Lewie London

So here we are, innit, just over 100 days into Trump’s second term and even bloody Fox News is givin’ him the stink-eye. You know it’s bad when your own propaganda channel’s lookin’ for the exit. Poll’s out, shows him at 44 percent approval, 55 percent disapproval. That’s not a number, that’s a cry for help. Remember when he said he’d “Make America Great Again”? Yeah, well now he’s makin’ history alright, like a perforated condom does. His net approval’s sittin’ at minus 9.7, even worse than his 2017 faceplant at minus 9.1. That makes him officially the worst-performing president at this point in their term, and this includes the fella who got stuck in a bathtub. And how does he handle the bad news? With dignity and poise? Don’t be daft. He threw a wobbly on Truth Social, blamin’ Rupert Murdoch and demandin’ they sack the pollster like it’s some lad in a chip shop who forgot the vinegar. “Get rid of the numbers man!” he squeals, like it’s maths that betrayed him and not his own incompetence. And let’s talk about the economy while we’re at it. Inflation’s shootin’ up like a dodgy crypto coin, tariffs are backfiring so hard they’ve circled the globe and hit him in the wallet, and your average Yank’s tryin’ to decide whether to pay rent or buy eggs. But Trump? Nah mate, he says it’s all “tremendous.” Tremendous? It’s like watchin’ a geezer set his own trousers on fire and tell you he’s inventin’ thermal fashion. Foreign policy? Don’t get me started. His idea of diplomacy is barkin’ threats and callin’ people losers from a golf cart. Allies are givin’ him the cold shoulder, enemies are chuffed to bits, and the rest of the world’s lookin’ at America like it’s the uninvited uncle at the barbecue who keeps takin’ his shirt off. And the best bit? His own crew’s in meltdown. It’s a White House soap opera, senior advisers turnin’ on Fox News, internal backstabbin’, and no one’s got the foggiest what the actual plan is. It’s like a clown car, except the clowns are fightin’ over the steering wheel while drivin’ into a pond. Stephen Miller’s on telly havin’ a go at their own pollsters like it’s all part of some deep-state weather conspiracy. So yeah, if this is Trump’s “return to glory,” then I’m the Queen’s corgi. America’s not back on top, it’s under the table searchin’ for crumbs while the rest of the world pretends not to notice the smell. Stick a fork in it, lads. The emperor’s not just naked, he’s live-streamin’ it and askin’ for tips.

So now Trump’s gettin’ gifted a bloody $400 million jet by the Qatari royal family, yeah? A gold-plated sky palace with leather seats, diamond bog handles, and a minibar that probably stocks MAGA-branded champagne. And the bloke wants to use it as Air Force One. You what? That’s not diplomacy, mate. That’s FIFA levels of grift. At this point he’s not just runnin’ for president for a 3rd term, he’s auditionin’ for the next season of Dubai Bling. They’re callin’ it a “gift to the Air Force,” which is like sayin’ your mate bought your missus a necklace “for the family.” Nah bruv, we all know who’s wearin’ it. But course, Trump’s out here screamin’ “IT’S FREE! A BEAUTIFUL GIFT!” on that bin fire of a social media app he runs, like that makes it less dodgy. Mate, the U.S. Constitution has a thing called the Emoluments Clause. Bit of a clue there. Says you can’t be takin’ gifts from foreign governments unless Congress gives the nod. And last I checked, Qatar weren’t on the PTA. Now I’m no lawyer, but even I know if you’re swannin’ round in a foreign-funded flying mansion while makin’ policy, that’s what we call bribery. You don’t need a Harvard law degree to clock that. It’s like lettin’ a geezer buy you a pint and then pretendin’ it didn’t affect your opinion when he asks for your Netflix password. Except instead of a pint it’s a 747, and instead of Netflix it’s access to the leader of the free world. And don’t think this is just a cheeky perk. This is Trump basically auctionin’ off the White House parking spot. Qatar donates a jet, and what, they get to pick who runs CENTCOM next? It’s corruption in first class. It’s Article II of the Constitution meetin’ Qatari air miles. It’s him doin’ international law violations with in-flight snacks. Bloke down the pub last night, MAGA hat wearin' plonker, bald eagle tattoo on his calf, thinks NATO is a brand of breakfast cereal, tells me, “This just proves how much world leaders respect Trump.” Respect? Mate, they’re takin’ the piss. They’re butterin’ him up like a Christmas turkey with five-star freebies cos they know all you gotta do is flatter him and he’ll give away Alaska. Say he’s got big hands and next thing you know, Qatar’s got a missile base in Florida. And the worst bit? His fans lap it up like it’s the Sermon on the Mount. “It’s a gift! He deserves it!” No mate, he deserves a criminal inquiry and a bus pass. This ain’t leadership. This is what you get when you let a timeshare salesman run a superpower. But fair play, if Trump ever does rolls up to the G7 in his Qatari jet, don’t act surprised when the in-flight safety briefing includes “how to dodge subpoenas while inflight.”

