The Tuk-Tuk Caper: A Kebab, A Spliff, 4 Indians, and a Gaggle of Ladyboys

[SoCal1990]

Lads, I don’t know what it is, but it seems the stars simply refuse to align and let me live here in peace and happiness.

 

As you lot know, my Harley’s still in the shop being fixed up as new, so I decided: Why not embrace the local lifestyle a bit more?

 

Money is never an issue for me, so when Bob does something, he does it proper. So, I went out and bought myself a brand new f***-all Bangkok tuk-tuk, direct from the factory.

 

Not just any new tuk-tuk, mind you. No mates, a bright neon pink, fully customized, balls-to-the-wall, chromed-out, LED light-blazing, speaker-blasting, wide tired, absolute behemoth of a machine. Even Elon the Don would be proud of this whack-a-doodle.

 

Plus I demand respect and admiration and I planned to cruise down Beach Road like the man-god that I am.

 

What I got instead?

 

A one-way ticket to more sheer, unrelenting humiliation.

 

Now, mind you, it’s a Monday night, the air is thick with heat and possible bad decisions, and I’m sitting in my brand-new tuk-tuk, parked up on Beach Road, feeling like the absolute Patts legend that I am.

 

I’ve got my colorful marijuana print shirt unbuttoned halfway down because I’m a Big Baller, my ten baht gold chain gleaming under the neon glow, aviators reflecting in the city lights, and a juicy kebab dripping grease all over my snakeskin loafers while I puff on a nice big Bob Marley style fatty all at the same time. Cause that’s how I roll boys.

 

I’m then about to bounce over to Soi 6, bask in the admiration of the masses with my new ride, and maybe engage in a bit of salami swordplay if I fancy. Life is good.

 

But no, disaster, again.

 

Out of nowhere, four fat Indian tourists suddenly pile into the back.

 

One of them, an excitable bloke in a fake Gucci tracksuit, leans forward.

 

“Brother, Pattaya Walking Street, quick quick.”

 

I nearly choked on my kebab.

 

“Oi mate, what? I’m not your bloody personal chauffeur.”

 

He laughs. “No problem, brother. Two hundred baht, okay.”

 

Before I can even react, his mate starts barking directions like he’s my copilot.

 

“Fast fast. Good driver. We pay you good tip.”

 

Lads, I was f****** fuming.

 

I turn around, kebab in one hand, burning spliff in the other, and I hit them with my most pissed off stare. They had really gotten my back up.

 

“Do I look like some two-bit tuk-tuk driver to you sweaty chavs.”

 

They look at my tuk-tuk.

 

They look at my outfit.

 

They look at the giant neon sign above my head flashing "Big Kahuna Bob" in blinding blue letters.

 

Then back at me.

 

“Yes, brother.”

 

Before I can even begin to explain the sheer levels of disrespect, one of them pulls out a handful of crumpled up twenty baht notes and starts shoving them in my face.

 

Do I look like some tuk-tuk-riding peasant? Like I’m desperate for their sweaty little stack of crumpled baht? Like I’m not an international stallion and a respected local dignitary?

 

I nearly launched my kebab at his head.

 

“Out. Now. Cu**s.”

 

They argue for a bit, muttering something in Hindi, a bit of head wobble, but finally, they get out, but not before one of the cheeky plonkers takes a selfie with me and instantly uploads it to his IG captioning it "Good tuk-tuk driver, very happy."

 

Mates.

 

I was seething.

 

But before I can even fully process what just happened three six foot tall ladyboys suddenly jump in the back like a tactical assault team.

 

“Wow, Daddy Bob, sexy new tuk-tuk neh.”

 

Do they know me? One of them throws an arm around to hug me, practically strangling me in a cloud of coconut-scented perfume and a bulging bicep.

 

Another one is pressing every button on the dashboard like she’s trying to launch a missile strike.

 

The third one cranks the speakers to max volume and starts trying to have a right fiddle with my bait and tackle.

 

Now we’re blasting out hard-hitting Thai techno so loud that people are actively covering their ears.

 

I haven’t even agreed to take them anywhere, but suddenly one of them grabs the handlebars.

 

“I drive Daddy. You relax neh Khun Bob.”

 

I try to protest, but at this point, I have completely lost control of my own life.

 

She stomps on the gas pedal and the tuk-tuk lunges forward.

 

I am no longer a man. I am cargo. Cargo in an led-light-lit, bass-blasting, ladyboy-piloted missile careening through the streets of Pattaya.

