Drunk and Jobless is one of the five most popular sites on the internet, just behind MySpace and Kevin Rudd’s personal fitness blog, and it seems like everyone who stumbles upon this filthy little corner of the internet is a sicko. Don’t get me wrong, that’s cool, but if you’re reading this there’s good chance you’re on a sex pest register.
big fat matured monks masturbate huge fat cocks and shoot
This is what I was originally going to call my blog, but I figured nobody would be interested in seeing pictures of husky monks with their knobs in one hand and a pistol in the other. I was wrong.
a wife fucked by dogs and man for more than1000 times stories
That’d probably be grounds for divorce. Or pounds for divorce, haha!
i love perverts You do? Call me!
kl sentral gay wanking Bloody hell, it was one time!
wearing gstring in delhi hotel pool Yes I did, and I pulled it off. They kicked me out of the pool for pulling it off while leering at some women, but that’s a story for another time.
monks drunks and perverts Sounds like a party. Where’s my invite?
i want to indian fuking girl in kepong Kids these days, hey? It’s all about fucking chicks in the kepong these days.
malaysian pervert couple
Glad they found each other.
jesse jane porn excitment photo Well, I guess she looked excited when she hit me with a bat. She looked someone less excited when I showed her my penis.
best fuck in kuta I’m guessing they didn’t find the answer they were looking for on my blog. If they did… sheeeeeesh.
kevin bloody wilson nigle found his thong Now I’m curious about what happened to nigle’s thong once he found it. Maybe he shoved it up his blurter. Nigllllllllllllle… fuckin’ legend!
creepy arse malaysian I don’t know if this is meant to be about a creepy-arse Malaysian, or a creepy arse-Malaysian. I like to think there’s a small but vibrant community of sentient arses living in Kuala Lumpur.
ladyboy hooker in my room Now that’s what I call room service!
paragliding fuck on the air I can barely avoid crashing whenever I start masturbating while paragliding, imagine what would happen if I actually had to please a girl up there!
drunken girl being fucked by a mob
No, you’ve come to the wrong place – you’re looking for my ex-girlfriend’s blog!
I’m 10,000 metres about the earth, with endless darkness outside my window and an overweight Malaysian dude drooling onto the lapel of his Hawaiian shirt next to me. My holiday is over, and it’s time to head home and face the real world.
Fortunately, my last day in Asia provided all the drama and excitement that I could hope for, which is why I’m currently so tired I can barely lift my can of beer to my lips. With a boat taking me back the Malaysian mainland at midday, I headed out for one final snorkel in the delightful ocean. All I wanted to see was a turtle. Just one. They’re all over the place in the Perhentian Islands, but in three days I hadn’t seen one. I splashed around, chasing fish and savouring every minute of my time in that underwater kingdom, but there were no turtles. Finally, reluctantly, it was time to head back to shore and pack my bags.
And there it was.
Centimetres from me was a giant sea turtle, elegantly soaring through the water while I stared in amazement. I just stopped, treading water while I soaked in the beauty of this incredible creature. As the turtle swam further out into the blue, I paddled alongside her, diving deeper into the ocean, not wanting to lose her. I finally had to let her go, and she disappeared into the deep while I reluctantly returned to shore.
I dragged my bags out into the sun and waited for my ride back to reality. And waited. Turns out they forgot all about me, and a special water taxi had to be called so that I could actually start my journey back to Australia. When it finally arrived, there was a pretty Japanese girl in it. Her name was Anri, and she’d also been forgotten by the ferry, so we travelled back to the mainland together, struggling with the language barrier as we both tried to come to terms with our holidays ending. We shared a taxi back to the airport, then caught the same plane back to Kuala Lumpur, where we both faced a few hours of waiting around for planes in opposite directions.
We had time to get to know each other. We shared photos of our families, talked about what we’d seen and what we had to go back to. She was off to teach scuba diving courses in Thailand, which I thought sounded a lot better than writing about tits in a cold office in Sydney. We held hands, an innocent act that meant so much. Anri couldn’t even pronounce my name, but when it came time for her to catch her plane, I farewelled her with sadness. I wish I’d kissed her as she left for her flight, but I didn’t.
