Lewie London

Right, listen up you lot, let me tell you somethin’ about this dodgy mangosteen history, yeah, absolute fruit-based fairy tale this one. Apparently, back around 1850, Queen Victoria, yeah, old frosty knickers herself, heard about this fruit from over ‘ere in Southeast Asia, all juicy and exotic like, and reckoned she wanted a go. Didn’t fancy a pineapple, didn’t want a mango, papaya, nah, she’s got her royal bloomers in a twist over a mangosteen, of all things. The “queen of fruits” they used to call it. What a hefty load of cobblers. Bit of purple fruit, white mush inside, tastes alright, but hardly worth a diplomatic mission is it? And get this, the story goes that she was so desperate for a nibble of this little purple marvel that she offered some big-shot reward, knighthood or a bag of gold or some such nonsense, to anyone who could bring her one back fresh. Fresh! This is Victorian times we’re talkin’ about, no bloody DHL, no FedEx, no Aldi's freezer section. What’s she thinkin’? Sendin’ some poor sailor off in a wooden boat with a basket of fruit, expectin’ it to survive a months-long voyage with no refrigeration, only wrapped in horse sh*t to preserve it like it’s clingfilm from Waitrose. Madness. No one’s got any proof she actually said it, mind you. Just one of them pub stories blokes tell after three pints when they’re tryin’ to sound clever about fruit. Probably started by some geezer in a Bangkok bar with a half-eaten mangosteen in one hand and a go-go tart in the other’, “Did you know, mate…” Meanwhile, Queen Vic’s wuz sittin’ back in Buckingham Palace wonderin’ what’s for tea, not plannin’ tropical fruit expeditions like some Victorian Indiana Jones. So Queen Victoria weren’t sendin’ out battleships for fruit salads. That’s the problem with people these days, hear a nice story about a royal and suddenly they’re all David bloody Attenborough. So yeah, good fruit, nice bite, decent on a hot day, but let’s not rewrite history over it, alright. Mangosteens, tasty, yes. Life changing? Only if you’ve never had three scoops of chocolate ice cream with extra chocolate sauce before.

So I gets this random text yesterday around 6PM, out the blue, it’s Neville from Norwich. You know the one, bit of a knob when he’s on the piss, but harmless with it. Normally only shows his mug in Patts around Christmas, when the weather back home’s colder than his ex-wife’s wizard sleeves. But here he is, middle of summer, decided he missed the smell of rank fermented fish, overripe durian, and cheap perfume too much to wait for December. “Lewie, mate. Bevies on me. Down BuaKhao. You know the gaff. Get your arse over here.” Fair play, I think. Ain’t seen him in a while, might as well humour the lad. So I rock up to this little beer bar halfway down the soi. A bit of a tired and dusty joint, but his fave for some reason. Place with the fairy lights that don’t work and them plastic chairs that collapse if you breathe on ‘em wrong. And there he is, Neville. Leo in one hand, cigarette in the other, dressed a bit like a Pokémon fruitcake, lookin’ like a tourist brochure for ‘Small town bloke makes wrong decision to leave Blighty.’ But here’s the real twist, he’s flanked on both sides by two absolute units. Not women. Nah. Straight-up ladyboys. And I don’t mean the ones where you have to squint to tell. I’m talkin’ six-footers, one with a crotch bulge like a shepherd’s pie. He’s sittin’ there like the tofu in the center of a suspicious roast beef sandwich, grinnin’ like he’s just won the raffle at the working men’s club. I sit down, give him the look, you know the one, raised eyebrow, tilt of the head, silent: “Mate… seriously?” He clocks it. “What? What you givin’ me that look for, bruv?” I lean in, keep it polite, keep it down low. “Neville, mate… you do realise them two ain’t exactly regular, natural born girls and that, yeah?” He laughs it off, waving his beer around like Churchill addressing the troops. “Don’t be daft, Lew. Just tall birds, innit. Models or summat. Lucky me.” Models. Right. Last page of the Bangkok Post maybe. I tried, I really did. Gave him the whole gentle breakdown, the “Look at the feet, mate” routine. Even