A Call to Arms...and Fingers
By Marc Holt
Indonesia Hotel Guide • Ida Hotel • Maharta Beach Resort • Melasti Beach Resort and Spa • Grand Santhi Hotel Bloody hell! Poor old Stick has been sick as a dog. So sick he even checked into a hospital instead of his local bar. I reckon he might have done better in his local though. He still looks like Stick. But the long and the short of it is that the following response to Dana is a bit late. But crikey! Better late than never, eh?
Now, in case you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, take a dekko at (Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 224). Dana reckons I have skipped the caboose, done a runner, lit out like a dingo with a cracker up its arse. Puhleeze Mr Dana (if that is your real name), on behalf of all sane and sober men in this universe I must protest.
Oh crap! I forgot. I’m not sane or sober....never have been. So what? You asked me to write, so here it is....Mr Shortstop.
Did you know that Dana may be a literary giant, but the comparison stops there?
Yes, that’s right. Dana is so short that he can identify a man by his fly zipper 90% of the time. Our Dana is twice as short as I am at six foot. And the other 10% of the time he is walking around is reserved for spotting trannies. A subject our super mastermind knows much about.
Anyway, I have been sitting around the billabong downunder here and ruminating on things that have taken my fancy. Unfortunately, all those fancies are in Thailand, so I all I can do is ruminate. Fear not. My ruminations don’t involve chewing the cud.
But let me assure you, I had no trouble leaving Thailand after I got on the flight out.
And as many of you already know, I have found living in Australia a much better experience than expected. For a start, they all speak a form of English here. Now, this is not the type of English you slick Bangkok denizens may recognize, full of malapropisms, bon mots, clever sayings, miscreant grammar, and other assorted zingers that can be heard in any bar after midnight, oiled by copious imbibements of classic Sangsom with classic Coke. Garnished with a squeeze of lemon and a drop or two of lactating bar girl’s nom. Ah! What sweet memories.
Instead, I am forced to sit here gazing out over a flat, red earth, dusty vista, relieved by the sight of the occasional slinking dingo, or a pair of emu’s running in full flight at the rabbit fence and bouncing off to land 30 feet away in baffled amazement that their forward momentum was so brutally and abruptly stopped. Heavens to Betsy, I heard one cry out on a darkly moonlit night, has Dana been down here to set traps for us? Let’s get the hell out of here before he leaps out of the bushes and tries to shinny up our legs with nefarious intent!
Or occasionally a jolly swagman saunters past, a squirming sack on his back, accompanied by a plaintive bleat. Surely that was not Dana seeking a dark and grassy spot under a Coolabah tree to work his wiles on a poor lamb?
Alas and alack. Even here in the land of Downunder I am bedeviled by visions of Dana, and Fanta, and Union Hill, and Steve Rosse, and BKKSW.
Is there no peace? No respite?
Apparently not. So I must bear my punishment in stoic silence, unable to unburden my soul unless I chain myself to my computer and type up yet another story, goaded by stinging barbs from that Great Barbarian Dana bleating from some small town somewhere on the north east coast of that land that labels itself The Land of the Flea?
All of this brings me to a few things that have been running through my thoughts lately.
Has anyone else noticed that Thailand has some of the most evocative names known to man? No wonder the country has become a Mecca for frustrated Western men. Let me elucidate.
Thailand: Let’s face it, no matter how the Thais say it, in English there is only one way to pronounce the name of the country. That damned ‘th’ says it all. So to me, it will always be Thighland.
Then there is the case of their capital city, sin city of the world. Who else would call their own capital city Bang....Kok and then deny there is a sex industry there? You gotta admire the Thighs for indulging in supreme self-deception. There is more Banging Kok going on there at any given time than in the whole rest of the world combined.
But they didn’t leave it there. Come on! Are you with me yet?
Yes, you know which island I am about to talk about don’t you?
To you and me, ‘ph’ sounds like an ‘f’ in English, doesn’t it?
So why would anyone call the jewel in their tourism crown Phuket? Ah, ha, ha, ha, as my old Samoan friend used to chuckle. You can’t be serious.
Another name that always elicits unmitigated mirth whenever I hear it, Porn...especially when uttered by a dyed-in-the-wool hard-core bar girl.
Hi Honey, what’s your name?
Porn.
No, I am not asking about your job. I mean, what is your name?
Porn.
Oh.....ok. How much then?
So if you think my stay in Australia is all beer and skittles, think again Mr Dana.
Am I slacking off, you ask? Sitting here basking in the sun, fishing rod in hand, while fending off amorous crocs dressed in skimpy bikinis?
I am most assuredly not!
It is simply that life is so laid back here that thirty years of Thigh experiences have merely slid into an alcoholic haze, there to reside until I am wrung out and hung on a wattle tree to dry out, or die of hay fever.
I challenge you, Mr Dana. Instead of spending your days in dissolute sexual predation on the Pattaya boardwalk, why don’t you fly down to the Gold Coast where I will introduce you to the Australian way of life? A life where you wake in the morning to the cry of marauding Cookaburras cackling wildly in search of juicy witchety grubs.
Prying open your eyes after being woken so adroitly, you reach for a XXXX beer, invented by an enterprising Queenslander by the name of Gluggit Goesdown. You may not know this, but all Queensland beers were once spelled XXX until Gluggit woke up one morning and realized that beer had four letters in it. But as he, just like all the other Queenslanders back in the mists of time couldn’t read or spell anyway, he changed the label to XXXX, thus benefiting all Queenslanders, and ensuring that New South Welshmen and their lesser brethren those pesky Victorians, never had any problem ordering the best beer in Australia.
Having started the engine for the morning, it’s time to throw off the two blondes with the bedclothes and shamble out to the beach where your surf board awaits you. Rip through a few curls, hang ten, return to the Esky you have cunningly stashed on the beach with such foresight and reach for another XXXX.
If the dole money doesn’t stretch far enough to feed you this fine day, you can throw a line into the surf, and cast out a net. The catch of a few tasty fish and a coupla kilos of prawns will make a nice Barbie on the beach. Just chuck your fish and prawns on and burn them evenly on both sides. No need for silverware. Your fingers will do the job.
All this while chugging down more beers as the rest of your day quickly sinks into a blurry haze until it’s lights out.
Jeez. Ya couldn’t get any better than that, could ya mate? As my old mate Foster was wont to say.
So there it is Mr Dana. The gauntlet is thrown. Are you man enough to try to be an Aussie? Or are you going to continue to skulk out in The Mothership car park seeking to return to that warm dark place you once came from? The choice is yours.
Stickman's thoughts:
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The author can be contacted at : fosterfoskin@gmail.com.
The publisher of this website, NOT this article, can be contacted at: stickmanbangkok@gmail.com.
