Primed Ministers

Politics today is awash with larger than life characters, lunatics on the loose and dodgy dealers who have more ulterior motives than a priest in a Catholic Boys School. Their cards are kept millimetres from their chests and their real faces are seldom seen. Given these traits they more resemble 1970’s B-circuit spandex-clad mask-toting wrestlers than progressive leaders of their respective states. I’ve decided to pit 8 of the most current, and news catching, Presidents/Premiere’s against each other in an 8 person cage fighting knock-out tournament to see which president really is King of the Hill.











Bout 1.
Ismail Haniyeh vs. Angela Merkel
What a mouth watering opener on the cards. A battle of two significantly religiously motivated leaders; Quran against the Bible, the first bout most certainly is a Jihad. Merkel is first into the arena in a Karl Lagerfeld designed two-piece latex suit in East-German colours. The crowd are on their feet as a David Hasselhoff classic accompanies her to the ring, indeed The Hoff is in her corner for the evening. Haniyeh arrives with a military style cortège in army fatigues to the music of 2 become 1 by the Spice Girls, a sarcastic touch aimed at Ariel Sharon who is present for the event in an incubator. Merkel is obviously fired up for the fight as she’s seen reading Revelations before the bell sounds. Haniyeh burns a picture of West-Germany’s triumphant world dup winning team of 1990; Merkel is unphased. Haniyeh’s eyes are barely visible through his balaclava as the two fighters lock arms for the first time. Merkels face is covered in chocolate and all the sugar seems to be fuelling her energetic spurt in the opening minute. She muscles Haniyeh to the ground and sits on his face, all 250lbs of German gateaux seem to be too much for the Palestinian to cope with. He rummages through his jacket with his one free hand to release a switch for the 10lbs of semtex he’s wearing. The Hoff notices the incendiary device and gives Merkel an ‘Achtung, Baby!’, she quickly holds her breath twists around and smothers the burly Hamas leader with her wide berth. Two seconds later a plume of smoke gushes out around her body as she manages to contain the explosion. Haniyeh lies frazzled and scorched on the ground redundant in defeat and legless. Merkel takes the opening match and is greeted with a donut from The Hoff.














Bout 2.
Kim Jong Il vs. George W. Bush
The secretive and bespectacled Kim Jong shows his sense of humour by walking out to the Team America tune ‘I’m so Ronery’, coincidently Matt Parker and Trey Stone were reported missing by their families earlier that day. His grey polyester suit has been replaced by a grey PVC gimp suit with rhino horn on the forehead. G.W. fumbles out on a pogo stick with Dick Cheny alongside him. They are trying to keep their hops in beat to the beat of ‘Black Eyed Boy’ by Texas. In the ring Kim Jong rushes G.W., while he’s taking off his Stetson and a plastic sheriffs badge, and gives him a kidney full of ivory, Kim Yon also seems to have passed a note to G.W., which he gets Dick Cheny to read for him. While Dick reads the note G.W. nails Kim Jong with his signature move the ‘Presidential Sweep’ and leaves Kim Jong winded on the deck. Dick has a word in G.W.’s ear just as he’s about to go for the kill. Suddenly G.W. looks to the back of the arena and notices his two daughters topless with electrodes stuck to their nipples. It seems Kim Yon had lured them with two North Korean models offering them cocaine and cock, an offer the Bush girls couldn’t refuse. Kim Jong has pulled off his own patented move ‘The Kidnap’ and pushed Bush into the corner. Kim Jong regains his wind and beats the non-retaliatory Bush to a bloody pulp and takes the fight, and his Stetson.










Bout 3
Tony Blair vs. Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf
Tony reveals in a pre-fight press conference that he was known as Scare Blair amongst his peers in the halls of Oxford University and that he’s going to re-kindle some of his Marquis of Queensbury skills during the match. Johnson-Sirleaf has been training back at Harvard with her old professor Dr. Howard Porter. She arrives in naked and smeared head-to-toe in chicken’s blood with Orbitals ‘Zulu’, featuring Afrikaa Bambaataa, ripping the base out of the sound system. Blair is smooching Cherie in the corner whilst wearing a pair of Union Jack Speedo’s and he seems to have a large heart, with Robin Cooks face on it, tattooed to his chest. There is an upbeat tempo in the first round as Johnson-Sirleaf’s drummers yell and bang away. Blair is dazzling on his toes and winning the points battle with a succession of jabs and left-hooks. Johnson-Sirleaf stays with it until the bell sounds. At the rest she is in talks with her witch-doctor and comes out with added pep in her step clutching a small pouch of some sorts. She flings the contents of the pouch over Blair which temporarily blinds him. Suddenly a crack appears in the floor and a goat rises to the surface, planted there before the bout by her Seconds. Blair lets out a roar and Robin Cook crawls out of his tattoo heart on his chest. Cook battles the goat, from behind, while Blair sends in a flurry of punches and eventually takes the bout. Cook had to be pulled from the goat who looks a little gruff after its encounter.














Bout 4.
Junichiro Koizumi vs. Jacques Chirac
Junichiro has prepared by visiting a beauty salon 9 times per day priming his skin to be the softest and smoothest in the world in an effort to have punches slide off his face. His ninja outfit, minus the head piece to protect his immaculate coiffe, was hand sewn by 400 geishas and the fibres used were from 3,000,000 silk worms fed on a diet of caviar and fine wine to optimise style and strength. He announces his arrival with Chesney Hawkes ‘The one and only’ while doing 8 back flips in a row to end up in the ring. Chirac’s theme tune is drowned out by a heckling Donald Rumsfeld in the audience who is shouting ‘Cheese eating surrender monkey’ at the portly ‘Baguette Brawler’, as the press have named him. Chirac can’t keep pace sa the castotrs in his zimmerframe freeze up. The wine and cheese also seem to be hampering the Frenchman as he begins to sway from the excesses of his diet. The Japanese Diet have all turned up and are spraying hair-spray towards the ring to keep Koizumi’s hair in check. After years, and gallons, of hair spray usage Koizumi is immune to the toxicity of the fumes and continues his acrobatics around the ring. Chirac becomes ever-more light headed as the cocktail of cheese, booze and hair-spray kicks in. Koizumi senses his moment, bounces onto Chirac’s shoulders and snaps his neck. Chirac drops like a sack of garlic while a team of make-up artists run in to pamper their victorious combatant.













Semi-final 1
Angela Merkel vs. Kim Jong Il
Merkels family have been taken to a stronghold, to avoid kidnapping, where they can watch their mother/wife battle he North Korean behemoth. Merkel has to be carried out to the arena in a wheelbarrow, by the Hoff, as she is nearly incapacitated by the amount of cakes she has eaten. Kim Jong this time arrives dressed as Elvis in white caped suit with King Kim in rhinestones across the back. The opening round is a non-event as Merkel finishes off her cakes whilst Kim Jong, without his ‘Kidnap’ move, is not making any impression on the gluttonous Chancellor. Round 2 sounds and Merkel has become more animated. She corners Kim Jong who starts shouting profanities at her and making kidnapping threats to the Hoff. She reaches into her spandex, below the belt, and after a quick rummage she produces her very own coined move the ‘Merkel Merken’. This vaginal toupee is then thrust towards Kim Jongs face who gags and gurgles but the pubic mat is forced too hard over his face, eventually afert a tumultuous struggle his will dwindles and Merkel trudges on through to the final.