 

We’re screaming down Beach Road, music blaring, lights flashing, Ladyboy number one is yelling Go faster Big Daddy Bob, and Ladyboy number two is hanging out the side, catcalling tourists.

 

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a passing storefront window. My open Hawaiian shirt is flapping wildly like a silk cape. My gold chain is bouncing like I’m in a rap video. I look like a man who has completely lost control of his last ounce of dignity.

 

Just when I think this night can’t get any worse, my phone pings.

 

It’s Harry the Hummer.

 

"Where u at matey? Bar girls asking for u."

 

Mates.

 

I don’t even know anymore.

 

All I wanted was an ounce of respect.

 

Instead, I’ve become the captain of a neon-lit clown car filled with hyperactive ladyboys and blaring bass so loud it’s probably rupturing eardrums all over South Pattaya.

 

Tuk-tuks don’t make you a mensch. They make you a joke. And in my case a joke with a hostage crisis and a minor hearing disorder.

 

Best regards,

Original Bob.

 

[BigLek]

What's that sitting on top of your ride mate? Looks like a huge durian got into a fight with a cannabis bud and lost. 😂

[Stocky]

Frank '2 Bob' Spencer 

Surprised one of them didn't do a whoopsi on your back seat

[chippendale]

1 hour ago, SoCal1990 said:

No mates

 

That sums up Bob well.

[ColeBOzbourne]

Mensch...Blokes...Lads...Mates...Cu**s.  Let me guess, you're NOT American. Right? 

[freedomnow]

What is it about Soi 6 Pats ?

The cheapest most straight to sex place in Thailand or something ? <deleted> capital of Thailand ? Ladyboy street ?

 

Google - "The heart of the action is on Soi 6, one of the most well-known streets in Pattaya and worldwide. The street is infamous for its 'girlie bars'; around 70 bars with 10-20 girls in each bar, all waiting to meet you to come in and blow your child's inheritance.25 Oct 2024"

[freedomnow]

25 minutes ago, ColeBOzbourne said:

Mensch...Blokes...Lads...Mates...Cu**s.  Let me guess, you're NOT American. Right? 

All the yanks left due to the Brits. Other side of world now.

[save the frogs]

Actually, a brilliant idea.

We should be able to order custom-made tuk tuks with neon lights and ride them around.

Would be better than a scooter. 

[Lacessit]

4 hours ago, SoCal1990 said:

Lads, I don’t know what it is, but it seems the stars simply refuse to align and let me live here in peace and happiness.

 

As you lot know, my Harley’s still in the shop being fixed up as new, so I decided: Why not embrace the local lifestyle a bit more?

 

Money is never an issue for me, so when Bob does something, he does it proper. So, I went out and bought myself a brand new f***-all Bangkok tuk-tuk, direct from the factory.

 

Not just any new tuk-tuk, mind you. No mates, a bright neon pink, fully customized, balls-to-the-wall, chromed-out, LED light-blazing, speaker-blasting, wide tired, absolute behemoth of a machine. Even Elon the Don would be proud of this whack-a-doodle.

 

Plus I demand respect and admiration and I planned to cruise down Beach Road like the man-god that I am.

 

What I got instead?

 

A one-way ticket to more sheer, unrelenting humiliation.

 

Now, mind you, it’s a Monday night, the air is thick with heat and possible bad decisions, and I’m sitting in my brand-new tuk-tuk, parked up on Beach Road, feeling like the absolute Patts legend that I am.

 

I’ve got my colorful marijuana print shirt unbuttoned halfway down because I’m a Big Baller, my ten baht gold chain gleaming under the neon glow, aviators reflecting in the city lights, and a juicy kebab dripping grease all over my snakeskin loafers while I puff on a nice big Bob Marley style fatty all at the same time. Cause that’s how I roll boys.

 

I’m then about to bounce over to Soi 6, bask in the admiration of the masses with my new ride, and maybe engage in a bit of salami swordplay if I fancy. Life is good.

 

But no, disaster, again.

 

Out of nowhere, four fat Indian tourists suddenly pile into the back.

 

One of them, an excitable bloke in a fake Gucci tracksuit, leans forward.

 

“Brother, Pattaya Walking Street, quick quick.”

 

I nearly choked on my kebab.

 

“Oi mate, what? I’m not your bloody personal chauffeur.”

 

He laughs. “No problem, brother. Two hundred baht, okay.”