pointed out the Adam’s apple on the one like a biology teacher doin’ revision. Suggested he do a bit of a feel under the hood on that one with the hefty package. But no, he weren’t havin’ any of it. Fully committed to the dream. You could see it in his eyes, he thought he was about to live out some kind of tropical "Man With The Golden Gun" fantasy. I finish my drink, tell him I’ll catch him tomorrow, and make my exit before it turns into something out of them Channel Five documentaries. Went down the road, grabbed myself a couple of pizza slices, nice and simple. Here’s the punchline. One in the morning, my phone buzzes again. Message from Neville. “A meat and two veg. You were right mate.” Sausage emoji. Pint glass emoji. Sad face emoji. Didn’t even reply. Just stared at it like someone who’s watched their team lose on penalties again. But that ain’t even the best bit. He rings me this mornin'. Turns out, back at his hotel, them two cleaned him right out. No violence, no drama, just polite like. Mini bar, emptied. That litre of Glen Fiddich he’d brought over from Heathrow duty-free, gone. Four Leos, two cans of Coke, three packets of overpriced Pringles, and that big Toblerone that’s been gatherin’ dust in the fridge since Songkran. Not stolen, just all consumed, like two scaffolders on a tea break. And him sittin’ there, wallet on empty, hungover, and full of regret, starin’ at the minibar price list like it’s his final exam paper. So that’s Neville’s big summer holiday first-night sorted. Arrives in the hub of cocks in frocks, unexpectedly went for a wander on the wild side, dignity shattered, minibar destroyed. See you at Christmas, mate. Pattaya — undefeated.

So there I am, early afternoon, mindin’ me own bizz as usual, sat up in that food court at Terminal 21, the one with the tightly spaced tables and chairs built for K-pop fans. Just fancied me a quiet little plate of chicken and rice, nothin’ posh, just keepin’ it light after a weekend of poor diet decisions. Got me bottle of orange juice, phone on silent, not a care in the world. Life’s not too shabby at times, yeah? Then it starts. Next table over, some Arab geezer’s havin’ a full-on domestic blow-up with his Thai girlfriend. Proper handbags at dawn stuff. Can’t hear every word but I’m catchin’ bits, sounds like she’s caught him textin’ some other bird and that he told her she’s not gettin’ that Louis Vuitton bag after all. That's what I reckon. All I know is the volume’s going up like someone’s leanin’ on the remote. Next thing I know, bang, she’s up, screamin’ in Thai, grabs her overpriced frappuccino thing, one of those blended iced jobs with about eight different brown colored syrups, and launches it at him like she’s tryin’ out for the Olympic shot put. The thing explodes midair, half on him, half on me. His face is drippin’ caramel drizzle, I’m sat there with all sorts of sticky brown liquids on me shirt like I’ve just lost a fight with dessert. She clocks me straight away, gasps like she’s just seen a ghost, and comes over apologisin’ like mad. Hands together, little wai, proper sorry. Offers to buy me a new shirt, bless her, but I tell her don’t worry about it, love. I’m already thinkin’, this is why you don’t wear white in Pattaya. You wear dark colours, expect sauce stains and street chaos. Rookie mistake. Then, and here’s where it gets interestin’, she scribbles her LINE ID on a napkin and slips it over to me. “I want to say sorry, you message me, okay na?” Big eyes. Sweet smile. But behind that smile? Chaos, mate. You can see it. She's got a hot temper and a short fuse. The kind of girl where one drink turns into five drinks, next minute you’re sat at the police station wonderin’ how your wallet ended up in someone else’s pocket and why she’s throwin’ your passport in a canal. Polite nod, smile, napkin in the bin. Not my first rodeo. I finish me chicken and rice, wipe the coffee goo off me with what’s left of me self-respect, and stroll off toward the escalators like Bond after a car chase. Terminal 21. Where you come for cheap food and leave covered in someone else’s relationship problems. Pattaya, never changin’, never disappointin’, nice one mates.

