Tag Archives: Myanmar

My one year and one week anniversary of being drunk and jobless

Exactly one year and one week ago, I received the greatest gift a man could ever hope for. No, not a blowjob off all four remaining members of One Direction some hot chick with big tits, I’m talking about my redundancy from the evil empire of Bauer Media. It was a pay-off that not only meant I no longer had to spend my days locked away in an office, sitting in a chair that was as comfortable as Clementine Ford at a Weight Watchers meeting, but that I would basically be paid to spend the next year fucking around and doing whatever the hell I wanted.

So how has that year gone?

Well, it’s been a big one. Shortly into my retirement I took a course in paragliding, and it turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life (along with that sheila from Home & Away – hi, Colleen!). The feeling of freedom is like nothing else I’ve ever experienced, and the sense of accomplishment I received from being able to learn this wonderful new skill really set me up for a productive year.


I also crashed my paraglider, a terrifying experience that took me closer to death than I’ve ever been before. But I came out of it without any major injuries, which I’m thankful for every day. There are risks when you fly but, as far as I’m concerned, there’s less chance of dying than there is driving along in a car or walking across the road, so I’ll keep doing it.

I spent the early part of the year travelling through Indonesia (great), Myanmar (brilliant) and India (fucking shithouse), on what became the toughest trip I’ve ever been on. The things I saw and the people I met (and the near death experiences) will stay with me for the rest of my life.


And when I came home, with no job to go to and adventure in my heart, I went exploring. There’s so much of my own country that I’m yet to see, so I just got out there and checked shit out.

I’ve been on treks through the Aussie wilderness that have pushed me, both mentally and physically. With my tent and sleeping bag and delicious nachos strapped to my back, I scrambled up cliffs and crossed remote rivers all across Sydney and the Central Coast, spending days at a time without seeing other people.


My desire to see more of Australia took me to Tasmania, where I got stuck in a blizzard, climbed a mountain while drunk, visited an art gallery full of pictures of penises, and drank my bodyweight in cider. It’s an astonishing island that is well worth exploring, and I’ll be back there to see more of it before long.


I’ve learned how to rock climb and abseil, and how to teach others to do both, and in the process show patience that I don’t think anybody thought I had.

I’ve met people through paragliding, travelling and working, as well as in parks and under bridges while on the drink, and every one of them has changed my life and will remain important to me. Well except for fucking Stavros – he can go sit on an ant hill as far as I’m concerned.

And hell, I even managed to get that Deputy Editor position that was only available to friends of the boss while at Bauer.

It’s been a good year, the best in a long time, and one that’s seen changes that were sorely needed. My last few months in Sydney were dark times, where my sense of self worth was stomped into the gutter and my confidence wrecked, as I wallowed in a negative working environment, writing for a magazine that was heading straight for the bin.

My favourite song by the band The Real McKenzies is called I Do What I Want, and features the lines, “Cold water is all around, is this what it feels like to drown? Ain’t nobody to pull me out, I feel like I’m going down”, and that completely sums up how I felt back in those bad times. The same song also has a chorus that adequately reflects how I feel now.

I do what I want
Whenever I like
Because it’s my right
I don’t ever want to do what I told
‘Cos I’m getting old
And this is how my life’s been turning out

I was horribly lost for a while there and, while I’m still a long way from being found, I’m on the right path for the first time in a long time.

Now that’s out of the way, it’s time to get fucking drunk on a Monday night… oh, that’s right, I already am!

Going, Goa, Gone

I’m sitting here on the sand, watching the waves roll in under the moonlight, sipping on my last beer before heading back to Australia tomorrow morning. I’ve spent six weeks in Indonesia, Myanmar and India, six weeks that have felt like a lifetime and as if they would never end, but which are now just hours from burning out.

I’ve become a fixture here at Patnam. There’s an icy cold longie of Kingfisher ready for me when I get to the Om Shanti bar at five, they bring me my menu on my third beer, and they get the prawns and cheese naan ready ready. It’s such a relaxing place, and I will miss it. In a couple of weeks the monsoons will start tearing in and this whole area will be deserted, so it’s probably time I get out of here, though.

