LL 2.0

So there I was on the beach yesterday, late afternoon, sittin’ by the wall up the north end of Beach Road, right where North meets Beach, you know the spot, lads. Sun droppin’ low, sky lookin’ like it’d been painted by a drunk artist with too much orange on his brush, tide comin' in tappin’ the sand like lazy applause. I decide to skip me usual sunset pint and spark up a little spliff, gifted to me from my mate Alistair (bless him), just to mellow me out and let the world slow down for once. Two-thirds through, I’m floatin’ like a sailor on extended shore leave, thinkin’ maybe I’ve cracked the code of life, when out of nowhere this bird appears and starts chattin’ me up. Bit older than my usual selections from the Pattaya buffet, mind you, more cougar than kitten, but she’s got that confident sway and a lower half that could stop a motorbike in traffic. Cracking smile too, the kind that says she’s trouble in heels but fun in flip-flops. She reckons she remembers me from up on Buakhao and why she popped over for a chat. Says I’d been a proper gent one night, bought her a few beers at the outdoor food court. Can’t say I recall, but let’s be honest, most of my nightlife memories have been filed under “missing, presumed drunk,” so who am I to argue? Anyway, she says she wants to repay the favor by cookin’ me dinner at her condo over in Cozy Beach. And me? I had nothin’ planned except a half-finished buzz and a dodgy conscience, so off we went. Turns out the bird could cook, mates, proper spicy green curry, ice-cold beers, lights dimmed just enough to make me look (twenty percent) even more handsome. Music hummin’ low, bit of banter, one thing leads to another, and soon enough, I’m givin’ her me five-star one hand on the dumper and the other on the short-curlies treatment. No complaints, she had the experience, the stamina, and the enthusiasm of a karaoke gal with a rent payment due. Then this mornin’, sunlight sneakin’ through the blinds, I’m pullin’ on me jeans, tryin’ not to trip over her large shoe collection, while she’s scribblin’ something on a scrap of paper. “Here’s my number and my LINE ID,” she says, voice all sweet and early-morning soft. Then she leans in, plants one on me cheek, and goes, “Bob, that was the greatest night I’ve had in a long time.” Bob??? I nearly choked on me hangover. I just stood there, smirkin’, wonderin’ if I should tell her or just let this unknown Bob bloke take the win. Figured there’s no harm in leavin’ her happy thinkin' she's repaid the favor, after all, who am I to ruin another man’s legend? So I pocketed the paper, gave her a wink, and strutted out like Bob the Bronco of Love, fixin’ hearts one condo at a time. Thailand, innit. Where you can lose your name, your gob, and your sense of direction, but still somehow come out the hero in someone else’s memory-lane story.

Well then mates, so I’m rollin’ into Second Road Big-C yesterday, my new Honda Wave lookin' all shiny and polished, ready to grab a few bits and bobs, maybe a cold one after. Sun’s out, car park buzzing, people flappin’ about like they’re auditionin’ for Fast and Furious: Thailand edition. Nothing unusual. I’m manoeuvrin’ into a spot, mindin’ me own, checkin' my messages for a sec, when out of the corner of me eye, I see a Thai bird, late twenties I reckon, in full-on pink and purple fitness gear, brail-level tight on the minge, all Lycra and attitude, loading up her sports model BMW. She’s got the trolley stacked like she’s done shopping for a year, bags teetering, bottles of wine wobblin’ like they’re tryin’ to escape. Next thing I know, she's nearly got the boot fully loaded, lets go the trolley, and bang! Right into me bike's back tire, sending a bag of mangoes tumblin’ across the tarmac. I freeze, look to see if there is much bike damage, look at her, and she’s practically sprintin’ over, breathin’ like she’s just done a marathon, doin’ a half-lunge as she apologises. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I just wave it off, “No worries, love, it’s fine.” Calm as a cucumber, like this sort of thing happens all the time in Thailand, which, frankly, it does. Then she squints at the rear of me bike, spots a scratch, and goes, “Maybe you could pop by my condo later, we could… talk about getting it fixed?” I glance down at her hand, big shiny ring, clear as a diamond. Not my first rodeo, mates. Got caught playin' the double bass a few weeks back with some other bloke's missus. Last thing I need is endin’ up in another geezer’s bed again with his wife and me bits out tryin’ to settle a fender bender. So I flash me cheeky grin, give her a polite nod, and wheel me bike off, leavin’ her standin’ there wonderin'. Thailand, innit. Where your bike can take a hit, your nerves stay calm, and you still dodge a full-on domestic drama, all in a minute.

