Numbers Game.

We are sat in the Jacuzzi after the most amateur of amateur basketball games when one of the guys tells us that he's really looking forward to having a twosome.

- oh man, I'd love to have a twosome while I'm over here.
- A what.
- A twosome.
- What the hell is a twosome.
- Two girls.
- A threesome.
- No a . . . . aaww shit. . . . yeah.

Quality.

Mourning a loss.

I'm sat here, headphones on, kicking back with my music collection and every moment that passes I mourn the loss of yet another song that I no longer own.

Due to me being forgetful, relying on old hardware and my incessant fiddling with my computer most often resulting in having to wipe my hard drive and start again, I am now without a whole legion of music I greatly miss.

I don't take pictures, I have words and music to rekindle memories. I've never been one to take a hundred photos of everything I do, even while I'm over here I find myself giving my camera to other people and telling them to take pictures so I can get them later. But music, music holds memories for me. There are tracks that just ARE my first year of university. I know that if I listen to Korn I will be immediately transported to my little room in Singer Hall, with my Wharfdale speakers under my desk, my window open, my Tiny pc sat on the floor and my oversized monitor taking up too much desk space, an essay about Sustainable Development on my screen, old books scattered on my desk, last nights kebab rapper on the floor, a pair of oversized blue and yellow Y-fronts with my name stitched on the back in sequins hanging from my notice board, an empty bottle of Seirra Tequila gathering dust and my walls covered in funky pictures from papers and magazines.

Rob Zombie is drinking copious amounts of Bacardi and Coke before going out to Corporation and dancing the night away.
Jarre is sitting in the front room going through cd after cd looking for the track I really liked but couldn't remember the name of.
Bon Jovi and Meatloaf are my GCSE's.
Zero 7 is my final year, sat at Chris' house, putting the world to rights, slowly drinking Gin and trying not to fall asleep on the sofa.

But so much is gone now. I've lost all my Dispatch, my Jack Johnson, my Murderdolls and my Norma Jean. Sure, not all the music I have is good, but it doesn't need to be because at some point is was MY music. It meant something to me. It was a part of my life. Whether is was playing the same track of industrial metal at full volume again and again because I thought the drum hook was so good, or whether it was playing the same chilled out track time after time while I was nurturing a hangover, the quality of the music sometimes just doesn't matter, it's the quality of the memories.

My current playlist is awesome, don't get me wrong, it's just become apparent that so much I once had is gone. Once I'm back home I'm going to make amends to this. I'm sat here aching for certain tracks and no matter how hard I try I cant make them suddenly appear on my computer.

A picture may paint a thousand words, but for me, music is the whole damn book.

I Command You

To somehow get hold of a copy of Kung Fu Hustle on DVD.
Quite literally one of the best films I have seen. You'd be a fool to miss it and even more of a fool not to take my advice.

Who is more the fool, the fool or the fool who doesnt follow Wardy??

You decide.

A monkey stole my Oakleys.

Today I went to a bar, a bar owned by an Elephant safari. At this bar there are two monkeys, monkeys which will come up to you, drink your beer, pee on you and steal things.

All three happened while I was there. The moment I walked up to the bar the offending monkey -named Charlie- swung right up to me, snatched them off my noggin and quickly ran off.

I was . . . bummed. . to say the least.

So there I stood. Not really knowing how to react. Am I allowed to be angry, the monkey doesn't know any better. But surely they should have taught them not to steal things. Oh come on, it's a wild monkey, they're curious, it just wants a look. But they were expensive sunglasses, and I really liked them. Where the hell did the monkey go! Where can I go and buy a fake pair. Oh man, this is really going to dump on my budget. Damn monkey.

Luckily for me, while this little drama was playing itself out inside my head, one of the guys from the bar went after the monkey and got him to drop them. Literally, drop. Ouch, I suppose it was too much to hope that the would gently place them on the floor.

The monkey then proceeded to sit on the bar and start pissing everywhere. Barely missing me and another guy. It got it's comeuppance though when the local dog started trying to hump it. Seriously people, if you want a mental image to make you laugh simply think of a raggy assed street dog, trying to hump a monkey.

Ahh, yes, one I'll surely never forget.

