I know, I know.

I've been quiet recently.

But now I'm back. . . Momentarily.

My web-hosting is about to run out and when I tried to sort it the website didn't like the fact that I was in Thailand and told to me to go get stuffed!!

I've also managed to leave myself with only one day to sort it because while I was in Bangkok I never checked my mail and now I'm sat on the verge of my deadline!!

Sooooo, you may notice the site doing funny stuff in the future. . . like disappearing.

I'm on the case to sort it but it may take some time. Bare with me people.

As a treat, when I do get the site sorted I have some great stories from Bangkok. Seriously, solid gold stories.

ohhhhhhh, a Neighbours type cliffhanger. . . nice way to end.

A Beating.

Today I took a good old fashioned beating while we were sparring. The worst of which was given to me by one person. See, I'm a bit taller then he was so I kept on jabbing him in the face.

Only thing is, I don't think he appreciated it much because mere seconds later he planted his foot squarely and firmly in my stomach, thus rendering me 'out of action'.

I had the trainer at my side going "Breath Wardy, just breath!" Believe me when I tell you that breathing was Exactly what I was trying to do. I mean I wanted so hard to take a breath, but no, my body had other ideas, so I just crouched there, mouth open, trying to coordinate my lungs into taking in some air so I could get on with it.

When the breath finally came it felt good for all the time it took to take another breath, and then we were at it again.

It was such a good session today. There were five of us sparring together and by the end of it we were sat around in a circle, examining each others bruises, laughing heartily at the mug shots we took and going over what we had learnt that day.

Sure, each and every one of us had blood on our teeth by the time we'd done.

But we only know that because each and every one of us was grinning from ear to ear!

Dude, there are Monks in the Octagon!!!

Today the camp got blessed by Buddist monks from the local temple. They came in, did their little ritual and then went and blessed the area. It was a really good ceremony and I was very happy that I was allowed to be a part of it. The funny thing was that the main ceremony took place in the Octagon. It was such a good sight, nine monks in robes sat side by side on the Octagon slab. One I'll surely never forget.

Good photography vs bad photography.

A few weeks ago I gave my camera to one of the Thai kids that trains with us and told him to snap away. In 40 minutes he had taken 208 photos and filled my memory card. Out of this 208 there are about 15 fabulous ones and 15 good ones. Then today at the ceremony one of the guys took photos and the difference is that almost all of his were absolutely amazing.

Now I have little to no artistic merit and a child can literally take as good photos as I. But this guy was on fire, his photos had depth, mood and emotion. They are just amazing. Some of them will be getting blown up and printed when I get back home to remind myself of the whole occasion. I'm so gutted I cant take better photos.

My photos are merely images of what I have done, his managed to be stories in themselves.

Krabi.

Imagine a place, where simply taking a walk to the golden sandy beach, with warm clear blue water, and looking out over the waves to huge stone monoliths, becomes an adventure in itself as you meander beside towering rock faces pitted with a multitude of exploreable nooks while stalactites the size of buses hover just above you.

Yes, Krabi is a truly amazing place to see.

Where we were staying the sea came right up to the side of the hostel and you had to walk through the water to get anywhere at high tide.

Hot sun, amazing scenery, ice cold beer, great company and I just have to mention it again, the scenery.

If you go to Thailand, go to Krabi. You will not regret it.

A lesson learned.

Lesson Learned.

* Kick with the shin, not the foot.

Lesson temporarily forgotton.

* Kick with the shin, not the foot.

Lesson learned.

* Kick with the shin, not the foot.

You see, when you try something new, and get it a bit wrong, you can sometimes hurt yourself. This simple misdemeanour left my with a foot with a sweet ass lump on it. I mean this foot swelled up good. There was talk of bones having been broken and having to take weeks off. There is something sickeningly grotesque about standing watching your foot swell before your very eyes.

I thought about hospital but, I just couldn't be bothered. So I put it in ice all night instead and it looks heaps better.

You know, I think of injuries like I do falling off a bike. It only goes to show that you're trying.

Next time I try to kick that fast, you'd better believe I'll remember my distancing.

Dear Mr Random.

I attended one of your lectures the other day. I'm very honoured that you took so much time out of your life to lecture me personally. I'm even more honoured that you would do so outside of you work time, and give me a lecture right there in the bar, only moments after we have met.

I'm surprised you knew so much about me, what with us having being complete strangers till only moments before, but I suppose someone in your position must make it his business to know about the lives of others. You must have done a lot of research, I'm guessing you've got a really fast internet connection. My brother lives in the sticks and he cant get a fast connection so it's very surprising that you managed to get broadband into your ivory tower. NTL is funny like that.

I was surprised your lecture lasted so long and took on so many areas of my life. From my sex life, to my haircut, to my work ethic. However, while at the time I was enraptured listening to you disseminate my very existence, upon thinking about your argument I have found a couple of areas that I don't fully understand. Please could you could clarify these for me.

With regards to my sex life. I said I was wary of the Thai girls because I didn't want to go home - and I quote - "with crap on my junk".

You then went on to explain how I was small minded to think that all Thai girls had STD's. You told me that I was 100% wrong to think that ALL Thai girls were infected with something.

I agree with you wholeheartedly. I'm sure there are millions of Thai women, pure as the driven snow and cleaner than the Baptists new whistle. However, you took what I said out of context. You see, we were stood in a bar surrounded by Thai hookers. Girls whose job it is - believe it or not - is to sleep with men for money. I'm sorry if I misled you. I'm sure you were not aware of these girls occupation, for surely if you had then it would have been them, and not me, who would have been receiving such an insightful and interesting lecture on how to live their life.

My apologies for this slight indiscretion. I wrongly assumed that you would have picked up on the insinuation that the girls I were talking about were prostitutes. I suppose late night drinking in an area known for its sex tourism, in a bar full of young ladies trying to find a man for the night, was too subtle a clue as to my meaning. Next time, much like yourself, I will try to be more concise.

I was also unaware that you had done so much research on the spread of Aids through South East Asia. I had only studied this particular disease on and off for three years while earning my degree. I'm sure your two months in the area and hands on experience much better enables you to quote figures and statistics to back up your claim. I am somewhat disappointed with my university degree however. For the figures you were quoting almost seemed plucked out of thin air, if I did not trust your judgement so earnestly I would have thought them wildly inaccurate and made up on the spur of the moment to help prop up your sterling, thought provoking and entirely researched based view of the situation.

Thanks to you I now see the error of my ways. Of course I could sleep with a girl back home and still catch some of the diseases that are so rife over here. I could catch skin cancer is England also, but the chances of me getting it over here are so much higher that I take extra precautions when I go out. Do you see the parallel. If you don't it is probably my fault for not understanding what you were saying properly and once again I apologise. Maybe you explained this better in your sub-speech about going on holiday in Europe. I must admit, I understood little of what you meant during this informative tirade. No, I don't view South East Asian prostitutes and European girls as equal risks. I fear I missed your point. There were so many of them maybe I concentrated too hard on the less important ones. Next time could you berate me with bullet points placed in order of severity so I can study better at home how small minded I am.

Moving away from this issue, though I would very much like to linger on it and make my point multiple times using the same argument, wording and emphasis - see, I was listening - I would like to talk about my hair.

I momentarily had dreadlocks. This much is true. But no, I was never part of the Rastafarian religion. Surprisingly I actually had heard of Rastafarians, don't worry, I didn't feel patronised, it was nice to have their existence verified for my by someone of your intelligence. I can't deny that sometimes I didn't doubt a little and thought they may have been make believe, or maybe even a branch of the Leprechaun family.

I know you felt it was slightly hypocritical of me to have dreadlocks and not be a part of their movement, but no, I do not feel like I was disrespecting their religion. I'm almost entirely sure this was you making a joke, I mean would you say I was disrespecting Buddhists if I shaved my head. You teaser you!

