Lewie London

You can’t even nip down the chippy these days without some bald geezer in a Union Jack gilet whispering about “globalist agendas” while spooning mushy peas into his gob like it’s intel from MI5. Everywhere you go now it’s Farage this, Farage that, like he’s the patron saint of pubs and passive aggression. Man’s made a career outta getting angry on telly and acting like being mildly racist at a Wetherspoons counts as political resistance. And the worst part is, half the country’s lapping it up like he’s Churchill reincarnated, not just some posh bloke in boat shoes who once got milkshaked for talking rubbish outside a Greggs. You talk to one of these lot and straight away it’s “I’m not racist but” followed by something so utterly deranged it makes David Icke look like a life coach. They think the country’s being run by Davos lizards, the BBC’s a Marxist training camp, and every weather warning is a false flag to distract from the real crisis, which is apparently some bloke in Barking who got arrested for saying “bird” instead of “person of ovulation.” Meanwhile, Farage is banging on about saving free speech, as if he’s being tortured in the Tower of London instead of shouting at microphones for money. Every week there’s a new panic. One minute it’s 15-minute cities being trial runs for open-air prisons, next it’s the council collecting bins on a Wednesday as proof of creeping communism. I overheard a bloke in a Costa saying ULEZ is actually a UN plot to force everyone onto electric scooters so the government can remote control your journey to Aldi. And when you ask them for proof, it’s always, “Do your research.” Which means “I watched a YouTube video made by Steve in his shed who’s never voted but knows what’s really going on.” It’s always the same crowd, standing outside Parliament screaming about white powder and kids in tunnels under Windsor Castle, wearing “I survived lockdown” hoodies like they spent two years in a Vietnamese POW camp and not just sat at home watching Homes Under the Hammer and arguing with some bloke they don't even know on that lunatic Twitter lot. One woman reckons the Bank of England’s been taken over by paedophile dolphins trained by the EU. I says, “You alright, love?” and she screams, “Read the documents!” What documents? She whips out a printout from some telegram group with spelling so bad I thought it was written by a Labrador. They’re still furious about Brexit too, even though they got what they wanted. Blame everything on “remoaners” and “the blob,” like some shadowy cabal of civil servants are sabotaging Britain by… I dunno, making Marmite dearer and ruining strawberries? I heard a bloke in the boozer blame the council tax on woke mobs and Meghan Markle. Another lad reckons immigration’s outta control ‘cos he saw three Polish lads fixing a roof. I says, “What d’you want, mate? A leaky Britain?” He just shouted “Take our country back!” like we’d loaned it out to Belgium and forgot to ask for a receipt. Now they’re saying Labour’s in bed with Soros, Rishi’s a WEF puppet, Starmer is a Trumpist, the Tories are actually socialists, and the Lib Dems are plotting to make gender-neutral roundabouts. It’s like everyone’s necked paint thinner and decided the only truth comes from whichever geezer shouts loudest on GB News in a cravat. “It’s all a scam!” they cry, while chucking their savings at crypto scams and sharing Facebook posts from blokes called PatriotKev78. So yeah, Britain’s already bonkers enough without trying to turn every pothole into a plot by Brussels. You don’t need Farage to save the nation, you need a cup of tea, a lie down, and maybe, just maybe, log off the internet for five bloody minutes. But go crack on with your Farage fan clubs, your imaginary boat armies, and your constant whingeing about migrants while your own government’s robbing you blind. Britain’s got talent, alright, talent for delusion, denial, and electing Poundland strongmen. Still the undisputed empire… of taking the piss.