I've been to shittier places... like Huddersfield
I’ve been to shittier places… like Huddersfield

I spent my last full night in India at what is quite possibly the world’s worst nightclub, which was an interesting experience. For starters, there were only two girls there and 50 or 60 horny, salivating Indians gyrating around them. When Indian fellas dance in clubs, they don’t just shuffle around like Aussie dudes do, they go full-on Bollywood, miming to the songs, waving their arms around and shaking their arses.

There was a fat man with his top off, and homeless who was mine-sweeping beers when he wasn’t breaking hearts on the floor. He looked like he’d just fallen out of the wrong end of a dog and smelled even worse. I called him Nigel, for reasons any Kevin Bloody Wilson fan will understand.

Nigeeeeeeeeeeel…. fuckin’ legend!

A fight broke out between two drunk dudes who both wanted to dance with a girl who obviously didn’t want to dance with either of them, and there was a white chick who was getting onto as many Indian perverts as she could, and then took three of them back to her room. Bloody hell, and I complain that my arsehole is burning after having Indian…

Fat Dude shakes his bootie next to the slut and one of her many Hindu hunks
Fat Dude shakes his bootie next to the slut and one of her many Hindu hunks

I’ve seen the beauty of Bali, the frightening ruggedness of Lombok, and the banality of Jakarta. I’ve been surprised by Yangon and amazed by the temples of Bagan. In India I’ve been overcome by the intensity of Delhi, disgusted by the soul-crushing horribleness of Jaipur, and rejuvinated by the calm beaches of Goa. But it’s time to go home, and you know what? That’s fine.

In the past, my trips overseas have been an escape from normal life, and returning from holidays sucked because I didn’t feel there was much to go back to. But not this time, because now the adventure continues at home. I’m going back because I want to, not because I have to. I have a fucking paraglider waiting for me in my bedroom back home, come on!

To travel is to give a part of yourself to the country you are visiting, and to take a part of it with you, and that’s why it changes us. Most of what I gave India was made in regular deposits into the toilet, but the point stands. This journey and the struggles have changed me in ways I don’t yet understand, but I look forward to using the wisdom I have gained by getting through this as I stumble drunkenly through life.

It’s been a tough trip in some ways. Not just because of the frustration of organising anything in Asia, but because of the lack of opportunities I’ve had to meet people over the last few weeks. There were very few tourists in India, probably because of how dangerous it is becoming to travel there, and Goa was nearly empty because it was the end of the season. It’s tough being alone and cut off, but I’ve still met lots of interesting characters and more than a few decorative women, so the good outweighs the bad. It was definitely better than the time I got my cock caught in a mouse trap.

You can't go wrong with Kingies on the beach
You can’t go wrong with Kingies on the beach

I truly thank everyone who has followed my adventures through Asia, and hope you will join me for more drunken, unemployed adventures through Australia, and wherever the fuck I go next. Maybe this blog will turn into photos of me eating meat pies in my undies and watching back-to-back episodes of Bob’s Burgers, but I guess there’s a market for that, too.

A special thanks also has to go to my thongs, which have carried me through hundreds of kilometres of cow shit and other crap. I had an expensive pair of Denali sandals that packed it in after a week or so, and my $5 Coles thongs picked up the slack. They’ve been with me for longer than most girlfriends.

Shit, an attractive blonde just sat down at the next table. Oh well, I guess I’ve got time for one more beer…

See ya in Australia, fuckers
See ya in Australia, fuckers

Note: This article was published two days after being written, due to technical difficulties, aka both my phone and my computer totally shat themselves. Right now I’m actually at home, drinking wine and wondering when someone’s gunna bring me a seafood curry.

A monk gets dunked

I took a selfie with some Muslims (or they might've been African ghosts, it's hard to tell)
I took a selfie with some Muslims (or they might’ve been African ghosts, it’s hard to tell)

After the nine-hour trip from Yangon to Bagan, I never wanted to ride on another bus again. But there I was, two days later, climbing on the Bagan Minn Thar Express once again to make the return journey, this time overnight. And it wasn’t too bad, actually – for me, at least. There was a monk who didn’t have such a great time.

