There Are Two Kinds of People In This World, The Irish and Those Who Wish They Were

St. Patrick’s Day, along with New Year’s Eve, is usually an overhyped holiday. People pretending to be Irish for the day, crowded pubs, and pretty much everyone saying “potato” or “top of the morning” in their worst Irish accents. The day used to annoy me, but over the last few years I’ve loosened up and have actually appreciated the influence that such a small nation, of only 4 million people, have had on the world. For one day everyone wants to be Irish, apart from Italians because they’re better than everyone at everything, everything except being considerate and courteous.

We found out that there would be a big celebration in Sindorim, with live bands, dancing, and drink. It sounded perfect. Having arrived a little hungover from the night before it was the perfect way to start celebrating St. Patrick’s Day. 

The event was great, the bands were good and everyone was in a joyous mood. Whenever I hear Irish music, especially the fiddle, it always takes me back to visiting my Irish grandparents when I was a kid. They'd always have The Dubliners playing on cassette in the kitchen or some other Paddy with a guitar while my nan would make the Sunday roast. Anyway, a few beers in and we got chatting to genuine Mick and a Canadian girl. 

The Canadian asked how could she tell who the legitimate Irish people were, I explained that they are easy to spot. They are the ones who cannot stand on St. Patrick’s Day, who have flowing red locks, and are sunburnt in March. As the not-so-Irish beer was going down I could feel my Irish heritage starting to flow through my body, and although B*Witched weren’t playing the curse of Michael Flatley took over.

The celebrations were winding down, the live bands were packing up and heading to Itaewon to continue the festivities in the many Irish drinking holes in the foreigner friendly part of the city. We were drinking up and getting ready to leave when I got a tap on the shoulder, it was Matt Pearson. Hardly a celebrity, but he’s a chap I went to school with for over 10 years. I was stunned, we had no idea that both of us were in Korea let alone drinking in the same vicinity, at the exact same time. We bumped into each other 9,000km from where we both grew up. Coincidence or stalker? I’m still not sure yet.

As we were leaving we were asked by a group of guys “Do you guys want to come to a party with free alcohol?” Is this even worth asking on St. Patrick’s Day? So Josh, Karl, Alejandro, and I followed a group of unknown foreigners to the land of the free booze. Only a few stops on the subway and we arrived at a place that looked like it had taken the worst parts of Luton and Burnley and merged them together. It looked like a war zone, but I think most people would still walk through Kabul for the promise of free alcohol on St. Patrick’s Day, so we persisted. About 10 minutes later and the doubt started to kick in, Josh, Karl, Alejandro, and I start to look at each other suggesting ‘is it worth getting stabbed for free beer?’ I still haven’t made my mind up on that one. We carried on. We followed this group of foreigners that looked all the more dangerous the further into the unknown we went, when they turned around and looked at us. Oh shit, this is where were going to get mugged, stabbed, and raped. They asked us “do you guys have any idea where we are or where we’re going? Because we don’t have a clue!” Salvation! These guys were as clueless and desperate for alcohol as us (although I’m sure they were a little less scared at the prospect of getting mugged, stabbed, and raped by Josh, Karl, Alejandro, and myself). It turns out that the entire group of fifteen or so foreigners were being led by an Andy Martin look-a-like (a Wootton Upper School reference). We finally arrived at the place, with no exaggeration it was a junk yard-crack den. It was like something out of a movie, there was an angry looking biker gang outside, and probably a druglord inside waiting to use all of our rectums as the perfect hiding place to smuggle heroin into North Korea. What a man will do for free alcohol, hey?

We went in and it turned out to be an art/tattoo exhibition. Not only that but we had found the Holy Grail, the free bar! The exhibition was called Kulture Kustom Artshow Respect. Spelling culture with a K is pretty much the opposite of culture, but who am I to complain?

With free drinks in hand we thought it would be rude not to have a wander considering their generous hospitality. The first exhibition we came across was a tooth gem stall. I said to Karl “shall we both get one?” To which Karl replied “Let’s drink more Jaeger and then decide. I don’t think I can make such an irresponsible decision in the daylight.” Great thinking, Karl. There were guys getting tattoos, custom motorbikes, live art paintings, it turned out to be great and none of us got mugged, stabbed, or raped which was a bonus!