In six or so hours, we had a complete relationship – from meeting each other, to being introduced to the family, to breaking up. In some ways, it was the best relationship I’ve had, one without the inevitable fighting and sadness. And it was the perfect ending to a great holiday.
And now here I am, fighting the need to sleep and cradling a warm can of Heineken. The Great Wall of China and the Petronas Towers are behind me. Cled and the Chinese bloke who liked Norm Peterson from Cheers and the dude in Guilin who rooted the dog are nothing but memories. It’s been an incredible experience, one full of wonder and excitement and adventure. It’s been my first solo trip overseas and I’ve grown so much. I grew up thinking I could barely go to the shops by myself, and here I am, coming home from a month in Asia on my Pat Malone.
Travelling can never be simple for me. If everything went to schedule I’d be catching a taxi to the airport, a plane back to Kuala Lumpur, another plane to Kota Bharu on Malaysia’s west coast, a taxi to a tiny little town called Kuala Besut, and then a boat out to the beautiful Perhentian Islands. But there was a possible problem between me and the final destination of my adventure – the time between landing in KL and jumping on the next flight was a slim 95 minutes and if anything went wrong there, I could say goodbye to a one of my three nights on the islands. Even Clementine Ford’s bedsprings aren’t under that much pressure.
I got my shit together and walked out of my room, and was shocked to see a huge pile of garbage opposite my door. As I walked past, fuck me, one of the bags moved! When I looked closer, it wasn’t a black plastic bag full of garbage at all, it was a black plastic bag full of sweaty, naked Cled. For some reason he was wearing the bag as a sort of one-piece suit and was hiding in amongst the rubbish, doing his best to not be seen.
“Cled, mate, what’s the deal with your clobber?” I asked, and he pretended like he’d just seen me.
“Oh, this? Everyone’s wearing garbage bags this season,” he swanned, then blushed.
“That’s a load of crap, what’s the real story?”
“Alright, but keep this on the down-low. The girls,” and as he said this, he raised his hands, “wanted a bit of public sex. You know how kinky chicks can get. So I took them out and we had a saucy threesome in the lift.”
“Alright, and then what happened?”
“Well, my body may be beautiful and sensual and covered in a fine layer of fur, but it doesn’t have any pockets to put keys in, so I was locked out of my room.”
“So you decided to climb into a dirty garbage bag and sit in a pile of rubbish?”
“I figured the cleaners would be around at some point, and when they opened the door I could sneak in like nothing happened.”
“Oh yeah, there’s nothing as inconspicuous as an obese American climbing buck-naked out of a fucking garbage bag.”
“Glad you agree, buddy.”
“See ya, Cled.”
“Oh, you’re going? Have a safe trip.” With that, he stood up and a gentle breeze lifted the bottom of his bag dress, exposing the tiniest, hairiest little cock the world has ever been cursed with. He chucked out a hand, and I politely declined. Shit, I almost cut my hand off after touching him the first time, so I didn’t need to do it again.
I mate it to the airport alright, but or some absolutely batshit crazy reason the good people of Brunei don’t use scanners to check carry-on luggage before the flight. Instead, they had two or three little blokes who would open up ever pocket of every bag and rifle through it. And they were slower than a retarded turtle. The woman who checked my bag grabbed a pair of my undies and gave me a big smile, but I wasn’t in any mood for returning the grin, and it wasn’t just because of the skidmarks.
I made it onto the plane, took my seat and waited while the other passengers s l o w l y filed in. Our departure time came and went, and still people were climbing on. Ten minutes late… 15… 20. Finally, 22 minutes after we were supposed to have pissed off, the doors closed and we started moving off. Crap.
