Freewheelin’ in S.E.A - Day 3: What’s poppin', baby?

12.10.12

Both hanging like rapists in Tehran, Brady and I went and got a traditional Thai breakfast in some local joint. The strange concoction of eggs, onions, spice, and some other unidentifiable ingredients did enough to mop up the remnants of last night’s buckets, and we jumped in a tuk-tuk, ready to start the afternoon, as we’d missed the day. Just as we neared the Golden Palace it started to piss down, and as we pulled up a local twelve year old girl sold Brady a couple of cheap plastic rain ponchos. We must’ve looked like a right couple of arseholes as we entered the grounds, all green and bright pink, like a couple of walking glow-sticks at a rich nu-ravers fifteenth birthday party, circa 2009. To add insult to injury, it stopped raining almost instantly after putting them on. That cheeky ol’ Lord playing tricks on his disciples, “Ain’t nobody got time for that”. I pulled mine off and lost it somewhere shortly after.

It turned out that the palace was closing in half an hour, although they were still selling tickets at fifteen bucks a pop to unaware tourists. We knocked it on the head, had a brief walk around the grounds, and then shot off to see the Reclining Buddha at a temple called Wat Pho. At forty feet high, and one hundred feet long, this gigantic golden statue depicted Lord Buddha himself, laid on his side looking even more Zen than usual. It was alright. The grounds were really peaceful, and there were shrines everywhere. The hazy afternoon tiredness was taking its toll but Brady, who was soon to be teaching in Phuket, wanted a nice leather satchel so he’d look even more like a distinguished gentlemen then he did already. We walked in circles trying to find Chinatown, and when there realised it was just a spiralling mass of shit stores, all selling the same stuff from door to door. There was a stereo area, a sunglasses area, a gun area but nothing worth buying or eating. I was shocked, if they keep this up they’ll have no chance of taking over the world. In total we’d walked about five miles, and my body was drained as darkness descended upon us. We were carried home by another Tony, who dropped us at the night market. Brady got given the old “Come look” by another guy holding a card with a load of ping pong tricks listed. I stayed downstairs as he went up, but then thought I should probably help him out, so I marched up the stairs after thirty seconds or so and said “Come on, lets go”. We agreed we’d check it out for a drink with the other guys later, found a nice tan satchel for the boy wonder, and then hit the hostel for another shower and more drinks with the Lub D massive. 

Our gang played a few drinking games with some lame ‘spring break’ type chicks from Canada, offing our cheap bottle of Sangsun rum with relative ease, then bailed on them to hit the streets of Silom. Alex, Scott, Maddie, Brady and I all agreed that we had to witness one of these infamous ping pong shows whilst in Bangkok and the first guy that approached us held a card with a twenty-strong list of pussy performances his bar had on offer, with FREE ENTRY, NO CHARGES written on the bottom and he gave us the promise of 100 baht drinks. It sounded good to us, and we entered a dark blue bar with seats all around and a stage with four poles, each adorned with its own second rate stripper in various states of undress. Almost immediately, a skinny, bookish type started pulling flowers out of her flower, all joined by string which she proceeded in tying around each pole, whipping another metre or two out every minute or so. She had a kind of grace I had never witnessed before, she seemed earnest in her work, producing more flowers than a sunny spring. I went to take a photo on my phone, and a raging stripper came at me. “NO PHOTO” she screamed as I tried to blag that I was sending a text. I hadn’t taken any shots, so I showed her my gallery and declared my innocence. “DO YOU WANT TO DIE” she shouted. I just grinned in her face, thinking about how amusing an anecdote my death would have been, when I got reincarnated as a pimp.

So, you're guaranteed to pull...

I walked towards the toilet, past four or five more girls, and one of them grabbed at my crotch. Now I finally know how it feels to be a woman at a Kasabian gig. Before I could even get my cock out at the urinal, one of them was on me, “Ooh, big man, you want a hand?” Now, I can get stage fright at the best of times, let alone when a prostitute is hanging off of my back trying to watch me aim at a dissolving yellow block. I told her that I couldn’t piss with her standing there, she pretended to leave, but kept popping her head around the door like she was playing peekaboo with a two year old. I gave up, zipped up my fly and returned to my seat to tell the guys of my plight. Then out came a birthday cake with thirteen candles, which were quickly blown out through a straw by some past it blonde who looked happy to be there. She then bent over in front of us, and smoked a whole cigarette in about five drags. We all applauded, she was a good sport and that was some talent. I could see why Bill Clinton fell for Monica Lewinsky. Another of the ‘girls’ looked proper suspect, like a brick-layer with a boob job that still liked a fry up. Out of nowhere we and the table to the left were under attack by missiles from her gusset. When the second one landed in a glass beside me, I realised it was half a banana. The next one came right at us, hit an ashtray that Scott was holding then headed towards his head as I dodged to the left. “Something just hit my eye”, he said with a hilariously panic-stricken face, “Either the banana or some juice just went in my eye” he worriedly explained, as the rest of us fell about in laughter. I’ll never forget that look; it was pure fear in the most unlikely of circumstances. I told him to go and rinse it, but he was obviously still worried after my experience and asked if I’d go with him. I felt sorry for him and with a bladder ready to burst, I agreed. However, as soon as I got into the toilet I had a change of heart, quickly locking myself in a cubicle to freely wee whilst he fended off the attention and washed the Hep C out of his eye. We returned to finish our beers, witnessed three balloons on the ceiling getting shot by fanny fart darts, and an egg being laid, then cracked into a bowl, then went to settle our bill. Our 100 baht drinks had each had an extra 1000 each added to them for the show. We argued, I threw down my 100, fended off one of the performer’s baskets with a 20 and got out of the door first, followed by Scott, Maddie and Alex. No Brady. Worried he was getting killed by rabid hookers, I ran up the stairs, back in, and grabbed him. “They stuck me for 300” he said disappointedly. Still, £6 isn’t that high a price for such a hilarious series of events.

Alex suggested a place called Soy Cowboy, and a tuk-tuk Tony obliged us once again. This place was like Disneyland for whore mongers and the depraved, an ugly, vibrant, neon blast to the face from every angle. I liked it. After a quick scout around, we let Maddie pick the destination, a place named Spice Girls with a long, narrow stage and seating all around. We were sat in a booth and given a drink menu. They were double the last places price but less chance of extra costs. I don’t really recall any of them doing anything, perhaps they slowly stripped but I don’t really remember. What I do remember in great detail is the guy in the booth beside us. He was a ratty looking white dude in a black shirt, with an intensely attracted look on his face. He was gripped.  What gripped me was when I looked down to clearly see his prick poking up through his white, linen trousers. I whispered to my right for confirmation from Alex, then pointed it out to the others, and we constantly laughed at his little boner as he lapped up the attention he was getting from the girls, who could see dollar signs in his lonely eyes. They each had a number on them, and if you wanted you could pay a bar fine and take them away from the stage for the night. We finished up; I took a final look at the still aroused rat-man, and chuckled my way out of the door. We said we’d do one more bar then home, but after walking into a place called Déjà vu, we felt like we’d seen it all before, and walked out. A guy on the street was selling cooked bugs, and we took the bait in our drunken state. For 20 baht we got a bag with an assortment of crickets, tiny frogs, cockroaches and some other unappetising shit. Still, it was another new experience so we gave it a go. The crickets and frogs weren’t too bad, but the other ones were pretty gnarly. We took a tuk-tuk towards our hostel, and once again committed that cardinal sin of seeking another beer and ending up in McDonalds. I was having more showers than summer in London so far at this hostel, and added to my tally before doing another wet bed dream dive.