Bus Breakdown Part One: Musical Mountain

So the bus has broken down as I travel from Luang Probang to Vang Vieng. South East Asian transport is less than reliable. Disgruntled, me and fellow passengers sit on the tarmac in the sun smoking cigs and drinking whiskey some German Guy has pulled from his bag. It tastes like dog piss. I go for a stroll on my own. Seeing a comfortable looking mud mound at the side of the road I perch and get my music and speakers out. I select shuffle mode on the i-pod,'Talisman' by 'Air' comes on and I feel like writing.

It's going to be three hours before the mechanic will be out to help us. We're only one hour and some into the six hour journey, frustrating. However the French, electronic two piece are calming my being, their tranquil sound lending itself favourably to the scenery. It's pretty peaceful up here. We're not deep in the jungle but the bush is dense and a serene quiet percolates the music. The mountains are perfect in form as though hand crafted by The Lord himself. 'The Upsetters' come on. Nothing like a bit of Reggae to raise the spirit. The sun is harsh on the back of my neck but an occasional cool breeze strikes a decent balance. A butterfly floats above a flower, hovering perfectly over the pollenous plant. I see what Mohammed Ali was talking about.

'New Slang' by 'The Shins', probably more apt a song for the circumstance. I'm feeling pretty helpless right now. Nobody is around so I have a good sing although the effect of copious cigarettes and booze on my throat in the last few weeks does nothing for the rendition. The activity of the clouds make interesting shadows across the monumental landscape. The Laos wilderness continues to amaze. Aha, 'Nirvana', 'In Bloom', I guess I should feel pretty angry right now. This is meant to be a 'VIP' bus, it's fucking terrible, no air conditioning and barely able to roll up a hill...then breaks. I'll let them off though, it's a Third World Country after all.

I start throwing stones. Don't underestimate the fun a guy can have throwing stones. There aren't any real targets amongst the forest in front of me so I just launch them as far as I can. My arm hurts though so I turn my attention to a stick near the road. It's got the remnants of a plastic bag on top of it, recently caught in the wind perhaps, eye level, so I practice my baseball pitch. Not that I have any particular plans to develop this talent. There's a wooden hut buried amidst the greenery on the hill face. What the Hell is that used for? There's so much I don't understand about this country. 'Hey Joni' by 'Sonic Youth', funny coincidence. 'Queens Of The Stone Age' next, I'm kind of enjoying myself now, just me, up a hill, throwing stones. Since arriving in Bangkok it seems I've had people around me constantly, in contrast to the perception of being a lone traveller. Sometimes a man needs space, a sanctuary of sorts to revert to for peace and reflection. This mount is becoming just that.

'Sam Cooke', 'Chain Gang'. I wouldn't be surprised to see a line of convicts up here cutting grass. It's hot and removed from society, a perfect location for inmates to use up some energy. 'Embrace The Chaos' by 'Ozomatli' introduces itself. I guess that's exactly what I've been doing since I got here in Asia, certainly in Luang Probang, that was an insane stop. Stayed an extra four days embracing chaos, and now Neil Young. Oh, Neil Young.

Time to walk back to the bus I suppose, see if there's been any developments. No point getting too wound up about the situation, especially after listening to all this marvellous music, difficult to be pissed off after that showing. I guess we'll get there eventually.

Eazy Rider

So me and the American have decided to crack on with our plans to bike through Northern Laos. There are plenty of reasons to oppose doing this; certain death on the craggy roads being a prominent one; but the fact of the matter is that doing so is unquestionably the best way to see this country, for me the only real way to get an authentic snapshot of this land and it's people.

It's no exaggeration to say that I have already fallen in love with Laos. I cannot eulogize enough about the intense beauty of the landscape here, and if common word is to be believed, the North of the country is as rustic and dynamic as it gets in Southeast Asia.
After much consideration I've decided to ride on the back of my travel buddies bike as opposed to manning a separate vehicle. Since crashing a scooter in Pai my confidence has been shot when it comes to automobiling, and seen as though I ate concrete on a reasonably developed highway in Thailand it's probably best I leave it in the hands of someone who knows; and Tripp can handle a motorbike.

We set off from Luang Nuamtha, a reasonably developed town in comparison to whats apparently in store. Tarmac road soon becomes dirt track. Within an hour we are in real wilderness. The jungle continues to thicken as the roads deteriorate. The scenery is so graphic, a complex labyrinth of green's entwine to color abundant hills. Around each bend the countryside expands in a new way, similar but completely different. It's impossible to get bored of this. Tree's clamor for space on steep cliffs, fighting like school children in a dinner queue. The scene is motionless but somehow entirely vibrant and active, like a William Hogarth street scene, or more poignantly, a Van Gogh interpretation of Southern France. However this picture needs no embellishment.

The fields and mountains have a mystical quality, we are riding through intense jungle now. Four or five hours North of the town we initially departed, a few kilometers from the Chinese border, I begin to get thirsty. Time for another beer. Riding on the back of the vehicle I can indulge in alcohol as I wish, and I frequently do. As though the Cosmos is reading my mind we pass a remote village were some kind of celebration occurring. A marquee of sorts has been erected with a band playing and a carnival atmosphere pervades the small community. We've passed a dozen villages like this but you usually only see a handful of locals, predominantly children playing by the road as the rest of the occupants are at work tending animals or rice fields. It's seems everyone in the locality is involved here.

Me and Tripp discuss whether our presence will be welcome at such an intimate looking affair. Traditional dances are performed whilst some people don symbolic head wear and attire. It's a tough call. After a brief discussion I cajole the Yank into engagement. We apprehensively stroll over to the gatherings solitary stall, locals simply stare at us, it's hard to ascertain what their thoughts are at this initial stage. We order a beer each, remarkably warm I should add, and take a seat on a dusty mound at the side of the road. From this position we can observe the developments of the humble gala. Within a minute a swell of locals begins to grow behind us on the driveway. We cant see it necessarily, as we have our backs to them, but their presence can be felt, sixth sense like. With an occasional turn of the head they appear to be just gawping at us and talking amongst themselves. They still give no indication of their feeling towards us, be it good or ill. At this point my heart is racing.

Suddenly an elder, or at least somebody with some kind of authority in the tribe, intervenes, shouting at the collective of watchers that has impulsively amassed. We try to decipher what he's shouting about. Is he telling them the attention they give us is unwarranted? That we are undeserving of such a response? Or is he telling them to back off and give us some peace? Tense moments. Fortunately the latter is true. Within seconds the same man is ushering us away from the dirt floor to his table. The mood has completely changed. We are given fruit and whiskey shots; the foulest whiskey Ive ever tasted I have to admit, tastes like excrement; regardless I of course proceed to drink a succession of them. They are so welcoming and friendly, so hospitable and genuinely nice, it's all a little overwhelming. Everybody wants to say hello, apart from those who are seemingly quite disturbed by our presence, those who cant work out why we are there?

