When I were a lad, and still living under my parents’ roof, my mother used to ask me exactly the same question at least two hundred times a year, in tones which varied from mild annoyance to genuine anger, and eventually, to weary resignation. She only ever asked it on weekdays, usually sometime between 7.45 and 8.15am.

“OLAF!!!” (whatever tone was being employed, she’d always shout my name to get my attention), “do you think that when you’re an adult, living out in the real world, you’ll be able to lie in bed all morning, scratching your ass?”
To which I would reply, with typical teenage temerity, “Yes mother, I do think that. Definitely!”
To which she would sigh and reply, “Well – I’m telling you now that you won’t!”
To which I would wittily and articulately retort, “Will so!” And so on, until I reluctantly vacated my warm bed and began getting my stuff ready for school (Fags? Check! Matches? Check! Walkman? Check...).
Sad to say, but it’s one of my few childhood ambitions which I’ve managed to realise. When I first left home, I went to work in a nightclub. Nightclubs being as good as their name, I never had to get up in the mornings. After that, I managed a band for a couple of years. We were rarely in bed by 7.45am. I was on the dole for a while, but the Dept of Social Welfare very considerately gave me an afternoon sign-on time. Then I became a freelance journalist, and they still didn’t change my sign-on time.
Today, a half lifetime of lie-ins later, I’m 34 years of age, self-unemployed and, having temporarily abandoned all of my responsibilities back home, living a quiet and uncomplicated existence on an island beach in Thailand. I’m usually woken up quite early (around midday) by the sounds of dogs barking, children playing, ‘long-tail’ boat engines starting or the strange chants and hummings of a yoga class practising on the shore. I look out the window – or rather, through the shutters (there’s no actual glass) – take in the view, recall my mother’s words, and then roll over and start scratching my ass.
Sadly, there’s some trouble in this paradise, a fag-end floating in the head of this otherwise perfect metaphoric pint. Namely that there’s a very good reason why I’m scratching my ass in the mornings. It’s the same reason I’m scratching it in the evenings. I scratch my ass not for idle pleasure, but because.. my... ass... is... itchy! Extremely so. As are many other parts of my body. In patches, my skin is lumpier than a borstal porridge.
I’ve been bitten, you see. Repeatedly. I share my living quarters, and obviously my bed, with a wide variety of insects and a smaller number of noisy, lizard-like creatures called geckos. The bigger geckos – they range in size from “Hey there, little fella!” to “HELP! HELP!!” – will bite you, but only if cornered. The mosquitos, ants and sundry other unidentified creepy-crawlies don’t seem to need any excuse. To their eyes, noses and feelers, I’m an all-you-can-eat feast of flesh – a lightly toasted human, basted in suntan lotion and spilled beer, and served on a bed of...well, served on a bed.
In a place that’s short of neither, they’re driving me both nuts and bananas. And speaking of nuts and bananas, if it wasn’t for a strategically placed sock (a la Red Hot Chili Peppers) my situation would be far, far worse.
I’ve tried everything short of catching a flight home. Every night I spray both myself and the sheets with a herbal insect repellent so spacey and hallucinogenic that it’s rendered the use of any illegal stimulants totally unnecessary. I sleep under a white, funereal, shroud-like mosquito net that gives me almost as many creeps as it keeps out. I don’t just have a mosquito net, I also have a mosquito racquet – literally an electrified tennis racquet that you periodically wave around your immediate vicinity, like a manic Tim Henman, to a hugely satisfying soundtrack of snaps, crackles and pops.
However, it’s all to no avail. Insect bites are a fact of life over here. Like ‘em or lump ‘em (with the emphasis on ‘lump’). The only problem is I think I’m developing a bit of a herbal repellent addiction. The hallucinations are certainly becoming more vivid. The other day I thought I saw an article in the Bangkok Post that said they had been clamping ambulances at Dublin Airport. And that couldn’t possibly have been. Could it?

