Stickman Readers' Submissions February 13th, 2017

Reflections On An Interesting Year


It is now February, well into the New Year with not a baby in the house washed. I was appreciative of the Christmas break which gave me a chance to catch my breath and reflect on the past year. The day before Christmas Eve saw my oldest son Matthew get married, a significant event which I will elaborate on later in this missive.

The months of October, November and December saw me working intensively around the country teaching four Diploma and two Certificate study groups covering several thousand miles of driving so a few days’ respite before the next year’s campaign was greatly received. Whilst I am very thankful of the amount of work I have been doing of late, I am acutely aware of my ageing body and reducing energy levels.

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However with three grand in my current bank account and six grand in my saver account, I am extremely grateful for my current situation. Whilst this may not be impressive to many, everything is relative. I recall just a few years ago having experienced unemployment for two years out of three, my net assets were less than £200 and my only income was £65 a week job seeker’s allowance and I was almost destitute. So it has been a source of great joy that my current income is what it is. I do believe that one can only fully appreciate good fortune after having suffered serious penury. I must also confess that despite seeing the sad passing of my mother, 2016 was probably the best year I have experienced in the last 10.

In admitting this I also feel terribly guilty that I have neglected my good friends in the Stickman community. There are many friends I have not replied to or contacted and I can only beg their indulgence and hope they understand.

In the previous couple of years I have made a trip to Thailand in December using the excuse of the annual homage to my late pal Phil Pascoe. I unfortunately had to forgo this year due to my son’s wedding and my workload. However, I have not been totally devoid of Thailand experience. I still had contact with my ex-wife Nat who texts me twice a week. She is getting herself together at last, developing a property business and she declares that she realised her previous treatment of me was a grave mistake and now wants me to live in Thailand, specifically Udon Thani, with her. I must admit her weekly request that I return and “lick Djihm” provides some measure of incentive.

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I am also experiencing the phenomenon of my Thai lady stalkers. To explain, for the past ten years I seem to have collected a procession of respectable older Thai ladies who feel the compunction to text me everyday. They have all been reasonably well-to-do educated ladies and include nurses, office workers and teachers amongst their number. To be accurate, although I have a long history of these ladies I only have one at a time. It appears after a few months they conclude I am not going to fund a small Issan province, get bored and pass the baton on to a new lady who I suspect is a relative or a friend. Being part of this female chain letter is quite harmless and amusing. The current incumbent is a 56-year-old lady named Su who holds a good position in an insurance company in Nakorn somewhere. I suspect like her predecessors she is bored with her life in rural Thailand and loves the interchanges with a wicked farang. I would be interested to hear if any others in the Stick community have experienced this phenomenon and I may expand on this in a future submission.


In my last missive to this site I promised I would not continue to talk about my lack of success with western women, which initially begged the question of what I should therefore talk about? As it happens this has ceased to be an issue, but more of that later

I must mention a communication I received from my pal Stevie who contributed to this site as BBKSW for several years. He has given me some wonderful advice and guidance for the last ten years. I bring to your attention his previous counsel of what he calls the 6-hour rule. This was that if you haven’t got into a girl’s panties within six hours of meeting her you would remain forever in the dreaded friend zone with her. Being in the friend zone is the equivalent of purgatory which invariably involves being manipulated by said female. You are kept on the back burner and only called up to perform chores or little tasks on her whim.

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I recognised this condition but also recognised there is a big difference being in the friend zone from the situation with my lady friends Sarah, Claire and Elaine who although all devastatingly attractive seem to want me for my company and always pay their way when they ask me out every month or so. I do however appreciate I will never get into their panties.

Steve also remarked on the comments in my last submission about quantifying the availability of women in my hometown. I had calculated (through my admittedly dubious use of the scientific statistical technique) that there were only around 330 eligible and acceptable single women aged between 50 and 65 in an area of 4,000 square miles of the West Midlands conurbation which has a total population of nearly 5 million.

His amusing observation that there are probably just 4 or 5 guys going out with 320 of them because there are only 5 or 6 guys that meet their artificial standards. He speculated that these 4 or 5 guys probably also bled them financially; treat them like crap and the women always come back for more. His suggestion that I consider dating unavailable women instead opened my eyes. I have definitely seen examples of his views in the harem mentality that many women secretly advocate. I know a few drug dealers and a couple of black geezers who have at least three women on the go at any one time. Each of the women knows of the other’s existence and do not seem unduly concerned with the situation being happy to share. The fellows involved do not seem arrogant about this and seem to take it for granted.

