New Segment

I’m launching a new segment called Reasons why you’ll never find a wife on Clapham High St.

Reason 1: Tonight I walked past a girl peeing next to a car. It wasn’t even that late either. Seriously. She must have been confused and thought she was a dog. Actually…

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Alarming Trends

There seems to be an alarming trend that is seeing extended versions of my posts appearing in the Guardian soon after I have written them. It happened with my iPad rant and now it’s happened with my Pointless Meetings rant. It is obvious that these journalists are avid readers of my blog and are brazenly stealing content. That, or my posts are very unoriginal.

The pointless meetings article is a winner, explaining among other things how some people make a career out of attending meetings. If you’re in a meeting you must be important. It’s similar to George Costanza’s philosophy of adopting a stressed and angry disposition when at your desk, thus making it seem as though you’re engaged in actual work. Actual work, they’re the key words. The article closes with the following pearl of wisdom for surviving such meetings:
“Tune out. Fade deep into the recesses of your mind and cut off all contact with reality. It’s a waste of time for you to participate, especially if you do so only to assert your presence. It’s all right to be quiet at a meeting and just observe. My tip is to drink lots of fluids – stay hydrated.”

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Blog Wavering

As you may have noticed, the blog is slowing down. Stuttering. The system is breaking down as I battle post Thailand health issues. The hideous aftermath of Thailand rolls on. I have become deranged, disconnected and dangerous. When I look in the mirror, I see a broken man. And I don’t mean metaphorically, I mean because I punched the mirror in a Why Me fist of rage.

Last week I sat through a meeting that lasted 1 hour and 15 minutes, and somehow managed to not take in a single word anyone said. This tactic will work just fine if you are not expected to contribute, but if someone should happen to throw a curveball in the form of ‘So Adrian, what do you think?’, well, you’re pretty much fucked. You have to rely on the bits of information that somehow seeped into your subconscious, process them, structure them into an answer and communicate them in a way that makes it appear as though you know what you’re talking about… all in a matter of seconds. Suffice to say I failed on all fronts. Not only did I fumble my words and go bright red, the answer I gave was not related to the question asked. ‘That’s a really interesting comment Adrian, BUT CAN WE PLEASE STICK TO THE TOPIC, WE HAVE A LOT TO GET THROUGH’. Oh ok, sorry. In my defence the meeting was one of those meetings you have already had 20 meetings about, and will probably have 20 more of by the end of the month. AH FOR F*’**S SAKE, HOW MANY F*****G TIMES TO WE HAVE TO DISCUSS THIS F*****G TOPIC. IT’S DISCUSSED. IT’S OVER. MOVE ON. LIFE IS NOT A F*****G PIE CHART. WHAT ARE WE EVEN DOING WITH OUR LIVES?! When imagining me saying this, it’s best done picturing me standing in front of a room full of curious people, arms flailing, speaking in a dramatic, theatrical, Shakespearean accent, then storming out. WHAT ARE WE DOING WITH OUR LIVES?! Get it?

So as I reflect, it all becomes clear… the monkeys of Thailand merely bit me, the batons simply battered me, the gamma-hydroxybutyrate just raped me… it was these goddamn fucking meetings that broke me.

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2 Weeks in Thailand

During my 2 week break from the blog while touring Thailand, I received 12 death threats from fanatical fans for my failure to update it. 12 Death threats, that’s pretty cool. When reflecting on the tour that was, there are many words/phrases that spring to mind, the forefront of which being… tumultuous, sordid, crap, shit, Thai security guards are deranged, kill all Monkeys now, kill me now.

