I’m not in the mood to be sittin’ there over shrimp and chili paste while some bloke starts textin’ her “good morning beautiful” whilst he’s hanging his arse over the bog back in the old country. So I drop me card in the outgoing bin, take a wee puff off me new lavender vape, and have a right chuckle to meself. Just another day in Patts, where you go in to post a card to your auntie and almost end up third wheelin’ in some bird’s long-distance love triangle.

Right then lads, here is another bloke's unrequested whinge fest about family woes from the trenches. Yesterday, I’m sittin’ at me usual sundown perch along Beach Road, front-row seat to the sea, cold Singha in hand, breeze just kissin’ me neck, and that golden hour glow makin’ even the scruffiest punters look like George Clooney. One of them rare Pattaya moments when the chaos takes a breather, the motorbike engines fade, and the world pretends to be normal for just five minutes, yeah. Then just as the sky’s doin’ its slow striptease from orange to navy and the bar signs start winkin’ to life like Soho on payday, bang. This geezer plonks himself down next to me like a Labrador who’s just found his owner after a week in the pound. Pasty as uncooked pastry, full pint but he's not drinkin' any, lookin’ like someone’s told him his missus just ran off with his cousin. I thought he wanted to soak in the orange sky with a bit of peaceful, blokeish silence. But nah. Not my luck. He goes, “Matey, you ever gone look at a baby and just know?” I’m thinkin’, oh here we fekkin’ go again. Turns out he’s been proudly paradin’ round the moo-bahn with a toddler he thought was his own flesh and blood, only the kid’s come out lookin’ like he’s done just been pulled out a mud slide in Cameroon, and our mate’s so white he could get third-degree burns from starin’ at a toaster too long. He’s babblin’ on, sayin’ how everyone reckons the kid’s got his wife’s face but her “brother’s” skin tone, and how this so-called wife's sibling just happens to stay over his gaff three nights a week, always when our man’s out “playin’ snooker,” but which we all know is code for popping out for a quick rub and a tug. I’m sat there noddin’, tryin’ not to piss meself laughin’, watchin’ him put the pieces together like a chimp doin’ sudoku. Says he finally confronted her, yeah, and she just looked him dead in the eye and went, “Nose same same you, nah tirac.” Truth be told, the kid ain't got no mountain peaks between the eyes. Lad says his stomach dropped faster than a bar tart's knickers when a punter hands her 50K for sick buffalo repairs. And me? I’m just there tryin’ to enjoy the bloody peaceful view, maybe get half a pint down me gob before the ladyboys start cacklin' like horny chickens, and now I’m stuck shoulder-to-shoulder with a lad havin’ a full-blown paternity panic in technicolour. That’s Patts for ya, innit mates. One minute you’re raisin’ a glass to the sea, next minute you’re raisin’ doubts about your own sanity, all before happy hour’s even kicked in. Lewie out!

Right then, picture the scene lads. I’m sittin’ in me Buakhao local yesterday, nice corner stool, ice cold Leo in me hand, just enjoyin’ a bit of peace and quiet after a day of scorchin’ heat, swamp arse, and baht-bus fumes. Not a care in the world, just me, the beer goin' in me gob, and a bit of ceiling-fan therapy. Then along comes this geezer, proper sweaty mess, eyes like a kicked puppy. I first clocked him as an Aussie, but nah, wasn't. Lad was from The Old Country. Suddenly the bloke just plonks himself right next to me like I'm his long-lost aunt. Next thing I know, he’s chewin’ me ear off like a starvin' rat on a block of cheddar. Bangin’ on about how he's retired RAF and how the bloody British Embassy’s just ruined his life. I’m sittin’ there noddin’ politely, thinkin’ maybe they’ve lost his passport renewal application or somethin’ normal. Nah. Turns out the tragedy of his life is that he went marchin’ in there with his Thai concubine, ready to sign the visa guarantee papers and jet off to the land of Greggs and drizzle together… only to have his plans dashed when the visa officer asks him all polite-like if he reckons he's gonna be applyin’ for a same-sex marriage visa. I nearly spat me beer out. Poor sod was gobsmacked, says it hit him like a double-decker bus with no brakes. All this time thinkin’ he was romancin’ a lady, turns out he was balls-deep in a post-op unit and never clocked it. Now he’s sittin’ there wailin’ into his pint, heartbroken, moanin’ on about broken dreams, scams, and false hopes, like I’m gonna whip out me violin and play him a sad little tune, FFS. And then came the kicker, lads. Right in the middle of his oversized meltdown he leans in, dead serious, like we’re havin’ some big philosophical debate, and asks me, “Lewie mate… be straight with me, yeah, does this make me gay then?” Like I’m fekkin bloody Professor Freud sittin’ there with a pint instead of a pipe in me hand. Right, I just stared at him, wonderin’ how I’d gone from enjoyin’ me quiet beer to bein’ dragged into a full-blown existential identity crisis. Meanwhile, I’m half smilin' like a bloke who gives a toss when all I really want is five minutes of peace to watch me footy on the telly without bein’ dragged into someone’s love-loss hormone disaster. Look mate, we aren't besties, and I came for a cold one, not a front-row seat to your gender discovery meltdown. That’s Pattaya for ya though. One minute you’re mindin’ your own, next minute you’re a therapist for some geezer who only found out what was under the hood after he'd already took it for a spin around the block and back 100 times.

So old Donnie’s done it again. This time he’s gone full AI loon mode, repostin’ a fake video of Barack Obama gettin’ arrested by the FBI in the Oval Office, set to “Y.M.C.A.” and crowbarred onto Truth Social. Clownish Pepe the Frog shows up, too, because nothing says “political maturity” like reeking of meme-bank leaks and misinformation. Trump’s out there claimin’ it’s no biggie: “No one is above the law,” he says, as if that justifies the whole sham. All while Tulsi Gabbard’s leak-of-the-week about an Obama-era coup plays in the background. Feels like a cheap sideshow, smoke and mirrors, AI-generated nonsense, and enough drama to fill a Pattaya ping-pong show bar. Here’s the kicker: why is the man in the Oval Office playing dress-up with fake dirt on his predecessor? No caption. No explanation. Just a deepfake scare tactic while real issues lie in tatters. It’s all circus, no substance, and we’re the audience holdin’ buckets. If this is what passes for politics now, I might as well swap me Chang for a ticket to the freak show. https://thehill.com/homenews/administration/5411827-trump-ai-generated-video-obama/

Ah, the mighty 7-Eleven ham and cheese toastie. You beautiful golden crispy square of joy. You saviour of drunken nights and lazy mornings. You transfat laden masterpiece forged by the hands of minimum-wage heroes behind a plastic counter. Forget Michelin stars and five-star nonsense. Nah. This is the real deal lads. Plastic wrapper comes off, slide it into the sandwich iron, hear that magic phrase: “Warm?”, like music to your ears. Too right it’s warm, love, melt it like the sun’s gone on holiday. Into the heat it goes, and 90 seconds later, you’ve got yourself a piping hot slab of crispy bread, gooey fake cheese, mystery-meat ham, and enough salt to resurrect a dead man. No judgment, no questions, no waiter hovering by askin’ if you want still or sparkling. Just you, your toastie, and the silent nod of respect from every other hungover, half-sober, half slobbering, or just plain hungry soul in that shop. You can keep your caviar, truffle oil and the foie gras. Give Lewie that greasy little packet of happiness at 3AM when the streets are devoid of everyone but ladyboys, and the belly’s rumbling. Long live the ham and cheese toastie. The true five-star-feed of Thailand. Never lets you down, always there when you need it most. If only the birds were as tasty.

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.