So here we are then, lads, watchin’ what used to be the big dog of the West, the land of bald eagles, blue jeans, and tosh about freedom, now lookin’ more like an old geezer shoutin’ at puffy clouds. After the war that ended in 1945, America was king of the hill, right? The birth of the Industrial Revolution, the middle class, space exploration, all that jazz. Now it’s just a punchline with nukes, like your drunk uncle who can’t even figure out how to scroll through TikTok videos, now tryin’ to DJ with 3 turntables at a wedding, talkin’ over the tunes and pressin’ all the wrong buttons. Mates, then along comes Trump, turnin’ the Oval Office into a pound shop circus tent. Bloke’s idea of diplomacy is shoutin’ “FAKE NEWS” into a mirror and chuckin’ tariffs ‘round like confetti. You got Yanks with small businesses takin’ it up the wrong ’un, while he’s bangin’ on about how China’s “desperate” for a deal. Desperate? Mate, China’s plantin’ flags on the Moon and launchin’ satellites the size of toasters, while your lot’s still tryin’ to ban books about feelings and arguin’ over who invented soy milk. Some mug at the gym yesterday, all stars and stripes on his singlet and a neck like a tree stump, tells me, “Trump’s bringin’ back strength. The world respects power, mate.” Power? Bruv, the only thing the world respects right now is noise-cancelling headphones to drown out your lot. America used to build futures. Now it’s buildin’ memes and tryin’ to pass ’em off as manifestos. One geezer even tells me, “Trump’s the last real man on the planet.” I said, “If that’s your benchmark, laddie, I’d hate to see who is in second place.” And now the knock-on effect’s spreadin’. Canada’s swung complete center left, Australia’s gone full tradie nationalism, and all of it traces back to Trump fartin’ populism into the global aircon. Man’s like a political norovirus at the end of a wrecking ball. One sniff of him, and even your nan’s startin’ to blame immigrants for petrol prices. So much for the land of the free. These days, America’s just exceptional at makin’ a mess and pretendin’ its art. So go ahead and stick a fork in your bloody pot pies, lads. The American Empire’s not just crumblin’. It’s already packed up its dignity and moved in to its mum's basement, again.

So apparently we’re meant to believe Trump’s sittin’ round waiting on a much-anticipated call from Xi Jinping to beg for the tariff deal of the century, like China’s gonna crumble if they don’t ring. The bloke's acting like some lovelorn mug in a rom-com who’s been ghosted after drinks at Nando’s. “He’s gonna call. Any minute now folks. Big call. Beautiful call, the likes of which the world has never seen before.” Mate, Xi ain’t calling. Xi’s blocked your number and is currently live-streaming dumpling tutorials while your lot scurries round the Oval Office clutchin’ a satellite phone and a gallon of hope. And yet Trump’s out here actin’ like he’s still running the table. “We don’t need to sign deals,” he says. “We’re in talks.” With who, mate? The microwave? Cos China’s official word-for-word stance is, “We’re not talkin’ to that bloke.” It’s like a breakup that only happened in his head. “We agreed to take space.” No you didn’t, she’s off dating the BRICS now, and you’re still sending her tariff playlists and passive-aggressive press releases. Anyway, I’m down the pub the other night when some geezer in a MAGA red cap made in China pipes up, reckons Trump’s got Xi right where he wants him and says to me: “China’s beggin’ for a deal, mate. Trump’s playin’ hardball.” I nearly choked on my pint and shot it out me nose. Hardball? The man’s playin’ Hungry Hungry Hippos with one marble and callin’ it chess. If this is strategy, I’m the Queen of Sheba. Next he’ll say Xi’s radio silence is actually a sign of respect. Nah, mate. It’s just the sound of the world crackin’ on while your boy waits by the phone like a wet wipe. And the best part? These lads think Trump’s got a plan. Like there’s a flowchart somewhere titled “World Tariff Domination” with arrows pointing to “Wait by phone,” “Deny reality,” and “Blame Hunter's laptop.” One bloke tells me, dead serious, “Trump’s just wearin’ ’em down.” Wearin’ ’em down? Really, mate? China’s building railways through mountains while you lot are arguin’ whether tariffs cause inflation or are just a misunderstood vibe. If Trump’s wearin’ anyone down, it’s his own economy, like sandpaperin’ your face and callin’ it exfoliation. Keep waitin’ on that call, lads. Maybe next time, Xi’ll post you a sympathy card and all the tea in China.