There were many ‘highlights’, among them:

One night, the Swiss Miss thought it would be a great idea for she and I to take a midnight dip in the pool. It’s an ok idea I thought, but not a great idea. Anyway, I didn’t see the sign saying ‘Anyone caught enjoying a midnight dip in the pool will be savagely clubbed to death with a baton by security’. I wasn’t quite clubbed to death, but he smacked me good in the jaw and leg, the latter cracking my Tibia. Have you ever been beaten with a baton? Don’t, it really fucking hurts. LESSON: Don’t ever assume that a deranged lunatic with a baton won’t savagely beat you with it if he has absolutely no reason to… he will. Don’t speak. Don’t collect your belongings. Just run. I can still hear the crunching sound of the baton as it severed my skull and the scurrying footsteps of the Swiss Miss as she cruelly abandoned me for safety. With my last ounce of strength I waved my fist at her… Curse you Swiss Bitch, curse you.

One day I was attacked by wild Monkeys. I love animals more than anyone, but these were not animals. They were savage beasts, products of the mass tourism factory that is Thailand. I can still hear the humiliating laughter of the monkeys as they feasted on my body, my face grimacing in pain, tears streaming down my cheeks, interested on lookers filming and photographing my ordeal.

One night my drink was spiked. This left a 4 hour blank spot in my night and the days that followed saw me nudge ever so closer to the brink. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t raped because the last time I was raped I knew straight away.

Exploiting my pain

Many people have been exploiting my ordeal and humiliating me since my return. Colleagues have been emailing me pictures of monkeys with guns and stuff. Yesterday after returning from a meeting, I found my desktop picture had been replaced with a monkey peering back at me. They laughed. I cried. The more I cried the more they laughed, until the whole studio came over to see what was causing the commotion and I scuttled away in tears. Adrienne was the showstopper though, she left a dead monkey in my bed.

No embellishment

These stories are not embellished, for they need no embellishment (except the part about the dead monkey in my bed. In reality I told my stories to Adrienne, she gave a nonchalant laugh and went back to preparing her lunch in the kitchen… ‘A hug would be nice’, I said. She pretended not to hear). Although my body is now safely back in London, up here (pointing to head), I’m still there (pointing to Thailand). The nightmare continues. In light of this, I have decided to end it all. To top myself. To close my account. I’ll be having a farewell party this Friday at The Cambridge where I will regale the sordid tales one last time before taking my own life in spectacular fashion, right before everyone eyes. Then, and only then, will the laughter will stop.

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Tales From Thailand

On my first full day in Bangkok, I stupidly I left for my daily trek without the name of my guesthouse or its location, but it didn’t matter because I knew it was next to a major landmark in the Bangkok International Hospital. So on my way home I asked the driver, who spoke little English, to take me there.
Driver: You American?
Me: No, why?
It American hospital, why you go there?
No, I don’t want to go to the hospital, but my guesthouse is next to it, I go next to hospital.
It only for Americans.
But I don’t need to actually enter the hospital, my guesthouse is next to it, I need to go there, to guesthouse. I don’t know the name.
But you no American?
No, guesthouse is next to hospital.
Hospital only American.

That’s when I pulled out my gun, shuffled it into shooting mode and pointed it in his face, Jack Bauer style.

The American Hospital. Take me there. NOW!

Stare at this scene long enough and a dangerously skinny leg will pop out. AAAAAH!

There were many sick-offs on the various ferries across Thailand. I kicked things off en route to Ko Tao by lunging at the nearest bin on deck and liquid screaming into it. What did I scream? Last nights SINGHA! CHIANG! TIGER! ASAHI! NOODLES! Later a girl also tried yelling at the bin, but didn’t make it and ended up screaming at the floor instead. The winner? A Chinese girl yelled at her crotch, while seated… inside the ferry. Then her Dad yelled at her. Not liquid yelling, actual yelling, in Chinese. It was quite a scene.

I became deranged, disconnected and dangerous, lurking from beach to beach armed with nothing but my book, crutches, painkillers and shame. People would stop and ask what happened and I would hiss at them… ‘Cmon, can’t you see we’re closed!’ before aggressively hurling my crutches at them. Then the predicament of my plight would dawn on me and I would collapse to the floor in tears.

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