President Piles

Going back some 30 or so years on a sports tour, an event happened that will be embedded in the memory of an unlucky chambermaid forever. It occured in the picturesque west country, on a beautiful morning in July time, or so i've been informed. The touring rooms were allocated via a hat draw, so as to mingle the people as one, and unless you hated somebody, then you just rode what you were dealt. This selection policy landed the clubs young hotshot player, aged about 18, and two elderly gentlemen, together. One was a standard older man, with greying hair, good sense of humour and an eye for detail. The other was far from standard. He was the club president, and his nickname 'The Colonel', was no fluke. He had a large white handlebar mustache, which was kept in Craig David style meticulous nature. He was over six feet, glistening white hair, and simply carried himself like a colonel. Spoke as though he were a colonel, walked as though he were a colonel etc.
On this fine morning after breakfast, the three men went back to their room to pack for the days game. Whilst the youngster and the 'standard' older man remained clothed, the colonel was undressing himself to the complete buff. "What's going on here?" Ushered the young hotshot. "I need to apply the cream for my piles", replied the colonel. The other two sniggered, whilst the colonel placed one leg up on the table in the centre of the room, with his rear end facing the door. Totally starkers. The only thing he had on was the radio. He flexed his fingers to begin application, just as there was a knocking at the door. The two others could immediately sense a great stitching opportunity, but to another colleague it might not be that amusing they thought. The colonel was motionless with shock, as though somebody had hit pause on the remote. The silence was broken as the young hotshot bit the bullet. "Come in" he bellowed. The colonel went blue and faced the other direction, still one hand at bourneville. The chambermaid entered with three fresh towels. She dropped the towels and screached, saw the handlebar sides from behind the head and the other two laughing and fled the scene.
The colonel never forgave the youngster, and there were some awkward silences for the rest of the week, particularly when the colonel was passing any members of staff.

European soccer in Thailand

To say that European football leagues have influenced Thai culture would be an understatement. You cannot walk down a street without bumping into a top flight strip from either England, Spain, Italy or some form of international footy fabric.
It was during a wet afternoon, and I was having a quiet Singha or three with a mate, when a large ice lorry turned up to offload its ice to a bar on the other side of the road. A Thai driver got out wearing a hugging Ronaldinho (Barcelona) shirt. He went to the rear of the lorry and flipped the shutter up. This is incorrect. No health and safety in Thailand, so the shutter was well and truly already up. Two comrades appeared from the depth of ice in the lorry, one was attired in a Frank Lampard (Chelsea) shirt, and the other was pretending to be Kaka (Milan). They jumped down and started shuffling bags of ice into a cart, which looked ready to break at any time, and then a Rooney (Man Utd) shirt strolled confidently out of the bar to greet them. We thought this could not continue, but the five fold was complete when Rooney shouted something in Thai to deep inside the bar, which fired up another character who approached the door. Me and my mate were trying to guess the club that he would be wearing, but the new guy trumped us by wearing a Michael Ballack (Germany) international shirt. It was a commentators wet dream, and we were thoroughly enjoying watching Ronaldinho throw bags to Frank Lampard, who passed them to Kaka, who put the ice into the cart. Wayne Rooney then took the cart to the bar door, and it was all Ballack from there on in. Do Thai's watch european soccer? I'm guessing it may have have crossed their lives at some point.

Toilet Destruction

After basking to redness in the equatorial asian sun, myself and two fellow comrades decided to go for a mexican. How very asian! Anyway, we were given a table and thrown magaritas until we were ready to order. About 20 minutes later, we were ready, although not before one friend had to dash to the toilet as he announced he had an a*** like a Japanese flag. (Feel free to ask for a resume of terms). We ordered for him in his absence, and 10 minutes later he returned to the table walking like John Wayne after a grand national on a buffalo. He sat in pain, but laughing. Why? We asked. It turns out that he was supposed to use the pedal bin for used paper, although after the drinking he couldn't read, and therefore had managed to block the toilet. He wasn't sure what to do. Never going to miss any holiday snap opportunity, I ventured to the toilet only to immediately find some poor local workman on his hands and knees with a long metal rod. It looked like a scene from Marathon Man. I used the urinal, trying not to laugh out loud, which was tougher than a George Foreman steak. I returned to the table, both of us laughing, and i told the other two about the poor man on his knees. A few minutes later the staff were all laughing and pointing at my mate, as if to say, 'haha, he's the phantom toilet blocker'. Everyone in the joint was laughing now, and our table errupted when the local plumber was called in with his tool kit some 15 mins later. Comedy genius.
Feeling guilty, upon leaving, my mate walked past the lady who served us and gave her a decent tip. And I quote. "Thanks for a lovely meal. Sorry about your toilet".
There is a photo of the sign in the toilet to follow shortly........