bafana bafana

"buy the ticket, take the ride."

- hunter s thompson

it’s good to be home. great to be back in a first world country again. with decent fast food. and an advanced non-violent unprejudiced multi-racial society. and world cup fever. it sure is exciting. i went out today (friday) and all the okes were wearing their yellow bafana bafana soccer tops. apparently it’s world cup friday. every friday. for the rest of time. jussis. it’s lekker.

eish... so anyway. i flew from aus to bangkok. the start of my trip home. it sure did get a bit hairy on the ground the wend we were there. but we managed to pull thru. the important thing was not to panic. we just focussed on the beer and the go-go bars. and left all the trivial stuff to the riff raff.

a quick summary of the issues in bangkok: a few years ago thaskin was the prime minister of thailand. he either nationalised a private telecommunications company and sold it for personal profit. or he privatised a state telecommunications company and sold it for personal profit. either way he made a lot of cash. it was a smart move. he then invested this money in manchester city football club. this was not a smart move. the yellow shirts (bourgeoisie) went to work. they mobilised the army and staged a military coup. justifiably so. everyone knows you don’t give money to dirty manc bastards. the red shirts (proletariat) decided they wanted a democratically elected government. so they barricaded central bangkok and staged a protest. eventually the army shot most of them dead (mowed the fuckers down) in a carefully planned and successfully executed military operation designed to maximise innocent civilian casualties. yay for dictatorships. fuck the people. and that, in a nutshell, is it. use it. don’t use it.

anyway, enough of the bullshit. i love bangkok. it’s got an edge. a vibe. it’s happening. but the greatest thing about it is the gender relations. i’m all for chicks rights. i’m a big fan of plastic surgery. but i’m also a traditionalist. a romantic. so, for me, it’s lekker to check punda in their natural habitat. performing on poles. mastering the use of ping pong balls. practising naked yoga. doing all the things that god made them for. getting back to nature. you can see they are happy. a destiny fulfilled. and when they finish up in the sex trade at the age of nineteen after a long ten year career, they head back to the farm and produce the next generation of pole dancers. of course, if some of them show ambition or potential, there is room to move. they can become air-hostesses. on a budget airline. doing safety demonstrations. and selling cheap airline memorabilia and shit.

eish... so the first night we stuck to khao-san road. backpacker mecca. we consumed beers. picked up a fat canadian chick. who was a bit of a laugh. the fat one’s always are. what else have they got? then we downed fuck-buckets. and ate crickets. that’s when i lost consciousness. i woke up in the morning curled round the toilet bowl. a first ever for me. believe it or not. chunks of dry kotch on my shirt. which could have been mine. or neil’s. considering he had to chunder over me into the toilet. was defo the crickets. they’re indigestible. totally devoid of nutritional value.

spent the day in the roof-top pool. charfing the hot scando chicks. and that night we hit soi cowboy. a place where dreams come true. heaven in a strip joint. and lady-boy proof. the chicks dance and wiggle around above you. on a glass ceiling. with no underpants on. and you don’t even have to look up. no need to strain the neck. the tables and bar counters are mirrors. convenience. easy to spot a huge wanga waving around up there. gives one peace of mind.

one night in bangkok and the world's your oyster
the bars are temples but the pearls ain't free
you'll find a god in every golden cloister
and if you're lucky then the god's a she
i can feel an angel sliding up to me

after that headed back to singapore for a week. caught up with all the okes. got stuck into some chicken rice. shweated like a beast. got smashed over the head with a bottle. on a friday night. at attica. a place where previously i had had a hundred percent record. how times have changed. eish.

we were dancing. and some local chick got a bit excited. so i turned around to check what was happening. and she smoked me on the head with a bottle. there was no matrix moment for me. i didn’t sway out the way in s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n. no mr miyagi wax-on wax-off bottle avoidance procedure. i didn’t even see it coming. i just took it full on the forehead. luckily, the last and previously only other time i had been violently assaulted (in a backward town called empangeni), a dude smashed me in the face with a bottle. hence the flat shnoz. so i was experienced. the important thing was to remain calm. i considered the c*nt punt. but settled for a rant. and some finger pointing. then the bouncers escorted me outside.

there was blood all over the show. but they fixed me up. called the police. took statements. and bundled me into an ambulance. with another oke. who looked real unhappy. he was just back from six months in iraq. came thru without a scratch. he was letting his hair down at attica. dancing behind me. the bottle bounced off my head. flew thru the air. and smashed his front teeth out. haha. he had the teeth in his hand. poor bastard. reckons the assault weapon was a chivas regal bottle.

eish... so i have this big purple 3cm scar on my forehead. it is central though. symmetrical. hopefully it will complete me. like that smoking hot chick in the michael buble “haven’t met you yet” video. she has a mole on her chin. an imperfection that makes her even more perfect.

now the sky could be blue
i don’t mind
without you it’s a waste of time