Evil to the core

Temporarily Thairish was quietly meditating the other day when, out of the blue, a startling revelation struck. That chick in The Crying Game was really a man!. Further investigation of this unexpected brainwave revealed that it was, in fact, a Mayor Quimby line from The Simpsons that had simply popped up uninvited from the murky depths of my TV-soaked subconscious, and not really a revelation at all.
Still, it had jolted me from my hammock suddenly enough for the Double Duke staff to be looking over. Not wanting the moment to be entirely wasted, I signalled for another beer. Then, I went back to meditating.
Four, or maybe five, beers later, another revelation struck. This one turned out to be a genuine Eureka! moment.
Surprisingly, although I was using Buddhist techniques (it’s a little known fact that Lord Siddhartha Gautama regularly employed beer and hammocks in his search for spiritual enlightenment and the ultimate truth), this was a Christian-related revelation.
Curiously, I can actually recall all of my thought processes in the lead-up to this epiphany. In honour of the late James Joyce, I’d like to now present this to you in stream-of-consciousness, interior monologue form.
My hammock was swinging gently in the breeze and my inner voice was saying: “Ahhh, this is nice...beer’s a bit warm though...oh baby, why did you go?...forget it, man - take another slug...a healthy slug...an unhealthy slug...ha, ha!...Olaf, you’re a funny fucker, even if you do say so yourself...myself?...I-self?...ha, ha!...see what I mean?...ooh, tits!...another sip...fuck, beer’s like piss...oh baby, why did you...more tits!...wonder where she’s...Oh baby, why did...Belch!... God, I’d murder a pint of cider...cool...sparkling...nothing added but time . . bush-drinkin’...Ha, ha!....made from apples...God, I’d love a...apples...God...apples...OH MY GOD!!...APPLES!!!...GOD – APPLES!...FORBIDDEN FRUIT!...ADAM AND EVE!...OF COURSE!...TITS!!!...I MEAN, APPLES!!!”
The epiphany struck like a manic, drug-crazed tattoo-artist, leaving a mark that will remain forever etched on the inner walls of my cranium.
It was a moment of absolute clarity. Apples! I felt like Isaac Newton. In a hammock. Apples! Of course! Of course!
At this point, you’re undoubtedly wondering what the fuck I’m on about. Well, read on and I’ll explain. Prepare yourselves for the shocking truth, readers. Shocking Truth: apples are the cause of all the misery, suffering and boybands in this world! Yes, apples! Truly, they have evil at their cores.
The truth has always been staring us in the face but, until I came along (it’s T-Y-A-R-A-N-S-E-N), nobody seemed to recognise it.
Why did Adam and Eve get turfed out of the Garden of Eden on their suddenly shameful bare behinds? Because they ate an apple. God told them they could do absolutely anything they liked, but they had to lay off the so-called “forbidden fruit.” Typically female, Eve didn’t listen and look what happened. Disaster! She put some clothes on.
The thing is – and I’m going to capitalise, italicise and bold this next statement because I firmly believe it may be the most important revelation in human history – AT NO POINT DID GOD EVER TELL US THAT IT WAS NOW OKAY TO EAT APPLES!
Do you see where I’m coming from? It’s obvious really. Apples are still forbidden fruit. There’s no good reason why, it’s just the way He wants it. Mankind’s been crunching away for centuries, totally oblivious to the fact that we’ve really been pissing God off.
No wonder we have the likes of George W. Bush, Ian Paisley and David Hasselhoff stalking the planet.
It’s not like the Big Man Upstairs hasn’t dropped us some heavy hints over the years. The Beatles were totally unstoppable until they started Apple Records. For reasons I don’t fully understand, some computer geeks regard the Apple. Mac as the root of all evil.
Terrorists attacked the Big Apple on 9/11. Renowned hell-raiser Liam Gallagher is married to a woman named Apple-ton. I myself once broke an expensive crown on my front tooth by biting into a Granny Smith too hard. I can’t think of any more just now, but surely these are reasons enough to ban this evil fruit.
