Out of the Wilderness
Good afternoon, fine people of earth. As you might’ve noticed (or not as the case may be) I’ve been away from your perfectly flat screens for over a fortnight. And without wishing to disappoint anyone too much, it appears I have made it back to the small isles in one piece. What to say about Thailand? Well I’ve heard one can totally find themselves out there. Because it’s so, like, spiritual and stuff. Or, if you’re into such endeavours- and believe me I’m usually the most pacified of sorts- firing a Dirty Harry Magnum is as easily organised as renting a book from the library. As is hiring a quadbike for the day. No need for a driving licence or passport; nor even proof of any basic motoring skills or a palpable degree of sobriety. Just a few hundred baht and the keys are yours until the sun goes down. Or up, if you’re feeling particularly frolicsome. Just for the love of god remember where you parked the damn thing. Oh and it’s hot. South East Asia is very hot.
One thing you can almost guarantee when you encounter likeminded folk on your travels; conversation will nearly always gravitate toward football. If you give it just the slightest of encouragement. Two days in and I met an Argentinean chap- in his autumn years, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind me telling you- on a trawler heading from Phuket to Koh Phi Phi. After the initial patter about nationality, plans for the trip, wine, food, London, Buenos Aires and the ravishing ladies which dwell within her (or so I’m told): talk inevitably wandered toward that of professional kickball. For a good hour we spoke- me about my worry that Man City were going to ruin everything; him about the sadness of watching his local side, River Plate, get relegated for the first time in well over century. He was close to tears but quick to dismiss the idea of the powers-that-be reconfiguring the league, by regions, so River could be spared the embarrassment of playing second-tier football. We go down, we go up, he said.
Looking back, I wondered if he might’ve been referring to our chances on the rather threadbare looking vessel we’d both inhabited.
I managed to watch the North London derby in Phuket; in some gritty looking open-top bar in the centre of town. After Arsenal’s equaliser, a somewhat excitable native celebrated by hurling his drink over his shoulder- à la Begbie from Trainspotting- and running like a lunatic through the throngs of locals and not-so-locals. I could only presume monsieur Wenger, thousands of miles away in London, would be quite impressed by the boy’s proclivity for receptacle flinging. Here, try eet with zee bottle. Strangely, though, as rain hosed in from the heavens and dear Kyle Walker went about smacking in the glorious winner, he disappeared into the night without so much as a thank you or goodbye. Which was a bit rude if you ask me.
What followed, so I’m told, in the days between the NLD and our jolly up to Tyneside, was that England played a football match and Wayne Rooney did a bad thing. People were angry at Rooney because of the bad thing but happy because England didn’t do enough bad things overall not to qualify. Now everyone is unhappy again because Rooney’s bad thing means that he’ll miss the opening games of the Euros and England will no doubt do lots of bad things and go out in the quarter finals. At least that’s the way I heard it.
Right, I’ve gone on long enough. I tend to have a panic attack if I do more than six paragraphs. By all means fill in the numerous gaps and tell me what you’ve made of the latest goings-on. Things will be back to normal here just as soon as the jetlag eases off and I find a good service provider. Chocks away!
**The winner of the John Crace book ‘Vertigo: One Football Fan’s Fear of Success’ was a mister Alastair Law. Well done to you, sir**
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