Holy Whine - it may be true...

[Guest]

The Angel of Bangkok

 

 

Go on, admit it. You think that this is going to be another one of those stories about a bargirl with a heart of gold (tart with a heart); a girl that despite of - or perhaps because of - her occupation turns miraculously into a Madonna (of the fallen variety as opposed to the conically-breasted Ciccione). Well, I've got plenty of those kind of tales ( ain't we all?) but this one isn't one of them.

 

I am The Angel.

 

You still think you know what's coming as well don't you? You're wrong mate. So wrong

 

It was shortly after Christmas 2003 and I was sitting outside Gulliver's on Soi 5 enjoying a few small drinks and a lot of tall tales with several farang friends. We must have looked an odd bunch. For a start, there wasn't a single female in our company. The pleasures of the flesh had been rostered for later in the evening as one of us had managed to get us an invite to a private dance contest in Soi Cowboy.

 

I never did get there.

 

So, join us on an outside table as we huddle around; a multi-national conglomerate of whoremongers and n'er-do-wells. Our conversation is maybe a little intense for a Friday night at Gullivers. A little too deep. A little too intense. A strange, focussed, table-slapping, chair-rocking, finger-pointing serious discussion. You're welcome to sit and join us if you wish - even if you are on your way to somewhere else.We are all on our way to somewhere else right?

 

For some reason - actually I know the reason because I had started it - the converation has turned to religion.

 

Bear with me, I am an Angel. It wasn't my fault. I didn't apply for the job or anything. I just got kind of?co-opted I suppose. Shit happens.

 

I may be an Angel, but I'm no intellectual. Two of the people I am drinking with are. One has studied religions for most of his life but finds himself no nearer the truth (whatever that is) than when he embarked on his quest. To call him a secularist is fair comment, but to accuse him of atheism would be a slight upon his character. Another man is a Christian - note the capitalization please. He is a practising Christian, one might even venture to call him a fundamentalist, he does.

 

Don't be bored. It gets better. Trust me - I'm an Angel.

 

Oh, you're wondering about the Christian guy right? So was I. I asked him later what he was doing in Bangkok in the first place. He said, "Who knows?". That ain't an answer but it tells me something.

 

This is Bangkok right? Everybody is represented here; CIA, DEA, MI6, Mossad, The Scout Association and the Flat Earth Society. I've met stranger than a fundamentalist Christian in a red-light district. Go figure.

 

I'm drifting off after my 6th bottle of freezing cold Heineken. Sometimes - often - I'm distracted by the people walking past Gulliver's. There's a tattooist across from us and a little pharmacy with a sliding door that seems to be doing a roaring trade with farangs who squeeze themselves into it and order something that requires a pill cutter and a small plastic bag. The air is warm and the music drifts through the doors of the pub as waiters and waitresses ferry food and drink to the outside tables. I'm happy - whatever that means - and content to just listen to two heavyweights arguing about whether Jesus Christ died for our sins or was in fact a Buddha figure whose direction was not to follow him but to follow oneself. You know the kind of shit. The Qu'ran gets a look in at some point, as do the works of Brigham Young, John Knox, Baba O' Reilly and Sir Alex Fergueson.

 

Yeah, I know, I know. We're in Bangkok right? There's shagging to be done. Well, dear reader, as they say - the girls ain't going anywhere soon, so relax and think about something different. And I did.

 

I don't do the God thing much myself although as I get older I am curious about the 'why's' of life. Aren't you? It's a bit of an immature obsession of mine to be sure - but an awareness of my own mortality always means that I enjoy sex that little bit more. Don't the French call orgasm 'la petit mort'? Well, sure, it's a little death alright. And a little death can do you a lot of good. Check out that Dalai Lama dude. He's done it a few times apparantly and he's always laughing isn't he?

 

You're still waiting for me to perform a miracle are you? Well, just because I'm an Angel doesn't mean that I perform to order you impatient fucker, and anyway, I don't do miracles alright? Slow down. Have another Heineken. Look at the jammy bastards coming out of the Amari and heading over to Foodland. Relax. You're going to get a woman - a beautiful woman - a little later. Tune into some other stuff for Something's sake.