 

Before I can even react, his mate starts barking directions like he’s my copilot.

 

“Fast fast. Good driver. We pay you good tip.”

 

Lads, I was f****** fuming.

 

I turn around, kebab in one hand, burning spliff in the other, and I hit them with my most pissed off stare. They had really gotten my back up.

 

“Do I look like some two-bit tuk-tuk driver to you sweaty chavs.”

 

They look at my tuk-tuk.

 

They look at my outfit.

 

They look at the giant neon sign above my head flashing "Big Kahuna Bob" in blinding blue letters.

 

Then back at me.

 

“Yes, brother.”

 

Before I can even begin to explain the sheer levels of disrespect, one of them pulls out a handful of crumpled up twenty baht notes and starts shoving them in my face.

 

Do I look like some tuk-tuk-riding peasant? Like I’m desperate for their sweaty little stack of crumpled baht? Like I’m not an international stallion and a respected local dignitary?

 

I nearly launched my kebab at his head.

 

“Out. Now. Cu**s.”

 

They argue for a bit, muttering something in Hindi, a bit of head wobble, but finally, they get out, but not before one of the cheeky plonkers takes a selfie with me and instantly uploads it to his IG captioning it "Good tuk-tuk driver, very happy."

 

Mates.

 

I was seething.

 

But before I can even fully process what just happened three six foot tall ladyboys suddenly jump in the back like a tactical assault team.

 

“Wow, Daddy Bob, sexy new tuk-tuk neh.”

 

Do they know me? One of them throws an arm around to hug me, practically strangling me in a cloud of coconut-scented perfume and a bulging bicep.

 

Another one is pressing every button on the dashboard like she’s trying to launch a missile strike.

 

The third one cranks the speakers to max volume and starts trying to have a right fiddle with my bait and tackle.

 

Now we’re blasting out hard-hitting Thai techno so loud that people are actively covering their ears.

 

I haven’t even agreed to take them anywhere, but suddenly one of them grabs the handlebars.

 

“I drive Daddy. You relax neh Khun Bob.”

 

I try to protest, but at this point, I have completely lost control of my own life.

 

She stomps on the gas pedal and the tuk-tuk lunges forward.

 

I am no longer a man. I am cargo. Cargo in an led-light-lit, bass-blasting, ladyboy-piloted missile careening through the streets of Pattaya.

 

We’re screaming down Beach Road, music blaring, lights flashing, Ladyboy number one is yelling Go faster Big Daddy Bob, and Ladyboy number two is hanging out the side, catcalling tourists.

 

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a passing storefront window. My open Hawaiian shirt is flapping wildly like a silk cape. My gold chain is bouncing like I’m in a rap video. I look like a man who has completely lost control of his last ounce of dignity.

 

Just when I think this night can’t get any worse, my phone pings.

 

It’s Harry the Hummer.

 

"Where u at matey? Bar girls asking for u."

 

Mates.

 

I don’t even know anymore.

 

All I wanted was an ounce of respect.

 

Instead, I’ve become the captain of a neon-lit clown car filled with hyperactive ladyboys and blaring bass so loud it’s probably rupturing eardrums all over South Pattaya.

 

Tuk-tuks don’t make you a mensch. They make you a joke. And in my case a joke with a hostage crisis and a minor hearing disorder.

 

Best regards,

Original Bob.

 

Nice touch, the arrow symbol on on your jockey shorts. Does it help you find your willy?

[scorecard]

18 hours ago, SoCal1990 said:

Lads, I don’t know what it is, but it seems the stars simply refuse to align and let me live here in peace and happiness.

 

As you lot know, my Harley’s still in the shop being fixed up as new, so I decided: Why not embrace the local lifestyle a bit more?

 

Money is never an issue for me, so when Bob does something, he does it proper. So, I went out and bought myself a brand new f***-all Bangkok tuk-tuk, direct from the factory.

 

Not just any new tuk-tuk, mind you. No mates, a bright neon pink, fully customized, balls-to-the-wall, chromed-out, LED light-blazing, speaker-blasting, wide tired, absolute behemoth of a machine. Even Elon the Don would be proud of this whack-a-doodle.

 

Plus I demand respect and admiration and I planned to cruise down Beach Road like the man-god that I am.

 

What I got instead?

 

A one-way ticket to more sheer, unrelenting humiliation.

