It has been 6 long months since I stepped foot in Pattaya. I thought that this could make a terrific sentence with which to begin actually writing my first article in almost as long, until I read Stickman’s last Sunday column. Which begins “It has been 6 long months since I stepped foot in Pattaya”.
With the red shirt protests ensuring that I would not be able to watch Iron Man 2 in IMAX, with the army lurking around Silom and Asok, and with the fact that I had already eaten the last pie in the Big Mango Bar, coupled with the 3-day holiday weekend, it seemed a good time to get out of town.
Not only that, but my surrogate father, On Nutter was also heading to Pattaya, as were The Heckler and his motley crew. So where better to harbor oneself from the slight inconveniences of Bangkok than amidst the utter mayhem of Pattaya?
I got on the wankerbus at Ekamai on Friday afternoon, and three fucking hours later was finally deposited safely amongst some of the finest scumbags in Thailand. I watched Star Wars on my iPod on the bus. The original cut, natch. Han shoots first. Star Wars is ace.
I unpacked, scrubbed up, and headed to Walking Street, grabbing a cheeseburger on the way, and checked out the new Baccara on Walking Street. It was absolutely rammed, but I managed to nestle between two fat Japanese gents on a barstool by the wall. One and out. Next up, Airport club, where I ran into The Heckler and company. Once again, the bar was completely packed…
I like Airport, but they’re victims of their own success – the bar just isn’t big enough to pack all the customers in. I think half of Bangkok must have been in Pattaya at the weekend… On Nutter, it transpired, was in the all-new Iron Bar next door, which was similarly chock-a-block.
I joined The Heckler’s entourage for a swift beer down the road at some bar with ear-splitting dance music, hookahs and friendly service staff which may have been called 66 Route(?), then left the disco kiddies in there and went to meet On Nutter at the slightly less up-market Roo Bar, where he was reading the palm of an unfortunate bargirl.
We moved on to one of the Simon beer bar complexes as the Roo Bargirl wiped away her tears and contemplated her future life as a housewife in Saudi Arabia.
On Nutter has had an epiphany of late, and now speaks bargirl English on a full-time basis. It is easier than learning Thai, he says, defensively. Well – he actually says “learning Thai velly hard mak mak, me speak like this good more”. He doesn’t just do it to bargirls though. He does it to everybody.
A friendly enough, if plain (sorry dad) bargirl appeared on On Nutter’s lap within moments of us sitting down. She looked at me. “Is that your son?”
“Yes yes, him son me”, he muttered with a paternal air. On Nutter tells me that he is getting a little fed up of being referred to as everybody’s Dad. My suggestion that he hit the town with Young Penfold so as to enable bargirls to call him Grandad was not, for some reason, gratefully received though…
A few more beers there though, and I was ready to cut loose. Nobody else in the bar appealed, and the time was already somehow after midnight. A crawl through the various beer bars on my way to the hotel eventually bore fruit, with a girl who not only performed like a Henry Hoover (score!) but also kind of looked like a Henry Hoover (double score!).
After another sterling vacuuming from Henry, I sent her scurrying and prepared myself for The Most Important Meal Of The Day. The only question was where I would be having it. Rosie O’Grady’s is probably my favorite option in Pattaya. I telephoned On Nutter, another fellow breakfast aficionado, but was to be disappointed.
It would, of course, be scurrilous behavior indeed for me to use this platform to accuse a friend of being parsimonious. So instead, I shall declare that On Nutter has an eye for a bargain. Which is presumably why he was staying at an affordable hotel approximately some twenty-six miles from Walking Street. He invited me to breakfast at his hotel restaurant, where a full English breakfast could be enjoyed for 99 baht. I was staying within a stone’s throw of the beach. It was a long walk.
On the way, I encountered an older, bespectacled grey-haired gentleman wearing a mauve fishnet t-shirt. flouncing along Second Road. His nipples were clearly visible through the weave. Pattaya expats are fucking mental.
To be fair, breakfast wasn’t actually that bad. Not overwhelming by any stretch, but there is sometimes a vindictive pleasure in polishing off a meal before On Nutter can ask “are you going to finish that?”. Although these days, it’s more like “you not eat all, yes?”. My guts did begin grumbling shortly afterwards, but I think it was probably the cheeseburger from the night before. Definitely not the beer.
The only football match of any appeal wasn’t on until 9pm, so I wandered through town, had a foot massage and eventually retired to the Pattaya Beer Garden to drink beer and watch cheesy music videos. On Nutter joined me for dinner there, after which we hit the Simon bars again to watch Aston Villa and Man City forget how to play football.
I managed two beers – one in the first half, and one in the second, guts by now well and truly in rotary overload, and took that as a cue that I should probably retire early. I went back to the hotel, alone, and watched The Empire Strikes Back on my iPod in bed. The original cut, with the chimpanzee. Star Wars rocks.
I woke up, had a nice big wank and an epic poo, and undertook the marathon stroll to the Issan suburb in which On Nutter’s hotel is located. Rather than the 99 baht bargain plate, I went for the up-market 139 baht breakfast, which has extra breakfast on it. It was good.
I almost finished it, but even On Nutter didn’t fancy polishing off the half-slice of fried bread and bacon rinds. “You same same black heart man”, he said, top-lip a-wobble, appalled by the fact that I’d scoffed the best bits.
He was heading back to Bangkok after breakfast. I was staying an extra day, so bade him farewell and had a wander around the town for a while. I wanted to watch Liverpool bravely lose to Chelsea at 8pm, but had nothing to do until then, so eventually stopped for a massage.