 

Well, the party breaks up eventually and I want to go to Cowboy. It'll be fucking brilliant mate! Seriously! A private room; go-go dancers giving it their all; high-living, big spending, nihilistic and hedonistic members of a Thailand internet message board as the hosts. And I - me, little old me, on holiday in Thailand with fuck all clue about anything - I have been invited.

 

"Check Bin Krap" I am going to have a night to remember. Even angels need to get it on every now and then. You ever wondered where your guardian angel is when you need him? Well, without casting too many aspertions on my colleagues you could do worse than check out Edens on Soi 7/1. Why do you think it's so dark in there? It's where Ol' Beelzebub ended up after the Boss kicked him out of Heaven. You thought he went to Hell and looked after the shop there didn't you? Nah, bollocks to that - he moved to Bangkok. Said there was more scope for fucking with people's souls there. It was either being the Prince of Darkness or an English teacher so he went for the easy option and became the Prince of Darkness. But I digress.

 

I didn't get to the dance contest. Told you that before.

 

I think I have to explain that at this point in the story I didn't know I was an Angel. I didn't have a fucking clue. Sure, the guys at Gulliver's had given me pause for thought on a few issues but with a gut full of lager the last thing on my mind was the ineffibility of humankind.

 

But.

 

That was a big 'But' by the way. It's a technique I picked up. Roll with it, dude.

 

But, as I walked into Soi 5 from the sweep of steps that lead from the main doors of Gulliver's I was struck with a thought. No, not just a thought. A compulsion.

 

I have to go to the Biergarten.

 

Just like that, as Tommy Cooper used to say, I needed to get to the Biergarten. Now. Not that Tommy Cooper ever went to the Biergarten. (Maybe he did. Maybe that's what brought on the cardiac arrest. Who knows apart from the Boss Man - and don't go asking him, he's busy with Iraq at the moment and everyone's forgotten about him - again. That so pisses him off big style I can tell you.)

 

There's an alleyway between Soi 5 and 7. I guess you know it. I limboed my way through the people there. Thai girls at karaoke, their strange keening and melanchololy expressions pulled at me like siren calls from dangerous rocks. The air, steamy and laden with the smell of life itself. I pushed my way through this strange, alien, asian demi-monde - propelled - driven - towards the Beirgarten on Soi 7.

 

(Actually I did stop for a bit of chicken on a stick but that kinda ruins the narrative).

 

I walked into the Biergarten. No, that's not right is it? Nobody walks into the Biergarten. I've been there enough times to know that most men swagger into the Biergarten. Even the 70 year old sex-pat with a beer gut like a Lakeland Fell tends to manage a Liam Gallagher-my -cock first-me-arse-is-following, shoulder rolling, full-on swagger. Pathetic. But funny. I do it quite well as it goes.

 

I swaggered all the way to the toilets at the back of Biergarten. I was dying for a piss and afterwards I swaggered back past the gauntlet of blank stares and hopeful glances.

 

The place wasn't that packed. It rarely is when I go there. There's a tiredness about the place and a sense of failure hung over the crowd. The stench of dreams dashed can't ever be dispersed by the fine water spray from the massive free-standing fans that constantly search from left to right and from right to left - the mute policemen of the Biergarten crowd.

 

Why am I here? This place is fucking shite.

 

There was a seat at the bar. One seat.

 

This is fucking double-shite. Where are all the fucking decent birds?

 

I had stopped in mid-swagger, a painful pose and not very dignified. Should I take the seat? I would like to but there is a guy sitting next to it - maybe his tilac has gone for a slash?

 

The guy looks - and this is fucking weird - but he looks like Jesus would look like if he had been on the piss all night and had a bad day at work. A pissed off, pissed up Messiah. (Remember that at this point I wasn't an expert in this field. Jesus does get pissed up, quite often as it happens but then he starts arguing and can get quite punchy. You know he's too far gone when he starts showing his scars: "?and this one right? Right? I said to this centurion cunt, I says to him 'that don't hurt you soft Roman bastard. Do the other hand'. I think you get the picture).