As you can guess, it wasn’t a particularly fun trip. For the next hour, I was on the edge of my sleep like a bloke with haemorrhoids. We landed, I pushed my way through the other passengers and sprinted the 2km to the baggage terminal, dodging fatties and diving past strollers and champions in wheelchairs. I cleared customs in seconds, got my bag without too much trouble, and blazed my way to the other side of the airport to check-in. Tick, tock, the clock counted down. With only minutes till check-in closed, I made it to the counter…where a dozen fat, useless pricks were flobbing around in front of me. To make it worse, another half-dozen chubsters pushed in front of me, claiming they were there with some prick in front of me. I told them to get fucked. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
The check-in time passed. I’d missed my flight. I wouldn’t make it to Kuala Besut in time for the last boat. I’d be stuck in a rubbish little town for the night rather than a beautiful island paradise. I might even get raped. And all because of the incompetence and selfishness of others.
And then an angel appeared. A spunky young chick walked over and asked if anyone desperately needed to check in, and then took me to an emergency counter. I handed over my details, and the girl smiled. Hoo-fucken-ray, I made it onto the plane just as it was about to taxi out! I didn’t get the spunky young chick’s name, but ya can’t win ’em all.
With that out of the way, the flight was relaxing, and before long I was in delightful Kota Bharu. I say it’s delightful, but I wouldn’t have a clue, because I jumped in a cab and pointed him towards the village of Besut, an hour south. As the towns and villages rolled past, I was obvious the eastern side of the island is very different from the west. Almost everybody was in traditional islamic dress and mosques decorated the skyline.
I’d heard that Kuala Besut was a boring little nothing place that was only worth staying at if you missed the last boat to the islands, and they weren’t wrong. I had a decent amount of time to kill there till I set sail, and after five minutes I was bored out of my skull. There’s one main road with a handful of shops, a couple of deserted side streets, a polluted beach and… that’s it. There wasn’t even an ATM, which was kind of shitty since I knew there wouldn’t be one on the Perhentians, and I barely had enough dosh in my wallet to pay for my accommodation and food. Shit.
The boat finally rocked up, I dragged my suitcase onto it, and we set out into the blue. And, as we drew close to the Perhentians, it was astonishingly beautiful. I’ve been to Thailand, Vietnam and Newcastle, but nothing could prepare me for the unspeakable glory of these islands. Rainforest-covered mountains climbed out of crystal-clear water before my eyes. Thousands of fish danced below me, while cute little huts hugged the beach, with just a smattering of suntanned visitors wandering along the sand or snorkeling. It was like a computer screensaver come to life, but I definitely wasn’t sitting at my desk.
The little boat dropped off a handful of people at different beaches, and then we puttered along to Petani Beach, which was perhaps the most wonderful of them all. At the eastern end a dozen bright red bungalows ran up the hill and disappeared into the forest. In the middle sat six tiny, rustic huts that looked like they’d been washed up in the last high tide – my accommodation. Not a person was to be seen, and it was exactly what I’d hoped it would be. It was, in a word, paradise.
The captain of the boat honked his horn and a little Malaysian dude came rushing out of one of the huts. He dived into a dinghy and came out to meet us, and I carefully stepped into his ride, making sure not to fall into the bright blue ocean beneath me.
He introduced himself as Ebu, and after a short but fun blast, I was dragging my can-filled suitcase along the most wonderful beach I’d ever seen.
I walked into a hut that looked like it must’ve been the front office, and was appalled to see a bloke choking the chicken in his living room. What, no, don’t have such a dirty mind! He wasn’t masturbating, he was actually choking a chicken so he could cook it for his dinner. After Ebu raced over to tell me I’d just wandered into some strangers house uninvited, he led me to my room and handed me a towel and a snorkel set. No key, but then a key wouldn’t be much use when my door didn’t have a lock on it.
Wasting no time, I changed into my boardies and raced the 15m to the beach, then dived into the water. It was wonderfully warm, and incredibly relaxing after a long day of travelling, but I wasn’t here to splash around like a downie in a bath, I was here to see some fish! And shit, did I see some fish! Just a few metres from the shore was a reef that was absolutely crawling with thousands upon thousands of the scaly little bastards. There were clown fish, blue fish… ah, red fish. I even saw a sea cucumber, but enough about my penis.