We buy a bunch more beers and share them with the collective of guys we have settled with at a table. The beer is poured over ice into a dish and passed around, I guess this is common practice. What's mine is yours in this operational communist country and our beers have soon been consumed, as have my Marlboro Red's, which have been set upon like a bloodied carcass by a pack of Piranha. Again, we buy a whole load more beer and cig's, anything to prolong this wonderment. We are suddenly encouraged to join the circular dance under the marquee. We're not sure if there is a religious element to this but with a twist of the arm me and Tripp are dropping shapes with the locals in the loop. It seems that a traditional dance and a more contemporary effort alternate through the day. The former is a slowy. Men and women have set roles here, interchanging rhythmically, synchronized in their movements and performing some kind of specialist hand movement, a wave of sorts. The second dance is crazy. The records are fast and upbeat, the style of the music somewhere between rock and trance, think of an instrumental version of 'BOB' by Outkast. Genuinely good stuff! This boogie is far more liberal and free and unrestrained, youngsters gyrate on each other like rampant dogs. For such a sexually conservative society this is far out. After a few songs I'm in the mix, girls and boys alike basically humping me to the music, unbelievable scenes.

The kids at first were hugely suspicious of us. They aint seen many whitey's before, up close and personal, but before long me and Tripp are chasing them around pretending to be dinosaurs. They are genuinely in raptures, fear becomes fascination within a few hours.
After many hours we decide it's time to move on to the next town, however light is diminishing rapidly. We ask if it's possible for us to sleep in the village, they nod their heads but I'm not sure they understand the request. We depart to a cluster of waves and wide smiles, only to return an hour later when we decide we are totally onto something good and should see the night out. Upon return they haven't broken stride, partying the night away and so pleased to see us again. They trust us now, good and proper.

Me and the American proceed to drink a shit load more of the whiskey shots, I estimate I've had twenty by 10 o'clock, as well as a hamper of Beer Laos, a fine brew. before long me and Tripp are leading a junior dance troop on the make shift dance floor. Kids copy every move we do as elders laugh at their tables at the peripheral edges. I get the 'Lawn Mower' out, they get the 'Lawn Mower' out, Tripp leans back like MC Hammer, they lean back like MC Hammer. Leading a twenty/thirty strong dance procession in a Laos village is surreal. We have them headbanging and doing star jumps, then Tripp finds a large stick and curates a limbo competition...I genuinely don't think they've ever encountered this concept before. Amazing.

It took a while to win the tribe over but by the end of the party we are all good friends. The Laos people are a fine breed, so laid back, and these country folk are as friendly as I've ever encountered. Laos is a Fourth World Country, incredibly poor, in the bottom twenty nations world wide. Looking at the fertile, lush land and fine nature of the natives I find it difficult to comprehend. I can only assume that these people don't want to 'develop'. 80% of Laotians live outside of the cities under communist rule and judging by my insight into their lives they seem reasonably content with their lot.

Today, as a backpacker, I got what I've been after. An exotic, subterranean, rustic experience. After a misunderstanding about where we were staying we had to head to the nearest town which was 42 km away. The journey to Muay Singh was a challenging one, pitch black through mountainous jungle on the back of Tripp's bike who is riding drunk as shit. Well worth it though. Today we experienced what every sincere backpacker craves, some kind of transplantation into another world.Today we achieved just that. It was special, gorgeous and glorious. Tribal partying in Laos is good.

A Timeless Town

Luang Probang is the most beautiful of South East Asian town's, one of the best looking places I've ever set eyes upon. It is undoubtedly tourist centric but the local council or assembly, or who ever it is that runs this place, appear to have limited the effect of flocking holiday-makers upon the regions aesthetic and cultural disposition.

The street's are quaint and peaceful. The colonial French influence is prevalent in the architecture and brick work. Tall, wooden windows sit elegantly on bespoke guesthouses; no two look the same. I get talking to a local shop owner who informs me that signs placed outside shops and advertising hoards are strictly outlawed here in order to keep the pristine style of the town in tact. How wonderful.

I find myself in staying during low season, which is quite favorable. It's not so busy but then this place just wouldn't be quite right all crowded. Because of the quietness I have to endure increased harassment from Tuk Tuk Drivers and Opium sellers but its not a major problem. I really do need to stop befriending street kids selling bracelets though. They follow me around day and night now, whenever they see me, asking for coca-cola or cash. I'm worried observers think I'm a pedophile.

Although this place is famed for its timeless traditions and authentic Oriental culture and scenery, there's plenty to do for an adventuring backpacker like myself. Most places close at eleven in keeping with communist law but there are a couple of exceptions. There is a strange discotheque which stays open til 12.30pm where locals and tourists party side by side. I went there with a guy from Bangkok the other night who knew the words to every song. He danced like a nut for hours. After the disco it's off to the bowling alley which oddly closes at 3pm. Here it's pretty easy to while away the hours rolling and drinking. The Dude and Walter would be in heaven.

In Luang Probang I find myself on my own for the first time since my initial arrival in Bangkok. My travel buddy of three weeks Tripp departed in the early hours of this morning. I'm going to miss that Crazy American Bastard. However the tranquil lay of this land lends itself to a lone wanderer. I'm sure I wont be alone for long. So today I'll hire a bike and take in more of the landscape, and view the monks who rise early for prayer at 5am, lining the Mekong River. A new phase begins in my journey, let the butterflies saunter.

The Hang Over

The day after the extreme night that was. I wake up dazed and confused, in a state aligned with Robert Plant's famous line. What happened last night? Was it all just a strange dream? I hear the Malaria tablets I'm taking can induce psychedelic subconsciousness but after a rinse of the face with cold water it hits me. Reality really can be stranger than fiction.

I feel the urge to tell someone of my obscure travails the previous evening. I'm certain that if I don't get it off my chest soon I'm going to be a homosexual for life. Not that that's a terrible thing or anything....but I'm a straight man! I meet a French girl called Prescillia and we discuss the warped events over Coffee and Tea; no points for guessing who ordered what. After a lengthy discussion I feel better already, not entirely cleansed of the experience though. I amble around the small town in a reflective bubble. The streets and the faces that occupy them have a sinister taint now, a taint that wasn't apparent yesterday. I know I'm being silly, I shouldn't let the perverted events of the day before skew my idealised perception of Luang probang...but its difficult right now.

Evening rolls around and by chance I meet up with Igor and Maria at the food market, the wonderful Spanish Couple, along with Fabian, the most relaxed of Dane's who is a Trainee Doctor come Blues Guitarist. This guy is extremely interesting. After a number of drinks we head to the Bowling Alley where we meet the Legend that is Vinny the Japanese Drummer and 'Çool Hand' Dirk, the Estonian. They're already playing a game with a tall American guy and the hottest of hot Laos girl. She is absolutely incredible. No taller than 5'3, her body is like no other Laotian female I have seen, more comparable to a South American than a South East Asian. Her face is almost perfectly symmetrical. Vinny tells me she was once 'Miss Luang Probang'...I can see why.

Despite their ensuing match they insist we join. I'm suddenly compelled to ask who exactly it was they sent me home with on the motorbike last night. They explain that he's a local bar owner. 'Why do you ask?'; 'Why do I ask', I retort. And so the sequence of explicit incidents of the previous evening are recalled in intricate detail, not a stone left unturned. Everybody present howls with laughter, it's a pretty funny story after all. Dirk apologises, he knew the guy was gay but didn't imagine I would suffer such an ordeal. The group continue to chuckle but the American and the local girl do so with an added vigor, giggling like naughty children in a school yard. "Ýour getting serious amusement from my misfortunes I see?" They continue to belly laugh until the astounding woman finally composes herself and asks in her sultry, exotic tone,"Ýou didn't by any chance speak to a girl called 'Full Moon Party' last night, did you?"...surely not?