You also had some fabulous insights into my future work. Joining the Navy, although I'm sure a worthy choice, is not really my cup of tea. Oh and yes, of course I've heard of the Royal Navy, _chortle_, I'm very glad you made sure I'd heard of the Navy before you went on to talk of them in further detail. You see, sometimes when people talk about the Royal Navy I think they are talking about a very rich and dark shade of the colour blue. How embarrassing it would have been for you to talk Navy at me for twenty minutes, and all the time I'd have been thinking you just spent a part of your life training to be a popular colour for mens wool jumpers!


Unfortunately at some point your little lesson in life had to come to an end. I'm only sorry I couldn't have talked to you for longer. The time we did spend together was so interesting it seemed to last forever, surely the sign of a good talker.

I thank you for pointing out the folly of my ways. I shall try to reform and be a better person in the future.

Also, thank you for taking such an active interest in my life and the way I live it. It was almost as if you really cared what type of person I was, and will end up being. Putting me back on the straight and narrow and following your advice will surely help me form myself into a valuable member of society. Your unparalleled interest in my opinions and ways of life was invaluable. Never before has a complete stranger taken such a keen interest in me, and so meticulously picked me apart like a wiser, more intelligent and morally superior vulture. Many people would have left that situation feeling belittled, patronised and stupid. I'm constantly surprised I even managed to look at myself in the mirror this morning, what with me being such an inferior and misguided individual. And all those little digs and snide remarks that were throw in under the radar, oh how I would be a complete mess this morning if I had noticed them.

Lucky for me then that I met you.

And luckier still that I don't understand sarcasm.

And heaven forbid, and mean really forbid, that I should have a solid grasp of being subtle myself.

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.

The twig, it lives!!

There I was, making my way to training when I spot a large twig in the road. Almost, you could say, a stick.

I'm closing ground on it thinking, "hmmm, that stick looks funny". While my brain is whirring away trying to fathom why the stick looks not quite stick like, it moves. I'm closer now, the stick looks thicker in the middle. It's stretching right the way across my lane. It has a bulge at one end and. . . oh my god it's a snake. Shit, it's a snake. Oh god I'm going to run over a snake. I'm dead. This snake is going to kill me. I'm about to hit a poisonous snake. It will bite me, for sure. It will bite me, I'll fall of my bike and die by the side of the road. No no, it will get caught on my bike and I'll drag it along with me, then it will start trying to bite me and I'll have to stand on my seat or something. No, it will jump at me as I try to avoid it, bite me, and while I'm concentrating on that I'll ride into a tree and die. No, it will. . . .

By this time the snake has noticed me and bolted into the brush by the side of the road. It was most probably poisonous. This is based on nothing more than the fact it was a snake, and some of those are poisonous, and this one probably was. It was also large, a large poisonous snake, that tried to kill me.

I was attacked by a large poisonous snake and barely escaped with my life.

Yeah, that's a much better story than; I saw a snake while I was on my bike and nearly soiled myself.

So to start this post again.


Did I ever tell you about the time I narrowly escaped death when a snake attacked me while I was on my bike . . . ?

Pre Training is Over.

Tomorrow I start training 'for real'. This is not to say I haven't been giving it my all up to this point. It means that tomorrow is the start of a training regime that has been cooked up for me. It's a three month plan, I don't know what it entails. I don't want to know.
I figure I'll just turn up each day, do what I'm told and deal with it. What I do know is that it's going to be hard. Although my definition of 'hard' has changed since I've been here. When I got here I thought training was hard. Now I can laugh in the face of what used to tire me out. I don't like to thing of things as 'hard' anymore. They are just 'more demanding than usual'. The word 'demanding' also works on a scale that goes from; more out of breath than last week, to; only falling unconscious can save me now.

Here's hoping we find a happy medium!

I want to kill the dog.

This doesn't stem from any malicious need I am harbouring to prove my superiority to our canine friends. There just happens to be a dog I want to kill.

On the road that leads to my house there is a dog that attacks me. I've managed to avoid being bitten so far, but it's only a matter of time. When it started I thought it was just a one off. I figured I'd disturbed the dog, it was angry, and that was why it started chasing me barking wildly. Now however, things have taken a sinister turn. The dog now recognises the sound of my bike and runs to the road to have a go at me again. This is what can only be described as 'tiring'. So now whenever I want to go to or from my house, I get attacked.

So what I'm thinking is. . . why don't I just kill it. I'm pretty sure it's just a wild dog. It doesn't have a collar and I've seen it all around the area where I live.

The dog, you could say, has no fixed abode.

So if I kill it, would anyone care. And if they did, would they be able to do anything. Sure, they could burn my house down, wreck my bike, beat me to within an inch of my life and then three centimetres more. . . but then again, they might thank me.

I'd thought of asking the neighbours but they only speak Thai and I'm not too comfortable about trying to sign to them, "I Want To Kill The Dog".

I'm going to ask around and see what I can do about it. Maybe I wont kill it, maybe just some pepper spray until it learns not to mess with me.

I've got to find some way to get it off my case. It's a big fella and if it manages to get hold of me one day it's really going to make a mess of me.

Mr Dog, consider your days to be numbered.

Do I look goofy?

This is the question that pops into my head every time I see myself in a mirror. I've got a number 2 crop. It needs no care, minimal maintenance and keeps me cool. I've always complained about my curly hair. It's no secret I didn't like it. But then when it got to a certain length I found ways to start appreciating it.

Now I've got no hair. I look different. I cant hide behind a funky hair cut anymore. It's just me.

I'll get used to it with time I'm sure. But until then. . .

. . . do I look goofy?

Things on my mind.

Money.
Food.
Training.
Sleep.
Tattoos.
Food.

I'm thinking of getting a tattoo of food put on my while I sleep after training to really wrap this thing up once and for all.

I wimped out.

There are some posts that I wish I could put up here, yet I find myself hesitating. In the past week so much has happened that I could never post about. If this blog was anonymous I would do so without hesitation.
That book that people keep on talking about may well become a reality. I'm already stockpiling posts that never made it to the internet. And unfortunately for you folks, June 20th is one of those posts.

Sorry.

Singapoor.

Imagine London. Then put the temperature up to the high 30's. Then increase the price of everything.
Congratulations. You are now imagining Singapore. Welcome to budget Hell.

I thought going to Singapore for the visa run would be a good laugh. Instead of just going to Burma for the day, why not take a three day trip and really enjoy myself I thought.

Why indeed.

We landed in Singapore to find that every hotel but two that the airport had listed was full. And the two that had rooms available were over our budget. . . oh how this would become a running theme.

We got in a taxi and told him to take us to Chinatown. We had heard that this was a cheap place to stay and seemed like a good place to start. The first two hotels we went into waved us off immediately. We put this down to my friends visible tattoos. One woman literally waving us away and saying "no rooms, no rooms" while booking someone in, other patrons queuing up to be served, their inkless bodies obviously more suited to the hotels taste.

We eventually found a hotel that would accept us. I went up to the desk and asked for a twin room. She looked at me, she looked at my travelling companion and then gave us two keys and said "See which room you like".

I found my room, opened the door, and my emotions went in this order - surprise; confusion; amusement; worry. I had opened the door to a very small room which contained a small shower cubicle, a tv and a double bed.

Double bed.
One bed.
For two people.

No - no - no - way.

The other room was slightly better. It was two single beds that had been pushed together to make a double. They could be separated by all of thirty centimetres.

I'm all for saving money, but this was taking it a step too far.

We booked both rooms and headed out to sample the nightlife.

We found an Irish pub. This seemed like a good place to start the night Now you have to understand that you get three Sing Dollars for each Pound. I sat at the bar and ordered two drinks. They arrived and the barmaid asks me for $13. Not bad I'm thinking. More expensive than Thailand but still acceptable. I reach into my wallet, take out a twenty and hand it over. She stands there looking at me. I don't really know how to react so I keep on sitting there, I take a drink. She still stands there, I'm getting more uncomfortable. I look at her and smile, this seems to work in the majority of my uncomfortable moments. She leans forward again, raises her voice above the music and says "sorry sir, the drinks are $30".