The insects might be annoying, but at least they can’t kill you. Dying being something I’d particularly like to avoid while in this strange land, I’ve done some research and discovered that, thankfully, there’s not too much around here that can kill. Sure, there are snakes – especially cobras – but they rarely venture out of the surrounding jungle. Or the seedy backrooms of the girlie bars.
There is, however, the surrounding sea. This contains sharks, sea snakes, poisonous jellyfish and weak-bladdered children, all of which are best avoided. However, as the whole world learnt that fateful morning last December, the water itself can be far more dangerous than anything swimming in it.
You couldn’t forget the events of December 26th if you tried. It’s on every other TV screen over here. Some enterprising soul has gathered together about two hours worth of tsunami footage – both tourist video and news broadcasts – and put it on a DVD, imaginatively titled ‘Tsunami Disaster’, which sells for about three euro. As far as I can tell, it’s a purely commercial venture and the profits aren’t going to help the victims, which makes it something akin to a snuff movie. Still, it’s compelling viewing. One moment the sea is calm, blue and inviting. Sixty seconds later it’s an awesome wave of mutilation.
The tourist footage is particularly shocking. Much of the TV news stuff was filmed just after the event, but the actual wave – or rather waves (there were three of them in many places) – was mostly captured on amateur video from various different hotel balconies in various different countries. The disembodied narrations come in a number of languages and accents, but always go something along the lines of:
“Wow!...Look at the size of that...Honey! Kids!...Come and look at this!...Look at that wave...Wow!...That’s really something, isn’t it, Sarah?...Yeah!...Amazing!... Wow!...It’s just enormous!...Oh...NO!!...NO!!!...LOOK AT THAT! ...JESUS CHRIST!!...FUCK!!!...FUCK!!!!...HONEY – GET THE KIDS!!!...QUICK!!!... JASON!!...SARAH!!!...RUN!!! RUN!!!!!”
At which point the visuals either stop altogether or become too jerky to follow as the cameraman flees for his life. Frightening stuff. Especially when you sleep, as I do, in a fragile hut with the unpredictable sounds of the tide crashing in, just metres away. I’m giving serious consideration to moving off the shore and up the hill. But then that’s in the jungle. With those lethal cobras (not to mention the falling coconuts).

Apologies that this column has been so preoccupied with danger and disaster, but death has been on my mind ever since I unintentionally went to a funeral the other day. I’d just doused myself in the herbal insect repellent when Mr. Pong came over and asked me if I wanted to go to the temple in Thong Sala where his friend was “having a fire.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sounds like fun! Will we pick up some marshmallows?”
“Marshmallows?” he said. “I dun unnerstan.”
When we arrived at the temple, the courtyard was jammed full of smiley, happy Thais of all ages – young, old and totally indeterminable – all laughing and joking amongst themselves. It was a great atmosphere. Happy and contagiously cheerful. We were led to a white-clothed table which was immediately laid out with a wide selection of traditional Thai dishes. Pong’s a popular guy and there was a constant stream of visitors to our table. It was like being at the first hour of an Irish wedding.
Because of all the joviality and repellent, it took me a while to notice the framed photograph amidst the flowers, and realise what was going on. When Pong said his friend was “having a fire”, he actually meant that he was being cremated. The seventeen-year-old son of one of his old schoolfriends had just been killed in a motorbike crash (the half-built, churning, corkscrew roads being the island’s Numero Uno health hazard). And the happy-looking couple who’d come over to our table to say hello were his parents.
The lesson of the day being that just because a Thai person looks happy, doesn’t mean they are. It’s in Buddhist culture to accept your fate, laugh in the face of adversity, and hide your true emotions. When life hands you a lemon, you make lemonade. And then serve it with a smile to the guests at your child’s cremation.
It was the happiest funeral I’ve ever attended. There was real grief in the air, but it was better disguised than boredom in a brothel. I was wearing knee-length shorts, which isn’t strictly allowed in temples, but nobody said anything. Otherwise, there was only one awkward moment. A farang faux-pas.
“Olaf,” Mr. Pong hissed, in an urgent whisper. “Stop scratching ass! Velly disrespectful!”