The Chronicles of Foster Foskin’s Adventures in Thailand #15
Jeez! No wonder Bluey and me really needed ter ease up on the drinkin’. I found out terday that I missed a couple of days in between arrivin’ back in Bangkok and gettin’ drugged at Khao San road. It all came about when Nok asked me
what I had been doin’ after we came back from Chiang Mai.
“Whaddaya mean, love? You were with me most of the time….weren’t ya?” I asked doubtfully.
She shook her head and told me that I ‘ad ‘disappeared’ fer a couple of days and she was distinctly suspicious that I had slunk orf to a hotel with another shiela at first. Then she told me she had found the stub of an air ticket in one of me daks pockets for a place called Nong Kai. I scratched me head ponderin’ where that came from.
Then it started to come to me bit by bit. I remembered that the Prof had invited me up ter his weddin’. Bluey and me had jumped on a plane and arrived at this dinky little airport somewhere. We were greeted by another one of the Prof’s mates, Cummings, and taken to a van filled with bloody journos. They told us why they were out in this neck of the woods. It seems the Prof was a bit of a hero because he rescued the French ambassador from certain death in Cambodia.
We bumped along dirt tracks headin’ deep into the countryside. By the time we arrived where the Prof was gettin’ married we’d drunk all the beer in the van, had a few pit stops or maybe we should call them piss stops. One of the journos decided ter wander over to a wallowin’ buffalo ter get some pictures, but he was so drunk he ended up wallowin’ with the animal instead. I reckoned they made a handsome couple, meself.
There’s always plenty of booze at a weddin’. Bluey and me scored a coupla cases of that bloody great Chang beer and that’s about all we remember.
The Prof got married and then burned down the bloody village while we slept. By the time we came to, Bluey and me were on a plane back ter Bangkok with all the journos. I seem ter recall we wound up in Soi Nana where Bluey and me sobered up a bit by drinkin’ Thai whisky instead. That bloody stuff is enough ter sober anyone up. Mind you, it doesn’t give yer a hangover if yer squeeze a bit of lemon into the whisky. I drink it with Coke, and Bluey prefers soda. We were soon feelin’ almost normal again.
Just as well, because the Prof needed bailin’ out of the Bangkok Hilton by then. No wonder I lost track. We’d been bouncin’ all over the bloody country ever since we arrived. I reckoned it was time ter dry out a bit, at least until this golf game is over.
So ‘ere we are, back in Pattaya again gettin’ ready fer the game. We’d woken early. Early fer us anyway. It was almost 11. Pattaya doesn’t start stirrin’ until at least 10 in the mornin’ and most shielas lie in until midday or later if they aren’t having a mornin’ glory. So the only people around were the hotel staff and a few bleary-eyed blokes like us who must have missed out last night. Either that or they only had time fer a quickie this mornin’.
Nok dragged me over ter the Apex Hotel buffet breakfast. What a spread! The tables were groanin’ with food, and me head was groanin' right along with them. Talk about a headache. I reckon one of them bloody trannies must of caught the side of me head in the melee.
Dana and Bluey staggered in a few minutes later and we all sat squintin’ at each other across the table while we slowly returned to the land of the livin’. Five cups of coffee and I was almost human again. I sat there swearin’ ter lay off the booze fer the day.
After breakfast Dana went orf ter find a printer. He was in charge of gettin’ the posters and flyers printed up. Bluey was makin’ a list of all the people to invite to the game. And I made an appointment ter appear on the local cable channel to announce the game.
Just as we were gettin’ sorted out the Professor arrived with ‘is new bride.
“G’day there Prof. How’s things? Take a seat and I’ll get yer a cup of coffee.”
They dropped exhausted into their seats and I called the waitress over to fill up their coffee cups.
“So tell me, Prof, what were ya doin’ in Cambodia again?”
“A dastardly mistake old chap. I thought one had to fly to Pattaya, so I went out to the airport to catch a plane here. While there I was accosted by a taxi driver who insisted Pattaya had no airport. We had a bit of a discussion about that. He was so insistent that I finally agreed to go with him in his taxi. I wasn’t exactly sure about anything by then, and this chap was dressed in such sartorial splendor that I thought he might know where to take us.”