Despite the delights of free quality alcohol Alejandro still persevered with his 2 litre bottle of Cass. 

The strangest exhibition was just a lady sitting with a dog. If you’d had asked me “do you want to see a woman with a dog?” I’d have obviously said no, but then if you’d had asked me “do you want to see a woman with a dog and free Jaeger?” I’d have obviously said yes. One of the foreign lads who arrived with us decided to get a tattoo, he was Canadian and thought it would be a good idea to get the Canadian maple leaf on his arm, a decision I’m sure he wouldn’t regret in the morning. It was probably best not to mention to him that they were using wet wipes to sanitise the equipment. Certainly a wise decision.

We left the exhibition/heroin house and went to Itaewon, where we met up with Susie and Angie. We went to a pub called The Wolfhound and we drank copious amounts of green beer until the wee hours of the morning. 

All in all a great day. 

Spectating Isn't About Whether You Win or Lose, It's About How Drunk You Get

For this blog post I’d like to rewind the clocks to late 2013. I’d like to tell the tale of when Ed and I became devoted Sydney FC fans. Before I divulge the story I’d just like to point out that my actions are not routine at all football games that I attend, they were a one-off. OK, maybe a two-off.

Sydney FC vs. Newcastle United Jets FC
Allianz Arena
30^th November, 2013

One sunny day in Sydney, Ed and I were talking and we decided that we would take in a football match while I was visiting him. Ed looked up the details on his phone and found out that Sydney FC were playing at home that Saturday evening against Newcastle Jets. We came up with a loose plan, meet up in Bondi for a cheeky few schooners, get the bus to the game, enjoy the delights of the A-League, and then head into Sydney city centre for a night on the tiles. Sorted.

The big day came around and everything was going to plan very smoothly, we got to the game and the first thing I noticed was the army of Del Piero fans. Every man and his dog had the latest sky blue Sydney shirt with Del Piero 10 printed on their backs. We paid the incredible sum of $15 for our tickets and even managed to use a buy one get one free coupon, try pitching that idea to the Premier League! We got there about an hour before kick-off and enjoyed a few beers pitch side, try pitching that idea to the Premier League!

The line-ups were announced and the two stellar names of the day were Alessandro Del Piero of Sydney FC and Emile Heskey of Newcastle United Jets. Emile Heskey has never been described as a stellar name, there were also another 20 names announced but they could have been the water boys for all I know.  The standard was acceptable, and the Allianz Stadium was half empty but the atmosphere was surprisingly good. The Sydney Ultras really make an effort, a few guys with megaphones getting the chants started it was rather enjoyable. In injury time in the second half Sydney took the lead, the celebrations started amongst the fans and it rained down beer from the overly excited Aussies. Wonderful. Half time came around and it was time to get more beer. The second half got underway and we didn’t have to wait long for Sydney to double their lead, the same delirious frolicking occurred, I even joined in with a bit of beer throwing myself. At one stage a brave foreign lad did an impressive pitch invasion and I managed to capture all of it!

The game finished 2-0 and it was time to head into the city. We tried to get the bus but they were full. We tried to hail a cab but the traffic was too intense so we opted to walk. Following the crowds and not entirely sure where we were heading we got a bit lost, we stopped to work out some kind of direction, not too easy when you’ve been drinking since the early afternoon. To lubricate the cogs in our brains we thought it would be a good idea to get a bottle of wine for the journey, brown paper baggin’ it. We continued to walk and somehow ended up in a residential area and as we walked we passed a house party with the front door wide open. I said to Ed “shall we go in?” As if I had to ask. We cautiously entered and we were immediately approached by a guy who suspiciously asked “can I help you?” Confidently I replied “Yeah, we’re here for the party. Charlotte invited us.” Unconvinced he said “there’s no one here called Charlotte”. Sometimes (not often) honesty is the best policy, we came clean “OK, you caught us. We were just passing and were wondering if we could stop here for a few drinks, we’ve brought wine” as we showed him the half bottle of wine that we’d already been swigging. To our amazement he said “Oh right, sure! Come on in, there are drinks in the kitchen. Help yourselves!” What?! We’ve crashed a party hosted by the nicest people in the world. There was Belvedere Vodka, champagne, beer, we’d hit the jackpot!