So there I am, late last night, just nipped down that little 7-Eleven halfway up BuaKhao, close to the big roadway bend, the one with the dodgy sliding door and the even dodgier hot dogs. Just needed to restock some water, maybe grab a toastie and a packet of crisps, windin’ down the night like a civilised geezer, yeah. Been a long one already, just wanted to rehydrate, go home, put on a bit of YouTube, and call it a night. Next thing, in she stumbles. Out of nowhere. And I mean proper tidy too. Not your usual Pattaya bar girl look, nah, this one had style. Bit of class about her. Tall, slim, lighter skin, wearing one of them little black tops that barely counted as a shirt, back all exposed, and what do I see? Full body ink. But not that tramp-stamp rubbish or that cheap bar-girl butterfly nonsense. Nah, this was proper Japanese work, beautiful koi fish, cherry blossoms, full sleeves rollin’ down her arms, bits of dragon scales pokin’ out here and there. Real artwork, looked like she’d been inked by someone who knew their needles from their elbows. But, and here’s the deal breaker, she’s absolutely mullered. You could smell the vodka coming off her like a petrol station on a hot day. Lipstick smudged, mascara halfway down her cheeks, high heels clackin’ about like a newborn giraffe. And she’s on me like I’m the only exit in a house fire. Starts with the old “You no habb girlfriend, law? Where you go now? You want go disco with me?” Givin’ it the big eyes and all that, hoping to withdraw some cash from my wallet obviously, swayin’ like a palm tree in a storm. Now don’t get me wrong, fifteen years ago I might’ve thought I’d won the lottery and wouldn't a-minded paying the freight-fee. But these days? Nah mate, I know this game. Drunk girls are pure chaos in a bottle of extra-spicy trouble-sauce. One minute they’re running smooth like a Ferrari right after a fresh tune, next minute they’re cryin’ like someone's kicked their dog in the bell-end, then someone’s callin’ the police and suddenly your photo’s all over AseanNow getting slacked-off with a headline like “Foreigner Arrested in 7-Eleven Brawl Over Tattooed Beauty.” Meanwhile the staff behind the till are watchin’ like it’s prime time telly. Givin' them a right giggle, innit. I can already see them uploadin’ this CCTV clip with a TikTok song underneath. Not today, Satan. I gave her the polite smile, did the gentle step-back, grabbed me stuff like it was a hostage rescue, paid up, and walked out cool as you like. Left her there swipin’ through her phone, probably lining up the next mug to come walking through the door. Mates, beautiful tattoos, proper art, but wrapped around a bottle of absolute trouble. Glad I dodged that bullet. Night saved. Pattaya, you mad old cow, you nearly had me again.

So there I am, today, late afternoon, sat at this beer bar halfway down the quiet side of Soi 6 as you do, perched on one of them wobbly stools with a Chang in me hand, enjoyin’ the early evening like a retired dock worker from Liverpool. Front row seat to the shabbiest theatre on Earth; drunk sexpats, confused tourists, and working girls layin’ it on thicker than a brickie’s trowel. Life’s grand, innit. Next to me there’s this old geezer, proper sunburnt, the kind of red where you don’t know if he’s been on the beach or shoved in a tumble dryer. Retired MAGA military type, red cap, lapel full of badges like he’s off to war against a salad. Looks like he’s sweated through three polo shirts already. And he’s got this bird draped all over him like she’s auditioning for Love Island but forgot her dignity at the airport. She’s givin’ it the full greatest hits. “My buffalo sick, darling, need money for medicine.” Dead serious, too, like she’s got livestock on speed dial. Then it’s, “My brother, he have moto-cy accident yesterday… hospital expensive mahk mahk.” And then the absolute banger — “Mama need surgery, too mutt pain she now, I cry every night.” Meanwhile, behind his back, she’s textin’ away on an iPhone 16 Pro Max that costs more than his pension. Probably lining up the next mug before this one’s even coughed up for the hospital bill of this imaginary buffalo with long Covid. I’m sittin’ there watchin’ it all unfold, sip of beer, just thinkin’, Mate, you’ve got more chance of Meghan Markle makin’ you a bacon sandwich than this one bein’ your soulmate. But he’s sittin’ there lappin’ it up, noddin’ like he’s about to drop to one knee and propose. Might as well hand over the keys to his bungalow and the PIN to his life savings while he’s at it. No fights, no drama, just that slow-motion car crash of delusion you see every night down here. Blokes comin’ to Thailand thinkin’ they’ve found romance when really they’ve just paid for front row seats to their own financial demolition. Finished me beer, gave the poor sod a sympathetic nod, and sauntered off before she started tellin’ him the family dog’s got gout and needs a GoFundMe. Just another bog standard Monday in Patts, mates.