The name comes back to me like a thunderbolt from another planet. This one detail I had accidentally omitted when I recalled it just now, the lady's name I had entirely forgotten, swallowed in the oceans of my mind. From the look on my face everybody present knew this detail was significant. "ÍT WAS FUCKING YOU I SPOKE TO ON THE PHONE LAST NIGHT!"

Everyone's mind is slightly blown. Laughter and surprise supersede one another. Luang Probang is not a small town. It is one of the most affluent, biggest and most developed cities in the country. Of all the girls to be playing bowling with here today, I'm with 'Full Moon Party'. She confirms that it was all an elaborate plan. She never intended to come down on her Motorbike, it was a scheme intended to get her friend his nuts. She was a 'fluffer' so to speak, a means to getting me aroused in the genital area for her friend to then enter and suck a dick...perhaps more. The Yank goes on to reveal a further shameful dynamic. He explains that he was present at the time of the phone call. He's been romantically involved with the Lovely Laotion in the last week or so and at the time of the conversation she had had me on loud speaker with him by her side, or should I say below, performing cunnilingus, on her, I imagine, pert vagina. The joke is most definitely on me here.

Her friends give her a torrent abuse for her grooming tactics, albeit with a wry smile. She is visibly embarrassed. She apologises profusely whilst I insist there is absolutely no need. "Friends help friends get sex, right?" I reaffirm there is no need for apology."You've been a empirical part of one of the best stories of my travels, I wouldn't change a thing." I would of course. In a perfect world she'd have came down on her motorbike and allowed me to sample her Oriental Goods, but as a consolation I guess I have a story to tell. She tells me to meet her tomorrow for pool, 8 o'çlock at Bar Sabai, to make ammends. I envisage a glorious end to this story where I end up banging 'Full Moon Party', but circumstances dictate that I cant make it as I have a bus to catch in the morning. What a queer line of events, quite literally. Luang Probang has served as a fertile platform for entertainment, shock and awe. I wont forget this town in a hurry.

Penniless in Laos

Upon Crossing the border of Thailand into Laos the first thing I realise is that I have lost my bank card. Over here when you withdraw cash from an ATM machine you get your money first and then take your card, unlike England were the process is in reverse. In drunken stupors I've managed to lose three cards. Retard.

I exchange what Thai Baht I have left in my wallet for Loation kip and its the equivalent of twelve pounds. Not much at all. I'll save you the cluster fuck that was arranging a new Travelex cash card but the result is that it will take four days to reach this country and I'll have to pick it up from a city four hundred kilometers away. Oh dear.

Luckily I'm still travelling with my American buddy Tripp who's going to spot me some money. We catch the bus together headed for a town called Luang Nam Tha. The bus ride is amazing, dense jungle surrounds the road and cliffs rise high, jagged like a wino's smile. We ride with a family who are so friendly and accommodating. There is just me, Tripp and the family sharing the vehicle. Laos people appear to have softer faces than the Thai's. A gently spoken teenage boy called Nuk attempts to make conversation with us despite his limited English. Such a nice kid. The families have items to deliver along the way, I've noticed a bucket of Leeches on the back seat that is making me a little uncomfortable. We help them unload the cargo at a variety of stops. This feels like my first authentic backpacking experience.

We finally reach our destination and boy is it an eye opener. We're in the middle of fucking nowhere. The strip where we are dropped off looks like a shanty town, more reminiscent of Africa than Asia. Little shops and stalls litter the wide, dusty roads. I've never felt so detached from Western Culture. Tripp hires a bike and I jump on the back as we explore what lies beyond this admittedly ugly road. Literally two minutes off the beaten track everything changes. We find ourselves in a residential area with houses made out of wood and corrugated iron. Kids run naked whilst teenagers zoom past on motorbikes. The cars look like they've been fashioned out of scrap metal. Half Tractor/half tricycle. Weird. A football match is taking place at the side of the road and I beg Tripp to stop so I can show them a thing or two but he wants to maraud further out. Would have been a different story if they were tossing around an American football.

The land begins to open up and we find our ourselves riding through flat rice fields which our dotted all over the country in between mountainous ridges and Jungle. Farmers tend their land and I wonder if this place has changed at all in a thousand years. Dusk closes in and we stop at a riverside restaurant for a bite to eat. We estimate that this joint is geared toward upwardly mobile locals, shop keepers perhaps, and land owners. Still they are fascinated with two white Westerners stopping for dinner. Before we leave we must have toasted our beers a dozen times. Luang Nam Tha is remote but it's a reasonably large town, I wonder how the natives will react when we head out to the villagers? Autographs and portraits if this is anything to go by.

Penniless and without luxury in Laos but happy.

Pai: Biking and Close Calls

Pai is undoubtedly the best place I have visited in Thailand. Me and six others have rented out a guest house and have hired motorbikes with the intention of exploring this tranquil land.

Those who know me know that I'm not an automobile expert. I am without a Driving License and think Jeremy Clarkson is a huge tit, so this quest to conquer the Motorbike is going to be a challenge. Time to grow a pair of testicles. Okay so I'm not going to be handling a Harley Davidson. My ride is a Yamaha 125. Not exactly an American Bad Ass yet. We head to the mountains in search of natural hot springs and a waterfall that one of the guys earmarked on the map. With ever more confident twists of the accelerator I hit impressive speeds on the highway. The land unfolds either side of me. Rice fields and dense bush fall away like fabric either side of a needle on a sewing machine. Driving out of Pai I begin to understand why people love these machines. With the wind blowing in my face and the tarmac below dropping to the Earth's centre, its not difficult to feel emancipated. The freedom they allow physically lends itself to the spirit. Driving through the wilderness I envisige Hunter Thompson riding with the Hell's Angels and Dennis Hopper adventuring in Easy Rider. It's fair to say I'm feeling pretty cool right now.

We get to the springs to find that fifteen minutes is the recommended duration for any person to stay in at one time. It's so hot. The group jokes that we should have brought vegetables and chicken stock and jumped in, cooking, bathing and feeding at the same time. There is a sign that reads 'No Boil Egg' which also rouses amusement. Out of the invigorating springs and en route to the waterfall 'Tripp' the American leads the way. What a guy. Funny and head strong, one of the best individuals I've met on the road. Suddenly, he swerves out of the way of something on the narrow lane. Riding fifteen yards behind it becomes immediately apparent what it was that he so abruptly dodged as a huge sand coloured Cobra rises onto its hind and stares aggressively looking for the impending threat. Luckily there are some equally amazed local children on the side of the road who divert the snakes attention as I swerve around its body, no more than a foot away from its colossal head. If it would have been facing the other way I would have been in serious trouble, an unbelievable turn of events.

After an excitable pit stop we continue into the mountains. The views are breath taking. Trees seemingly as old of time stand tall in all directions. A mystical silence permeates the mountains occasionally punctured by the sound of crickets and exotic birds. In the distance vast mountainous ridges stand tall like club bouncers protecting the villages they house. We reach the waterfall and the the majority of the group slide down it. Tripp suggests that its pretty lame on the scale of waterfall slides but I'm happy with it. We proceed to head back to the city.


