Yesterday was another madd day. Rupert’s out here literally tryin’ to do the whole “cultural immersion” bit, full tilt. The lad didn't learn fark all from that dog's dinner he gobbled down at the market the other day. And now, he's wearin’ linen trousers like he’s about to open a yoga retreat and askin' me rubbish like if I’ve “found my inner centre.” I'm starting to think the blokes lost the plot. 

 

Then he says he's read another bit on a travel site about this “sacred village brew” made by spirits, mountain witches or some guff like that. I says, “Mate, if it comes in an old, reused M-150 bottle with a lizard packed in it, it’s probably not gettin’ reviewed on TripAdvisor.”

 

But no, he’s determined. Says he wants the “real distilled taste of Thailand" experience, none of the usual Chang and Sangsom tat. Next thing I know, we’re sat on plastic stools in someone’s front yard just outside Mae Rim, surrounded by old uncles playin’ cards, chewin' up betel nut like it's gum-drops and shoutin’ at the noisy chickens runnin' round the gaff. One of the blokes pulls out a plastic jug filled with what looks like (used) mop water, and inside is this long, coiled centipede, floatin’ like it’s meditatin’ in a spirit bath. Just what Rupe was on about I reckon. 

 

So Rupe clocks it and goes, “Oiy, is all those legs symbolic, must be the real deal, eh Lewie?”

 

I tells him, “Yeah, mate, symbolises you might wake up blind, but just YOLO it bruv.”

 

Now he’s neckin’ it like it’s Ribena. Big gulps. Proper theatrical. Swirls it round his gob like he’s at a Napa Valley tasting. He goes, “Hmm, earthy." I says "Yeah, with notes of stale petrol, rancid Red Bull and decomposed chaos.”

 

Three glasses in, his face starts meltin’ like candle wax. He’s sweatin’ like he’s in a confession booth, eyes goin’ two different directions, speakin’ in cursive. Stands up, tries to Wai the uncles, and instead walks straight into a clothesline, takin’ out some auntie's knickers and her Hello Kitty sock collection.

 

Then he starts shoutin’ in French for no reason. Keeps yellin’ “Fromage!” at a dog. One of the uncles tries to give him water but he thinks it’s more moonshine and legs it behind a tree, mutterin’ something about Ayahuasca visions and the centipede bein’ his “spirit guide.”

 

Eventually, we get him in a pickup and back to the hotel where he collapses into bed fully clothed, clutchin’ a camphor Yah-Dom inhaler like it’s a relic from the Ark of the Covenant. I head back to my flat. He spends the night blowing mince into his bog, whisperin' to me over FaceTime, “I met God. He was wearing a pink sarong and had a tiger tattoo on his arm.”

 

I told him straight, “You didn’t meet God, mate, that pink Pah-Toong you seen, you're havin' right old ladyboy flash backs from that massage joint. What really happened is you met Uncle Somchai’s centipede hooch. Now drink some electrolytes and say goodbye to your stomach lining.”

 

Welcome to Thailand, again, Rupert. Cultural immersion complete.

Is Mr London's pseudonym Hans Christian Anderson?

You know, I understand the hate that brews in the political soap box, but goddamn people, if you don't like Lewie's posts then DON'T READ THEM. You know exactly what to expect.

 

Thanks Lewie, 

52 minutes ago, HappyExpat57 said:

You know, I understand the hate that brews in the political soap box, but goddamn people, if you don't like Lewie's posts then DON'T READ THEM. You know exactly what to expect.

 

Thanks Lewie, 

But he puts this in the Community Pub not the Political Soapbox.

And yes, we know exactly what to expect, but it would be deleted if I said it.

44 minutes ago, KannikaP said:

But he puts this in the Community Pub not the Political Soapbox.

Political? This is story telling. Perfectly suited for the Community Pub. What's your reading comprehension level?

45 minutes ago, KannikaP said:

And yes, we know exactly what to expect, but it would be deleted if I said it.

And why would something like this be deleted if you posted it? I don't see how it violates TOS.

1 hour ago, hankypankee said:

Political? This is story telling. Perfectly suited for the Community Pub. What's your reading comprehension level?

No need for insults Mr Hanky

Every time I see a post by London Lewie about Rupert, I think he's about to spill the beans about Murdoch's illicit affair with Melania. She likes them old and rich.

 

I am getting disappointed.

10 hours ago, Lewie London said:

Yesterday was another madd day. Rupert’s out here literally tryin’ to do the whole “cultural immersion” bit, full tilt. The lad didn't learn fark all from that dog's dinner he gobbled down at the market the other day. And now, he's wearin’ linen trousers like he’s about to open a yoga retreat and askin' me rubbish like if I’ve “found my inner centre.” I'm starting to think the blokes lost the plot. 

 

Then he says he's read another bit on a travel site about this “sacred village brew” made by spirits, mountain witches or some guff like that. I says, “Mate, if it comes in an old, reused M-150 bottle with a lizard packed in it, it’s probably not gettin’ reviewed on TripAdvisor.”

 

But no, he’s determined. Says he wants the “real distilled taste of Thailand" experience, none of the usual Chang and Sangsom tat. Next thing I know, we’re sat on plastic stools in someone’s front yard just outside Mae Rim, surrounded by old uncles playin’ cards, chewin' up betel nut like it's gum-drops and shoutin’ at the noisy chickens runnin' round the gaff. One of the blokes pulls out a plastic jug filled with what looks like (used) mop water, and inside is this long, coiled centipede, floatin’ like it’s meditatin’ in a spirit bath. Just what Rupe was on about I reckon. 