Thirty dollars. For two drinks. That means they were ?5 each. For a pint!

I do the stupid "oh pardon me" routine which only serves to increase the fact that I look like an idiot. I pay her the $30 and sit looking at my pint. The most expensive pint I have ever bought. I drink it slowly, savouring the taste, for I know that it will be one of the few drinks I'm going to have in Singapore.


Other annoying things about Singapore.

When you go to eat, the price listed on the menu is only really a 'best guess'. It bears little to no resemblance to what you will actually end up paying. The best example of this would have to be a couple of drinks that we bought from the airport bar. The drinks were $9.80 each. Quite pricey enough you would think. But then when I go to pay with a $20, it's not enough. Now I've never really liked maths but I was pretty sure that 9.8 x 2 is less than 20. but you see, I forgot the 'sucker' tax that gets added onto anything you may buy, if you look foreign. These drinks, after three extra bouts of Tax, one of which was simply to round the figure off, came to $22.40.

Consider myself jacked.

Just got back

from Singapore. It blows.
I'll write more later.

Everybody likes a good ruck.

It's Friday night. We have amassed at the gym, each of us in our matching Tiger Muay Thai black top. One of the Thai guys used to be in the military and he has on his green combats and army boots, fully unlaced. With his bald head, but for a pony tail at the back, he looks like he could kill you in any one of 35 fast ways, and 34 slow painful ways. I like having him around.

One of our guys is fighting tonight. He sits on the side of the ring looking relaxed, sipping red bull. Our trainer looks alert, constantly moving, oozing confidence and sipping red bull.

I'm a bag of nerves and I'm only here to watch. My stomach is tight and I cant wait to get to the stadium. I wish I had a red bull to sip on.

We fill two trucks and a handful of bikes to make our way out. I'm in the back of one of the trucks watching the night fly by and thinking about the rest of the night ahead. Whenever I travel in the back of a truck it really makes me feel like I'm abroad. I don't know why, but riding in the back of a pickup seems to symbolise the 'holdiay' experience for me. I watch shopfronts and scooters as they pass quickly by. My mind all the time flicking back to the fight ahead.

We arrive at the stadium, buy our tickets and enter en-mass.

The first thing I do is get a beer and quickly drink it. We sit on the bleachers with a good view of the ring. Our presence had been noted by the stadium.
Tiger Muay Thai has entered the building.

I try to watch the fight but find myself disinterested. I'm only here to see one fight. I start crowd watching and notice a guy on the other side without his top on. Nice way to disrespect another country jack ass. There is another guy near him, looks like an American trucker. A large set guy with a black wife-beater, his arms and chest heavily tattooed. He keeps on glancing over at us.

I give up trying to keep myself interested in the fights and head into the locker room to see our guy get ready. All the fighters share one room to get ready in. This means you can be going through your pre-fight routine right next to your opponent. Our guy has the bench on the end next to the toilets. It smells like it. I notice this only for the instant it takes for me to notice it. I have bigger things to think about.

Our guy is heavily muscled. He draws a crowd of children who want to see the foreigner get ready. The Thai kid who trains with us looks so proud to be part of the spectacle we have created. He sits there holding our fighters gloves tight, that's his job for tonight, hold the gloves till we need them. I give him my camera to play with and he starts taking photos till my battery runs out. He beams.

The opponent enters the locker room. We ignore him. Our guy is oiled up and ready. His gloves are on. No more to do. All the hard work has been done over the previous weeks at the camp.
Now it's show time. Now he gets to do it for real. Now. . . it's show time.

The fighters enter the ring and perform the Wai Kroo. A ceremonial pre-fight ritual to show respect to your family, trainer and God. Straight after this our guys does his Haka. It has been explained to the crowd that this like a Wai Kroo, New Zealand style. The mainly Thai crowd goes wild, our guys looks stone faced and ready. His opponent has had over 100 fights, he stands and smiles, impressed but unfazed.

Round one.

Almost immediately our guy hits the canvas. Get it together man. He takes a fierce knee to the stomach. Move man, move! The first round is usually a round for feeling out the opponent and warming yourself up. The opponent is experienced but not conditioned, he's in no shape to drag this fight out. Knees and elbows are thrown with wreckless abandon. Our guy takes some big hits. For the love of God get some movement in. Our guy takes a huge left hook. Then narrowly escapes a fierce elbow to the face. The round ends. Our guy took a beating and gave little back. My heart sinks. Come on man. Punch this guy out. Please, for me . . .hit him.

Round two.

After a rub down and talk from our trainer that liberally used the word 'fuck' in almost all of its contexts, the second round starts. Our guy is moving now. He looks lighter on his feet. He throws a punch. It connects. I go wild. That's it man. That's the stuff. There is movement now. There is confidence. There is anger. Our guy took some big hits last round, that wont happen again. They move in towards each other. Our man sends more fists flying, they hit again. Yes, yes, more of the same. Our man moves in and sends one right down the pipe, it connects squarely and the guy is sent to the ropes. The ref moves in, checks the guy and starts the fight again. Immediately our man moves in. He smells blood. More punches. He's boxed for years and now it shines through. A hard combination connects and the ref moves in again to check on the opponent. He's being held up by the ropes and looks shaken. This is it man, take him out, let it all go. The ref starts the fight and our man attacks. Left right, left right, hook, body, hook, straight. He send the punches in, the guy is getting knocked around. This is it man, keep at it, don't stop, give him everything. After two or three more punches the ref has to step in and stop the fight for good. The opponent was punch drunk and couldn't defend himself. Our guy was just using him as a soft flesh coloured punch bag for the last fifteen seconds. Our guy wins. I scream and shout with everything I've got. He did it. His first fight and he won it. What a man. I'm in awe. I'm proud of him.
His first fight and he won it.

He drops and does some pushups in the middle of the ring. The crowd love this. He's on fire. He won. This is his moment. He did this. It was all him. He went up against a man and beat him. His first fight. What a feeling.

We go out and celebrate with tequila and beer. Our fighter goes home early. He'd been ordered to stay away from his woman for a while before the fight; he wants to make up for lost time.

We keep on drinking tequila, I even win a free shot off the owner of the bar because we beat her at pool. I don't know what I'm more happy about, getting a free tequila or actually winning a game of pool.

The night ends and as I'm laying on my bed, the room spinning ever so slightly, I think about the fight. I think about the guts it took to get in the ring for the first time and fight a Thai. With violence and pride in my head I fall asleep. Only two hours later my alarm goes off for morning training. I think of who was out last night, there is no way, I say to myself, that we are training today.

The only guy to show up was the guy that fought.

I've learnt something.

Don't fuck with a Mauri.

A baffling array of clicks and whistles.

Not, as you would immediately conclude, the technique of communication favoured by our bottle nosed friends. More the technique of communication favoured by the car park attendant at the bank I use.

I just cant work it out. The guy has a whistle. Him blowing it seems to mean several things.

Stop
Go
Left
Right
Slower
Faster
Yes
No
Nearly
Pancakes.

Well, maybe the last one I just made up, but I cant for the life of me work out any kind of system that he might be using. I've stood there and watched this guy, and sure, cars get parked but I cant help wondering if these cars would get parked with or without being whistled at from start to finish.

Luckily for me he doesn't whistle at bikes. Or maybe it's just foreigners he doesn't whistle at as he knows we 'just wont get it'. Either way, seeing as I'm a foreigner on a bike, I don't have to worry about it too much.

Worry, no.
Puzzle, yes.

The greatest teacher.

Pain.

Remember how before I thought I'd broken a bone in my foot?

Well I've only gone and done it again.
I've not broken anything, just got a nice deep bruise again. I'm going to be out of action for a couple of days until I can get around without hobbling.