We noticed that it was Santa Clause themed fancy dress party so we made a small effort by putting some tinsel around our necks. We started to mingle. Everyone was really friendly, nice people, fun conversations; we were having a great time. A Scottish girl approached us she’d got wind that there were two gate crashing Brits at the party. After a few pleasantries she asked us very bluntly “So, are you two gay?” Excuse me?! We informed her that we are not gay but were curious as to why she’d ask such a question. To which she replied “Because, you’re at a gay party”. We looked around us at the people that we’d been talking to for the last hour and it was so obviously a gay party but neither of us had noticed. I turned to Ed and said “Ed mate, we’re at a gay party!” The Scottish girl could not stop laughing, the tears rolled down her cheeks as we stood embarrassed at how oblivious we’d been. We’d crashed a party full of gay Santas and didn’t realise. I did say everyone was very friendly towards us and now we knew why!

We stayed at the party, carried on drinking and had a really good night. We thought it would be a good idea to explore the rest of the house (I don’t know why). So we grabbed a bottle of Belvedere and went upstairs (honestly, we’re not gay). There wasn’t anything interesting but Ed decided that this was the prime time to go to the toilet, I waited for him. The guys hosting the party discovered me alone in one of the bedrooms and an interrogation began. They asked where my friend was, I said he’s having a shit. They weren’t happy and said it was time for us to leave; I knocked on the toilet door and told Ed to hurry up. So not only did we gate crash a party full of gay Santas, we were also kicked out of a party full of gay Santas. We never made it out in Sydney.

Central Coast Mariners FC vs. Sydney FC
Bluetongue Stadium
7^th December, 2013

The week before, during the game against Newcastle United Jets we got chatting to an eccentric Sydney fan who told us about the game the following week against Central Coast Mariners. Only an hour away on the train, there would be a good following from Sydney, so we decided to go. We had become fully dedicated Sydney fans and we were going to our first away game. Loyal.

Another loose plan was instigated, meet up for a few beers, get the train to Gosford (bogan country (bogans are Australian chavs)), have a few more beers, go to the game, head back to Sydney, and have a night on the tiles. The train only took an hour and cost less than a round of beers, which only infuriates you more to realise how much the Brits are getting ripped off for their own rail transport system.

Upon arrival we decided to try to keep the cost of the day down and opted for the finest, largest, cheapest bottle of wine available at the first bottle shop that we came across. So where to drink such a marvellous classic? Well, the park next to the ground, obviously. After nearly getting caught by the patrolling police officers, we finished the bottle made our way into the ground collecting a few beers in the concourse.

In our seats and amongst a large following of away fans, the stadium was very different to all those I’d attended in the past. It has only 3 stands, one of the ends is open which has a fantastic view of palm trees and Fagan’s Bay, I’m used to terrace houses and council flats. 

But anyway, the game kicked off, the chants were reverberating within the stand and the wine was having the desired effect. About 20 minutes in and the game was rather boring, no score, no drama, no quality. All of a sudden there was some commotion amongst the away support, it was getting rowdy. One fan stood up, took off his jacket to reveal a Central Coast Mariners shirt, he revelled in the boos and the hostility from the many travelling fans. In the heat of the moment the wine took over, I thought back to the week before and reached for a liquid missile. Despite being rather merry I still had the sense not to waste my own beer and reached for the beer that belonged to the guy sitting in front of me. I pulled it through the smallest of gaps and launched it down the stand in the direction of the rebellious home supporter; it covered him and everyone around him.  Bad idea. Everyone was livid; people were coming up to shouting in my face, asking why I’d do such a thing. I thought that was the norm. I was wrong. What I didn’t notice was that there were a patrol of policemen in the tier above us that were watching the away fans the way that Wayne Rooney would eye up a retirement home. Straight away the three policemen (yeah, three!) were down and kicking me out, a welcomed eviction considering the hassle I was getting from the hostile fans. In the concourse and I reluctantly asked if I could finish my beers before I left and surprisingly they said yes. Despite being a dickhead even the policemen don’t like to see wasted beer. I was out, and what’s worse was that Ed followed me. I’d ruined his day and he hadn’t done anything wrong.