Right lads, so here’s one for the stats ledger. What percentage of farangs in Thailand actually end up marryin’ a proper Thai bird who’s got her act together, runs a biz, maybe owns a restaurant, a coffee shop or two, proper go-getter, yeah? And how many end up with the ones who whack on two stone three months after the honeymoon and just sit around doom scrollin’ Face and The Gram all day, textin’ their mates on LINE, and neckin’ Leo down their gob before noon? What is it, about 80 percent in the “sofa and selfies” division, innit? And the best part? The blokes stuck with these mingers all act like they’ve bagged a princess. “Oh, she’s just takin’ a break,” they say, while she’s on year three of her nap with a can of Chang, a face mask on, and a yah-dom shoved up her nose. You walk past their gaff and it’s like a cross between a karaoke bar and a rescue centre. Parrots squawkin’, telly blarin’, missus sprawled out like she’s auditionin’ for a Netflix doc called "The Lazy Life of Lumpy-Lek", and the geezer payin' out everything? Still defendin’ her like she’s runnin’ a multi-national conglomerate instead of the electric bill into the ground. Thailand, mates. Where love’s blind, broke, and nappin’ under a Winnie-the-Pooh blanket while scrollin’ TikTok in Hello Kitty pajamas at two in the afternoon is just another normal day in paradise.

So picture this, mates. Khon Kaen, middle of the night, quiet as a footy pitch after World Cup finals. Then, out of nowhere, you hear the screech of a pickup and the groan of metal bein’ yanked off its hinges. Turns out some Dutch geezer, clearly only half a brain cell left in his gob, decided he was gonna nick an ATM. Not the cash inside, mind you, the whole bloody machine lads. Now, I’ve seen dodgy jobs in me time. I’ve seen blokes in Bethnal Green tryin’ to lift motorbikes with shopping trolleys. But dragging an ATM down the road in chains behind a pickup like it’s a new garden gnome from HomePro, with sparks flyin’ everywhere and the poor pickup groanin’ like a bar girl on her 5th ST trick of the night. Proper comedy show, free of charge that is. Takes a powerful breed of numpty to mastermind a plot like that. And here’s the cherry on the dog turd. Our man wasn’t just some bored backpacker lookin’ for beer money. Nah, he’d already handed ten million baht to his Nakorn Nowhere sweetheart, the kind of “investment” plan that usually ends with the lady disappearin’ with her Thai husband who you thought was "her brother", and faster than your pint vanishes at last orders. So what’s next on the recovery plan? Grand Theft Auto: Isaan Edition? Honest to god, you could pitch this story to Netflix as is, call it: "Breaking Baan". But here’s the thing boys. Even if he’d got the ATM home, what’s next, mate? Crack it open with a guidiao spoon? Hide it under the bed so the missus thinks it’s a surprise birthday gift? Locals were probably standin’ there gulpin’ Leos, watchin’ the oversized tosser drag half an SCB bank branch past the 7-Eleven, thinkin’ “Bloody farang, can’t even steal properly now, can he?” So now he’s banged up, pickup impounded, got himself a one-way ticket to the monkey house, and Khon Kaen’s got itself a new farang comedy headline of the year. Thailand, innit. Some blokes lose their shirts, others lose their birds, but some lose all their marbles and drag an ATM down the street like they own the bloody place. https://www.bangkokpost.com/thailand/general/3108314/dutchman-arrested-for-stealing-atm-in-khon-kaen