 

So Rupe clocks it and goes, “Oiy, is all those legs symbolic, must be the real deal, eh Lewie?”

 

I tells him, “Yeah, mate, symbolises you might wake up blind, but just YOLO it bruv.”

 

Now he’s neckin’ it like it’s Ribena. Big gulps. Proper theatrical. Swirls it round his gob like he’s at a Napa Valley tasting. He goes, “Hmm, earthy." I says "Yeah, with notes of stale petrol, rancid Red Bull and decomposed chaos.”

 

Three glasses in, his face starts meltin’ like candle wax. He’s sweatin’ like he’s in a confession booth, eyes goin’ two different directions, speakin’ in cursive. Stands up, tries to Wai the uncles, and instead walks straight into a clothesline, takin’ out some auntie's knickers and her Hello Kitty sock collection.

 

Then he starts shoutin’ in French for no reason. Keeps yellin’ “Fromage!” at a dog. One of the uncles tries to give him water but he thinks it’s more moonshine and legs it behind a tree, mutterin’ something about Ayahuasca visions and the centipede bein’ his “spirit guide.”

 

Eventually, we get him in a pickup and back to the hotel where he collapses into bed fully clothed, clutchin’ a camphor Yah-Dom inhaler like it’s a relic from the Ark of the Covenant. I head back to my flat. He spends the night blowing mince into his bog, whisperin' to me over FaceTime, “I met God. He was wearing a pink sarong and had a tiger tattoo on his arm.”

 

I told him straight, “You didn’t meet God, mate, that pink Pah-Toong you seen, you're havin' right old ladyboy flash backs from that massage joint. What really happened is you met Uncle Somchai’s centipede hooch. Now drink some electrolytes and say goodbye to your stomach lining.”

 

Welcome to Thailand, again, Rupert. Cultural immersion complete.

Who reads this crap?

13 hours ago, Harrisfan said:

Who reads this crap?

I do. It's far more entertaining than your one-liner pathetic put-downs. Get a life.

Another poster case of verbal diarrhea 

Thanks for the colourful, humorous posts.

On 5/19/2025 at 9:15 AM, Lewie London said:

Yesterday was another madd day. Rupert’s out here literally tryin’ to do the whole “cultural immersion” bit, full tilt. The lad didn't learn fark all from that dog's dinner he gobbled down at the market the other day. And now, he's wearin’ linen trousers like he’s about to open a yoga retreat and askin' me rubbish like if I’ve “found my inner centre.” I'm starting to think the blokes lost the plot. 

 

Then he says he's read another bit on a travel site about this “sacred village brew” made by spirits, mountain witches or some guff like that. I says, “Mate, if it comes in an old, reused M-150 bottle with a lizard packed in it, it’s probably not gettin’ reviewed on TripAdvisor.”

 

But no, he’s determined. Says he wants the “real distilled taste of Thailand" experience, none of the usual Chang and Sangsom tat. Next thing I know, we’re sat on plastic stools in someone’s front yard just outside Mae Rim, surrounded by old uncles playin’ cards, chewin' up betel nut like it's gum-drops and shoutin’ at the noisy chickens runnin' round the gaff. One of the blokes pulls out a plastic jug filled with what looks like (used) mop water, and inside is this long, coiled centipede, floatin’ like it’s meditatin’ in a spirit bath. Just what Rupe was on about I reckon. 

 

So Rupe clocks it and goes, “Oiy, is all those legs symbolic, must be the real deal, eh Lewie?”

 

I tells him, “Yeah, mate, symbolises you might wake up blind, but just YOLO it bruv.”

 

Now he’s neckin’ it like it’s Ribena. Big gulps. Proper theatrical. Swirls it round his gob like he’s at a Napa Valley tasting. He goes, “Hmm, earthy." I says "Yeah, with notes of stale petrol, rancid Red Bull and decomposed chaos.”

 

Three glasses in, his face starts meltin’ like candle wax. He’s sweatin’ like he’s in a confession booth, eyes goin’ two different directions, speakin’ in cursive. Stands up, tries to Wai the uncles, and instead walks straight into a clothesline, takin’ out some auntie's knickers and her Hello Kitty sock collection.

 

Then he starts shoutin’ in French for no reason. Keeps yellin’ “Fromage!” at a dog. One of the uncles tries to give him water but he thinks it’s more moonshine and legs it behind a tree, mutterin’ something about Ayahuasca visions and the centipede bein’ his “spirit guide.”

 

Eventually, we get him in a pickup and back to the hotel where he collapses into bed fully clothed, clutchin’ a camphor Yah-Dom inhaler like it’s a relic from the Ark of the Covenant. I head back to my flat. He spends the night blowing mince into his bog, whisperin' to me over FaceTime, “I met God. He was wearing a pink sarong and had a tiger tattoo on his arm.”

 

I told him straight, “You didn’t meet God, mate, that pink Pah-Toong you seen, you're havin' right old ladyboy flash backs from that massage joint. What really happened is you met Uncle Somchai’s centipede hooch. Now drink some electrolytes and say goodbye to your stomach lining.”

 

Welcome to Thailand, again, Rupert. Cultural immersion complete.

I think you have a problem...and that is yourself

In the next episode Rupert is confronted by a python in a restroom somewhere.Such an eventful chap.