See, I was sparing with the trainer and I went in for a kick but didn't commit fully. This meant my kick was a bit short and when he went to block I kicked his knee square with my foot. This hurt.
Then I kicked his elbow.

Then I kicked his knee again.

Trust me, next time I spa, I'm not going to be pulling my kicks at all.

So I'm going to be sat icing my foot while everyone else trains. Missing training is something I know I have to do to get better, but it riles me that other people are going to be improving while I'm sat on my ass.

Oh well, only a couple of days to get myself sorted and then I'm back into it.
I'll just have some catching up to do!

My stunt man moment.

Today just after morning training a storm closed in. There we were, sat around the ring, refusing to leave until the howling wind and thrashing rain had abated.

Nature unfortunately, had other ideas.

The rain got harder, the wind stronger, and before you knew it, you could hear trees cracking all around us. A few large branches fell from the rubber plantation surrounding the camp, more loud cracks from further away told of the same thing happening elsewhere.

Soon enough, there was a lull. I jumped on my bike and headed home in only my Muay Thai shorts and a t-shirt. The wind was still strong, the rain was hovering around being described as 'torrential'.

The ride home was amazing.

On the road that I have to take there were leaves and twigs all over the road, more of them falling all the time, there were large branches lying in the road to navigate around and best of all. . . there was a fallen tree being held up by power lines that I had to ride under!!

Oh man, I felt so 'stunt'. Riding around, dodging branches while being pelted with twigs from above and then riding under a fallen tree!! It was freaking brilliant!

It's times like that that make me wish my life was filmed so I could rewind and watch it again.

It was like riding in a disaster movie.

Un-freaking-believable!

Wont somebody make the pain go away.

Yesterday we did some circuit training in the morning. 45 minutes of constant activity with only 4 minutes of rest split up during the entire time. Then some pad work to finish it off, you know, just in case there was any energy at all left in us.

Then I went back in the afternoon for more.

Today I ache. Oh man I ache. I had to force myself out of bed and just went through the motions of eating and getting ready without really thinking of what I was getting ready for. Now I've finished for the day and still, I ache.

The thing is. I've never had so much fun. Everything is new, everything is different. And everyday I get pushed more outside of my comfort zone. Whether it's being held in a choke until I'm ready to pass out, or adding that extra little something to a technique I just got comfortable with, everyday brings something new that I can get my teeth into and make me look forward to the next training session.

Sure, it's not the easiest way I've spent my time. But in the same way that at uni I was pushed academically, now I'm being pushed physically.

And I'll be damned if I'm beaten.

I've filled a hole.

I wrote a long and complex post to go here. In the end I scrapped it. I wrote it, got out what I needed to get out, and this is what you are left with.

I've taken my tongue stud out.

I don't need it anymore

I now have a normal tongue. No more a tongue adorned with the highest grade titanium.

I loved every moment of my tongue stud, I don't regret having it done at all. But now I've moving on, and I'm leaving it behind.



Tongue Stud : 1998-2005.

What do you get if. . .

. . . you mix two Australian brothers, a bottle of whisky and a high speed race through Phuket town.

That's right. You get last night.

The Honda Phantom Menace.

I shall die on a bike. This is not some crazy dream premonition that I have had, nor is it the result of lacing some gypo's palm with silver. No, it is just a fact. My death shall be the result of a bike accident. Whether here on my Phantom, or back home on my mountain bike I know not, but sooner or later, a bike shall kill me.

In the past four days I have had more close calls on my bike than the ill-fated Evil Kenevil School For Children With No Sense Of Balance. I have had people open truck doors right into my path, I have skidded on gravel left lying in the road, I have swerved around a local who didn't realise that 'indicators' are usually used to 'indicate' that you are going to turn. Swerving sharply and swearing loudly at the foreigner who nearly high sided you (guess who) is a road safety technique I am getting all too familiar with.

This is also the week in which I discovered my bike has five gears, and not four. I can only guess how happy the engine is that I finally found this out!

There are also parts of the road I am leaning to avoid. This would be any part of the road where there is paint. Or as I like to call it 'Killer White Lines Of Teflon'. Changing lanes here is not for the faint of heart. Where two lanes have been laid side by side it is also wise to avoid the join in the asphalt. For some reason my bike likes to swerve wildly if my wheels touch these.

This week seems to have been one bike incident after another. I'm not going any faster than I usually do, I'm not being more wreckless than usual, I'm not doing anything different from what I would any other week, and yet suddenly the roads ahead of me have been filled with surprises and danger. Please keep in mind that this all started after my headlight blew. This leads me to but one conclusion.

I sense a change in my bike.

Gone to the dark side it has.

Ying and Yack.

Today me and another guy at the camp practiced groundwork together. He choked me out every single time we went down. This guy is good, I'd lay there expanding all my energy pointlessly trying to use my strength to achieve what turned out to be very little, and he would bide his time, then manipulate me into a position that meant I couldn't breath.

Time and time again.

Then again for good measure.

After the sparring we got down on the mats and learnt a new move. This one was a blood choke. This means you cut off the blood to the brain and your opponent either submits, or very very shortly becomes a limp bag of bones and adrenaline in your arms. When you are put in this choke you fee like your head is about to explode. It feels like it's swelling up like in a cartoon and any moment could pop. It is about this time that you should either tap out, or start worrying about the dribble patch you will leave in the ring, this is after everyone gets to watch you flap about fitting like a grounded fish. I think it's the brains way of saying "WTF!!"

So time and time again this guy air choked me out. I was tapping away longer and harder than a hippy on acid in a bongo factory. However, when the blood choke came around, the gloves were quite literally on the other foot.

Due to me being a bit lanky, I was perfectly suited to this choke. I've never done it before and so I got him basically where I wanted him and then the instructor started explaining how to activate the choke. Only, I was already 'half on' so to speak. So the poor guy I'm sparring with is lying there, wrapped up in limbs, slowly going under as I'm severely limiting his brains ability to function. My instructor finally finished the explanation, I tensed in all the right places and he tapped out.

Now this guy had been laying there, slowly depriving his brain of blood, just waiting for me to get the lock on properly so he could tap out. The trooper that he is, he didn't want to tap early so I could get a good feel for the hold. Only this meant he'd been partially in this lock for waaaay longer than he should have been.

Unfortunately, only a few minutes after this he was chucking his guts up. I mean, really puking here. Once, then twice, then again and then. . . oh ho, here comes some more for luck!!!

This guy is a ledgend. He just keeps on going and going way after I'd have fallen on the floor and coughed a lung out from exhaustion. If he pukes, it means he had it rough. But he didn't tap early. Good lad.

I like training with him. He inspires me to go farther than I'd like. Then when you get there, it's just the most satisfying feeling in the world.

Happy days, follow PJ's.

I am now officially a pyjama wearer. After another night of begin vigorously attacked by mosquitoes. - This time my right leg taking the lions share of the damage. Yet it was the single bite on my left shin which caused me most pain as every time I kicked a bag, this bite would send pain right through my lower leg. Those dastardly mosquitoes! - Yes, after another night of being vigorously attacked my mozzies, I am now sleeping covered up. Gone are the days of snoozing in a comfy pair of boxers. Now when I lay my head to rest, I am dressed as a hippy with my Thai-tie dye-tie up trousers and my Tahi-tourist tout top. Sure, I may look like I'm one with nature, but really I'm getting a little tired of this food chain reversal thing at the mo. With my 39 countable bites and a fair number on my back that I cant see, it's time to take drastic action. If this means getting dressed up like a druid when the sun goes down then that's just what I'll do.

I might Riad the hell out of the place too. You know, just to show them who's boss.

Tomorrows shopping list.

Raid.
Ant Powder.
Bagels.
Mosquito Repellent.
Mosquito Bite Ointment.
Raid.


Ohhhh yeah. Let the fighting begin!

House luke-warming.