On the way home the air has a sudden, sinister chill as we find ourselves quite literally riding through clouds. The roads are now very testing. Hair pin turns succeed each other whilst cows take naps in the most obscene places. The winding roads are much more difficult to navigate now we're heading down the mountain. As I turn yet another excruciating bend I accelerate fully to blast away when I encounter a van half way over the road. Panicked I veer left without taking my eyes off the reckless vehicle in front of me, stupidly neglecting where I'm heading. When I regain focus I find myself perilously close to the road's edge. I turn sharply to avoid a certain crash when my tyres slip on the paint marked tarmac and the bike folds beneath me like a tree amid deforestation. Me and the vehicle plummet to the ground with my head whacking the floor. Lucky I've got a helmet. We slide along the gravel with my face scraping the rough surface before plummeting into a three/four foot concrete ditch at the side of the road. Luckily again the ridge is filled with bushes which absorb a lot of the impact. As the bike comes to a halt my momentum rolls me over the handle bars which I still have a firm grip of. There's a five second period were I genuinely have idea what I've done to myself. Have I broken a bone? have I torn my skin all over? I put my hands to my face to discover a trickle of blood, not much though. I get up, check my surroundings and find myself in perfect condition bar a scratch on my arm and cut cheek bone. Traveling at forty/fifty kmh its a minor miracle I didn't injure myself severely.

At this point my friend Jess comes from behind and helps me pull the beaten up bike out of the ditch. I dust myself off, put my wing mirror in my bag and drive home. A ridiculously close call. Back at our perfect teak guest house I drink huge gulps of Stolichnaya Vodka from the bottle. Today was a roller coaster. I sampled the delights of the most Bohemian of Thai town's whilst suffering a near death experience. My emotions are an exhausting labyrinth. I return my scooter in a bitter sweet exchange with the garage assistant. Perhaps I'll leave the biking to Richard 'The Hamster' Hammond and the like for now. Until Laos at least.

Of all the destinations I've visited in Thailand Pai is the least geared toward foreign tourists. The locals are friendly and relaxed, and the bars diverse and eclectic. The towns inherent calmness seems to seep into all those who visit here. A motorbike is the best way to see this place because of its rich scenery out of the town centre. Just be careful if your a novice, don't kid yourself that you're Valentino Rossi after a day's riding. You may not end up as lucky as me.

Chiang Mai and the arbitrary

It appears to me that there are three types of traveler. The first type is the Hundred Mile An Hour Traveler, who wants to do everything fast. He/she wants to catch a rope swing onto a hovercraft, ride off a cliff and land slap bang in a tribal village...all in the course of a day. This kind of traveler feels there is no time to 'waste' given the amount of things they want to see and do in their chosen land. The second type of traveler is the drunk traveler. The drunk traveler alludes to being interested in local culture but ultimately wants to drink cheap alcohol and talk to people. He/she is usually good fun and entertaining but might as well be sat on Blackpool promenade in a boozer. And then there is the type of traveler I am. The Ambling Traveler. The traveler who likes to see things at his own pace, getting sozzled along the way.

I've seen and done a lot at the half way point of my trip. I've trekked through the jungle, snorkelled around islands, motorbiked through mountains and rafted down rivers. I've also been stupendously drunk a lot of the time. Arriving in Chiang Mai it appears that this city lends itself to my needs. There is plenty to do and plenty of bars but the town has a slow, downbeat tempo. It kind of reminds me of the outskirts of a large industrial American city, Detroit say, or Seattle. Wide spacious roads allow everyone a little bit of peace and tranquility, unlike Bangkok.

When I arrive in a new town or city I like to pot around for a day or two, watching the locals interact in their home's or workplace. For the Hundred Mile An Hour Traveler this may seem like a 'waste' of time but for me this time is golden. Yesterday I sat and watched Thai's play bowling for twenty minutes or so down the local alley. It was nice to see them in leisure. I watch them meticulously prepare food and fix vehicles with serious en devour. Arbitrary to some maybe, but I find it all pretty amazing. I walk down a street by a river which runs right between the two main roads, its more of a sewer than a river to be honest. The road is lined with prostitutes but I've been advised there's a good English Restaurant down here; they weren't lying. Well worth the harassment from the Lady Boys. I get talking to a guy as you do when your an Ambling Traveler on the road, an English ex-pat who's incredibly from my home town. He's been living out here for twenty five years, but I soon get a feeling of disdain for him. He says he's been 'filling his boots the whole time'; I dont want to imagine what he's been up to. He's in his sixties now and I reckon he's secretly loathed by those around him, including the pretty young Thai girl by his side. He seems to be convincing himself as much as I that he's living the dream, but his is no life for an old man. Pity really.

Not all conversations are a success but they are central to the experience of the Ambling Traveler. Conversations and watching. I call for the bill and a native waiter duly brings it over. Better than the service you usually receive in Thailand. I like to see the look in the eyes of locals, and try to ascertain what they're thinking. It's a nigh on impossible task. Behind the intense stare there is a complex myriad of emotions lying below the surface. Every individual is different of course but generally, what do they think of us? Do they enjoy our fascination with their country? Are they genuinely charmed by us? Maybe they think were idiots with our drinking habits and outlandish behavior? Perhaps they feel were a necessary inconvenience that brings money to their country? I genuinely don't know. They smile when they're amused, they smile when they're annoyed and they smile when they're angry. It's all very tricky but the more I look the more I find out.

Chiang Mai isn't the prettiest place but the people here appear more friendly than other areas in Thailand. It's ideal for a spot of people watching as any distinguished South east Asian Ambling Traveler will tell you. It's a nice middle ground between Thai vacation and back packer experience. Next stop Pai.

The Arse Spray Bum Gun

See this contraption above? This is fucking excellent. It is undoubtedly the finest export from the East never to reach the West. If you were to ask me what my favorite aspect of Thai culture was I would shun the temples, the monks, the fine cuisine and say this device....which functions to clean your arse crack after taking a shit.

It's common knowledge that the drains in this part of the world are dubious. Flushing paper down the toilet is a no no and so, at some point, they've introduced this water pistol as an alternative. It is more effective, more hygienic and way more fun. The first time I used it I must have stayed in the toilet for forty five minutes spraying my elated sphincter. In that first week people would suggest taking a walk down to the beach or a dip in the pool to which I would decline. 'Sorry, but I'm going to be spending most of the day in the bathroom gunning my bum hole.'

With days filled with boozing and precarious food the 'Arse Spray Bum Gun' is just the tonic. Diarrhea has never been so good. How this thing hasn't made it big in the Uk is beyond me. How I have lived so long without it in my life is a mystery. Taking a dump will never be the same again.

Full Moon Party

Large scale events that you have anticipated for some time tend to, in my experience, anti climax. It's like on New Years Eve when your expected to have a good time, it's usually shit. There is nothing worse than forced frivolity however at the Full Moon Party on Kopenghan Island, there was no need to force anything.

The night can only be described as a resounding success. I had heard that the preceding evenings to the big show were in fact better than the Full Moon, but as a spectacle The Full Moon Party blew them out of the water. The beach was lined to the sea edge with pulsating bodies, dancing away under a blanket of far away galaxy's. The night was alive in the truest sense with the air thick and the sea palpitating. Through preference I hung out down the very left end of the beach were the music was more eclectic. I found myself a little Reggae Bar rendering nineties Hip-Hop classics which was favorable, and a Drum and Bass club which at one point was really pounding. Also down this end of the beach you will find Mellow Mountain, home of The Kangaroo Bar were you can purchase a Magic Mushroom Shake for the equivalent of six pound. I vaguely remember turning into an Australian person for a few hours after going there a few nights previous. Well worth a visit.