So Trump’s out there now strutting around, bragging to the press, “We don’t have to sign deals,” like he’s just invented a new form of economic warfare where doing absolutely nothing is somehow a power move. Tariffs still up, trade deals still nonexistent, and the rest of the world’s still cracking on without him. It’s like turning up to a poker night, flipping the table before the first hand, and claiming victory while everyone else plays on. And he’s proud of this. Mate, I’ve seen feral cats with more long-term planning. Yet, all this comes after a 90-day tariff pause that yielded exactly zero new trade agreements. This from the man who once boasted about securing 200 trade deals, with 90 of those trade deals to be done in his first 90 days as president, despite not doing any to date and there being only 195 countries on the planet. It’s like me saying I’ve dated 300 women in a town of 150 people, all of them men. To add garnish to the lunacy, he tried hyping up some “major” trade deal with the UK. British officials basically said, “Calm down, mate, it’s just a handshake and a shared sausage roll.” Even the UK ambassador looked confused, like someone had just declared a new US national holiday over a pound coin found hiding behind Farage's sofa. But Trump fans were already buying commemorative mugs and playing the national anthem on kazoos. And then comes my favourite bit, the inevitable Twitter-X philosopher piping up on my feed with, “Trump’s a stable genius, give him some time, it’s only been 100 days.” Mate, only 100 days? Really lads? The man’s been in office before bruv and he’s not on a work study program. You don’t get to burn the house down, rebuild half a shed, and then ask for patience like you’re on your first shift at a fish and chips takeout stand. If this is stability, I’d hate to see him on a wobble.

Oiy lads, so I’m in one of them semi-sudsy massage shops just off Sukhumvit Soi 24, one of the back alley types where the sign flickers like it’s powered by bad choices and dodgy baby powder. Me and one of me regulars, sideliner moonlighting under a name that rhymes with “Mink”, we’re approaching the half time show, baby oil everywhere, towel barely hanging on for dear life, air con blowing like a collapsed lung, and I’m already slick as a seal and halfway to glory when BANG BANG BANG on the metal shutter. Everyone freezes. I’m thinking this is it, police raid. And I’m not the only one. Time to vault the balcony in nothing but plastic flip-flops, five sizes too small. Girls are squealing, auntie at the front desk’s fumbling for the power switch like it’s a bomb diffuser. Mink’s already halfway through the window. But then the front door swings open and in walks a bloke in a safety vest holding a clipboard. I kid you not. Turns out it’s not a raid. It’s the semi annual fire drill. Thai law says even establishments of tugs and rubs have to do them. Health and Safety doesn’t discriminate. Normally they call the venue in advance so everyone is ready for it. But of course they forgot. Rubbish, yeah. They were taking the piss innit. So I end up standing in the alley with me little towel and nothing else, next to some twenty stone geezer from Norway, still glistening with oil on his hairy back, while the staff line up to practice walking down the fire escape with mock urgency. One of them’s half clothed, clutching a fire extinguisher like a heifer with a handbag. Another’s still got her heels on. They even did a pretend headcount. Whole thing took eighteen minutes. Then they gave us a free coffee and told us to come back in thirty. What was a bloke to think? Never assume the worst. In Thailand, even the sketchiest places follow rules, just not the ones you expect. Bring a robe next time just in case. And just because the service is nudge-nudge, wink-wink doesn’t mean the fire protocols are. Come prepared, mates!