 

So, this guy looks at me and says, "Hey, sit down buddy. Ain't nobody sitting there and if you sit down that means that no fucking whore is going to sit there".

 

Er?call me old-fashioned but I thought that the whole point was that some 'fucking whore' would sit next to you. Boy, this bloke is angry. And American. But, shit, is he angry. He is as angry as a big bag full of angry things from the planet Angry.

 

Anger.

 

Personified.

 

You wouldn't have sat down would you? No, come off it - you wouldn't. Get real. If you were pissed up from a session in Gullivers with the Bishops of Diocese Soi 5 and with a hot ticket to a Nanapong dance contest you would have said, 'Nah, you're alright mate. I'm just looking for someone', and then fucked off pretty sharpish. Wouldn't you? 'Course you would, don't be a cunt.

 

So I sat down.

 

I drank my first beer. Drank it? It was whistling down. You see, by that point I was coming around to your point of view wasn't I? I wanted out, and quick. It just didn't feel right. But I had to stay. It occurred to me that some things are pre-ordained and that I had to sit there and hey, you can't argue with fate. So, with that in mind, and God help me, with that thought in mind I turned to Mr Angry and said:

 

"Do you believe in fate?"

 

If a complete stranger had said that to you - imagine you are Mr Angry - then what would your reaction have been? Who is this fruit? Tell me to fuck off? Get up and punch me? Yeah?me too. But Mr Angry looks at me with these piercing blue eyes and he says:

 

"Ain't no such fucking thing"

 

You're a sensible reader aren't you? You would have thought that at this stage in the game I was ahead of it by a few yards and should have cut my losses and run, mixing my metaphors as I did so. But no - not me. Not lager fuelled me. Not I, a man who was on his way to a Nanapong dance contest. That would have been too easy, too rational, too fucking sensible. So I gently argued the point, armed as I was with the received wisdom of my, now absent, friends from Gulliver's and about 10 bottles of Heineken.

 

The Eagles told me about a dark desert highway and the cool wind of a free-standing fan played in my hair as the stranger said, "So, if you believe in fate, what's to say that I ain't got a 45 in my pocket and I'm gonna blow your head off?"

 

Well, of course, that was my point. That would be my fate. I couldn't do much about it and if that was to be my destiny, to reach the end of my journey on a crap night in Biergarten, murdered by a nutter who looked like an inebriated Nazarene then so be it. Actually, I said - somewhat nervously obviously:

 

"Err - you aren't going to do that are you?" I gulped.

 

"No, I ain't", he said, "but you don't know one way or the other do you? So what the fuck has fate got to do with it?"

 

I have to admit that I couldn't follow his line of logic. Maybe I lost a bit of the subtlety. I was trying to work it all out when he suddenly exploded:

 

"FUCKING D-TAC!" Bar staff flurried like Trafalgar Square pigeons and heads turned from all around the Biergarten.

 

"Sorry?", I said. By this point seriously worried but trying hard not to look as though I was.

 

"D-TAC. D-TAC. The motherfuckers. I've told 'em and I've told 'em and I've told 'em. I don't want your fucking contract. I don't need your fucking contract. I've CANCELLED MY FUCKING CONTRACT".

 

"Ri-gh-t", said I, ( a man with a dance contest to go to don't forget ) "Is there a problem with D-TAC?" Even I know that D-TAC is a Thai mobile phone company. Personally I use 1-2-Call. If that don't work then try praying. In fact try praying first, it's way more efficient than 1-2-Call.

 

"A problem with D-TAC? A problem? You are asking me if there is a problem with fucking D-TAC?", he said, his face inches from my own, specks of saliva peppering my face. I daren't rub it away though. I was frozen. I stammered out the only thing I could think of:

 

"Well, you mentioned it first".

