Ok, so it's hot. No, on second thoughts, I've all of a sudden come to in the depths of Satan's large intestines just as he's about to let rip the 10 large bowls of extra spicy mutton vindaloo he had for tea last night. So it's not just hot, the bubbling tarmac on the road suggests, someone, somewhere is having a fucking laugh..this is not natural, it can't be. I've never been moved to swear at the sun before, but yesterday it even got the finger too, several times..
Out on the bike and I'm in the middle of fucking nowhere, not out of choice, but because I'm skint you see, and don't have the luxury of turning up the air conditioning whilst adjusting the treble on the 7 million baht stereo that I just installed in my new 567 billion baht car..Summer Breeze, does in fact make me feel fine, especially when it's blowing through cobwebs in my mind..but Satanic Humidity makes me feel like fucking shit..especially when stuck in the poorest part of a economically challenged region.
The ol bike was ploughing it's way (very noisily, I hasten to add - sounds like it's about to fall apart) down the Highway to Hell (try as I did, that fucking song would not leave my head), I knew that the nearest place where the local farmers didn't fornicate with their livestock was about 40 km's away..in short a place where communities had progressed a little further and it wasn't common place to see gentlemen with 3 eyes up to their nuts in buffalo arse.
So, please don't breakdown, there's a good bike.
But, of course, my back tyre found the only nail..nail..can you fucking believe, in a 2000 kilometre radius. The trajectory at which the nail went in suggested that it had been placed up right on the road, meaning that I was in for a severe buggering by seven fingered Somjit...
Ok, so now what..we have options..
a) simply start crying
b) pick up the nearest stick and give the bike a damn good thrashing (Basil Fawlty style)
c) Drive along at 3 kph until you find a place that sells any form of alcohol, drink for effect, sleep on the side of the road and hope the fairies fix the puncture while you sleep
d) wait for 7 fingered Somjit to arrive
So, after a bit of option (a) then a smidgen of option (b) then an arse battering five minutes of option (c), I decided that a buggering was the only way out.
Some 10 minutes later Somjit and his 7 fingers rustled their way out of the bushes and grunted at me, in that 'I'm here for the livestock, what's your fucking excuse?' tone of voice. I made a gesture towards the back wheel of the bike, to which Somjit suddenly perked up and motioned for me to follow him..
Down this road..
Still going..
Bloody hell, ol 7 fingers isn't such a bad bloke after all..but the owner of this bike shop obviously missed out the Location Location Location section of his business studies 101 book..right in the middle of nowhere
There's a moral to this story..It reads something like this.."BUY A FUCKING CAR YOU STUPID TWAT"
Happy travelling folks..