Journal 15.02.2026.
Present location - Blue Beach Resort
Sam Roi Yot (Hua Hin), Thailand:
Westen (Hua Hin, Cha Am, River Kwai), Thailand
Jiggy-Jig Street
I had on purpose chosen a ‘hotel’ directly
on this street. Clean enough although the entire water works crashed after the
first day, but they found a trained monkey to throw a spanner in the works to
fix it.
As the world press decide that the most
interesting thing to read and discuss about at the present time seems to
revolve around Jeffery Epstein and his various shenangins ,whilst I haven’t yet
quite had the time to read all 3-5 million pages of who did what to who and
when and why, one name that popped up that made me laugh was… Greenberg.
From what I gather, Jeffy boyo, when he
was just a young flunky got himself an unqualified teacher role, although I am
not sure teaching what, but was sacked for being not very good at it. Two of
his pupils were girls and they had mentioned him to their daddy (who’s your
daddy and what does he do?) whose name is Alan Greenberg. Uh-oh. That doesn’t
surprise me at all. If you use chatGPT and ask about the Greenbergs of
Manchester you get a novel co-written by the perfect bed time story tellers
-Brad Stoker and Mary Shelly.
One can presume with a name like that he
had to have some kosher blood pumping through his wallet and Alan Greenberg
took the young Epstein under his wing and showed him how to make money disappear
from idiots purses into ones that became so fat you couldn’t see them due to
the use of an invisibility cloak - like the one I used when chasing Gooks in
Rhodesia.
I can bet that the price of silver will
rise again (as I have just blown about 10 grand when it crashed), that, that
Alan Greenberg has my DNA in him – or vice versa. So- which means that ALL the
Epstein business is my fault, as usual, AND why the Israelis at the border didn’t
give me a hard time as the computer screen would have come up with - The Gokwe
Kid. Mossad spy on undercover mission -codename ‘Operation Mososososissis’s Hammer
and Shoes’.
Now, as I see it, all this hanky-panky
that was going on under this cloak seems rather odd when you are sitting in a
cheap plastic chair on a tiny patch of concrete observing how Papa gets his
rolling stones emptied. All illegally of course. Watching this micro-economy of
flesh for sale seems far away from sun drenched tropical islands with jets
flying in loaded with rich and powerful men and little girls, whose main prerogative
seems to be exactly the same as what I was now witnessing, but with a difference.
The old creeps of various nationalities,
the main ones being Scandinavian and English, seem quite at ease hugging horse
flesh old enough to be their granddaughters at the various pubs, bars, restaurants,
massage parlours that fill the so called Hua Hin Walking Street and
surrounding criss-crossing lanes and avenues, I think to myself- Andy Windbag (he that cannot sweat) and his mates would
have loved this place.
At a fraction of the price, you get the
lot from a more than enthusiastic ‘girl power’, without getting your name in
some dumbass media outlet for the simple reason no one gives a monkey’s banana.
The old monkeys are called ‘Papa’ and the girls peel their bananas and eat them
till the wallets run dry.
The ‘loose’ woman of sinful virtue are all
dressed in black. That way the drunken sods can’t mistake them for the ones who
sell grilled chicken wings from the back of a bicycle rather than choked
chickens till they were sick.
Still feeling ill from the tablets I had
consumed and with my back killing me, at 10.00pm I called it quits. The next
day I managed to get a massage from a joint around the corner which looked a
bit more professional than the average Wing Wong We Choke ya Chicken dump and although the highly unqualified girl
hoped that a sacky tickle would make a happy banana raise its head, I was far
from interested.
But she had achieved something because I
was able to walk more than 15 steps. With that in mind, I looked a bit more
about and concluded that this place everyone seems to think is a poor man’s version
of an Epstein paradise, is not for me. I don’t like Thailand. Full stop. The
food stinks, the place is hot and sticky and the local’s knowledge of the
English language can only be compared to some of the scum that worked for me in
Germany. Their nationalities being English and Irish.
Now, back at my present HQ, and with one other
tropical paradise booked and paid for to visit in three weeks’ time, I have
concluded that I could have more fun examining a horse’s arse. My own. Sure,
now after another dodgy massage, I have taken another ‘must see’ National Park place
(that was very nice actually) and last night found a well popular joint next to
a cannabis shop that amazingly serves red meat. Saying that, looking at the
local cows, once you peeled the skin off them you are left with bones a dog
would chew bare in a minute. I reckon the shashlik/kebab/skewer type rocket
thing I had for dinner must have emptied an entire backyard slaughter house.
And… the clientele. Retirees, long stay Europeans,
in this case I was chatting to a German couple and one skinny, old single dumb
bint, whose knowledge of the world was flabbergasting in her blissful ignorance
- which I envied as she reminded me of so many people who are quite happy not
to notice how incredibly stupid they are. And… the usual ancient wrinkled old twats
with young Thai girls. Some they are married to - to reap the benefits of
playing golf with a withered putter in the vain hope of a hole in one. Presuming
there is enough blood in the veins.
All of this is making me conclude that
spending a fortune on these various travels has me coming to some very serious misgivings
about tourism and the tourists. Back in the Rhodesia days I did tours and the
tourists were nicknamed terrorists which is spot on as I have as much desire to
associate with the tourists here as I would like to associate with terrorists
and whilst going for a tour in those days carried some risks, you were never bored
and if you were lucky you get to see some real wildlife like elephants who
could explain in a rather clear way that attempting to shackle it to a cart
with a reclining gold Buddha on it, is a bad idea and the lions are real and
not painted gold either.
But – I have a plan for just about the
rest of the year. Meanwhile here are some pretty pictures similar to the ones
schmucks from all over the world love to post on their FB page in the hope of
creating envious comments of the wonders of our planet and how lucky they are
to see it. I like to take pics of the shit filled side streets, verges of
plastic, hovels, shacks, deserted building projects for more dumb-ass clientele
looking for paradise lost, that collapsed in complete chaos of greed,
corruption and mismanagement and that is just as a start.
And… more to come. With some very clever
observations - such as sitting on the beach here you could catch crabs,
bubbling, hissing white stuff in bamboo poles in rows of red-hot coals, haunted
mansions, plumb lines and maybe I check out some elephants…
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