 

I thought he was going to kill me. I really did. I glanced down, convinced that Messrs Smith and Wesson were about to take the stage. Time froze. The Eagles told me that I could check in any time I liked but?and I guess you know the next line huh?

 

He straightened on his stool, his jaw clenched, his jugular pulsed in his thin neck and then, like a childs balloon he just?deflated. He looked at me again and, quietly this time, he said:

 

"I've been having some shit with D-TAC".

 

Now, call me stupid - and many have - but I'd worked this out. I decided to tread very carefully and very calmly. The last time I did this was with a man who was threatening to throw himself off a bridge. He jumped I'm afraid to say. Look, we all ended up in Thailand somehow. Maybe I could redeem myself.

 

"Tell me about it".

 

He looked at me again but this time I saw that he could see me, really see me. I realised that he was younger than me but had the stare of someone that had seen things that I hadn't. It's a cliché, but the phrase '1000 yard stare' really hit the spot. Cliches can be truisms, that's why they're cliches I guess. I've never seen anybody with a look like that, not for real, not outside of a movie. There was something else as well. He looked lost. Totally lost, a drowning man. Now, don't go getting carried away with any God-Squad type shit. That isn't my angle at all. No, sir. He just looked?fucked off totally with the world. As if he really, really didn't care.

 

"I had a contract with those fuckers. I cancelled it, I didn't need it. They kept sending me bills. I tell them 'keep sending your bills motherfuckers but I ain't paying 'em'. Shit, those guys?I'll fight them. I'll fight them and they'll wish they'd never fucking bothered me. I'll wait until the bill is 10,000 baht, 50,000 baht, a fuckin' million baht but I ain't having shit from D-TAC".

 

Privately, I wondered whether such a confrontational attitude would actually work in Thailand where I hear so much about 'face' and the value placed on never losing your cool. If this chap had ever had any cool it had long gone but at least the heat had gone out of his immediate situation.

 

We talked.

 

We talked about Thailand - "A fucking shithole that will never, never, get anywhere 'cos these fuckers are too fucking stoopid and too fucking lazy to do anything , anything, to advance past what they are. Fucking peasants" - and at that he had glared around fiercely, daring anyone to contradict him. Mostly, the Thais, staff and freelancers, ignored him. Or did they? How far might this guy get before someone gave him a 10 handed kicking? How many of his diatribes were these people absorbing whilst feigning deafness, storing all the information for one big pay-back? Would I, merely by being in his company, be seen as a person that shared his vitriol? Change the subject. He's dangerous now. He's gonna get a kicking and so will I if I'm not careful.

 

We talked about Vietnam - "Fucking great country. Fucking government is crap".

 

The United States - "Fuck the States, and I'm American".

 

Great. Now he's slagging off the Yanks. I looked around nervously. No immediate problem but for fucks sake I hoped he wouldn't start on Germany; the waiting staff seemed to be having a big run on wiener schnitzel.

 

I had to get the conversation onto something neutral, safer, less inflammatory. Why? What did I owe this lunatic? I should have got up and fucked off, I can stand the price of a left-behind beer. I'm on holiday. I don't need this shit. I racked my beer-sodden brain cell for something - anything - that would be on safe ground. I couldn't find anything.

 

Asking him about what he did for a living would be a no-no. Thailand is a bit like the British prison system. Bear with me on this. In prisons you never, ever, ask people what they are inside for. It's just not done, it would be like asking a man how much money is in his bank account. It's actually difficult to find an equivalent - -even though I'm using the same question to try to explain about how I am around falang in Thailand. In Thailand - no, that's not true - in Thailand's nightlife industry I don't ask what people do for a living or why they are there. For a start I'm not interested, but, more importantly, if we are all buying into a fantasy - living a fantasy - then what is real and what isn't real? Who is the straight man and who is the liar? Who is the conman and who is the philanthropist? Who cares? The whole point - though denied often - is to live outside of what you are (or were) back in 'falangland'.

 

I told you. I'm an Angel. That's my fantasy.

 

Or is it? You decide.

 

So, anyway - back to the Biergarten.

