Friday 1st February
Having watched the office clock all morning like a particularly work-shy hawk, I ‘did one’ from King’s apace around noon and grabbed myself a westbound Piccadilly all the way to Terminal Five. The day was finally here; my Thailand times were at last upon me!
At Heathrow I convened with me second sister, one Si-Moan de Beauvoir. She was sitting, as is so often her wont, rather gloomily upon her oversized suitcase, glaring at her phone like it owed her money. Hailing her over, I tried to work my undeniable magic on various matronly BA staffers, attempting to get our gang all seated together. In this quest I failed – but the thought, my friends, the thought was undeniably there.
After wandering without incident through security, flushed with the excitable idiocy of one amongst the sunlit foothills of a famous adventure, I permitted Si-Moan de B to choose where we lunched. Suddenly we were in Wagamama’s, of all places, ordering off the vegan menu…
There was no time for my rage and despair to crescendo, however, as we were almost immediately joined by a five-foot vision of loveliness, the third and final member of our flying party: the delectable and always delicious Chicken Tikka.
“Wagamama’s?! Really Mansfield? You know we’re going to East Asia, right?”
“I…but…ah, well…”
“I couldn’t change my seat either, by the way, so you’re going to have to ask someone to move for us.”
“Ah, right. Great.”
Chicken T – it should be noted at this point – hates flying much like Indiana Jones hates Nazis; that is to say, an appreciable amount. It was, therefore, unthinkable that I, her strapping stalwart and her shining moon and stars, would not be sitting nearby during the upcoming eleven hours to Bangkok.
Inside the fuselage, cobwebs hanging from the concave ceiling and the air smelling of old paper, it seemed, at first, like there was nothing doing vis-à-vis switching seats. Both of us, leagues away from each other, were placed next to separate, smug and ghastly couples, rejoicing in their nefarious ploy to ‘book their tickets together’ like the slatterns and harlots they were. However, after a painful episode of musical chairs, I managed at last to source us seats either side of the aisle, so our loving hands could reach out to grasp each other tenderly, only for them to be routinely mowed down by high-speed drinks trolleys. Such are the mountains young lovers must scale, my friends. Ain’t no valley low, etc. etc. amen.
Despite the zero inches of late January/early February snow which had, that week, ground much of the UK’s infrastructure to a halt, we got away from LHR without too much hassle. The European atmosphere proved a little bumpy at first [Insert Choice Politics Gag Here] and Chicken T was clearly unimpressed by this turbulence. Personally, I found myself quite calm and contented, drinking cheap red wine, eating mini pretzels and watching a supremely silly Tom Hardy movie. As we crossed from Friday into Saturday, dining on the middling vegetarian option of ‘cauliflower mac and cheese’, I found that all memory of London and of honest toil had slipped away. I had shifted, already, into ‘full-on holiday mode’.
Saturday 2nd
The BA number nine plane touched down in at Suvarnabhumi Airport in good time, despite being a craft so old it was practically made of bronze. I’d barely grabbed a nanosecond of the dreamless all flight, alas, but these setbacks surely make us stronger men.
A slight issue arose with the good folks at the Bangkok transfer desk, which, in short, ended with me ditching young Si-Moan de Beauvoir and giving it the old David Rudisha all around the joint, dashing through immigration and breaking the sound barrier through security, all the way back to departures. Here, a-panting and a-sweating, I bumped into The Old Man and Katzenjammer for a sweet, if brief, reunion.
Due to the vagaries of overbooked southeast Asian flights over Chinese New Year, this pair, along with Si-Moan de B, were on the 11:30 to Koh Samui, while I was on the noon flight and Chicken Tikka, still rechecking her baggage in over the other side of the airport, languished on the 12:45. I, therefore, flew alone, on time and beset with attentive airhostesses giving me much complimentary ‘stuff’, including a portion of impressively spicy shrimp. Again and again I would bat them away, as I was, at this point, positively desperate for some slumber – yet sleep, alas, that fickle mistress, simply would not come.
Koh Samui airport is unlike any plane station I have ever seen before, all fluted wooden buildings and grass-lined pathways, with no observable security whatsoever – more like a Thai-themed Centre Parcs swimming pool than an international airport. I promptly found a changing room-sized salle de bains and changed out of my English vestments and into my tropical ensemble, instantly feeling and looking a million baht.