Two slices of cold pizza, a pot noodle, two chocolate covered Oreos, a packet of salted nuts and a bag of Malteasers, all washed down with a beer. . . . . alone.


There's a party going on!!!! . . . I'm not at it.

Truck Racing.

If you were thinking that finding quilt covers over here would be a simple matter of going somewhere that sold bed linen, you my friend, would be quite wrong.

But on my way home from this unsuccessful shopping trip I saw the most scary/amazing/horrifying/awesome sight. There were two huge trucks side by side at the lights. Not like a transit van or a pick up, large industrial sized trucks. When the lights turned green these trucks set off quite normally. Quite normally that is, until we hit the corners. Now, these were Large vehicles, and the roads over here are nice and twisty. What usually happens is that one will give way to the other and they will both drive safely and carefully, making sure they don't make contact with each other around the numerous sharp bends.

Ohhhh ho ho. Not today my friend. Neither of these mad men was willing to give way and I found myself following an impromptu truck race. There were horns blasting, engines revving, sand and grit being thrown up behind them, and all the while these two oversized wrecking machines went tearing 'round the corners with less regard for public safety than a Pikey fireworks display.

It was like actually watching Worlds Wildest Police Videos (with retired Sherif John Burnell none the less), but with the added excitement that I was right there in the midst of the action and could at any moment be witness to a crash horrifically devastating to the innocent public who were just trying to use the roads at that time.

That satisfying mix of "this is gonna make a great story" and "oh balls" that I thrive upon!

Broken Dreams.

My headlight doesn't work anymore. After a particularly heavy downpour during training in which my bike got soaked, I'm now a very serious danger to myself if I ride at night.

Oh yeah, tonight while I was out was when I discovered my headlight didn't work. Nice.

Home sweet home.

I've now officially got my own place over here. My house, with my bike parked outside. Ahhh, there's something really cool about pulling up at my house, on my bike. There's also something cool about standing outside the house, looking back at my house with my bike parked on the front.

All I've got to do now is furnish the place. It came with the basics but still needs some decoration. I need to find a poster shop and hope they've got some funky Thai stuff to brighten the place up a little. I've got my own lounge, kitchen bathroom and bedroom. PLUS, a spare room. Spare. I've never even had my own lounge before never mind a whole other room with no defined purpose. I think I'm going to turn it into my storage / cleaning room so I can keep the rest of the place nice and tidy. What would you know, I'm already house proud!!

Today in training I concentrated on my elbows. This may well be my favourite part of training. I just love throwing elbows. Each and every time I hit with them properly it makes a really satisfying sound and gives your body a nice satisfying jolt. Lovely.

Full Moon Party.

Imagine the biggest party you can, then double the size, then add at least a couple thousand more people, mix in a hell of a lot of alcohol, sprinkle with drugs, liberally douse in dance music and then add fire. Welcome my friends, to the Full Moon Party!

I've been to a fair few parties in my time. I have even been to a little get together at the Savoy (oh yeah, Yorkshire boy done good!) but all of these pail into insignificance when measured against the Full Moon Party. This party stretches the entire length of a beach. At either side are kick ass bars, all across the beach are more stalls selling everything from buckets (literally) of alcohol to chicken bits on sticks and neon body painting. There are lights, there are crazy structures to dance under and there are fire dancers. Then there is more fire, then fire with audience participation (always a good idea when you are drunk and off your face on drugs) and to finish it all off there is alcohol, drugs and fire.

You may be noticing a running theme here.

This party was amazing. There were times when I was just stood there, looking over the beach at everything going on and thinking to myself, "wow". It really is something you have to see to believe. No amount of description can adequately communicate what it is like to be there, see it, smell it, taste it and most important of all, be a part of it.

It's not all glitz and glamour though. As always there was an ample supply of losers on display. The most memorable image of excess that I took away from the party was two English girls. Two, overweight English girls. Both wearing really tight tops and jeans, almost as if they were designed to highlight the excess weight these ladies were carrying around and with special seams to push a tyre right out in between the top and trousers. While I was sat on a step catching my breath these hotties started dancing in front of me. Eyes looking at some distant point, they were one with the music. Both holding a small plastic bucket full of vodka and coke, at least six straws in each, splashing it all over there white trousers and sloppily trying to take a drink while still dancing. They stood there dancing for a while and moved on.

The Full Moon Party, best enjoyed drunk.

MMA Training.

Well the training is very different from what I was doing at the other camp. Instead of just turning up and hitting pads, here I'm actually being taught how to punch properly, combinations, and footwork. I learnt more in the first two days than I did in two weeks at the other place.

It's really nice to feel yourself progress in something that you enjoy. I've hit pads before but now I've been shown how to do it properly, a whole new world has opened up. There is a difference I never would have imagined between hitting something how you have hit all your life, and hitting something after a couple of hours instruction on how to hit effectively.

Then there are the kicks. Although I still have the nasty habit of kicking with my feet instead of my shins, these are coming along. At the moment they are very wobbly, with an almost complete lack of balance after the kick, but hey, I've got time to practice!

The best thing so far though has to be the knees and elbows. Hitting a bag with your elbow is something everyone should try now and again. It makes a really satisfying Thud! Hitting a bag with your knees just makes you glad that nobody has kneed you in the stomach. It just Has to hurt.

Then there is the ground work. Rolling around topless on the floor with another guy, covered in sweat, grunting and working for position is not a description I ever thought I would use to describe something I enjoy. It may be the heat, it may be the bottled water, I don't know. All I do know is that it's great. More tiring than it looks by far. A couple of minutes ground work is as tiring as two or three rounds of bag work. It drains every muscle you own and some that just moved in for the sole purpose of aching after ground work. You are meant to remain relaxed during grappling. I'm sure this will come eventually. At the moment, remaining relaxed while someone is digging their elbow into your chest and leaning their weight on it, choking you with their forearm and manipulating you into an elbow lock. . . is a little hard to do!

Fighters Block.

I finding it a bit tough at the mo to find time to write. My days have become fully concentrated on training and eating. I just cant seem to get enough food inside me to satisfy my body. Then when I'm not training or eating, I'm sleeping.

It's a simple life for sure, but it leaves me precious little time to sit back and reflect. I haven't even touched my guitar. I need to sort something out to give myself some spare time in the day.

I'll see what I can muster up.

Bring it to me.

My bike. MY bike. A bike that from this moment, shall be called 'mine'. I have a bike. An awesome bike. Not a death scooter, no longer do I need to ride the yellow scooter of 'soon to be passed away'. No, for now I can ride my Honda Phantom. Hondas little answer to the Harley. It's an easy rider, it's easy, and it's mine.

Sure, I've had to learn how to ride a manual, but hey, this will just save me hundreds of pounds when I get back home and go for my license.

Never in a million years would I be able to ride a bike like this back home. Not only would the insurance cripple me, but not having a bike license would be a bit of a stumbling block too. But here. . . they don't care. Do you have a driving license, excellent, move on.

My bike even has panniers! I was worried that losing the basket from the scooter might make the big bike a bit inconvenient, but noooooo. Panniers cool, basket not.

My bike rocks. No fuel gauge, but it rocks none the less.

Run Forrest Run.

That's what I'm doing every morning. 7 every morning. I'm running 6k every morning at 7. When I can do this without wanting to pass out, I get to run further. At 7 in the morning.

There is something to be said for laziness.

Are you asking, cause I'm Jammin'

While I was begging to move camps, I got invited to a barbeque they were holding that night. Seeing as my nights have mostly consisted of watching HBO and CNN, this seemed to me like a mighty fine offer indeed.

I turned up, and had the night of my life. There was food, there was drink, and there was fantastic company. I had shots of tequila from a bottle worth ?50, oh yeah, gooooood tequila. I had sangria, I had beer, I had chicken; pork; and bread. Once the merriment was in full swing we took a trip into town to a place called Jammin'.

What a club.