Life under the surface of the water was every bit as wondrous as the mountains and beaches that rose above it, but far, far busier. I spent over an hour just following fish around, taking photos and generally just floating around with a big, goofy look on my face. When I finally got out I relaxed on the beach, dividing my attention between my book and the spunky, bikini-clad babes spread out on the towels next to me. I got so turned on that I almost had to rub my sea cucumber.
With the sun setting, I had a cold shower and headed over to Petani Beach’s only restaurant, a wonderful little wooden shack that’s completely open to the beach and made entirely of driftwood. The sunset was astonishing, and after a seafood dinner I decided to see what the island offered in the way of nightlife.
There’s only two ways off Petani Beach at that time of night – a bush path to the east, and one to the west. Both were pitch black and scary-looking, but I took the one to the west and walked blindly through the gloom, with only my mobile phone for light. After an hour I found the main backpacker beach, which wasn’t exactly Surfers Paradise, but there were a few little bars that served the liquid medicine I required – beer, glorious fucken beer! And there were also girls, glorious fucken girls!
An hour later I was shitfaced and dancing like a fucktard on the beach, when one of the hot Germans from Petani walked up and started dancing with me.
“Hello,” she said in a voice that made me think she wanted to either suck my dick till my eyes exploded, or murder me. “My friend and I, we see you back at resort. You masturbate in water?”
“Uh, yeah,” I blushed.
“Were you thinking of us.”
“What were you thinking about us doing.”
“I was thinking about slamming you harder than a sledgehammer into the Berlin wall.” Smooth.
Good old-fashioned romance won the day, and the chick said we should probably get back to our shacks – and that her mate should come with us. Ooh la la, as the Germans say.
Things were looking great for the Row Show, and I would’ve had a great night if it wasn’t for that bloody hour-long walk through the darkness. My torch gave up halfway back, the moon wasn’t nearly strong enough to light our way, and it wasn’t long before Helga and Eva (or whatever their fucken names are) tripped over a root and slid down a muddy slope, ending up in the ocean at the bottom. I, of course, acted like a perfect gentleman and laughed my arse off, which obviously wasn’t the correct response, because when we got back they went into Ebu’s hut instead of mine.
Easily confused, those Germans.
I wrote this back in May, 2012. I wish it was still May, 2012.
Another day, another super-exciting place to visit in Kuala Lumpur! Well, perhaps super-exciting is going a bit far, but I did have my sights set on a place called the Bhatu Caves, which promised a gigantic golden statue, a giant staircase and, well, some caves.
It wasn’t too far from my hotel – about 12km – and I decided to take public transport. After all, it had worked in Honkers, and this place is almost as first-world as there, right?
The first part of journey was easy, and involved a 3km walk to the train station, which I undertook while munching on treats from the local bakery and sipping Mountain Dew. It gave me a great look at the city – I walked through nice parts of town, shit parts of town, across busy streets, past a river and through a series of underpass tunnels that were crawling with rats.
The train station was little more than a shed, but I was able to buy my ticket without fuss and was directed to the platform. Too easy. My train came, I jumped on, and it started rattling out towards the Caves. It was a weird train. It looked like one of the nice carriages I’d seen in Hong Kong and Singapore, but like most things in KL it was a case of them trying to make a Lamborhini when they only had the budget for a Kia, and ending up with some sort of bizarre Frankenstein’s monster. It rattled and rolled, the speaker system barely worked and it just felt cheap. It was also packed to the brim with scary-looking Indian blokes.
About 15 minutes in, I noticed that the stations we were stopping at were kinda sorta on the wrong line, and I was heading in the wrong direction, out into the wilds of KL. I jumped off at the next stop, at the delightfully-named Kepong. Kepong is a dump, with nothing but shacks and chickens. So I sat on the platform to wait for a train back to where I’d come from… and waited…. and waited. The sign above the track said the next train was 15 minutes away, then 45, then 17. It was at this point that I realised the Malaysian public transport system is even worse than Sydney’s.
Finally a train came, I scooted on with more smelly Indians, and I ended up back where I’d started. But with my extra experience, it would be easy to get the right train, yeah? I mean, there was a train with a sign in the window saying ‘Bhatu Caves’, an electronic sign above it saying ‘Bhatu Caves’ and the voiceover when I hopped on said it was going to Bhatu Caves.