I keep hearing these red-hatted muppets waffling on like America’s gone down the bog, when truth is, the only thing circling the drain is their grasp on reality. Every one of ‘em’s convinced there’s some secret underground war goin’ on between Trump and the Deep State, like he’s Batman and the Democrats are hiding in the sewers with Nancy Pelosi dressed as the Joker. You can’t even queue for a coffee without one of these loons whispering that George Soros controls the weather and Hunter Biden’s laptop’s got the secret plans for the next pandemic scribbled in Microsoft Paint. Mate, I asked one of ‘em what time it was, and he goes, “Time to wake up, the storm is coming.” I says, “Nah, bruv, I meant the actual time, not your bloody QAnon bedtime story.” They talk about that Hunter laptop like it’s the Ark of the Covenant. No one’s even seen the sodding thing, but apparently it’s got everything from nuclear codes to Hillary Clinton’s horcruxes stored on it. One lad told me he watched a YouTube vid that proves Biden ain’t real, just a bunch of CGI deep fakes stitched together by lizard Democrats and edited by Antifa interns on TikTok. Speaking of Antifa, half these geezers reckon there’s a secret leftist militia hiding in vegan cafés, waiting to overthrow Texas with soy milk and pronouns. I met a bloke in a shooting range shirt who said Hillary Clinton runs a child trafficking ring out the back of a Pizza Hut. I asked him if he even knows how pizza works and he goes, “It’s all symbolism, mate, do your research.” Yeah alright pal, I’ll research a padded cell for the lot of you. And they all still bang on about them missing Hillary emails like they’re holding the last Horcrux. Newsflash: no one cares about your aunt’s forwarded chain letter from 2016. The lot of ‘em think Trump’s still secretly president, ruling from a golden bunker under Mar-a-Lago and sending coded messages through discount T-shirts. “Trust the plan,” they keep saying, but the only plan I see is them getting conned into buying more merch while he pisses about playing golf. One of ‘em had a meltdown in the post office ‘cos they thought the new stamps were encoded with Chinese spyware. And don’t even mention vaccines. They think Bill Gates put microchips in the jab so he can track them—like Microsoft gives a toss what Jeff from Arkansas had for tea. Then there’s the lot who reckon JFK Jr’s coming back from the dead to run with Trump on the next ticket. I says, “You’re confusing politics with The Walking Dead.” Bloke looks me dead in the eye and says, “That’s what they want you to think.” It’s always “they,” innit. “They” faked the moon landing, “they” control the media, “they” made you fail Year 9 Maths. Maybe “they” just need you to log off Facebook and go touch some grass. So yeah, America’s already great. It’s just being held hostage by a bunch of loons who think George Soros is hiding in their fridge, that Hunter Biden’s laptop caused inflation, and that every time the wind blows it’s ‘cos Hillary farted in the direction of freedom. The only deep state here is the deep denial they’re all living in.

1. Asked one of them Trump geezers for directions and he points at the bloody sky, goes, “Just follow the chemtrails, bruv.” Like I’m meant to hop on a cloud or summat. 2. Bloke next door’s a full-on Trumper. Tried fixing his Wi-Fi by slapping a “Make America Great Again” sticker on his router like it’s some magic spell. 3. One told me he’s living off the grid. Nah mate, you just didn’t pay your leccy bill. That ain’t rebellion, that’s being skint and clueless. 4. Told a Trumper the vaccine’s got microchips in it. He goes, “Sweet, maybe I’ll finally get decent 5G.” Man’s excited to be tracked like a Deliveroo order. 5. Went to a garage sale, right, proper redneck setup. Bloke was flogging bottles of “freedom air” for a tenner a sniff. I said, “What’s next, patriot dust?” 6. Got invited to a barbecue by one of ‘em. Turned up, it’s just five lads standing round a bin fire chucking in books they never read. “Land of the free,” my arse. 7. One of ‘em rings tech support, dead serious, cos he thought the little mouse on his screen needed batteries. Couldn’t make it up. 8. Asked a Trumper how he knows what’s true. He pats his gut and says, “I just feel it.” Yeah well, your gut also reckons Elvis is alive and birds are government drones. 9. Me cousin’s one too. Proper helmet. Wears a tinfoil hat in the shower “just in case.” I said, “In case of what, waterproof mind control?” 10. Met one in Walmart banging on how masks don’t work, right. Bloke’s also got socks on his hands saying, “Stops the government scanning me fingerprints.” I said, “Mate, the only thing you’re hiding is common sense.” But bloody best part about nipping down Home Depot? Clocking a Trumper on the till thick as mince, scanning half me bits then waving me through like it’s all in order. Walk out grinning with a trolley full of gear and half me dosh still in me sky rocket. Cheers, patriot—God bless America and her clueless cashiers.

