Taking the mug out of smuggling

I suppose alarm bells should have started ringing even before we left Thailand to come back home. We’d flown out there with nothing and were flying back with very full suitcases.

Gary tipped me the wink earlier that the trip would be self-funding. He’d had a bunch of fake Armani suits knocked up as well as a batch of the latest pirated movies (and I’m not talking about Mutiny on the Bounty LOL!) as well as about two dozen Apple iPads that had fallen off the back of tuk-tuk.

I’ll admit that I was a bit worried going through check-in, especially when they asked whether I was carrying anything for anyone and whether I had packed the bags myself. But Gary said business class passengers are never really searched. I was smuggling readers, that much is true, but as Gary pointed out this represented a victimless crime. Armani, Hollywood and Steve Jobs are all more than rich enough, and they’ve been charging the man on the street too much for too long. When we got back we’d flog the gear and that’d more than pay for our trip and probably leave us a fair bit more besides!

Mind, I had no idea how we would shift the product, I certainly didn’t fancy walking from pub to pub with a box of hooky gear like you see those Chinamen doing. But Gary said he knew a mush in Shepherd’s Bush, he thought that this was hilarious. But I’ve spent time in Shepherd’s Bush and there are some unsavoury types knocking about. I worry about Gary, he seemed to know a lot people in London, but I’ve lived in the ghetto. I was going to have to stay close. I mean, thanks to my judo, I’m never really in any kind of peril.

I’d practically forgotten about the wedding ring, assuming that it was probably one of Gary’s hilarious jokes. But when we landed at Heathrow I had a text message from an unknown source: “Bazman. Where u at sexgod husband. Tia.x”

My first reaction was to delete the message. Natch. But, as regular old skool readers will know, I am a hopeless romantic and, besides, those Thai girls are AMAZING. Also, from very recent personal experience, they will pretty much do whatever you ask them to do. I think this is due to two things; first it is well documented that Thai men have tiny penises and second, it is also well documented that British men are polite and chivalrous. Also, I am a sexgod. I’m no spring chicken though and, frankly, why shouldn’t old Newsdesk have a bit of fun?

Thanks to Gary and Tia, I figured I'd be going back to Thailand sooner than I expected.

I sent her a short note explaining that I'd be away for a few days "on business" and requested a photo (for my wallet!). I'm no mug!

Sick Sikh

Phew, I’ve managed to steal a few moments alone to log on. Wow, it’s taken me ten minutes to read and re-read Mr C’s ace comment on my previous post. I’m not afraid to admit it, but I cried like a baby. And not just because I’ve just been cutting up the onions for tomorrow’s spag bol.

I’m onto quite a cushy number in the kitchens. Like I said before, my unit supervisor lends me his laptop and turns a blind eye, and I lend him a hand every so often. He’s a funny feller. His name is Paul, although his real name is Gurjit. He is actually a Sikh. Lol. Way back when I conducted my study on religions I never did Sikhism. From what I can gather, it is basically like being the opposite of Hindu.

Hindus are vegetarians. Sikh’s are carnivores. Hindu’s believe in elephant-headed gods, Sikhs train elephants. It’s no surprise then that the British army trained Sikhs to be the main fighting force against the Hindus during our occupation. Hindus are basically hippies you see, and while the Sikhs have long hair and beards, they also carry knives and like nothing more than a few drinks and scrap. They’re like India’s Hell’s Angels.

Paul breaks the mould a bit as a Sikh, and not just because he has adopted a European name. He’s a practising homosexual you see, which if he were a Hindu would be perfectly fine – remember, those were the guys who wrote the Karma Sutra. Sadly, for Gurjit, being gay is strictly prohibited amongst the Sikhs. Like a lot of Indians he was training to be a doctor, but when he changed his name to Paul and went full on gay, he turned his back on that life. Apart from the bit about carrying a knife.

His life literally crumbled following a moment of madness. He placed an advert in his local newspaper’s lonely hearts column. This in itself would not have been a major problem, but for the fact that the gay Sikh community is quite tight knit and he was already friends with five other practising homosexual Sikhs in town and so when he placed the ad reading: “Six sick Sikhs seek six sick Sikhs for sick sex.” He was drummed out of the community. Which is not quite what he was after. From that moment on he has roamed the earth. Like David Cain in Kung Fu. Only a Sikh version in the East Midlands.

Bangkok

I just wanted to say a quick “thanks blood” to my main hommie boy Mr London Street. Yo comments is well appreciated. Also, a passing thanks and hello to Shopgirl, Maccoall and The Jules. And a massive big up to Mr C – natch – for inspiring me to get the fuck back into blogland. BOOM! I think that I should warn you all though, that by the simple act of befriending me and adding your sublime commentary, you have put your lives into severe danger.

