ONE FLU OVER THE CUCKOO'S NEST Just another Corona jab.

    Sitting in Bangkok airport, waiting for the 6.10pm flight to Sydney for our one-week break. Guess who’s hungover? (A) Me. (B) David Hasselhoff. (C) The pilot. (D) Imelda Staunton. You’ve chosen to ask the audience. ‘A’ seems to be the answer there with an overwhelming 92%. David Hasselhoff on a disappointing 5% and Imelda picking up the remaining 3% Catholic vote simply because she once played an abortionist. But we’ve locked in ‘A’. And yes! Good work from the audience, as the answer we were looking for is indeed ‘A’. Me. I am hungover. No surprises there. And onto our second question for 1 million baht: Who met a Loatian guy whilst doing the groundwork on the hangover? (A) Me. (B) David Hasselhoff. (C) The pilot. (D) Imelda Staunton. No need for a lifeline there and we’ve locked in ‘A’. And the answer is ‘A’ ! And that’s 1 million baht!!! Nice work everyone and here’s a commercial about incense.
    He came back to mine. There are 1004 worse ways to finish up a month-long episode in Thailand. Just ask Nicole Kidman.
    This is the only sex I have had here. But it’s not the only sex I have been involved in in Bangkok. “There’s an odd couple of sentences that I wasn’t expecting to be reading today although I sense we’re about to head down Gay Street again and can I be bothered with that?”, I hear you pondering aloud, cup of coffee momentarily hovering over the cryptic crossword. It’s less of a riddle when I explain that a bunch of us (male and female, gay and straight, young and less young) went to a club where the entertainment wasn’t exactly juggling or magic. No no no. Unless the juggler and the magician were both men and were naked and they were cuddling. Cuddling in the most rapacious way you can imagine. After doing a bit of this cuddling on a small stage, they suddenly moved off it and emerged into the audience and continued cuddling there. I was, by chance, nearest the exit from the stage and so suddenly had the juggler and musician cuddling like a pair of jack rabbits over my lap. Quite literally. The juggler even had a hand on my knee for stability. I politely tucked a 100 baht note into the juggler’s g-string which was at this point more of a strained j than a relaxed g. They then made their way around the room, showing everyone how good they were at cuddling. A very helpful man followed them around, shining a little torch on them so you wouldn’t miss a trick. You would think witnessing such an act might make one feel tawdry or voyeuristic. Not in the least! I explained to Jackie (our leading lady), who we bumped into immediately afterwards, that it was like watching some street theatre. Or being approached by a charity volunteer who is ignoring the rules about personal space. Perhaps a mixture of the two. It sure as hell wasn’t mime.
    Despite happily attending the juggling show, I had no urge to see one of the ubiquitous ping pong/darts/razors/watch-me-pull-a-chicken-out-of-my-vag shows. The two girls who do the hair on Mamma Mia, or The Wiggies, were telling me about it. They shook their heads and said she was cheating because she had to have a pipe up there or something. I pointed out that sticking a pipe up oneself big enough to hide a darts set could not really be brought under the auspices of cheating, but they refused to be either impressed or hoodwinked.
    Apart from watching live sex, I haven’t really been the Perfect Tourist in Bangkok. For example, I’ve only seen one temple. The one where you can see the famous reclining Buddha. He’s terribly large and he exercised a strange effect over me, in that all I wanted to do for three weeks was recline. Was it the heat? The work schedule? The pollution and noise? The spankingly comfy bed in my hotel room with its Pillow Menu (yes you read that correctly)? Or was it a gentle nudge from Mr Enlightenment himself, telling me to slow down and smell the sheets? Either way, I didn’t go to the Royal Palace, or the Silk House or the weekend markets. Nor did I go and pat a tiger at the Tiger Temple where they are allegedly given beer to keep them all cuddly and stop them from tearing the faces of curious tourists. I did manage a night and a day at Hua Hin, a beach 2 hours south of the city. For one pound you can lay on a sturdy banana bed with a mattress all day, so we did. For four quid you can ride a horse up and down the sand. So we did. For about twelve quid you can get on a jet-ski for half an hour and discover how ladyboys make their balls disappear. So we did. Up behind the lounges was a gas burner and some big plastic buckets in a small lean-to made of old bits of wood and palm leaves. There was an old sarong thrown across the front, and an even older grandma was having a kip on a faded mattress to the side. From this small group of objects emerged amazing food: spankingly fresh, made-a-minute-ago spring rolls, delectable seafood salads, crepes for Buddha’s sake! All for which you would happily pay big bucks in a much fancier setting. I’ll never know how they did it. That sarong hid mysteries more ancient and powerful than all those along the Nile and Tigris combined. Clever Thailand.
    And so to Sydney. And then, because I haven’t caught enough planes this year, a quick trip up to Bris Vegas for my brother-in-law’s 50th. I certainly hope my sister hasn’t hired a magician…
    
    Hasta Mañana ’til we meet again.