For the return trip I shelled out an extra four bucks to take the VIP (very infected penis) service, and was stoked to discover that not only did I not have to sit next to anyone, due to the coach having only three seats across instead of four, but also that there was no Myanmarese music to piss me off the whole way. Score!

I ate a burger-like product from this shit roadside cafe that gave me the squirts. It was bad for me, it was worse for the monk

Sadly, the air conditioning was turned up so far that it was like Canberra in winter as we rolled along. I dunno, maybe we had some penguins on board or something.

After a few hours, we stopped and picked up a monk by the side of the road. Don’t ask me what he was doing in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night, wearing nothing but a robe, but the plucky little chap climbed aboard, all smiles. And then the driver PUT THE MONK IN THE TOILET.

Sure, there were no spare seats, but it seemed weird for the monk to be made to sit in the toilet, rather than on the floor. I forgot about it and watched some shows on my laptop, until I was interrupted by the bus lurching violently from side to side. I don’t know if we hit something or blew a tyre, but we were rocking and rolling like Meatloaf on a bouncy castle. And then the toilet door banged open.

The monk staggered out, covered in shit, with only his big, smily teeth visible through the crud. I don’t know if he’d fallen into the brasco, or if all the turds had sorta exploded upwards when the bus went wonky, but he looked like a frozen banana dipped in chocolate. And he wouldn’t stop grinning, as if getting splashed with the arse juice of a thousand passengers was a blessing or something.

And then he just walked off the bus and into the night.

That’s the only way he’s getting clean

As for the rest of today, it’s been garbage. I got into Yangon at 5am and have been at the airport ever since. And Yangon Airport ain’t a fun place to be stuck. There are no restaurants, no beer, and definitely no strippers. It’s now almost four in the arvo and my plane’s been delayed by three hours, so I’ve been sitting around watching endless loops of wacky Burmese TV ads. Seriously, every bloody ad they make is basically a high tempo pop song, whether it’s about noodles or hair care products.

Now I really wanna wash my hair with Galanz
Now I really wanna wash my hair with Galanz

Ahead of me I still have two flights, one to Kolkata and a connecting flight to New Delhi. I’m already half-mad with exhaustion, so by the time I get there I’ll probably be so tired I’ll pass out in the Ganges and wake up looking as filthy as my monk friend.

I’ve just gotta keep telling myself, “This is meant to be fun, this is meant to be fun, this is meant to be zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Things to do in Bagan when you’re dead


Today was a day that I probably didn’t need to spend in Bagan. I saw a bunch of temples yesterday, and didn’t have a burning urge to see any more today, but I’m stuck here till 8pm, so what did I do?

I looked at temples and got drunk. Shit, it’s Bagan, it’s not like I spent the day riding rollercoasters and dancing with robots or anything. As I said yesterday, one day is enough here. There’s really nothing outside of the temples to see or do, and nobody really needs to be climbing through ruins two days in a row unless they wear a stupid had, carry a whip, and made three good movies and shit one with that fuckhead Cate Blanchett in it.

Pro tip: Go for the Mandalay Red. It’s got a higher alcohol content and costs 75% of a Mandalay Lager. That means you can get (counts fingers) 25% drunker for the same price. Dad, correct me if I’m wrong on this

I’m talking about Indiana Jones. If you’ve done all that but aren’t Indy, please don’t be offended.

I also crab danced in one of the temples, in front of a Buddha who was trying to sleep. But it’s cool, right? Buddha ain’t one of those angry gods, he’s a pretty cool dude. If he was any cooler he would listen to John Legend and wear one of those hats with the sticker still on the brim.

Please don’t kill me, Buddha

Bagan has ace temples and is great to wander around, but the other highlight is the food. The local dishes aren’t anything amazing, but this is the first place I’ve been to in Asia where they’ve done western food properly. Last night I had Thai (I know, I know, it’s in Asia) and it had actual pieces of cooked chicken, rather than a bunch of legs chucked into rice, as I’ve become accustomed to. This afternoon I had a hamburger, and then a chicken burger, and they were proper burgers. Some of the burgers I’ve had over here were closer to arseholes on toast.