Right lads, forget them Pattaya mingers, this is royal chaos. So, just before Trump lands for his state visit, some clever muppets in Blighty decide to project pictures of Trump with Jeffrey Epstein onto Windsor Castle. Not a subtle nod, nah, proper headlines, birthday letters, the full works, all up there in lights like a neon exposé. And the full team of the four Windsor Castle projectionists have now been arrested. What are the charges FFS? Indecent exposure of 2 of the world’s biggest pedos, proper bell-ends, the likes of which the world has never seen before? Police call it “malicious communications,” but I say it’s theatrical justice. Trump’s supposed to meet King Charles, all pomp, ceremony, guards in perfect formation, and there he is, probably strutting in like he’s the main event, while behind him on a massive stone wall, there’s images and scandalous headlines flashing about his past. Couldn’t make it up. And that birthday letter? Alleged, of course, Trump swears it’s fake. But projection or not, once it’s public, it’s out there. People see it. Can't unsee it. People talk. It’s like someone swapped his spotlight with a neon sign screaming “questions to answer.” Mate, the irony practically walks itself into Buckingham with a bowler hat. Only in politics could a castle become a cinema for someone else’s dirty laundry. Projection may be unauthorised, but the questions? Those are well deserved and never going away.

Right Lads, so I'm up in Bangers for a few weeks again, yeah, changin' me wallpaper for a bit, as you do. You know the drill, shopping malls, markets, coffee shops, spa treatments, nothing cheeky though, never, of course not! So there I am strollin’ me down one the popular sois the other afternoon, mind on autopilot, nothin’ new. Anyone who’s lived here knows the drill, big city Thailand, you get your fair share of sewer ninjas dartin’ about. Big sods too, not just your dainty pet-shop hamsters. We’re talkin’ chunky little buggers feedin’ off bin bags, poppin’ out the drains like they’re clockin’ in for a hockey match. At this point, I don’t even blink. They ain’t after me, I ain’t after them. Mutual respect, yeah? They do their scurryin’ and rubbish divin', I do me strollin’, everyone’s proper happy. But this time, after nearly a lifetime in Siam, fate decided Lewie needed a bit of rodent slapstick. Couple of ‘em shoot across the pavement and I don’t bother movin’ me eyes. Next thing I know, me right foot goes thunk. Thought I’d misstepped on a dodgy bit of footpath till I look down, only to see this fat arse rat doin’ somersaults across the pavement like it’s auditionin’ for the bloody Asean Games. I’d basically hoofed it mid-sprint without even tryin’. Nearly went arse over tit meself, arms flappin’ like a drunk knob-packer tryin’ to catch a Tuk-Tuk on Khao San. Didn’t fall though, regained composure, carried on. The rat? Shocked but alive, scurries back into the drains, probably tellin’ all its rat mates about the clumsy farang who just tried out for Man United with its ribcage. But the best bit, two young Thai birds, office types, comin’ the other way, right. They see the whole thing. Their faces go pure horror-movie, like I’ve just kicked their favorite Labubu across the street. One covers her mouth, the other freezes, proper Bambi eyes. I just flash ‘em me handsome-man cheeky grin like, “What? Happens all the time, darlins.” Kept on strollin’, no drama. Glanced back a sec later, and sure enough, they’d gone from petrified to gigglin’ behind their hands, that nervous sort of laugh like, “Did we really just see that big white oaf do all that?” And that’s the land of smiles, innit. One minute you’re mindin’ your own, next minute you’re playin’ five-a-side with the local wildlife. Didn’t score a proper goal, but I’ll take the assist.