Right, so the president in the States, yeah? Someone asked him, “Do you have to uphold the Constitution?” and what does he do? Blinks, gives a cheeky smirk, and goes, “I don’t know.” What’s that? Not a slip-up, that’s a bloody confession! It’s like a surgeon turnin’ round and sayin’, “Do I need to wash me hands?” or a pilot goin’, “Are wings even important?” This ain’t no pub quiz, mate. You don’t get a gold star for honesty when you’re holdin’ the nuclear football and treatin’ it like a bloody beach ball! So, what’s this confusion all about, then? Deportations, innit. Wants to do a right fast-track on bootin’ out migrants without so much as a “by your leave” cos it’s “too time-consumin’.” Oh, sorry, pal, is the Constitution slowin’ you down on your little dictator dress-up? Why don’t we just get a prize wheel for the justice system? “Step right up, spin the wheel, and if it lands on red, you’re off to El Salvador! No courts, no nothin’.” Bloody hell, mate, that’s lawin’ it up like a game show, innit. Then he tries to play the “I’m not a lawyer” card. Well, you’re not a meteorologist either, but that didn’t stop you from drawin’ on a hurricane map with a sharpie, did it? Not a doctor, but you told folks to inject bleach up their noses. Not a vet, but you scoffed horse paste like it was a packet of Tic Tacs. So forgive me if I don’t buy “I’m not a lawyer” as an excuse to piss all over the rules that keep the country from turnin’ into a circus. And what’s he doin’ with the checks and balances? Treatin’ ‘em like optional software updates. Congress? Nah, forget it. Courts? Ignore ‘em. Ethics laws? More like gentle suggestions from the back of the class. Every time he gets asked ‘bout limits to his power, he plays the daft kid act like he’s just eaten all the cookies and doesn’t know where the crumbs came from. The only branch of government he respects is the one he can sit on and break. And the muppets ‘round him? Less of a cabinet, more like a merry-go-round of sycophants and bargain-bin Rasputins. Every week, it’s another lawyer or advisor draggin’ him out to translate his nonsense into somethin’ that looks like policy. “What the president meant,” they say, like tryin’ to polish beef jerky and call it a diamond. If the Constitution’s the guardrail, his lot are busy sawing it in half and sellin’ the bits on Truth Social. And the rallies? They keep rollin’ on like a bloody sideshow. His followers lap it up like it’s spicy political theatre, not a mental breakdown in real-time. One minute he’s forgettin’ basic legal duties, the next he’s takin’ court rulings like a personal vendetta. If Joe Biden forgets what day it is, it’s all over the news. Trump forgets democracy and they call it “refreshin’ candor.” The bar’s so low it’s basically a bloody trip hazard. So yeah. America’s new strategy for runnin’ the show is vibes, ignorance, and just shovellin’ the blame elsewhere. The only oath Trump respects is swearin’ at facts ‘til they pack up and leave the room. I don’t know either, Mr. President, sir. But I do know I wouldn’t trust you to run a bath, let alone a country teeterin’ on the edge, while you’re busy Googlin’ what the Constitution even is.

Oiy, bloody hell mates, for blooming sakes, you ever notice how the president’s foreign policy looks like a drunk uncle’s holiday plans scribbled on a stitched-up Pattaya go-go bar drinks tab? One minute he’s solving Ukraine with “just fifteen minutes and a handshake,” the next he’s calling Zelenskyy ungrateful for not saying thanks quick enough for a tank shaped like a bald eagle. “We’ll end the war in a day,” he says, while after 100 days the only thing he's ended is funding for adult diaper research. Diplomacy via vibes and half a bag of licorice all sorts. Then there’s Gaza. Mate, he changes positions more than a farting dog on a hot sofa. One week he’s full support, next week he’s calling for ceasefires, then he forgets who’s fighting who and says it’s all Obama’s fault. I asked a lad in a red hat what Trump’s actual plan was for the Middle East. He says, “Easy. Peace through strength.” Strength of what, mate? Body odor run amok? The only thing peaceful about this bloke is the silence in his head when facts show up. And while the world burns, Americans can’t even afford a bloody sandwich. Cost of living’s gone through the roof. Milk’s more expensive than petrol, eggs are treated like rare gems, and meanwhile this geezer’s out here pushing tariffs on cheese because “foreign dairy threatens American values.” I says, “What values, Greg? Lactose-based freedom?” He reckons it’s Biden’s fault, of course. As if Sleepy Joe’s hiding in the back of Walmart inflating the price of Doritos for a laugh. Speaking of which, remember when he tried to buy Greenland? Like it was a timeshare. He called Denmark “nasty” for saying no, like they refused to swap Pokémon cards. “We could do great things there,” he says. What, build a MAGA water park on an iceberg? Send DeSantis to colonise a glacier? The bloke treats nations like Monopoly properties. He tried to buy Greenland the way I once tried to buy a kebab shop using a scratch card and blind optimism. But now it’s Canada’s turn. He says he’s “looking into” making Canada the 51st state. Yeah alright, mate, tell that to a Mountie. Like they are gonna roll over and let Trump rename Toronto “North Florida.” The lad I told that to goes, “Well, we let Alaska in.” I says, “Alaska didn’t have universal healthcare and maple syrup laws, bruv.” And as of yesterday, Canada’s new Prime Minister Carney looked him dead in the eye and