Semi-final 2
Tony Blair vs. Junichiro Koizumi
Scare Blair shocked all with his body spitting out Robin Cook and is no doubt the favourite for this, the second, semi-final. He is carried out on a throne by the Queens Royal pages and has chosen the ‘William Tell Overture’ to arrive out to. Junichiro is guided out by 4 sumo wrestlers and the head of PR for Wella hair care. These two agile opponents are sure to have the crowd screaming for blood and women will certainly be throwing their panties en masse to the ring. Western vs. Eastern fighting styles one more brutish and the other more elegant. Chop for punch is exchanged through a bruising first two rounds. Blair at one point tried to summon Robin Cook from his chest, but he was last sighted having a G&T with the goat at the bar. Koizumi’s hair is faltering and starting to fray at the edges, his skin is oily and clammy he is having a bad hair day to say the least. Blair is bloodied but fights on, kicking now being added to his repertoire. It’s not the prettiest of fights for the two best looking men in politics. Eventually the third and final bell sounds. It’s down to the judges. The panel is made up of Dr. Hans Blix, Geri ‘Ginger Spice’ Halliwell and Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura, who himself has wrestled with politics. The fighters are flexing their pecks in order to rile the judge’s attention and walk away with best in show. Blix votes in favour of Blair by two points. Ginger Spice goes with Junichiro, who seems a little miffed by the ginger one licking her lips and winking at him. It’s in the hands of The Body. The Body holds up his card to show the twinkle toothed smile of Tony Blair. Immediately Junichiro thrusts a katana through his heart having disgraced himself and the nation. Blair is ecstatic, as is Cherie who greets him with ‘hands-off, ladies’ smooch on the lips.













The final.
Angela Merkel vs. Tony Blair
Its’s an encounter between the old enemies, not for the last time that’s for sure. These two still Royally tied via Queen Victoria have had serious issues over the past ranging from the small matter of a World War (or two), Jaguar vs. Mercedes and football ties throught the decades. The worlds press have ascended on the squared circle to see who wili be crowned as King President of the world. The Hoff this time carries out Merkel in a horse drawn cart as ‘Neunzig Neun Luftbalons’, complete with 99 ballons, belts out. She looks like she means business as she’s eating a cream free sponge cake as she waits for Blair. Blair follows her by leading a British Bulldog draped in a tee-shirt with a picture of a corgi on it and the chime of Big Ben striking 12 midnight as his walk on tune. Merkel opens the encounter with a headlock that Blair counters with a swift kick to Merkels shins. She retaliates with a head-butt, Blair is knocked out for a 6 count. The force of the German Chancellor is looking too much for the English #1. She sits on his face for a minute but Tony’s recent cardio training has left him in good stead and able to weather the storm. Everything Merkel throws at him in the first two rounds is met with a jab and a tally-ho from the relentless Blair. Blair picks up his wife and throws her towards Merkel but she flicks her aside to The Hoffs corner who then pounces on her like Gary Glitter in a crèche. Blair is incandescent with rage and hurls himself feet first towards Merkel. The sound of ribs cracking is greeted with a roar from the blood hungry crowd. Blair sends home Thai-style knees to the head followed by elbow thrusts until Merkels head splits open and cream pours out of her. The Hoff is distraught and flees the ringside as the revellers hail King Tony, the Number 1 President. Some of the headlines the following day read: ‘Blair flicks off der Herr’, ‘Merkel pounded by euro hero’ and ‘The no Blair-hitch project’.

The proletariat cheered on from their living rooms while the diplomatic core rumbled by the ring. The inital King of the Hill clash of the permieres title was a resoundingly good success. The last word went out to the eventual victor of the event, said Blair :'Bloody good show'.

Jacqueisms

Jacques, 87% penal gland and fuelled by more hormones than a High School baseball team, has been bestowing his own unique insights and philosophies on the world since he was a small Kanuck chasing Sasquatch around a Maple Tree.

I've decided to catalogue the cunning linguists more poignant, thought provoking and inspirational opinions, idioms and sayings on the blog so that the masses (all 25 of you) can get a taste of the J-Tor/Jaki-Tori/Jacques and his penis for yourself.

Jacqueism #1:

"BRIDGES ARE AWESOME"

Yes, yes they are. Perhaps he could start his own Peace Mission across the globe on the back of the slogan "Build bridges, 'cos they're awsome". Watch out Geri Halliwell.

Routine in a rut

The days are beginning to get longer, partly in the fact they are largely unfulfilled, as the bullyish winter, whose whining harangues have hounded me for several months now and kept me within the confines of my paper-paneled apartment, re-designs itself to become a more hospitable host in the form of spring. The river bank has swollen as the once powdery snow has begun to thaw and trickle to the bottom of the valley. Frozen dog turd has appeared everywhere which is a little less sightly than the citrusy yellow of the pee stained snow, man made not dog. I wonder will the old man I see every morning continue to maintain his urinary habits as the days go by, not once has he flinched as I pass him with leash in one hand and penis in the other. My neighbours have still never said hello to me once, perhaps in part sue to the fact that I've flooded their house no less than four times. Routine has firmly set in and it's a truly ugly sight.

I come home and take a dump, as I sit on the bowl I notice rogue pubes clinging to the wall at eye-level and wonder how on earth they got there in the first place. The first release is accompanied by a wish, like throwing a penny down a well, as I wait to hear the plop after 2 seconds of free fall to the pit below. The lack of flushing has taken away from a once coveted experience where I used to enjoy eyeballing the poo as it's guzzled by the flue and wonder every-single-time how it works. A quick feed of some sort is followed by firing up the ancient kerosene heater so I can roam around naked post-shower. The shower is accompanied by a jet in every orifice, testimony to my lack of sexual activity and lack of imagination. Fresh boxers and semi-clean tee-shirt clothe me as I then seek refuge under the kotatsu for an hour or so.

Dinner is quickly prepared and even more hastily eaten. I-tunes shuffles through 20-odd gigabytes of music as I wander through the pages of Time's opinions and views on the world today. To my left is a tankard, stained with Coke that must be months old, through which you can see a blurred case of 'The Breakfast Club' on DVD. A curling leaf on the calendar, stuck on a September school exercise scene, rests in the corner. The plastic fedora, a remnant ofHalloween, rests on the arm of the chair by the desk which is cluttered with receipts, bills, an 8-inch Christmas tree and three persistent red lights from the dusty decoder and CD player. Tambourines and maracas, steals from nights out of my predecessor, pile atop the equally unused TV. Haggard bed clothes cover the three futons that have followed me into the living room for the winter. Clothes lie strewn around the kerosene heather which breathes life and yellow stains onto the Irish flag hanging from the doorway.

The docile shadows of all these untouched items have scorched dark portraits onto the 1970's wallpaper. Tinsel adds a little twinkle to the higher echelons of the room but throughout it's a dreary and preserved affair. Postcards from Amsterdam, Dusseldorf, Taiwan and Vietnam bring life to the cork board kept safe by the world's smallest dreamcatcher. Dust balls compiled of lint, scraps and hairs gather at various different hotspots, with all this time on my hands I never get around to doing anything. Lethargy hasn't so much as crept up on me as jumped on my back and covered my eyes while savaging me with sly little kidney punches. I spend 99% of my time beneath the blanket and kotatsu watching DVD's and violating myself. It's only natural the place with the most warmth in the apartment is the place I feel most warmth towards.