Oh, and after a day of walking around in 40 degree heat (in clothes that haven’t been washed in weeks) I smell like shit, which is an unfortunate situation for the poor Burmanian who has spent the last six months saving up to afford the bus trip to Yangon, only to get stuck next to me for nine hours. Guess what? I don’t think I’m going to have a happy fun time, either.

But as long as they don’t put the balding paedophile on the screen again, I just might make it through to India.

I broke a poor person’s bike and blamed it on a monk


Bagan has more temples than Rebel Wilson has had meat pies. 2200 in fact (thanks, Wikipedia). And today I saw all of them… except for the 2100 I missed out on because I went to the pub. But there’s not a massive amount of variety between them, so I think I got a pretty good idea of what they’re about.

I’ve been eating well and drinking better over the last few weeks, so I decided to rent a pushie for the day rather than one of those poofy electonic bikes. And so, at 9:30, I slogged off on flat tyres into the 35 degree heat, hoping I could see some temples through the dust.

Yeah, the view is half decent

It’s a bit hard to miss ’em. They’re dotted everywhere. Small ones, big ones, pointy ones, square ones. The more famous sites are crawling with peasants trying to sell souvenirs, but the rest are basically empty, save for a few monks. Biking it (whether the Cadell way or the softcock way ) is definitely how to explore this place. I didn’t have a map, but every time I saw something interesting off in the dirt I just toddled up there and checked it out. It’s easy and relaxing, and a great way to spend a day that other people are spending working.

I think this is where Batman lives

Things were going swell until I went to ride away from one of the temples and heard a loud crunch. At first I thought I’d ruptured a testicle, then I realised that I hadn’t taken the bike chain off before pedaling off. The chain was fucked, the wheel was bent, and I had to come up with a plan. I started coming up with plausible lies, but then I went to the pub and forgot about it, so when I took the bike back I told them that a monk did it.

A monk! No explanation, just that some rogue monk came up and damaged the bike, then sauntered away.

They apparently bought it, but I’m expecting a bald dude in a robe to stab me in the eye as soon as I step out the door.

This is the last photo you’ll ever see of me

It’s weird that Bagan receives so little recognition compared to Cambodia’s Angkor Wat, because it’s every bit as interesting and far easier to explore due to how close together the temples are – sometimes there’s only a few metres between them, and from a high spot they spread out to the horizon. And, unlike Angkor Wat, I’ve managed to go a whole day without pissing or puking on the monuments. Gimme a break, when I was at Angkor I went out drinking till 3am, so I was lucky to even get out of the hotel room.

Just on that night that I got drunk in Siem Reap, it was the first (and, so far, only) time I have vomited on a frog. I didn’t know it at the time, but I filmed myself spewing in the street, and when I watched the video back it was clear that my partially-digested Mexican dinner landed on a hoppity-hop. I’m not even lying.

To wrap it up, Bagan is a top place and worth a visit, with my recommendation that you check it out on your own, without bothering with a guide or tour group. They’re expensive, slow and expensive, and half the fun of this place is discovering it for yourself, and walking around seemingly abandoned ruins with little idea of why they’re here. One full day is enough, unless you’re a total history buff.

Just don’t go to the similarly-named Bogan. There, monks don’t just bend your bike’s wheel, they steal the whole fucking thing and push it into a river when they’re finished with it and wanna go smoke some bongs.

The world’s largest night light



My bus trip from Yangon to Bagan, Myanmar was interesting, to say the least. After cabbing it to the outskirts of town to catch the beautiful (not really) Bagan Minn Thar Express, I was squished into a tiny seat next to an overweight man and his two children, behind a monk, and in front of a teenage boy who would, at regular intervals, reach over and caress my hair. Halfway through the journey he even leant forward and kissed me gently on the elbow. Sadly, I forgot to get his phone number.