I apologised repeatedly to Ed and suggested heading back to Sydney, Ed with little urgency said “the best thing we can do now is get another bottle of wine and think about what we’re going to do next”. That’s a fantastic idea; it wasn’t like alcohol had got us in that situation in the first place. So with the cheapest bottle of white we could get our drunk hands on we sat by the bay pondering our next move. 

Ed suggested trying to get back into the game stating to a steward that we were late arriving. This was not a good idea, the police had taken a copy of my I.D. and told me not to even try getting back in but having polished off the wine it seemed like a good idea. It was half time and we thought we’d try our luck. Acting sober we walked back to the ground, we approached a speccy steward, explained that we were late, flashed our tickets and we were in. We were back in the game! Keeping our heads down we thought we’d find a quiet spot in the family stand and just enjoy the rest of the game. 

That’s a lot more difficult that it sounds when you’re inebriated. Making a loud spectacle of ourselves we were rowdy, cursed, chanted, and did the opposite of keeping our heads down. I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to all the respectable people sat around us who had to tolerate our dickhead behaviour for 45 minutes.

I filmed a lot of our foolish behaviour.

Ed tried to get a chant started and failed hilariously.

In this final video I interview Ed for 15 minutes. If you know Ed or I at all you may find it remotely funny, otherwise we’re just two pillocks that got drunk at a football match.

The game finished and Central Coast Mariners won the game 1-0. We left the stadium and joined in a children’s match outside the ground, we were playing with 5-10 year olds. What kind of parents let their children play football with two drunk, possible paedophiles? It went on for so long I started touching and filming the children just to get a reaction. Bad parenting. We headed back to the station and decided it was about time to get a third bottle of wine and a couple of kebabs, always a good sign. Wine in hand and waiting for the kebabs we started talking to the locals and asked when the last train back to Sydney was, they laughed and said “in about 4 minutes mate!” We hassled the staff to hurry up with the kebabs (obviously we couldn’t just leave without them), and sprinted to the station. Down the stairs, onto the platform, and within touching distance the doors closed and the train departed. The next train – a 7 hour wait. What else to do other than finish the wine, eat the kebabs, go back into town and find a place to party bogan style. We did just that, the rest of the night was a bit of a blur, one of the few memories was being kicked out of a terrible club because Ed was dancing on a table.

The night before never seems worth it when you’re still awake at 7am, hungover, and waiting for a train. My experiences of following Sydney FC were certainly unique and interesting and I doubt they’ll ever be replicated. Since then Ed and I have agreed never go to the football together again. 

Fishing Is Boring, Unless You Catch an Actual Fish, and then it's Disgusting

Here’s the story of, possibly, the most random weekend of my life. It all started normally, Friday came around and it was pay day! This was the second time since leaving the UK that I was able to tick something off the bucket list, this time it was becoming a multi-millionaire. ₩2,100,000. I was debating whether to mention how much I got paid as I remembered the advice of The Notorious B.I.G. “Rule Nobre Uno: Never let no one know how much dough you hold, cause you know the cheddar breed jealousy ‘specially if that man fucked up, get yo’ ass stuck up”. But then I remembered the advice of Big Sean “I done paid taxes, paid dues, paid bills my whole life. So I’mma throw money in the air like I’m tryin’ to pay the sky”. So I’mma make it rain.