My man gland has had somewhat of a lobotomy and refuses to operate on its' own volition. Occasionally I'll surprise myself and revel in the glory of an unprovoked erection as a memory passes by, or better still a real live person as I walk down the street or sit in a bar. The joy of imagining Charles (yes, it has a name) as being a small kitten whom I tickle till it pukes has now been taken over by the image of a defunct Jack Nicholson in 'One Flew Over The Cuckoos Nest' being spoon fed by that nasty matron, and then vomiting. Still though, I persevere and rouse Charles till he's had enough and gives me the knee trembler I want. Blanket then gets a fresh set of sticky white love piss to absorb and I get on with watching that evenings movie. It's seen a lot of action, has my blanket, and not once has it ever complained when it's had to cover the likes of Group D and her hateful Nazi boyfriend or anyone else that's come over to chez Paul for a pyjama party.

Its warm folds, bohemian style and eye-catching features somewhat resembles the finer points of my ideal woman. It's got a lot of history and no doubt an interesting story to tell, I often wonder what we'd talk about. I bet the first thing it'd say to me is 'stop cumming all over me you weirdo', but we'd get past that eventually. Yes, Ninohe is a non-event with all the style and finesse of a three legged donkey draped in a tutu performing an ice-dance routine. There's as much buzz around the town as a hive full of rohipnolled bumble-bees and I've got six months left to go. My self-gratifying habits will continue unless I contract a sexually transmitted disease on my hand or until flesh and bones presents itself on the lilac floral printed futon. So, as the winter recedes to springs tepid advances something may blossom, and if not I'll always have blanket to fall back on.

Divine Wind

A Divine Wind may conjure up images of Pope Razinger squeezing out a stinky one at the altar of St. Peters or John the Baptist embarrassing the family at a Christening by almost suffocating the baby with the remains of some beans on toast. You wouldn’t be wrong in your assumption, but here in Japan it has a rather more potent, less odorous, meaning. Divine Wind is the literal translation of ‘kamikaze’, the airborne suicide bombers made famous for their devotion to their country during World War II.

Why am I going on about this defunct brigade of hardcore nutters without pilots’ licenses? A: Recently President Koizumi, of immaculate hair and unparalleled good looks fame, has been visiting the Yasukuni war memorial beside the Emperors Palace in Tokyo. The shrine is dedicated to those who died in battle fighting for the Japanese in WWII but it is also pays homage to convicted war criminals too. His visits are viewed by many Japanese, including many of his party members in the Japanese Diet, as highly controversial and in complete bad taste, but he still holds strong in opinion polls. Added to this the old enemies of China and South Korea are enraged that such a prominent figure would find time to so publicly look as if he is standing by the actions of people who tortured and murdered so many of their people. On top of pissing off over 1 billion people Koizumi has also begun measures to issue all gaijin (foreigners) with new identity cards that have electronic tagging chips built in. Gaijin in Japan are regarded as dangerous and as having criminalistic tendencies, and racism is rife from Sapporo to Osaka (A Black man was recently refused entry to a store in Osaka and took his case to a lawyer. The judge refused to see the case go to court citing the Black mans inability to speak, and understand, the language as a viable reason for rejecting the case.). This xenophobia and disrespect for tens of thousands dead Koreans and Chinese has lead me to believe one thing: those sneaky Japs are up to something: war is afoot.

For centuries the Japanese have been warring and pillaging with their neighbours, they still regard the Koreans as stupid and the Chinese as lowly peasants. With Japans economy seriously flagging they must be pulling their straight black hairs out at the success of South Korean and Chinese economies. This is a country where disgrace is often too much too bear for a family member who has shamed his brethren and means ostracising him to a paddy field (no Bob…that’s not a park full of Irish ex-pats) far far away. What will a national disgrace like falling from the pedestal as Asia’s strongest warrior do to the ego of the bland dieted Japanese? They are gearing themselves up for a rebuttal on the Geneva Convention which has seen them remain at peace with the world for the past 50 odd years, the longest ever in their history.

We now live in the age of the suicide bomber reaping havoc on cities worldwide. Al-Qaeda took the kamikaze to a new dimension by hurling two 747’s into the twin towers. The origins of the suicide bomber lie in the middle-east when members of warring clans would send paraplegics covered in burning oil and pin-pricked with kebab skewers, tied to camels, behind enemy lines killing harems with zero compassion. The Japanese delved into it first during the Mitsubishi period when they would train monkeys in the art of ninja combat and greco-roman wrestling over year-long periods. The monkeys would then be taken to the summit of Mount Fuji where they would be launched in Sony manufactured origami aeroplanes towards China and Korea. Over the centuries as origami technology developed, and less monkeys signed up for the army, they sent orphans dressed as monkeys, with similar training, striking fear into bricklayers up and down the Great Wall. The invention of the aeroplane and Alfred Nobel’s dynamite obviously gave the Japanese a wider range for their suicide squads. Over the years the Japanese have also employed other suicidal techniques involving torpedoes (kaiten), rocket-propelled gliders (ohka), explosive motorboats and midget submarines. The Japanese made suicide bombings glamorous with bigger explosions than ever seen before and even spruced up their flag for war time. Their glamorous destruction techniques have influenced many different fields of western culture like animation (almost everything explodes when it falls in The Simpson’s), the S.A.S. (their slogan being Death Before Dishonour) and cinema/literature (Ian Fleming’s Bond blew up everything in sight). At home they have recently had two hit movies Hotaru (Firefly) and Gekkou no Natsu (Summer of the Moonlight Sonata), which have strongly influenced current Japanese perceptions about kamikaze pilots. I have asked some of my students what they want to do when they grow up; the most popular response amongst the guys is ‘Die for my country’. Of course this then elicits a response amongst the girls who just want to copulate with these potential heroes. If I was Chinese or Korean I’d be digging a bunker with my chopsticks as we speak.

Having enemies who seemingly have no fear strikes fear into the most battle hardened of foes. I’m currently sitting at my desk, 0815hrs, preparing for the morning meeting. All teachers are present, 54 of them including the principle and vice-principle, and as I look around I’m trying to count the kamikazes amongst me. The ones I fear the most are the quiet men in their early thirties who wouldn’t say boo to a goose and hidden behind surgical masks for 11 months of the year without showing any signs of illness whatsoever. Their steely eyes sometimes cross paths with me and send a shiver down my spine as I picture them with oxygen masks in a cockpit zooming in towards Dublin city centre in a sake-bomb filled Cesna seeking revenge against a tourist who left chopsticks standing in his rice in an izakaya somewhere. After 6months of 2hour power boozing enkais (drinking parties) with these guys, I’ve spotted the vainglorious die-hards amongst them and have e-mailed pictures of them to family and friends back home just in case. Soon we will be hearing of the passionate diaries kept by kamikaze soldiers as the Japanese ensure honour after death for the brave men who will give their lives up in ‘defence’ of their country.

Japan has a reputation as being a nation of fanatics, obsessed with one pursuit and one pursuit only. From Reggae girls decked in all things Rastafarian to bowling teams with robotic gloves and oversized shirts they are hardcore and disciplined, this all stems from their days walking the halls at school. 12 hours per day dressed in starched navy or black uniforms practicing brass band and calligraphy they have an ideal mindset to go to war. My masked sensei’s may not get the chance to career a plane towards Beijing or Seoul, but the eyebrow-less students are soon to get their chance to be gone with the wind.

Last comes first

With such a stressful previous few weeks it was decided to seek the beaches for some relaxation time. A crazy, but hilarious, cockney guy I’d met at Hostel No Name patched me into a place he’d stayed in Sihnoukville for free. What the? Surely no way. Could he be the Daffy to my Richard, was utopia just a channel swim away?

