Thankfully the barman started up a fire twirling demonstration of astonishing skill and provided enough distraction to allow my embarrassing stumble into the garden to go unnoticed by everyone, except for the frog I sat on. He noticed that being sat on by an ass was not the way he thought, or hoped, he would go out. No longer needing to act shit faced, I returned to command spliff centre and was delighted to find a circulating coconut that had its fresh contents strengthened with Bacardi rum. The calls of "Happy Christmas" were certainly more warmly received now
The brilliance of the fire twirling display was surpassed by brilliance's total opposite, in regard to human intelligence, when a group of Germans menaced each other with rapidly sparking fire rockets. I had the camera out in case of a explosively kaleidoscopic fatality but I had to replace it feeling somewhat disappointed. Fireworks aren't illegal in Thailand but probably should be given the manner in which they are used by most.
One sharp Irish tool took it upon himself to set off a few rockets just behind a reclining patron, narrowly avoiding giving him a permanent centre parting, or a smoking explosive where his head used to be. He then wrapped an entire string of penny-crackers in a tight bundle around a pole, which all exploded at once like a bomb rather than in succession. His grand finale was to throw the unexploded penny-crackers in the fire to shoot sparks over the whole area. Raining hot sparks on everyone seemed like a hilarious thing to him but tiny burns all over my legs didn't incline me towards fits of laughter. Especially when one really loud bang nearly made me do something involuntary. And messy.
With a disbelieving crowd of other open-mouthed Westerners, Hacksaw O'Reilly then went for an encore and gave the fire a stoking, accidentally igniting dormant crackers, removing his eyebrows in the process and nearly replacing his eyeballs with hot coals. Not wanting to be inspired by his folly, I absquatulated with the remainder of my decidedly ash tasting whiskey and drank it well out of firing range. (Didn't think I would ever find cause to use that word, did you Dad?) My spirits were soon lifted when some bikini clad foreigner in an elves hat, started dancing wildly while fireworks were shooting from her hands. Obviously completely off her tits, she was making the martyred Saviour proud with the degree of debauchery she was enjoying.
Drinking alone, everything started to kick in at once for me. Intoxicants, environment, heartache, the past year, letting the Saviour down with a score card patently down on ticks, and strongest of all, lack of sleep. I gave up on trying to covert my neighbour, as Volka was my only option, and realised it was time to start treating my body like a temple again, and not an amusement park. Not wanting to turn into a pumpkin, or a parking inspector, I decided that Christmas day, as an event, was fading into memory, or a state beyond that possibility.
I soon became vaguely aware that arriving at this state had been part of my plan all along. To go out with a bang by partying like a man possessed, in an amazing beach town with totally loose travelers, great food, cheap beer, and nothing of consequence needing to be done anytime soon. I had never cut sick and gone life-menacingly mental overseas. I was either playing at being a monk, or traveling with card-playing, budget conscious partners, all who had long ago given up flying like a moth around my light.
Partying with a man in his early 40's had a very sobering affect on me though. Is this how I wanted to be in10 years time, because that pathway was laying wide open before me, here and now? If I continue to party like a crazy teenager at age 31, that is exactly where I'll be.
And no disrespect at all to Volka. He is undoubtedly having the time of his life being totally off his face 24 / 7 for the entirety of his holiday. Not a bad life really. But not the life for me at the end of the day. I think I am destined for far different things. As a Brisbane friend Koby so articulately put it, my destiny is to be swallowed by the world and sent cascading through its intestines lined with adventure. I add though, in a manner appropriate to the person I want to be, and not the person I am. Spending entire days recovering from partying with people half your age is not really worthy of the tag 'adventurous'. Unless one of your drinking partners is a probe-happy alien, or Jesus himself, recently resurrected just for the party. So it seems that things always turn out the way they are supposed to.
As I returned to the bungalow, Natures starry wall paper finally came into full bloom. I turned my eyes to the skies once last time, and marveled at the familiar sights of Orion, Telescopium and the 7 Sisters, joined by a far greater support army of tiny pin-pricks than is visible from inner city Brisbane. Unfortunately there was no sisters here, nor any single women either for that matter, at least none that could arouse any interest in me. One delicate tart had initially caught my eye, until I noticed that she had gone to the trouble of adorning herself with some dashing formal beach camel toe. I am into the concept of the camel toe, hating it yet still secretly digging it. But I am yet to see it done in an even remotely attractive way.
The night was punctuated by regular SMSs from home though. A certain friend decided that I was to be the lucky recipient of hourly updates on her state of intoxication and hence, the resultant effect that had on her state of arousal. And given the rapid deterioration in my sense of equilibrium, that was enough for this Christmas night. Once home, I took a photo of myself and discovered the next morning that I had been out all night with my top on backwards.
