Postcards From Thailand - The Unbearable Lightness of Flying Things

Dear Reader,

This post is indirectly related to a previous post regarding wasps, undoubtedly my least favourite insect. My irrational fear of wasps and some of the embarrassing situations I have been placed in as a result of this fear are detailed there, to my shame

Extremely scary wasp...

Now I am passing the baton of suffering to my wife, Smiffy, whose perfectly rational fear of all things winged was laid bare during this holiday.

The root of this fear comes from a previous experience with a flying thing whilst on holiday in Goa, which is almost a post in itself but I shall paraphrase. Whilst staying in a resort in Goa we were seduced into spending a night in another hotel owned by the same person. It was slightly more expensive, but in a much more remote spot. It would be romantic, secluded, a change of scenery we said as we signed the cheque. How little did we know... the room was fine, the setting was good, all was well until we ventured out for dinner in the open-air restaurant. It was secluded but it wasn't quiet and more importantly we certainly weren't alone. Some species of insect had chosen this night to swarm, and wherever they were swarming to had a well lit restaurant right in it's path. Our restaurant.

So we arrive, to be greeted and seated by a very polite member of staff, who before seating us spends a moment brushing an insect or two off the table and the chairs we were to sit at. You do expect the occasional night-time insect in a temperate climate so we paid it no mind. As we sat down and started to read the menu it became clear that there were quite a number of these creatures flying around lamps, landing in things and generally causing a nuisance.

Having ordered, we realised that the number of creatures appeared to be increasing in noise and regularity, to the extent that waiters would regularly pass by with a broom sweeping them out off the floor of the restaurant. It should be noted that these things weren't small either, about the size of a cockroach, with wings. They did however seem to be more interested in light sources and the floor than they were in us. It wasn't the most relaxing of environments but all was largely well. Waiters delivered alcohol. Oh good, we said, once the wine starts to flow this will all seem like an amusing dream and we would wake up tomorrow and laugh about the whole thing.

Food arrives, which is lovely. I seem to remember that at some point during the starter one of these flying things took an interest in us, requiring some slightly embarrassing flailing of napkins to dissuade the beastie. A little later another beastie, takes a rather more direct and tactical route to landing than the previous assaults. The floor was not the target, neither was the food, or the table. No, this little fella had a different promised land in mind. After a momentary eye-level hover to announce his presence, he dove immediately down poor Smiffy's top!!

In all fairness she took this rather well. She didn't scream or run. She did however remove her top and bra in a crowded restaurant looking for the damn thing. OK, I may have imagined that bit. Actually, to her considerable credit she did not even leave the table, just flapped said top around a bit, did some peering about and decided the beastie was gone. Her cutlery was shaking a little after I noted. Dinner was also completed in an unusually rapid manner. We may even have left some wine.

This experience has understandably left my dear wife with a bit of a fear of flying things, regardless of breed, colour and size. Thailand, being another hot, temperate country, is full of the things, in all breeds, colours and sizes. You think we might have learned...

My fear centres around wasps, so I was enjoying myself walking around the resort, marvelling at dragonflies doing mating dances, the huge quantity of different butterfly species and many other flying joys of nature. My wifes' fear of flying things revolves around anything flying near her, period. Consequently a walk from our villa to the resort restaurant would be filled with no end of tortures for my wife. Some tactics were required...

I would walk in front, as the beasties will always attack from the front, apparently. That being said, this did not always work as dragonflies seemed to enjoy a staying on the sides of paths, a sort of a flanking manoeuvre, which would cause Smiffy to stop dead until they had passed her peripheral vision. Butterflies provided a different challenge, as they bumble about in a seemingly random, and to me, rather endearing way. This could cause all sorts of responses from Smiffy, from the aforementioned stopping dead, to running very fast (forwards or backwards), ducking, flailing arms, running sideways, crouching, jumping or any combination of the above. Evasive action would often be accompanied by small panicked shrieks.

Not so scary butterfly...

"They are just butterflies" I would say. "They could be poisonous" Smiffy replies. Not being an expert I Google it. Although some butterflies do contain toxins in their bodies that make them poisonous, the level of toxin is so small it would only cause a problem if you ingested one. I explain this, to which Smiffy responds "Well one might fly in my mouth". OK, could happen, but apparently hundreds would be required to even make a human slightly ill. I explain this as well. "Well, there you go, I was right" Smiffy replies.