Described as a quaint city with a pleasant location and remnants of both colonial and Indian influences on view we were expecting flower girls bearing smiles whiter then Michael Jackson and a dwarf in a white suit to greet us at the bus depot. Fantasies are what inspire you to go on holiday and it’s often funny when they don’t come anywhere close to your notions. A gravelly tanoy blared out the daily news digest as we pulled in. 10’s of scooter taxis rammed maps to hotels in our faces, kids in oily rags inhaled a yellowy glue-like substance from clear bags whilst dangling from the flailing arms of a ruinous Buddhist statue. Our scooters weaved in amongst the craters eating up the roads. Sand, dust and fumes gave the air a yellowish filter. Paradise it most certainly wasn’t.

The Dolphin Shack, our hostel, will always rank as one of the best places I’ve ever stayed; it’s a pity I’ll have to couple that memory with having the Fuhrer there. Five metres from turquoise waters buffered by floury sand and ocean facing loungers, it was the most idyllic of settings. With the friendliest, and cutest, girls staffing the Shack we couldn’t have picked a better place to sit out the rest of the trip. The board was free provided we ate and drank at the place, ridiculous deal. First things first was a cheers to our new, temporary, abode with a cool beer. It wasn’t long before we were reminded of the country and environment in which we were in. A 5ft plump Finn who looked like Little Britain’s Matt Lucas sat down beside us and pointed out his girl who was a 16 year old hottie in a swim suit. He was only paying her $15 per day and he could sort us out of we wanted similar or we could even just go for a quicky at ‘The Chicken Farm’ where you negotiate sex for 5,000riel ($1.25). Eventually he left and we got on with doing nothing.

Doing nothing was the theme of this, our last leg, of the trip. We ventured out on a mangrove safari but that was ruined with zero dolphin sightings and the fat Russian couple nearly capsizing the boat when they leaned to one side. We rented scooters and found miles of deserted beaches, random Buddhist shrines paying homage to animals around the world and oxen being herded by skinny youths. We actually did that all in one day and pretty much confined ourselves to the Dolphin Shack flirting with the Dolphinettes, playing shithead, and pool the rest of the time. Occasionally we’d head to the beach, all 2meteres away, and throw Frisbee. The Fuhrer can’t throw, I’m embarrassed for him. Each fling results in his arm mimicking the Heil Hitler salute and the Frisbee ending up in the sea or in a shack. Jacques and his penis indulged in all over massages and nail treatments before sniffing around the Dolphinettes.

The usual host of foreigners were on show. The Swedish carpenter who slept more than a koala, the nervous Irish metal-head quiet and polite, the brash English cunt spinning lies with every sentence, the middle-aged American living in Singapore holidaying here bragging about his three girlfriends back home and how cheap the girls were here, the other Irish guy who’d gotten engaged to a weapon of a Cambodian after putting a bun in her oven, everyone had their own story and aspect. We didn’t pay much attention to anyone else really; just let the days pass on by. We had one night of poker where our motley crew was joined by the ubiquitous goobers. Two Norwegians more baked than the crowd at Woodstock sat with us with peaked caps and shades well into the middle of the night. Jacques and his penis had a dose of the runs and would skive off every few minutes to take the Cosbies to the pool, or in the case of the runs maybe squeeze out the Black Rain. Ryan, the English liar, spun a yarn the length of the beach about how his father had came to visit him from England that day to check on his son’s investment into one of the local’s bars. The next day Ryan had gone AWOL leaving a $400 tab at the Dolphin Shack and similar debts across the area, what a shitstick.

The one night we did venture out for the nightlife was a shambolic affair. It was the middle-aged American ‘heartthrobs’ birthday and we started the ball rolling with a group of 6: The Yank, skanky pregnant Cambodian slut, myself, der fuehrer, Jacques, and Jacques’ penis. Oops, that’s seven…anyway. After hitting the Dolphin Shack with a rendition of everyone has Aids we were off to the town centre, where apparently everyone does have AID’s (well the hookers mainly and most likely their clientele). A bar hop with a one B52 per bar rule led us to Patrick Swayzes bar. I’m sorry I didn’t have a camera with me. Right down to the cheesy mullet and the stretched face look made famous by one of the hickest movie stars alive. Dirty Dancing 2 received such bad reviews that this is where he’d been seeking solace and swayze-time away from the media. The local nightclub played slow sets before everyone sat down and watched people live on the TV’s who were murdering songs on a karaoke list most likely complied by a Belgian for the Lithuanian market. Pregnant Cambodian slut was coming on to the Fuhrer thick and fast until her fiancé showed up and then she proceeded to give him an ear full of the local dialect. The night didn’t get any better from there; we left The Yank to get a girl while we spent an age looking for the shack with the aid of the moonless sky.

The days seemed to last longer but it all flew in as we climbed the roof of our fast boat up the coast to the Thai border. Foreigners were confined to the heat trap on the roof while the locals sat below enjoying the air-conditioning. A group of Irish scumbags hopped on too with their Celtic jerseys and mountains of chav attitude. I tried to get some sleep until the bag beside me started clucking and jiggling. Some of the locals were transporting coughing chickens in cloth bags for some unknown reason; Avian Flu was determined to have another stab at me. Eventually after a bus transfer we arrived at the border behind a stodgy Greek shouting down the neck of a taxi driver and behind us a goober trying to chat up an American who was on her way to Bangkok to buy paint materials for her workshop in Sihnoukville and wanted everyone to know she was an artist by just slightly raising her voice. The goober was encapsulated, I didn’t buy it.

Our connections worked out perfectly and soon we were in Bangkok, back to the Ko San Road. It felt more hospitable now that we were on our third visit and the bustle was refreshing after the isolation of Sihnoukville. We had a full day the next day to explore the palace in palace issue trousers, the Reclining Buddha and then proceeded to buy about 462 t-shirts, spending a total of $9 in the process. I had tattoo number two applied to my wrist by Mr. Hen ‘world famous tattoo artist’. His studio was his apartment which we found via some dodgy arrows. 7 doll babies lined the back wall of the apartment, a gift he bought for his wife who can’t conceive. A one foot long plastic baguette lay across some of their laps as some sort of meal for the plastic babies. Freak. Covered head to toe in Buddhist temples and text he definitely knew his stuff and pulled off a good job. That evening was our last in Bangkok so it was time to give the town the third coat of red paint. As myself and the incarnation of hate were playing cards and sipping bars at a café Tysoe and Tinker, sans drip (his appendix had exploded whilst diving in Ko Tao two weeks before and he’d spent the remainder of his xmas hols in a Thai hospital hooked up to a morphine drip and occasionally puking blood), showed up. They were heading back to Tokyo that night but it was good to exchange stories and laugh at the Doogers exploits.

The glamorous Q bar held not one hooker and we got our booze on till the 0100hrs closing time where for once Jacques and his penis pulled a masterstroke and invited some girls for an after party, they duly obliged and it was off we went. Her elegance offered hope to me, and a poignant moment at the tail of my journey. An oriental gem exuding grace and charms not quite as mystical as they were mesmerising, we immediately clicked together like chicken and noodles. She’d lived in London which gave a sexy tone to her voice that I wanted to catch in a jar and place on my kotatsu back in Ninohe. The hours slipped by too quickly as we talked about nothing in particular. Apart from her beauty she had an intelligence, clear from the offset, and a demeanour that rekindled hope within me regarding the fallopian mind-fuckers commonly known as women. The time came for a goodbye outside Burger King, Jacques and his penis went in for the kill while I bottled it leaving an awkward look behind her long lashed lids. She left forever in a tuk-tuk. Faith temporarily restored in milky-nippled folk, temporarily. Jacques and his penis were raging at me for not asking could we join them back at their place without knowing they lived with their parents. Jacques and his penis hummed and hawed till they finally fell asleep, having cursed me as the reason they didn’t get to finish the holiday with a fuck. I lay on the bed satisfied and with a stiffy that was just happy to be there.

