I’ve had another “great” weekend, but feel a little depressed now. I
feel empty (not to mention tired) and keep finding myself thinking, “What are
you doing?” Much as it should be great fun, it’s starting to tire me out. It’s
just not sustainable given my age and health history. What annoys me is that
I’m doing what I really didn’t want to do in this record of my time, which is
bang on about my fucking health.
At least I know why I am feeling this way. It’s mostly
because I know that I am being reckless and foolish. I am drinking far too much
alcohol, eating far too much bad food and - probably worst of all – smoking
again. Since I was at school I’ve smoked on occasion, mostly when having a
drink. I tend to “borrow” other people’s cigarettes, figuring that buying my
own would make me smoke more. And I can give up again anytime I want. Well,
usually I give up when I go home and people around me don’t countenance such
stupidity or give away their very expensive cigarettes, for that matter.
Enough about the cancer sticks. The thing that worries and
annoys me is how easily I’m getting into the mind-set for smoking, drinking and
eating, and I seem to have much-reduced levels of self-control. This weekend
was a prime example of it. I went out on Friday night “for a few”, knowing that
I had to go to work in the morning. All was fine until I allowed myself to be
talked into going to Score Bar because they were having a birthday celebration
(the bar’s birthday, not a person’s). I would have a couple of drinks then go
home. The magic hour, I keep getting told, is 10.30pm. If you have stopped
drinking and are in bed by that time, you are fine and don’t get a hangover. It
doesn’t take into account when you actually start drinking, so I have my doubts
about this formula. Nevertheless, I told myself that I would be in bed nice and
early. I was quite tired after having had a few drinks on Thursday night, so
surely I’d be a good boy...
At 4am, I collapsed into bed. I had to be at work 4 hours
later, but never mind, eh?
In Score bar I had been roped into a game of beer pong that
lasted until midnight. I was then talked into going to K-TV at the Rock venue.
We tried to go to the enormous Naga World complex first, walking past huge
casinos that made me think I’d suddenly teleported to Nevada, but they didn’t
have a free room, so we went to Rock and drank quite a lot of Glenfiddich whisky.
I spent the next few hours competing for the microphone with a Swede, a Texan,
an Australian and the Kiwi ring-leader who seemed to have Jedi mind powers over
the rest of us.
One remarkable part of this K-TV experience was the girl who
was allocated to sit with me. Her English was very good, and she was quite
friendly, and also very attractive. Her Madame was hovering around and was
trying to get me to buy some additional “entertainment”, i.e. the services of
this young lady. I shook my head and held my left hand up, pointing out the
wedding band on my ring finger. They smiled and persisted for a while, but
weren’t going to succeed in getting me to part with any more money, let alone
do naughty things. I playfully suggested I might be up for a massage and
nothing more, but the ladies didn’t seem interested in that. In fact they
almost seemed insulted that I would only want a massage, and said that no-one
ever just has a massage. The girl massaged my neck for a few seconds as we sat
there, and I noticed her hands were hot and sweaty. When I remarked on this,
she said it was because of all the whisky she was drinking. Immediately I felt
even more awkward. Was this what her life was? Sitting with fat white blokes
like me, trying to sell services and all the while getting hammered to make it
easier to deal with? What kind of life is that?
I talked some more with her, finding out she was only 24
years old, lived with her mother and younger sister (who also worked here) and
she worked her six days a week. I didn’t probe any further, but guessed she was
probably having sex with a lot of men for not very much money. It’s really
quite depressing to encounter it so close up. I’m not stupid or naive; I’ve
been to the Far East before and know what goes on. The attitude seems to be
“what happens in Cambodia / Thailand / wherever stays in Cambodia / Thailand / wherever”.
I could have quite easily partaken in a sordid little business transaction and
no-one would ever have known, but I didn’t. I’m no morally-superior, halo-headed
superman – far from it – I just have a limit.
When I left, I gave the girl a decent tip. I felt guilty in
several different ways – guilty for being there, guilty for being party to this
exploitation – and wished the world was different. But it isn’t, and I can’t do
anything about it. The older I get, the more I realise that I have little power
to “change the world”. We are where we are, and as selfish as it sounds, I have
problems of my own to deal with.
