Pattaya Days

*To be recited in a Scottish accent.

There is nothing clever or funny about swearing, as my dear old mum used to say. But then she had never seen “In the Loop”, which features vast quantities of swearing and is both clever and funny.

First there was “The Thick of It”, a British TV series which was a sublime blend of The Office and Yes, Minister; a sort of “Fuck You, Minister”. The subject was an inept government minister played by Chris Langham, who spends his time avoiding the press and pleasing his boss, whilst being constantly hounded and abused by the party communications director played by Peter Capaldi.

Wonderful stuff and well worth a download. There are not many episodes and it looked like the whole venture would die once Chris Langham was convicted of child pornography offences. But now there is “In the Loop”.

The premise is similar. A useless government minister being serially abused and belittled by Peter Capaldi’s character. But we are in the time just before the Iraq war and the Americans are involved, which gives Capaldi the chance to abuse people on both sides of the water, including the British Ambassador to the United Nations (”Just fucking do it! Otherwise you’ll find yourself in some medieval war zone in the Caucasus with your arse in the air, trying to persuade a group of men in balaclavas that sustained sexual violence is not the fucking way forward!”).

The story is minimal. Lies, deceit, arse-covering and invented excuses to go to war; just like the real thing, plus a side story of a collapsing wall in a Northamptonshire garden which was probably slight less instrumental in the actual Iraq war preparations than the story portrays.

Actually the storyline is pretty irrelevant, it’s the characters, and the script, that make this such great entertainment. Each one is ghastly in their own little way, and beautifully played by all. But it is the raging Capaldi that dominates the screen. There is something biting and acerbic about the Scottish accent and every line is delivered with perfectly timed Glaswegian venom.

Others worthy of special mention are Steve Coogan as the wild-eyed owner of the collapsing wall, and James Gandolfini as a U.S. General, sitting with a beeping child’s computer working out how many troops he has available (”Twelve thousand troops. But that’s not enough. That’s the amount that are going to die. And at the end of a war you need some soldiers left, really, or else it looks like you’ve lost”).

Anyway, don’t take my word for it. The Christian Science Monitor said: “In The Loop is hands down the funniest movie I’ve seen all year and also the smartest”. See, they didn’t even complain about all the swearing, and they’re Christians.

Go see it, or better still download it; you will want to watch it more than once.

Fuckety-bye-bye then!

This was sitting in the Emporium on Tuesday:

It looks exactly how a car should look (although the colour is not quite how I remember it), and if my son is reading this, I would be happy to receive one for my birthday. Twenty five million baht should cover it. Thank you.

Ferrari were in the news for all the wrong reasons over the weekend when Felipe Massa was hit by a suspension spring and suffered a fractured skull. Thankfully he is now up and about again and is going to be OK, but it was a very nasty accident. Being hit in the face at very high speed by a 1 kilo piece of metal is no fun, and his $30,000 helmet clearly saved his life. He would have done less well with a locally supplied 300 baht helmet from Tesco’s.

Surprisingly, Michael Schumacher has been coaxed out of retirement to take Massa’s place until he recovers. Schumi can be an cold, arrogant shit, but he can drive and it will be interesting to see how he performs with the likes of Button, Hamilton and Vettel; and how he gets on with Kimi.

All this reminds me that I am off to the Singapore GP in September, so I book my flights. A weekend of racing, shopping, eating and drinking with my friend Tic; great. Might even take some photos.

Khun Boramet, Khun Saksooriyar and Khun Virort were good friends and they settled down for their usual night of drinking under a mango tree in Khun Boramet’s compound. Also as usual, they were eventually very drunk and Khun Boramet stretched out to sleep on a bench under the tree.

Khun Virort then explained that, being totally pissed, it would be a really good time for him to learn how to drive. Khun Saksooriyar, also being totally pissed, agreed that it was great plan and, with some difficulty, installed Khun Virort behind the wheel of his truck. There then followed a brief period of driving instruction during which Khun Saksooriyar slurred some general advice on the rules of the road while Khun Virort concentrated on staying awake and not vomiting.

Driving lesson over, the engine was started and Khun Virort planted his foot firmly on the brake. Except it was actually the accelerator, and he found himself whizzing across the compound and into the mango tree, squashing the unfortunate, was sleeping but now dead, Khun Boramet on the way.