Fifteen minutes later, I was back in Kepong. Nobody wants to go to Kepong, let along twice in one day. Determined to avoid another trip on the train system from hell, I managed to cross a sewer, go through a slum and find a couple of taxis by the side of the road.
The first taxi had a tall, thin middle eastern bloke in it who looked like Osama bin Laden. Hell, it probably was Osama bin Laden. Osama made no attempt to shake off my suspicions that he was one of the world’s most evil men, either,’cos he tried to rip me off by saying the caves were 25km away and he’d need a bucketload of dosh to take me there. I thanked him for being a cunt and moved onto the next taxi driver, who was more than happy to take me the 5km to my destination – and charge me one-sixth of what that terrorist-looking bastard had.
I finally made it to the Bhatu Caves and, yeah, the big golden statue was pretty cool. And, sure, there were heaps of steps and they were pretty steep. But after the effort I’d been through to get there, they would’ve had to have a fire-breathing dragon with big tits out the front to truly impress me.
I scoffed down a couple of packets of Mamee Monster Noodle Snacks (who would expect to find them in a place like that?) and took a stroll around at the base of the stairs, taking some photos before entering the caves. There were heaps of pigeons, and heaps of pigeon shit, but the highlight came when a monkey decided to get a bit fresh with one of the tourists. I was walking behind this middle-aged bird, snapping away, when this little monkey dude raced over to her. She looked hesitant but not too upset, until the monkey ducked under her skirt, reached up, grabbed her undies and yanked them down. Bloody hell, did she scream! Every eye in the place turned to her and watched in horror as this little bloke pulled down her beige granny undies, tore them off from around her legs and scampered off with them ON HIS HEAD.
Shit, if only it was so easy for me to get a lady’s knickers off.
He wasn’t the only sicko monkey in the place, though. I started climbing the near-vertical steps to the caves, more and more monkeys were climbing around and dancing and acting like arse clowns. Then I saw a cute little monkey, probably a baby, being stalked by a huge, ugly prick of a monkey that was easily three times its size. Oh shit, I was gunna see monkey-on-monkey rape!
But the little fella spun around, stepped to the right, circled the huge bully and started FUCKING HIM UP THE ARSE. The big monkey didn’t know what the shit was happening, and I just pissed myself and took a photo.
The top of the staircase provided a great view of the city, and opened up into a massive cave inside the mountain. I walked in, and the temperature immediately dropped. It was huge in there, like a cathedral carved out by God himself. The main cave led to another set of stairs, which took me to a smaller, yet no less impressive cave with an open roof that looked up towards the clear blue sky. It was all quite beautiful, really.
After an uneventful trip back to town and a meal of pork balls in Chinatown, I went back to the hotel for a swim (Monty sat in a corner, watching me and brooding, the whole time – then stuck his finger up at me when I left. What the fuck is that dude’s deal?) and then hit the piss. With a trip to the dry country of Brunei the next morning, I had to wipe out my remaining stock of alcohol, so I knocked back the rest of my vodka and headed out into the city for a decent meal and a few beers at a nice pub.
I found neither. In my drunken state I ended up at Dipak’s Indian Chow Down, gobbling a bowl of curry that looked like it had already been digested – twice – and another can of that jelly drink. I could feel the salmonella sliding down my throat with every bite, and every person in the place stared at me while I whoofed it down. Total cost of the meal? About $1.50, although it probably took five years off my life expectancy. As far as I was concerned, the countdown to shitting myself was on, so I went out into the night, keen for a beer.
I dodged the places with ladyboys out the front and went into a neon-lit joint that had the wrestling on the telly. No sooner had I received my overpriced beer than a gigantic, black, erm… woman, stomped up to me and pushed her monstrous boobzillas in my face. She outweighed me by a good 30kg and had me backed into a corner, so I had no choice but to talk to her.