A truly irrational response and utterly endearing. Also a huge boost to me because just for once I am not the one being completely terrorised and humiliated by the insect world. This would make me seem shallow, insensitive and in need of some serious ego-massaging. Guilty as charged.

More soon dear reader.

xx

Postcards From Thailand - A Short History of Massage

Dear Reader,

Some thoughts from the Far East...

A colleague from work suggested I should have a Thai massage whilst on holiday. Could the more sordid imaginations please stop wandering down Bangkok side-streets. No, we are not  visiting sleazy parlours where more money is made from the extra-curricular menu than the massages themselves, this is not what the post is about.

This post is a short history of my massage experiences culminating with my most recent. A very short history in fact.

Massages are supposed to be relaxing, they are supposed to release negative energy, they are supposed to relax stressed muscles, they are supposed to do all sorts of things that I mostly don't understand because I am a man.

Noted psychiatrist and psychoactive therapy pioneer Timothy Leary coined the phrase "Set and Setting" to describe the two key elements which would dictate a good or a bad trip on LSD or any other psychoactive substances. "Set" refers to the mid-set of the participant, and "Setting" relates to external factors such as surroundings. A positive and relaxing combination of the two should result in positive outcomes. These two measures could equally be used to in conjunction with a number of other types of experience, including massage.    

Massage 1

Set: Hmmm, having never done this before I am perhaps a little nervous. Like all my experiences I am in a foreign country at the time. This in itself does not make me nervous, but adds spice to the affair.

Setting: Provided by our hilariously down-market hotel, the room was small, really small. Not just in length and breadth but also in height. It wasn’t even a room in the true sense of the word, it was an attic. It is also extremely hot, not the best of starts. However, this is a new experience so I am not so perturbed. The massage itself was of the Ayurvedic variety popular in India. Not too physical. What I remember to this day however, was not the massage or the parlour, it was the masseuse. Not for any aesthetic reason, or any appreciation of the massage itself, of course I have no frame of reference. No, it was the chest infection I remember. Imagine if you will lying face down a massage table being, being manipulated by what sounds like an asthmatic train, rattling and occasionally stopping to cough up the contents of her lungs. Charming, that noise will never leave me.

Massage 2

Set: Is good. I am unwinding after another holiday, I have done this before so there shouldn’t be any surprises, same massage, different masseuse.

Setting: Is better, a largish hut, close enough to the beach that I can hear waves crashing by the shore. Very restful. Too restful as it turns out. Unlike the previous experience, this relaxing experience causes my mind to wander. A massage is a very relaxing and sensual experience. I am being touched by another human being in many parts of my body, that normally do not get touched. I am naked, apart from a towel covering my blushes. Whilst lying face down I realise that something is stirring that would be most inappropriate, a stirring that would not be adequately camouflaged by a mere towel. I spend the rest of the face down part of the massage thinking of football scores, favourite pop songs of the 1980’s and Margaret Thatcher. Anything to make the sensation go away, understanding that if I relax too much and give myself too much to the moment I may be a little red-faced once I am turned over in all my glory. Oh, and one other thing to pile on the pressure, my dear lady wife is being worked over on the next couch. I thought the point of this was too relax?

Suffice to say I survive this without causing an international incident. How do people put themselves through this on a regular basis?  

Massage 3
Set: So my most recent excursion. I am a little more up-market on this occasion and am for the first time visiting something that can truly be called a spa. I am in a good mood, I have forgotten the panic moments from the second massage but cannot believe that the experience of the first can happen again.

Setting: The spa is very luxurious. We are offered juice and cold scented towels before we begin. My dear lady shatters one of the towel receptacles, nobody seems to mind. We are offered a choice of body rubs, I opt for coffee. For the first time I have to fill out a form. The question that stands out is intensity, light medium or hard. I am a man, so am tempted to choose hard, but the inherent Britishness in me shouts “no!” and I opt for the middle path. We are led to changing rooms, where we are told to get naked, this is new. Previously I have always had an item of clothing on to cover blushes. Gowns have been provided thank goodness and we are led to the tables. A large sheet of muselin type material is held up by the masseuse, whilst I on other side of the muselin am instructed to remove the gown! I comply, not checking to see if anyone is peeking. The human-sized sheet of material is draped over me.

