An ordinary life in an extra-ordinary place
Archive for May, 2009
A dramatic robbery at a gold shop in Jomtien this week. Four masked men with M16 rifles entered the shop, sprayed a few bullets, and made off with a hoard of gold. They were pursued by a policeman until he was shot in the leg. The cops and robbers caper took a nasty turn when the robbers chucked a grenade out of the car to further discourage the policeman, the resulting explosion injuring four children standing next to the road.
As details emerged of the robbery, it became clear that the perpetrators were idiots. Here’s an exclusive Pattaya Days scoop, a transcript of the planning meeting.
So, we’ve got the M16 rifles and some grenades from our mate in the army, where controls are few and men are greedy. We’ve staked out the shop, bought our fancy masks; all we need now is to steal some cars and change their number plates to use as getaway vehicles.
No need for that boss. I’ve got a nice Toyota Vios we can use, and our friend here has a van. We’ll just use those and park them outside the houses of our friends when we are finished.
But surely the police will trace the vehicles from their registration and we will be arrested.
Nah, not a chance.
Three men were arrested within a few hours of the robbery and the two remaining robbers are known.
As previously reported, she who must obeyed has been using a fake profile in Facebook to encourage donations from players who think a photo of a young lady who is “up for it” (thank you Camberley) is reason enough to donate millions of chips.
As a reminder, here is the photo she has been using:
Personally I think the my wife is more attractive than inflated booby girl, but this photo seems to do the trick in parting players from their Facebook money. One in particular has so far donated more than 200 million chips, and has since hung around the poker tables hoping to chat with the woman who does not actually exist; other than in the combination of she who must be obeyed’s typing and another woman’s photo.
He is there until quite late at night and, on more than one occasion, my wife has suggested he should go and be with his wife rather than chatting up digital women on the internet. Clearly his wife thought so too and carried out an investigation into his Facebook philandering.
As a result, she who must be obeyed received a series of emails this morning.
First one: I am stopping using Facebook.
Second one: Please write to me at this alternative email address.
Third one: Please disregard previous mails and do not contact me again.
Fourth one: You are dead.
A domestic dispute elegantly summarised in four little emails. Found out by Mrs. Perv, Mr. Perv had dutifully announced his departure from Facebook, then tried to set up an alternative route for his chip recipients to contact him, only to be found out again. The last message was presumably a death threat from Mrs. Perv, who even now is taking out a contract on someone who does not exist.
Bizarrely, she who must be obeyed has spent the evening distributing the funds from the busty babe to other accounts; just in case she of the large mammaries is digitally assassinated by a Facebook hitman hired by Mrs. Perv.
It’s weird out there in the wide wide world of web.
It’s going to be the greatest windsurfing movie ever made, and I am going to make it. This is because I am in the early stage of enthusiasm which accompanies all my stupid projects. In a couple of weeks, reality will set in and I will be aiming for a (more realistic) hastily patched together assortment of mediocre clips, accompanied by an inappropriate soundtrack.
But for now, I am Martin Scorcese. I have the camera, which is not exactly what Martie uses to make his epics, but it will do. I have Final Cut Express software to edit my video and I am currently working through a book which explains how to use it to people who have more brain and more patience than me. But at least I am learning to use words like Roll, Ripple, Slip and Slide in everyday conversation which perplexes she who must be obeyed (and me as I have forgotten what they mean). I have my Mac Pro which I recall being partially justified on the basis of “I am going to render video, I will need a Mac Pro”. Can’t remember if I actually said that out loud, but you can’t be too careful. And indeed it has consumed all I have thrown at it so far with considerable ease. All I need now is the footage.
Gathering video from a windsurfer is not that easy. You can’t sail with one hand and wave the camera around with the other. Well, you can, but after a couple of seconds you will be filming an accident. So you need to attach the camera to yourself or the board or the sail. And then you need to start recording and hope it stays in one place while you bounce over the water.
I tried using a Gorillapod flexible tripod. Worked for a little while, but then slipped into a new position and I lost the shots I was wanting.
This gave me a little bit of board, a little bit of land, and too much sea.