I wandered back ‘air-side’ – as one can when security also double as cleaners, travel agents and taxi-wranglers – and met the fair Chicken T as she landed. A short while later, we’re in the back of a minibus, heading south towards the Shiva Samui Beach Resort, where The Old Man had sourced us a tasty villa for the week. The drive down took a lot longer than I had expected, testament to Koh Samui being a great deal heftier than this old lump of coal had thought, but eventually in we stumbled: Office to temporary new homestead in a casual twenty-something hours. A drink was now needed. A stiff one.
The villa itself was rather excellent, with generously-sized rooms, a pleasant little pool and aircon which gave it the beans. It was here that The Eagle and Moan of Arc manifested – these young scamps having arrived on Koh Samui a few days previous to get even more island for their pound sterling. It was also here that Chicken T met The Old Man, the first occasion in almost a decade that he had been introduced to any paramour of his firstborn. The oddsmakers took a beating and he avoided any cask-strength faux pas. I breathed again. It was still, as the youths would say, ‘on’.
This splendid septet, now at full-capacity, walked the handful of yards to the beach bar, sampling a few tasty beverages, many of which resided in ‘young coconuts’, before we ankled a few more paces over to the resort’s humble but serviceable restaurant. The staff, as is apparently common in Thailand, were terrifyingly friendly, the food received fine reviews, and good times were had by all.
Plans that evening to frequent the ‘Samui Shamrock’ in the town of Lamai up the road in order to watch Ireland play England in the Six Nations proved, quite literally, to be so much ‘pub talk’ from the group’s menfolk. Rather, it was early nights for all – and hopefully, God willing, a good few hours of restorative slumber.
Sunday 3rd
Chicken Tikka and I awaken very much in the middle of the night, awake as the noble Massai, battle-ready, spears sharpened. We watch, of all things, a documentary on the much-maligned British band Coldplay. Sleep, mercifully, eventually returns, and it is not until way past noon that we wake again.
This proves to be, as was always likely, a famously lazy Sunday: Incidents included a pair of notably sub-par club sandwiches, a Thai beer or two, and catching up on the splendid rugby missed during the night, using a handy VPN. All the teams I would’ve cheered for, had I been man enough to stay up and watch ‘em, managed to secure famous Ws. ‘Hala!’, as they say in the Gulf. ‘Hala, hala, hala!’
That afternoon, The Eagle, Chicken T and I ventured north to the nearest major settlement on a brave and admirable supermarket run – not for our own glory, you understand, but for the commonweal. Lamentably, it transpired, the King of Thailand’s licensing laws dictate that no booze can be sold between the hours of 2pm and 5pm, not even for ready money. To cheer myself up, I suggested to The Eagle that he claimed his VAT back for the shop from customer services. Two weeks later he re-emerged, an infinitesimally richer bird, with anger in his heart.
Back at the beach, a wee swim in the warm and lapping shallows preceded a flavoursome Thai dinner. My previous, fragile orders up to this point had been somewhat western in nature, so this was an awakening indeed: Delicious stuff, with chillies which seldom ‘messed around’. Evening drinks at the beach bar turned into (strong) cocktails, (rude) card games and (heated) debates at the villa. It ended up being a rather late one for some of us – a 2.30am finish in fact. Jet-lag, my friends, is a very curious lady, with unknowable tastes and a wicked sense of humour.
Monday 4th
The day, for most of us at least, began with a criminally early breakfast (read: 10.30am). For those with heavy heads this was a cruel beginning indeed.
The myriad pains of sober reality melted away soon though, sunning ourselves by the poolside bar, a spot of sea swimming and a couple of restorative drinks making everything just dandy. Chicken Tikka and I then set out for a late afternoon explore. Our first attempt was only middlingly successful, going via a supremely sketchy zoo-cum-aquarium and accidentally taking us in one giant loop:
“Say, that bald bird playing beach volleyball sure does look like our friend The Eagle.”
“…that is The Eagle, Mansfield. How have you taken us back to our own *&%*ing beach?!”
“It certainly does look similar, look at all the sand…”
After a short sojourn watching The Eagle exhibit his trademark aquiline athleticism, we made a second effort to strike out to pastures new, northwards this time, along the palm-lined sands of the beach. While we certainly found a ‘new’ locale, it was, truth be told, far from the nicest of spots, with rotting fish heads and feral island cats abounding. Eventually we clambered off this fetid span of beach into a slightly less rundown, but still far from salubrious, village, before making our way back towards HQ, our desire for exploration now very much quenched.
As night fell, we popped into the rather swanky X2 restaurant at the 4K resort for a drink or two or three. They were, that evening, putting on some rather curious Chinese New Year ‘entertainment’ for their oriental guests, with a suitably embarrassed Thai lass doing some kind of bizarre Mandarin dance. The music, even Chicken Tikka agreed, was bad – and this is a girl who voluntarily listens to Ed Sheeran. Mercifully, it stopped around eight/eight-thirty, and sweet sanity slowly reclaimed her throne.
