BAM! There it is - hangover hell. When I first opened my eyes, I didn’t know where I was or why it felt as if a group of troublemaking kids had been kicking my head in. I was in a wooden hut with a bunch of snoozing drunks, and by the time I stumbled out into the bright sun and had a slash against a tree, it was after midday. There was half a can of beer on the ground so I downed it in one and headed down to the beach.
After a swim in the sparkling water and a good lie down, I was feeling pretty bloody good and spent the rest of the day doing as little as possible. It wasn’t just because of the bender the night before (I’m talking about the piss-up, not about any homosexual gentlemen I may or may not have danced with) - after a few weeks of doing stuff non-stop, I just needed a day of lazing around. The fact there was a steady stream of good-looking birds hanging out on the other sunlounges didn’t hurt, either.
As the sun was heading towards the horizon, I took a stroll up to Chenang Beach, which is where all the action is meant to be, carefully avoiding Sonjay’s place on the way. The beach reminded me of Patong in Thailand - people crawling all over the place, jet skis hooning around in the water and plenty of noise and excitement. My brain was soup, and the next thing I knew, I’d handed over a couple of Space Bucks and was getting strapped in for a spot of parasailing!
It was a weird sensation as the speedboat took off and I started soaring into the sky after it, a sensation that was heightened by the remnants of my hangover. My brain couldn’t really wrap itself around the fact that I was was hanging in the sky, 100m above the ocean, with only a poorly-fitted strap between me and a splattery end. It was fucken aswesome though, and I got an unbelievable view of the little tropical island, and it all ended too soon.
When I reached terra firma, I was treated to one of the wackiest sights I’d ever seen - a muslim sheila in a full-on, head-to-toe burqa, getting ready to go parasailing. It was bizarre, this chick was so covered up I couldn’t even see her hands or her eyes, and here she was ready to fly off into the sky. It was kinda sad, too, the fact that she was in this tropical paradise with the last of the day’s sunlight pouring in, and she was covered in a fucking sheet.
And then when she took off a gust of wind hit and her whole outfit flew up in the air and me and everyone else on the ground got a great view of everything underneath the sheet, including her hairy box. That image went straight to the wank bank, and I’m pretty sure she’s heading straight for a stoning when she gets back to the Middle East.
I took it easy for the rest of the night, first booking a snorkeling adventure for the next day and then going to a nice little restaurant on the beach right next to my resort. My curry didn’t come close to the grub Sonjay served up the night before, but the view, the wicked cocktails and the good-looking waitress made up for that. Not being forced to have sex with an Indian sheila with and arse like the Great Dividing Range was good, too.
I asked the waitress for a Screaming Orgasm, and then added, “And I’m not talking about the cocktail!” She gave me a funny look and went back to the kitchen, and a few minutes later I heard all sorts of Malaysian screaming. And some of it wasn’t Malaysian – I heard the bloke she was talking say words like cunt and cocksucker, which I assume mean the same in any dialect. Then there was quiet, and the waitress came back with an unusual cocktail in a very tall glass. I’m a trusting fella, so I took a decent slug, but it tasted awful, so I paid my money and left.
Not long after that, my tummy started to rumble, and I started puking and pooing a substance that looked frighteningly similar to the curry I’d tucked into. Those bastards had poisoned me as revenge for my hilarious joke! So, of course, I took the high road – I waddled back to the restaurant, climbed up on top of one of their tables and proceeded to empty myself all over it. That’ll teach ’em.