The massage table has a head shaped hole which, once I am laying down, I discover has a lovely bucket of lotus flowers floating in water beneath. The masseuse begins applying the coffee rub, quite pleasant. I notice one of the flowers has a discoloration on a petal which looks a little like a teddy bear. It is charming. I am drifting away, oh damn, I am stirring again. Think about tax rates, classic British cars and the Eurozone economic crisis, all is well. This battle of control continues throughout the entire application of body rub. The other disconcerting part of the procedure was the cloth covering. A section of this was brushed aside as the masseuse worked on the exposed area. What was impossible to ascertain was how much skin was exposed as each section was exposed. Did a breath of breeze whisper over an exposed buttock? Recitation of UK dialling codes and their respective areas seems to do the trick.

Once the application has been completed, we shower and return again to the table for the massage. This time a Thai massage. The same dance of the seven veils occurs, eventually I am face down, naked, staring at the teddy bear on the lotus flower petal. She begins, and I rapidly understand that Thai massage is a little more hands on than the Ayurvedic variety I have experienced previously. Whilst working on my back I have been climbed on, knees implanted into my upper things, as she pummels my poor shrieking  muscles to within an inch of their lives.

Upon being flipped over the fun really starts. I really don’t think that my legs are designed to go over there whilst the rest of my body is over here, ah, apparently you’re not listening. One consolation, any stirring in the nether regions have long since left the building. I remember that I chose a medium intensity massage, wondering how this could be any more intense. I imagine you need to sign some sort of life insurance waiver before you start, the masseuse undoubtedly climbs to an upper floor and delivers each phase of the massage by diving hands first into different muscle groups from a third floor balcony.

This all sounds very negative, but in fact I feel much better for all of this (once I had recovered from the shock) and have managed to type this post utilising the two remaining functional parts of my body, my tongue and the little finger of my right hand.     

I will need to clean the keyboard though, it is starting to get sticky.

More soon, dear reader xxx

Bin Laden - My Part in his Downfall.

Dear Reader,

Much has been said in the media in the last few days regarding the demise of Osama Bin Laden. Much more has come out of the mouths of just about every member of the Obama administration and politicians from across the world. So now that I choose to throw my two pennies worth in I am at least in good company.

Before I attempt to justify the claim that the title of this post suggests, it is worth just going over again some of the salient details of the operation which caught my eye and got me thinking.

So, a whole hunk of Special Forces types were tasked with taking down America's public enemy number one in his ostentatiously large and eye-wateringly visible hideout in Pakistan. This may have come as a bit of a surprise to said Special Forces types who have been chasing around largely uninhabited caves in northern Afghanistan for much of the last ten years without an iota of success.

A serious mission then. With some serious communications technology attached it appears. It emerged shortly after the initial announcement that President Obama, Michelle Obama and presumably a number of others were watching this live in a room in the White House. OMG, no pressure for the nice people in Special Forces then. And what level of interaction did the White House have with the Special Forces team involved? Could they talk to them, issue orders? This is starting to sound like a special White House only mission in Call Of Duty, possibly with Michelle pressing the wrong button when fighting with the President for the Playstation or XBox controller. Moving swiftly on...

Apparently live updates were provided by Special Forces throughout the operation. Wouldn't it be nice if that was done via Twitter? New post from SFAnon... In Bin Laden's bedroom, oh I wouldn't have chosen that color... Or, perhaps not.

So, to the point of the story. Having been dragged into London for the Royal Wedding (see previous post OMFG, It's a Royal Wedding for my thoughts on this subject), by my wife and editor Smiffy, we met with friends in the evening for a few drinkies and a bit of a chat. Whilst alternately sipping Pimms and Lager (all that was on offer, in plastic cups) in Soho Square the conversation moved onto conspiracy theories. The conversation went like this...

Smiffy: I don't think they are even looking for Bin Laden especially after what happened when Saddam Hussein was caught alive. I mean, what would they do with him? Imprisonment, trial and all the publicity that would generate? Easier to let him hide in the hills.

Me: Agreed, look at all the publicity Saddam got, hanging leaked on YouTube etc. That sort of fiasco would be counter-productive.

Alistair: Indeed, the best thing to do if they were looking for him would be to finish him quickly.

Conversation shortly moved onto other matters and all was forgotten.

Until, eight days later when I receive a text from Alistair which simply said maybe they were looking for him after all... I was in the car at the time, and as soon as I reached a destination I checked the news and there it was, Bin Laden dead. Not only dead, but rapidly disposed of with not one upload on YouTube. Slick.

