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. ***

When little trips go bad.

I went out shopping today. I thought I would be about 30 minutes. The plan was to ride to a music shop, have a look at the guitars, ride back.

What actually happened was as follows.

Drive to a music shop; find another one on the way; have a look in there; keep on going to original shop; get lost; get found; fail to find shop; make way back to first shop; look at guitars again; not buy one anyway; ride home; realise trip lasted about two hours; notice legs feel odd; ponder that I have been out for 2 hours with no sunblock; have a cool shower; liberally apply Vaseline Intensive Care; spend rest of afternoon trying not to touch foot; curse myself liberally.

Honestly, my foot is a joke. Not only is it cut, but now it's swollen from where I've been kicking the bag, and then I go and burn it too!

What was good about the day though is that when I was by the side of the road blatantly looking like a lost foreigner, a couple of lads pulled up and with the aid of my map showed me where to go. They didn't ask for anything, they simply went out of their way to help me then turned around and rode off.

Lovely.

A plague on my house.

As you know from previous posts, I'm getting the life bitten out of me over here by mosquitoes. Today however, things managed to get worse.

I woke up this morning to find my kitchen over-run by ants. I mean, absolutely covered in ants. They were all over every piece of cutlery and crockery I have, they had built a small nest like thing in my sink and they were covering the entirety of my work surface. Breakfast was officially off.

I did the best I could to clean them up but in the end I just gave up from frustration and hoped they would be gone by the time I returned. In the back of my mind I was thinking the maid would notice and know what to do in this situation.

I spent the day by the beach, shopping and drinking lemon ice shakes.

I got back to my bungalow, took of my sandals and noticed there was a can of Raid outside my door. Excellent, I thought, they have sorted it out for me. I went inside and as my hands were full I walked straight over to my bed to put my stuff down. Now my bungalow is dark, really dark. I had to buy new bulbs as the ones that were fitted only managed to throw a soft glow on the ceiling, never mind supply adequate light for and kind of meaningful activity.

While I was stood at my bed I thought, 'hmmm, what's that under my foot?' I turned and put the light on to be greeted by the kind of vision usually reserved for horror movies.

Covering my bed, floor, table and any horizontal surface in the room were dead and dying wasps. Lying there, writing in their death throws must have been almost 500 wasps. It took me a moment to take it all in. You just don't expect to see such an outrageously vile site when you turn on the light.

I started cleaning them up and the job never seemed to end. I shook my trainers out and found 11 in those alone. They were under my bed, under my table, in my change mug, in my towels, in my clothes. . . just. . . everywhere!

In the corner where my wardrobe is there was a pile as high as the toe of my trainers and about as wide as dinner plate. They must have swarmed into my room during the day. Luckily for me someone noticed and emptied a can of raid before closing the door.

I got the guys from the camp and they decided that they came in through a gap in my wall which has now been taped over. My confidence that I'm going to make it the night is not even nearly restored.

I hate my bungalow. During the day I get bitten by mozzies which creep in through all the cracks in the walls; ants have literally taken over my kitchen and made any sort of activity in there impossible; wasps have taken up residence somewhere in my room and geckos hide in my toilet roll . . . . which to be honest I find quite cute but I needed something to keep the tempo going!

I mean, can you imagine if I'd been asleep when they swarmed into my room. I would have woken up to a couple of hundred angry wasps and been stung so freaking badly it could well have put and early end to my trip.

I'm not training tomorrow. There's no way I'm going to be able to sleep tonight. What I am going to do though is get a better place. I don't even care about the price anymore. Having to sweep wasps off your bed with a broom while avoiding the kitchen and being bitten by mosquitoes is not something that lends itself to that 'homely' feel I'm so desperately trying to achieve.

Ok Then

I know this is a bit funky at the moment as new posts arnt appearing at the top but I'm doing this so I dont end up with a load of posts just on the days I manage to get to the internet cafe.
Now my usb stick works this shouldnt be a problem as I wont have to back track so far.

Anyways, scroll down for the new stuff.

Denied!!!

I cant connect my usb stick to the computer in the internet cafe. Once again you are going to have to wait a couple of days.

But seeing as I'm here now.

This morning at training I discovered a new type of sit up. I shall call this variant a punch up. You lie on the floor in normal 'sit up' position, then someone punches you in the stomach and you do a sit up. Pleasant. During this same session I found out that if you do a set of 10 'punch ups' and the instructor says 'one more' he does not mean one for luck. He means another set of ten. You'd better believe that number 12 took me way by surprise and knocked the wind out of me.

