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