The Hostel I stayed at on the resort was outstanding. If you ever find yourself in the vicinity get yourself down to the Lazy House. The price per night was more than competitive and included a meal per day and a bucket of booze each evening. Okay, so you may have to share a dorm with twenty six other people but I genuinely wouldn't have done it any other way, regardless of budget. The dorms collective met in the same bar every night (because of the free bucket) providing a perfect platform for meeting people. By the end of the week we were like a small family, such a pleasant experience. And what can I say about the hostel manager, Serena? Absolute star, without doubt the most hospitable guest house worker I have come across, friendly, accommodating and helpful. I'm sure if you mention your a friend of Scouse Jon she'll see you right.

I'll be honest though, I had reservations about the whole thing. I came here curious and intrigued but without particular excitement. I envisaged lots of silly face paint, bad dancing and really rubbish music...and in fairness there was lots of silly face paint, bad dancing and really rubbish music, but that's besides the point. People are happy on Kopenghan, brimming with a contagious enthusiasm that they may be involved in something special, something exciting. People are here to have a good time. You may not have a huge amount in common with the person you find yourself chatting to at the bar but the gaiety of the whole occasion makes that irrelevant. Everybody is in the same boat and friendly in a way that they wouldn't dream of being back home...wherever that may be.

The whole thing just works. The idea of a 'lads holiday' kind of repulses me these days. Crude/offensive/borderline racist jokes and manly posturing isn't for me at all. Now a visit to Kopenghan around Full Moon time may share some qualities of a lads holiday, but it is so much more. The exotic setting and the diversity of the people make the affair that much more credible. In Tenerife or Marmaras your just not going to find yourself playing football with Israelites on the beach or sleeping in a bed next to a Canadian. Okay, so I'm not going to miss the annoying mix-tape that got repeated on the beach every night fifteen times but sometimes you've got to let these things slide in light of the bigger picture. I can be as critical as anyone about anything but with such jouissance in the offing I find it's sometimes better to leave the ego at the door. Full Moon was a riveting, wholly enjoyable experience. Go there and be happy.

An Island in Thailand

Pulling into port at Ban Mae Head I could not be more excited. The vastly green Island of Ko Tao rises triumphantly out of the perfect blue sea as I exchange grimey mainland for paradise. The Sun sits high in the sky like an all encompassing god as an incredible 360 degree rainbow forms around Him. As if his presence needed any more emphasis. Its fucking roasting. Exhausted cabin crew remove the bags of giddy travelers from the ferry to shore and I maraud inland in the incredible heat. The landscape is undoubtedly beautiful. Jagged rocks pierce the ocean like meteors that have fallen from space. Palm trees lining the white beach look as though they've been cherry picked for an episode of Hawaii 5 0. It is astonishingly picturesque. However once away from the coast it becomes apparent that this place may not be as quintessentially idyllic as first thought.

I check into my hostel and decide to roam the Sairee Bay area which at first glance looks like your typical 18-30 holiday resort in Europe, give or take a few exotic birds. An abundance of Seven Eleven's and recently made metallic and concrete shops litter the perfectly paved roads. This specific area is as polished as a Lance Corporal's boots. I head down to my hostel's pool area and if it weren't for the occasional Thai person passing on a motorbike I would have thought I were in Majorca.

The bad shade brigade are out in force, replica Oakley's all around, and their leader, the proud 'Davy Jones', manager/owner of the pool bar, aka Cockney wanker, swans around like the cat who got the cream. Davy is well past it, but still playing the lad. He has obviously jumped on the tourist gravy chain which has engulfed the area in the last ten years and setup shop, probably getting sucked off by a plethora of Lady Boys along the way. The old fool. I listen to another ex-pat with some of the worst tattoos I've ever seen, talk about his 'design for life' with a cringe worthy, cackling American hanging on his every word. He speaks of 'risk and reward', of 'he who dares'... all about his seven years out here basically. Another gargantuan twat. A little later I walk down to a beach bar where I encounter one of the worst singer songwriters conceivable. The baldy idiot has so far played Snow Patrol, David Gray and The Fray... somebody please shoot him, he is an embarrassment to all musicians. However things are soon to improve...

Over the coming days, I manage to explore the less populated, delightful surrounding bays of Shark and Mango. Ninety five percent of the economy is brought in through tourism but its nice to see that some areas remain pristine. I've also met a Russian/Californian girl in my hostel who is really cool, somebody I would most definitely knock about with back home. We've forged a union with other people staying in our dorm and everyone is so friendly and nice; we've been slaughtered for 3 days. I've been reveling in the booze, indulging in buckets that are widely available here, which are essentially as they sound... large buckets of alcohol. There's one cheap brand of vodka aptly named 'Black Cock'. I feel like I've been anally savaged by a Negro gentleman every time I drink it. The mix of people I have encountered is so refreshing. Our group consists of an Australian architect, a Russian fashion student, a film maker (myself), two high school teachers and a bunch of students. Meeting such an assorted blend of individuals is what this is all about, I guess.

Every day men and women head to the beach for some kind of aquatic activity, be it snorkeling, scuba-diving or just a paddle at the sea front, and every night those same people arrive at the beach drinking in the cool ocean breeze under an umbrella of twinkling stars. It is pretty cool. It's undoubtedly fun here, lots to do and boozy. Although I'm considering this my vacation before the real back packing adventure begins. Ko Tao is a holiday in the most conventional sense and an excellent one at that. It's child friendly here and safe but as a back packer destination essentially flawed. Come here and enjoy it for what it is, a beach break, just don't expect to find yourself in 'The Beach' (Danny Boyle's 2000 film of daring tropical adventure), it just isn't like that here anymore, even on Ko Tao, the less built up of the islands. Once you get over your pretentious conceptions, your going to have an excellent time.

Creatures of Disdain

One thing I really don't like about this part of the world are the very many truly frightening organisms. My last night in Bangkok was essentially spoilt when a rat crawled past my foot as I tucked into an Egg Pattai. The little fucker nearly ruined the day. The Mosquito's are also a major concern. Scouse ankles are seemingly an exotic delicacy to these little guys, they haven't left mine alone since I got here. I was waiting for the boat earlier with two Chilean girls when I spotted what I thought was a specialist bird...oh no, wait a minute, that's just a massive, massive, fucking fly. Jesus Christ. Then there was the Moth that looked like a flying loaf of bread...these basards are going to keep me on my toes for sure. I guess it cant all be plain sailing.

Who knows though, maybe I'll learn to love the little critters, perhaps I'll experience some kind of Jeff Goldbloom metamorphisis and fly into the mountains with them, making an ultimate peace. Doubt it like.

Until next time

After a long, hectic day Bangkok trade comes to a close, as does my stay in Thailand's capital. Stalls fold, shutters drop and workers enjoy cold beers on steps. The warm smell of cooked meat pervades the rickety streets and there is an unusual calmness where night meets day.

My stay here has been a good one. The city has oodles of character and being very much a city dweller, I feel comfortable here. Traffics jams, girls bang and things don't always smell entirely healthy, but its all essential to the rich tapestry that is Bangkok. On this last evening the frenetic energy the place usually effuses has died down a little and I reflect upon things with a wry smile.