Air India carried us home in one piece and I finally managed to squeeze a log out at Tokyo Station. We were drunk enough to keep his inebriated for the rest of the JET year, and we certainly did enough snorkelling to last us a lifetime. Sunsets, sunrises and everything in between there wasn’t a moment we didn’t enjoy and a moment we’ll ever forget. We met a person in Sterling that whomever he meets will instantly hate him. We’d met, and seen, freaks, hippies more goobers than ever before, people in love and people who’ve resorted to buying it. Having barely known each other before we left we knew the ins and outs now. Nick just wants to spread the love, Jacques just wants to make it, the Fuhrer has never experienced it while D has offered him a taste of it. Me…I just want someone to show me it. (I just watched the entire season 1 of Scrubs the other day, hence the ending so fuck you).

A Valentines Message

STD will resume normal service after short period of misogyny.

"The Organ Grinder"

her periods are red,

some of her veins look blue,

don't give her your heart

or she'll slice it in two

Penh to paper

Our first class coach pulled off leaving Sterling’s rust bucket in our wake. We promised him we’d send him an e-mail as soon as we arrived in the capital so we could rendezvous later that day. See ya later shithead. The road to Phnom Penh is one of only two tarmac highways in the whole country, so apart from the odd ox or bike getting in your way it was a relatively stress free journey. Phnom Penh stinks. The heat is just absurd and mixed in with the black spew from the aging exhausts of every ramshackle car, motorbike and tuk-tuk leaves you with a metallic taste in your mouth. Our driver during our time in the capital would be Mao, a plucky little chap, he weighed less then a snickers bar, who’d be our most faithful companion, a young Alfred to our dynamic trio. Rumours of a crazy acid-fuelled Scot sipping mushroom shakes from his hostels balcony by the lake with the occasional few rounds from his ak-47 being fired off drew us in. Unfortunately there was no room at the Lazy Fish Inn and the Scottish guy was a heap of lard with a battalion of flies whisking in and out of his meandering hairs, all nine of them. We settled on next doors shit-pit, I don’ t think it has a name.

First person to approach my in Hostel No Name was Igor the Scumball from Italy. A curly mane bleached by the sun lingered on his bony shoulders; his grin was cheeky and untrustworthy. He was being pampered by a girl of no more than 15years old dressed in ragged pajamas. He delighted in telling me that he found this girl, who he assured me wasn’t a prostitute, in a bar and she’d been staying with him for free for the last 10days or so. ‘She izz a great fucka you know, notta even 18a yet…I will bringa her to Thailand widda me whena I gedda her a passaporta’, he told me. I just upped seat and walked off.

That night as we were letting the hammocks do their thing Sterling showed up. He’d scoured the 50, or so, hostels along the lake front looking for us. He’s determined, I’ll give him that much. This made me hate him even more. He’d now adopted an ‘Irish’ accent claiming that he’s just on me of those ‘lads’ that picks them up when he hangs out with foreign people. This made me hate him even more. He invited us around to his hostel to meet some of the Irish ‘lasses’ he had met. This made me hate him even more. We declined, returned to the hammocks and wished for some of the homeless junkies to rape his ass with a bottle on his way home. The fact that this didn’t happen made me hate him even more.

The Fuhrer woke with extra pep in his SS boots as today he was gonna see some of the good work a long time hero of his, Pol Pot, had done. We were off to the Killing Fields with (Chairman) Mao behind the wheels, the Fuhrer with a wide anti-Semitic pogromitic smile and me Paul (Pol, or ‘Sachura’ as the Cambodians took to call me after hearing my name and laughing or looking disgusted every time they heard my name). Three of the worlds most evil human beings ever, a hippie and his think-thank (the penis). The dented grubby track to the site was littered with rubbish and street kids, the sites gateway housed in barbed wire and manned by mine victims who’d wiggle and brush their stumps against you as a means to appeal to your goodwill, the appeal wasn’t necessary and the dollars were handed out. Sight number one was a 30ft high glass case housing thousands of skulls recovered from the surrounding fields. Axe wounds, bullet holes and blunt blows were just some of the causes of death; we were told that Pol Pot preferred not to use bullets as they were too costly. The Fuhrer was scribbling notes furiously. Our guide was a somber man intent on depressing the life out of us. He had barely any English and just gave us a cyclical harangue like this: ‘Pol pot…bad man…very crazy man…Why?, Why?...very bad man… crazy man’. He’d follow his rant with a glassy stare to the centre of your eyes almost expecting you to wilt and crumble at his morose tale. Bones poked above the surface of the pathways, clothes lay scattered around the pits and the stench of death walked freely amongst us giving us the occasional sharp shrill. The tour lasted 11minutes and overall it wasn’t as impactive as we thought, numbing all the same though.

Where is the only logical stop-off after one of the worlds most gruesome sites? A shooting range of course, situated about 5minutes drive from the Killing Fields site. Der Fuhrer was on Stalag 9 at this point of his busman’s holiday. I was ready to purchase a chicken and make it dance before blasting it with my ak-47 but unfortunately the shooting of poultry and bovine at ranges had been outlawed. Nick would’ve been disappointed too as we’d planned on tying a cow to a balloon and firing a rocket launcher at it, oh well…there’s always Burma. $30 for 30 bullets and some serious weaponry was a good price. Zero training was needed so into the gallery we went. Shot by shot sparked off towards the target, each time the butt thumping my shoulder and me back from the seat. Eventually the ‘Show me you’re a real man’ comment from the instructor spurred the inner killer in me as a blitzed the automatic fitting and let the adrenaline pump through. I was picturing Sterling’s fat ugly face on the target which probably accounts for near my 100% accuracy. I was hyped up more than a Frat boy on ‘steal a pig and leave it in the Deans office then throw toilet paper in a tree then butt fuck the new recruits night’ at Kappers Cum Laude until Sterling rolled in on the back of a tuk-tuk. The only way to rid ourselves of this Jason Van Der Geek loser was to colt 45 him to the face; surely he ranks lower than a chicken in the eyes of the Cambodian authorities. Even with the offer of $50 extra for the instructor to turn the other way wasn’t enough and we had to suffer his accent, his stories and his food filled sideburns. He promised to call round to our place that night after we’d left Der Fuhrer shaking his head from his 100% miss rate with his colt 45. We now knew why he used gas in the camps, he had a shit aim.

S-21, the detention and torture centre in Phnom Penh, was next on the list. The bloodied walls and rusty electrocution equipment was shocking to say the least. What the Killing Fields lacked in impact this place made up for it, and then some. Corridors lined with the faces of starving teens and crying mothers pictured on the walls. The torture rooms were unlocked and available for browsing and each housed just one large black & white picture depicting a torture scene in that very room.