Consequently, I would like to take a little credit for what has occurred. The CIA, via some satellite, (obscurely pointing at Soho) zoned into our conversation when we mentioned Bin Laden. Analysing the conversation the Obama administration clearly realised that they had been rumbled and things had to change. Better still, we had provided the appropriate method of running the operation (without the Call Of Duty type embellishments) and of dealing with the outcome.

But of course, all of the above is probably all in my mind.

So having suitably explained the outrageous claim in the title of this post, I am off to obtain a super-injunction against nobody in particular via Twitter.

More soon xxx

HM Revenue & Customs Helpline - Part 1

Dear Reader,

I recently submitted a claim to HM Revenue & Customs (for those living outside of the UK, the Taxman basically), for some money owed to me.

I had done all the legwork, itemising the amounts involved in tedious spreadsheets until I had what I thought was all the information required to make HMRC's life as straight-forward as possible. I put all of this info into a letter and waited for a response with baited breath. I received a phone call two weeks later, clarifying a point, which was fair enough. At least my claim was being dealt with. I checked the mail, awaiting my cheque.

Time passes - four weeks to be exact.

A letter arrives, hall marked HMRC, excellent my cheque has arrived, except it hasn't...

I get a letter and this is where the fun starts. I use the word fun in it's loosest sense, poking cocktail sticks in my eyes would in fact have been considerably more amusing, and would have at least produced a result, positive or not.

Back to the letter, there is a problem, my claim relates to an employment which has now ceased. In the letter the end date of this employment was noted (well done HMRC for checking your records). I was asked to confirm whether I have subsequently been employed or am now claiming benefit. Now I am a little annoyed, as having checked their records once to confirm the end of an employment, for some reason it is beyond their ken to answer their own question by checking these same records, that would confirm that a new employment commenced two weeks later. Oh look, they would say, amazed by the veracity of their detective work, this gentleman is paying tax, he must be working, why do I need to waste tax payers money spinning out this simple claim, when all the required information is at my fingertips. Alas no, neither Sherlock Holmes or Dr Watson are employed in the department dealing with my claim. Sadly, I now have to ring them.

So the torture has begun...

I ring the number, it is a multi-layer menu based system, with a bewildering number of choices at the first level, and the levels below what you eventually choose. It would appear that my issue is not one of the most popular, as a consequence I have to listen to all the choices at the top level, hoping that mine will come along. eventually, or that there will be a catchall hold the line/other at the end of it all. As previously stated the options are many, varied, and in many cases, surprisingly specific. A transcript below:

  If you have been overpaid tax press 1 (not me)

  If you have been underpaid tax press 2 (not me either)

  If you have received some bits of paper from us that you weren't expecting press 3 (thankfully not)

  If you are expecting some pieces of paper from us but haven't received them press 4 (almost, but not quite, I

  have received a piece of paper but not the piece I was expecting)

  If you are a pensioner press 6 (not yet, however by the end of this call I may be)

  If you are a one-legged man from Indonesia but resident in the UK and subject to UK tax rules on

  Thursdays when the moon is full press 7 (hmmm, appealing to choose but no)

  If you have a cat in distress press your doorbell and see if that helps (and so on until eventually I get to my

  option)

  For all other enquiries press #*991*#1296N

Finally, after pressing the mysterious set of buttons, I move to the next level... Astonishingly I get straight through to someone. I explain my situation, preparing for the barrage of security questions that will inevitably follow, you know, stuff like what is your mother's maiden, how old was your first dog when it caught a bone, that sort of stuff. But no, unfortunately, nothing of the sort was forthcoming. The response was straight to the point... "Our computers are being upgraded at the moment... we will not be able to deal with your query until tomorrow at the earliest." Thus ended my first brush with the HMRC helpline.

My second attempt, a day later (once the computer systems had been upgraded) was less fruitful. Having navigated the first level which I swear have changed since yesterday (perhaps because of the computer systems upgrade) I make it to level two. Another transcript (sorry).

  If you have received a love note from Winston Churchill press 1 (regrettably not)

  If you, or your spouse have been involved in activity which generates income but is not classed as a

  profession, such as prostitution, drug or weapon distribution, or selling your crap on EBAY press 2 (not me

  again)

  If you a pensioner press the play button on your betamax video recorder (hang on a feckin minute, you

  already asked me if I was a pensioner in the level above, oh, never mind)

Eventually I make it through to "if the one hundred and thirty-one options above do not fit your circumstances then activate the fire alarm at your local school" option, thinking that finally, I will be able to put this to bed, but no. A pre-recorded message greets me, "Unfortunately call volumes are particulary high at the moment, please try again later." I am now disconnected. What the fuck? No waiting line, no queuing system? I am English after all, I am genetically pre-disposed to waiting in line. Every other call centre in the UK uses this system, you wait, wait some more, until someone either answers or you die from old age or lack of food.