The guest house I have stayed in Lumphu House, just a stones throw from the main tourist spot Kaosan Road, has been friendly and accommodating. I would recommend anyone passing through to stop here. The street's are crowded with opportunist sellers; of course the locals are out to make a quick buck where they can; but once you acclimatise the place is more manageable than I had anticipated.

I take a boat taxi to the main shopping plaza, rain drizzles and the river laps gently against the banks. At face value the soaked wooden vehicle appears adverse but I'm very much at ease. Strangely I've always found comfort in the cold and wet (within reason), I could ride this boat until tomorrow if I didn't have t leave. Tonight I'll be heading to the tropical southern islands exchanging the thick blanket of dust and smoke for clear oceanic air. I imagine at least a part of me will miss the eye level smog.

However In two weeks time I will be heading back to this largely undeveloped residence. That shall be a good day.

Travelling Alone

The reaction I got when telling friends and acquaitances that I was going travelling by myself around Asia was, by the most part, largely negative. Some thought I was crazy, I got the impression some thought it was a bit wierd...others, I detected, thought I was embarking on a life as a sex tourist, indulging in Eleven year old boys around the Orient. I would like to suggest that none of the above is true.

Sole travelling, I am discovering, has its up sides and down, like everything in life. I have already seen the benefits of the freedom it allows. I have stayed an extra night in Bangkok than I had originally planned because I wanted to; no consulting with anyone, no other opinion on the matter. I also get to decide where I go next, and I can change that plan at the drop of a hat, should I wish to. In that sense I feel truly emancipated.

Travelling alone makes you plunge deep into thought which can be a good and bad thing. Great in that I have become super observant and analytical of all that I see, and there is plentiful time for peaceful reflection which is fantastic for my writing. However it's bad in the sense that you can easily begin overthinking things. 'Did I make a show of myself last night? Am I managing my money okay? Is the cleaner really plotting to kidnap me and feed me to her children in a non traditional Thai dish?' It would be nice at times to have someone close at hand for a second opinion in order to stave off narcicistic thoughts.

However I am quite comfortable on the periphery. I have very much enjoyed meeting new people here, illuminating and being illuminated, for an hour or two say, but when it comes to long periods of time I would much rather be alone than with someone who I dont deem atleast an eight out of ten in the personality stakes. I have no great desire to paint my face, buy an 'I love Kaosan Road' T-shirt and become part of the young, touring conglomerate. No thanks. However If I was to meet some people who I thouroughly identified with, and with whom I got on with exceptionally well, then ofcourse it would be nice to stay in their company for a prolonged period and perhaps even become life long friends.

Although travelling alone isnt all about meeting new people, especially if your doing it for the first time. I would say it's more about meeting yourself. For the first time in my life I will be experiencing a prolonged departure from my native city, Liverpool. In taking this step there will be no cultural crutch to lean on, no people, things or places reminding me of how I ought to act or behave. Right here is a blank canvas crying out to be painted. I see this trip not as an opportunity to invent or fabricate a new personality but as a chance to foster the charachter traits within that I am most fond of, traits that I want to move forward with in my life, and thus not becoming somebody new but to become a better version of who I am. Seminal, hippy shit right there I hear you say...but that's how I feel about this whole thing! I'll let you know how I get on with it.

Monday morning

It's a forgettable wet morning in Bangkok. I cannot sleep. At home I would toss and turn until dreams eventually found me but here I decide to go for a stroll; because I can. Disfigured cats and dogs trawl the sticky ground tirelessly attempting to escape the rain, cowering in the many nooks and crannies of the ramshackle streets. I light a cigarette, my only companion at this strange hour, and a fine friend at that. Drunken tourists amble about aimlessly, vigourless by the most part. I tread down a narrow back alley. It resembles the behind-the-scenes of an elaborate Hollywood set; the set being the popular Kaosan road. Workers bustle with faces as grey as the morning sky, simulteaneously closing down production and preparing for another labourious day. They dont think much of the tourists or there activities I dont think, although some are genuinely friendly when they take a shine to you. We seemingly lack the age old discipline and self control of this ancient people, or atleast I do, running about like a ten year old with beer running down my chin. In fairness I'm pretty sensible this moring. I order an American breakfast and listen to the broken conversations of people who only met a few hours previous. My sleeping pattern is yet to recover from the long flight, not that its military at the best of times. Hopefully I'll grab a few hours some time soon, before I rejoin the cut and thrust of the city. I could always just sit here and keep watching though.

My first night in Bangkok

My first night in Bangkok was absurd. I woke up this morning unable to see straight with a mouth like an ash tray. Im quickly learning that the locals must be respected....not a good idea terrorising them with a Super soker 5000 I found in the guest house then. Oriental booze flows and the many travellers gravitate toward one another in search of japery and folly. I bump into a Manchester couple who are leaving for home tomorrow. She makes a pun about The Hilsborough Disaster...strange ice breaker I thought? but they were okay. In fact we had a very amusing couple of hours with the aforementioned water pistol. She kind of ruined it though when she suggested we should have a threesome, much to the surprise of her boyfriend. I was entirely game ofcourse, game as a badger in fact, so long as I didnt have to touch his balls or anything, but I knew there was no chance he would let me get my hands on his pretty little partner so I bought them a shot and made an awkward but swift exit.

I find myself in a bar on an all conquering winning streak at the pool table. I've assumed the role of pantomime villain, mocking losers and goading challengers. Ive won eight in a row; I[m feeling strong. Irish nice guys and Thai prostitues get the same treatment in this Andy Kauffman-esque display. My curated arrogance knows no discrimination but the whores really hate me.

After suffering a loss to what I think was a lady boy, or atleast thats what Im telling myself, save losing to a woman, I stagger to my drink at a nearby table. My fans have left and the local girls refuse to speak to me, theyre not buying into my explanation that it was all theatre. I dont think they got it but I was amused. I stumble out of the bar and there[s Aussie Paul from hours earlier...where did you go maite?...well I kinda backdoored you when you started talking about secret American bunkers in Mexico. He was a pretty sound guy to be fair but there was no drink left in me. It was time for bed. I live and learn in this far away land and I look forward to tomorrow.

One way flight to Guernsey....

Having a good night guys?

Upping output and MF Doom

Okay so I've revamped the page and from now I'm going to post something every week, perhaps every day if I can summon the Hemingway within. Music video's, personal memoirs and photographs will now accompany the sporadic social commentary.

So as well as chocolate chip digestives and a love of cats, I've recently discovered this Hip Hop artist, MF Doom. Its quite surprising our paths haven't crossed sooner. Give it a whirl below and read on.

To any concerned non Hip Hop enthusiasts this BLOG isn't turning into a Rap forum, you can expect a Rock/Reggae/Punk/Electro-fiddle post next time around. However this guy is here on merit.

MF Doom's obscure word play and unconventional production technique has propelled him above the mediocrity of the contemporary Hip Hop landscape and directly into my heart. This track is called 'Doomsday' and is indicative of his unusual sound. Although not entirely familiar with his body of work his offerings since releasing this sensual piece a good few years back appear to me even more creative; his original style seeming to continuously evolve.

The London born New Yorker has a certain mystique to compliment his fine artistry. You may have noted the Spartan style mask that he dons in the video? This quirk was adopted in 2004 and he is very rarely pictured without it now. Some may argue this is a cheap, contrived gimmick but for me his alternativeness is genuine, his penchant for the bizarre reminiscent of ODB in his pomp. God bless his absurd soul.

