KOH LANTA

In his infinite wisdom, Clifford had said nasty things about Koh Lanta, declaring Koh Lanterns are not like normal Thai people and even suggesting it was not worth the visit… but what would he know?

He probably read it in a book,

Or, better still, had got mugged and bum-raped there.

Chekov, plot a course for Koh Lanta.

Warp Speed 9.

Set phasers to stun.



On the boat through the mangrove we shot the breeze with Kevin from Santa Barbara in California (yes, like the 80’s soap opera) I never knew Santa had a second name. Kevin was a down-to-earth bear of a man with no pretensions and a vast improvement on the last. No need to call this one a yank.

As we sat in an omnipresent café cum travel agency Maureen arrived. This was news indeed as she was two weeks late. Maureen was to spend the next few days with us on Lanta and Krabbi.

We three stayed at a small resort called Lanta Green Emerald, which was some way away from the town. First on the agenda was the welcome relief of a hot shower.

Unaccustomed to the sun shining, we hired a scooter, Natty insisting that we get the pink Vespa and we went exploring the island . Not five seconds after vocalising that I was impressed by Nat’s. little pink machine we got a puncture Luckily in Thailand you are never more than 200 yards from a motorbike repair shop. Two pounds eighty and ten minutes later we were back on the road again… “Going Rogue” (or should that be “Going Rouge” on a pink bike?)



On the way home we sang pretty much all of the songs from The Lion King at the top of our voices much to the amusement of passers by. We took loads of pictures of another amazing sunset and donned our gladrags. Nat wore her new dress and necklace and looked good enough to eat but skipping dinner, instead supping beers and cocktails and smoking at the Ting Tong Reggae Bar at our hotel, the Thai manager entertained us with spot-on impressions of Scousers.

Then very Welsh Dene texted so we went out to meet him for a few ales. I was slightly apprehensive about introducing Dene to Nat as a) it was the first time I’d introduced her to anyone else and b) although he’s ace, I don’t really know Dene that well so wrote in many caveats on the journey to the bar in case she didn’t like him, or worse I didn’t like him. He was after all some bloke I met in the pub.

Five minutes after meeting, they were ganging up on me, laughing as Dene offered “fashion” as another of my phobias. They got on well, and I remembered what a complete hoot Dene-o was. We rode to another bar to meet one of Dene’s very Welsh friends, but I maintain he is far more Welsh. One aeon and scores of beers for Dene and I, cocktails for Nat passed before she began to lose control. She’s one of these girls that wants to run, jump and skip on the beach when drunk… What‘s the word… I used to be it once; erm… young. Losing sight of her for a while, she arrived back shoeless and embarked on talking to every dodgy, opium-smoking tattooed Thai in the place. I hate it when girls get so drunk they need looking after; I’ll gladly look after them but when they need looking after for their own safety… well that’s different. Of course I looked after her and watched her every move. Downing another cocktail she ran back on to the beach and promptly collapsed on the sand. I sent Dene after her as I was growing bored of her antics. I’m very glad someone was with her because, the way she was splayed, she might as well have had a neon sign reading “rape me, only 20 baht” in Thai, English and thirteen other languages.

With one arm each, we carried her to the bar, kept her quiet, out of the sea, out of trouble with the locals and made her drink some water before the journey home. Dene kindly lead the way home at an average speed of 12km/h as we were pretty beered-up too. Nat actually fell asleep, chin on my shoulder for half the journey, jabbering incoherently the other.

Waking at 3.00pm I went out for ibuprofen and fizzy drinks.
Waking at 4.00pm Natalie “didn’t want to talk about it”

How do women do that?
Turn the blame around so them being unconscious on a beach becomes your fault?

That night I needed a drink to recover. She did not and walked the ten metres to our bungalow and went to bed while I stayed for one or two more with Kev. Four hours drinking and three missed texts later (the last one instructing me that I had been locked out and not to bother coming home!) I arrived home.

Someone was not a happy bunny the next morning; I was in no fit state to go kayaking with monkeys so pretended to the man that we assumed he hadn’t booked it as we hadn’t heard otherwise. Just like a few weeks before when we couldn’t remember what happened after the pub quiz Natalie ran outside to contact her ex. Again. That old chestnut.

Not that it excuses me but a) surely tonight was my turn, b) I was literally thirty feet away at all times and 3) I guess she doesn’t know Kev and I spent all night talking about our “girl friends” He was in a similar boat to me and we drank and lamented the loves that would never truly be ours, all the while singing sea-shanties in our best pirate voices well into the night. That last bit I made up by the way.

If there’s one thing in my defence, at least I wasn’t sick in my sleep on the bed, hey sweetheart?

Abort! Abort! Although I’d have liked to have seen Dene again, we decided that Koh Lanta was cramping our style and it was time to move on…