The other is an altogether too splashy shot taken from the deck. My toes look sexy though. Flickr’s conversion seems to have added some nasty ghosting effects however,
**These are HD video clips which are large in file size and do not appear to play smoothly over the internet. But they do look good full size on my machine. Come round some time and take a look.**
I decided to construct something more rigid, the first project being a clamp that I could fix to the boom. This meant a trip to the plumbing supplies store. Some build their creations out of carbon, titanium and stainless steel, precise to a fraction of millimetre. I use plastic water pipe and a hammer, precise to nothing at all.
So here I was again in the basement of Home Something or Other, perusing the wide range of blue plastic pipe and fittings. Given that all the local shops are devoid of custom at the moment, it was no time at all before an eager young man was by my side, offering assistance.
Can I help you sir?
Yes. I am looking for some fittings that will enable me to mount my camera to a standard windsurfing boom. The device must be easy to remove, light, and adjustable. Tell me young man, what are my component options from this veritable cornucopia of toilet and drainage plumbing delights?
No, of course I didn’t say that. I doubt he could have helped me with a plumbing requirement, let alone Spike’s flight of fancy for which no known solution currently existed. He left me to my pondering and eventually I went home with an assortment of bits.
There then followed a period of quiet contemplation where my years of advanced design and engineering skills fermented together to produce this:
I know what you’re saying. “Come on Spike, you don’t fool us. Surely you used an top line design house, Porsche perhaps, to come up with the design?” But no, it’s all my own work. One piece of blue plumbing stuff (real purpose unknown), two clamps and one partially destroyed tripod. Pure genius.
Next creation: Bicycle helmet cam. I sense a design award pending.
Met some friends at the Cafe des Amis last night. This was our second visit and the food was as good as the first time, with the service being slightly more shambolic. Still recommended.
A browse through the small print at the bottom of the menu revealed a message advising that reading glasses were available for patrons who needed assistance in reading the menu, which was in a larger font size than the message. I suggested to the waiter that they needed a message in very large print explaining that reading glasses were available for those who needed assistance in reading the small print, who could then discover that they could borrow reading glasses for reading the menu. He failed to comprehend my recursive wit; but he did bring me some reading glasses.
Pierre is French. He used to work on oil rigs. There are mutterings of the Foreign Legion. That’s all I know of his history.
Nowadays Pierre lives in Thailand with less than the normal number of teeth and no money. During his waking hours he lives at the windsurfing club, waiting for the wind. His equipment is a scruffy collection of hand-downs and stuff he found in ditches. He is endlessly repairing, or wielding paint brushes to add some colour to his motley hoard of windsurfing gear. He is always cheerful, even though his sailing outings usually result in the collapse of some part of his antique equipment; thus requiring more patching and paint brushing.
His constant vigil on the beach means that when there is any wind at all, he is out on the water. Personally, I have better things to do than sit on a beach all day waiting for the wind; things like slumping in a chair in an airconditioned room playing with a computer. Consequently, while Pierre is out sailing on a passing breath of wind, improving his technique and getting fit; I am not.
But when a decent period of wind arrived this Saturday, I was prised from my mouse and headed for the beach. Pierre had already been out for hours, and continued to sail till the wind died. I managed an hour or so before being totally knackered. The totally knackered phase was followed by cramps and the need for a good lie-down. Two days on and I still have muscle pains. Pathetic.
Meanwhile, Pierre will be at the beach waiting for some more wind, and I am sat here writing this.
Pierre: Respect.
She who must be obeyed calls me from work in a state of panic.
Have you heard about the flu deaths in Mexico? (Until international news is flashed up on Facebook poker, she will remain generally unaware of world events).
Yes. About 100 people have died.
I am scared, I don’t want to die.
I am scared too, I don’t want to die either. Although I don’t expect it will be swine flu that kills me.
What are we going to do?
Avoid travel to Mexico and don’t kiss any pigs which appear to have a chest infection?
Be serious.
OK, have you heard about the disease that has killed 13,000 people in the USA since January and is likely to kill about half a million people worldwide this year?
Oh my God! No! What is it?
Regular flu. How about the twelve million who die from heart attacks every year? What are we going to do about that? Shall we discuss cancer?
She made a noise that sounded like “harrumph” and rang off. I think my attempt to instill a sense of perspective has failed. Tonight i will amuse myself by explaining that the eyes are particularly receptive to absorbing the infection and she should henceforth wear swimming goggles as well as a face mask when out and about. Should make for a good photo.
