I enjoy kowtowing to the behest of red-tape-wielding, backside breaching, treacherous Thai bureaucrats about as much as I enjoy smearing my penis with peanut butter and offering it to an angry assemblage of sexually deviant hedgehogs with acute hygiene issues. Which is to say, I don't really enjoy it very much at all. In fact it barely registers north of five on a scale of one to 10.
So it was with a categorical quota of resentment, today, that I began an early morning sortie to Queens Gate in West London, home of the Royal Thai Embassy.
The first obstacle I had to negotiate was fighting back the urge to smash the ticket machine at the train station into gloriously manageable little pieces before locating the Minister of Transport and fisting them up his fucking arsehole. I've had my fill of trains. More often than not I'll spend the commute home standing up amid a sea of sweaty passengers with my face in uncle Gupta's fucking armpit. This isn't at all conducive to completing the daily Sudoko puzzle in the paper. Not even the Teaser. So for an extortionate amount of cash one is forced to suffer both the overpowering whaft of uncle Gupta's body odour and the sniggers of broadsheet brandishing business folk intermittently checking on your Sudoko progress. CAN EVERYONE PLEASE JUST FUCK OFF!
Now in the possession of a One Day Travel Card and a severely dented bank account, I made haste to London Victoria in order to utilise its Underground facility. I don't like the Tube. It's dank, putrid, claustrophobic, crowded, and has a propensity for alluring Islamic riffraff with small incendiary devices secreted about their person. I'm not scared of the Tube. I'm not scared of flying. What I am scared of is ill-informed lunatics in ownership of bollocks fit to burst with semen bound for the restless rectums of 72 virgins. Note to any prospective suicide bombers: HAVE.A.WANK.
Approaching my destination now on foot, a bedraggled gentleman of vagrant proportions smoking a cigarette and scratching his crotch signalled the entrance. Located in the business district where, for the most part, the public sport pressed attire, polished shoes and fastidiously knotted ties, it isn't exactly a laborious task to locate the Thai embassy.
Having completed an application form requesting a tourist visa, I hustled through the crowds of impending Pattaya excursionists with their pendulous private parts, and made my way to counter number three.
"Touriss Visa. You just get 60 days in the country with this, OK," asserted the comely wench behind the desk.
"I think I'll be the judge of that, young lady"
I forewent the underground on the way home and took a windy walk along the Thames, reflecting the day's events. I'd soon be swapping the autumnal aromas and landscapes of old Blighty for the balmy tropics.
Life comprises a series of decisions. Virtually every movement of our waking existence defines us. Each thought, each action, each and every utterance a potential pivotal point.
My train of thought was currently running more efficiently than south west train service:
The 12.03 to Clapham will be calling at: The nearest pub, 3 pints of John Smiths and a packet of Pickled Onion Monster Munch, please landlord...