Such a cheap gag, I’m sorry. I’m on my way to Koh Samui for a week-long detox. 2 juices and 1 vegetable broth a day for 7 days. Nothing else. Apart from a raft of “cleansing supplements”. And daily colonics. Or as I’ve taken to calling it: anal drainage. Self-administered. Yes, I’m going to be flushing my own arse for a week. With luck I’ll emerge with bright eyes, a flat stomach and lemon fresh bowels. The place is somewhere up a mountain in the middle of fucking nowhere. As the time has ticked closer, I’ve gone from feeling full of delighted anticipation to absolutely dreading it. Have convinced myself it’s going to be full of sandal-wearing, lentil eating lesbians or moping 30-somethings who are there on a voyage of self-discovery and want to talk at length about all their angst. Fuck off with your angst; I’m on a journey of discovery of my colon, not the path to inner peace.
The trip got off to a less than auspicious start when I was seated next to The Fattest Man On The Plane (plus Fattest Wife on his other side) for the 11-hour journey from London to Bangkok. You know when you see someone walking down the aisle and think, “Christ, I hope s/he’s not sitting next to me?”. Well, this time the universe decided to send Fatty McChub my way. Lowering himself into the seat was a 30 second ordeal of panting and re-arranging and sweating – the sweating and associated smell would increase during the flight – then he turned to his wife and whined “why is getting into a seat so technical, there’s just not enough room”. Mate, you weigh 30 fucking stone, try eating less fucking cake, then see how much easier negotiating an aeroplane is. Halfway through my first film of the flight, I went to the loo and he seized the opportunity to strike up a conversation with me.
FM: “excuse me [incredulously] are you travelling on your own?”
Me: “ummmm, yes”
He looked at me as though he literally had no frame of reference for this. I sad I did it quite a lot and he shook his head in horror and disbelief. I suspect he likes to travel with a companion so there’s always something to eat in case of an emergency. We had an almost comically tedious conversation, I’ll spare you the highlights then he made me watch 5 minutes of a film I’ve never heard of and never want to see on his blackberry, whilst he explained the technical spec of said blackberry to me. Bear in mind that I’m halfway through a film I actually want to watch. Then food came, his little eyes lit up and once we’d braved the awkwardness of me actually having to lift his flesh an inch up in the air in order to release my tray – which provoked another straight-faced complaint from him about there not being enough room on planes – he finally left me alone, having checked that I remembered his and his fiancée’s names for reasons that never really became clear: “Fatty McChub, check. Mrs Fatty McChub to be, check”. He spent the rest of the flight (approx 9 hours) waving his porcine hand in front of my screen whenever he wanted my attention so that I could remove my earphones and listen to his next conversational gem. These included:
“Do you know when we eat next?”
“Did you have the coffee? It was shit. It definitely wasn’t Nescafe. I don’t think it was even Maxwell House”
“They used to sell Pringles and sweets on planes, now it’s all just rip-off perfume and booze. I’m DYING for some Pringles”
[pointing to the Journey Tracker screen] “Don’t watch this film, it’s shit” [as though this was the most stunningly original thing anyone has ever said]
[having interrupted my viewing] “is that film good then? What’s it about?”
5 hours in, I started ignoring him. Wanker.
So anyway, Koh Samui beckons. I have a bad feeling that I’m going to turn up at the Bates Motel or similar. But at least I know the McChubs won’t be following me to a fasting retreat. Small mercies.
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