I'm going to use all the micropore in the camp if I'm not careful. I'm now bandaging both big toes, one little toe and the ball of my left foot every morning. Tomorrow I'm going to have to start on my knuckles because they are starting to gross me out. I need to sort my punching out as well, I have no skin on my little finger knuckles, this is bad technique, only my first and second knuckle should be suffering.

Damn my soft English skin.

Why hello there.

Consider this your substitute post. I have stacks written back at my bungalow but when I went to pick up my disk it was being cleaned and I didn't want to get in their way.
Needless to say, it's nice over here. Feel free to consider 'nice' and understatement.
At the beach, when I'm in water up to my neck, I can look down and see my feet. Bite that Bournemouth!
It's hot, hot like eating curry in a sauna hot. During training I manage to get through about 4 liters of water.
I ache like I've never ached before, my feet are a medley of blisters and open wounds, my knuckles are raw and on my right hand I have two nice craters in my knuckle that have turned a whiteish yellow.

I'll post more later. I've got about 6 long ones already written. This place is a breeding ground of good stories!

Training.

Can only get easier. Thank god.

The greatest band in the world.

I know I've said this about some bands before, but now I really mean it. Last night I went to a faux English bar ( It's like Britain, but with the weather). I ordered steak, I thought I'd treat myself after my first real day of training. The food was immaculate, the chef even came out to see if we were happy with everything. No chef has ever asked me if there was anything more he could do for me, I felt privileged.

In this bar there was a four piece band. All Thais, there was a bass, two lead guitars and keyboards. This band was so cool they almost redefined what I class as cool. They did songs from the likes of Elvis and Ray Charles, even a quite brilliant rendition of Under The Boardwalk. But what makes this band stand out is the sheer class with which they played. The lead singer changed for the different songs, they harmonised with each other, they just stood in, were wearing, and even oozing the kind of cool someone like me can only dream of owning. I could have cried when I found out they didn't have a cd I could buy, in fact they didn't have anything I could buy to remind me of them. However, I do know they are playing again next week so I'm going to go along and when they take a break I'm going to get a photo of myself with them.
Nobody I meet from this day forward will impress me as much as those four guys managed to. That is, unless they find a way to bring Evil Kenevil back to life, but that goes without saying.

The Beach.

When I'm standing in the water up to my neck, I can still see my feet through the water. The beaches are so nice. There is no seaweed sprawled near the waters front, there is no litter, there is no pollution. What there are though, are vendors ever hundred meters selling food and drink, people walking around selling everything from wooden eagles and snakes to pieces of Aloe Vera for sunburn and soft soft golden sand.
There was a guy selling hammocks too and at the time I said no but now I really regret it. I've been back since looking for him but so far, no luck. I reckon I can turn my veranda into the ultimate chill out zone with the clever use of a hammock and a cunning selection of music.

I start training properly tomorrow. Early night.

Would you like a Rolex sir.

I spent most of the afternoon looking for a bag. I know just what kind I want but cant find one anywhere. I was in one shop and when I asked for one a note of recognition went through the guys eyes. He then took me outside, into an abandoned shop next door, and then through the back. It was at this point that alarm bells started ringing. We then went through another door into a small room packed wall to wall with bags, jewellery and watches. All the walls were covered in black curtains and there was one over the door we just went through. The guy stood in front of the door and told me to "pick one". Not so much a request as an order. Now this was a small small room, just big enough for the both of us and a counter. The only exit was blocked and we were behind an abandoned shop. Nice.

Luckily I noticed that all the bags were really expensive handbags like Gucci and D&G, I explained that it was for me and that I didn't need a handbag. I then had to talk him out of selling me a Rolex (read Faulex) and begrudgingly he let me leave.

I'm glad it happened now it's over, but let's hope it never happens again.

A night full of firsts.

I went out for the first time tonight. Seeing as it was my first time the guys thought they would show me "the sights". Needless to say, I have never seen so many beautiful women in my life. And I mean really really beautiful. Also for the first time in my life the beautiful beautiful women were all freaking over me. Usually I go out, have a couple of drinks, make an ass of myself while trying to be smooth, and go home. Here though, oh man, I don't know how to put this. . . the challenge here, is to not get laid. Where as you would usually have to try to get a girls attention, here you have to try to get them to leave you alone.