said, “Some things are not for sale.” That’s the diplomatic version of “fack off, mate.” Meanwhile, he’s still hosting rallies like he’s auditioning for a cult-themed musical. “Hoaxes made, hoaxes kept,” he chants, like delusion’s on tour. Kept where, though? In the same drawer as the healthcare plan he doesn’t have? He hasn’t even muttered the word since taking office. Might as well try curing diabetes with a campaign hat and a fist pump. The man’s got fewer completed policies than my gym punch card. I told one of ‘em he hadn’t passed a single trade deal in 100 days and he goes, “Yeah, but it’s about the message.” What message? Postcards from delusion? Honestly, it’s like we’ve cancelled geography entirely. Ukraine’s one big PR stunt, Gaza’s just background noise, Greenland’s an investment, and Canada’s a pending Wish order. He treats countries like hotel upgrades and war zones like a group chat. If he starts referring to Iceland as a backup golf course, I’m booking a one-way flight to Jupiter. At this point, the only way to fix it might be to send the lad either a hug or a hooker and hope for the best. Maybe then he’d stop trying to swap continents like cosplay outfits and actually read a briefing note. And speaking of golf, let’s not forget the punchline to this whole presidential pantomime. He spent 24 of his first 100 days playing golf. That’s nearly a quarter of his so-called leadership spent whacking balls around a field while the rest of the world set itself on fire. No wonder nothing’s got done. No policies, no deals, no plans, just a tan and a dodgy swing. The only green he’s interested in isn’t environmental, it’s the one with a flagstick in it. We didn’t get a commander-in-chief, we got a part-time caddy with nuclear codes. So yeah, world leaders are scratching their anooses in total bewilderment while he’s out here trying to play SimCity on nightmare mode. He’s bankrupting logic, ghosting reality, and charging entry fees to common sense. If we’re lucky, Canada will politely laugh like Rogan does when he’s too high to argue, and Greenland will ghost him like a bad Tinder date. Either way, I’m off to stockpile cheese before it’s classified as a strategic threat.

I remember when the now president promised to “drain the swamp,” like he was some kind of political plumber in a gold-plated boiler suit. Fast-forward to now and the only thing that got drained was taxpayer cash straight into his mates’ pockets and the minibar at Mar-a-Lago. The swamp’s still here, lads, only now it’s got a gift shop, NFTs of him riding a T-Rex, and a cover charge of one broken democracy. It’s not drain the swamp anymore, is it. It’s Scam the Swamp: Live in Concert. Tour starts in DC, ends in a courtroom, and includes a brief intermission where he sells you gold sneakers for four hundred quid while telling you Biden caused the Great Depression and probably 9/11 while he was at it. Promises made, facts deleted. That’s the motto now. Can’t deliver healthcare, can’t bring down grocery prices, can't end any wars, can't build a border wall or any infrastructure at all, can't reduce the spending deficit or government spending in general, can't make a single trade deal, but can absolutely sell you a Bible he’s never opened and a steak he’s never cooked. Every lie’s now a limited edition collectible. “The election was stolen.” Collectible. “The media’s the enemy.” Collectible. “I never said that.” Collectible. “I barely know the guy.” Collectible. Every time you catch him red-handed, he just hits rewind and says you dreamt it.

So, guess who’s gone full Bond villain this week? Your president, himself, just announced he’s reopening Alcatraz. Yeah, the prison. Apparently Rikers wasn’t dystopian enough, so he’s bringing back a rock in the middle of shark-infested waters to chuck felons into, like it’s 1934 and America’s one bad day from becoming a Batman reboot. I swear, if he starts shipping in uniforms from Spirit Halloween, I’m out. One of his fans told me it’s “about restoring order.” Bruv, you can’t restore order with a prison that closed when my nan still thought Elvis was fit. Meanwhile, he’s out here blaming Biden for the economy like a lad who burnt down his own shed and then pointed at his neighbour’s cat. “Biden’s wrecked it!” he cries, while quietly begging China to come ‘round for tea and trade talks. It’s like torching your ex’s house and then sending her a LinkedIn message asking if she wants to collaborate on a startup. You slapped down tariffs bigger than your own ego, mate, and now you’re surprised no one’s bringing soybeans to the party? And trade deals? Don’t even go there. First 100 days and not a single deal signed. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilcho. The only thing he’s traded is truth for merch sales. One of his lads told me, “He’s playing the long game.” Yeah, so long it loops back round to 2018 where we pretend tariffs work like friendship bracelets. Name me one deal, go on. I’ll wait. I’ll be over here watching paint dry and it’ll have a better G7 strategy than your leader. But what’s he doing instead of leading? He’s floating the idea of a third term. Third! Like he’s flipping burgers and just fancies one more shift. You tell his fans this and they say, “It’s only talk.” Yeah, so was Brexit. So was NFTs. Next thing you know, he’s having himself knighted in the Rose Garden and declaring “King Day” where everyone’s forced to pledge allegiance to a cardboard cutout of him riding a bald eagle. And while he’s begging China for trade talks with one hand, he’s trying to throttle