In a way, I do feel a bit guilty about coming back online and thus endangering all your lives. I knew that my reappearance would send shockwaves across certain elements of the Internet. I’m under very strict orders to keep my profile on the low-down, my location is a closely guarded secret. I can say no more at this stage. Other than, if you’re getting home late and it’s dark, be on your guard. I can’t be there to help sadly. If you can, I suggest joining a judo club. The streets aren’t safe man. It’s just you against the world.

I never, for once, thought things would wind up this way. It all seems a million lifetimes from marching into BA’s business lounge to the beat of Columbia’s finest with Gary, just a passport apiece, a credit card and return tickets to Bangkok. It felt like we were Noel and Liam. Definitely maybe. I think if we were, I would have been Noel. Sure, Gary had something, a certain charismatic elemental charm, but essentially I was the artistic powerhouse of the partnership.

I thought I was a man of the world. I was until I visited Bangkok. My eyes were opened. I don’t think I’ll be able to play table tennis again. Not to any level of proficiency at least. I have no idea how long we stayed up partying. Days merged into weeks. The faces blurred. The genders were immaterial. Nothing mattered. I woke up one day with a tattoo of a monkey on my back and wedding ring on the third finger of my left hand.

It was time to come home. But things would never be the same.

Stolen moments

You're probably wondering how the heck I can find time to blog in a place like this. We're certainly not supposed to be online, it's no holiday camp I can tell you. But I have am understanding with my unit supervisor. I scratch his back, he lends me his laptop and turns a blind eye for 15 minutes.

I know that he does the same thing for a few others. In fact, it was my mate here that put me on to it. Judging by the state of the place, I'd say most of the others nip in here and spend their quarter of an hour consuming as much porn as possible. I'll admit, blogging was the last thing on my mind for a while.

If you know the right people, this place isn't all bad. After the experiences I've had over the last seven months, I've learnt to keep my head down. Avoid eye-contact. Don't speak until you're spoken to, then give as little away as possible.

I'm innocent of course, but then they all say that.

Brothers in arms

I’ve got to be honest readers, I have no idea how I ended up in this predicament. I knew that Leache was trouble. I knew it. Like I had a sixth sense for trouble. A trouble radar. “BEEP, BEEP, WARNING!” It was going. I bloody knew it. She wouldn’t listen though. They never do.

Gary seemed different. Granted I had him marked down as bit a rough diamond. But I could tell he was generous hearted. We were living in that old Nazi Greta’s place and when Gary suggested we go down to his pal’s in London for a party to watch the World Cup final, it seemed like the ideal getaway.

A weird thing happened before we went down to London. I had a visit from my old friend Steve. He warned me about Gary. Said his dad had said a few choice things when Steve had mentioned that me and Gary had become housemates. Steve’s dad was always paranoid though, that’s coppers for you. He bloody hated me anyway. Ever since that time with the wing mirrors on the high street. Honestly, you’d think in Steve’s dad’s world that no one ever got drunk and had a bit of harmless fun.

Gary certainly had a lot of fun and a lot of friends. He seemed to know everyone in London! You can’t be all bad with that many friends. He knew a lot of girls and he was introducing me as his brother which was bloody brilliant. And considering Roger and Mum got hitched, I suppose in a way we were brothers.

Being an only child I had always wondered what it would be like to have a brother. It was a great feeling if I’m being honest. Just me and Garry. The Barry & Gary show. I couldn’t help thinking that Mum’s selfishness, depriving me of a brother, was probably behind my lack of success in life. Brothers compete and strive on, I mean, you’ve only got to look at the Nevilles.

The all seeing eye

Life may be pointless, but it's still good to be back blogging and nothing says "I'm back" like a dead octopus...

I have a feeling though that the nature of my future posts will be fairly short for a while. I need to grab these illicit moments when I can. I'm being watched you see. All the time. Well, not all the time. Not right now for instance. Not unless there is a CCTV camera here that I'm not aware of.

So much has happened to me over the past half year, that I don't quite know where to start. So, I'll start at the end. I'm a maverick like that. Most people start at the beginning, not me.

I find myself locked in a small windowless room. It's the only place I know that I'm safe. From the accusations, from the eyes, the haunting. The depravity. Time stands still in The Room. Again, this is more of a saying that an actual. It doesn't really stand still. If it did, I think we might be onto the beginnings of an episode of The Twighlight Zone or something.

I've often thought that I would be a great sci-fi writer. I can easily imagine a future filled with escalator walkways in the sky and silver jumpsuits. Most people can. But then I have an innate ability to add a special twist. Like a room in which time stands still.

Right, fuck, I can hear footsteps, I'd better be off.

The meaningless of life

I’ve been away for seven months readers and that is a long time in anyone’s book. A lifetime in many respects. Well, in the respects of certain octopuses it is at least. I feel sorry for Paul the octopus. Surely Planet Earth’s most famous octopus? Paul managed to successfully predict a string of World Cup match winners and is now dead. If he went to the trouble of having an accumulator bet at Ladbrokes on his predictions he would have been a very wealthy octopus indeed. Still, that wouldn’t have helped in end. Nothing helps us in the end.