All the makings of a great party.

Here are some things that always mix well.

A barbeque.
Good weather.
Americans. (republicans)
Healthy debate. (about politics)
English. (anti-bush)
Alcohol.
Pork with Beans and Rice.
More alcohol.
Strong healthy debate. (still on politics)
Emotion.
Alcohol.
Beer and whisky fuelled debate about the intricacies of Anglo-American politics.
Immediate access to a boxing ring.



Ahhhhh, it's a good job we're all friends.

Halfway Home.

Well I'm halfway through my trip now. In some ways it feels like I've been here for far longer than three months, in other ways, the trip feels like days.

I've got fit, learnt to ride a bike, and become closer than I wish to the encompassing pain of shin splints. I've been choked out, beaten up, and come closer than I wish to the encompassing pain of Thai curry.

I've lost my hair but gained a few pounds. I no longer have a tongue stud but I do have a mean elbow. I left my resplendent trousers back in England but have gained a natty collection of awesome t-shirts.

I've been attacked by dogs, trucks, prostitutes, vendors and the occasional bout of gut rot. But I'm still on my bike, still going out, still shopping, still eating, and the dog. . . well I'm working on that one.

Sure there have been ups as well as downs. But the ups have been huge and the downs forgettable.

I've three months left, and I very much intend on making the most of them.





(please send money!)

Most Extra Of All The Extras.

Today was my "International Superstar" moment. A film crew arrived at the camp to shoot some footage of young Korean heart-throbs pretending to learn Muay Thai. To start with there were just five guys hanging around. Talking to the trainers, pointing, talking, walking, smiling, nodding and then pointing again. It all seemed a little low-key. I was expecting a coach load of people, many of whom would do nothing other than simply stand around and have no obvious job.

It was about then than a coach load of people arrived. The famous ones were easily identifiable by the fact stools were made available for them to sit on while us mere mortals were resigned to standing. The famous ones consisted of three guys and three gals. One of the guys was a singer in a band, one was a 'comedian' and the other . . . I don't really know what he did. The gals did little more than stand around and look pretty. One of them in particular was easily describable as Smokin' Hot.

It was like a Korean S-Club 7, but with only 6, and luckily, less breaking out into song and dance routines. So the guys got filmed in the ring learning a few moves and then sparring a bit, with all the 'hilarity' you could only expect from Asian humour. Lots of falling over, screaming loudly, acting gay and gigging from the admiring ladies. Needless to say, I did find myself laughing along, I have no idea what they were talking about, but when some dude wearing Muay Thai shorts with a Wallace And Gromit T-shirt tucked tight into them starts screaming like a ladyboy and dramatically leaps onto the floor after walking into a kick, you just have to let out a little chuckle!

All we have to do now is wait until we get the tape and see if I made it into the final cut. I'm guessing it will be an overwhelming "no", but we can live in hope that I am about to break into superstardom with the prestigious title of "Most Extra Of All The Extras".

I NEEED IT!

I've just found out you can get a "Make Bono History" T-shirt.

I must own one of these. I shall never take it off.

I feel so much better now.

Sometimes you just have to swear.

I'm second in line at the 7 Eleven. I have in my hand the single item that I need, and four more that I just want. A Thai enters and stands right next to the counter. The clerk knows I'm stood in line. I said hello to him when I entered and he has already eyes the handful of junk that I'm patiently waiting to disperse over his counter. The guy infront of me collects his change and the clerk immediately turns to serve the newcomer.

I stand there, more patient than before until a packet of cigarettes had been picked, then changed and then paid for. Now it's my turn. Now there is nothing left to do but serve the foreigner, now I can buy the single item that I need, and the four more that I just want.

On my way home from the 7 Eleven I'm approaching the lights when they start to change. I have plenty of time to slow down and stop. The three bikes and two cars infront of me speed up to get through the lights, then as they turn red and I'm almost at a standstill, three more bikes and a truck fly past me barely in time to avoid the traffic that is now being shown green.

I am left at the junction, alone on the line, the light on my bike showing that I'm in Neutral, and I cant help but feel like the past ten minutes have been choreographed for an artistic short film to visualise my mood.



I fucking hate being ill.