immigration with the other. Mass deportations, wartime powers, emergency this and emergency that. Mate’s running the country like it’s a superhero crossover and he’s the final boss. Said he wants to round up “the worst of the worst” and send ‘em packing, but all I’ve seen so far is families split, asylum seekers jailed, and a bunch of budget ICE officers confusing South America with IKEA locations. Of course, his fans think this is all genius. “He’s protecting us,” they say, while failing to notice the economy’s nosediving like a budget Ryanair flight. The man’s selling digital trading cards of himself dressed as Superman while the dollar wheezes like a 90-year-old asthmatic. At this rate, the only thing he’s protecting is his right to pretend he’s still president while charging $29.99 for a signed bible made in China. And don’t you love how every new scandal just slides right off? Felony charges? Doesn’t matter. Screwing the economy? Who cares. It’s all “fake news” or “deep state,” innit. Meanwhile, he’s signing bills with crayons and declaring economic warfare on films with subtitles. I asked one lad why Trump is doing nothing and he goes, “He’s building suspense.” What, like a Netflix drama? Bruv, this ain’t Stranger Things. It’s just strange. So yeah, America’s not under siege from immigrants or globalists or some lizard pedo cabal. It’s under siege from absolute loons who think Alcatraz is the future of justice, that zero trade deals is 5D strategy, and that begging China for a chat while deporting half the continent is “alpha energy.” At this point, the only thing getting deported is logic.

I keep hearing these MAGA-worshipping divs banging on like they’re freedom fighters in a Marvel film, when really they’re just conspiracy-addled pensioners in camo cargo shorts who think the Pope’s been replaced by a hologram. One of ‘em showed me a picture on Instagram, dead serious now lads, it was 47 dressed as the bloody Pope, like he’s about to baptise the Constitution in Diet Coke and KFC. I says, “Mate, you’ve lost the plot.” He goes, “This is another sign, brother, he’s been anointed.” No, Gary, he’s been airbrushed by some AI filter that will create a snap of anything for half a quid. They’re cancelling reality at this point as you know. You show ‘em poll numbers, hard data, actual maths from their favorite news channel Fox innit, and they go, “That’s fake news, deep state propaganda.” I told one his orange messiah that after 100 days on the throne that Mr. Orange Cheesecake was polling the lowest ever in 100-day history, even lower than a vegan kebab in Texas, and he goes, “That’s just what they want you to think.” What, numbers are in on it now? The alphabet and all that? Soon they’ll be accusing vowels of voter fraud. 47 has got less support than pineapple on pizza, but nah, according to them, it’s a coordinated hit job by Satan, CNN, and a cabal of bisexual guppies. And every time he does something completely batsh*t nutter crazy, they treat it like a 4D chess move. He saw a dodgy tattoo in a photoshopped pic and went on telly declaring MS-13 had infiltrated the suburbs through knuckle art. Knuckle art, mate. Even when the journo told him it was fake, he doubled down like a bloke who’s just realised the stripper he married in Vegas is his cousin but decides to roll with it anyway. These people think the prez got x-ray vision for crime but yet couldn’t see Stormy Daniels coming with a subpoena and a cheque stub. Then you’ve got him pushing a 100 percent tariff on foreign films to “protect American culture.” Protect it from what, subtitles? He’s acting like Korean rom-coms are a bigger threat than climate change. Apparently, dubbing gives him a migraine, so he’s launching a trade war with France. Meanwhile, the bloke’s approving mass deportations under a law from 1798, back when people thought leeches cured the plague. He’s chucked over 200 Venezuelans into an El Salvadoran concentration camp like it’s a bloody medieval catapult. And these fanboys love it. “He’s just enforcing the law,” they say, while polishing their ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ belt buckles. Next he’ll be reviving trial by jousting. He’s also planning a military parade on his birthday with tanks, choppers, 6,600 soldiers, and probably a float shaped like his own ego. He calls it patriotism. I call it compensation. Nothing says “man of the people” like reenacting North Korea’s greatest hits with confetti and jet fuel. But wait, it gets better. In an absolute flex of geopolitical genius, their man-god slapped down a massive tariff package and then paused it 90 days later like he accidentally hit ‘send’ on a drunken text to China. “We’re being strategic,” he says, while America’s allies stand around looking like they just walked in on their parents roleplaying Reagan and Thatcher in the world finals of charades. There’s no plan. Just vibes, merch, concepts of a plan and whatever policy fits on a red cap. Then there’s the layoffs. Thousands of federal workers axed overnight, like someone misclicked in The Sims. I spoke to a bloke from the Medicare office who said they’re so understaffed now, the hold music’s just someone sobbing into a kazoo. But don’t worry, because he's renaming the Gulf of Mexico. Yep. Gulf of America. Because nothing boosts international credibility like shouting at the sea and expecting it to care. And don’t get me started on this “Project 2025” rubbish. I asked one chav about it today and he swore blind his king got nothing to do with it, right after listing off every policy in it