“So, what are yer talkin’ about here mate? Who’s this Startoral Splindler?
“Eh? Not who, but what, old chap. He and his brother both had long hair. They were wearing Hawiian shirts in the most garish reds and yellows, and their shorts were obviously more suited to beachcombing than taxi driving. But they coaxed us into their taxi and then we drove for hours.”
“And they took yer to Cambodia?”
Well, no, actually. We ended up in a place called Chantaburi. But when I called you, I saw a street sign pointing to Cambodia. A frightful mix-up, I’m afraid. When I called, my wife and I were in a quandary. She kept insisting we take another taxi to Pattaya, and I thought we should take the plane back to Thailand first. That was when I called you. I’ll tell you what old chap. These Thai women can be downright forceful when they want to be. Thankfully, I let her bundle us into a taxi and here we are at last.”
Bloody hell! Trust the Prof ter get in a mess again. But at least he and his wife was here, just in time ter help us get organized. I suggested they both go over to the bar and join Bluey phonin’ up the list of people we’d chosen to invite ter the tournament.
Many phone calls later we were doin’ pretty well after a couple of hours. We had more than a dozen blokes who were up fer a game. I ordered another orange juice for me, but Bluey said he couldn’t last another hour without a beer.
Just then, this little bloke who’d been sittin’ on the other side of the bar got up and sidled up beside me. He was short, with a nervous air about ‘im. “Excuthe me,” he lisped in a pommie accent, “I couldn’t help overhear your phone callth. Are you organithing a golf tournament?”
“Yeah, that’s right. What about it?” I growled.
“I wath wondering if it might be pothible if I were to join you. I’ve never played with men before.”
That last statement got me wonderin’ what ‘e had played with before. I’ll tell yer what, lookin’ at the little weasel, I reckoned the best he could do was play with little boys, or maybe little girls. He had the look of a pervert about him. I wouldn’t let ‘im put ‘is hand in my pockets ter get some sweeties, I can tell yer. So I says, “Well mate, this game is by invitation only and I’ll have ter ask Bluey over there. What’s yer name?”
“I’m John Galt.” And he held out a limp hand. I grabbed it and gave him a good strong handshake. It was like grippin’ a wet noodle, which is what I began ter suspect this bloke was. He didn’t look like he was anywhere near capable of stoppin’ the world.
“Hey, Bluey, do we have a John Galt on our list?” I asked, givin’ him a nod and a wink.
Bluey got the message. “No mate. No John Galt here. Besides, we’ve filled all the teams for the tournament already. No room for more.”
I turned to the little weasel and gave a shrug. Then an amazing transformation overtook him. His face scrunched up and I thought at first he was goin’ ter cry. Then it turned red and he started screamin’ at me like a demented chook with its head chopped off.
“If you don’t let me play, I’ll tell everyone you are organizing the tournament so that you can make money from the players!” he cried petulantly. “I’ll make a website and call it “NotFosterFoskin.com” where I will post stories telling the truth about you. Everyone will know you are not a real golf player. I’ve been investigating you. You are a fraud and a liar. You will regret it if you don’t let me in to play. It’s not right you should make money like this!” he finished in a hysterical scream.
Well, Bluey and me looked at each other and Bluey shrugged. He knew what was comin’ next, and he was right. I hauled off and biffed the weasel hard between the eyes. He dropped to the floor out cold. We got up and left him there. I reckoned that would stop the little bugger. How wrong I was. But I’ll tell yer more about that later on.
By now, we were almost ready for the tournament to start in a coupla days. I had ter get ready fer me TV interview on the evenin’ news. That should make an impact, I reckoned. And then all we had ter do was coordinate the deliveries, and make sure the shielas got there before the fun started. We had a tough job ahead termorrer. We’d have ter go back to all them bars and make sure the shielas are still up for the fun.
Next, let the game begin! The boys all turn up, but who wins? Keep reading for the exciting results.
© Copyright 2007 by the author.
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