A brand new shag pile rug.

I wake up from a vivid dream, look around the room, put my head back on the sweaty pillow and fall straight back to sleep.

. . .

I rouse myself momentarily, feel the wet sheets beneath me, move over to a dry part of the bed and with flashes of dream still in my mind, I fall back to sleep.

. . .

My eyes open and light is coming through my windows. My duvet is stuck to me and my head is throbbing. I'm thirsty but don't want to move so I ignore it and leave my water bottle sat on the floor next to my phone whose alarm was not set to 5:40 to get me up for morning training.

I lay there, swallowing mucus that drips into my throat until I cant stand it any longer and willing my strength I roll over, reach down and grab the toilet roll I strategically placed there last night, next to the water bottle and the phone whose alarm was not set to 5:40 to get me up for morning training.

I blow my nose, tearing off square after square of paper and distributing used debris all over my floor like a snotty shag pile rug. I drink my water not caring that I'm spilling it down myself and into the bed. I drop the empty bottle on the floor, adding it to the mess and lay back down into my cold, wet sheets. I turn my duvet over to its dry side and try to ignore how uncomfortable I feel laying here in my own sweat and illness.

I fall in and out of sleep at irregular intervals, only awake for long enough to turn over, or move a pillow, before I go back under. Sometimes I rejoin the dream I was just having, sometimes I start a new one. Sometimes I'm awake, but I'm still inside the dream. I try to hold onto these moments for as long as possible before reality draws me back into my sore, throbbing, coughing state of mind and body.

Some time later, it's brighter now and birds are singing, I awake fully and start thinking that I should make moves towards getting up. I go over the dreams I had. I try to remember the details and am always surprised by how much I retain. How many of the different strands, scenarios and characters I can remember. I think that I should start keeping a record of them, but then I remember that I've been saying that since my spate of crazy dreams started about a month ago and I've still to write a single one of them down.

I sit up on the side of my bed. Being careful not to move too fast and gaze at the empty water bottle, wishing I'd brought two into my bedroom the night before. I twist my neck this way and that, listening to the pops and cracks, and then I'm up. I take a wobbly step over the discarded tissue and go into the kitchen to get more water.

Before breakfast I blow my nose and once I'm done I keep on blowing. I want to be able to enjoy my cereal. I don't want to be gagging on the milk because I cant breath and I don't want it to be completely tasteless. I pour myself a large bowl of cornflakes and then add two spoonfuls of chocolate powder to make them more of a treat than a chore.

While I eat my breakfast I flick to the good parts of the DVD I was watching last night. By the sofa is another snotty shag pile that I spent the majority of the evening manufacturing.

I think about going out but it's too hot for me in this state. I'm already sweating and the thought of having to don one of my Thai too-small-for-westerners T shirts and brave the heat just isn't cutting it.

I go to the bathroom and flick the light switch. Nothing happens so I flick it a couple more times. I feel stupid when I suddenly remember that it blew out on me the day before. Now I don't know if the switch is on or off and I'm not looking forward to changing the bulb.

I sit back on my sofa, blow my nose, drink water and wonder what the hell I'm going to do with myself all day.

I start up my laptop. There on the desktop is a folder marked Dreams. Hovering my cursor over it I get the message Folder Is Empty. My head is pounding. I reduce my screens brightness and load the novel I was reading last night.

Hours pass. I fill the air with germ from my repeated coughing, and on the floor I start to produce a brand new shag pile rug.

Ward and McDermott body shop repairs.

A guy from the camp hired an R1 for a couple of days (very, very fast bike). All was going well until we were at training and heard a crunching sound come over from where the bikes were parked.
Sure enough, where once there had a stood a sports bike of the highest calibre, there now laid a sports bike of the highest calibre. Having got it back on its wheels the damage was assessed. Luckily enough there wasn't too much 'real' damage. Sure, there were scratches, but all the body work still seemed to be ok.
This meant that later on that day, we were outside his bungalow, black permanent marker in hand, colouring in the scratches so that when we take the bike back, they don't notice it's been dropped.
We only need to fool them for long enough to get his passport back and then we're off.
Here's hoping all those art lessons come in handy. . . of which I've had none!!