It opened my eyes a little and has changed my attitude. I had always been programmed to put women on a pedestal if not actually worship them. My youngest son has often accused me of being a “simp” whatever that means. I finally realised how unworthy they are of the respect I was affording them and how much of a waste of effort this was. I also completely gave up on internet dating which as I now know is populated entirely by bitchy and deluded land whales. This improved my well-being considerably and I have not even experienced the issue of height discrimination that so obsessed me for years. I now conclude this concern is solely confined to the women on internet dating sites as most females in the real world don’t actually care about your height.

It is the universal law that whenever you meet a woman irrespective of her age or the circumstances, the initial and eternal question you ask yourself is “would you shag her?” The answer determines how you will subsequently treat her. I must confess of late I am finding the answer is becoming increasingly in the negative.

I have found that the vast majority of women in my age group and even some of those twenty years younger look like toad of toad hall in drag. I suspect most of them pulled the pin on the fat grenade in the week after their thirtieth birthday.

I have lost my appetite for chatting up or being a source of entertainment for women and have refrained from the “dance monkey dance “routine. If anything of late I have been treating them with mild disdain…. and if you can believe it a number of females suddenly seem interested in me?

Some of these are of my vintage but the majority are younger than me and include a few single mothers. I have however given them a wide birth. The juice isn’t worth the squeeze. Most single mothers don’t want a lover but just need help with their kids.

One of the problems with shagging fat women is there are so many folds and crannies you can often lose your bearings. Google Maps is no help in this situation. I suggest when finding yourself helpless in this situation all you can do is find a suitable crevice, tie yourself in and wait quietly until a Saint Bernard dog with a barrel of brandy comes to rescue you.


For most of last year I had been spending a lot of my time alone in hotels and have probably been drinking far too much. I took a quiz on the internet which suggested my drinking was 5 times the recommended limit. It stated I was consuming more than 98% of the rest of the UK population. I was initially excited at the thought of being in the top 2% in the country for something but realised I maybe needed to address my excesses.

I recently had some blood tests and was due to visit the nurse for my biannual diabetes and hypertension check up. Considering myself somewhat of a pisspot, I was a little apprehensive about seeing her and when on seeing my results she asked what I had I been doing I feared the worst. I was therefore astounded when she declared that my cholesterol and blood sugar levels were the lowest recorded for several years. My blood pressure was fine and my COPD appeared in control. It would appear I could remove the phone number of the local undertaker from my speed dial and it is ok to make plans for the next six months. I had been reluctant to buy LP records and had even taken to sleeping in the recovery position to save the paramedic’s time.

I must confess I had got the phone numbers of my local undertaker and my regular taxi service mixed up in my mobile. I had a quite scary experience when recently calling for a taxi from my local to take me home seeing the name and number of said undertaker informing me they were on their way and coming to collect me. It sobered me up incredibly quickly.


On the subject of inebriation, one Wednesday evening in December I was stopped by the police and breathalysed. I had previously popped my head in to the MJ’s club to enquire what entertainment they had planned for the coming weekend. I had only drunk two bottles of Kingfisher beer which is an Indian beer and about as strong as the sweat off of a gnat’s jockstrap so I knew I was well within the limits.

I was therefore astounded (and somewhat sceptical) when the officers informed me I was over the limit. They arrested me and took me to the new police processing station in Oldbury which resembled something from a futuristic movie like Robocop. The design suggested it had been constructed for some future intended zombie apocalypse or when the peasantry finally rise up in revolt.

After being processed by some very scary specimens of a totalitarian constabulary I was given another breathalyser test, this time under carefully controlled conditions. I was informed I had registered only 24 mg/ml which was well below the permitted standard of 36 mg/ml and was therefore free to go.

Being inquisitive I asked the arresting officers what they had recorded on the initial breathalyser they had conducted on me to prompt my arrest and was told they had recorded 174mg/ml. Somewhat surprised, I asked how many pints of beer that figure would represent. When they told me I would need to have consumed about 18 pints to achieve that level of inebriation I became annoyed. I had been polite and completely coherent for the two hours they had processed me and when I asked if it wasn’t obvious from my behaviour that I hadn’t consumed that level of alcohol they became very sheepish and returned me to my vehicle in complete silence.

I can conclude from this experience that the British transport cops employ deliberately uncalibrated breathalysers in order to arrest and process motorists to some perverse system of targets enforced by their political masters. There is much talk of the corruption of the Thai Police who occasionally shake down farang tourists in Asoke for a few baht. I suggest the actions of the UK transport police as a revenue earner under the direction of a politically appointed Police authority is far more reprehensible because they should know better.