Well lads, been stinking up me kit this trip, all sweaty socks and curry-stained keks, so I figured I’d take matters into me own hands instead of coughing up for a laundry service. Them places that employ people to do the washing charge by the kilo and it ain’t cheap, is it. Spotted one of them coin-op joints near me digs, grubby little setup with buzzing machines and a fan spinning like it’s clinging to life. I think, “Easy work, Lewie. You’ve got this.” March in like I know what I’m doing, chuck me smalls in, bung in some coins, splash in some neon detergent, and reckon I’ll sit back with a cold bevvie while the machine does its bit. But soon as the cycle starts, the thing goes berserk. Suds pouring out the front like a foam party, machine rattling like it’s possessed. Locals giving me the side-eye, and I’m stood there nodding like it’s all perfectly normal. Eventually it coughs to a stop, but me boxers come out looking like modern art. Calvin Kleins now Calvin Clowns. Everything’s either a different colour or still soaked like it’s done laps in the Chao Phraya. I could’ve wrung out me pants and filled a fish tank. Think it can’t get worse? I cram the whole soggy mess into the dryer. Thing jams halfway and starts clunking like a drunk bar-tart. Shirts come out half-dry, half-manky, and everything stinks like used toilet paper. Back at me gaff, I try drying it all under the air-con and with the hairdryer. Room ends up smelling like wet socks and melted plastic. Got me undercrackers hanging off the balcony like flags at a budget parade. Only clean bit of kit I’ve got left is the stuff I wore to the laundry in the first place. I’m sat here now in me last pair of pants, staring at a bin bag of ruined threads and wondering why I thought I was some kind of washing wizard. So yeah, lesson learned. I ain’t cut out for this washerwoman life. Next time I get the bright idea to save a few baht, someone slap the coins out me hand and remind me I’m not a laundry queen. Where did I go wrong, lads? Or is this just part of the rite of passage?

Well, maties, me back’s feeling a bit better now and me ribs are still proper bruised but alas, not so painful anymore. Been keeping me insides happy this trip with the safe stuff: Pad Thai, chicken and cashews, that boiled chicken and rice number, Khao Man Gai or whatever it’s called. Dead tame, like grub for a toddler, but it’s done the job. No drama, besides the fried rice with shrimp debacle yesterday, and no porcelain god evacuations at 3am. But this afternoon? Nah, lads, today I went full numpty. Perched in this little street joint near me kip, bit grubby, proper local vibes. Not a tourist in sight. I’m feeling flash, thinking I’ve cracked this Thai food game. Waiter comes over, all smiles, and I go, “Mate, I’m bored of the kiddie menu. Whack us out something proper today. Summat green curry I see everyone else ordering, yeah?” He pauses, asks if I want it spicy. I puff up, “Course I do, mate. I eat curry all the time back in London. Piece of piss.” Absolute madness, lads. UK curry’s like warm yoghurt compared to this Thai lava soup. But I’m sat there, smug as you like, waiting for what I now realise was me final meal as a functioning human. Curry lands. It’s glowing green, smells like heaven, but looks like a witch brewed it in a cauldron of regret. First bite’s alright, scarfed it with plenty of rice, bit of heat, nothing mental. Second bite, lips start tingling. Third bite, boom, me gob’s on fire, eyeballs sweating, throat’s seized up like an old desk fan. I’m hiccuping like a drunk budgie and guzzling water and eating raw cucumbers like it’s going out of fashion, but it’s like trying to put out a bonfire with spit. Locals are pissing themselves. Waiter’s grinning like he’s just won a bet. I’m sitting there looking like I’ve been tear-gassed. Thirty minutes on and I’m red as a slapped arse, scraping me dignity off the floor, praying for mercy. Stagger back to the gaff, belly gurgling like it’s planning a mutiny. Spend the next 2 hours in what can only be described as a high-speed relationship with the bog. Honestly, I’ve had gentler food poisoning from a dodgy kebab in Croydon. I was sweating from places I didn’t know existed. Thought I saw the light at one point, then realised it was just the bathroom bulb swinging. Now I’m sprawled out on me bed, fan on full blast, tongue hanging out like a soi dog in hot season, wondering why I didn’t just stick to me cashews and chicken. Lads, next time I try and act hard and order “authentic” Thai spice, do us a favour and remind us I’m a soft git from across the pond, not a fire-eating circus act. Anyway, now I’ve had me arse handed to me by a curry, I’m asking you lot what proper Thai dishes are worth trying that won’t torch me gob or leave me clinging to the thunderbox? I’m all ears, but no seafood stuff yeah cause I’m allergic, and as long as they don’t come with a side of internal combustion. Cheers, mates.