The Eagle, Moan of Arc and Si-Moan de Beauvoir joined us at X2 for dinner, and together we enjoyed some of the very loveliest food of the entire holiday: sea bass for me, lamb shank massaman for others; all damned good. We then waddled villa-wards along the deserted, starlit beach, for some more cards, further beverages, and bed.
Tuesday 5th
‘Breakfast’ proved an easier proposition on this particular morning, evidencing significant spiritual and moral growth. It was followed, in true holiday fashion, by an impossibly chilled morning of reading and napping.
At 2pm sharp we younger folks got on the shuttle to the fabulous Lamai Beach. While ‘our beach’ was an undeniably beautiful affair, all stretching sandbanks, clear shallow waters and breaking waves far, far away, nestled below the horizon – this beach was ‘proper Thailand’: tall palms, low bars, white sand and hundreds upon hundreds of fat, sunburnt tourists.
Down this sun-drenched new Mecca we wandered, ignoring the strangled pleas of scores of proprietors, hungry for our trade: The Eagle had a set place in mind, and would not, this day, be swayed. Following his mighty lead, we settled at last on the loungers of the No Stress Beach Bar and ordered many drinks.
Leaving the others to their cocktails and their lounging, I attempted a wee snorkel between the rolling waves, finding nothing worth seeing. During this brief period of absence, however, the girls had managed to get themselves hustled out of their hard-earned baht by some aged Thai crones peddling eye-wateringly expensive foot massages. As they say, there’s one (or in this case, three) born every minute, my friends.
A little while later, Chicken Tikka, The Eagle and Moan of Arc went go off to buy some, quote-unquote, “tat” from Lamai town, leaving Si-Moan de B and I to hold the fort – that is to say, drink a couple more cocktails then pay the entire ruddy bill. Just as we were getting a wee bit poor and restless, who would arrive but Katzenjammer and The Old Man, searching for a beach-side joint for some early evening supper.
Fresh from relieving me of much of my worldly wealth, and spotting a big fish just crying out to be reeled in and grilled, a nearby waiter informed The Old Man that the No Stress Beach Bar could just as easily, for him, if the money was right, become the No Stress Beach Restaurant. Very much liking the cut of this young fellow’s shorts, The Old M readily agreed, and instructed him to ‘get the Changs in’. Chang the beer, you understand, not the Changs who live down in number forty-two and whose daughter plays the cello.
The dinner we were upsold, praise be, turned out to be really rather excellent, with my ‘BBQ Big Fish’ proving the pick of the orders. I was slightly put out by the aforementioned waiter lad, flushed with victory, questioning my capacity for spice in front of my family, my friend, and the present Mrs. Mansfield, but into each life some rain must (con-)descend.
Our bellies replete with splendid fish stocks, we strolled up to the main ‘strip’, for want of a better term, of metropolitan Lamai, looking for a digestif or two. We popped down an extremely sketchy ‘KK Street’, then swiftly popped back out, away to safety, our immortal souls still just about intact. Moan of A suggested, incorrectly, that we should go to ‘Outback Bar’ ‘as it was there’; instead we opted, correctly, for the next-door ‘One O One 101’ – a rather eccentric cocktail bar, serving interesting drinks of variable quality, with nary an Australian in sight.
Following these colourful offerings, The Old Man, Katzenjammer and me sisters grabbed a taxi back, with Chicken T, The Eagle and I opting to stay for ‘just one more’. We went, purely ironically of course, to the Samui Shamrock – the dive which would’ve hosted us blokes on the very first night for the Ireland England game, had we not been so cowardly/jet-lagged.
And it was here in the SS (unfortunate acronym that one…) that I met, to my knowledge at least, my first ‘ladyman’ of the trip. This was quite exciting, especially for the waitress in question, as I am a ravishingly handsome fellow, full to the brim with ‘witty banter’. Forgoing the terrible Guinness and sticking to the Changs and Changs alone, here we listened to a game five-/six-piece band of no little ability, which all took it in turns to provide lead vocals, in a pleasantly socialist set. A wildly expensive taxi then took us back home for a private pool party with the impatiently waiting sisterhood, where laughter was prince-regent and all souls attending were, from time to time, sent directly to Dunktown.