That night, only because he promised females, we left with Sterling for his place. A table of Cork skanks drinking cheap vodka lay in the corner. After one minute of talking with them I could see that they too hated Sterling. This made me happy. They were good craic and looked like they wanted to go bananas so we headed on off with them to a foreigner only party downtown. The party was a latino styled affair with Buena Vista Social Clubs husky tunes filling the courtyard and settling over the pool. It was all very upscale for us as it involved chatting and most likely discussions on child labour issues etc etc. As soon as Sterling turned his fat back we were off to the other side, it meant leaving the girls but it was a worthwhile sacrifice. As it turns out that’s the lost we saw of him, although Der Fuhrer has invited him to Iwate for a skiing weekend for some unknown reason. The party was lagging in atmosphere so we headed to the Heart of Darkness, what an apt name for this place. 5 seconds in and I had my balls groped by a barely legal girl in an inch long skirt, ten seconds later it was a different girl. Jacques and his penis vanished to the dance floor for the entire night; they’d been given one rule: NO CAMBODIAN GIRLS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. Der Fuhrer and I took up residence on the pool table which was being dominated by Cambodians number one queer and his fag hags, all beautiful but with a price tag on their heads so it wasn’t worth the effort. Closing time saw Jacques and his penis arrive on over to his with a girl in his arms, what a surprise. ‘Man, she’s super awesome and totally not a prostitute dude, she told me. I totally wanna fuck her’ was what came out of his mouth. We had to remind him of Sterling’s little mishap with the pimp in Siem Riep with his fuck-for-free, but Jacques and his penis maintained she wasn’t a prostitute. Eventually they let go of their girl and headed back to Hostel No Name, cursing us all the way. What a bitter little penis he hangs out with.


Cambodia’s royal palace is nothing spectacular, unkempt and lacking the oomph factor of Bangkok’s palace or even some of the surrounding shrines. There were some signs of a re-vamp but it looked as if it was going to take time. We didn’t stay long there and decided to get in some shopping at the central market instead. Haberdasery and junk climbed toward the underside of the dome. Everything from fake Rolexes to fake people were on sale. Fuhrer mad a significant statement by buying a peace bird and setting it free. We left and headed towards the mall which looked like your typical all-American styled shopping centre. In reality the retailer over flow from the dome had spilled into the mall leaving it just a pseudo sign of development in this 3rd world country.

Our instructions to our tuk-tuk driver were ‘Take us to a western club, no under-age prostitutes’. Ten minutes later we’re in the seediest place in the world. Martinis, as we now know, is world famous for it’s hostesses. Ranging from 13 years old to mid-forties there was a lady, or child, there to suit any occasion and fulfill all your perverted desires. The usual selection of tubby middle-aged men was present, but so too were a lot of guys in their 20’s seeking out some prime Cambodian flesh. Igor’s teen lover was there suited and booted waiting for her next customer. The dance floor was pitch black and euro-pop wailed from the speakers while the girls got frisky with the clients. We left with a couple of English lads who’d also been duped by their tuk-tuk drivers. We ended up in the Heart of Darkness only drinking shots with ten inch flames hanging out of them. The whore ratio wasn’t as high as the previous night, but you never do know with those sneaky Cambodians so we kept our hands by our sides and tied Jacques and his penis to a chair, just in case they got any bright ideas. I proceeded to fall in love with the pool queen who invited me back to her place for a ‘party’ but I couldn’t go through with it. I suck.

Phnom Penh was a mad place: disheveled, dirty and riddled with more problems than the Jackson family. Everybody sold something, from opium to advertising space on the side of an elephant, and they’d do anything for a dollar. I also got the feeling that they hated Sterling too.

Sterling must die

The Cambodian border was teeming with activity. People selling fake goods, dried fruits and ice blocks lined the dusty marketplace. Hundreds of locals moved freely between the border carting over all manner of goods on battered wagons with their grubby kids casting forlorn looks with their wide eyes over the digital cameras that the foreign crossers were using to flick the gateway to the third world. The no-mans-land that buffers the crossing was home to some riverside hobos in a mini-shanty and sparkling casinos where Thais come to gamble away their hard-earned baht. Cambodia’s depravity was instantly highlighted by the dusty tracks they called roads complete with chronic pot-holes carving their way through Poi Pet. After some mean haggling we had our own driver to take us to Siem Riep for $30. 120km per hour down the dust track that connected Poi Pet to Siem Riep was a journey like no other. Cars all jostled for position amongst the potholes beeping each other like crazy with no designated side of the road. Pick-up trucks were brimming with people covered in red dust trying to remain seated as their driver caroused through the potholes at top speed. Bridges were strictly one car at a time due to the rusty iron and worm riddled planks holding them together. We waited in line while ox-herders guided their skinny bovines to the other side. Dust spewed from the side of the roads and coated everything red giving the houses and trees a rusted dated look.

Eventually, still in one piece, we arrived at Siem Riep. We quickly sought out the Dead Fish Inn we’d read about on the Internet. Kids were grabbing at us begging for money or selling postcards. We had a group of about ten follow us to the hostel. We gave as much as we could and bought all their postcards but it’ll never be enough for these impoverished kids. We came to the conclusion that the dirtier your kid the cuter he becomes, their wide eyes gleaming amongst the dirt on brown skin complete with haggard clothes has a strange appeal no matter if the kid is fat or deformed. I’m gonna bathe mine in muck and parade them through parks and malls while receiving the aww’s and coo’s from doting passers by.

We had time to fit in some culture so headed off to Tonle Sap Lake to see the Vietnamese floating village and catch the Mekong sunset. We had a boat all to ourselves as our 14yr captain gave us the low down on the local floating community. We passed floating shacks complete with satellite dishes, a floating basketball court and a floating church all bobbing on the calm water. We stopped off for some beers and a vantage point but quickly moved on due to overcrowding. As we set off from that stop we were accosted by the cutest kids ever in buckets looking for a Riel or two. They floated around using twigs to steer themselves around. The clear winner of the cutest kid-in-a-bucket-in-a-filthy-dirty-diseased-lake contest was floating bucket monkey. This kid had it all: the dirt, the wide eyes, the bucket & stick and a mohawked monkey trained to look sad and lonely. Unfortunately the kid didn’t accept visa cards so he had to settle for about 4,000 riel, but I did highlight the fact that if he were to take his show to say the fountain outside the Bellagio in Vegas he could rake the cash in. The lakes shores were beyond the horizon as the sex-on-the-beach coloured sun descended through the clouds and melted into the lake. The captain let me take the wheel for a while, until I crashed it into the mangroves and then decided it wasn’t such a bright idea. We tipped our guide $10 for a job well done and headed back to the hostel for some dinner. After dinner we headed off towards the bars with some new ladyfriends in tow, who were working at the Dead Fish Inn. The hilariously named Angkor What? bar played host for the evening as we got to know Sow and Ant. They each latched on to Jacques, and his penis of course, and Nick leaving me as the runt of the litter, possibly because of the zero attention I paid them. Sow, a Thailand native, was decent enough company, especially after she got hammered after three sips of a Mekong bucket. Ant however was a mangy skank with a permanent frown and visions of a foreign life and dollar toting boyfriend. It's fitting she ended up with Jacques and his penis.