I was on water as I had to take my bike to the bars we went to. Later though, I discovered that just because people take their bikes does not mean under any circumstances they don't drink. They do drink, a lot, and then watching their painful attempts to get on their bikes and get them started at the end of the night kind of lightens the feeling that you really don't see them making it home alive.

I spent the whole night jaw open, trying to take it all in. There is nothing you can't see or do here. We went to an after club and -sober- I made it through to six in the morning. . . sober . . . stone cold sober . . . man it was a long night.

Seeing as I tried to take in a whole torrent of information in one night I'm still not sure what to make of the nightlife. I know they tried to shock me, and in some ways they did. I expected everything I saw, but knowing about it and seeing it are two different things.

If I learnt anything that night it is this.

The subtle art of the chat up has been lost. And romance is dead.

Come ride the death machine.

For 3 300 Baht a month I have chosen to nearly die, every single day that passes. This is not because I've once again sold my body to medical science. Doing that in this county is even beyond me. It is because I am now the proud owner of a yellow death scooter. A scooter, meant for death, painted yellow. Death is it's game, yellow scooter is its name.

Getting this scooter was painfully easy. I just asked.

What is your name. Give me your money. Here are your keys.

That's it. So simple I would describe it as a painless procedure, would I not die in a scooter crash of irony if I did so.

The first time I tried to set off, I shot across the street towards a restaurant, I'm now on the wrong side of the road, with on coming traffic and a while bunch of people looking at me. I turn to face my side of the road again, try to gently pop the throttle and once again I'm a flying machine of un-coordination and fear. Then before I get to the petrol station, as the patrons kindly drained the tank before letting me have it, I managed to stall it and flood the engine - - and this thing is an automatic! Once the tank if full again I shoot towards a car which has to pull out of my way, and then I'm once again on the road. Just me, my scooter and a population with the kind of road sense less "Driving Miss Daisy" and more "Mad Max".

I was sweating so bad by the time I got back to the camp. I had a shower, and then a sleep. I know that I just need to take it out and practice but the thought terrifies me.

I think one of the places the fear stems from is my brothers bike. When I went out on that we were going a lot faster than I'm ever going to get, but I had a full set of leathers on and a helmet that looked like it might actually be of some use if I fell off.

Now, I'm wearing a helmet that has long since parted ways with it's padding and the only protection between me and certain pain from falling is a wistful layer of body hair.

Falling, quite literally, is not an option.

The first causality of war.

Any by 'war', I mean 'humidity'. Do you remember a little while ago, I didn't make much of it you probably missed it. I had a few little things called dreadlocks. I loved these dreadlocks, I thought they were awesome. I preened them daily, I plied them with lotions and potions the world over to make them look good and smell nice, I treated them with the respect and dignity I thought they deserved.

Then I got to Thailand.

Humidity is a strange thing. Worse still when it's already boiling hot and all you want to be is cool and dry, just like my dreads. Humidity is like being wrapped in a thick wet quilt, inside a sauna. . . . with hot wet feathers inside you lungs. Sometimes the humidity is lovely, at night when I'm sat on the veranda in nothing more than shorts and it's warm, I mean really nice and warm, but it's night, I love that. The other side of the coin though, is when I'm training. Because when you feel like you're inside a sauna, wrapped in a quilt, coughing up chicken insulation, you kind of want it to be drizzling a little bit. . . and cool. . oh what I would give for a nice cool drizzle!

While I may have a love hate relationship with humidity, my dreads only saw it one way. The wrong way. From the moment I stopped off the plane, my nice tight dreads started to transform. They started to resemble the tails of small squirrels sticking out of my head. No amount of rolling could reduce the fuzz, infact I think it might even have made it worse. Dreadlocks like to be dry, when they get wet they start to unravel themselves because of the reduced friction. They also smell if they stay wet for too long, not nice. So there I was, day after day, rolling away and applying my ointments, and what happened? They just started to look greasy, wet greasy squirrels tails that will end up smelling. I tried to dry them, but seeing as I'm sweating more than the builder who sold Barrymore "slip-safe" tiling for around his pool, it's not really working.

Eventually, something had to give.

It is at this moment that I would like to thank Dave. Dave tirelessly spend hour after hour after hour working on my hair to get it looking sweet. He would do any touch-ups that needed doing and he would get the awkward ones at the back that I couldn't reach. Without him, I would have never had dreads in the first place.