I bet they got the idea from Top Gear.

Off to Bangkok with carpets.

Over the years I have accumulated seven rather nice carpets, the sort that are woven by children in dark cupboards for little more than a daily plate of gruel over a period of several years; and then sold to people like me who don’t think about the implications of their purchase.

At least five years of dust, grime and occasional cat vomit means that the carpets are in need of cleaning, and not the sort of cleaning that is available in Pattaya. So they are loaded onto the truck, wrapped in plastic sheet and trussed together firmly. The resulting shape is somewhat disquieting:

On the road out of Pattaya there is one of those regular flash light in middle of road police check thingies. As usual, they are out for anyone they might be able to extract a contribution from, and a farang with a load in his truck is a clear target. I am stopped.

Cope strides over and checks my licence and then glances at the back. He points to the plastic covered mound and asks what it is. At this point I should just tell him the truth and then be on my way. But I am a little pissed at being stopped and pretty sure he won’t understand whatever I tell him anyway. So I say:

“My grandmother”.

Big mistake. I have been blessed with a policeman who speaks English but does not recognise sarcasm. His eyes widen, he looks more closely, and then:

“Is she dead?”

The obvious answer to this would be “well she wasn’t when I tied her up, but as of now I have no idea”, but I cut my losses with: “not grandmother, carpet”, in the futile hope that the Thai for grandmother and carpet sound similar.

Of course I then had to unwrap the carpet to prove there was no grannie hidden away beneath a sik/wool Pakistani offering. Twenty minutes later I was on my way, leaving a very bemused and not entirely happy policeman.

Uneventful trip into the city and no problem with the security at The Emporium, in spite of my payload which is identical in dimension to an AGM-129A cruise missile warhead; just with less radiation and more knot density. But on the way home, the karma police were poised to strike.

On the road leading up to the overhead expressway out of the city, there is a regular radar speed check. The cops like it there because it is pre-motorway and therefore has a lower speed limit, and they can station their buddies at the toll booths to catch offenders. They were at their game on the way in this morning, and I assumed they might still be at it on the way out; so I kept my speed below 80kph. The limit is actually higher; I did not want to give them any excuse.

All seemed quiet on the road, but nearing the toll booth I could see a hovering cop (figuratively, not literally). They often hang around and pull people over at random; and I could do without that, even though I was now without carpets. So I headed for a distant booth, picked up my ticket and was away before he could scuttle over and stop me.

But the little bugger jumped on a bike and flagged me down! Looking a little flustered, he arrived at my window and, judging by the noise coming down his walkie-talkie, he was being yelled at by his boss for not stopping me at the toll. “You speeding, we have photograph” he explained, and then giggled and nudged my shoulder. He did a lot of this and I could tell we were going to be friends. What he should have said was: “you not speeding, but on camera we saw farang in car and thought; aha!”

He then got out a form which showed that the speed limit was 110 kph and I had been clocked at a convenient 115 kph. Somewhat suspicious that I had never actually seen him write on the form, it was almost as if (perish the thought), this was a standard, pre-completed form which was waved at everyone from whom bounty was to be extracted. Even more suspicious was that I had never been anywhere near 115 kph.

We then had the little ritual, punctuated by more giggling and poking, whereby I signed the form and he gave me a copy, telling me I had to go to the nearest police station which would be hidden behind a hedge in a part of town I would never find.

I now had three choices:

1. Play hunt the police station for several hours where I would never be shown the supposed photo, but I would pay a 1,000 baht fine and get my driving licence back.

2. Contact the office of the Commissioner of Human Rights at the United Nations and demand a show trial.

3. Say the magic sentence “can I pay the fine to you now?”

There was then a brief discussion on how large the fine should actually be, obviously a lower amount than the official figure due to the time saved on paperwork etc. I usually try for 100 baht, but the 300 baht lying next to the gearstick was to be my downfall.

Bribe Fine paid, driving licence returned and we were now great buddies. He gave a cheery wave and risked his life by stepping out into the speeding traffic to make sure I re-joined the highway safely. No doubt he was looking forward to getting me again next time.