Other than my son’s wedding (and being voted most popular karaoke singer at the Coach and Horses), the proudest moment of the year for me was the event ceremony for the award of the Oliver Stubbs Medal from the Institute of Cast Metal Engineers for services to the dissemination of technical knowledge to the foundry industry. There were over two hundred guests at the event held in the banqueting hall of the prestigious Black Country museum. At great cost I sponsored a table and took my two sons and my three oldest friends Kevin, Ernie and Otter. I was like a dog with two dicks in a street full of lampposts when I was presented the award by my hero Professor John Campbell who I worked with for six years in the 1990’s. It was a wonderful day and gave me the chance to impress my professional pals after being their charity case for so many years.


My eldest son Matt’s wedding to his childhood sweetheart was planned for the day before Christmas Eve. I had had very little to do with his mother, my first wife, since our divorce thirteen years ago. A couple of months before the intended nuptials she approached me requesting we present some kind of united face for Matt’s wedding. I was initially sceptical of her motives but for the sake of my son I was willing to go along with her. She had recently buried her second husband (not the guy she left me for) so I appreciated she was lonely and desperate for companionship.

We met up for a meal together and she was surprisingly sociable. I actually enjoyed her company but when I dropped her off at her flat I declined her invitation to come in for coffee. For a few weeks I took her out on Saturday evenings to a Karaoke, my choir’s concert and a meal at our local Thai restaurant. Whilst I was sympathetic to her situation my memory of the pain she inflicted upon me in the last two years of our marriage and during the divorce prevented any impulse to respond to her advances.

I continued to refuse her invitations until one evening when she declared she hadn’t had an orgasm for ten years. Now this was a challenge that I defy any man not to rise to. I stayed the night with her and fully delivered upon her need despite lacking match practice. I repeated the engagement for the next few Saturdays and turned in some praiseworthy performances. Although I was already enjoying intimacy with my ex Thai wife on my visits to Thailand I would never have expected to also become f**ck buddies with my ex English wife.

Whilst I was happy with the casual arrangement I had no intentions of reigniting a relationship with her. She was still in reasonable nick but I suspect she has a drinking problem. I also established she mentally lives in a in a world of pixie dust and unicorns.

My doubts were confirmed by her behaviour at the wedding. I had booked hotel rooms for my youngest son and his girlfriend and, at her request a room for her and me. She turned up at the wedding in a state of inebriation. In fact she was so drunk she fell over and it was clear she was in serious pain. However, all she seemed concerned about was whether I would still shag her later that evening. I did, but could not ignore the severe pain she was in. A visit to the hospital the following day confirmed she had actually broken her arm.

Our casual arrangement continued over the Christmas period until she told me she was still in love with me and wanted me back. I made it clear that this would not happen principally because she will not acknowledge any responsibility for our divorce or express any remorse for the adverse effect it had on our sons. She declared that our sons would be delighted if we could get back together. I know different. Both my sons assert I should give her a wide berth and consider I would be happier living in Thailand.

Fortunately, for the past few weeks she has ignored my friendly text messages so I can assume because I would not fall in with her plans she has blown me out. Whilst it was fun for a time, the phrase lucky escape comes to mind.


Since the Christmas break I have been busy travelling. I have been down to Essex twice and completed a certificate course in Kent as well as teaching my Midland groups. My colleague who did the marking of the students’ work sadly passed away just before Christmas leaving me with a six-month backlog. My flat is overflowing with paperwork from my teaching and I don’t have the time or energy to clean it properly so I am living in squalor at the moment. I am still trying to sort the probate on my Mom’s estate but still being frustrated by some errors in her will and my brother’s lack of enthusiasm to assist me. I have a lucrative but challenging two-week course with a guy from Qatar to complete and the Institute have not paid me the money they owe me since before Christmas. I am frazzled and feel I need a break. I had thought about a change trying a short vacation in Europe or the Philippines but I feel the sirens of the kingdom of Thailand calling me.

So I have booked a visit to the Kingdom. I fly out on the 7th March and will stay in the Mothership (aka the Nana Hotel) until Wednesday, 15th March when I will fly up to Udon Thani to spend a week with my ex-wife. On 22nd March I will make my way to Pattaya until Thursday 30th when I return to Blighty. I am hoping I can meet up with the usual suspects Bangkok Barry, Union Hill, Bernie, Sandy and Materialsman who I will contact separately. If anyone from the Stick community fancies a beer with me and is in Bangkok or Pattaya on the dates tendered please drop me a note.

As always watch this space.


The author can be contacted at:


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