Right, let’s have a butchers then, which country in Asia is crackin’ out the best rice now, yeah? I’ll tell ya Lewie’s straight-up take, it ain’t even a competition, mates. It's Japan. No contest. The rest of Asia’s chuckin’ out rice like it’s just white fluff to shovel curry on. Japan? Nah, mate, that’s artisan gear. Gourmet. You don’t eat it because you have to, you eat it ‘cause you want to. Sticky, shiny, like polished little pearls, none of this dry, flakey tosh you get down your local Thai slop-shop where you gotta drown it in some fishy black sauce just to trick yourself into thinkin’ it’s got flavour. And don’t even get me started on that onigiri, yeah, them little rice balls you get in 7-Eleven over there in Jappers? Wrapped up neat in seaweed like a tidy little rice parcel of happiness. Chilled, soft and refreshing, but not too cold or hard. Bit of salted egg in the middle, maybe a touch of salmon, bosh. Lunch for a quid, tastes like something your nan would’ve made if your nan was married to a Samurai. Class act that, innit. Thai rice? Love Thailand, but that stuff’s basically just edible packing material. Bit of sliced cucumber on the side, but more decorative than useful. Kind of like tits on a bull. That rice might as well be wallpaper paste, dressed up nice. But Japan’s rice? Nah, different gravy, bruv. You don’t even need sauce. Bit of salt, job done. Proper posh simplicity. It’s like comparing a fine tailored suit to some Russian bloke’s fake Versace tracksuit. Both’ll cover you up, but one’s got style, the other smells like the cloakroom of a Moscow nightclub with the windows bricked in. So yeah, Thailand can keep their tuk-tuk's, Japan can keep their rice. And I’ll keep flappin’ me gob about the pleasures of onigiri with a cold pint of Sapporo on the side. End of.

