Same Same But Different

Throughout our time in Koh Tao we had kept in Spacebox contact with our buddies Hannah and George from Singapore, the plan being that we would meet up with them and fulfil all backpacking gap year traveller clichés in one go, and go to the Full Moon Party with them on Koh Phangan.

But, like a virgin on his birthday, they pulled out at the last moment. So, with heavy hearts and wet stomachs, we decided that we would instead try and meet them at the party. More on this disaster story later. (Honestly, Michael Bay wants to buy the rights...)


We travelled by a quick ferry to Koh Samui, where we planned to meet Katie - Helen's mate from Coventry with whom she had stomped these marshes when they were but spritley teens - and her husband Craig. We arrived a day earlier than them and found a nice cheap and cheerful place called Green Canyon, run by a lady called She.

She, as in She, had four kids, the oldest and boldest of which was a ten-year-old lad called Chris, who had been born on Christmas day. Chris thought it was hysterical that we had the same name, and therefore every time he saw me he shouted 'Chris'. Again, and again, and again.

We hit it off with her, as in She, and spent a lot of time talking about her business and also trying to get up to scratch with the situation with the former Prime Minister of Thailand, who I believe currently resides in our own fair London, with half of Thailand's life savings.

That evening we went for a walk through the main area of the town, which was the first properly seedy place that I had seen in Thailand. Getting annoyed and embarrassed in equal measures, we set off in a taxi-bus to the other side of the bay, Chennai Beach. This place was certainly different, but I'm not sure it was necessarily nicer.

Alas, we found a place to eat called Ninja Crepes. Sold.

After a nice meal, we set off back into the hubbub to try and find an internet cafe. On the walk, I suddenly began to feel what I think Helen must have felt on that fateful day in Mumbai - abject horror.

An unnatural rumble in my stomach measuring 4.8 on the Richter scale signalled that I would need to find refuge, and soon. The Ninja Crepes were about to kick some arse. My arse. From the inside out.

My eyes scanned the horizon, a heady mix of flashing lights and car horns clouded my brain. But, in the distance, I saw the light - the glorious golden arches of a time foregone. 

It was time for my first international McPoo™.

Sprinting into McDonald's, I headed for what I thought must have been the toilet, staff cloakroom, shit... Erm.... I instinctively grabbed someone with three stars - 'Toilet?' I squirmed with more strain in my voice than in a Danni Minogue record. 

'Upstair.' Came the answer, the all-too-familiar: 'You're attempting a McPoo, and you've ordered it with extra Lies' tone ringing in my ears. Upstairs? Oh God.
Okay. Right. Decision time. Do I run and risk meltdown or do I walk and risk total combustion?

Running it was. I burst through the door in what I'd like to think was a sort of heroin chic look a la McGregor in Trainspotting, when in reality I probably looked slightly more like Nesbitt (of the Rab C. variety). Who cares, I'm on my own and I'm free. I'd made it.

Yeah. I'd made it. Made it in the same way that the fucking submariners in Das Boot had made it. Temporarily. I was about to get blown up in my own harbour.

No.
Sodding.
Paper.

Suffice to say, I'm glad I hadn't gone commando that evening.