I didn't realise this but over here in some of the bars, you buy a bottle of spirit, and the barkeepers make sure that you always have a drink on you. If they see you with an empty glass, they fill it up for you straight away. If they see you with a half empty glass, they fill it up for you straight away. If your ice is melted, they add more ice, if the drink looks too strong, they add more coke. No matter where you go in the club, they make sure you have a full glass.

Only, at the time, I didn't know this.

I was drinking away quite happily. And yes, by this time I was most definitely well oiled! I would have drink, go and look at the band come back and POW, my drink is full. I'd be a bit confused, sit down, have a drink, go to the loo, get back and POW, full drink. I'd have a bit of the drink, dance for a bit, POW, full glass on my return.

I did not have a high or mighty clue what was going on. All I knew was that I seemed to permanently have a perfect drink. Oh yeah, this was awesome. Can you imagine the scene, I've already had a bit to drink, and now every time my eyes leave my glass, it suddenly is full again. I mean, this is a drunk mans dream. It was costing me Nothing. I never had to go to the bar, I'd paid nothing up front, I just had a never ending drink!

I got really into the swing of things and started loudly singing along with the Thai rock band. They did "I love rock and roll". I sang this song with all the gusto I could. . . to every track they did. . . . all night. I didn't know anything else and I was so happy that they played something I knew I figured the only polite thing to do would be to pay homage to it. . . . all night. . . . repeatedly! Looking back the only conclusion I can come to, is that I rocked!!!

The final icing on the straw that broke the donkeys back.

I'm sitting in my room, minding my own business, waiting until the day comes that I can move into the MMA camp. Suddenly, a knock at my door.

I open it to find the main trainer tell, nay order, me back into the ant and wasp infected hole of darkness and misery. When I ask him why I have to move he tells me that someone is moving into my bungalow. But, I wonder, why don't they put the new kid in the shitty accommodation, they are all the same price anyway.

So, now the decision to move is even more clearly the right one. With little to no regard for the well being of their fare paying customers, I'm off. I went to the new camp and basically begged to move in as soon as they could get a room ready for me. Tomorrow I was told, I only have to endure one more day of rubbish, before things start looking up.

Should never fight, but if have to . . . win.

Mr Miagi and his words of wisdom always seem to ring true. No matter the circumstances.

Well after all the hype that I put into this trip, it seems I've failed.

It is no secret that I said I would be here for 6 months doing Thai Boxing. Many people wondered if I would be able to hack it or not. They doubted that I would be able to last for that long. Some thought it was a flight of fancy and another one of my crackpot ideas that would never take off.

Well those people were right. I've been here about three weeks now and the idealistic holiday that I had in mind when I planned this trip has yet to come true. There have been moments of fun, but on the whole these first three weeks have been a let down. From the first day when the camp tried to rip me off, it has been a trip of broken dreams and disappointment.

All the parts that I thought would help to make my trip memorable and exciting have turned around and become the main focus of my frustration and anguish. What I am experiencing now is a million miles away from what I thought I would when I played this holiday over time after time in my head before I left.

And so it brings me to this. To all the doubters, you were right. I failed. I'm moving out of the camp. I know there are some of you out there thinking that I didn't give it a fair go and that I should stick it out, I've wondered about that myself over these past few days. I've tried to convince myself to stick it out and see if it gets any better, but I just don't have a good feeling about this place anymore. First impressions last, they are hard to break. It's not one big thing that's getting to me, it's lots of little things. These things build and I'm now in a position where I don't feel like this is where I should be spending my money and more importantly, my time and energy.

So I'm off. My big Muay Thai adventure comes to a bitter end.

I failed.







But . . .


And come on people, you knew there had to be one.



But . . . . I do have a new plan.

You see, I failed at my Muay Thai adventure. There will be mockery, people will take the piss out of my about this for years, and they have every right to. I suppose all I can say about it is; at least I tried.

So where am I off to I hear you ask. Have to I decided to see sense and go and get myself a bungalow next to the beach, pick up a Thai girlfriend and spend all my money on drink? Have I decided to travel round and see if I can 'find myself' after this fiasco? Have I decided to go to New Zealand snowboarding with Dave?

Well no, although I did think about the snowboarding thing long and hard. Instead I have decided to pick myself up, brush myself off and move on.

And so move on I have. To another camp. Only this time I'm not just doing Muay Thai. The main focus of my new camp will be MMA. That's Mixed Martial Arts. You know, the Octagon and all that. Cage fighting.

Yes, you heard me right.

Cage fighting.

(sorry mum!!)

If you've ever watched the Ultimate Fighting Championship you know what I'm on about.


I found a guy who's opening a camp, which along side Muay Thai also teaches MMA, which heavily incorporates Vale Tudo, a form of Brazilian Ju Jitsu that I so fleetingly did at university and absolutely loved.

So it's out of the frying pan and into the fire. I thought I'd thrown myself in as deep as I could when I joined a Muay Thai camp, it would now seem I have further to fall before I can start digging myself out again.

Yes, I failed at my original plan. Good. Otherwise I would have never had this new opportunity open up to me. I'm a failure it's true, but I'm that kind of happy failure that finds himself falling even deeper and is just happy for the breeze.

I was over at the new camp today looking at the accommodation. The camp is still being built so until my bungalow is finished I'm going to be staying in one room and using the separate shared toilet block. There was a snake in there today, a poisonous one. I've never seen a poisonous snake 'live' before, now I've got one as a kind of uncomfortable pet!


But hey, as the tag line says . . . "This is what I do."

Who needs enemies.

When your friends complain that because of your tropical dysentery, you have nothing interesting to say.

I was at the internet cafe? checking my website to read that I need to "get out and do something". I had to take Imodium to get to the caf?e to read that people are unhappy that I'm ill. While I've been here I have been beaten repeatedly, bruised myself more than ever before, probably broken a bone in my foot, been attacked by insects and suffered a bout of the shits that will not ease. . . . but that, really hurt!!

I then proceeded to the bagel place to get myself some sesame seed, onion and garlic bagels for lunch. Yes, this is the same bagel place that poisoned me in the first place, their burritos bad, their bagels good!! While these were being wrapped for me the heavens opened. Yet another tremendous downpour had started. Hoping it would stop before my bagels were ready I sat in hope.

No such luck. I looked outside at the rain, I looked inside at the bagel counter, the rain, the bagel counter, the rain. . . I sat down to a bacon + sausage omelette, with coffee, orange juice and a bagel. Two quid. Bargain.

After breakfast it was still raining so I ever so slowly dragged out drinking my coffee while waiting for the storm to subside.


After reading the entirety of a magazine, the storm finally gave way and I left. Walking back to my bike I saw that where I had parked it in a convenient spot by the side of the road, it was now parked in a massive puddle stretching right across the street. While still approaching my bike a car went down the street and sent a wave of water right over my bike. Dirty, muddy water.

My bike was such a mess. For the past 30 minutes every car and truck that went passed had sprayed crap all over it. Poor thing.

I realised that I had to get on my bike, get it started and get the hell out of there before a car went passed or it was going to be one of the most unfortunate mornings on record.

I waited for a gap, quickly put my sodden and dirty helmet on. Jumped on my bike, put the keys in, hit the ignition, the bike started. . . no, its cut out, hit the ignition. . . crap, come on, ignition . . . For The Love Of God. . . ignition then gas. . . come on baby. . a car. .. CRAP. . . Frickin; Start Damnit!!!. . . I've got it. . . GO GO GO.

Just in time to only get a wave of water over my leg. Ha, you may be thinking, an easy escape, but not really. In my haste to get away I didn't really think back to all those times I arrived home from mountain biking to find a well defined channel of dirt right down the centre of my back. So as I pulled away with all the haste I could muster to stop getting sprayed with water. . . . oh yeah. . . I sprayed myself with water all down my back.

Clever wardy, reeeeealy clever.

Tonight in the bathroom.

My inner monologue.