So lads, let’s just say me two veg ’ave been gettin’ a bit more randy stage time than usual lately, yeah. Nothin’ new, just the backstage crew workin’ overtime, bumping into a wee bit more bits than usual. Normally when I get them tiny white lumps full o’ trapped oil, they call ’em sebaceous cysts, no drama. Quick squeeze, and out pops somethin’ lookin’ suspiciously like bleedin’ cheese spread. Honest, if you ever wanted to ruin nachos for life, that’s the way. But this time, I had a stubborn one, right diva. Bigger than usual, proper stroppy, refusin’ to perform, sittin’ there like it’s on strike demandin’ a new contract. When they get temperamental, usually a little syringe needle proddin’ does the trick. Jab ’n squeeze, job done, curtain call. But nah, this one just sat there in the stalls with its arms folded, judgin’ me like a VIP who knows he ain’t on the list but still won’t leave the club. At some point I threw in the towel, gave the bloody battlefield a wipe down with a splash o’ alcohol, slapped a tiny plaster on it, and let nature sort it. Blood stopped sharpish, body clearly had better things to crack on with. Fast forward to today, plaster falls off, and surprise surprise, me little lodger’s still camped out rent-free. This time though, I clock a black speck in the middle. So I give it the gentlest squeeze, like I’m testin’ an avocado at Tesco, and lo and behold, it finally makes its big exit, ta-da. Yesterday, I thought maybe it was some kinda foreign object stuck in there, like me body’d turned into a dodgy smuggler. Or maybe just a small growth or summat. Turns out it was prob’ly just a rogue hair or some other stowaway mixed in with the oil. Could be anything really. When things get rough ’n ready down there, bruv, the possibilities are endless. And that’s life innit, mate. One minute you’re havin’ a cheeky fiddle thinkin’ you’re Doctor Pimple Popper, next minute you’re applaud in’ your bullocks like they just pulled off a West End finale.

Right, let’s talk Thai birds for a sec. Not the bar slappers, I mean the “good girls,” you know, the so-called “normal ones.” The office lot. The bank clerks. The ones who can pay their own AIS bill and ain’t hangin’ off chrome poles in Walking Street. Lovely girls, don’t get me wrong, but bloody hell, they’ve all got this goofy act they do called ขี้อ้อน (Key-Ohn). Basically, behavin’ like children to get you to treat them extra nice like. I’m not kiddin’. You’re sat there tryin’ to enjoy a lovely little krapow-gai kai-dow, and she’s pokin’ your arm goin’, “Tirakkk, look at meee na.” Next thing, pouty lips, big eyes, puffin’ up the cheeks with air, then talkin’ like Peppa Pig after a night out on the Sangsom. Thirty-five years old, degree on the wall, car in the driveway, but she’s sat there doin’ baby voices like she’s about to lob the whole pram at me ‘cause someone nicked her favourite Barbie doll. Back home, a bird pulls that stunt, nah, you’d call her a nutter and block her instantly. Here? Feck, it’s a bloody national romance sport, lads. Olympic-level cutesy. You can’t even eat a bowl of blinkin' noodles without them tryin’ to spoon-feed you like a toddler at nursery. And the kicker? The bar girls don’t even bother with it. Straight to the point, keep the beer flowin’, the baht rollin’. Job done. Meanwhile, the “good girls” got you sendin’ LINE stickers of cartoon bunnies at 2am like some lovesick muppet. I’m tellin’ ya, lads, half the time I dunno if I’m hanging meself out of proper women here or just runnin’ the late shift at a bloomin’ child daycare centre.

So yesterday I popped over to me mate Simon’s flat in Pathumnak for a few cold bevvies, yeah. Just the usual, kickin’ back, natterin’ about all the rubbish in the world, the sun goin’ down outside, when I clocked it. Sitting there in the corner like some silent wizard, Simon’s bloody robo-vac. Now I’ve seen these units before, bangin' into everything, dumb as they come, but this… this was next level, mates. I’m not jokin’. In one hour, this clever little bugger had mopped and vacuumed the entire 100 square metre flat, all in one session, without needing' to recharge or plowin’ into anyone's missus, and none of that daft retracing its own steps either. Nah, proper smart-like. And every ten minutes, mind you, it’d zip back to the base, wash the mop pads like a tiny OCD janitor, then two minutes later it’s back out again for another go, mop dry and ready, gettin’ every speck of dust like it had eyes in the back of its arse. And when it finished? Back to the base again, dustbin emptied, mop pads scrubbed, battery recharged, and then for three hours the fans kept them mopheads spinnin’ dry. I’m tellin’ you, mate, I’ve seen a lot in me time, but watchin’ that little thing do it's business was poetry in motion, pure bloody wizardry. Honestly, I sat there with a pint in me hand thinkin’, how the feck did they cram all that genius into one tiny bit of plastic? Mental. And the kicker, lads? The little sod wasn’t kickin’ about like it was doin’ much at all, but when you stepped back, the floor was cleaner than a bishop’s conscience on Sunday mornin’. And the noggin on this thing, honestly, it’s got the entire flat mapped in its head, knows exactly where it is at every moment, LIDR innit. Spins round every now and again just to check its bearings, and somehow, just somehow, it seems 10X smarter than that oversized orange geezer sleepin' in the White House.