Her name was Fantasy, she was from Tanzania and she ran a business management courses in KL. Yeah, sure. I told her I was Kevin from New Zealand and I was a professional Billy Ray Cyrus impersonator. As I’ve said before, the ladies love the Row-Row, but even I was shocked when she straight-up said she wanted to fuck me. Well, that’s not quite how she said it.
“How about we go back ta your digs and I wrap mah big black pussy around your delicious white cock?” she asked. I tried to watch the wrestling, but she wasn’t gunna give up.
“I’ll eat your arse. Suck your cock till your eyes pop out. Fuck yo’ white cock wit mah black asshole. Go on, feel mah titties, they yours, Kevin, they yours. You do what you want to them.”
She asked so nicely that I thought, what the fuck, and gave those bad boys a good squeeze. My hands have never looked so small – it was like a couple of little white spiders crawling around on the fucken Olgas. It was plenty of fun, but a stupid move, because it kinda sorta made her think that I actually wanted to take her back to her place and, erm, let her lick my arse.
She leaned in for a kiss and visions of the thousands of arses she’d eaten ran through my mind, and I stepped back just before she could get me. She reached out with a giant fist, and when she wrapped it around my arm it was like getting grabbed by King Kong.
“Give Mama Fantasy as kiss,” she growled, and leaned in. “I eat yo’ arse, I eat yo’ arse, give Mama Fantasy a kiss!” With nowhere to run, I was doomed… until someone called the thing’s name, and she turned around. This was my only chance! I dashed for the door and hid around the corner, and when Fantasy saw I’d done the bolt, she was ropable… for about three seconds, when she sidled up to a bloke in his late 60s and put her hand straight down his pants and started jerking him off. Damn, and I thought it was true love.
It was getting late and I had a big trip in the morning, so I decided to head home. The whole area was absolutely crawling with ladyboys, and I got my cocked grabbed by a tall Oriental with a mini skirt and an Adam’s apple. I was so appalled that I walked around the block and through the same patch, just to make sure it had really happened. And then I walked around the block and back through there again, just to be certain.
After an hour or so of getting free handies… uh, I mean being VIOLATED by ladyboys, I called it a night, and was ready to say buh bye to Kuala Lumpur.
I wrote this back in May, 2012, probably while waiting for a train in Kepong.
My hotel stands in the shadows of the Kuala Lumpur Tower, so today I swaggered over there and climbed to the top of it. It offered a grouse view out over a city that is tropical, pretty and clean, but also a little bit bland. After half an hour of gawking out at the skyscrapers I was ready to head back down. but, wanting to get my $15 worth, I walked round and round and round, feeling like a goldfish in a bowl.
When I got to the bottom I had the pleasure of visiting the world’s worst zoo, which consisted of three or four cages filled with sad-looking lizards and turtles, and a chubby bloke who followed me around everywhere shouting things that I didn’t understand. At least I didn’t get bitten by anything rabies-infected… or raped by the chubby bloke.
I escaped the Tower and wandered south towards the centre of the city. It was quite a nice walk, thanks to KL’s wide pathways and abundance of trees, and it was great to be able to walk through a major city without having people pushing me around or spitting everywhere. Beijing and Shanghai, you could learn a thing or two.
I eventually made it to the city’s Chinatown, which seems to be some sort of in-joke because the place is actually full of Indians (the curry-scented kind, not the red ones who wear feathers in their hair and dance around fires). The whole place is basically one huge market, with scammers and cheap knock-offs everywhere. I bought a couple of shirts and got the fuck out of there before someone tried to stab me, exploring some of the quieter streets before ducking into a little Indonesian restaurant that served up a delicious nasi goreng.
With no sign of public transport except for a very tall, very skinny Indian man screaming “Klang, Klang, Klang” by the side of a beaten-up bus (I assume it either went to Klang, or he really likes the villainous brain-creature from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles but gets his Rs and Ls backwards), I set off back home.
I’d heard good things about KL, but it really is kind of a third-world shithole spruced up with a few snazzy buildings to give the world the impression that it’s a wonderful place. Getting out and walking the streets blows away those misconceptions, though.