Wednesday 6th
Namung Waterfall was the chief attraction of the day, meaning that the morning could be, for a change, nice and lazy, with a spot more pool, a spot more beach and, of course, a generous spot o’ lunch. Around two-ish, the car arrived to take us all into the island’s interior, and in we seven hopped, unaware that this vehicle ferried one of our number to their violent and unfortunate doom.
All told, Koh Samui’s Namung Waterfall #2 was a wee bit touristy for my august tastes, with far too many solemn looking elephants knocking about the place, seemingly a bit bemused by their lot. Once we’d climbed high enough, however, up to the ‘waterfall proper’ and away from the waterfall-themed amusement park down at the bottom, the scenery improved markedly. There were pleasant wild pools in which to take a refreshing dip, and large and craggy rocks to clamber over and all was pretty darn lovely, with the sun high in a cloudless sky and the birds singing smooth jazz numbers in the tall and slender trees.
One bird which abruptly stopped singing, however, was The Eagle, who, looking for superior shots for his ‘Insta’, took an almighty header down a steep drop and broke his wing between two unyielding boulders. Accordingly, a trip west with Moan of Arc and The Old Man to a rather serviceable hospital on the far side of the island somewhat coloured the rest of his day!
That evening, once we had all reconvened, we decided that we needed some good, old-fashioned ‘cheering up’, given that one of our brave number was now crippled, mayhaps for life. We therefore strode, licking our lips expectantly, back to the 4K Restaurant for an evening of feasting. The Eagle, his wing in a sling, called to the waiting staff in a brave and unbroken baritone to “make with their best” and “go get out some bottles from the oldest bin”, and we plonked ourselves down on a long table beneath the a weird, silhouette lamp, ready for a gastronomic treat.
Alas, much like the current English test XI, this glossy establishment proved unable to string two decent performances together, with the head waiter/maître d’ having a bit of a personal shocker: Informing Chicken Tikka that the dish she was now presented with was the exact same meal as that she had ordered 48 hours previously, despite it being a patently different construction, was certainly a low point, demonstrating a neck so brass he could probably get a gig in the Home Office (had he been born white, British and Protestant, of course).
That being said, credit where cr. is due – fabulous, spicy cocktails and a selection of appetisers which really came to the party kept 4K from truly troubling our bad books that evening, and by the time we stumbled back along the gloomy beach for a few drinks at the villa and a few more midnight games, spirits were generally pretty high. In short, despite everything, it had been another groovy and most excellent day.
For most of us…
It probably didn’t make The Eagle’s Top 5.
Thursday 7th
This, dull as it may seem dear readers, was a bit of an admin-y morning for young Chicken Tikka and I. It was, you see, our very last full day on the fare isle of Koh Samui, and things, my friends, needed to be ‘done’.
Accordingly, post-breakfast we went and booked our ferry passage across to Koh Tao – island #2 of our trip and one about which I was particularly excited. We then, after some ingenious shampoo/deodorant lid improvisation, managed to throw a heaving load of sweat-soiled laundry into the wash. It transpired, most tragically, that various offending items of mine were not fated to survive this violent process; and while Chicken T was the sole suspect, she avoided jailtime due to lack of evidence and a stacked jury. Goodbye, ratty old linen shirt. This world was too cruel for one so pure as ye.
Various pool-times at various Shiva Samui waterholes were the order of this final day. Over a drink or two we all shot a little eight-ball pool (I lost) and played a wee bit of table tennis TT (I reigned supreme, bestriding the arena like a colossus). Slices of pizza and occasional coconuts with pink straws punctuated the day quite nicely, whetting the appetite nicely for a delicious Thai curry for dinner, with a starter and desert of Mansfield-brand vodkamelon.
For posterity: Si-Moan de Beauvoir and The Eagle conducted themselves like true Britons in the destruction of this fabulous and succulent creation; the other members of our party, not so much. Cries of “Mansfield, this is pure vodka!” and “This tastes horrible, you’ve messed it all up!” did those who proclaimed them precious little credit, and brought shame on themselves and their sainted mothers.
That night the resort was hosting a ‘Beach Party’, complete with a spirited ‘fire show’ and live DJ. Being fun-loving folks, we gave the binge every chance, with Chicken T and Si-Moan de B even getting their faces painted with luminous, fluorescent designs…but the puppy just failed to ‘bark’. Be it the clientele, the midweek date or simply the notion itself, Shiva Samui, that evening, was just not ‘kicking off’. Instead, we headed back to the villa one last time, to arrange a drinks party of our very own, pouring scorn upon the humbled rind of the defeated melon and generally seeing our time on Koh Samui off ‘right’. It had been the best of times, it had been the vodkamelonist of times.
T.H. Mansfield 