Dum dee dum. Dum de dum. Mike Laaaawrey, Mike Lawrey! Dum de dum. Dum de dum. Wonder what happened to Nelly Furtado??. Dum de dum. I wish I actually had magical powers?? Dum de dum. . . freak, look at that!! A massive gecko on the outside of the window. That is soooooo coool, oh man I wish I had my camera on me, that's frickin massive I cant believ. . . oh bugger it's just a soap smear. . . dum de dum. Dum de dum. I'm hungry.

It's those little moments of excitement that are brightening my days of dysentery.

Seriously though, it did look like the belly of a gecko.

Seriously.

The most effective repellent yet.

Today I bought myself some new insect repellent. The one I brought with me is all out. I bought the biggest bottle I could find of a Thai brand, my purchase was based solely on the graphics on the front.
The repellent inside the spray is highly effective. It repels insects away from me. It repels people away from me. It repels my eyes as far back into their sockets as possible.
This stuff frickin' stinks. I thought I had experienced stink due to my Bad Burrito Belly, but no. This is concentrated, bottled stink.

Yet nightly I rub this lotion all over myself. It's either that of wake up in the morning looking like I've just auditioned for the 'before' half of an acne cream advert.

I'm staying on a beautiful island, there are golden beaches only minutes away from my bungalow, and I've spent the past 5 days, stuck inside, watching CNN, with the shits, rubbing stink lotion all over myself, having to take Imodium to go out and buy more medicine, and the only saving grace I have is that at least there are no wasps in this bungalow. . . . only THERE ARE!!!!!

I'm having a good time, I'm having a good time, I'm having a good t. . . .

If you were thinking,

That you could get your earphones soaking wet while running one morning and then expect them to operate normally. You would be wrong.

The Burrito Still Lingers.

I'm ill. Have been for way too long. And the maid service seems to have forgotten about me. My stomach is more jumpy than the first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan; my digestive tract less reliable than sealing a deal with Jeramy Beadle by shaking his 'bad' hand; and the drugs I am taking are less help than putting "Tested experimental mind altering drugs" on your CV.


Oh hang on . . . .



Because of this enforced proximity to sanitary features I have to endure, I've been spending a lot of the days watching telly. I tried to read but it gave me a headache and as we all know, you don't need to use your brain to watch telly.

So I've started getting into Alias. (jealous lads, fnar fnar!!) To start with I had no idea what was going on.

Why is she working for two different groups, why is she repeatedly meeting that guy in a warehouse, is she on the same side as her dad, why are they badmouthing Sloane when they work for him, who is good, who is bad, when is the next costume change???

Finally I managed to work it out, (although Sark still eludes me, maybe I need to watch more) and I must say, I try to watch it every day now. But the place that it falls down for me is the computers. But not just this show, any show that has people use computers and I find myself wanting to scream. CSI is another prime example. When people on television use computers they don't use them properly. Sure, they may look like they can do all sorts of fancy stuff . . .

- I want you to enhance this low resolution, grainy, black and white image of a cat, into a photo realistic 3D model of the crime scene, and I want all the culprits identified.
- Sir, that's gonna take some time.
- You have 2 hours.

. . . but they don't use the tools that they have effectively.

Take today's Alias for example. They were all sat around a computer waiting for an e-mail. High drama I know! When the e-mail finally came through the main character went to open it. Lets see the subtle differences between a highly trained CIA double agent, and me, opening an e-mail.

Highly trained CIA double agent.
(both hands move swiftly to keyboard.)
Tap tap tap. Tappity tap. Tap tap tappo. Tap tap tappity tap tap tappity. . . . . Tap.
I've got it.

Me.
(one hand moves to mouse, leaving one hand free to drink coffee and/or use prototype laser weapons)
Click.
I've got it.

Now, can you spot anything here. Don't feel too bad if you cant, it's only subtle.

I know they are most likely using more sophisticated computers and software than I am. They are trying to catch criminals and save the world . . .

- I need you to use our database to cross reference anybody in NewYork who as a child was ever called 'Kiddo or Junior', with airline tickets to American states whose total highway lengths in millimetres is perfectly divisible by 17. Then match these results to the colour Ochre and the flavour of Hubba Bubba.
- Sir, that's gonna take some time.
- You have 2 hours.

. . . but I still think that a mouse would make their lives so much easier.

You could also build useful crime fighting tools into the mice to help save time. A Magic 8 Ball would be a prime example of this.

- In the killing spree now knows as; Ebony and Irony, did Sammy Smith, aka Makeup, the half caste African American who disguised himself as a white man, disguised as a Minstrel, go on a murderous rampage against the black community that adopted him to prove to a white supremacist gang that he was in fact half the man they were.
- Concentrate and ask again.

I need to get a job fighting crime. What with my ideas and other peoples intelligence, logic, aptitude, reasoning, judgement, talent, skill, ability, fearlessness and weapons training, I think I could be a valuable part of the team.

Things I love about Thai television.

Mostly, just that it is sooooo bad. But because it is so painfully bad, you have to keep on watching. For example, a new drama coming up is called "Dragon Balls". The line that goes with the trailer is "The mythical story of the legendary 12 Dragon Balls, intertwined with a love story between a human and a demon." I mean, come on, who wouldn't want to watch that.
And I must admit. "Dragon Balls" is kinda funny. Tee Hee!

There is also an advert for a classy Thai magazine. One of the features they are advertising this month is "12 things you never knew were sexy." Wow, what an article. I'd like to know what they are. I'm hoping it would be something like this.

3 - Make all the answers to your lovers questions sound sarcastic. Of course you really want to go out for dinner, you can't think of anything you'd rather do. The longer you do this for, the sexier it becomes. Add excitement to the bedroom with you playful ways.

2 - Sit your partner down and reveal to them a child they never knew you had. Then reveal you are already married. Then tell them you have a fatal illness that can be sexually transmitted. Tell them not to worry, let the situation brew for a few hours and then let them know it's all just a big joke and really everything is fine. After feeling like their world has fallen apart, the realisation that everything is ok will make them appreciate you all that much more. Add excitement to the bedroom with a roller coaster of emotion.

1 - Brutally murder your ex-lovers and cover yourself in their mixed and congealed inners. While dripping entrails, undertake a seductive dance reminiscent of the Far East and loudly scream your favourite Norwegian Death Metal track. For that extra special touch, do this while suspended from the ceiling with hooks pierced into your back, letting the guts of your previous s romances fall onto the marital bed. Add excitement to the bedroom by proving to your partner you are willing to slay all those that have gone before to reinforce their status as 'the only one'. Also, who doesn't like someone that can sing and dance!

But by far my most favourite thing on Thai television is an advert for bread. I wish so bad I could remember what it's called. I've been singing this all day and now I sit down to type this and the name has gone from my head. Anyway, lets call it Andrews, it's something like that, I'll update when I know it for sure.
The little ditty at the end of this advert, for Bread remember, is "Andrews, so good you can eat it on its own." This is sung by children and is just the most brilliant thing I have heard!

Bread, so super tasty good, you can eat it on its own. Who wouldn't want that? I can imagine the dinnertime conversations in households all over the east.

What's for dinner mum?
A slice of bread.
WINNER!!!!

It's raining it's pouring.

Yet it's still freaking boiling.

This morning I went out for my semi-daily run in a fantastically heavy rainstorm. It was lovely, I didn't get too hot and there is a freedom that you get from running in rain that you don't find in normal running.

Unfortunately the night before I put some fast punk and metal tracks on my mp3 player to run to. Biiiiig mistake. My pacing went right out the window. I'm charging through the rain, guitars screaming in my ears, machine gun drumming forcing me forward and all I can think is "run faster, run harder, run faster, run harder". It was such a rush. I was quite literally, to quote Sensei Mick; 'Dizzy With Power And Rage!'

But now I'm back home. My thighs are angry. Very angry.

I'm going to pay for this one.