The massage girl was chatty, and told an amusing story about how she’d had to leave her last job because she broke an Indian customer’s pair of glasses. Apparently he’d put them on the tiled floor during the massage, then when he’s asked her to wank him off she’d accidentally trodden on them in her haste to run away… No extras for me then.
She was interested in Bangkok life, and it sounded as if she’d never been. “How much do you pay your girlfriends in Bangkok?”, she asked.
I tried to explain the concept of dating Thai girls who make their own money in decent jobs, and who don’t expect a regular stipend from their “boyfriend”, but she – like more than a few readers, no doubt – scoffed at the idea.
It does go a long way to explaining my silence online these days though. I’m afraid there’s no conspiracy. There’s no secret double life or pseudonymous website. I mean, I still occasionally barfine, as I told the massage girl, but what can i really say about that that I haven’t said already? Most of the girls I’ve dated recently have been students, office girls, hotel staff… Nobody wants to read about that, and I don’t particularly want to write about them either. Having already written about pretty much every farang-oriented bar in Bangkok, there just isn’t much left to say.
Later, I walked the entire length of Walking Street in an attempt to find a bar which was not only showing the football, but was also playing English commentary instead of music. I failed. I watched it in a nameless Walking Street beer bar, cried a bit at the end, then met up with the sorely missed Pattaya Ghost for a couple more beers. From there, I went to a nearby gogo which will remain nameless, because I’d heard the girls there were kind of dirty.
They were very dirty indeed. An elderly bearded chap was standing over the jacuzzi, red-faced and rapt, fucking the bejesus out of a portly but surprisingly happy-looking bargirl with an empty beer bottle. The presence of the bottle was not immediately apparent from my angle. It looked like Rolf Harris was fisting Bella Emberg. American readers may picture Colonel Sanders fisting Roseanne Barr instead. I’m all for a bit of mucky filth, but that was just a little too much for my delicate tastes. Check bin.
On to a couple more beer bars, more alcohol, some light sex, and a drunken stumble back to the hotel.
Check-out time was 12pm. The staff were hammering on the door at 12.01pm shouting “okay mister you stay one more night”. I don’t think I’ll stay there again. Rage.
Hung-over half to death, I went for a light omelette breakfast up soi LK Metro. I managed to stuff about half of the roll of limp matter down my throat before I gagged, then crossed the street to Lolita’s where my Service Provider did much the same thing.
All good things must come to an end, but I felt that this hangover might not. I got a motorbike to Pattaya bus station, where I was faced with a horde of bastards who all wanted to get on my bus. Rage.
The time printed on my bus ticket was almost an hour away. The sun was slowly baking my head, along with the rest of Chonburi, and I was surrounded by hung-over prostitutes and farang idiots with tattoos on their tattoos. On their faces. Rage.
Almost an hour later, I was drenched in sweat, my t-shirt two tones darker than it was supposed to be, and I’d accidentally spilt my drink all over my feet – rage – but at least, sweet mercy, it was time to get on the bus.
I trudged to the gate, wiped another river of sweat from my brow, and handed the ticket inspector my bus ticket. “No”, she smiled. Rage.
This was not my bus. My bus was supposed to be here, but due to the backlog, this was actually the bus which was due 45 minutes ago. My bus would be the one after the one after the one after the next one. Double rage.
I looked at the woman. I looked at my ticket. I looked at my sodden self, and at the lowest forms of life who surrounded me. Rage overload. I felt a brief moment of overwhelming calm, as a wave of furious energy swept through my body, before a sudden outpouring of vitality – a transition to the ethereal, if you will. I actually physically exploded.
It was pretty cool, actually. It’s a good way to go. Bits of my skull actually pierced the roof of the bus station. One severed hand, curled into a fist of angst, actually punched a ladyboy in the ear. “Him boxing you”, On-Nuttered her chuckling companion. It’s contagious, I tell you.
A gout-ridden left ankle landed in the huge tureen of green curry in the corner of the station – and nobody noticed for 3 days.
Great unfurling lengths of my digestive tract impacted into the ticket inspector with such force as to knock her onto her back, blocking the walkway and causing three skinheads from Dagenham with tattoos behind their ears to miss the bus. Victory.
My cock and balls actually landed in a 345lb American’s arse-cleavage, which was slightly embarassing – particularly as he couldn’t reach around to remove them, and was left flailing for them with his right arm behind his back, turning in ever-decreasing anti-clockwise circles until he got dizzy and suddenly sat down, crushing my severed genitals like a pair of lead space-hoppers dropping onto a burrito and a brace of pickled eggs. It wasn’t pretty.
My mortal soul gagged a little, and departed the scene, swiftly ascending to Atheist Purgatory, a concept which seemed funnier when I thought of it in the pub, but which is now proving rather difficult to flesh out in any way, shape or form.
There, I watched Return of the Jedi on my ethereal iPod. The original cut, with the eyebrows. Bit of a let-down, if I’m honest.
“It was I who allowed the Alliance to know the location of the shield generator. It is quite safe from your pitiful little band. An entire legion of my best troops awaits them”, said The Emperor, shortly before said legion was defeated by a bunch of fucking teddy bears with sticks.
I mean, when the reinforcements got surrounded, why didn’t they just shoot the Ewoks? They had all the guns. Idiots.
The battery ran out at this point, and the spirit of my mortal soul thought it was about time, really. George Lucas should have quit while he was ahead. As should we all.
Still, not a bad weekend. I’ve had worse.
Editor’s note: Bangkok Bad Boy will not be writing any more articles for the foreseeable future, as he has exploded.