So one day, after morning training, I decided enough was enough, these things have got to go. I dutifully armed myself with shampoo, a steel comb, and time.

Needless to say, getting them out was a lesson in patience and pain. So much so that I haven't been able to get them out completely. Some of them are too stubborn to budge. This means I'm now left with a big mop of hair that is reminiscent of a badly kept seven year old boys. A big mess full of knots.

At some point, I need to find a barbers on this island and get the whole lot cut off.

Please note here people that I made a decision, I chose substance over style. . . this county is doing strange things to my head!

If you're on a plane and it crashes somewhere remote, hope I'm on board.

This isn't because I think I would be of any use. The only use I would be was if you were looking for someone who was comically hysterical, and even then I'd just get annoying. No, the reason I would be of so much use to you is that I taste great. I mean really great. Not wanting to sound too big headed about the whole thing I took a poll. I mean who am I to say I taste great, it's not like I've ever really had the opportunity to sample my own flesh. The poll was easy. If you like me, bite me, if you don't, leave. The results were outstanding. 143 out of 120 000 000 mosquitoes think I'm the best thing since a dog. When faced with statistics such as those it seems almost child like to complain that these bites are concentrated around the straps on my sandals making walking painful, and my left arm, for no reason I can fathom.

The French Lady.

If I sit on a bus and drink, I could get arrested. There are some parts of my city where if I drink in public, I get fined. I'm not even allowed to drink and ride my mountain bike. So why, please tell me, do they see it fit to serve alcohol on airplanes.

There just doesn't seem to be any logic behind it. Take a group of people, put them into what could become a stressful situation, cram them together and let them get drunk. What insight.

On this particular flight I was lucky enough to get the seat by the emergency exit. Lucky, I thought, as this meant I would be able to get some sleep as I had extra leg room to fit myself into. This seemed like such a good catch until the plane took off. On the ground it was quiet and serene and my leg room was my own, in the air the door was so noisy I couldn't sleep and my leg room was continually interrupted.

On the same flight as me, sitting in the aisle seats, there was a group of French people. Now I don't want this to turn into a French bashing post . . . but here we go anyway. The one particular French lady started drinking wine a full hour into a seven hour flight. She then continued to drink wine until she was suitable inebriated. This is, unsurprisingly, when she started making an ass of herself. As if singing was not enough, she started talking to the guy in front of me who could talk a few words of French. Busted, I though, he's gonna get stuck with the crazy lady. . . oh how fate laughed at me that day.

While I was gazing out the window she noticed me and thought she would come have a look too. As there was enough room to kneel in front of the door -barely- she did just that. Only, there wasn't quite enough space and her breasts ended up resting squarely on my knees. It wasn't a case of "oh oh, her breasts just brushed my knees" more "her breasts are fully, and with all their weight, on my knees. . . classy".

She then started to talk to me. In French. She would look out the window, look at me, talk for a while, I would do my best British tact of smiling politely while forming this post in my head. I understood a couple of words. There was Mag-Nif-Eek, and then later Be-You-Tee-Fall. I think she was talking about the clouds, I'm not entirely sure as I was far too distracted by the battering my knees were getting. I mean, there's no way in that turbulence free sky that she didn't realise her every movement and gesture was causing her breasts to knock, roll and rest on my knees. I was taken aback. I didn't know what to say. Luckily for me, my fake laugh and smile got me through the worst of it.

Then as we coming into landing, she was still being an ass and then she just got out of her seat and started dancing. A lady who was sat near her grabber her arm and very politely told her that she needed to be sat down as we were coming into land.

Boom.

All hell broke lose. There was a whole load of swearing going off. I don't know French, but you can tell when someone is swearing, and she was, repeatedly. This woman just wouldn't shut up, and then the best thing is, she was getting so mad that she wound herself up and just started getting madder. The poor woman that was trying to help her ended up getting a face full of abuse, then other customers started telling this woman to calm down and take her seat; so she started swearing with higher force and frequency, gotta love the French.

Security had to come over and see what the matter was, then when they grabber hold of her, she had a go at one of the people she was travelling with. He'd had a bit to drink as well and then both of them started on each other. There was another round of "who can be loudest" and then the Saudi security guy took her to another part of the plane. There was a little bit of clapping, people made sure the nice woman whom unfortunately started this whole thing off was ok, and we came into land.