Yeah mates, so there I am, down Beach Road way yesterday, early evening, just fancied a bit of sunset therapy, you know? Bit of sea breeze, nice little iced coffee in me mitt, not botherin’ no one. Just wanted to sit there, watch the sun go down like some retired east-end mob boss reflectin’ on all his bad moves. Lovely scene. Peaceful. Romantic almost, if I weren’t sat there alone with me own caffeine breath. Meanwhile, I’m posted there on the wall, takin’ it all in, when along comes one of the local working girls. You know the type, flip flops, battered handbag, makeup done with a paint roller, attractive enough, bless her. Gives me a little nod, has a chat, polite like, askin’ if I’m after a bit of company. I tell her straight, “Nah love, I’ve already been out doin’ dishonorable things earlier this evening, I’m just here for the sunset, but no extra cardio this eve, yeah, love.” She laughs, sits herself about two meters away, scrollin’ her phone, not a bother. Gives me a cheeky smile once or twice, but that’s it. Nice and civil. Just two humans enjoyin’ the last bit of daylight before the freaks come out. Then, right on cue, like the gates of hell openin’, up rocks a squad of five Indian geezers. Matching shirts, matching pot bellies, same hair gel, same BO, lookin’ like they’ve just come fresh from a “How to Be Annoyin’ in Public” seminar. And they clock her, surroundin’ her like a pack of stray dogs round a bin bag of leftover curry. I’m just sittin’ there watchin’, iced coffee in hand like David Attenborough narratin’ the decline of Western civilisation. They start chattin’ her up, but not normal, polite like. Nah, they’re tryna work out some kinda group discount, like she’s a KFC meal deal. One of ‘em’s askin’, “How much for all of us together? Special price, madam?” I nearly spat me coffee out. What is this? Buy four get one free? It’s not a buffet, bruv, it’s a woman. And she’s sittin’ there, bless her, rollin’ her eyes, lookin’ like she’s regrettin’ every life choice that led her to this moment. I felt bad for her. She don’t deserve that nonsense. Eventually she tells em' to sod off. Well done missy! So, then ize' sittin’ there thinkin’, what’s wrong with these blokes? Is it stinginess or just full-blown homoerotic confusion? Who looks at their four best, sweaty mates and thinks, “Tell you what lads, let’s all have a go on the same bird like it’s a relay race”? It’s grim, mate. Proper grim. I don’t know if they’re cheap, deranged, or some stealth gaggle of uphill-gardeners. Probably all the above. Alas, I finished me iced coffee, nodded to the poor girl like “Good luck, love,” and wandered off down the promenade, wonderin’ when humanity fully lost the plot. Lovely sunset though for a Saturday. Shame about the view in front of it.

Right lads, so there I am, mindin’ me own bizz in that roadside kebab shop on BuaKhao, across the road from that ladyboy bar, you know the one, with the dodgy neon sign half hanging off like it’s had too many Chang beers. I’m just sittin’ there on this little metal stool at the counter facin’ the road, kebab in one hand, mushy chips in the other, watchin’ the circus go by like it’s me own personal live episode of EastEnders. Suddenly, some geezer strolls past with his tart on his arm. She clocks me, gives it the cheeky wink and a smile, proper confident too. So I give her a nod and a grin back, polite like, as you do. I don’t really recognise her face but, bein’ honest, I reckon we might’ve had a go together once, back in the haze somewhere. Can’t be sure. Pattaya’s like that, innit. Half the time you don’t know if you’ve bumped uglies with someone or just dreamt it after too many sangsom buckets. Anyway, this mug ain’t havin’ it. Starts puffin’ up like a pigeon on heat, tellin’ me I’m tryna nick his missus. I’m sittin’ there thinkin’, Bruv, I’m tryna nick me chilli sauce, not your rent-a-girlfriend. So I tell him straight, calm, like a gentleman, “Mate, in Pattaya, you don’t lose the girl, you just lose your turn.” Simple economics. But nah, this plank don’t get it. Wants to have a tear-up outside the kebab shop over a bird that’s probably got a loyalty card at every short-time hotel on Walking Street. You can’t make this sh*te up. I’m sittin’ there with garlic sauce drippin’ on me shorts, chips half cold, listenin’ to this plonker defend his missus’ honour like she ain’t been ridin’ more bikes than Grab delivery. Blokes like him come here thinkin’ they’ve pulled the love of their life, meanwhile she’s clockin’ overtime harder than a nurse on New Year’s Eve. I finished me kebab, wiped me hands down me shirt, stood up, and just smiled at him like, “Mate, enjoy your evening, yeah?” Walked off into the night, belly full, dignity intact, leavin’ him standin’ there like a bloke who’s just realised his Rolex is fake, his bird’s even faker, and his Pattaya dream’s about as real as a ladyboy’s cleavage. Standard Friday evenin', yeah mates.