like it was his wedding vows. “He’s distancing himself from the plan,” he says, while 47 is out here ticking off the checklist like it’s a bloody scavenger hunt. Then you’ve got the deportation drama I mentioned. I met this geezer in a gym yesterday who also reckons shipping off 200 Venezuelans to El Salvador makes perfect sense. I said, “Bruv, that ain’t immigration control, that’s human Jenga.” He tells me wartime powers give dictator-dink the right. I tells him, “What war, you muppet? The one in your head?” So yeah, “the real cancel culture” they’ve now cancelled is journalism and they've cancelled polls, cancelled their own memories from four minutes ago, and now they’re cancelling geography. They see a made-up Pope pic and call it prophecy, but ignore 34 criminal felonies and a sexual crime conviction and say, “Fake news.” America’s not falling apart, no it’s just being smothered by a crowd of loons who think reality is a leftist plot and that Mr. T's second coming is being broadcast through supermarket barcodes as tattoos on their necks.

So I’m sitting in a café, right, just trying to have me full English without someone frothing at the mouth over “the deep state” when this geezer next to me starts going off about Trump again. Says he’s “playing 5D chess” and “draining the swamp.” I says, “Mate, he ain’t playing chess. He’s flipping the board, eating the pieces, and claiming checkmate while the board’s on fire.” First thing out his gob? Tariffs. Oh yeah, Donny’s whacked a ten percent tariff on everyone, like Oprah handing out parking fines. “You get a tariff! And you get a tariff! Whole bloody planet gets a tariff!” I tell him it’s already tanking the economy and he goes, “Nah, that’s just the fake news markets reacting emotionally.” Emotional? Mate, my nan reacts less emotionally when you move her knitting needles. Then we get onto the deportations. Bloke tells me it’s “just enforcing the law.” I says, “Enforcing it on who, exactly? The fella who got kicked out to El Salvador by accident and trying to fight his way back in like he’s in some bootleg Bourne film?” Kid looks at me blankly like I’ve just asked him to spell ‘asylum’. I says, “Trump’s out here chucking people out like a nightclub bouncer on speed, and you’re cheering him on like he’s won Eurovision.” Oh and here’s the kicker, right? Trump’s now got his little fingers poking into supposedly independent agencies. I told this lad, “You know those agencies are meant to keep politicians honest, yeah?” He goes, “That’s the problem. Too much honesty.” I nearly spat out me tea. Since when was honesty the bloody enemy? These people don’t want a government. They want a cult run out of a golf course with gold toilets. Donny’s also gone full Apprentice mode with the civil service. “You’re fired, you’re fired, you’re all bloody fired.” Thousands let go. Agencies gutted. Social Security’s got two blokes and a fax machine left. Call ‘em up and you’re on hold longer than your average Tory prime minister. I told my mate this, and he just shrugs and says, “Government’s too big anyway.” I says, “So’s your sister, but we’re not firing her, are we?” And let’s not forget the pardons. Over fifteen hundred Jan 6th rioters get a free pass. Some of ‘em were throwing punches at coppers and pinching loafs on the Capitol carpet, but yeah, let’s let ’em out, shall we? I says, “If that were black or brown people doing the same, you’d be calling for a drone strike.” He says, “They were patriots.” I says, “Patriots? Mate, they were pretending to be the Founding Fathers with less hygiene and more meth.” Now the free speech bit. Trump’s locking up students for protesting, deporting ‘em for waving a placard. Bloke says, “Well, they shouldn’t be causing trouble.” I says, “Causing trouble? My gran causes more trouble at bingo when someone nicks her lucky chair.” They’ll scream about freedom until someone says something they don’t like, then suddenly it’s “Get him out, he’s Antifa!” Trump’s pulled the plug on international human rights groups too. Says the UN’s too “globalist.” Of course it’s global, mate, it’s the bloody United Nations. What did you think it was, the Nebraska Neighbourhood Watch? Now here’s where it gets spicy. Trump’s going full Bond villain with the revenge tour. Anyone who criticises him gets their security clearance pulled faster than a pint in East London. He’s got a hit list longer than my Auntie Sue’s credit card debt. Lawyers, advisors, probably his dogwalker if he even had one. I tells me mate, “That’s not leadership, that’s a tantrum with executive power.” And the crypto, don’t even get me started. TrumpCoin, or $TRUMP or whatever it is. You buy a bag of digital Monopoly money and if you spend enough, you get to meet the man himself. Probably in a Chick-fil-A parking lot. I says, “Mate, this ain’t a president, this is a car boot sale with a wig.” Lastly, he’s cut funding to anything that smells even vaguely helpful. Schools, gone. Environment, axed. Foreign aid, slashed. Bloke tells me, “We’ve gotta focus on America.” I says, “You’ve focused so hard you’ve cross-eyed the entire country.” You can’t read, you can’t breathe, and you can’t travel, but sure, let’s build another golf course and fund it with NFTs. So yeah, Trump supporters say they love freedom. But from where I’m standing, they’ve cancelled everything except delusion. Sanity? Gone. Reality? Dead. Basic human decency? Vanished like a hot plate of fish and chips. They don’t want a government. They want a soap opera. Only difference is, EastEnders has better acting and fewer Nazis.