My body was starting to feel at less than 100% but I fought through the pain and headed off on our day trip to Angkor Wot. I wasn’t happy about the two ladies joining us, but Nick had obviously fallen for his girl and Jacques and his penis sensed an easy fuck/lay/bang in the midst. The impressive Angkor Wot was a lot bigger than we’d expected, and a lot busier. Hordes of middle-aged Koreans in fluorescent outfits and wide brimmed visors swarmed behind flag toting guides rattling off points of note. Our D.I.Y. guide was a lot more enjoyable, albeit less edumacationable, but the inner Croft came out in all of us as we climbed, poked and paced through the catacombs and courtyards on offer. We came across a French speaking sage who was reading palms from a shadowy corridor nestled in one of the lesser visited temples. The search for the Golden Toffees was almost over, I could feel it. He was about to release the location, which I had known all along but been unable to search inside of me to retrieve it. This charlatan revealed diamonds and dollars in my future coupled with happiness that would involve a girl (obviously had no idea who he was dealing with) and made a little matchstick figure out of straw that he gave to me as good luck. Scam merchant, I predict a beating in his future if I ever go back to Angkor Wot to get my $2 back. At this point of the day I was feeling terrible and could barely move, but still trooped on without complaining about my plight. The girls left by late afternoon and we climbed Angkor Tom which offered the best views of the day and a reminder to hit the gym back in Japan. We scurried over with the 7,000 other visitors to catch the sunset from the main courtyard of Angkor Wot. Jacques and his penis had now picked up a Japanese teacher who they ere organizing a date with later that night. I got a Japanese monk, who told me it was a secret that he was a monk and I shouldn’t tell anyone. Fuckin liar. This sunset came and went, non-descript and pale in comparison to Tonle Sap. I’ll never understand people’s fascination with the sun-setting, it happens every day with zero incident or difference. Preparing yourself for it is preparing yourself for disappointment as your camera won’t do it justice and you realize it was five minutes you could have spent separating your ass hair. I’d put the Angkor Wot sunset up there with Santorini, Santorini pipped it as the worst due to the amount of Italians I had to suffer shouting ‘bella bella’ and clapping when it faded beneath the horizon.

That night I had to stay in as I was full sure I had Avian Flu flowing through my veins. The sweats were chronic and the heat of the room left me restless and uneasy. First person back was Jacques and his penis with Marie, the Japanese teacher. He just wanted to show her his photos, a subtle ploy I thought but one with no hope. Eventually he left, with his penis, without getting to fuck/bang/lay his prey. Next to arrive on the scene was der Fuhrer pissed out of his mind and spouting shit from his foul Nazi mouth. I pretended to be asleep while he crawled in bed beside me and eventually passed out. Nick soon followed and brought his world record snores with him. This was turning out to be a bad night in paradise. Der Fuhrer was now molesting every part of my body no doubt thinking I was his blue skinned girlfriend who was far away in San Francisco. I was pissing sweat and could barely breath, I coughed and sneezed over Der Fuhrer hoping to give him a dose of something. Jacques and his penis crept in later along with Ant, his Cambodian visa whore. Soon they were up to no good under the sheets as I heard Jacques groan as his penis was given a once over by Ant. Eventually he tugged at my ankles to wake me up and ask me if I had any condoms because himself and his penis wanted to fuck Ant now, I told him to fuck off. Just as I had turned Nick on his side to ease the snorefest a furious knocking started at next doors door. I would find out the next day what it was.

I surfaced after the roughest night of my life feeling no better and unable to poo. The others were having lunch downstairs. Der Fuhrer gave me a look of hatred, I responded with a look of disgust as our paths once again crossed. Der Fuhrer had made a new friend along the way to Siem Riep whom he thought might benefit the group. I hated him on sight. Sterling, a plump Californian with food in his sideburns, has to be the most annoying person I’ve ever met (. I rarely pass judgment so quickly, wll that’s a lie but this guy deserved it. It was his door that took a hammering during the night. He had met a nice young lady at the club that night who wanted to come back with him, for free…she wasn’t a prostitute (newsflash fuckhead: they’re all hookers). He knocked the box off her and she demanded cash so he told her where to go. Incensed by this she called her pimp who waited outside all night while she knocked the door down. The pimp was outside waiting for Sterling and wasn’t going anywhere. The hostel owners were going to call the police; Sterling didn’t want that so paid $30 to the pimp to send him on his way.

The others hit the town for some shopping while I headed back for some more sweating. I was woken up by Sterling who’d come back from Angkor Wot and was now staying in our room. He gave me his patheitc Dawsons Creek life story and how he didn’t ever have a girlfriend till he was 21 and how he ‘just wanted to make a difference in today’s society and if he could touch one person it would be all worthwhile’. I couldn’t believe this shit was actually coming out of him, if I had have had the energy I would gotten a lighter and my deodorant can and torched him to death. He continued on about how he was such a talented writer and he was so lucky to have become more intelligent after studying a Masters in English Literature. I hope he suffers a miserable fate. Alcoholism, loneliness and obesity should be good enough for him. I hated Der Fuhrer for introducing him into my life.


We ate dinner that night at a plush Swiss owned restaurant where the topics of conversation delved into American Shitball statistics, fraternity stories and fucking the bitches. The Americans see no problem with shouting out ‘Yeah, I wanna fuck that bitch man, goddamit’ etc etc. Nick and I sat there in disgust as they shouted at the top of their lungs talking about fucking and laying and banging and the bitches, all while Marie was sitting with us. Their brashness is a little overwhelming sometimes and their regard for women as lays as fiendish, don’t get me wrong…I’m not defending women I still despise their scornful wenchful emotional games and demands and hope they get their some-uppins sooner rather than later.

We booked our coach to Phnom Penh that night and made sure we were on a different bus to Sterling. Nick had some photos printed and wrote a heart felt love letter to Sow, his third girlfriend, detailing no doubt how she had touched him deeply that he was so glad to have met someone so special and that he hoped, no he knew, that they would one day be together. He wrote this letter using the gift he’d bought for Yumi to lean on. Jacques and his penis gave their farewells to Ant and Marie dejected by their lack of fucking/laying/banging but undeterred in the slightest. I’d just about recovered from by brush with death and will now send in some sperm samples to the W.H.O. to see if they can use it to combat Avian Flu, AID’s or girls who don’t swallow. I hope some good will some of it.

Next installment: Phnom Penh and Sihanoukville. Did Der Fuhrer enjoy the Killing Fields too much? Am I a gifted marksman? Just how could we manage to shake the pile of shit that is Sterling? And would Jacques and his penis finally get to fuck? Next time at STD

Pim pam thank you mam

It was onto Ralay next, on Jess’s recommendation this time (lovin the way my ex-girlfriends guided me through Thailand’s finer sights). The initial reaction was the Thai Toremolinos with a gang of chavs walking around in England shirts with bulldog tattoos on their old spice scented bodies. Luckily for us this wasn’t our final destination, well luckily for Jess that is otherwise she’d have ended up in a bag over the Burmese border. A quick, and bumpy, trip on a longtail and we are at Ralay. A pristine cove, snug away from the hordes it looked an ideal spot to lay the heads for a few days. The resort had been completely re-vamped since its trouncing by the tsunami last year, as had its prices which were up there with the Hiltons of this world. We waved goodbye to the beachfront resorts (too early for tsunami jokes?) and headed upward and inward far away from the beach.