Right then lads, I’ve just had an experience that’ll haunt me bog dreams for decades. Thought I’d seen it all in Pattaya, bar-tarts pulling each other's hair out, soi dogs humping scooter tires, ladyboys fightin’ over nickers, but nope, the most danger I’ve ever been in came yesterday from takin’ a quiet dump in a shopping mall. So I wander into this venue, yeah. Won’t name names, but let’s just say it’s on North Road. Place has got toilets that look like NASA mission control. Long electronic panels, lots of buttons, signs in Japanese that might as well say, “Press here to meet God.” Now me, I just needed a quick sit down job, right. Nice and simple. But curiosity kills the cat, don’t it. So I think, “Go on Lewie, live a little, try the front rinse function.” Figured my giblets wouldn't mind a cooling off. I tap one button, seat starts heatin’ up like I’m squattin’ on a George Foreman grill. Tap another, next thing I know I’m gettin’ sprayed in the ringpiece with a jet so powerful it could’ve stripped barnacles off a ship’s hull. Lads, I ain’t jokin’. It launched me forward off the seat like I’d been hit with a taser. I’m clutchin’ the sides of this robo throne, trousers round me ankles, water spray ricocheting off me undercarriage and hittin’ the cubicle door like it’s a pressure washer demo. I must’ve looked like a fat carp floppin’ about in a paddling pool. And just when I think it’s over, some other light flashes red and suddenly I’m gettin’ blow dried down there with a gust so strong me bits looked like a basset hound’s ears in a convertible. At this point I ain’t sure if I’ve been cleaned, cooked, or consecrated. Felt like I should’ve walked out the cubicle wearin’ a halo and robes. Staggered out the stall, socks soaked, hair standin’ on end, one Thai bloke lookin’ at me like I’d just lost a fistfight with the plumbing. And I’m swearin’ never again. Not sayin’ the name of the mall lads, but if you fancy a “holy water experience,” it’s the big one with all the countries for floors and the airport theme. Avoid the toilets if you value your dignity. Pattaya, yeah lads. Come for the lovin', leave baptised by bog. Take it from Lewie, stick to the old school bum guns. They might drench your shorts if you slip, but at least they don’t try to send you to the afterlife via your arseholio.