You can’t say anything to these Red Cap wallies without them acting like you’ve just tried to burn the Constitution with a soy candle. Honestly, try saying the word “facts” round a Trump supporter these days and they look at you like you’ve just called their mum a Marxist. They ain’t just ignoring the news anymore, they’ve chucked reality in the bin entirely. You ever seen someone reverse themselves into a delusion so hard they come out the other side thinking JFK Jr’s about to drop a mixtape with Kid Rock? Yeah. That. You tell ‘em gas prices are down and they’re like, “That’s what the lamestream media wants you to think.” You show ‘em Trump dozing off in court, and they go, “Deepfake.” Show ‘em Biden tying his shoelaces and that’s AI too. At this rate, everyone’s a robot except Trump, who’s apparently indestructible, omniscient, and glows in the dark from being slow-cooked in a tanning bed. One geezer tried to tell me the Jan 6 mob was actually Antifa in cosplay. I says, “What, like storm-the-Capitol fancy dress?” What next, Proud Boys are actually leftist LARP-ers from Portland? Another lad reckons the judge at Trump’s trial is a clone planted by Obama. A clone, mate. They’re treating the X-Files like it was a bloody documentary series. And yeah, we’re back on about Hunter’s laptop. These lot go on like it’s the Holy Grail with malware. You mention politics and within three sentences it’s, “Have you seen what’s on the laptop?” I says, “Have you?” And they go, “Well I saw some screenshots.” Off a Telegram channel run by a bloke who thinks the Queen was replaced by a lizard in 1984. Absolute madness. They ain’t debating anymore. They’re just unsubscribing from reality like Netflix just 10 exed the subscription rate. One lame bird told me she don’t live in “this” timeline. Says she only recognises the “true” timeline, where Trump is president for life and Biden’s a hologram powered by globalist tears. Another fella reckons the moon’s not real and Disney World’s sitting on top of a secret paedo tunnel. I says, “You need less QAnon, mate, and a multivitamin.” And while the rest of us are out here trying to survive rent, work, and whatever’s happening with the ice caps, these nutters are still trying to decode Trump’s latest golf swing like it’s Morse code from the Resistance. They don’t want truth. They want fan fiction. And not even good fan fiction, we’re talking stuff scribbled in crayon on the back of a Trump rally leaflet while queueing for boiled hot dogs. It’s proper mad out here. They’ve cancelled reality. Like, full-on unsubscribed. These lot think “truth” is whatever the loudest bloke on Rumble screams into a webcam from his mum’s basement. The moon’s fake, vaccines are mind control, Disney’s a satanic front, and Hillary Clinton’s got a teleportation ring made of baby teeth. I says, “Mate, you need to unplug. Go outside. Touch a tree. Have a salad.” They reckon the Clintons are cloning judges now too. Actual words from a real human mouth. “It’s all rigged, Lewie,” he says, puffin’ on a vape shaped like the American flag. “That judge ain’t real.” I says, “Neither is your grip on sanity, mate.” But all you Trumper lot really want is more of your cancel culture innit? Don’t be looking at drag queens and book clubs now. Have a butchers in the mirror you freaks. You cancelled science. You cancelled maths. You cancelled reality. And what did you get for it? A rubbish MAGA hat made in China and a stupid t-shirt that says “Trust The Plan”.

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.