We dropped our stuff and headed on a snorkeling trip with a group of middle-aged (that’s older than me by the way) pissheads, some shitmonkey American-types and a Malaysian monk. Stop three of our 7 island hop was a small rocky coral. We were giving it the full circle treatment when all of a sudden the sky rumbled and grey clouds fought like fists, in the sky. The wind gathered pace and shook the sea with sinister gusts as if to spite us for enjoying the day so much. Screams from our boat had faded to distorted whispers by the time they reached us but we knew we should head back. The 100m swim was no doggy paddle with the waves now higher and stronger than we’d ever seen. As we made ground on the boat it pulled anchor and chugged off. Oh shit. Group D was in hysterics, screaming ‘wait for us’, ‘why???’ and other such pleas for help while a yellow ring formed around her berth. Der Fuhrer was surrounded by little rabbit style turds as he prepared to meet his maker, Satan. I took hold of D’s snorkeling gear and tried to calm her. Meanwhile the boat had stopped a little further out so we only had to make it another 50m. Suddenly I heard Jacques and his penis shouting for help. They were nestled on the coral dazed like a forgotten seal cubs. I sent the others on their way and headed back for Jacques and his penis thinking of every movie where the hero always dies after going back to rescue a stupid Canadian hippie, the Baywatch theme song also played in my minds background and the Hoff was giving me mouth to mouth. I reached Jacques and his penis, just before the Hoff slipped a tongue, put him on his back and carved through the waves like a rodeo dolphin while I carried Jacques and his penis to safety and gave them another chance at life. It’s not every day you get to save someone’s life, but I ain’t looking for no praise, sponsorship deals or keys to a city. I know he would have done the same as me had he been brave enough, skilled enough, as well hung and 25% as sexy as me in a pair of Speedos.

This ill fated voyage only got worse. The next two stops were without incident. It was after my sighting of the shy Nemo fish that the ocean sought revenge for my daring rescue earlier. Out of no where a sea urchin appeared, too late for me to avoid it, and harpooned me with its spiky mane. The pain was hardcore, but then again so am I so I sucked it up and backstroked to the boat. Everyone had their own opinions of what to do. ‘Airlift him to Switzerland’, ‘He needs urgent hospital attention’, ‘Amputate now before we all die’ were the pennies worth of shit the retardos on the boat were offering. I knew to just let it be, but the Captain suggested it should be disinfected and without any first-aid kit on board all we had was… Urine. Shit. Up stepped Nick to the plate, revenge for all the tea-bagging. His lemony gush whizzed out at full throttle as we all nearly pissed ourselves laughing. The Captain had the last laugh though; he knew damn well the foot needed no piss for disinfectant. No matter, it actually felt good, not that I’d go there again mind you.

The two stinky hippies,who'd been our guides for the day, invited us over to their resort for the evening. They were staying at Tan Son, the crusty juggling dreadlocked quarter of the resort. It was against my better judgment but I hobbled on, a life saving hero just looking for some time-out. This man must be the most stoned in world history, he gave us a slow and stoned spiel about love, peace, the futility of war the versatility of bamboo and his sadness that he can’t hug his momma no more because of her increasing waist size. Johnny TooStoned gave us all a fire spinning display of some skill. Amongst the lunar lamination the fire spun at all speeds in all directions. His skin and black trousers blended seamlessly into the night, the only visible parts of him were the whites of his intense, mellowed eyes following the swirling blazes. It’s a wonder how he managed to control it in such a state, but he told us he could never do anything like that whilst not stoned. By the time he’d finished with that the crusties had a hold of a guitar and were wailing out Bob Marley classics, we left.

We slept out for the James Bond tour so settled for the beaches tour. It was pretty much a pile of horse shit, the highlights being the family of weirdo’s on our boat. A 107yr old granny with a never ending stomach and never ending food supply, a few Thai skanks and one of their husbands (an American dipstick with a ‘Jesus is my Lifeguard’ t-shirt and a heavy breathing problem) and their semi-retarded kid hobbling around the place. We did dock at the Beach where Garland’s utopian dream came to fruition on the silver screen with the help of Boyle, Le Doyen, and Di Caprio etc. We posed for photos, amongst the hundreds of goobers there too, and then went down the path Leo trodded every day back to the commune. Hygenicus and the gang were nowhere to be seen and all that lay at the end of the trail was a trash heap and a fly infested toilet. Utopia my ass. Monkey Beach was another stop where we watched belligerent monkeys ward off tourists and steal fanta from children, dickheads.

We were snorkeled out of our brains at that point so decided to get drunk out of our brains that night as we were headed on a flight to Bangkok the next day. We sat outside the cabin shuffling between ‘Everyone’s got AID’s’ and ‘I’m so ronery’ whilst drinking away. We went to the Ghekko bar where there was a spacial of $1 a pitcher that night. We blitzed the pool table and wiped off the Scottish dads who wanted to knock us off. Eventually the booze hit me and I was beaten. The cockball that beat me had his friend take a picture of him lining up for the easy black in the bottom right, I should have cue balled him to the temple, but I’m a peaceful man. We were on about drink 16 when Group D went missing. Myself and Nick decided to raise the bar and got more shots into us. Eventually, at the point of uber-inebriation, we crawled back to the shack without D. She wasn’t there when we got back so they went off looking while I hit the sack. The morning came and so had D. She somehow thought we’d all left the Ghekko bar and tried to find her way home. She fell into a sewage pit only to be rescued by a Swedish guy who she ended up speaking German to the rest of the night. Just your typical night out for Michigan’s finest export.

We bid farewell to Ralay and headed to Phuket on ferry for our flight to Bangkok for the New Years Eve celebrations. Our flight was delayed by over an hour which meant we would arrive in Bangkok at about 2300hrs and Ko San Road just in time for the turn of the year. Arriving at the hostel with ten minutes to go we legged it through the crowds, and managed to have a beer in hand by midnight. By 10 past we were senselessly drunk and partying in a tottie bar that Jacques and his penis had spotted in an upstairs window. Our Mekong whiskey buckets were quickly gone and we headed to the basement to the Lava club which was overflowing with people. We all knocked one quick shot back and raided the selection of over-priced shots. Soon myself and Nick had some locals on our heavily sunburned arms. Nick eventually passed out so Pim, my Thai beauty, asked did I want to go to another bar. We were off to Gulliver’s, the most famous farang friendly boozery. Jacques and his penis had now latched onto Nick’s girl (in a very similar maneuver to his Iraqi belly dancer steal from me in Sendai) and was dancing away with us in the club. Thai girls don’t pussy around on ceremony so it was with a sharp, but cool, yes that I answered her question ‘Do you wanna come back to my place?’. Happy New Year to you too.


A pit stop at the hostel for money and protection resulted in a rendezvous with Der Fuhrer shirtless, and Godless, body in a pile of shit on the stairs. He’d had a fight with D and she ran off citing a break up or something, I was in no mood to hear his pathetic sob story so told him to shut the fuck up and headed off on my business. A short tuk-tuk ride later and we were in the love pit that Pim calls home. I had to suffer through her ‘I don’t normally do this type of thing, I really like you’ bullshit while she showed me pictures of all her foreign boyfriends. Eh herro, we came here for a reason. Jacques and his penis and their girl were sprawled on the living room floor while I took centre stage on the double bed. The mood was set with James Blunt and some apple scented incense, I was almost expecting us to start making pottery and have Patrick Swayze play the cello for us it felt so romantic. We fumbled around for while before I got thirsty. I took some water and ice-cubes back from the kitchen and gently tip-toed around Jacques, his penis and his girl as they lay there sleeping the night away. The ice melted instantly on her hot, smooth skin. The droplets tasted sweet when they’d mixed with the sweat. The next cube went down her spine, followed by one on her flicker and then in the hole. She gawped with delight as the foreplay was heating up. She yelped with the final insertion of a cube in her ass but laughed it off and we got busy with good stuff.

An exchange of email addresses and phone numbers and a soft kiss on the lips and we were off to Cambodia. D and Der Fuhrer had made up and he was going to follow us the next day when D had jetted back to Tokyo. We substituted Fuhrer with Koji and made our way towards Siem Riep. (To be continued, this is gonna be the last part I promise!)