Blimey, lads, imagine this for a second. Putin rocked up in Alaska, slid a set of video tapes across the table like he’s dealin’ Tesco Clubcard points, and he reckons it’s Trump on Epstein’s bloody island, in flagrante with some Mexican housekeeper. One second Trump is puffin’ up his chest, talkin’ sanctions and ceasefires, next he’s all floppy and impotent. Proper full TACO from zero to a thousand in a blink when really he should be growing a pair, like Pence just told all the media. The man’s got less backbone than a wet street stall noodle, and the Nobel prizes? Gone. Evaporated. Not a sniff of ’em anywhere. The whole world’s standin’ there thinkin’, “Did that just happen?” and Trump’s just blinkin’ like he’s caught in a reality TV show with no remote. And let’s not forget the sheer embarrassment of it all. Trump rolls out the red carpet for a dictator come war criminal responsible for over a million deaths in the Ukraine war, treats him like he’s some kind of celebrity guest, shakes hands, smiles, laughs at his jokes. Meanwhile, he’s supposed to be the great deal-maker, the master negotiator, but achieves absolutely feck all. Putin doesn’t blink. No concessions, no backing down on a single demand or condition. Zero flexibility. Trump’s the one doing the grovelling, and the dictator’s just strollin’ away with a quiet giggle like he’s won the lottery. Advisors are standin’ there slack-jawed, tryin’ to mask the cringe, while Trump’s puffin’ up every so often like he’s still in charge of the whole sh*t show. Charts about sanctions and ceasefires? Ignored. Plans for a negotiated settlement? Ditched. Talk of security guarantees? Never existed. All that red-carpet pomp, and not a single inkling of a deal is done. The man promised the world a masterstroke, and what do we get? Nada, zip, zilch. Just another photo op for Putin’s scrapbook, and a global facepalm for the rest of us lot. Honestly, it’s the sort of thing you couldn’t make up, and yet, here we are. Only in this mad, mad world, innit. The man goes from alpha to jelly in a heartbeat, the planet collectively says talk to the hand, and the only thing left to do is grab a beer and watch the rest of the over leveraged clown show. And the icing on the cake? Putin gets back to Moscow and immediately bombs an American factory in Ukraine.

Right then lads, picture the scene. I’m wanderin’ down Buakhao, as I often do, sweat tricklin’ down me bloomin' arse-holio, fancyin’ a proper mellow evening. Then I clock this little hole-in-the-wall weed shop tucked between a Viagra stand and a dodgy massage joint. Massive neon pot leaf glowing out the front, proper Bob Marley oil painting in the window, two beanbags out the back lookin’ like they’d been rescued from a landfill. Perfect, I think. Just the spot to sink in, puff a bit, and float away from all the human debris. So I park me ballocks inside, order up a bong like I’m a junior uni student again, and the geezer behind the counter’s grinnin’ like a Cheshire cat, talkin’ up this flippin' purple haze strain like it’s God’s gift to the human gob. I take one hit, then another, then about six more for good measure. Proper lungbusters at that. Felt me eyes waterin’, lungs screamin’, the whole shebang mates. And then… nothin’. Not a bloody sausage. I’m sittin’ there clear-headed as if I’d just knocked back a feckin bottle of that bright red pop that turns your tongue into a swollen mess for days. No worries, I tell meself, maybe the edibles will do the trick. So I buy a fistful of gummies, bright pink things shaped like soddin’ Hello Kitty dolls. Wolfed down enough sugar to put an elephant into a coma. Waited an hour and some change. Still nothin’. No giggles, no munchies, not even that floaty “ooh, me toes feel nice” feelin' just after droppin' off a unit of me spaff in Soi 6. Nah, none of that. Just me sittin’ there on a beanbag with sticky fingers and a sugar panic. Meanwhile, the shop’s full of stoners melted into the furniture, gigglin’ at the fan oscillatin’ like it’s comedy gold. One lad’s starin’ at his own hand like it’s the Sistine Chapel. Me? I’m stone cold sober, surrounded by zombies, wonderin’ if I’ve somehow evolved into the world’s first weed-proof muppet. After another failed go on the bong, I just sat there deflated, like a lad who queued up for hours for Glastonbury tickets only to find out he’s actually bought passes to the bloody Spice Girls resurrection tour. Walked out onto Buakhao still sober, still sweaty, forty quid lesser, and wonderin’ why the hell the universe decided I’d be the bloke immune to Pattaya’s strongest gear. That’s Pattaya for ya. Come lookin’ for nirvana, leave with heartburn, a lighter wallet, and a bag of useless sweets. Lewie out...