So this is where I am, no further forward but extremely angry.

As a PS to this post I was watching the news this morning and the HMRC have won something. They are now number 1, officially. They are better than mobile phone companies, credit card companies, banks, utility companies and insurance companies at issuing incorrect information to their users.

With the exception of the HMRC, all of the above are regulated, so their is a higher power you can complain to in the event of dissatisfaction,  and I am deeply dissatisfied. The HMRC, however, is a power unto itself, there is no recourse, no higher power, except my blog. I will, eventually, make them pay!

An update soon dear reader xxx

Wasps, or, How to Humiliate me in Public

Dear Reader,

It's April, the days are getting longer, the temperature is rising, Winter is definitely behind us and Spring has arrived. This is all good, soon there will be barbies, pub gardens and long dreamy evenings on the patio sipping G&T's. There is however one small wrinkle on this otherwise dreamy scene, wasps.

Let's make this quite clear from the start, I hate the little fuckers. Any wasp lovers out there might as well stop reading this post right now. Not only do I hate them, they revolt me, the presence of a wasp in my near vicinity makes my skin crawl. If a Benevolent God provided me with a button to press which eliminated wasps from the world forever I would press it in an instant and screw the consequences (whatever they are). They are scum, pure and simple. This may make me seem an irrational and intolerant individual who has an inability to accept all the wonders of nature that surround me. Well,  guess what, I am an irrational and intolerant individual who has an inability to accept all the wonders of nature that surround me, get used to it.

So, why you ask, where has this incandescent hate come from? Am I allergic? No. Was I stung in a particularly sensitive place by a wasp in the past? No. Did a wasp fly in my mouth and cause me to crash my bicycle when a wee bairn? No, no and thrice no. I just hate them, and am revolted by them, it's in my DNA. They have, however, succeeded in humiliating me, often.

Picture the idyllic scene, the garden of your favorite watering hole, on a bakingly hot Summer's day, sipping your favorite tipple. You are in good company enjoying the sunshine and then the wasp (no doubt accompanied by some friends) comes along to spoil the party. They want your beer, attracted by the sugar content presumably. For me this is a crisis, which will often manifest itself in me running screaming from the infested area waving my arms around in an attempt to protect myself, much to the amusement of my fellow drinkers and amused onlookers. This happens every year, at least once, often more than once, and it doesn't please me.

This year, not three days ago in fact, the wasp has moved my humiliation level up several notches. I am working, on site, in a large open plan room with about nine other people in residence. I am seated, at a desk, on a wheely chair, happily pressing buttons on a computer. I feel a disturbance in my hair, I brush my hair with my hand, not realising the horror that is about to unfold. It was a wasp! In my hair! That could have been the end it, but oh no, the little yellow and black disease has other ideas. Undoubtedly recognising me from previous species encounters (I'm sure the little fuckers have pictures of me up somewhere) it decides to fly at my face. At this point I have no choice, fight or flight instinct kicks in and I instinctively choose flight. Flight on this occasion involves back pedaling at high speed on my wheely chair whilst waving my arms like a demented windmill at the offending creature. The force of my windmilling combined with the back pedaling result in me ending up at the other side of the room facing in the opposite direction, much to the bemusement of all who have had the opportunity to witness this apparent nervous break-down of their external consultant. Is this the end of my humiliation? Not a fucking chance.

The wasp has gone, not from the room, but at least from my immediate vicinity. The individual in the room who hired me asks "Are you allergic?" "No, " I reply "I just hate them." I return to my desk, pretending none of the above has occurred, continuing my work, but knowing that the little flying scumbag is in the room waiting for another opportunity to strike.

I do not have to wait too long, whilst staring at a particularly annoying on-screen problem I become engrossed, not spotting the black and yellow nemesis now crawling over my mouse. When I spot it I just get out of the chair and move away from the desk, unable to do more, paralysed in fear. Someone comes to my aid by ushering the wasp out of the window with the help of a piece of paper, a task I am simply not capable of.

All in all a fantastic day in the office!

Dear Benevolent God (mentioned further up) I REALLY REALLY need that button. Who knows what level of humiliation they have in store for me next.

More soon dear reader xxx