 

Now, mind you, it’s a Monday night, the air is thick with heat and possible bad decisions, and I’m sitting in my brand-new tuk-tuk, parked up on Beach Road, feeling like the absolute Patts legend that I am.

 

I’ve got my colorful marijuana print shirt unbuttoned halfway down because I’m a Big Baller, my ten baht gold chain gleaming under the neon glow, aviators reflecting in the city lights, and a juicy kebab dripping grease all over my snakeskin loafers while I puff on a nice big Bob Marley style fatty all at the same time. Cause that’s how I roll boys.

 

I’m then about to bounce over to Soi 6, bask in the admiration of the masses with my new ride, and maybe engage in a bit of salami swordplay if I fancy. Life is good.

 

But no, disaster, again.

 

Out of nowhere, four fat Indian tourists suddenly pile into the back.

 

One of them, an excitable bloke in a fake Gucci tracksuit, leans forward.

 

“Brother, Pattaya Walking Street, quick quick.”

 

I nearly choked on my kebab.

 

“Oi mate, what? I’m not your bloody personal chauffeur.”

 

He laughs. “No problem, brother. Two hundred baht, okay.”

 

Before I can even react, his mate starts barking directions like he’s my copilot.

 

“Fast fast. Good driver. We pay you good tip.”

 

Lads, I was f****** fuming.

 

I turn around, kebab in one hand, burning spliff in the other, and I hit them with my most pissed off stare. They had really gotten my back up.

 

“Do I look like some two-bit tuk-tuk driver to you sweaty chavs.”

 

They look at my tuk-tuk.

 

They look at my outfit.

 

They look at the giant neon sign above my head flashing "Big Kahuna Bob" in blinding blue letters.

 

Then back at me.

 

“Yes, brother.”

 

Before I can even begin to explain the sheer levels of disrespect, one of them pulls out a handful of crumpled up twenty baht notes and starts shoving them in my face.

 

Do I look like some tuk-tuk-riding peasant? Like I’m desperate for their sweaty little stack of crumpled baht? Like I’m not an international stallion and a respected local dignitary?

 

I nearly launched my kebab at his head.

 

“Out. Now. Cu**s.”

 

They argue for a bit, muttering something in Hindi, a bit of head wobble, but finally, they get out, but not before one of the cheeky plonkers takes a selfie with me and instantly uploads it to his IG captioning it "Good tuk-tuk driver, very happy."

 

Mates.

 

I was seething.

 

But before I can even fully process what just happened three six foot tall ladyboys suddenly jump in the back like a tactical assault team.

 

“Wow, Daddy Bob, sexy new tuk-tuk neh.”

 

Do they know me? One of them throws an arm around to hug me, practically strangling me in a cloud of coconut-scented perfume and a bulging bicep.

 

Another one is pressing every button on the dashboard like she’s trying to launch a missile strike.

 

The third one cranks the speakers to max volume and starts trying to have a right fiddle with my bait and tackle.

 

Now we’re blasting out hard-hitting Thai techno so loud that people are actively covering their ears.

 

I haven’t even agreed to take them anywhere, but suddenly one of them grabs the handlebars.

 

“I drive Daddy. You relax neh Khun Bob.”

 

I try to protest, but at this point, I have completely lost control of my own life.

 

She stomps on the gas pedal and the tuk-tuk lunges forward.

 

I am no longer a man. I am cargo. Cargo in an led-light-lit, bass-blasting, ladyboy-piloted missile careening through the streets of Pattaya.

 

We’re screaming down Beach Road, music blaring, lights flashing, Ladyboy number one is yelling Go faster Big Daddy Bob, and Ladyboy number two is hanging out the side, catcalling tourists.

 

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a passing storefront window. My open Hawaiian shirt is flapping wildly like a silk cape. My gold chain is bouncing like I’m in a rap video. I look like a man who has completely lost control of his last ounce of dignity.

 

Just when I think this night can’t get any worse, my phone pings.

 

It’s Harry the Hummer.

 

"Where u at matey? Bar girls asking for u."

 

Mates.

 

I don’t even know anymore.

 

All I wanted was an ounce of respect.

 

Instead, I’ve become the captain of a neon-lit clown car filled with hyperactive ladyboys and blaring bass so loud it’s probably rupturing eardrums all over South Pattaya.

 

Tuk-tuks don’t make you a mensch. They make you a joke. And in my case a joke with a hostage crisis and a minor hearing disorder.

 

Best regards,

Original Bob.

 

 

5 wheels?