The entertainment was just as outrageous. First I was treated to two hours of Burmese pop songs by a chubby, balding paedophile, which became even better when I chucked Cypress Hill on my iPod and pretended he was B-Real. And after that I got to watch the zaniest movie I’ve ever set eyes on. It was in another language, so I couldn’t pick up all the major twists and turns, but it seemed like a real Academy Awards contender. It had slapstick humour, bus crashes, elves, ghosts, homoeroticism, extreme violence, bad dancing and a chunky guy on a pogo stick. So that’s where Adam Sandler gets all his ideas from.

He's Myanmar's answer to Guy Sebastian. Get the shotgun!
He’s Myanmar’s answer to Guy Sebastian. Get the shotgun!

Naturally, being a bus ride through Asia, it took about three times as long as it should’ve. We broke down twice, stopped every time we saw a monk to give him water, delivered vegetables, and even took a detour so the driver could buy some chairs. Luckily, no chickens were brought onboard – they were kept underneath the bus, where a couple of peasants were riding, too. Still, more comfortable than flying Jetstar, right?

Once you get out of Yangon, Myanmar is desperately poor, brown and dusty. It reminds me a lot of Cambodia (not surprising, given how close they are), but even more povo. Where Cambodia has nice buildings in each village, Myanmar has wooden shacks that look like they’re about to fall over. Poor people lined the road we drove on, hoping someone would throw money at them. I was unable to, as I was too busy either playing on my computer, reading my Kindle or listening to my iPod. Sorry, poor people.

Sorry, kid, I need that money for beer

Unfortunately, the air con packed it in near the end, and the temperature headed northwards and settled at around 38. That was bad, but what was worse was the blokes around me, who started to spread their legs and flap their skirts to keep cool. Now, Burmese blokes don’t wear undies under their skirts, so I copped an eyeful of tiny, hair wangs wiggling about between big, meaty thighs – and the fellas were grinning their heads off while they did it! If I’d filmed it, I could’ve given it to the government to use as a public service video to stop young dudes becoming gay.

I was wrecked by the time I got into Bagan, but from what I’ve seen it’s a nice, quiet little place with a lot of backpackers riding around on bikes. Which is exactly what I’ll be doing tomorrow, when I head out to see a few of the 2000 or so temples that are bunched around this town like schoolboys around a stolen porn magazine (I’m showing my age now – I’m pretty sure the young blokes skip the mags and go straight to 30-man interracial anal gang bangs).

I was meant to be in Delhi tonight, but I’m happy to be in Bagan, and very excited to see what this joint has to offer. And how will I get back to Yangon in a few days? I don’t care, fire me out of a cannon, fold me up and put me in an envelope and post me – just don’t put me on the bloody bus again!


Stuck in the middle of Myanmar with you

Yesterday I got my first taste of Yangon and found it to be pretty ace, and today I wanted to dig a little deeper and check out some of the stuff outside the central business district. In some ways it was like going to bed with a decent sort and waking up the next day to discover she’s actually a bit of a fugmo, but I still had a great time in this exotic city.

If only the people who hang out at Gossie station were so productive

I spent eight years catching trains to and from work and hated every bloody second of it (even if I did write a pretty good book that you should read while commuting – and you can buy it right here https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MI5VI9C. Go on, the blog will still be here when you’ve finished your purchase), but that didn’t stop me from spending the day on a rattler. There’s a service called the Yangon Circular Train, and I was really hoping it would involve riding on a round train; instead, I found myself on a 50km circuit around the outskirts of the city, and it was a real eye-opener.

After coughing up 20 cents for the ride, I hopped on at Yangon Central and found myself surrounded by chickens, people cradling bowls of fruit, monks and other strange creatures. The train rattled and rolled through the suburbs and into the outskirts of the city, where I saw a little of the rural side of Myanmar – people picking vegetables, leading cows around, fighting and swimming in filthy pools of what looked like shit by the side of the tracks. At every station we passed, more peasants (and their animals) would climb on and gawk at me. After three hours sitting on a hard wooden seat, my arse was as sore as Jesse Jane’s after an afternoon with a black man, so I got off.