Apparently his image has been largely influenced by Marvel comics. This Brooklyn hot shot is smashing up genres circa Iron man in Cold War America, his work encompassing Jazz, Funk and whatever else tickles his fancy. It's rumoured that he will be collaborating with Radiohead's Thom Yorke in the near future. The Avengers would be proud.

Antics

You've just left the club, still completely out of your head and wholly exhilarated. With pounding electronic sounds still ringing in your ears you head into the night, that witching hour chill bites at your skin which holds the sweat worked up on the dance floor an hour before. Your now heading to an after party, reflecting effusively about the night that was, exasperated, off your tits, enjoying the brief respite before the explicit shenanigan's resume.

We've all been there. If you haven't you've missed out. Weekend narcotic antics can be incredible. When its good it is savagely entertaining. The general idea is to take the brain to places its never been before, on a contorted roller-coaster ride through the depths of your emotional and spiritual being. For your average recreational drug taker, to get fucked at the weekend is to leave real life behind. Responsibilities, self expectation's, external pressures, see you later. Partying is about hedonistic self indulgence. It means forgetting about everything other than the intense drug revelry which lies ahead; the peculiar yarns, the all consuming revelations, the new modes of thought; much of which will be regrettably forgotten in the morning.

It is easy to become enamoured with such activity and to consider whole heartedly hurling yourself into the movement. Partying demands a 'fuck it' attitude which is attractive to most people as it feels good to fuck things off once in a while. When attending a rave, a festival or a debauched house party, you are socialising directly with people who hold your slightly rebellious, I reiterate slightly rebellious, perspective. If only for a night you belong and what your doing is fine as it is justified by the presence of your fellow revelers. Your all in it together. When big weekend's become the spectacles of your life you needn't pay much attention to other things going on because the frivolity at these events will be so good, everything else is merely filler. My question is when does drug taking and partying stop being about briefly departing your existence, and actually become your existence?

Drug taking for me has always been about escapism, a means of leaving my over analytical and self conscious persona behind and going mad for a night/weekend/week. When I go for it I really can fly. However I have always known since my first foray into this world, that I have to return to the realm of the living eventually and I have no problem with that…I enjoy my working life and other aspects of my social existence. However a lot of people immersed in drug culture struggle to strike a balance. Hitting big nights, hard, becomes seemingly the only ambition; smashing it becomes all that really matters. On the one hand I admire this sybaritic attitude, it is true libertarianism, definitely brave and it can have a spiritual merit also if your on a crusade to ignore societal structures and tear away from convention. However on the other hand I think, what the fuck are you doing?

Perhaps I'm being a bit square here but to hold drug taking as your primary recreation is a bad idea. Championing it as your main source of enjoyment, as your main interest, as the icon of your existence, is even worse. In doing so you are ironically inverting the associated suppositions of 'getting fucked', and turning it into something boring, customary and inane. Sitting in your mates living room every friday night shovelling ket is not 'right on'. Its a bit lame. It is also worth noting that there are things other than unadulterated jouissance to ponder when contemplating your happiness. Job satisfaction? Good relationships? Health? Personal success? Inner peace? Smashing it every weekend simply doesn't lend itself to any of these pursuits apart from if your in a niche creative industry maybe. However the majority of drug takers in society right now aren't budding Mick Jagger's. They are office clerks, receptionists and civil servants. They are weekend rockstars. Serious recreational drug taking is encompassing and antics do not stay the domain of the weekend however. If your on it Friday, Saturday and into Sunday it is the following Wednesday before you are back to anything like form, then before you know it, its Friday again and your going back for more.

Drug taking for Average Joe is borne out of apathy with day to day living, perhaps boredom in employment or an immediate lack of prospects. However once a person is fully immersed with a drug orientated sub culture because of domestic disinterest, it becomes difficult to make changes in ones life away from the party scene as the physical and mental impact of getting off your barnet is heavy. You expend so much energy at the weekend blitzing it, the week becomes more about coping and recovery and thus no substantial changes ever materialise in other areas of a bean-head's life in order to attain, dare I say it, real satisfaction.

Getting out of your head every weekend doesn't come recommended, as Ian Brown put it, its a 'Fools Gold'. However despite what law enforcers say Class A's can be incorporated into a person's life without complete detriment, just like other, legal vices such as drinking alcohol, smoking and gambling. Of course it can. Just go easy on it, let the strange subterranean place one goes to when incredibly high, remain just that...a place that you go to...not a place that you permanently occupy. It's no fun when you have to stay there. Don't treasure recreational drug use as the answer to your mundane problems, and don't put your faith in it, as there is no utopia waiting for you at the end of the party. I get the feeling there are some bad comedowns lying ahead for the buzzing generation.

What change?

'Change' has undeniably been the buzzword of this election campaign with Cameron, Clegg and Brown all professing to be the gate keeper of this metamorphosis. Since the expenses disgrace the electorate has been promised a transformation in how politics is done, and more importantly, a transformation in the form of politicians. But has the public seen any evidence of real change during this election campaign? Have you seen any genuine transformations in the nature of the political process? Have you shit. It has seemed like the same old same old to me, a spectacle of superficiality and spin.

The expenses scandal crystallised, for many people, thoughts they have always held about politician's; that they are deceptive, untrustworthy fucks, living in a different realm to the majority of the public. It's a pretty crude and general summation but a seemingly accurate one. Within the realms of possibility, could there have been a much worse revelation for the cause of the politician than that of a member of parliament spending tax payer money on the cleaning of his moat? I don't think so. It's fair to say that politicians have never been thought of as lowly as they are right now. And so the scene was set for 'change', a cleaning of the decks, an evolution in the process of British politics. From now on politicians would be sincere. Politicians would now be honest and true. Of course this change could not happen overnight but this election campaign, coming so soon after the expenses debacle, would give politicians an opportunity to display a uniform improvement....I'm still waiting for it.

There has been no change in the approach of politicians this time around. Here was a chance for politicians to walk away from the 'spin' nonsense which has plagued British politics for years. An opportunity to leave the vein concerns about image behind which preoccupies government workers and ultimately prevents them from getting the job done. A chance to get back to basics and focus upon policy, and be real people once again. However we have seen a continuation of the directed, cringe inducing circus that has become all too familiar. The same obviously coached body language and speaking techniques; the same phoney conversations with 'members' of the 'public'- who are in fact cherry picked party enthusiasts; the same cheesy smiles and forlorn hand shakes for the news reel.

The proliferation of 'spin' has not just been consigned to aesthetics during this campaign but rhetoric also. The country finds itself in an unfavourable position, fighting a war on two fronts, battling the worst international economy in decades and confronted with the all encompassing problem of global warming. It is a time which requires strong leadership and radical change in policy. However all one has heard, for not want of trying, is the same ear friendly but ultimately empty words, words of no significance, without depth or gravitas. Words which sound good but upon reflection don't actually say anything, uttered expertly up and down the country to plastic applause. One can listen and listen all day long, trying to derive the substantive messages in the words, trying to understand what the words leaving the mouths of these men and women mean in terms of future action, but it alludes. The various speeches sound as though they have been concocted in a consumer research farm somewhere, designed to achieve impact without revealing anything or upsetting anyone. Never ever has a strong, meaningful political message been delivered without upsetting somebody; isn't it amazing how the leaders of the three respective parties have managed to not do so thus far?

