Two guys come running into a bar…

So we’re having a few late night, early morning drinks in Bangkok and these two guys come running into the bar and sit down next to us, start talking excitedly.

“Faaaarkin’ell mate, that was a close one”, says the white guy, obviously from London.

“Yeah, man, you’re lucky I was with you bro,” says his American-sounding Asian-looking friend…

The Londoner has blood coming from the top of his head. So I say to him, “Mate, you’ve got blood coming out of your head – you want a tissue?”

“Yeah mate, thanks”, he replies. Just been in a scrape in that club down there.”

“Yeah mate”, I say, “you wanna be careful in there, seen a lot of shit kick off in there.”

“Yeah mate”, he says, “We was just dancin’, like, and I was talking to this bird, white bird, on the dancefloor, not even doin’ anyfin’, and this bloke, her fella, comes up an’ has a go at me. Gets right in my face, this far away from me, no shit”, he says, standing up and leaning across the table so that his face is an inch from mine, blood still coming down his forehead. I nod.

“Anyway”, he continues, sitting down, “he faaaarkin’ starts mouvin’ off an’ pushes me. He was a big bloke, like, bigger’n me. So I go up to him an’ say, look mate, I didn’t know it was your bird alright, calm the fuck down, I don’t want no trouble”, he acts this out as he’s saying it, hands held back by his shoulders.

“So what happened”, I ask, “did he hit you? Bottle you?”

“Na mate, I faaarkin’ nutted ‘im, didn’t I. Claret everwhere. His faaarkin’ toof was stuck in me ‘ead.”

“Oh right”, I say. “You got it out?”

“Yeah yeah”, he says, “and the fella went dooooown man, like a sack of shit. BOOOOM! But the next thing I know I’m being dragged out by the bouncers and they’re about to kick the shit out of me. If it wasn’t for Key”, he says, pointing to his friend sitting opposite, “they’d ‘ave faarked me up, man.”

“Oh right”, I say, “how’s it going, Key?”

“Yeah cool man”, he replies in an American accent. “They would have fucking killed him if I wasn’t there, dude, I just told them in Thai that it was the other guy’s fault and they let us go.”

“Nice”, I say, “so you’re Thai? I thought you were American…”

He laughs. “No, man! I’ve just been working with an American guy, in the army. He taught me English.”

“Shit man, good English!”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, he’s faarkin’ nails too. Show him your shit, Key.”

Key proceeds to kick a plastic glass from my hand held as high as I can hold it above my head, probably about seven feet in the air or so, from a standing kick. Turns out Key’s a pretty handy martial artist and an instructor for the Thai Army. He’s also extremely proud that he doesn’t drink, smoke, do drugs or eat meat. Just has slightly wild friends, I think to myself.

Key, stretching his fingers back over his hand, something that most Thai children learn to do, though not always to this extent!

Key, stretching his fingers back over his hand, something that most Thai children learn to do, though not always to this extent!

We carry on chatting. The Londoner’s called Joe, a Millwall supporter and recently out of prison in England where he did eighteen months for GBH. He’s only 21 and has no plans to return to England in the foreseeable future. I can tell he’s only been in the country a few days at most. He’s wild, fresh, taking it all in.

“Who’d have thought it, Joe”, I say, “a Millwall fan, just out of prison, on holiday in Thailand, gets in a fight in a club…” I smile, hoping he gets the irony. Fortunately he does, and smiles back.

“Yeah, but I never faarkin’ started a fight in my life, man”, he confesses, “Honestly, I never. I never ‘ave.”

“Some people don’t have to, Joe”, I say, “just finds them. You be careful out here. They’ll throw away the key if you start any trouble with the locals.”

“Yeah, man, one fing I would NEVER do, is get in a fight with a Thai, man. Ask him”, he says, pointing to Key, who nods.

“I’m not that stupid: he’s told me”, Joe continues. “Look, even if one of them started on me, I’d walk away, man, I’d just walk away. It’s not even worth it.”

“Good man”, I say. “And don’t do any drugs out here, either. Even smoking weed they can lock you up for, just depends what the police are like at the time.”

“Yeah man, I’m not faarkin’ stupid, am I… Don’t do any of that shit anyway, do I?”

“You’re alright Joe”, I say. “I’d stick close to your mate though, if I was you.”

I order another round and say, “Hey Joe, mind if I take a picture?”

“Nah mate, whatever”, he says, “I don’t give a shit.”

Joe holding a tissue to his bloody head

Joe, holding a bloody tissue to his bloody ‘ead!