It leaves her hands free for masturbating

After a stop in the park for a well-earned beer (lazing about on trains is tough, dude), I rocked up to the Pansodan Jetty in the south of the city to take a ferry ride over to the village of Dallah, on the other side of the river. The trip over there was pleasant enough, even if it only lasted five minutes, most of which was spent fending off hawkers and filthy homeless children who looked like they’d just crawled out of a toilet. But when I got to the other side… what a shithole!

Baby in a bucket!

Dallah is little more than a dirt road with a bunch of crappy shops and restaurants next to it. I couldn’t walk five metres without some idiot offering me a ride in his stupid rickshaw, and one clown just wouldn’t take no for an answer. He kept following me for a few hundred metres, asking, “What your name? Where you come from? Where you go?” I took refuge in some sort of crap temple, and the dunce even followed me in there!

This pervert wouldn’t leave me alone. If you look closely, you can see his boner

Of course, the real adventure was still to come. I’m supposed to be flying to India tomorrow, so when I got back to my room I went through all my details to make sure I was prepared for the flight – and realised I’d totally fucked up my Visa application. In that, you know, I hadn’t made one. So I quickly tried to get onto the online application site, only to have the internet at my hotel/shitbox go down on me (and not in a good way).

I grabbed my stuff and trotted down the street to the closest interwebs cafe, got onto the site, and found out all applications need to be made at least four days before flying. Right, so I’m not going to Delhi tomorrow. Now I needed to make my application, and try to get a refund on my already-purchased and newly-useless plane ticket. Only the computer wouldn’t allow me to access my emails to find my booking number, so it was back up to my room to try to use the net long enough to pull my details out.

With that done, it was back to the cafe to get my refund (small mercies, hey?), before trying to put my Visa application through. All good, all good, all good… now they need a photo of me. Back up to the room, photo taken, down to the cafe, uploaded, now they want me to pay. My card’s in the room, so back up there, got the card, back down, put the payment through, and it won’t go through. Try again, try again, finally realise it’s because my account is empty due to my mortgage coming out like a gay father. So I transfer money into the account, try to process the payment again, it says I’ve had too many failed attempts, go back to the start. Fuckity fuck!

Twenty minutes later, the application’s gone through, so it’s back to the hotel to book a bus trip to Bagan, where I was originally planning to go anyway. No buses until tomorrow night. I get the bloke to call around and, finally, he lands me a spot on the crappiest bus, which takes 12 hour and requires a 6am pickup tomorrow. Yay.

So it seems that I wanted to cut back on my time in Myanmar, but that Myanmar wasn’t having any of it. I’m not too upset about it, to be honest. I won’t be out of pocket too much (maybe $100), and I’ll get a chance to explore more of this wonderful country. The seemingly endless temples of Bagan are just begging to be explored, and it will be good to get a different, quieter perspective of this country. Plus, I get two 12-hour bus rides, aren’t you fucking jealous?

No, you aren’t. Of course you aren’t. Fuck ya, then.

Mission of Burma (that’s when I reach for my Myanmar Lager)


I expected Myanmar to be extremely poor, backwards and run-down, but have been surprised to discover that the city of Yangon is a modern, progressive place that is a joy to walk around and overloaded with things to see and do.

The streets are wide, with plenty of trees and footbaths big enough to actually stroll down without having to dodge traffic. Unlike Jakarta, the air isn’t dirty enough to kill a full-grown midget, and there are heaps of nice, quiet parks to hang out in (and get drunk on the cheap beer). The people here seem less kill-happy than the Indonesians (I wonder if it has anything to do with them being Buddhist rather than Muslim? Nah, can’t be it. And yes, I do know that Myanmar has pretty much had civil wars since it became a country, so go fuck yaself) and there are also plenty of colonial buildings from when the British ran the place.


No, not that one.


That’s better.

