Thread: The super-duper, splendid and tremendous adventures of Malcolm in Thailand

Part one: The nervous breakdown


Malcolm Fitzpatrick was fed up. He'd had enough of his dead-end office job; he'd had enough of dark foreboding skies and intermittent showers; and he'd certainly had enough of living with his parents. Malcolm was operating inside the deepest realms of ennui and woe, and if it wasn't for his love of the Big Bang Theory, a TV show from America that he would watch every night when he got home from work, Malcolm failed to see the logic in living.

There must be something else out there, he enquired into the dark night sky from his bedroom window - a bedroom window he had looked out of every morning and night for 45 years. Indeed, Malcolm had lived in this little semi-detached dwellings on the outskirts of Richmond-on-Thames his whole life, and he could count the number of times he'd left the M25 perimeter on one hand: four times to visit his great auntie Jean in Guildford, and once when his father took a wrong and inadvertantly left the motorway at Egham. Sadly, this unremarkable little event was Malcolm's go-to anecdote, and he'd enthusiastically regale the story whenever the opportunity arose: "And when we saw signs for Egham, mother began to shriek."

Nothing of any note ever happened in his dreary, miserable workaday existence, and as he lay in bed that night - simultaenously tugging his penis and hatching a cunning plan to get his own back on Timothy Tatham who had given him a particuarly viscious Chinese burn yesterday lunchtime - Malcolm was eventually taken by the darkness, and the pitter-patter of rain on his bedroom window...





"Malcolm! Breakfast!" yelled his mother.

Malcolm knew this was coming. He'd heard those two words everyday since he was able to string together coherent thought. Even while he was still shitting out rusks, this was the way he was woken. "Malcolm!" she'd say, unbuckling her bra, "Breakfast!" And she'd free up a tit and shove it in his face.

After going through the early morning motions of breakfasting, washing, toilet time (Malcolm was regular as clockwork) and putting on his slacks, shirt, jacket and tie, Malcolm picked up a brolley from the holder by the front door and, once again, headed out into grey, drizzle-stricken suburban London.

Today Malcolm decided that he would walk. He usually took a bus, and then a train and then a tube. But he needed time to think today, time to refine his plan to put Timothy Tatham in his place. Tatham was only a work experience student, and, as well as giving Malcolm a Chinese burn, he'd also tied his shoe laces together under his desk, causing poor Malcolm to come crashing down on the water dispenser, soaking both Tina Alfonso and Sally Naylor in the process. To say he had been abashed would be an understatement - Malcolm had beamed like a beetroot.

He would have to exact revenge on his new nemesis, and passing Robert Dyas (the house ware specialists) and the impressive array of sharp kitchen knives they had on offer, Malcolm wondered if it would be unreasonable to purchase one and then plunge it firmly into Tatham's head. Just as he was weighing up the pros and cons of this possible course of retrobution, Malcolm caught a glimpse of some flight prices reflected in Dyas's window. He spun around and was greeted with the words Flight Centre in brilliant red emblazoned across the top of the shop. Crossing the road, the prices and their adjoining destinations became clearer until Malcolm was standing up against them, nose practically pressed against the travel agent window.

"Turkey-£299; Miami-£480; Vienna - £135; Bangkok - £399," Malcolm read each entry in the window and decided to make further enquries within the shop.

"Good morning, how may I help you?" The young man at the counter asked.

"Which one of those destinations in your window is furthest away?" asked Malcolm.

"Err, Bangkok, I think," the agent replied.

"A one way ticket to Bangkok then please, tonight if possible?" Malcolm had become uncharacteristically assertive.

Pecking away at his computer, the Flight Centre employee informed Malcolm that the next flight to Bangkok would be at 9.30 the following morning.

"That will do," said Malcolm, handing over his credit card, "that will do."

After paying for his flight to Bangkok, a curiously named city which the travel agent said was the 'gateway to Southeast Asia', Malcolm went back to Robert Dyas and bought two rolls of gaffer tape, a large aluminium garden waste bin, and a wooden mallet.

With his purchases bought and bagged, he slung them over his shoulder and began walking to work with a decided spring in his step, humming the Big Bang Theory theme tune as he went, a disturbing kind of miniacal glint in his eye...

Originally Posted by DJ Pat

Has this Malcolm geezer got his travel insurance sorted yet?

I was thinking more fundamentals ... a Passport.

Only because he ... "Malcolm had lived in this little semi-detached dwellings on the outskirts of Richmond-on-Thames his whole life, and he could count the number of times he'd left the M25 perimeter on one hand: four times to visit his great auntie Jean in Guildford, and once when his father took a wrong and inadvertantly left the motorway at Egham"

But don't let details get in the way of a ripping yarn.


BTW, and please don't ostracise me but I've never actually watched 5 mins of the BBT ... let alone a whole episode.

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