I met James and Josh at 11pm and decided to go for a few beers. The night started off slow and didn’t get into the rhythm of things until it was about 2:30am and we all realised ‘Shit! We’re all still sober!’ So we headed for a Ho Bar, got a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a fruit platter. We somehow became celebrities for the night in Ho Bar, so many Koreans approached us chatting away like we were important. I was feeling confident and fancied trying my luck with some of the local ladies. I saw a pairing and convinced Josh to be my wingman. We went over and it started really well, after about 10 minutes it was apparent that the girl I was talking to hated me. I don’t know what I said or did to upset her but she hated me. I had to leave; I made an excuse and went back to our table. Josh came over and asked how it was going, and I explained. He told me that he was getting on really well with his one and asked if I could go back with him as he hadn’t quite sealed the deal yet. Being the good friend that I am (and a little protesting) I went back with Josh to the girls and struck up another conversation with the girl that hated me. “Alright, remember me?  I’m the guy you loathe and can’t bear talking to. So, come here often?”

We awoke Saturday afternoon and didn’t feel too bad. Josh crawled out of bed and searched for a cigarette from the night before and he was in luck, he had one left. He lit it and casually sat on the arm of the sofa fag and coffee in hand. Me, probably still drunk from the night before, saw a pair of socks balled up on the floor. I thought it would be mildly funny to kick the socks at Josh while he sat blissfully. I kicked the socks so sweetly, they lifted off the ground and cleaned out the cigarette, leaving just the fag butt in Josh’s fingers. I have never kicked something so cleanly (not that surprising if you’ve seen me play football). It was like Becks-Fergie-boot-Gate all over again. Josh was furious. “What the fuck, bruv?!” I couldn’t stop laughing. We picked up the afternoon where we left off on Friday night, with beers and Soju.

The infamous socks with cigarette burn.

We had decided to have a ‘chilled one’ on Saturday due to our big plans on Sunday. Josh wanted to buy a ukulele, I wanted a curry, while James met Susie for dinner and a movie, and we all decided to meet for a few rounds of bowling that evening. We headed into Seoul but Josh and I didn’t fancy eating too early so we postponed the curry. We looked for an instrument shop but did not find one. So to make up for our lack of accomplishments we went to a bar. We carried on drinking and before we knew it, it was 11pm. We met James and Susie and found out that there would be an hour and a half wait for a bowling lane so we stayed in the bar. No ukulele, no curry, no bowling, just beer. We achieved nothing on Saturday, that’s the sort of thing alcoholics do. The only difference is that we didn’t drive home and crash into Snappy Snaps. We did however have an early night and retired from the bar at 3am. Early by recent weeks’ standards.

The big day had arrived, our major weekend plans were to go to the Hwacheon Sancheoneo Ice Fishing Festival. I didn’t know what to expect from such an event other than ice and fish. We left Seoul early on the two-and-a-half-hour coach journey north to Hwacheon (only 20 miles or so from North Korea. I know, we’re bloody nutters!). Around Hwacheon is where the rivers freeze first in Korea so it was rather chilly. We rodded up and found a few holes in the ice. It was quite funny for a while, we were even dancing on the ice to the terrible power ballads the event organisers had put on for us. Then the novelty wore off. Thousands of people on a river, in the cold, on the last day of the festival trying to catch the non-existing fish. Due to the lack of activity it became very boring very quickly. Inuits had been ice fishing for hundreds of years for survival; we had done it for 20 minutes and were already moaning about it. My only aim for the day was to catch one fish, a single, tiny, little fish. Then some activity, I saw fish in my hole, near my lure. The hook teases were circling my lure but not biting! I remained patient but still no luck. One buggar was just next to my hook, teasing me but looked uninterested. I was very animated on the ice. “Just bite the bloody hook! What’s wrong with you?!” I could never be a fisherman; you need to be calm and patient, not me. I lost my temper and just yanked my line. The hook wedged in the side of the fish and I pulled it out! I caught a fish! Then I thought “Argh! I caught a fish, what do I do?!” it was like the scene in The Inbetweeners. I was panicking holding the fish at arm’s length not knowing what to do. James, my saviour, came over and unhooked it and eventually, after dropping it, popped it in a bag. I caught a fish! I explained my method to Josh and he pointed that I hadn’t really caught a fish, rather I had hunted a fish. Either way, I was happy. James caught a fish not long after, this time through more traditional methods of waiting for it to hook onto the lure and pulling it out.