Right lads, still hanging me hat here in the LOS, despite the bike problems yesterday and all the other recent palava. Alas, I awoke this morning thinking I’d keep things simple by grabbing me some local lunch grub for a change. Too many bloody pub meals lately and I’m starting to look like a right porker. There’s this little street-side spot near me gaff, nothing posh, just red plastic chairs and wobbly tables, you know the kind, but the food’s usually a decent nick and portions are good sized. I reckoned a plate of chicken fried rice would do the trick for a change, so I mustered up me best Thai and ordered, “Khao Pad Gai.” The waitress gives me the nod and scarpers off, and I’m sat there feelin’ well chuffed, like the locals appreciate me speaking some of their own language and that. Then the plate shows up, and what do I see? Bloody shrimp fried rice, "Khao Pad Kung" innit, and big shrimps at that, FFS mates. I clocked the pink tails and near chundered on sight. I ain’t being dramatic or nottin, lads, I’m proper allergic. Shrimp turns me into an even bigger puffed-up mess than I already am and faster than you can say "puffball face". I call the waitress over, trying to sort it nice and calm, but she’s already got the ump. Then the owner pops out like final judge and jury in some budget cooking show, starts rattling on about and telling me I ordered shrimp. I goes, “Nah darlin, don’t start taking the piss. I said chicken. Gai, right. Not Kung. I know the bloody difference in words.” She’s already got her knickers in a twist, waving her arms all about and getting right stroppy. I says, “Oi, keep your hair on love, don’t throw your toys out the pram just over a bit of rice now.” Then they reckon I gotta cough up another 100 baht if I want the chicken version I ordered. "I go, ‘You what? Good money already for this muck and now you want more?” But I was starving, and arguing in 35-degree heat is like trying to outdrink an Irishman during last orders. So I forked it over and waited. Meal comes back, this time with chicken, but I’d lost all interest. Chicken was drier than a nun’s fanny and rice was proper hot, but tasted like they forgot to fry it. I pushed it away, slapped the cash on the table, and flounced off right quick. Made me way back to me trusted pub, ordered a shepherd’s pie and a pint, sat meself down under the big ceiling air-con and tried to remember why I ever left me dear old Blighty. Next time I get the bright idea to “eat like a local,” someone give me right a slap in the tits and remind me that there’s nowt wrong with chips and gravy and a fackin menu in English, lads.

So I’m bombing round on this little rental bike, nothing special, just one of them standard 125s with more stickers than real horsepower. Thought I was being clever, zipping through traffic and all that. But somewhere between my soi and the main road, I must’ve clocked something sharp because I pull up to the 7-Eleven and hear that telltale hissssss, rear tire’s gone flatter than a pint at closing time, lads. Now, I ain’t about to roll it back to the rental shop and have them bang me with some 4,000 baht “damage” fee, so I figures I’ll just nip to a local tire place across the road, get a cheap brand slapped on, job done for a few hundred. Easy, right? Nah, mates. Roll the bike into this little open-front shop there. Blokes sitting about half-asleep in flip flops, one of ‘em watching Muay Thai on a cracked TV, the other one eating noodles straight out the pot. I says, “Just need a back tyre, mate. Cheap one’ll do.” He nods, says “Ok ok,” and wheels it round the back before I can even get a proper look at the setup. Thirty five minutes later, he wheels it back and goes, “Finish. New tyre. Very good. Michelin.” I blink. “Sorry, what?” He points proudly at the wheel. “Michelin. Import. Same same farang style. Good for high speed.” Mate, I’m not doing MotoGP, I’m just trying to get to 7-Eleven and back without skidding into a tranny. I says, “I asked for something local, cheap, you know?” He gives me that little sideways head tilt, the international symbol for “Well, bit late now, innit?” “Front also change. Same same. Now balance.” “What do you mean front also change?!” He shrugs. “Old tyre not safe. We change both. More safe now. Lucky for you.” Lucky? I’m two tyres deep in a stitch-up and he’s acting like I’ve won the bloody lottery. Then the bill comes. 3,600 baht. I nearly swallowed me own tongue. “You what? For tyres on a bike that ain’t even mine?” He starts pointing at the tires again, saying things like “import,” “long life,” and “very grip,” like I’m buying a high-end sports car and not patching up a rental that smells like five years of sweat and Chang beer. Then, to really take the piss, some tuk-tuk driver leans in from the street and goes, “Good tyres, my friend. Michelin number one!” as if I’m gonna high-five him and thank him for the consumer review. I go, “Look, mate, I didn’t ask for all this. You shoulda said the price first. You can’t just whack on luxury tyres without asking and expect me to foot the bill.” He shrugs again. “You ride now, yes? Very good tyre. You see.” I says, “Yeah, I see all right. I see I’m getting mugged off in broad daylight.” So I slap down 2,700 baht, it's all I had in my wallet, and tell ‘em that’s more than fair for a tire change I never bloody asked for, and if they want the rest they can go chase the Michelin Man round the soi. Jump on the bike, peel off, tyres squeaking like I just did a burnout in a Makro car park. Call me old-fashioned, but I liked it better when getting stitched up didn’t come with tyre shine and a loyalty card.

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

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