Well, The Lola Boys have hit Bangkok, and after no sleep and a hideous incident involving two Chavs and a disgruntled pensioner in row twenty-three on our Boeing out, we feel like doing the same! We were belted in by the Captain far too frequently, when it was quite obvious the only turbulence was onboard!
Perhaps that was the point.
Our gorgeous stewardess was no doubt wishing all of the idiots would make a quick exit via the emergency door. What one would call a very hard Brexit at thirty-six thousand feet. Yet oh so effective!
It never used to be like this on British Airways!
Therefore we’ve arrived in Thailand buggered! We only hope we don’t leave in the same manner.
But we know it takes time to adapt to this most steamy of conurbations. Bangkok, oriental city where the nights ain’t pretty etc. etc. etc….. as Yul Brynner once said.
And they certainly weren’t last night!
I shan’t go into full detail, suffice to say that the expensive probiotics I purchased for us prior to departure have not yet kicked in. Last night’s dinner was what is known as fast food – and that was on the way out! At least that’s what Andrew told me.
Four hours later I have awoken in a malarial sweat in a ‘queen size’ bed. I can only imagine ‘Her Majesty’ must have been a dwarf as the thing can hardly contain us!
We are staying in a less than salubrious part of the city in a hotel full of less than polite Chinese. They really possess no charm, although they do have volume. And I don’t mean follicularly!
To make matters worse, I look like the love child of the late Joan Rivers and the even later Liberace, and Andrew is rocking the Yoko Oh No look! We really should attempt to dilute our airborne Bloody Marys with something less sanguineous next time – perhaps the odd G & T.
Air rage and lymphatic drainage simply do not mix.
Added to this unglamorous start it’s bloody pissing it down here!
So my hair can’t even disguise the B.A. look with which I landed. Bloody awful. Needless to say, there will be no selfies quite yet. Not of the photographic kind.
Still, we ain’t here to cabaret, only to ‘cabaret’, so who cares?
Far too often I have been spotted in ‘Mercadona’ post-show, usually by someone who’s never bothered to see it, and told how rough I look. I usually blame it on the Andalusian lighting and laugh it off instead of issuing a swift fuck off as I would like. Here, in this eclectic city there is no need for such fake civility, as round every corner there’s a rogue or vagabond colouring the pavement, so I simply blend in.
Well – almost!
So still feeling somewhat jaded we head into one of the inclement city sois and sit beneath a scruffy tarpaulin to feast on a fabulous lunch. Incendiary as well as impressive. Especially at less than two quid for both of us.
Our spirits lifted we then stop off for a back, neck and shoulder massage, which inevitably includes more body parts than described. Although my masseuse was only two foot six she had the strength and attitude of Mike Tyson. I have left both battered and relaxed. Much like a dead cod!
And now I lounge by the overcast pool, sinking a cheeky ‘Chang’, and trying to hear myself think and Blog, as the over sixties synchronised swimming team of Shanghai scream and splash noisily just feet away.
How can such little women make such a large sound? And displace so much water! I’m soaked. Truly extraordinary.
But I’m beginning to feel comfortable. Refreshed even. Maybe it’s the beer, or perhaps the massage. The soaking I’ve just had from Madame Mao could have helped. Yet I have a strange inkling it maybe The Orient beginning to work her eastern magic. That or someone has slipped something naughty into my drink.
As daylight switches off and the moon waxes into sight I suddenly feel grounded but excited too. More than ready to don my rucksack and head for the hills.
I do hope Andrew Hill feels the same. Hopefully the probiotics have kicked in. Or it could be a long night in a very small bed.
And not for the first time!