Temporarily Thairish has spent the last few weeks feeling like Henry Hill, the gangster turned state’s witness, in the closing scene of Goodfellas.

I used to have it all – the air-conditioned hut on the tropical island beach, the naked chicks, the cheap booze, the quality drugs, the absence of a smoking ban. Now, I’m just like any other poor schmuck.
That’s right – I’m back home.
No longer Temporarily Thairish. Just Irish. Sob!
Actually it’s not that bad. When I say ‘home’, I don’t just mean Ireland. Until such time as I can organise a place of my own, I’m also back living in my parents’ house for the first time in seventeen years. This is depressing beyond belief, but luckily only for them.
Between withering looks and heavy sighs, my father occasionally asks, “When are you going to cop on to yourself and finally take some responsibility for your life?”
“Ah, come on!” I reply. “I’m only 35-years-old! And by the way, we’re out of red wine. Oh – and white.”
Truth be told, I’m actually quite enjoying the perks of being back under the same roof as my dear old dum and mad (as I affectionately call them). Home-cooked meals, well-stocked drinks cabinet, free taxi and laundry service.
I’m wondering why I ever left...

Speaking of leaving, it wasn’t an easy decision to leave the Land of Smiles either. Still, it was somewhat overdue. When I first arrived in Thailand in February of last year, I’d only planned on staying for three months. Next thing I knew it was almost Christmas. Figuring that, if I returned then, I’d probably be expected to bring presents, I took the cheaper option of staying put.
As my first year anniversary approached, though, I realised that it was now or never. I know numerous people on Koh Pha-Ngan who came here for a few months years ago and never got it together to leave. Did I want to become one of them? Spend the rest of my days living on a beach, being drip-fed “wodka” by Mr. Pong?
I could think of far worse options. Still, there were things drawing me back to Ireland. And if it didn’t work out, I could always come back.
I booked a flight and prepared to become Temporarily Irish for a while.
I actually left the island a fortnight before my departure date. Despite numerous attempts, I still hadn’t visited the ancient-walled city of Chiang Mai, 1500 miles to the north, and I definitely wanted to get there before I left. It’s only a two-hour flight from Koh Samui, but I wanted to see more of the country and decided that the bus journey would be more scenic.
Unfortunately, just as I sat down in the bus, I realised that my flip-flops had passed their smell-by date. As did the poor guy sitting beside me.
Ah well, it was only a 24-hour journey.
Chiang Mai was wonderful, far more relaxed and bohemian than Bangkok, and I wished I’d visited earlier. For all of its many attractions, though, the main thrust of its tourism trade is concerned with things outside the city. There’s a wide variety of jungle treks and mountain tours on offer.
Having lived on the edge of a jungle for most of my time in Thailand, I didn’t have much interest in doing a trek. I did, however, want to visit the Padaung hill-tribe (or long-necked Karen people as they are better known), who live in the mountains just an hour outside of the city. Unfortunately, when I arrived for the tour, it turned out that I was the only person going (a group of French tourists had apparently cancelled at the last moment). The Thai driver was still willing to take me, provided I paid seven times the fee. I decided to pass.
Later that day I spotted the following letter in the Bangkok Post, and didn’t feel so bad about missing the trip: “The Thai government has intentionally forced the Padaung to maintain the tradition of growing long necks through childhood and adolescence – a practice which is no longer widely followed – in order to support a tourist industry that promotes monkey, reptile and long-neck shows. Thai officials have repeatedly threatened groups that do not oblige to return them to Burma – not for peaceful repatriation but to be caught again in the middle of a long violent conflict. Most Padaung will therefore not voluntarily return to Burma, but rather stay in Thailand where they will enjoy better conditions than other minorities who had to flee from Burma. In exchange they have to grow long necks for corrupt Thai state officials who make sure that tour operators can make money with tourists.”
The neck of some people, eh?

On the night I was leaving, 60,000 people turned out in Bangkok to see me off, all wearing yellow tops and angrily screaming, “OUT! OUT! OUT!”
Although I later discovered that they were actually protesting against PM Thaksin, at the time I was asking myself, “Why does this keep on happening to me?”
I’d been back in Dublin less than an hour before I got robbed. I went into a shop at the airport, selected a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and presented it to the surly-looking, acne-scarred youth behind the counter.
“That’ll be €1.60,” he demanded.
“No, it’s only the mineral water,” I assured him, presuming that he’d made a mistake.
“Yeah, mineral water – €1.60,” he repeated.
“You can’t be serious!” I exclaimed, aghast (the same-sized bottle costs just 10 cents in Thailand). Unfortunately, he was. I’d forgotten how ridiculously expensive Ireland is these days.
I’d also forgotten that I was no longer in Thailand. As I stepped back from the counter to search my pockets for some more change, the assistant snapped, “Hey! Put your fuckin’ shoes back on!”
There was a bag of mail waiting for me at the Hot Press offices – the usual batch of death threats, religious pamphlets, promo CD’s and invitations to launches and openings that had long-since been launched and opened. Two items caught my eye though.
The first was a hand-written, lick-arsey letter from the manager of a down-and-going Irish band who shall remain nameless (and probably fameless). The letter was a classic of insincerity. “I’ve been reading your stuff every issue and I think your column’s brilliant,” it lied. “It’s definitely the best thing in the magazine. Whatever they’re paying you, it isn’t half-enough.” It continued in this vanity-appealing vein for about half-a-page before getting to the point. “So anyway, I was wondering if you could make it down to Cork next weekend to check out the band.”
The letter was dated last May. Reading my stuff every issue, surely he was aware that it was being written 7,000 miles away. Or maybe he was willing to pay my return air-fare from Thailand to catch his covers band? Hmmm...
The second item of mail gave me a less cynical laugh. It was a postcard from a reader who’d actually read my stuff. Sent last June, shortly after my Better-Prettier-Half had joined me in South-east Asia, it simply said: “Dear Olaf – Wonderful to hear that yourself and Leigh have been re-united. Hope her exams went well. Was it Junior or Leaving Cert?”
It was signed A.E. Ceart. This may be the correspondent’s name. Or it may be a joke in Irish that I don’t get. Either way, the card gave me a laugh.
(And it was, of course, Leaving Cert. I do have some standards).
Of course, one of the great things about coming back to a place after a year away is the catching up with old friends, acquaintances and barmen. On my first day back in Dublin, I walked into the International Bar on Wicklow Street (where everybody knows your shame), and waited for John the barman to leap out from behind the counter and present me with my ‘welcome back’ pint. Instead, he gave me a brief nod and said, “The usual, Olaf?”
“Eh... yeah,” I said, briefly taken aback at his seeming indifference to my unexpected return. “But are you not going to welcome me back?”
“Oh, were you away?” he asked.
“I was in Thailand for a year!” I told him.
“Yeah, suppose you look like you’ve gotta bit of a tan alright,” he conceded. Then he placed a pint of Guinness in front of me. “Good time, yeah? That’ll be €4, boss.”
“What?” I protested. “I’ve been away a year and you’re not gonna give me a free pint to welcome me back?”
John considered this for a moment or two. Then he shook his head. “Fuck off, ye bleedin’ muppet!”
Ah, it’s good to be back all the same...