We headed off the ice for some food and alcoholic beverages (it had been about 8 hours since our last drink). I had my first taste of Makgeolli. A milk-like alcoholic drink, not bad. We wandered around the festival and came across the stupidest idea on the planet. There was an opportunity to catch fish with your bare hands. People would wade into ice-cold water, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and submerge themselves trying to catch a fish. A ridiculous idea. Unsurprisingly, James was up for it and tried his best to convince Josh, Susie, and I to do the same! We all protested saying how stupid it was. We wandered over to enquire about James doing it and the organiser said because we are foreigners we could all do it for free. Thanks mate! Not only is that pretty racist but the ₩12,000 (£7) fee being waived was hardly a tipping point, it was hardly the bargain of the century! James’ nagging continued and he wore us all down and we caved. “OK, James. I’ll risk pneumonia if you stop annoying me”. We all thought it would be a good idea to sink a few Soju’s for courage and to form some sort of beer blanket, it helped… a little. We went into the changing rooms and took off the many layers of clothes that we had on to opt for shorts and t-shirts in sub-zero temperatures. We stepped outside and it was mental, ludicrous. We sat of the side of the ice pond and the organisers selected a few people to take the first plunge in front of the hundreds of spectators, and surprise, surprise muggins was chosen. He tried to drag me in but I insisted “one toe at a time!” I got in, knee-deep in water that a polar bear would say was nippy. All I could hear was an eruption of laughter from my “friends” behind me. The “volunteers” waded into the centre of the pond and the games started, the chap with the microphone announced that on the count of 3 that we should all start splashing each other. I was not amused. I walked away from the splashing nonsense. The organiser next announced that we would all join hands and fall backwards into the glacial drink, again an outrageous suggestion. He counted down and all of the naïve Koreans fell for it.

Time for the main event, everyone jumped in trying to catch the fish. Some cheeky bastard got one immediately and threw it down the back of my shirt, I squealed in horror! James was rather nifty with his hands and got one with ease. Josh, Susie, and I weren’t so good. I ran around the pond trying to avoid them. A Korean caught one for me and passed it to me, I held onto as my evidence for “trying”. It was 5 minutes of lunacy. Josh put a fish down his shirt and my trophy fish went down my front. Some people may say it’s cruel, and I agree, watching a foreigner with live fish down his shirt scream like a little girl is very cruel. The time was up and thankfully we were able to leave. James and I posed for the paparazzi, we even made the local news. The second time of the weekend I felt like a celebrity.

We dried ourselves off and changed into some sensible clothing. We carried on our wander and went to cook our catches. They had an enormous furnace that baked the fresh fish. 15 minutes later we were eating the fish we had caught, it felt very manly. Pretty much the first time I’ve ever felt manly. The trout was delicious, the meat fell straight off the bone. We tucked in to possibly 10 fish, and you know what goes really well with fresh fish? More Soju.

The journey back was long but rather enjoyable, a belly full of fish and feeling slightly buzzed. The end to a great weekend. I’m now suffering from a lack of sleep but at least I’ve got a few stories to tell. 

A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins with a Single Step

My travels began with an ironic start, for my “last supper” my mum had made a chicken curry which I politely declined on the basis that I had a long journey ahead and could do with the hassle of an upset stomach. So I played it safe, or so I thought, and had a chicken & mushroom pie and potatoes. Between that meal and departing the UK someone must’ve spiked my consumption with a laxative as I made many movements between Gatwick and Bangkok, it almost became a trademarked calling card.

A short stop in Amsterdam was met with many stereotypes. You can’t move for tulips, wheels of cheese, clogs, and erotica. One thing that surprised me about the Dutch people is their inability to queue which, as a Brit, annoyed me. As this began to irritate me I remembered the great things that the Dutch have exported to us Brits over the years; Dennis Bergkamp, Marc Overmars, Heineken, and in return we have given them Steve McClaren, so I endured the chaos that ensued as I boarded my flight to Bangkok.