I spent the day with a bunch of stupas, which sounds like what I used to do Monday to Friday before receiving my Nazi gold payout from the goosestepping knuckleheads at Bauer Media, but was actually a lot more interesting. Stupas, or pagodas, are basically these big, pointy, shiny gold building things built to honour either Fatty Vautin or Buddha, I can’t remember which.

I think this is where John Laws lives

When I visited Shwedagon Zedi Daw, the most important of the stupas, something odd happened. As I walked in, the young chap at the door asked me to pull my pants down. I was sure I’d misheard him, but he demonstrated by pulling his own pants down a few centimetres. I shrugged and dropped my duds to the floor and gave him a little wiggle. That was obviously the wrong thing to do, because a stern-looking fellow in a security guard uniform came over and pulled them up for me, before explaining that they just had to be low enough to cover my knees. Settle down, I kept my reggies up.

I was a bit disappointing, though, because I’d been led to believe that The Monkees would be in there. I knew I wouldn’t see Davy Jones, but even Mickey Dolzenz would’ve been cool. Instead there was just a bunch of bald dudes wearing towels, looking like they’d just climbed out of the shower.

Yangon has provided all the wonder and wackiness that I found lacking in Indonesia. Today felt like an adventure, whereas so much of Indo was either too touristic (the majority of Bali) or boring and inaccessible (Jakarta). This is a fun place to just walk through, finding fun stuff down alleyways and following trails of gold.

Myanmar is a bizarre pace, though. On the trip from the from the airport, I sat in the front passenger seat, which turned out to be terrifying because they use right-hand-drive cars and drive on the right. I felt like I was going to crash into oncoming traffic the whole way.

I’ve seen at least five people chase and catch pigeons, which is a little disconcerting seeing as I had chicken for lunch. I’m guessing I actually had city chicken, but that’s cool because it was delicious and extremely cheap.

Sweet and sour flying rat

I was also getting strange looks every time I pulled out my penis camera to take photos, which struck me as a bit off because Myanmaese people are constantly taking selfies. Then it hit me – they had very little access to technology until four or five years ago when the military government decided to play nice, so they probably went straight to taking photos on their phones and never used cameras. Or maybe they were looking at me strangely because I kept taking photos of myself with my knob out.

But wackiest of all is the way the teenage boys interact with each other. They tongue kiss, cuddle and fiddle with each other in public, then play wrestle, then start kissing again. I couldn’t believe it the first time I saw it, but I saw dozens of young chaps pashing off. I went to school with heaps of fully sick homos who sucked each other off all the time, but perhaps they weren’t gay after all, maybe they were just Burmese.

This is a brilliant place to explore, and I wish that I’d cut a few days out of my Indonesian adventure to spend here instead. As it is, I’m only here for three nights, which mainly comes down to a lack of finances and a desire to get back to Australia and do some paragliding before I die of old age. Oh yeah, and I kinda wanna get into the three of four weeks I have planned in India. And Sril Lanka. And falling asleep because I’m very fucking tired. As they say over here in Burma, konichiwa.

Ladyboys, hookers and muggings; going back in time in Thailand

I’ve managed to do what those gronks Andrew Chan and Myuran ‘Suck a man off’ Sukumaran thankfully never will – make it out of Indonesia alive. I’m telling you, those three days I spent in Jakarta seemed more like a month, and if my flight out had been delayed I reckon I would’ve started throwing karate kicks around the airport.

Right now I’m sitting on the floor at Bangkok Airport, somewhat disappointed that the airline chicks around me aren’t shooting ping pong balls out of their vaginas, and waiting for my connecting flight to Yangon, Myanmar. That’s Burma, where Rambo went all machine gunny in Rambo IV.

It’s been five years since I was last in Thailand, for a somewhat longer time then. It was my first trip overseas (yes, at 26 or whatever), I didn’t know what the fuck I was getting myself in for, and I fell into adventures that paved the way for all the stupid travelling shit I’ve done since then.

No wonder the ladyboys like me so much

In Phuket I got attacked by a group of ladyboys while I walked down a dark alleyway, only to have a little bloke on a motorbike ride up and tell me to jump on the back. My response (while fending off the fists of the six-foot-tall dudes in dresses) was to tell them that I couldn’t because I didn’t tick the motorcycle box on my travel insurance application. “So you want to get fucked in arse by ladyboy?” he asked. I got on the bike.

