My friend remembers & I write!
Well, I’m dipping into Rosta’s treasure trove once again and posting some more of those tidbits he expressly wants me to mention even going so far as to ask for another novel to be engineered around the memorable incidents he described to me only three days ago.
Gan was his first true love, and when she entered his condo she opened the fridge door and reached for two large bottles of Leo. She finished them and curled up with Rosta on his large double where they went at it and did more than footsy-tootsy. And that was just a beginner. Gan, married to an Aussie, took Rosta for a photo-session in Bangkok where, dressed in white, she posed for the wedding that was to be. The most memorable moment for Rosta can be summarised in his own words, as follows: “I took her by the fucking hair. I slapped her round the fucking face. I fucking twisted the knife from her fucking hand. I threw her on the fucking bed. I threatened to fucking punch her, and I said, ‘Fuck you!’” Gan had attacked him, knife in hand, as drunk as a lord, and Rosta had defended himself admirably.
After it was all over, we tried to see Gan’s Australian detached in a swish suburb of Sydney. We got the house on Google maps and the live presentation with little homo sapiens walking around but we never saw Gan.
Rosta turned up in Jomtien soon after, sporting his new lady Well. She had turned her back on him for the whole journey in the baht bas. We walked along Jomtien Beach Road and Well told us that the rubbish bins were where the farangs should live. We got back to Baan Suan Lalana in Soi Chaiapruek and Rosta found a dropped mobile phone. Well wanted it but Rosta gave her its SIM card. Nothing else. “No fucking way, Well. It’s for one of my daughters back in the UK.” (In his room back in Nirun he turned the phone on and found a couple of blue photos on it and a movie of a Thai couple going at it.)
Rosta knew an ex-GI who made a first appearance in Pattaya in the early seventies. Did he fly into U-Tapao? His name was Ken and he hit Pattaya before it was out of its swaddling clothes. The girls were green and happy with Ken and when they made love to him, they did so spontaneously and wanted to keep him. Only last year the old American was grumbling saying they make love these days with mobile phones in their hands, get out fast, texting all the way. Smitty’s Bar, Wanda, the grumpy mamasan who had to ban old Ken on occasions, Vietnam veterans, nobody interested in talking about who won the war…
It is interesting to meet the old guys. They are always going to tell you about an unrecognisable Pattaya.
Big, big John Hyndai who pulled a foreigner over a table for talking bad to a bar girl who had lost some keys. The downed foreigner was the owner, the girl a worker. Hyndai was an angry client. Always these guys who are doormats for the girls but just love to take on the bullies whether the bullies really are or not. Are you happy when people lose your keys? Same big guy Hyndai, ex-British Army, licking pussy in an open-air bar while everyone claps and the girls get the white napkins with cold perfume ready for the wipe-down. That was video’d and gets shown when the wife’s down the grocery shop in Wales. Those white napkins that so seldom appear now but are an antique helping to establish who is a novice and who an old-timer. (Thanks, Rosta, for pointing it out!) Same big Welsh guy who sported a T-shirt which said in Thai, “Go easy on me. I’m a virgin!” That used to get them all going. Even the Thai males with their motorbike-taxis found that one irresistible when the big ex-Brit Army Britisher walked Pattaya streets. Bulky, generally good-humoured they thought he was a Buddha – big stomach, big breasts, shaven head. John Hyndai. Probably ruined now, looking out over grey sea in dreary Cardiff. Got done, didn’t he, for fiddling social security, well, not really fiddling, just living in Thailand and claiming in Britain.
Then, Lenny the King again, the man who is never wrong…couldn’t walk the sois towards the end of his stay because he had too many ladies hating him. He must have let down half the bar girls in his areas of Pattaya. He suddenly left Pattaya and shacked up with a semi-professional he’d met via Thai love-links. Now swears Pattaya is over. Bangkok is where it all happens. One of the biggest braggers I know. Drinking he is smart-mouthing and “they” lace his drink with sedatives. He gets befriended by an unknown girl who gets him back to his room. He collapses and sleeps for 20/30 hours. She doesn’t rob him, stays till Rosta goes over to see why the king isn’t up. Went well for him. Some time ago an Indian with a weak heart sucked sedatives off a ladyboy’s breasts and went under. His heart couldn’t recover.
Last but not least, next to Champagne A Go Go in L. K. Metro there’s a bar with draught beer and cayote dancers. One time I bought a drink for one of them (nice dimples at the base of her slender spine). She forgot. Next time, she was up above dancing. A guy tips her and I pretend to do the same, moving her bikini string a bit. She takes exception but more a very large, not attractive Thai cashier starts shouting at me in English. I tell her in Thai I don’t understand English. I tell her I was doing nothing wrong. I tell some others the bar doesn’t want clients. A week later, I am still very annoyed at the treatment. (Yes, guys, I know I was not taking the cayote dancer’s profession seriously.) I enquire who the bosses are. They own Champagne and the other. They are away from Pattaya. It’s enough, and I won’t be going in there for a good while to come.
Ah, Pattaya, Pattaya, how difficult you are. How difficult we are. How difficult I’ve become!