This should have been the end of it. We had out bit of Air Rage, all would now be well. That should have been the end of it, yes; but guess what?

Lining up at Thai customs we were chatting and wondering what had become of her. It didn't take long before all our questions were answered as the now familiar sound of a drunk French woman swearing at the top of her voice rang through immigration. At this point I was at the gate getting my passport checked. The customs official stopped what he was doing for a while to watch her. A colleague of his called security. He looked at her, looked at me, stamped my passport and gave it me back. All through this he had been keeping an eye on her as she was in his queue, security were now approaching. As he gave me the all clear I nodded over to her, looked back at him and said "Have fun", for the first time since I saw him, he smiled. It was a smile that said "Ohhhhhh, I'm gonna".

Nearly There.

I've just got into Bangkok, thought I'd give my first internet cafe a whirl. The journey hasnt been too bad so far, apart from a complete lack of sleep there havnt been too many upsets, of course there have been some, otherwise I'd have nothing to write about, but they will have to wait untill I have more time.

Cant say much, got to go try and get some sleep before my next flight and the big introduction, I need to shave (Yes, it has been that long since I set off, nearly a week!!! har har har) and get some food.

Untill next week.

I'm off guvner.

Well this is it. My final post from the safe and comfortable shores of home. Next time I post it shall be from Thailand. In about three hours I have to go and start my journey. Hopefully it shall be uneventful and routine, the last thing I want is a hilarious "and then the engine failed and everyone started screaming" story to write about.

Thanks to everyone who has helped out with time or things over the past few days. A postcard shall be your gift!

Also, if anyone out there knows of an easy way to host and post pictures in blogger while I'm away then comment up. I'll be using internet café's so it's all gotta be online.

Here I go. Lets hope it doesn't hurt too much!

A question of customs.

This Wednesday I leave. Finally, after all the waiting and work, it?s nearly time for me to go. But now a question.

Do I take all my training supplements with me on the plane, or post them.

Let me explain.

To post them costs a lot. And I mean a Lot! It will be close to £100 to get it all over there with registered post. I wouldn?t want to use anything less than this as if it gets lost I?m stuffed, all for an extra twenty quid.

To take them in my bag may mean a very stressful questions and answers session with the Thai authorities as I try and convince them that the kilo?s of white powder I have in my bag are Not Drugs!! That they are Legal, and that I don?t want to spend the rest of my life in Prison!

And so I have to ask myself, am I overreacting, and I?ll be ok going through customs with completely legal substances, receipts and tamper proof containers; or should I just post it.

Most people think ?oh just take them through you wimp, you?re not doing anything wrong.? However, these are not the same people that have to take part in a sit down chat with Thai customs officials.

That, unfortunately, would be me.

How not to get promoted.

I had to work this Easter Sunday. We were not busy. Not being busy at work has produced many things. It has produced a sledge with old racing skis bolted to the bottom and a working brake. It has produced a mould so that I can make my own wax sticks. It has also been the birth child of indoor cricket.

Indoor cricket sounds harmless enough. This is true, it has been played in the store over most summers to while away the long and tedious days. They had never played it however, while I was there.

We made a ball, it had a sock core, wrapped in elastic bands and held together with tape. We already owned a bat made from an old ski, this was in the loft though and we couldn't be bothered to get it. Instead I grabbed the first thing to hand, an old junior ski about the same size as a bat. This I thought, would do fine.

I was up to bat first; the manger of my department was bowling. Only he wasn't bowling. He was pitching. Sure, he made all the motions of bowling, the arm travelling over the head, but the ball didn't bounce. It simply flew, at great speed, towards the wickets. Congratulations, you bowled me out. But that was a pitch, it doesn't count, bowl again.

This he did, and yet somehow he didn't. He pitched again. Once again I was out.

Now the challenge was on. I gave him the ball back, if he wasn't going to play properly then I was just going to have to change tactics. "Don't expect the bounce," I repeated to myself, "just hit the damn thing." This time when the ball came, I was ready. With ski in hand I gripped hard, and swung.

Immediately I realised this was a bad idea. I was gripping hard onto the metal edges of a ski. This hurt. I was committed now however and just tried to slow the ski down before I cut my fingers off. Well I didn't cut my fingers off, but I didn't manage to slow the ski down either. I simply let go.

I don't remember thinking to myself that I should let go. I think my brain did it for me to save my hands. Either way, this was not good.