Update** The drop off went well. As he pulled up, I turned my bike and waited on the opposite side of the road, engine running. He parked the bad side of the bike close to another and grabbed his passport as soon as it was produced. With minimal of pleasantries he made his way across the street, jumped on my bike and we hastily pulled away.

I was a nerve racking half minute let me tell you, but it worked.

As a great man would say.

I love it when a plan comes together.

A bit of light relief in the toilet.

And no, I'm not talking about comedy. I'm talking about the other kind.

The physical kind.

There I was in Jammin' (you remember don't you), drinking Gin and Tonics all night. The band once again was awesome, I spent the majority of the time admiring the drummer for looking awersome while he drummed, and I the female lead singer for just looking awesome. Then, as always, I needed to take a leak.

I walk into the toilet, do my stuff, and as I'm washing my hands a guy starts giving me a massage. In the space of thirty seconds he cracks my neck, shoulders, upper and lower back and then goes on to do the rest of my spine. It was quite simply the most efficient massage I've ever got. It's just unfortunate that it had to happen in a toilet.

I tipped the guy for his services and left the loo feeling like a new man, full of energy and ready to face the world.

Quite simply put, you cant beat a little bit of light relief in the toilet.

And yes, it was legit. But no, I don't suppose this will stop you.

The Laundry Lottery.

I've won twice!!

The rules are as follows.

Take your stuff to the laundry.
Give it them.
Collect your stuff the following day.

Is everything there??

If not, Congratulations, you win!!!

Whooop - De - Do.

I've now lost a towel AND a kick ass T.

A t-shirt, I might add, that I only owned for one day. I bought it from the night market, wore, washed and lost.

Such is the way of the laundry.

I frequent a bakery.

It's true. There is a bakery whose Coconut Jam Cookies I am addicted to. This, together with one of their Ham and Cheese Baguettes has become a regular meal of mine. I've been popping in their a couple of times a week and last week the girls that work there started giggling when I went in. I placed my order and as I was paying, amidst many nudges and looks from her friends, one of them turned to me and asked "Are you married?"

Now, I wasn't exactly prepared for this question during my lunch break, but my mind did it's old trick of thinking of something for me to say and before I knew it, cool as a cat, I said "Not over here!"

Ohhhh yeah. I figured this was easily the best answer. If I had said yes, they wouldn't have believed me. If I had said no, then it would have meant free reign for trying to get into my pants and buying my lunch would have become a battle ground between pleasant refusal, and not getting a sneeze sandwich. This answer said; I have commitments, and left how strong they were vague.

I hoped this meant they would see how I played it before they made the obvious jump to trying to marry me.

Oh how wrong I was.

I was in their today, again getting my ham-cheese-coconut medley, and as they were making my lunch she asked me where I lived. I gave her the rough area, she smiled at me, and continued making my lunch. They started chatting away in Thai, looking at me, chatting some more, they got a girl out the back to come and look at me before she dived back through the door looking embarrassed. Then as I once again came to pay she pulled a classic move. She held out my change, I went to grab it and she didn't let go. Then, as we are both stood there holding the money she looks me right in the eye and says "Maybe one day you will take me to your house."

Now, this was not a pleasant offer from a much frequented bakers merchant to come and admire my interior decorating. As much as I may think my Iron Maiden poster is reflecting the Post-Georgian Era while retaining strong ties to the Modernist influences that shaped my youth, I'm much more inclined to believe that she just wanted to bed a foreigner and then bleed me dry of cash.

Still, the way she said this to me was not something I was prepared for. Even more so due to her colleagues being stood not a foot away from her when she asked.

The best I could come up with was a very weak and very Hugh Grant "Oh! Well no. No thankyou. I mean, thank you for your offer but. . oh . . errr. . .no thankyou." It was horrible, I turned red, she grinned at me, her friends gave me that knowing smile and I turned even redder. I made my exit and I swear I heard laughter behind me.

I felt like such a floppy Englishman on the way home. A bumbling floppy crappy floppy Englishman. I cant believe how stumped I was. I mean, out on the town I'm prepared for things like this with a bag of witty responses and a belly full of Scotch.
Next time I'm in there I've got to try and get some of my credibility back.

How, I know not.