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.