The ski was now flying across the shop floor like a weapon from Val Helsing. Spinning as it went, aimed squarely for my manager. Contact was made. He fell to the floor holding his leg. I laughed my ass off.

I found him lying on the floor holding his shin. We were both in hysterics. Hardly able to say a word for laughing we simply tried to catch out breath, and then I saw the blood.

Suddenly this wasn't so funny anymore as the blood had made a substantial stain on his jeans. He pulled his trouser leg up to reveal a fairly nasty gouge in his shin. While this was still funny, it was now a more subdued "oh ha ha, please don't fire my ass, ha ha" kind of laugh.

Such was the damage he went to hospital and needed three stitches and a tetanus jab. When he told the nurses what had happened they didn't believe him. "My colleague threw a ski at me while playing cricket" isn't the most believable thing they have heard in Accident and Emergency.

Needless to say, I think I still have a job next year, but I cant imagine being invited to join the shop floor guys next time they are bored and need to while away the hours.

For me, for now, I'm banished back inside my workshop.

Me, my dreads and my tights.

I was stood looking at the Oakley cabinet at work a few days ago when I was struck with an idea. This was an idea so good that when I got in that night I e-mailed Oakley with it. Although I am waiting on a reply I still feel that it credits being shared with a larger audience. You are they.

I was looking at the names of all the glasses when suddenly I realised that Oakley could produce a pair of sunnies, the likes of which the world had never seen, and sell thousand upon thousand of pairs if only they had the right name. Like a flash of light through specially tinted and polarised lenses the idea came to me. They should name a pair of sunglasses. . . the Doakley!!!

Think about it.


Recently I also took the problematic hair that I own and once again tried to make a guy with long curly hair not look like a complete chump. I think I'm on the road to success with 'mah new dreads! Unfortunately it has only turned me into a chump in recluse. At the moment they are in that awful "bedding in" stage. This basically means that they look a bit kack, and will continue to do so until they turn into real dreads and not just bits of hair held together by beeswax. However, while in the vulnerable early stages it is recommended that you wear a pair of tights (well I say pair, I guess just one would do) over your head while you sleep to stop the little fellas from coming undone due to your relentless tossing and turning. I have dutifully followed these instructions and being wearing one on my head during slumber.

Now, and heres where the chump bit comes into it. Wearing one of these things on yer noggin is not one of the more comfortable things you can do. I mean, these things are tight! Maybe I'm just doing it wrong, I honestly don't know, I don't have a lot of experience with them. After a couple of nights I was thinking to myself, there has got to be an easier way.

And there is.

You see, your neck is considerable thinner than your head. Therefore, the seam which has been cutting into my head would not be so tight around it.

Stay with me here people.

There I was laying in bed, tights on head (stocking, tight, nylon, I'm not really sure what the proper name is for what I'm wearing). I'm laying there thinking, "This would be so much easier if I just pulled it completely over my head."
"No way" I think back to myself, "Can you imagine what a complete freaking loser you would look like". But then I figure, who would see?? It would just be me, my dreads and my tights. (for future reference, please shoot me if I ever come close to using a sentence like that again, there is only so much shame one man can handle) So with a little further ado, I pull the tights down over my head, Bank Robber style!

The pain - gone. The dreads - secure. The look - not good.

I have been sleeping like this for about a week now. Every time I do it I have to laugh to myself. Even if I end up not going with the dreads I will be glad I tried it solely for this endeavour.

Threre's a bank robber in my bedroom and he wants natty hair!

It is one month to the day.

One month. That?s all. Oh man, not long now.

I?m redesigning my website, I want it to be easier to post to and easier to use. I reckon I?m on the right track at the mo. The main graphics are coming together. Just need to make it all blend now.

Tonight my bro is out making the magic of television happen. Yes, it may all look glossy and beautiful behind the scenes but the people making that all work are normal hard working lads like my bro. Bless him, out till the early hours of the morning making sure that when you sit down with your tv dinner, you have something marginally enjoyable to watch. Ie, The Games, relax, partially enjoy and remember that it?s my family that make the magic happen!!

However, on a more personal note, tonight I am sat at home with a bottle of red wine, one glass, and no, read that none, friends.
The thing I loved about uni was that I could kick back with friends and enjoy a night in. Now, I love my family, but every now and again I miss with all that I am, just being able to kick it in an over crowded room, with too many people talking at once, with a relaxing drink and good company.

Call me old fashioned, but man alive, I can?t wait for my holiday.