An amusing episode, but more expensive than usual. I am sure if I had had a potentially deceased relative in the back of the truck, I could have received some extra discount.

I used to hate Mondays; now I rather like them. First thing I do is head for the computer and start downloading the previous night’s Top Gear. Then breakfast and coffee, a bit of messing around on-line, and then I sit back and enjoy the show before heading out for lunch.

Today was extra pleasant because I managed a bit of windsurfing in the afternoon before the wind became too strong for the large sail I was using. Came in and changed to a smaller sail which was also too large by the time I got out on the water. Good exercise though.

A fine sunset at the end of the day. Ideally there should have been a three masted schooner on the skyline, carrying exotic herbs from the Orient. But as I already live in the Orient, and she who must be obeyed already has a cupboard full of exotic herbs, instead there was something a little more industrial on the skyline, probably heading for port with exotic chemical waste from Europe.

As previously reported, to an admittedly disinterested world, Tiki has now been installed in her Apple iCat.

Until today; when the normally retiring Gabrielle decided it was her turn, leaving Tiki demoted to a distinctly less comfortable (although much warmer if you lie on the cooling vents) Macbook. She was not pleased.

As I know from personal experience, the performance of local construction contractors can be “variable”. And so it was with a contractor at the Siam Ocean View Condominium; such that his contract was eventually terminated for poor performance.

Being a professional contracting company, their next step would be to contact their lawyers and institute legal proceedings against Siam Ocean View for wrongful termination of contract, should they feel they had been wronged. But, being a gang of cowboys, their next step was to come to the site and make threats, and then finally to sling a couple of fragmentation grenades into the development; one of which exploded.

I asked she who must be obeyed how the hell people acquire such munitions. It’s easy, she said, just tell me what you want and I will get my father (he’s in the army) to send it down by courier.

Anyone want to buy a bazooka? It’s larger than I expected and frightening the cats.

The high proportion of inhabitants of this festering city who are adorned with body art means that we must have an annual tattoo festival. Last year’s was a lavish, outdoor affair which was fun to photograph. This year there is a smaller, more sanitised, affair in the Central Mall.

Interesting to look around, although I was a little concerned when a rather camp tattooist waved a needle in my direction. My immediate response was “you are not sticking that thing in me”, a sentence I expect he had heard many times under different circumstances.

Anyway, a few photos:

It may look like a rather poorly presented plaster zoo animal shop by the side of the road, but closer inspection will reveal shrine-like components.

And if you hang around taking a few photos, you will find that every passing driver slows a little and sounds their horn. What’s going on here?

Of course I turn to my adviser in all things cultural, she who must be obeyed. And she has the answer.

Those who kill themselves in road accidents are, statistically speaking, young people. People believe that if you die young, your spirit will hang around on earth until the time you would have been old. So relatives erect a shrine so that the spirit will have somewhere to live until the time comes to go wherever you go next (be reincarnated as a street cleaner perhaps). It is considered respectful, and lucky, to slow down and sound your horn when you pass these shrines.

She went on to explain that accident blackspots soon feature one or more of these shrines, after which the number of accidents would reduce. People believed that the spirits in the shrines were making the place safer.

I nodded sympathetically, thinking what a load of rubbish that was, and then she continued. “Of course that is nonsense. If you have a dangerous corner where people are now slowing down and sounding their horns, then naturally the accident rate will reduce; nothing to do with spirits”. I nodded enthusiastically, there is hope.

She then went on to tell me of a whole range of beliefs which were rooted in superstition which had some real-world beneficial side effects. I was tempted to ask her about the benefits of dreaming about numbers and then wasting a thousand baht on lottery tickets which never win; but I don’t like to push my luck.

Khun Eknarong had spent a few days in a holding cell in Nong Pla Lai prison and he hadn’t enjoyed it too much. Sixty people to a room, not enough food and drink, and the internet service sucked.

So when the chance came to escape during a transfer at Pattaya Court, he took it and disappeared. Of course he was caught a few days later, but the question on everyone’s lips was, how had he managed to remove the sturdy chains which had been locked round his ankles when he made his dash for freedom?

And the answer was that he had removed them with the aid of a toothbrush. Either a very strong toothbrush or really crap ankle chains. I’m guessing the latter.