Mates, I’ve had enough of this social media circus-sh*te, yeah. I’m done. Every day I open me phone, thinkin’, “Let’s have a butcher’s at the news,” maybe see if Arsenal signed someone who can actually kick a ball straight, but nah, what do I get? Becky from Croydon filming herself throwing her toys out the pram whilst cryin’ in the car ‘cause someone didn’t like the latest upshot photo of her mindge shooting a thick camel-toe out her yoga pants at the gym. Then Dave from Slough doin’ shirtless TikToks like he’s God’s gift when he looks like a melted puddle of vanilla ice cream. Everyone’s desperate for attention like seagulls fightin’ over a single chip. It’s embarrassing, mate. World’s gone from Shakespeare to “like and subscribe.” You can’t even enjoy a fry-up without someone takin’ a slow-mo video of the egg yolk breakin’ mid-air like it’s the Sistine Chapel and dropping it on The Gram. No one’s got shame anymore. I’m scrollin’, scrollin’, suddenly I’m lookin’ at Geoff, 52, doin’ a TikTok dance with his belly out to YMCA, thrusting his todger at the lens, whilst shoutin’ “living my best life,” like bruv, your best life should involve employing a jockstrap and getting a waxing of all your ear hair. And don’t get me started on influencers. Influencers? Influencin’ what? How to look like a plank in public? How to waste your twenties posin’ next to a rented motor you ain’t even insured on? It’s tragic. Everyone’s out here beggin’ strangers online for validation like kids at a school disco askin’ the DJ for “Wonderwall.” Used to be, you could sit in the boozer, chat sh*t with your mates, and no one filmed it. Now? You sneeze funny, next thing you’re a shame-meme. Privacy’s gone. Modesty’s gone. Dignity? Forget about it. Social media’s turned the whole world into one big open mic night, except no one’s funny and everyone’s desperate. I’m tellin’ ya, this is why the world feels stupid now. ‘Cause it is. Every mug with a WiFi connection thinks they’re a celebrity. And you can’t say nothin’ or you’re the villain. Nah. I ain’t playin’. I’m signin’ off. Sod your hashtags. Sod your reels. I’ll be down the pub with a pint, talkin’ nonsense the old-fashioned way, in person, without filters, and without some bloke in skinny jeans tellin’ me to “smash that like button.” That’s the worst bit, innit, people don’t even get embarrassed anymore. Used to be, if you acted like a bell-end in public, you’d get a clip ‘round the ear or your mates would rinse you for life. Now? Nah. Now they plan it. They practice lookin’ like wallies, film it on purpose, and call it “content creation.” Blokes dancin’ in the middle of Tesco, birds screamin’ in the street just to get a clip goin’ viral, all for what? A few strangers tappin’ a little heart icon. No shame left in the world. The whole planet’s turned into one big circus of desperate plonkers, and everyone’s convinced they’re the main event. It’s the downfall of dignity, bruv. We used to have kings, now we’ve got influencers doin’ the worm in the middle of Oxford Street for likes. The internet used to be fun. Now it’s just an oversized buffet of tossers and muppets. And none of ‘em is funny.

