Episode V: Why I Hate Strip Clubs

All it takes is one moment of fleeting sobriety. A passing second of clear thought, fast as a flickering light that you're not sure whether you imagined or not. Just one milliseconds rest from complete inebriation and the whole things ruined. Fucking strip clubs.

Yes, this week we finally got round to inspecting the most infamous aspect of Bangkok's culture, the Go-Go Bar. It wasn't really on our list until we ran into an Englishman living over here whilst having a drink in our guesthouse. Now there was a man who couldn't reside anywhere else in the world without being severely restricted, who regarded trips to these meccas of hedonism in a manner you or I reserve for a trip down the shops. After a few beers (see Videocast #2 for how manly and nonchalant we are with this), this mans twisted logic seemed like the only sensible action and, Lord help us, we followed him into a taxi.

So there we are: Myself, Charlie Chang and a man old enough to be our father walking down a street of strip clubs and exotic shows in the seediest of Bangkoks seedy underbellys. I mean this underbelly was seedy. Imagine a seal coming straight out of the water to rest on a beach comprised entirely of seeds, the underbelly of that seal (we'll call him Jerome, for the sake of the narrative) would still be only 40% as seedy as the underbelly we found ourselves in. But when drunk, I must confess the general aura of the place is ignoreable. You look at these women on the poles, dancing their way to computer school or a rich Belgian husband, and experience that old fashioned strip club vibe. You know the one from the films, where the geezers all dignified, sipping away at some kind of spirit on the rocks. In reality though, these girls are as dead eyed and bored as anyone working in a shop and the gentleman sitting in the booths are old men with serious old man issues.

So you can watch the various body parts move around to crap music and you can get the lapdance and have yourself a jolly old time, as long as you don't think for a second. And I must confess I was enjoying myself, for about thirteen minutes until I thought about it. It was as if a small man in a wizards cloak (that's how I like to picture him) had appeared before me and chucked a bucket of ice water over my head. The sleaze, the seediness of the aforementioned underbelly (fuck I love that word) became unbearably apparent to me. I was in a taxi within four minutes.

The moral of this story (ironic, seeing as there are so few morals involved in the story itself) is don't go to a strip club. Unless you're the kind of person that enjoys strip clubs, in which case the moral is go to Bangkok.

Peace

Joe

(Jerome)