I also tried to impress a girl by dancing on a podium at some point. It didn’t work.

Look how excited I am about getting ripped off by a tuk-tuk driver!

In Koh Samui I met an incredibly attractive Burmese lass in a bar and, wary of how many hookers were in the vicinity, asked her repeatedly whether she fucked for bucks (well, in a nicer way than that). She told me she worked in a hotel, I invited her back to my room for some disappointing sex, and as soon as we hit the street she hit me up for money. Fuck, I’m an idiot sometimes.

On our way to drink jelly shots and dance with hookers

Here in Bangkok, I successfully dodged a fake jewel scam before shitting myself in the street after having a dodgy hotdog from a roadside food dude. I just wandered into a shop, bought a new pair of fake Billabong board shorts, handed my used pair of fake Billabong board shorts to the shopkeeper, and swaggered out.

On that trip, I also planned to visit Myanmar (well, briefly, on a day tour along the Burma Railway), but it didn’t work out due to the fact the tuk-tuk driver who was meant to take me to the station was obviously on the drugs and took me to the wrong place. Since then, I’ve always wanted to head to Myanmar, that forbidden country, and in a few hours I’ll be there.

If I get into trouble for doing anything stupid, please come and save me, Rambo!

With former Labor leader, Kim Beazley

I’d rather drink shit than spend another day in Jakarta

Sorry, Huddersfield, you’ve been replaced as the worst place I’ve ever visited. All hail Jakarta, Indonesia, a filthy, noisy hellhole that is as pretty and interesting as the contents of Clive Palmer’s toilet the morning after a pie-eating competition. Let this stand as a warning to anyone thinking about coming here for a holiday – don’t.

The most beautiful buildings in Jakarta
The most beautiful buildings in Jakarta

My new friends were smart enough to escape this sewer first thing this morning, leaving me to set out to explore the city on my Pat Malone. Which I put off, and put off, and put off, before finally heading out into the dirt and the filth. Having already seen Jakarta’s only tourist attraction, the monumentally disappointing National Monument, I decided to trot north and see what was up there. The answer was ‘fuck all.’

There are a few colonial buildings from when the Dutch ran the joint, but most of them are burnt out, covered in graffiti, or lying in piles of rubble. I found one that was still standing, and it had the shittiest town square of all time surrounding it. Homeless people were lying everywhere, there were more of those nightmarish mascot things, and that’s about it. Remind me again, why didn’t I just stay in Australia and go to the beach?

This is where all dreams go to die

The highlight for the kiddies was a paedophile-looking man in a frilly hat who rented out bikes with flat tyres, that they could ride around the square (and, usually, straight at me). One sturdy chap seemed to be enjoying it a little bit too much, leading me to believe that he obviously hasn’t discovered masturbation yet. The dude in the hat could probably help him with that.

He's just come back from Paris Fashion Week
He’s just come back from Paris Fashion Week

I didn’t go much further than that. It’s almost impossible to walk anywhere in this city as the roads are so difficult to cross, and the further I ventured from my hostel, the more dangerous things felt. It was alright to walk around aimlessly yesterday, when I had people with me, but today I was genuinely scared of getting stabbed. I was just trying to kill time until I could watch the football at 3:30, and ended up in some awful shopping centre full of broken tools and toothless hillbillies.

Today was truly one of those days where I wonder, “What the fuck am I doing over here?” Jakarta is a boring and uninviting city, I felt incredibly lonely and cut off from my world, and for the first time since I’ve been away, I just wanted to be home. Having such a fun day yesterday with good people just emphasised how bad today was. I would rather stuff an egg beater up my dick hole and spin it around than spend another second in this open wound of a city.

He’s on his way to his Zumba class

This time tomorrow I will have said goodbye to Indonesia and be banging my cock in Bangkok, during a long stopover on my way to Myanmar. Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be shedding any tears for J-Town.