After half filling a bottle of F&N Ice Cream Soda soft drink (aka the greatest beverage of all time) with cheap, duty free vodka, I slipped into my sexiest g-string and took the elevator back to the pool for a (very) quick dip before they shut the place down and converted it into the shittiest nightclub in the universe once more. The whole time, my waiter from the evening before – whose name badge, I saw now, claimed his name was Monty, which is an odd name for an Asian – sat on a stool and glared at me for not giving him a tip. At one point he even made that throat-cutting gesture. It would’ve been more threatening if he wasn’t dressed in an all-white jump suit, as if he’d just come from the set of a homosexual gang bang porno.
I dried off and started walking back to the lift when Monty minced over to me, blocking the way. “You know,” he lisped. “You did not tip me last night.”
“Here’s a tip,” I replied, “get the fuck out of my way or I’ll push you in the pool.”
Monty looked shocked but impressed, then tuned away sharply. As I walked past, I saw tears in his eyes and he reached for me, as if he needed a cuddle. I thought about making good on my promise of pushing him in the pool anyway, but realised he’d probably take that as me coming onto him and went back to my room instead. Monty, eh? Cunty would be a more appropriate name.
I drank in my room for a while, danced around ‘cos there was so much space, and when I was hungry I set out to explore the culinary delights of KL. And explored and explored and explored, ‘cos I couldn’t find any restaurants that were open. I’d get a better meal at an anorexia support group. Hours were passing and I was that hungry I could’ve eaten a bowl of porridge out of Magda Szubanski’s smoo, when I ended up underneath the Petronas Towers. Now, KL might not be the fanciest town in the world, but those towers are truly impressive and cool. But first things first, I was hungry, so I wandered into the shopping centre underneath.
It was a huge place, but almost deserted by the time I got there. I went up elevators, down escalators, round and round past high-quality clothes shops and places that sold watches and jewellery and crystal and other stuff I couldn’t afford, and wouldn’t buy even if I had $100 notes falling out my arse. Not a lot of food, though. Not a lot of food.
I finally found a restaurant full of dudes in suits and women in fancy dresses and looked down at what I was wearing; cheap Heineken beer singlet, shorts and thongs. Had a bit of a stain on the front of the shorts from where I’d pissed on myself by accident. Fuck it, I was hungry.
When I walked in, every eye in the place burnt holes into me. It was as if a turd had crawled out of the toilet, slopped his way in and asked for a steak. I took a seat and a snobby waiter sauntered over and dumped a menu on my table before scuttling away like a crab, as if he was afraid I’d give him leprosy or, worse still, try to talk to him.
Upper-class wankery aside, the food was ace. I ordered some spring rolls and a Malaysian chicken stir-fry with a big glass of beer, and it all tasted delicious. Sure, it was expensive and I had to eat it while the suit-wearing poofs around me recoiled in horror, but it was nice. When I was done I walked out without leaving a tip, and a little Malaysian fella raced straight over to where I was sitting with a bottle of disinfectant and removed any trace of the dude who dared walk in wearing a singlet.
From there, I took a walk around the Towers, which really are quite beautiful when they’re all lit up on a clear night. They’re absolutely monumental, and with all the lights on them look like a couple of jagged slices of platinum jutting out of the earth.
With that piece of essential sightseeing out of the way, I winged my way back home, stopping in at a filthy Indian restaurant called Dipak’s on the way for a can of soft drink that, inexplicably, had little bits of jelly in it. A bloke who I assumed to be Dipak asked me if I wanted a curry, and I took one look at the luke-warm slop concealing in a tray and felt my stomach churn. I’ve had enough food poisoning for one trip, thanks.
I originally wrote this back in May, 2012, while being chased by a rabies-infected monkey with a big, red arse.
The good people of Langkawi, Malaysia were thoroughly sick of me by the time I left. But, just as one should never count one’s chickens before they hatch, one should also not breathe a sigh of relief before the drunken Aussie is safely packed away on a plane to somewhere else.
I woke up early feeling fantastic, and headed down to the beach for a final swim at this island paradise before heading to the airport for my 1:30pm flight to Kuala Lumpur. When I got there, the sun was shining, the water was sparkling and delightful, and my waitress friend and her dopey husband were still in a foul mood.