Went to Bangkok on Monday to meet a friend. The trip turned into a personal logistical nightmare.
I used to work in Bangkok and there was a degree of ritual involved in the inevitably slow journey home at night. Before getting into your car, you went to the toilet and had a pee. Even if you didn’t want one, it was best to check. Then, even if you spent the next two to three hours in gridlocked frustration, at least you didn’t have to worry about seeking out a urinal in six lanes of traffic.
On Monday, such thoughts were far from my mind as I headed off for Bangkok. Indeed I had a couple of bottles of water in the car to keep me hydrated during the journey. In two hours I was looking forward to arriving at my destination, ready for lunch.
Two hours later I was still on the edge of Bangkok having driven very slowly through a massive rainstorm. One hour after that I was stationary in a lake which used to be Rama IV Road. Now it was a very watery line of cars going nowhere. It was at this point that I realised that I needed to pee, very badly.
For a while I thought I could tough it out. During this time the line moved about 10 metres and I estimated it would be dark before I could park and pee. I was either going to die from exploding bowel syndrome, or I was going to need to pee in the car (I had already discounted sticking part of me out of the window).
I took stock of the situation. The glove compartment did not look watertight, and the cup holder looked unable to hold the volumes required. It was going to have to be the now empty bottle of water. Trouble is, even though nobody has ever accused me of being hung like a horse (hung like a water vole is more accurate), the neck of the water bottle was too small to be accommodating; so there was going to be a potentially messy procedure involving aiming and shooting.
Then there was the issue of privacy. I don’t know about you, but I am not at my best in the peeing department when I am being observed, especially if the observers happen to be a bus full of Bangkok schoolkids who just happen to be passing. Try explaining that away in court. Some form of barricade was required.
And so ‘fort urinal” was constructed out of carrier bags, a T-shirt, and a soon to be soggy copy of Practical Photography. Then I waited until the vehicles on each side of me were smallish saloons, thus limiting viewing access to my flimsy construction.
I will spare the details of what happened next. Suffice it to say that my trousers and underwear were relocated to my knees, the water bottle was roughly aligned with the part of my body from whence pee would emanate, the sensitive areas were approximately shielded with the barricade of bags and magazines; and then the traffic cleared.
Instead of peeing, I suddenly found myself speeding up and passing through some traffic lights; operated by policemen who were strategically standing right where I would pass. The acceleration of the vehicle collapsed the construction, and I drove past a Bangkok policeman with my pants round my knees, my genitals on display alongside a jauntily placed water bottle. Suddenly I didn’t feel the need to pee; I just didn’t want to be arrested.
Fortunately the traffic cleared from this point and it was just a matter of pulling up my trousers with one hand, driving with the other, and heading for the nearest car park and relief.
Next time I go to Bangkok I will take a bucket.
When I stopped working I was presented with a bundle of cash and a pension. My bank wasted no time in advising me on how to invest the bundle of cash in a manner that would earn them maximum commissions. The investments did quite well for me for a while too, although now they are worth what is known in banking terms as “bugger all”.
Still, the bank insists on providing me with a personal adviser who calls me up to introduce himself, does nothing for a year or so, and is then re-assigned to some other cushy position where he can sit behind a desk and persuade punters to invest their cash in hopeless schemes.
My new adviser called me yesterday. He was pleasant enough and we wasted five minutes while I recounted my personal circumstances which he would fail to write down, thus requiring me to repeat myself, yet again, next year, when his successor arrives. We arrived at the subject of family and for some reason he wanted to know what my son did. I told him, and illustrated his profession by explaining that he had worked on Grand Theft Auto 4. Maybe my banker had heard of the game?
Not only had he heard of it, he was a huge fan. He had played every iteration of the game all the way through. He couldn’t wait to tell his friends that he had a client who had a son who had worked on the game. He was going straight home to boot up the game and look for my son’s name in the credits. At last, he could die happy.
Actually, he didn’t say that last bit about dying happy; but he did become very enthused and excited in the way that bankers normally don’t. We ended the conversation with a discussion on when the next downloadable content for GTA4 would be available, rather than discussing how I could maximise the returns on my investments in these troubled times. At last, a banker with appropriate priorities; I hope he stays for more than a year.
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