The temperature has dropped a few degrees over the course of the past week and with this dramatic change comes an immediate adjustment in the chosen attire of the locals. Callously cast aside are ill-fitting t-shirts which invariably boast grammatically defective English scrawl such as ‘Love My Dog’ or ‘Kitty Cat Go Sleep Sleep’ or ‘I Suck Balls for Baht’, in favour of long-sleeved affairs which are generally decorated with cement company logos; companies which probably folded decades ago, but alas, their name still lives on in Issan, the bankrupt businesses being sporadically advertised in amongst the rice paddies. Jeans are donned in preference to shorts, flip-flops exchanged for Wellington boots and sombreros substituted for thickly knitted balaclavas which actually allow very little room for breathing. Even the village hounds have managed to seek the pity of the residents whom are usually so indifferent towards the plight of a mutt, but now spare them a t-shirt (love my dog) or an old vest to protect them from these glacial conditions. After all, it’s only fucking 25 degrees Celsius now; quick, run to Home Pro and buy half a dozen fucking shovels before we get snowed in.
For me, however, this recent cold snap has initiated a feeling of rejuvenation, a new found energy which allows me to perform basic household tasks without finishing the job at hand looking like a walking waterfall.
The washing up? No, no, please, let me..
The grass needs cutting? I’m already putting me wellies on..
We’re out of eggs and milk? I’m already putting me marigolds on..
A cup of tea, you say? One lump or two?
Monthly bout of fornication needs honouring? It would be a pleasure! Shall we say next Tuesday at around 9 ish?
Since fundamental, workaday chores could now be carried out with minimum irritation, when I was approached at the local shop by an outfit of teenagers who inquired into whether or not I’d like to join them in a game of football, I responded enthusiastically in the positive.
Yes, yes! Yes, I jolly fucking well would!
I had visions of myself streaming down the right flank, skipping over a challenge from the opposition’s Yabba fuelled wing-back, offering the ball to an oncoming central defender before deftly chipping it around him and continuing my run onto the by-line where I would dispatch a cross with pin-point accuracy onto the forehead of our team’s centre forward. Yes, I would very much like to join you in a game of football, gentlemen.
But when we arrived at the pitch, I couldn’t find the right flank or the left flank, or indeed the fucking pitch itself. However, what I thought was an unkempt, fallow section of jungle, turned out to be Issan’s version of Old Trafford. It wasn’t the wing-backs that would be causing hindrance to my shuttle runs along the wing after all, no, it would be ants and snakes and fucking dinosaurs. Still, since I was wearing my brand new Nike Air Flatulence I saw little need for panic and bounded towards the centre of the field where a warm-up of one solitary star jump took place.
Right then, which way am I shooting? Hang on, what am I shooting at? Is it a case of jumpers for goalposts?
I scanned the pitch but signs of a pair of uprights and a cross-bar didn’t appear to be forth-coming. I queried one of the chaps about the lack of woodwork:
‘I say there, old chap. You seem to have overlooked the pratoo (goal) situation!’
‘No’, He replied and pointed in the direction of a metal frame which was no more than three foot square.
‘What? Is that it? Who’s going to be the goalkeeper, a fucking ant? There’s no way, even with the use of my brand new Nike Air Flatulence, that I’m going to rocket one through the wall into an opening the size of a fucking toolbox.’
With no time left to voice my disapproval, the game kicked off and after five minutes I collapsed in a disheveled heap on the floor whilst dry heaving.
After regrouping, I stole one last accusing glance at the pathetic goalposts and stormed out of the jungle in a huff – and had it been my ball we were playing with, I would’ve taken the fucking thing with me.