Just like before they squirm when asked a direct question. How come? Politicians are in the business of hegemony, convincing people that their ideas and opinions are the correct ones. Surely when a politician is asked a question, it is an opportunity to champion the merits of the party? Every interaction with an individual, especially a member of the public, is a chance to declare where the party stands on a particular issue, or at least it should be. As ever though, it seems the public address and the private thought of the politician are two very different things. The posibility of agitating a potential voter with the wrong answer is a risk not worth taking, so again, we've seen a perpetuation of cunning and ambiguity, traits synonymous with the previous epoch of politics that we are apparently departing from.

The surge in support for the Liberal Democrats indicates that the people of England are ready for change of some description. I thought Gordon Brown, the dour yet authentic scotsman, was going to be the icon of change and the one supported heavily in the polls in and around May. For it is he, more than any other politician, that embodies the substance over style formula that the country so desires. Or at least he was. His essential nature during this campaign has been anything but genuine. The labour party, more than any other, have been excessively concerned with the outward image of their leader. His appearances have been phoney and ingenuous throughout. I fear if he is to smile any harder his jaw will break. It begs the question, Why? Why Gordon? Why at a time when the nation is hankering for a man of substance to lead them, have you decided to put an artificial, undesirable mask on? His attempts to be warm, accessible and likeable are translucent and quite simply backward. His reform in response to criticisms from the media has alienated many, previously supportive potential voters, who see right through the facade. Has he completely forgotten why people liked him in the first place?

The 'Bigot' remark directed at that oh so nice woman from Rochdale is a perfect example of Brown's failure and hypocrisy. He declares to be this man of frankness and actuality, yet he is unable to tell a woman on the street that he thinks her views are slightly bigoted? Why was he unable to do this? Why did he feel the need to apologise for his opinion? The people of England want a leader that is straight forward and sincere, Brown has shown himself not be, not just in this instance but on various occasions on this campaign, and in doing so, he has completely compromised his character. Why oh why are these politicians so scared of being themselves?

The fact that around only 3o% of people who where eligible to vote last election did, suggests that politics needs change as much as the country does. The paltry turnout was not born out of disinterest or disengagement of the British public with politics, but out of distrust. Distrust of politicians and the political system. The British Public no longer identifies with politicians or their policies. They view politicians as contemptible liars. This could have, and should have, been amended during this campaign; or at least gone some way to do so. The shackles should have been off, with parties and politicians clambering to reveal who they really are, and what they stand for. Now was the time for real progression in this area. Instead we have had a tedious, if at times entertaining popularity contest. The same guarded men and women are evident as before, unable or unwilling to speak freely what is in their minds, professionals, conditioned by the political framework that they find themselves working within. If this election is to be remembered for anything, it should not be for the prospect of a hung parliament or the emergence of the Liberal Democrat Party. It should be remembered for the inability of the competing parties, and particularly Gordon Brown, to seize the opportunity to change how we do politics in this country for the foreseeable future.

People want sincerity.

The art of existence

Anybody that tells you life is a chore is an idiot. Of course life can be a 'bitch', as you may have read on a god awful t-shirt at some point. It can be sad and cruel, real fucking ugly sometimes, but there is so much richness also, to be embraced and experienced, if people would only look for it.

Some people are genuinely unable to enjoy life's riches to a degree because of circumstance; be it illness, poverty, or some other injustice. For the severely unfortunate, life can be extremely trying I imagine. Take Fritzl's daughter for example; now that is what you call a raw deal. However the vast majority of men and women don't have such problems to contend with. It seems to me that there are people who actively choose a life of drudgery. Plenty of folk accept mediocrity; or worse in some cases; making themselves content with a gritty, often foul tasting realism. I'm not saying that we all should pretend we're awoken by butterflies in the morning, or that the world is even a nice place. But circumstances must be contended with and I firmly believe there are opportunities for happiness all around us, there to be reached for.

'Life is what you make of it' is an old adage, with a large degree of truth to it if you ask me. I don't want this BLOG to resemble something penned by Dr Phil but sometimes you need to think about these old sayings and process them in order to appreciate the rhetoric. How can a person expect to find real happiness if they never go looking for it? Unless you live on the Cococabana of course (you'd be a fool not to be happy around all those big Brazillian arses). I look around here and I see a lot of frustrated faces; grotty teenage mums pushing prams about, labourers tired from long exhausting days, old people cursing themselves for not fulfilling dreams. I feel sorry for them man but they only have themselves to blame. They should have made more of an effort. I reckon that most people who are unhappy, which is a significant number, could lead rich, fulfilled lives, if they just tried harder to make themselves happy. For me its all about having the right mindset and being decisive, and not waiting for your real life to begin.

It may take a momentous effort to find happiness; an emigration say, or a bold professional leap. In other cases happiness may not be as far away as first anticipated. Either way, it needs to be seeked out. Happiness is not something that happens all by itself. It needs to be constantly worked for, and when found constantly worked at, attended to frequently like a pristine bowling green. People who stay put in bad circumstances make me want to flush my own head down the toilet. Why don't you just leave that dick of a boyfriend? Quit that shitty job? Move to that new city? Do what is required to make your life better and more enjoyable, don't just wait there like a fool for something or somebody to come and save you. Nine out of ten times it wont happen.

The prized cultural theorist Michele Foucault described an 'art of existence' in one of his final interviews, suggesting that life should be viewed as a canvas for the individual to paint upon. What an outlook. Living should be a creative process where each day is viewed as an opportunity to enjoy, and better oneself. Read that book, buy that jacket, take that course. It is important to try new things in order to develop as a person. Why not view your life as a work of art; get imaginative. Better than viewing your life as a battle for survival.

Life is too short to regularly do things that you don't want to, too short to spend time with people you don't like, too short to be someone you don't want to be. Too many people seem incapable, or unwilling, or even worse, scared to resist the lives that have been presented to them, often local lives of little meaning or significance. I realise that not all of us can be professional mavericks or social bonvivant's. Toilets are always going to need cleaning, buses will always need driving. I get that. But it seems people fall into the doldrum's without so much as a yelp. It's as though people get to a certain age and believe themselves to be powerless to change things. They miss the starting gun and give up.

In correlation with Foucault's positive thinking, Oscar Wilde spoke of the individual's ability to recreate himself, and of the possibilities of self creation. His writings suggest that people can basically become whatever they want; so long as they develop and apply themselves they can transgress. Good news for all you bin men out there. If life is indeed a chore at the moment make it not so, because it doesn't have to be. Living is not something to be endured.

It may be that your endeavours turn out to be in vain, you may not succeed as you had hoped, your dreams may not come true. However there is definitely happiness to be found in pursuit. It may be a small change that enlightens you; the purchase of a camera; volunteering at a charity shop; the joining of a book club. If you feel seriously down trodden and think the world needs to change and not you, read into politics, become an activist, go protest. The possibilities are genuinely endless.

Don't be a passenger in your own life and let fine experiences pass you by because you don't feel your 'such' a type of person to do 'it', or that 'something' isn't 'you'. All instincts and inclinations should be seriously considered. Why not take some time to think about what it is that is going to make you happy? Then act accordingly. I guess its a question of whether you are content with your life. But if your reading this and it sounds painfully familiar, to the point where tears are making the letters on your keyboard stick together...well then I feel sorry for you. You must realise that currently you are not living at all, you are merely existing.