Green Thai Gaylord

The problem with American women – or English, or even Polish for that matter – is that they want to be men. Now I’m all for women’s rights (except maybe voting) but I do think the pendulum has swung slightly too much the other way from the gender-hierarchy heydays of the 1950s. It was for this reason that, sometime around 1986, divorced and suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome brought on by an incident in a fishmongers’, that I decided to seek solace and love in glorious Thailand: the kingdom of crying brides. There is just something about Thai women that I find instantly arousing: what with their lovely hair, child-like frame, and often fully working genitals, they are real women and must be treated as such. So, £12,000 lighter, I jetted off to Bangkok and an appointment with the ‘Thai up your wife’ introduction agency.

I wasted no time on arriving in the city (I was so excited that I emptied a load of flight-frustration all over a crumpled picture I found in a men’s urinal - it turned out to be a discarded print-out of Lesley Grantham). The agency’s offices were a little seedy, but I soon put the stench of rotting faeces to the back of my mind as I was introduced to their first stunner: her real name was Boo Kaki, but I insisted on calling her Diana, and she didn’t seem to mind (or understand). I’m not ashamed to say I was swept off my feet, and that same night, just two hours into our first dinner date, I proposed marriage and begged her to come back to England with me to live in my rent-secured council house. “We are as one now,” I kept tearfully insisting to her as she nodded gormlessly back at me, “not two people anymore, but one. We are the same person. We will live together forever and die on the same day.” Unsurprisingly, she leapt at the chance, and after two whirlwind days of magical romance— basically consisting of me attempting, ever more impatiently, to get her tiny breasts out—we were married in a traditional Thai temple (I say temple; it was a container off the back of lorry abandoned near an abattoir). Me and Thai Diana were unbelievably happy, and flew back to Britain like a pair of teenage lovers.

Six months later I was suicidal, £50,000 in debt, and living alone in a single-bedroomed flat. Thai Diana had done what all my friends (WES CRAVEN) had warned me she would do: bled me for every penny I had, then gone off with a 22-year-old recruitment consultant called Francis. Another Diana had shattered my heart into tiny shards, and once again my post-traumatic stress syndrome could only be controlled by massive levels of prescription medication. I offer this delightful anecdote to you, my readers, as a warning: the Orient is a mysterious place of ancient rituals and customs, mystical deceptions, exotic lies, and people who look like beautiful women but in fact have cocks. If you plan to go, remain in the taxi at all times and stab anyone that comes near you.

Yours with eastern promise,

Gaylord St. James

My Body is a Gaylord

It’s New Year, and I have only one resolution: to restore my physique to its 1970s glory. While most of you wobbling grease-buckets and sofa-bound single mothers are content to slip quietly into lardful loathsomeness, turning your bodies into giant KFC-digesting stomachs while you sport bastard tracksuits that would induce wretching in any sane person, mine is a cathedral of flesh that once secured me some of the most lucrative film roles in Hollywood. It’s true, decades of rabid paranoia and countless bottles of Galliano left me a rotting and pock-marked carcass, but I am so utterly convinced that there is nothing irreparably wrong with me that I recently went to the doctor for a once over.

After sitting in the waiting room surrounded by the mentally ill, crippled and strikingly ugly, the doctor finally beckoned me into his room. Once inside his lair, the skinny medical deviant instructed me to remove my shirt and trousers, and in doing so I revealed the full horror of the situation. Following an almost imperceptible shudder at the sight of my nakedness (which I now realise was induced by his faggoty excitement), the young man licked his narrow lips and started caressing my long-neglected chest – as if I were a budding woman.

Panic rushed over me and I felt my bowels loosen as, after proclaiming a clean bill of health, he moved his clammy hands down my torso and discovered my most sacred of places. As he silently tightened his grip, and an ice-cold sweat formed on my brow, I was certain of only one thing: I was being molested. There was an inkling that the situation may violently escalate if I refused to play along, and by now I was ruing my decision to seek medical help. Promptly, and not tenderly at all, the man asked if he could examine my prostate, then instructed me to remove my sinful underwear and bend over. It was now that I remembered Wes Craven’s canny advice for such situations, and decided to deter my would-be attacker the only way that made sense: by soiling myself.

I’m not proud, but I shat like I have never shat before, passionately and with violent purpose, utterly voiding my entire colon. Torrents of loose, pale stool splashed onto the floor until my attacker, dismayed and defeated, quietly begged me to leave.

And it was on the way home, caked in effluent and with time to reflect, that I realised my body must be perfect. I still look good enough to catch the eye of an attractive, if desperately perverted, young doctor, so you can all fuck off and shove your Atkins Diet up your japs-eye. I’m going to drink more sloe gin than ever, start eating a whole goose for breakfast, and force myself on as many women as I can find.

Yours with pharmaceutical urgency,

Gaylord St. James