Right, let’s have it straight, people bangin’ on like Pattaya’s fallen off some cliff, like it used to be Victoria’s Secret down Walking Street and now it’s just leftover Greggs pasties in lipstick. Nah, mate. Pattaya’s always been built different. First time I rocked up there, what, thirty years ago, I clocked it straight away. It weren’t full of young stunners prancin’ about, nah it was mostly plumpers and old boilers even then. Half of ‘em looked like they’d just clocked off a shift at Debenhams. Old, haggard tarts, slappers, and sluts. The young ones? They were rare, like finding a decent pint of bitter in a Bangkok Irish bar. And if you did spot one in the high-priced go-gos, she was already booked by some Swiss bloke with orthopedic sandals and a gut like a sack of schnitzel. And it made sense, didn’t it? The old boys, mostly Germans with ponytails, French geezers with dodgy moustaches, Brits lookin’ like they’d been left out in the rain, they weren’t after the young hot ones. Nah. They wanted the older ones, the ones with less ambition, ones who wouldn’t leg it first time they spotted some Yank flashin’ dollars about. Marriage material, they called it. Settle down, buy a shophouse, open a little cafe servin’ chips and Chang, job done. The young ones? Nah, too much admin. Always eyein’ up the next geezer with a bigger wallet and a better set of dentures. Bangkok’s where the worldies were, always has been. If you wanted the ten-out-of-tens, you got yourself to Bangers. Or maybe one of the islands if you fancied a bit of that salty-air vibe. Pattaya? Nah. Pattaya was the retirement home of the game. It’s where Bangkok’s ex-stunners went to finish their careers, yeah. So now you get these mugs moaning, “Oh the girls in Pattaya ain’t what they used to be.” Mate, what, you think it used to be full of? Instagram models? Get out of it. It was always Doris and her mates from the provinces, makin’ ends meet, lookin’ for a geezer with a bad knee and a pension. Always has been, always will be. If you want the top shelf, you don’t shop in Poundland, do ya? Pattaya’s always been Porkerland. Great fun, plenty of bargains, but don’t complain when the packaging’s a bit battered and fallin' off the scale. Know what I mean, bruv?

You know what’s mad about driving in Thailand? Everyone drives like an absolute numpty on meth, right, but no one’s angry about, yeah. I’ve clocked it. I’ve cracked the code, lads. Everyone’s a muppet behind the wheel, they all know it, and they’ve all silently agreed to just crack on with it like it’s some kinda national sport. It’s beautiful chaos in motion, really. Total carnage, but polite carnage. Bloke on a scooter, smoking a fag, with three kids stacked on, all in shorts, no helmets, two barefoot, one in flip-flops, texting with one hand, dog hangin’ off the back like a circus act, and no one bats an eyelid. You pull that rubbish in London, someone’s lobbing a mug of hot java at your windscreen before you can say “oi.” I’m sittin’ there, stuck behind some geezer doin’ 12 kilometers an hour in the overtakin’ lane like he’s out for a Sunday mooch, and I’m waiting for someone to start honkin’, screamin’, flashin’ lights, nada’, bruv. The lot of ‘em just glide by like, “Yeah, mate, that’s just how we roll." It’s like drivin’ through a meditation retreat, but the meditation’s pure chaos, minus any brain synapses. And they don’t signal. Not even once. Indicators in Thailand are purely ornamental, might as well hang some fairy lights off ‘em. Changing lanes? Just go. Someone’s already there? Who cares, long as you arse-in first, you got right of way. If you survive, well done, if not, mai pen rai, see you in the next life, innit. And still no one’s screamin’ abuse, cool as cucumbers. Back home, you so much as drift over the line and some new-monied lebo anoose from Essex is inventin’ new swear words just for you. Here? Not even a tut. Just acceptance. It’s like everyone’s too busy stayin’ alive to bother gettin’ angry. I’ve seen geezers get cut off so bad you’d think they’d pull over and have a tear-up in the gutter. Nope. Not here. Thai drivers get cut off and just carry on like someone politely nicked their spot in the Big-C queue. “After you, mate. Fancy nearly killin’ me today, did ya? Lovely stuff.” It’s mental. Like bein’ stuck in Grand Theft Auto with the blood turned off. I’m startin’ to respect it, in a weird way. They’ve all accepted they’re terrible at drivin’, everyone else is terrible at drivin’, so no one’s shocked anymore. It’s democracy. It’s harmony. It’s beautifully thick. Like a national agreement that “we’re all terrible, so let’s just crack on.” Honestly, it’s kinda poetic. If Britain had this attitude, there’d be no road rage, we’d all die earlier like the 20,000+ Thais on the roads do every year, but we’d die with a grin, a Chang and a seven-toastie in hand. So that’s me conclusion: Thai roads ain’t roads, they’re crash-dummy test arenas. And the first rule of the arena is, don’t complain, just slam on the accelerator and breaks are optional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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