After drying off and spending a very pleasant half hour sitting on a sun lounge reading a Joe Lansdale book, I went back to my room, packed my shit, dropped my bags at the front desk and then took one last stroll up the street to buy another bottle of vodka before leaving. I wouldn’t wanna get thirsty.
On the way back I was enjoying the sunshine and the peaceful ways of the little island, when I heard someone shouting and saw Sonjay running out of his shop and straight towards me. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, and from the look on his face he could’ve wanted to either shoot me or root me, so I piss-bolted back to my resort, grabbed my bags and tossed them into the back of a taxi, slammed the door and ordered the driver to gun it just as Sonjay reached the car. Despite being a fat little bloke who looked like he’d work up a sweat just thinking about going to the fridge for another can of Kingfisher, he kept up with the taxi for a good 100m, banging on my window and yelling at me. As we finally pulled away he fell to his knees in the dirt and I heart him scream, “I love yooooouuuuu!”
A few minutes later I was at the shed optimistically known as Langkawi International Airport, and ready to check in. Tragically, my suitcase was slightly over the weight limit, requiring a repack. So I stepped to the side and started moving stuff from my suitcase to my backpack, while a bunch of burqa-wearing hardcore muslims stood around glaring at me. When I finally had it in order, I picked up my suitcase and immediately realised I hadn’t zipped it up, causing all my shit to fall out on the ground. But that’s not the worst bit. For the last few days I’d been collecting some of my beer cans because they look cool and are a great reminder of the monumental amount of piss I’ve been sinking. So about 20 empty beer cans spilled out along with my dirty undies, clanging on the floor right in front of about 50 people who reckon alcohol is the devil’s drink. Fuck. Me.
The flight to KL was uneventful enough, and soon I was at the shed that’s known as Kuala Lumpur Low Cost Terminal. Bloody hell, what a shithole of a place. I got on a bus that took me to the middle of nowhere, where I caught a fast train that wasn’t very fast at all to KL Sentral station and, after seeing a big sign for some fancy new Burger King vain-clogger, stopped in for a bite. I love traditional Asian cousine!
A short taxi ride through scenic downtown Kuala Lumpur – and it really is a nice place, with palms everywhere and snazzy buildings and lots of pretty girls - and I was at my home for the next three days, the Pacific Regency Suites. And it was bloody fantastic! My room was damn near the size of my house, with a gigantic king bed, kitchen, huge TV and absolutely massive bedroom. It made the place in Shanghai look like the place in Penang.
I took a quick stroll around town and it was pleasant, if a little sterile and surprisingly quiet. After travelling through a bunch of Chinese cities that were as busy as Penny Wong in a roomful of dildos, it was nice to have a little bit of space. It was getting a bit late, though, and I wanted to have a swim in the hotel’s rooftop pool, so I just grabbed some mixers for my vodka and headed back.
The pool was pretty cool, with an incredibly decent view over the city. At seven it shuts down and the whole place converts into what is supposedly a very nice nightclub, which I intended to check out later on, so I dried off and went back to my room for a quick drinkie.
Alright, so it was more like a half-litre bottle of vodka drinkie, and by the time I went back up to the club I was primed for a good night. Unfortunately, the Luna Bar was absolutely shithouse. There was thumping techno music, but no dancefloor. In fact, there was nowhere for anyone to congregate, forcing people to sit in individual booths in the darkness, meaning that chatting to strangers was completely out of the question. Good news for any single women in the place, bad news for me. I had a couple of overpriced cocktails (in beautiful plastic glasses!) and fiddled about with my phone (that’s not a euphemis for masturbation), then got the fuck out of there and back to my room. And when I paid, old mate cracked the shits ‘cos I didn’t leave a tip! They’re lucky I didn’t take a dump in their pool.
After that, it took me about 14 seconds to fall asleep, which is a good thing because I had a trek ahead of me the next day. Oh, bloody hell, did I have a trek in store!
I originally wrote this back in May, 2012. If I wasn’t so drunk right now, I’d remember the exact date. Giz a beer?