The flight was uneventful, a few hours of Football Manager made the flight rather enjoyable and despite my pleas to do a circle of the airport so that I could finish Blackburn’s summer transfer-window I had arrived in Bangkok.

My first introduction to the Thai culture was the lack of Health and Safety. I left the terminal and got a taxi to my hotel. As we set off I reached for my seatbelt only for the driver to say “no, no, no”, I was rather confused at this which I therefore ignored, and then attempted to put on my seatbelt again for the same thing to happen. “No, no, no”, I finally understood what he was trying to say, there were in fact no seatbelt plugs, deeming the seatbelt useless. As we joined the highway my desire for a seatbelt grew as the journey pursued, as tuk-tuks, motorcycles, and other road users ignored every law of the Highway Code, I feared for my life. My attention was diverted from the road dangers, for it to focus on the vessel of disease that was the taxi driver. He was truly the most disgusting man I have ever met, belching and flatulence started the proceedings, followed by phlegm splutters. Luckily we were able to test the car’s brakes as an emergency stop was required when the driver focused his attention on exploring the cavities of his nasal passage rather than the road. The brakes worked just fine. It appeared that he had more diseases than Lindsey Lohan’s tampon. I gladly arrived at my hotel.

My initial thoughts of Bangkok are that it is homage to Manchester United, it was a good thing I was only there for two days. Very hot, humid, busy, and I was often left thinking ‘what have I stepped in?’ when I realised they are the typical smells that you become accustom to in the city.

I started with a visit to the floating market, a mediocre experience. I was expecting the hustle and bustle of a market place with the smells of different spices, foods, instead I found myself to be the only punter in the entire market, hardly the bustle I was expecting. The objects for sale ranged from fridge magnets, shot glasses, miniature models of tuk-tuks and other tat. The most common items for sale were knob related tat; knob bottle openers, knob key chains, and apparently the best seller was a knob ashtray. There are more statues of knobs in Bangkok than there are outside Old Trafford. The best and only purchase at the market was a beer.

On the way back I from the floating market I rode an elephant which was nice but I couldn't enjoy it fully as the Thai elephant tamer poked it with a sharp stick every time he wanted it to change direction. Then the chap revealed a box containing real ivory which ruined the entire experience for me. It was nice to see the elephant up close but it was a shame about the circumstances.

I made a second stop en route back to the hotel from the floating market, this time it was to visit the train market, an open market which literally trades on the railway line. The trains are infrequent and they normally pass through the market twice a day. My travels had coincided with seeing the train pass through the market, the stalls are withdrawn from the track for a few minutes and normal business will resume once the train has departed. Interesting to see but the smells were horrendous, fish, poultry, and crustaceans that have been out in the heat all day with no means of preservation, only for the train to cover the meats with exhaust fumes and soot, and the Thai traders carry on as normal. I didn't buy anything. But whilst I was there I was interviewed for British television for a show called The World’s Most Extreme, slightly ironic that they interviewed the world’s most mediocre man. It was a nervous interview, from which I offered very little insight, which will definitely not make the final cut of the show.

The evening’s entertainment was Thai boxing, and some sight-seeing took place the following afternoon. I was told that Khaosan Road was the best destination for a night of drinking in bars, so I hailed a tuk-tuk to take me there that evening. Before I left England my father, a previous visitor to Thailand, gave me some advice which was to haggle with everyone from market traders to taxi drivers, always negotiate the price to avoid the locals taking advantage of you. When I asked the tuk-tuk driver to take me to Khaosan Road he declared it would cost 200 baht (£3.80) for the 4-mile journey, I began to try barter with him and said I would not pay any more than 100 baht (£1.90), I was arguing over £1.90, I’m not sure why I was so tight. The driver wouldn’t do it for 100 baht but offered an alternative. In broken English he said “5 minute diversion, 100 baht”, I struggled to understand and what I thought he was saying was saying that due to the traffic he would drop me 5 minutes from Khaosan Road and I could walk the rest, so I agreed and got in the tuk-tuk.