***Update - woke up next morning and my body held a meeting while I was asleep. It would seem my thighs talked to my shins, and now they are angry at me too. My thighs and shins tried talking to my suspect broken/bruised foot but communications broke down. My left foot has now declared itself an independant state and is hell bent on torturing me. It's requests: deep heat and rest .***

American Television.

I've can only get American television over here.

I've been reading a lot.

Larry King. The diluted version of all and any talk show hosts. Asking petty questions with his soft, almost timid probing, all in the quest of revealing nothing profound about the person he is interviewing. He asked Lisa Marie Presley "Do you think your dad changed music?"

Ohhhhh, tough one. Give me a moment on the internet to do some research before I have to get back to you on that.

Now he's interviewing Dr Phil. Whom I've never heard of before but I already get the idea this guy holds himself so high and mighty that mere mortals like you and me could only face his scorn. They have shown a couple of clips of Dr Phil getting angry at people on his show. Telling them how to live their lives, but not in the way that you feel he wants to help these people. In the way that he takes great pleasure pointing out where others have gone wrong.

The only quality thing I have seen was on CNN. No, it was not CNN. Watching CNN is like watching an amateur dramatics society trying to impress the bosses to get their own show. Only this is aired 24 painful hours a day and pretends to communicate 'facts' to the audience.
The best thing on CNN is The Daily Show. I think this is the same show Chris keeps harking on about. It's brilliant. After the British election they did a special, and while pretending to take the piss out of the British, did a brilliant job of poking fun at themselves. It was genius.

Larry King just asked, "We should never judge a trial before it's over, but what is your opinion of Michael Jackson. . . as a person?" Ohh Larry. See how you tried to weave that question to insinuate you didn't want to Jackson bash, and yet still, it's so transparent. This guy is meant to be a professional They are now discussing sexual predators, "man-childs" and inappropriate behaviour. But heaven forbid that they have just judged Michael Jackson.

Luckily for me however, yesterday I saw a great great film I don't know what it was called because I didn't catch the beginning. It was about Folk Singers and followed three bands in particular. It was like Spinal Tap for the Folk scene and was very quietly hilarious. Whoever wrote the script had a subtle eye and managed to weave jokes out of thin air while keeping it's documentary fa?cade in perfect order.

It's been a mixed bag on telly this week. It's just a shame that the entertainment shows are so good, and the factual and news shows are so bad.

Contrary to popular belief . . .

. . I am not a Doctor.

But I'm pretty sure that I've broken a bone in my foot.

When childhood goes awry.

I went out tonight (heavily dosed up on Immodium) to watch some Thai Boxing. I travelled in the back of a pick up truck with three others to a stadium in the town centre. Once there we took our seats and the first fighters came out.

Well I say fighters, what I really mean, is children. Literally, 5 or 6 year old kids. Their heads barely came to the third rope. These kids, got in the ring, and with no more protection than the adults, proceeded to punch, kick and knee seven bells out of each other. The sight, was amazing. Not amazing in the sense of "oh wow, this is great" but in the actual sense of being . . . amazed. I never thought I would witness children not much older than my nephews displaying such aggression.

The completely crazy thing is though, that after the fight, the kids that had moments earlier trying to knock each other out, were playing together by the side of the ring as if nothing had happened. They were completely unfazed by the situation. It was just something they do. I went to Cubs and learnt how to tie knots and light fires, these kids learn how to take a knee to the stomach and knock people out.

Soon though the older kids came out. And this is where the night got interactive. There were stacks of Thai guys betting, and who am I to not join in. I backed one kid called Superboy. How can you not put a bet on a fighter called that?

He got knocked out.

Then the next fight I just picked the one that looked meanest and put a bet on him.

He got knocked out.

The only two KO's of the evening and I backed them both.
Something tells me I'm not ready for packing in my day job and gambling on fights full time.

Blame it on the Burrito.

All the time I've been here I've been eating Thai food. My guts have been fine. Sure, they took a bit of adjusting, but we had no major dramas. This morning I had to park a bit further down the road than usual to get to the internet caf?e. I got off my bike and noticed a Bagel place. Thinking of my good Jewish friend I went inside to see what delights they had on offer.

As well as the usual selection of bagels and fillings they also did burritos. Completely forgetting my short lived allegiance to the Jewish way I went ahead and ordered a creamy garlic chicken burrito. The only western food that I've bought out while I've been here. The burrito was nice, the chicken creamy. But now it would seem that it wasn't so much creamy from the delicious garlic sauce, as from being undercooked.

Harking back to the glory days of letting a certain housemate cook for me (Yes, Butcher, I'm talking about you) I am now struck down with a glorious bout of gut rot.

I can't believe I've travelled all this way, paid literally pence to eat at the side of the road time after time, and an over priced burrito is what finally gets me.

Thailand, I'm sorry, I promise to only eat your native food, just please let me get better!

A change of direction.

Something has cropped up. It isn't bad but it could be a very big change of direction for my trip. I'm currently trying to find out more. I don't want to commit myself to it only to back out later. It's all very exciting, I'm just hoping that my enthusiasm will be grounded in something solid.

When I know more, I'll let you know. At the moment I'm going to find out as much as I can so I can make a structured decision.

Here's hoping.

The Doctor Is In.

Well the time finally came to get rid of my hair. I went out looking for someone I trusted enough to get rid of it for me, but then ended up in some back street barbers instead.

This barbers was a three fold affair. On the one hand the whole front of the shop opened onto the street giving it a very 'cosmo' look; secondly, it was a normal barbers inside; thirdly, it was also the owners lounge and his family were sat on sofas at the back of the shop watching telly.

However, the best thing about this guy was his dress sense. He looked like a doctor. He had the blue overalls, the latex gloves and most importantly; the mask! It was ace. A real life make believe doctor cut my hair in the back of beyond while his family watched bad Asian drama in the background. Genius.

I told the guy I wanted all my hair off and he got to work. Watching my locks fall away after all the time and effort which went into them was a bit disappointing but my new streamlined look is slowly growing on me (da dum!).

The Appeal.

Much like Blue Peter, I am starting an appeal. In this appeal you will not save the lives of thousands, but the sanity of one. You will not help feed millions, build a school, save a donkey (well nearly) or help disadvantaged children pet dangerous animals. All you will do, is brighten my day.

The appeal even has a catchy name. It's call the Paint Purchase Post-er Appeal. The rules are simple and there may even be a winner (if I can find a piece of island tat that I can call a prize that is). All you have to do is Paint or Purchase a poster, and then Post it out to me. It can be of whatever you want, although if you send me a life-sized picture of Jordan or Caprice that chances of it going on my wall are basically nil.

You see, I have to stay in my dark infested bungalow. All the others are full for months. So what I'm going to do is spruce this place up a bit. I've got my hammock on my veranda now, which is nice, but the insides still need some work. I'll take before and after pictures so you can see what I've done to the place, but your help would be greatly appreciated.

I've been looking for a poster place but all I can find are art galleries selling canvases. Now, these things are crazily impressive. The painters are inside the gallery painting away and all their work is displayed around them. Amazing. You can also commission a piece if you want and choose which artist you want to do it. I was thinking about buying a really cheap guitar and getting them to spruce it up for me but the price is kind of putting me off. I think I'll have to have a word with the owner - I have his card - and see if I can get myself a discount.

So there is your challenge. Either produce something arty with you own fair hands or head off to Athena and try to find something classy. Then using whatever means possible get it to my parents and they will post it out to me in a big bundle of fun. Alternatively, mail me and I'll let you know my address so you can send it straight out.

Now I know this is going to take time out of you day and money out of your pocket but you really have no idea how chuffed I would be to get stuff from you. Anything you think would look cool on my walls will be accepted with great enthusiasm.

You have your challenge people, go and make yourselves proud!


*** Update - Don't bother. Hopefully I'll be leaving here within the week. Consider yourselves freed from the shackles of creativity. ***