2003-06-19 - 6:51 p.m.

I�m so back and so suffering from the lag we call jet, only vaguely considering downing half a pack of the promotional anti jet-lag pills called �No Jet Lag� that arrived in the post for some reason a few weeks ago, but I�m afraid they�ll turn my piss blue or render me infertile or something. I�d really hate for my piss to be blue.

So Thailand was as Thailand does, or however that saying doesn�t go. It�s quite a country considering they�re so poor � full of kind, smiley locals just making a living off the self-confident western kids who�ve just read The Beach and are homogenous in their desire to be individuals, faux-hemian beardies practising raiki on bored-looking blond girls from Kent and Melbourne, but mostly Thailand is full of squat, middle-aged white men with supermarket hair, beer bellies and faces like mouldy bread walking around with slender girls that in a logical world, even the lithe kids wouldn�t stand a chance with, but money is on the side of the bread-faced, and they can assuage their self-loathing through cheap prostitution and fake Rolexes. Our maternal guide, Ratt (�Not like a rat!!! T�s are mute!!!�) tried to divert our attention every time any of these couples came into view ("Over there! That is Thai cinema!)

We saw hotel after hotel, the luxury on offer getting more ridiculous by the day, the servility that makes you embarrassed to be there � I want to say �Don�t you know who I am?� but mean it the opposite way. We�re on a speedboat for ten minutes and a fellow journalist � a repulsive little dwarf of a cock called Martin � is complaining to a uncomprehending member of staff about the choice of soft drinks (�NOT. SPRITE. I WANT�MANGO JUICE�) I�d like to think I�d never get to the point where I couldn�t put up with an unsatisfactory choice of beverage for less than fifteen minutes.

Later, we�re at a backpackers bar and he�s off letching over some poor Irish girl 35 years his junior, four feet taller and with teeth that aren�t quite so green. I can hear him telling her that today we �did lots of kayaking�, even though he opted to lie on the fucking thing, colonial style, whilst one of the guides sweated with the oars behind him, and he complained about the heat. I guess technically that might be kayaking, but the rest of us moved our arms when we did it. Later, he corners me, telling me he �thinks he was in there� and if that had actually been true I think I would have started jamming cocktail mixing sticks into my jugular. �She�s lead a fascinating life! Seven years in banking and then she just gives it all up to travel the world!� Well, it�s definitely a riveting tale, there, Martin, but I wouldn�t try selling the film rights JUST yet, eh? Excuse me whilst I just try and reign in my incredulity there.

Tosser.

I�m cranky because I should be asleep. Where are those pills?