So I gets this random text yesterday around 6PM, out the blue, it’s Neville from Norwich. You know the one, bit of a knob when he’s on the piss, but harmless with it. Normally only shows his mug in Patts around Christmas, when the weather back home’s colder than his ex-wife’s wizard sleeves. But here he is, middle of summer, decided he missed the smell of rank fermented fish, overripe durian, and cheap perfume too much to wait for December.

 

“Lewie, mate. Bevies on me. Down BuaKhao. You know the gaff. Get your arse over here.”

 

Fair play, I think. Ain’t seen him in a while, might as well humour the lad. So I rock up to this little beer bar halfway down the soi. A bit of a tired and dusty joint, but his fave for some reason. Place with the fairy lights that don’t work and them plastic chairs that collapse if you breathe on ‘em wrong.

 

And there he is, Neville. Leo in one hand, cigarette in the other, dressed a bit like a Pokémon fruitcake, lookin’ like a tourist brochure for ‘Small town bloke makes wrong decision to leave Blighty.’ But here’s the real twist, he’s flanked on both sides by two absolute units. Not women. Nah. Straight-up ladyboys. And I don’t mean the ones where you have to squint to tell. I’m talkin’ six-footers, one with a crotch bulge like a shepherd’s pie. He’s sittin’ there like the tofu in the center of a suspicious roast beef sandwich, grinnin’ like he’s just won the raffle at the working men’s club.

 

I sit down, give him the look, you know the one, raised eyebrow, tilt of the head, silent: “Mate… seriously?”

 

He clocks it. “What? What you givin’ me that look for, bruv?”

 

I lean in, keep it polite, keep it down low. “Neville, mate… you do realise them two ain’t exactly regular, natural born girls and that, yeah?”

 

He laughs it off, waving his beer around like Churchill addressing the troops. “Don’t be daft, Lew. Just tall birds, innit. Models or summat. Lucky me.”

 

Models. Right. Last page of the Bangkok Post maybe.

 

I tried, I really did. Gave him the whole gentle breakdown, the “Look at the feet, mate” routine. Even pointed out the Adam’s apple on the one like a biology teacher doin’ revision. Suggested he do a bit of a feel under the hood on that one with the hefty package. But no, he weren’t havin’ any of it. Fully committed to the dream. You could see it in his eyes, he thought he was about to live out some kind of tropical "Man With The Golden Gun" fantasy.

 

I finish my drink, tell him I’ll catch him tomorrow, and make my exit before it turns into something out of them Channel Five documentaries. Went down the road, grabbed myself a couple of pizza slices, nice and simple.

 

Here’s the punchline. One in the morning, my phone buzzes again. Message from Neville.

 

“A meat and two veg. You were right mate.” Sausage emoji. Pint glass emoji. Sad face emoji.

 

Didn’t even reply. Just stared at it like someone who’s watched their team lose on penalties again.

 

But that ain’t even the best bit. He rings me this mornin'. Turns out, back at his hotel, them two cleaned him right out. No violence, no drama, just polite like. Mini bar, emptied. That litre of Glen Fiddich he’d brought over from Heathrow duty-free, gone. Four Leos, two cans of Coke, three packets of overpriced Pringles, and that big Toblerone that’s been gatherin’ dust in the fridge since Songkran. Not stolen, just all consumed, like two scaffolders on a tea break. And him sittin’ there, wallet on empty, hungover, and full of regret, starin’ at the minibar price list like it’s his final exam paper.

 

So that’s Neville’s big summer holiday first-night sorted. Arrives in the hub of cocks in frocks, unexpectedly went for a wander on the wild side, dignity shattered, minibar destroyed.

 

See you at Christmas, mate.

 

Pattaya — undefeated.

Jesus man, I wonder if these threads are turning people off from living in Pattaya. 

1 hour ago, save the frogs said:

Jesus man, I wonder if these threads are turning people off from living in Pattaya. 

Or making Pattaya seem that much more appealing . . .

1 hour ago, save the frogs said:

Jesus man, I wonder if these threads are turning people off from living in Pattaya. 

Imagine sitting next to the OP on a 12 hour flight in coach…

Its like being in a time machine and setting it for 30-40 years in the past. Every cliche has been used. Silly as all his posts have been. 

21 minutes ago, mogandave said:

Imagine sitting next to the OP on a 12 hour flight in coach…

It's what earbuds are for!