I tried to explain my revelation to the Pongs but, as Buddhists, they just didn’t get it. In fact, they hadn’t even heard of Adam and Eve (“Were dey de people who stayed here last munt?” Mr. Pong asked).
Anyway, you read it here first. You’ve all been warned. An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but every time you munch a crunchy Golden Delicious, or sink down a cool refreshing Bulmers, baby Jesus sheds a tear. And Garth sells another CD.
Spread the word. Burn the orchards!
Speaking of fruit, the Thai government recently launched a major publicity campaign in Sanam Luang to promote longan.
Sweet, succulent and fleshy, longan has long been grown in the North of Thailand as a native plant. In the last 20 years, mainly thanks to increased trade with China, production of the fruit has expanded more than tenfold, and many Thai farmers have come to rely solely on it for their income. Some of them are now regretting it.
According to figures released by the Agricultural Economics Office 45,773 tonnes of the fruit were produced in 1983.
By last year, that had increased to 702,487 tonnes. That’s a whole lotta longan. As production increased, the law of supply and demand kicked in and the price naturally plummeted.
This prompted the government to launch a price stabilisation scheme, which has recently been revealed to be plagued with corruption. Fifty thousand tonnes of dried longan has gone “missing” from government warehouses, and the state is out of pocket to the tune of more than two billion baht.
Of course, the missing fruit may never actually have existed. Police have so far questioned 49,016 farmers, of whom 4,581 have admitted they lied about selling fresh longan for processing.
Businessmen, civil servants and, surprisingly, politicians have also been interrogated and, all told, 8,400 people are to be charged.
Most of them will simply be fined, but the worst offenders will receive prison sentences for fraud or corruption. Thai law being what it is, some will probably be put away for a very longan time.
I received a disgusted phone call from Holland the other day, which disappointed me no end (usually I prefer any phone calls from Holland to be disgusting). A Dutch couple who had been staying here had just arrived back into Schipol Airport, when an eagle-eyed Customs officer noticed that the bracelet the girl was wearing was made out of turtle shell. She had bought it on a Ko Pha Ngan beach, oblivious to the fact that it’s totally illegal to make jewellery from turtle shells. Like ivory and coral, it’s heavily protected.
Having unfortunately come to customs’ attention, their bags were subsequently searched and the usual returning-from-Thailand tourist’s cache of pirate CDs, DVDs and video games was discovered.
Everything was confiscated and they were fined €260.
Welcome home!
Seriously, Prime Minister Thaksin must spit every time he hears mention of the newly built, and now-delayed, Suvarnabhumi Airport. First there was the hugely damaging corruption scandal about the mega-expensive CTX baggage scanners, which still isn’t over and may yet claim some Thai scalps.
Then, his sister was accused of accepting bribes related to the airport car-parks (revealed when the person who‚d paid the alleged bribe got neither the parking contract nor his money back). Now, though, the cracks are really beginning to show.
I mean that literally. According to a recent front page report in the Bangkok Post, Thaksin invited a team of US aviation experts over to give him an independent assessment of the airport (which has been built on swampy Bangkok ground). Having concluded their inspection, the Americans allegedly insisted that the western and eastern runways would have to be completely reconstructed as there were cracks, big enough to sink the nose wheel of an aircraft on them.
The construction technique was called into question, with the experts reportedly stating that if the runways were merely repaired, they would then be unacceptable internationally. Very bad news for a wannabe international airport.
Thaksin denied that there was a serious problem, though, reassuring the public: “I can confirm that there is not a problem at all. Everything is fine. Believe me. If there is something, I will tell you. Don’t worry that our nation is that bad or underdeveloped. There's nothing. Don’t worry. Be calm. I will see to it well. It is about the national reputation.”
Immediately after the story broke, the runways were inspected again. Although there were some small cracks found on their shoulders, apparently there were none found on the crucial touch-down points.
The Post is now facing an expensive criminal libel suit. If they lose, editor Kowit Sanandang faces a maximum two years imprisonment and a 200,000 baht fine. The NBIA (New Bangkok International Airport) is also planning to sue the paper in Civil Court, demanding one billion baht compensation. I’ll keep you, ‘em, posted.