 

The guy - our friend here - Mr Angry, he is a catholic priest. Or rather an ex-priest. Don't even ask how I got that out of him. I just listened, that's my job. Listening. How much may be bullshit and how much isn't can only be known by one man and it ain't me. A de-frocked priest? Apparantly not. No, a young priest that had lost his faith. Totally and utterly lost his whole vocation, life, his raison d'etre if you will. The details of his life problems can't belong here. They aren't that remarkable and anyway, it would be a breach of trust. You may think I crossed that particular rubicon a while ago but hey, sorry, don't sit next to a journo in a Soi 7 knocking shop. And that's another lie - or is it? Layer upon layer of fog and distortion, half truths and full truths; spinning and dancing in our heads, joy and fear, loss and victory, fantasy and reality. They say TIT - this is Thailand. Thailand is an amplifier that's all. A fucking amplifier.

 

It was a good night. I bought him a beer and it was graciously received. I discovered that he was a gentle man although no gentleman - he liked his whores the same as me (the man with an invite to a private dance contest donchafergeddit ) but was wrestling with his own demons, the same as you or I. Demons. Devils. Angels.

 

At some point I realised that the dance contest wasn't going to happen for me. I was too pissed, too tired, too mind-fucked to pop along as a latecomer. It seemed 'bad form' to arrive so late. I did a quick mental calculation and knew that Nana disco - maybe even just the car park - was a better final destination for that Friday night. I decided to go, but first I had to say goodbye:

 

"Look mate", I said, " Whatever happens to you in the future - the best of luck alright" I was confident enough by now to add, "but don't get so fucking angry all the time. Roll with it. You're a good bloke?"

 

And yes, this was classic pissheads talk but I continued:

 

"?and you're never going to see me again, but didn't someone once say that a man might lose his faith in God but God never loses his faith in the man"

 

I think I'd heard something like that at Sunday School a long time ago. I needed a piss and slid off my stool and did the stagger-swagger to the toilets. I pisses away, swaying slightly. In the background a bad moon was rising and I was warned to not go out. I grinned and pissed some more. On the way out I even bought some chewing gum from a bored girl and wound back into the main arena.

 

I decided to say goodbye to Mr Angry but I didn't want to traverse the maze that is the Biergarten layout so I looked over to the main bar where I had been sat.

 

Mr Angry was staring at me, a look of pure fear in his eyes. I waved. He stared. I nodded and waved. He stared. I smiled and waved and nodded. He stared.

 

Fucking Hell, he looked like he'd seen a ghost.

 

Or an Angel.

[Nervous_Dog]

Nice touch, you sound Aussie?

 

JB

[Central Scrutinizer]

Azapharel,

 

Thanks. I enjoyed that immensely. Any more you can post for us here? Thanks for taking the time and effort. It's appreciated. More please? ::

 

Cent

[bushpilot]

Good yarn, you even managed to keep the yankee catholic from looking too bad.

[Pharcyde]

Nice style, I like the way you talk to the audience.

 

10/4

[Searcher]

Nicely done.

 

Searcher

[SiLeakHunt]

You're obviously a proffesional writer. Honestly I was floored when you did it.

Your style is just right, not too glossy.

Look forward to anything else you see fit to roll out.

 

cheers

[chuckwoww]

Yes that's a nice one. A few awkward passages (he said archly) but it has a great flow to it and a friendly down-to-earth tone. Even a cameo appearance by the late lamented Tommy Cooper! Got any more?

[MaiLuk]

An ex-priest in biergarten with a 1000 yard stare? You sure it wasn't FJ?

 

Would like more of the same if you are willing. thanx

[Guest]

Thanks guys,

 

No - it wasn't Fiery Jack I can assure you. Jack and I are well aquainted.

 

Chuck - sorry about the awkward passages. Wrote this on 6 cans of Heineken and am always too lazy to edit my own stuff at the best of times - as you know.

 

Sil - I am well floored.

 

Hmmm - right. Back to the General boards then for the time being. I'll stick more on when I can in a comfortable writing position.