(Written Mon 29th June)
Man, it rains here. It really fucking rains and it does not fuck about. I’m sitting in my room with the door open, typing away at the desk and looking out at a solid curtain of water descending from the ominous, deep grey skies, punctuated by occasional a
Man, it rains here. It really fucking rains and it does not fuck about. I’m sitting in my room with the door open, typing away at the desk and looking out at a solid curtain of water descending from the ominous, deep grey skies, punctuated by occasional astral flashbulbs of lightning and the booming bass of the most guttural roars of thunder I’ve ever heard.
It’s fucking awesome, and not in the sickeningly overused (OK, I’m a culprit) Keanu Reeves, bonehead-skater sense of the word, rather in the sense of inspiring such awe as compelled out ancestors to create pantheons of weird and wonderful deities in order to explain it all.
I was about to write that I would here and now promise to never EVER complain about the weather in the UK but that’s a lie. You know why? Cause we don’t have any fucking weather to complain about, we have a pale shadow of the real thing, a fleeting glimpse of what mother nature can do when she really gets into party mood.
Damn, just had to close the door, realising that rather foolishly I’d just been inviting every single Satan-spawned ‘skeeter in the entire camp to feast on my pastey-white, near-translucent (but apparently delicious) legs. The fiendish flying fuckwits have been tucking into me like I was a seven-course taster menu at The Kitchin; the Hairy Knuckle Of Toe seem to be a favourite, not the most comfortable to have a swelling, glowing, itching bite-wound as you can probably imagine.
Wait a sec, this post got derailed before it even got started. I was intending to write about how wonderful a place Thailand, and in particular the Fairterx Mauy Thai camp, was. All I’ve covered is rainstorms and bugs. Okay, will post about the breakfast curries, beautiful people and back-breaking workouts next time…