Whatever about the libel case, hopefully the runway issue will be resolved soon. But with all the other scandals surrounding Suvarnabhumi, there may still be some political crash landings ahead.
I was sitting in the Double Duke watching a movie one afternoon last week, when Mr. Pong breezed through.
“Olaf, you look Thai,” he said to me. “Why thank you, Pong,” I blushed. “My tan has been coming along nicely. I think I’m probably still a bit too tall to pass as a Thai person, but I really appreciate the compliment.”
Pong gave me a funny look and then added, rather unnecessarily, “Me Thai too!” “Em...yeah, I know you are,” I replied, bemused, but he was already off again.
A few minutes later, a couple of young German backpackers named Tomas and Rightsaid wandered in (Rightsaid’s actual name is Manfred, but he was really asking for it when he told me, “I haff heard all ze jokes about my name before”). They stood between me and the TV screen, looking like they had something serious to ask of me. When they did ask, I could barely believe my ears.
“We are going to wank!” Tomas announced, enthusiastically. “Do you want to come wank with us?”
I was dumbstruck. They really didn’t look the types, but you never can tell these days.
Eventually, I managed a reply, “Em … no thanks. I’d really rather not.”
Tomas seemed accepting enough of this, but Rightsaid was a little bit pushy. “Oh, come ride vit us!” he urged. “It vill be fun!”
“Seriously guys – no! I’m tempted, maybe even a little curious, but...piss off!”
Thankfully, this most unwelcome discourse was interrupted by the arrival of one of Pong’s non-English speaking, but very friendly, Burmese staff, who placed a large barbecued tuna fish in front of me.
By “large” I mean that John West would probably get about twenty tins out of it. Apparently this was the tuna sandwich I had ordered for my lunch.
“I asked for a tuna sandwich,” I complained. “This is just a really big fish.”
She looked at me, pointed at the fish and smiled, before returning to the kitchen to chalk about 350 baht onto my bill, rather than the 50 a sandwich would’ve cost. She’d forgotten my apple juice as well! I sighed and picked up my fork. Not my day! But at least Tomas and Rightsaid had disappeared off on their erotic adventures.
I’d barely started on the fish when an English couple who’d checked in the night before arrived back from the beach. I hadn’t yet spoken to them but, as often happens here, they decided to introduce themselves.
For some reason, they did this incredibly slowly, as though I was an elderly relative or something. “Hello! My. . name... is...John,” said John, pointing to himself so I wouldn’t confuse him with the tuna fish. “And this,” he turned and pointed to his partner, “is Kelly. We...are...from...Eng-land. Mr. Pong...tells... us...that...you” – pointing at me - “are... from...Iceland.”
I could barely contain a laugh. “No, man, I’m from Ireland.”
Undoubtedly confused by my deep Icelandic tan, they seemed surprisingly suspicious of my claim to Irish nationality. “But Mr. Pong said you were from Iceland,” Kelly protested.
“No, it’s just the way he pronounces it,” I assured her. “I’m Irish.”
“What’s your name?”
“Er...Olaf Tyaransen.”
I’ll spare you the rest of that memorable conversation. After a while (about a tenth of the tuna), Mrs. Pong came out to say hello. “Oh, you not go with de German peoples?” she asked. “Pong not go wit dem either.”
I was shocked. Mrs. Pong knew about this? They asked Pong to join them as well? The slags! Fortunately, before I embarrassed myself by saying anything, all became clear. “Dey had to go to de bank in Thong Sala,” she explained. “Pong velly tired dough. He tell me you look tired too.”
Up on the TV screen, Bill Murray was having serious trouble with a Japanese exercise machine. “What de name of dis film?” Mrs. Pong asked.
“It’s called Lost In Translation,” I said.
She pointed at Bill Murray. “He lost?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” I replied.
“Ah, he lost,” she said, nodding sagely. Then, quizzically frowning, she enquired, “Where is Translation? I nevva heard of dat place!”