The journey began to confuse me, I’m no expert on the Bangkok roads but we spent a lot of the journey off the main highways and were going down many back-streets. About 10 minutes later he pulled over down a side road which did not seem safe, in an area which you would hardly call “touristy”. He told me to get out of the tuk-tuk and kept on saying “5 minutes, 5 minutes”. Considering the situation I was in I remained in the tuk-tuk, questioning why I was arguing over £1.90. The driver began to get a little irate, and then he tried to re-explain the situation, in further broken English he explained that tuk-tuk drivers get some sort of commission from local businesses if they bring in customers, these businesses often range from tailors, shows, and other places of entertainment that Thailand has become famous for. The local business that he wanted me to go into was a tailor, luckily. He carried on by saying “go in, look around, no buy, we go Khaosan Road”. I was considering just paying the extra 100 baht so that I didn’t have to pretend I was interested in buying a suit, but I’m not made of money so I went in.

I was welcomed in the tailors; I went into a private room where they began to measure my dimensions for a custom fitting suit. I had to pretend that I was interested in buying a suit for long enough for the driver to get his commission but also had to think of a reason not to buy one, as I didn’t actually want a suit. All-in-all I was reasonably confident as I was acting with a lot of self-importance, feeling the materials and asking about the thread-count and textile content, like I actually knew what I was talking about or indeed cared.

The first hurdle that I threw at the tailor to not buy a suit was the colour, I thought that if I asked for a ridiculously coloured suit, he would not have the material and therefore could not match my demands and would give me that elusive excuse to leave. I announced to the tailor that I must have a pink suit, only a pink suit will do for me! To which he replied “that will not be a problem, sir”. Shit. Out came this bright, luminous, pink material which he started to drape over me. I said “this is fantastic, exactly what I wanted!” The hole I was digging was getting deeper.

I then had another brainwave, the price. If we cannot agree on a price then I have an excuse not to buy such a ridiculous suit. I announced again with even more confidence “before we go any further, I think we need to work out a price, how much will this suit cost?” He informed me that he could make this undesirable suit for 15,000 baht (£287). Here was my chance to get out, I was going to negotiate a price that he couldn’t do, and then leave. I had to make sure the negotiations didn’t start too low otherwise he’d know that I was just there to “scam” him for the benefit of the driver. So I said “ooh, that’s a little out of my price range, I’d be able to stretch as far as 10,000 baht but that’s my limit”. By taking a third off the original asking price, I was sure he’d say no, unfortunately for me he said “that will not be a problem, sir”. Shit. He asked me to stand so that he could continue to measure me, so I did. Now I’m all out of excuses and will be paying 10,000 baht (£190) for a pink suit that I didn’t want when I could have avoided all of this for the measly fee of £1-bloody-90!

Now I’m panicking a little and my confidence has run a mile. I struggle for the next excuse, but I draw a blank, so I tried to re-negotiate the price again. I said “you can’t possibly make this suit for 10,000 baht”. He replied “I can”. I tried to act all moral, “I feel like I’m taking advantage of you and your good nature”, to which he said “but it was your price, if you feel like you’re taking advantage of me then pay me more money”. Shit. I told him I had a confession to make that in fact, I could not afford to pay the 10,000 baht that I had negotiated, and in fact could only offer 7,000 baht. He looked shocked, and in this moment I decided to just walk out rather than try to talk myself out of the situation. I’m not sure what he must have thought of me as I walked out the door, a confident man who asked for a pink suit, negotiated a price, was overwhelmed by morality, said he was taking advantage of the tailor’s good nature but then offered him less money than originally agreed and then left. The driver was waiting for me outside, I asked the driver “did you get your commission?” he said that he did so I told him “well, let’s get the f*** out of here!”

I laughed about the situation on the journey to Khaosan Road, and it turned out to be a good night. The following day I met up with some uni friends who happened to arrive in Bangkok at the same time. We went for lunch then I left for the airport. An interesting few days, I’m sure I’ll go back to see other parts of Thailand, Chiang Mai and Phuket are meant to be worth a visit.

Here's a montage of my short time in Bangkok.