My own problems are probably self-inflicted, to be honest. I
turned up for work an hour late on Saturday. It didn’t really matter too much
as Saturdays are always quiet and none of the managers were in to see me shuffle
in and slump at my desk. I kept myself occupied with this and that; simple tasks
that didn’t tax the whisky-pickled mind too much. I went to the Vespa for a
lunch-time Irish breakfast (seeing as it was St. Patrick’s Day), then went back
to the office to slump for a few more hours.
Saturday night was a quite one. I’d been invited to play
poker for local currency by some people, but decline politely and watched TV
with an ordered-in curry from the Phnom Penh Indian. The curry was absolutely
superb, but I ordered far too much food. I didn’t reckon for the enormous
samosas.
After eating as much as I could (I threw about half of it
away), I slobbed out and watched movies on the HBO and Fox channels. I found
myself watching Tarantino’s “From Dusk Till Dawn” at just after midnight. I’ve
seen it before, but have a habit of watching films again. I sensibly gave in to
tiredness and switched it off halfway through (just after the vampires make
themselves known to George Clooney and his merry band) and then went to bed.
Sunday was a chance for a well-needed lie-in. I had a lazy
morning with a late breakfast, then at around 2pm went down to the Riverside
for a spot of Sunday Lunch. The Paddy Rice sports bar does a nice line in
traditional British/Irish food, most of which is nearly as good as the Green
Vespa, but not quite as good. The notable exception is their Sunday roast,
which comes with a large and impressively-crafted Yorkshire Pudding. I had the
pork and a glass of red wine or two, and then toyed with the idea of having a
haircut and checking out a DVD shop for a box-set or a movie to watch.
Within the time it takes to send and receive a couple of
text messages, I had changed my mind and found myself on the way to Score Bar.
On the way, my intentions formed in my head: have a couple of drinks, shoot the
shit, get home by 6pm.
I don’t know why I bother...
To be fair, it could have been a lot worse. I was home by
10pm, but I was, once again, quite drunk. The movie drinking game added a
couple of Jagermeisters to my gullet, followed by two G and Ts. Then the Jedi
Kiwi suggested we should move on to another venue, but didn’t specify where.
After some confusion over our destination and a disagreement with a tuk-tuk
driver which culminated in us disembarking and finding another tuk-tuk (much to
the annoyance of the first one) we ended up at the Champs Elysee Club. It was
just getting dark, so I’d failed to keep to my intentions. Beer and food were
ordered, and then some fool ordered whisky again. The girls were brought in but
ignored (by me at least), and some cheesy old songs were chosen for us to
murder. I soon found another good reason to stop smoking: my voice is
suffering.
I managed to extricate myself before 10pm, as I said. I got
home in enough time to talk to my wife and kids on Skype. They didn’t seem to
cotton on to the fact that I was a little bit inebriated, but were more
eagle-eyed when I playfully placed an unlit fag in my mouth. I guess I wanted
them to see and I wanted them to tell me off. They did; my daughter actually
got upset with me, and it is probably the kind of kick in the bollocks I need,
to be honest.
So today I am tired. Just really, really tired. The other
chaps I was out with are also tired, and we keep telling each other we’ll
behave ourselves and stay in this week. I’m sure there will be one night when
we relent and go for a beer or two. It’s the nature of this job (excuses,
excuses). Seriously, though, the stress levels can get quite high, and us
flawed, feckless fuckers give in and turn to the readily-avilable crutches of
cigarettes and alcohol. I was handed a packet of smokes by a Korean this
morning, but have given them back. I’ve also destroyed the remainder of a pack
of Marlboro Gold (local version of Lights) I had in the flat, crushing the
packet in my hand so I won’t be tempted to fish them out of the bin later.
Tonight, I will try to eat something healthy. I could go to
the supermarket and get something to cook, but probably won’t. The kitchen is
crap. If I do go to the supermarket, I’ll probably buy chocolate and the like
to take the place of the cigarettes...maybe I’ll go to the Vespa and get
something like the salmon fillet.
On the brighter side, I have got my countdown going. It’s
down to just less than 11 whole days until I get home now. I really, really
can’t wait to get home. I need the break.
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