16 minutes ago, mogandave said:

Imagine sitting next to the OP on a 12 hour flight in coach…

First, I thought about sitting next to you on a one-hour flight to Phuket, and that was bad enough. So I stopped there.

Lucky he didnt wake up unable to walk properly!

9 minutes ago, marin said:

Its like being in a time machine and setting it for 30-40 years in the past. Every cliche has been used. Silly as all his posts have been. 

Don't ike the 'Jack the Lad' prose? He's 'a bit ov this, a bit ov that'

Don't get your knickers in a twist. More to come I'm sure. It's funny.

The least Lewie could have done for his mate was buy him a large tube of KY.

46 minutes ago, ronnie50 said:

Don't ike the 'Jack the Lad' prose? He's 'a bit ov this, a bit ov that'

Don't get your knickers in a twist. More to come I'm sure. It's funny.

Perhaps if you are here on a holiday for 2 weeks. Jeez. 

2 hours ago, Lewie London said:

I’m talkin’ six-footers, one with a crotch bulge like a shepherd’s pie.

That is class! 😅😅😅😅

I'd certainly be happy to have a beer with Lewie, he's like a breath of fresh air!!🙂

That's why I don’t understand the whole faggot thing. To me, that's common sense. I don't see how a guy lies on a beach sees another guy’s hairy a*s and says oh, I'll eat that. I gotta have that. I ain't leaving the beach till I see him. And they're too sensitive they don't know if they want to be called gays, homosexual, faires. I call them cocksuckers. I think it spells it out. What's the big debate about it? Yeah, they want their rights, I'll give them their rights, ten percent off vaseline now get the fu*k back in the closet. It's unbelievable. I can’t deal with it anymore. You have all kinds now. Not just the regular gays, it’s these trans testicles now. You ever put your hand down the pants of one of them, oh that's a nice Sunday surprise. Meet the girl of your dreams, wine and dine her, take her home, put your hand up her skirt, and you're holding a tree trunk. What do you say, hey for a chick you have some set of balls. And bisexual, let me explain something, there is no bisexual, no such thing. You either suck dick, or you do not suck dick. I mean, what are these guys? Do they get up in the morning and flip a coin? Heads I want hair pie, tails it's balls across the nose, oh. What a choice huh. I mean you never see a black guy being gay? How do you give a guy head from three blocks away and say I love you? Blacks are proud of their pensis, they hold onto it like someone is going to rip it off. You see me coming down the street, yeah. You know a lot of people says to me, Moby, why are you always holding your dick? Well, it wouldn’t be gentlemen to leave it dragging it on the ground behind me. And while you're at why don't you be a gentleman and unstop the toilet. And plunge the kitchen sink, it can always use it. The blacks know what I'm talking about. They know, throw it up here let me just show em.

7 minutes ago, FriscoKid said:

That's why I don’t understand the whole faggot thing. To me, that's common sense. I don't see how a guy lies on a beach sees another guy’s hairy a*s and says oh, I'll eat that. I gotta have that. I ain't leaving the beach till I see him. And they're too sensitive they don't know if they want to be called gays, homosexual, faires. I call them cocksuckers. I think it spells it out. What's the big debate about it? Yeah, they want their rights, I'll give them their rights, ten percent off vaseline now get the fu*k back in the closet. It's unbelievable. I can’t deal with it anymore. You have all kinds now. Not just the regular gays, it’s these trans testicles now. You ever put your hand down the pants of one of them, oh that's a nice Sunday surprise. Meet the girl of your dreams, wine and dine her, take her home, put your hand up her skirt, and you're holding a tree trunk. What do you say, hey for a chick you have some set of balls. And bisexual, let me explain something, there is no bisexual, no such thing. You either suck dick, or you do not suck dick. I mean, what are these guys? Do they get up in the morning and flip a coin? Heads I want hair pie, tails it's balls across the nose, oh. What a choice huh. I mean you never see a black guy being a gay? How do you give a guy heads from three blocks away and say I love you? Blacks are proud of their pensis, they hold onto it like someone is going to rip it off, you see me, coming down the street yeah. You know a lot of people says to me, Moby, why are you always holding your dick? Well, it wouldn’t be gentlemen to leave it dragging it on the ground behind me. And while you're at why don't you be a gentleman and unstop the toilet. And plunge the kitchen sink, it can always use it. The blacks know what I'm talking about. They know, throw it up here let me just show em.