Well lads, here we go again. Another day in paradise and another fellow countryman making the rest of us geezers look like prize plonkers. This time it is some helmet wearing muppet in Pattaya who thought it would be a grand idea to play chicken with a rescue ambulance at four in the morning. Lights flashing, siren wailing, trying to get some poor sod to hospital, and our man’s response? Zigzag in front of it like he is auditioning for "The Fast and the Farangulous". Apparently the siren “startled him”. Yeah, right mate, that is what they do. They are loud for a reason, so people get out the way, not weave in and out like you are delivering a weed order on Khao San Road at midnight. Then, as if that is not enough, he flips the ambulance the bird, then clips another bike as the mug tries to leg it. Now I have been here long enough to know that every nationality produces its fair share of numpties, but I swear mates, the British contingent in Pattaya has some kind of special, highly potent talent for it. They just cannot help themselves. Give them a scooter, a bit of Chang, and the cover of night and it is like lighting the blue touch paper. You just know something idiotic is about to happen. And here is the kicker. Every time one of these clowns gets nicked, they always seem baffled that the police do not find it funny. Like it is all one big cheeky holiday prank. Sorry mate, when you block an ambulance carrying someone who might actually be dying, that is not “banter”, that is being a complete weapons-grade pillock. So cheers Paul Dennis Holloway, for reminding the locals exactly why us Brits get side-eye in 7-Elevens. You have single-handedly kept the stereotype alive for at least another week. Click the links and watch the video if you think I am making this up, because I could never even script this high level of bellendery: https://www.bangkokpost.com/thailand/general/3084988/british-motorcyclist-arrested-for-obstructing-pattaya-ambulance https://www.thaiexaminer.com/thai-news-foreigners/2025/08/12/early-morning-pattaya-madness-dumps-uk-motorcyclist-in-hot-water-after-obstructing-an-ambulance-rescue https://www.newsflare.com/video/774924/british-motorbike-rider-58-fined-for-blocking-ambulance-taking-patient-to-hospital

Right then mates, listen up, because I’m about to drop some proper knowledge that’ll blow your flip-flops clean off. You ready? Thailand -- that country full of Thai people, yeah, you know the one -- well, it’s got the best effin’ Thai food. I know, shocking, isn't it? Pad Thai? Proper bangin'. Green curry? World class. Tom Yum Kung? Mental. Where else you gonna get it, Croydon? Behave yourselves now. But wait, there’s more. Thailand’s got the finest beaches in… brace yourself… Thailand! Yeah, you heard it here first. White sand, turquoise water, all that Instagram guff, and you don’t even have to Photoshop out an Aldi from the background. And the mangoes, oh mates, the mangoes. Sweet, juicy, melt-in-your-mouth goodness, straight from the source. None of that sad, rock-hard supermarket rubbish you get back in Blighty where it feels like you’re gnawin’ on the linin' of your nan's knickers. Oh, and here’s a shocker: Thai massages in Thailand are the real deal. Madd, innit? Happy ending if you fancy one. Turns out the country that invented it still does it better than Doris-Dentures in Derby with her Groupon deal and her scented candles from IKEA. Who knew? And hold onto your ballocks for this one boys… Tuk-tuks in Thailand? They’re the absolute best in... Thailand. No contest. Way better too than the rubbish tuk-tuk scene in Milton bloody Keynes. And beer? Ah, lads, the Thai elephant beer in Thailand is unbeatable, the best Chang beer you'll find anywhere in the center of SE Asia, hands down. You think you’ve lived until you’ve necked one of those bad boys down your gob while sittin’ under a bunch of flickerin’ LEDs next to a bloke grillin’ squid covered in smoke while sat on the kerb. The mutt's nuts, that is. Now don’t even get me started on Muay Thai. You want the best Muay Thai in the world? Guess where you’ll find it. Go on, take a wild stab. Not in Stoke, I’ll tell ya that much, bruv. And finally the temples, mates… Thailand’s got the best Thai temples on the planet. Glitterin’ like treasure chests under the sun, smell of incense waftin’ through the air, bells tinklin’ like a soundtrack to enlightenment. Pure magic that is. So, yeah, next time some influencer bangs on about how authentic everything is over here in the land of smiles, just remember Lewie told you first. Thailand’s the best place in the world… for Thainess. Nah, lads. No need to thank me for that bit of public service announcement. Lewie out.