Are you saying that there are no black gays?  Who are you trying to fool?

5 minutes ago, KannikaP said:

Are you saying that there are no black gays?  Who are you trying to fool?

You'll have to ask Andrew Dice Clay about that one. 😆

5 hours ago, Lewie London said:

So I gets this random text yesterday around 6PM, out the blue, it’s Neville from Norwich. You know the one, bit of a knob when he’s on the piss, but harmless with it. Normally only shows his mug in Patts around Christmas, when the weather back home’s colder than his ex-wife’s wizard sleeves. But here he is, middle of summer, decided he missed the smell of rank fermented fish, overripe durian, and cheap perfume too much to wait for December.

 

“Lewie, mate. Bevies on me. Down BuaKhao. You know the gaff. Get your arse over here.”

 

Fair play, I think. Ain’t seen him in a while, might as well humour the lad. So I rock up to this little beer bar halfway down the soi. A bit of a tired and dusty joint, but his fave for some reason. Place with the fairy lights that don’t work and them plastic chairs that collapse if you breathe on ‘em wrong.

 

And there he is, Neville. Leo in one hand, cigarette in the other, dressed a bit like a Pokémon fruitcake, lookin’ like a tourist brochure for ‘Small town bloke makes wrong decision to leave Blighty.’ But here’s the real twist, he’s flanked on both sides by two absolute units. Not women. Nah. Straight-up ladyboys. And I don’t mean the ones where you have to squint to tell. I’m talkin’ six-footers, one with a crotch bulge like a shepherd’s pie. He’s sittin’ there like the tofu in the center of a suspicious roast beef sandwich, grinnin’ like he’s just won the raffle at the working men’s club.

 

I sit down, give him the look, you know the one, raised eyebrow, tilt of the head, silent: “Mate… seriously?”

 

He clocks it. “What? What you givin’ me that look for, bruv?”

 

I lean in, keep it polite, keep it down low. “Neville, mate… you do realise them two ain’t exactly regular, natural born girls and that, yeah?”

 

He laughs it off, waving his beer around like Churchill addressing the troops. “Don’t be daft, Lew. Just tall birds, innit. Models or summat. Lucky me.”

 

Models. Right. Last page of the Bangkok Post maybe.

 

I tried, I really did. Gave him the whole gentle breakdown, the “Look at the feet, mate” routine. Even pointed out the Adam’s apple on the one like a biology teacher doin’ revision. Suggested he do a bit of a feel under the hood on that one with the hefty package. But no, he weren’t havin’ any of it. Fully committed to the dream. You could see it in his eyes, he thought he was about to live out some kind of tropical "Man With The Golden Gun" fantasy.

 

I finish my drink, tell him I’ll catch him tomorrow, and make my exit before it turns into something out of them Channel Five documentaries. Went down the road, grabbed myself a couple of pizza slices, nice and simple.

 

Here’s the punchline. One in the morning, my phone buzzes again. Message from Neville.

 

“A meat and two veg. You were right mate.” Sausage emoji. Pint glass emoji. Sad face emoji.

 

Didn’t even reply. Just stared at it like someone who’s watched their team lose on penalties again.

 

But that ain’t even the best bit. He rings me this mornin'. Turns out, back at his hotel, them two cleaned him right out. No violence, no drama, just polite like. Mini bar, emptied. That litre of Glen Fiddich he’d brought over from Heathrow duty-free, gone. Four Leos, two cans of Coke, three packets of overpriced Pringles, and that big Toblerone that’s been gatherin’ dust in the fridge since Songkran. Not stolen, just all consumed, like two scaffolders on a tea break. And him sittin’ there, wallet on empty, hungover, and full of regret, starin’ at the minibar price list like it’s his final exam paper.

 

So that’s Neville’s big summer holiday first-night sorted. Arrives in the hub of cocks in frocks, unexpectedly went for a wander on the wild side, dignity shattered, minibar destroyed.

 

See you at Christmas, mate.

 

Pattaya — undefeated.

I love it. Very good description of the average of Pattaya's long term tourists or residents even. Sex up to fullest as if this is the most important exercise in old age. Just a few moments before passing away. Many of those are left overs or kicked out of their marriage years ago, spending their poor life with little money in Pattaya. 

Thank you for your picture.

I'm sure all those who I mentioned will give me thumbs down.

Start now 😂