Days in the Life of a Pattaya Hotel Owner

In my last story, I was trapped in stasis in an Udon Thani hotel wondering what the hotel staff was going to do after a ridiculous misunderstanding. What the hotel did was send two hotel security men up to my room and ask me to leave the hotel. They waited by the door whilst sending in one of the accompanying bellboys to help me with my luggage. There was no point in me arguing with these gentlemen, so I beckoned them in and offered them a seat on the bed, which they declined and stood, cross armed in the pose that appears to be adopted by security men the world over. I have never worked that one out — it is, I imagine, supposed to be threatening but simply looks like a man with his arms crossed to me. I am not much in the way of a fighter, I never have been, but I am not easily intimidated which means I tend to get myself into situations that I really should not be getting into. I have been the same way from my schooldays onwards. I would constantly be involved in a fight of one description or another, always because I was determined to stand my ground regardless of whom it was that believed it was their ground I had the temerity to stand upon.

When I look back on those years, I realize how amazingly I managed time and time again to walk away unscathed. Sure I took a few beatings, but never suffered any broken bones, cuts or even too many bruises. My stubbornness extends into the remarkably stupid area of being durable. Even though I may have been knocked to the floor on several occasions, I would get myself back up as quickly as possible in order to receive even further punishment. However, I would still be waiting my chance, I would still believe that my opponent would tire and offer me an opportunity to land at least one telling blow. When it comes to the “rope a dope” tactic successfully employed by Muhammad Ali in his “Rumble in the Jungle” fight with George Foreman, I could only watch and think the great Mr. Ali had learnt a thing or two from me!

I can also recall having the occasional success with this tactic, most notably in a classroom brawl with “Smelly Abbott.” Whilst normally there would be a requirement for me to give an explanation of how a person secured their nickname, I believe in this instance such is not necessary. Smelly (I have never known his first name, unless it was Smelly, which I somehow doubt) had pummeled away at me as I remained pinned against the classroom wall. He took a short, and no doubt well deserved breather and I took my chance, landing a perfect (fortunate, very fortunate) blow to his chin which sent him sprawling backwards and saw him cracking his head on the corner of a desk as he fell. The wound required five stitches in the local hospital and Smelly returned to school a couple of hours later. He was immediately surrounded by his friends and encouraged to extract retribution for his injuries. Much to Smelly’s credit, and my eternal relief, he contented himself with coming over to me and extending his hand. I still wonder what his real name is and contemplate what he is doing now — I like to imagine him as the Managing Director of a perfume company.

Whilst Smelly showed good grace in defeat, however unfortunate he may have been to suffer that defeat, good grace was not something often displayed by yours truly. One day, I was on the receiving end of a beating from a very bulky young classmate by the name of Terry Lambourn. Terry towered above me and thundered several heavy blows into my head and body, the last of which saw me to sink to the floor on one knee. He was a nice lad, not malicious at all, and took my drop to the floor as a sign of victory. He would inflict no further punishment and turned and walked away. However, I play to win — fair means or foul — and we were in the school physics lab, which had stools all around for us to sit up at the workbench style desks. I got back to my feet, picked up the closest stool to me and walked up behind Terry before crashing it over his head. He fell to the ground in the manner of an elephant having been shot. I still recall the room shaking as he hit the floor. I am most certainly not proud of what I did and apologise here and now to Terry — probably something I should have done some forty years ago. Several years after this incident, my brother David met Terry at a rock concert. They did not know each other and were being introduced when Terry quickly caught on to David’s surname. “You don’t have a brother called Kevin do you?” he enquired. After learning of the connection, Terry told David this particular story and warned my brother never to turn his back on me. He sent me his best wishes through David and surprisingly remembered me fondly, save for the particular instance I have just related to you.

Those were school days though — this was now Udon Thani in Thailand and fist fighting is hopefully something I have left well behind me. Plus, there was also a distinct lack of sharp-edged desks and tall wooden stools at my disposal. There was, however, a telephone and I decided to use it for its intended purpose rather than as a makeshift weapon. I called the reception and requested to speak with the manager. A five-minute conversation ensued and I then handed the telephone to one of the crossed-armed security-men, who wisely uncrossed his arms to take the receiver. He completed the call, replaced the receiver and offered me profuse apologies, it appears that I am not checking out today but moving rooms and my room is ready. They were all going to help me move and enquired as to whether I would like a complimentary drink sent to my new room. I declined.

Settled into the suite room I readied myself to start work in earnest. I was not actually going to start work today, I had the remnants of a hangover and this had been exacerbated by the frustrations of the last couple of hours. My mood was not likely to help me write. I would, however, enjoy a quiet night though so all would be well the next morning. It was now late afternoon and I decided to go to the lobby and check my email. My only real complaint about the Charoensri — apart from their complete and utter inability to effect a change of rooms without causing an international incident — is the Internet facilities…or, I should say, lack thereof. A three-hundred room hotel that offers no WiFi connection other than in the hotel lobby and only one computer for guests to use is just way, way short of acceptable in this day and age. I had just set my laptop up in the room, so I was not going to unplug it all just to use the WiFi downstairs. Fortunately, the one guest computer was, most unusually, not being utilized by a pimply faced youth playing some computer game, so I quickly took a seat and started on my email.

I had only completed a few replies to several new messages when a loud Australian voice was heard saying, “Kevin mate what you doing here?” There in front of me stood Glenn. A customer of ours at Jasmine Mansion several times over the last few years and now as much a friend as anything else. Glenn and his friends Jack and Christian were all booked into Jasmine for early the next week and I was rather taken aback, although pleased, to see him here. We chatted for a while and I learned that he had been in Issan for a couple of weeks staying with his girlfriend. He was spending a day or two at the Charoensri hotel before meeting up with his pals in Pattaya. As luck would have it, Glenn was just about to go out for an early evening drink and invited me to join him. Well there was no harm in that and I was not doing anything else so I readily agreed. Besides, it would have been extremely rude of me to refuse.

Seven hours, 12 bottles of Heineken and eight Bacardi Breezer’s after first meeting Glenn in the hotel lobby saw me revising my initial thoughts of there being no harm in having a quick drink with him. It also saw me spend all day Monday in bed suffering from a horrendous hangover and once again failing to do any work whatsoever. I would start on Tuesday but that meant I had now been in Udon Thani a full three days without achieving anything whatsoever and only three full days would remain before I was off to Bangkok to meet Peter. On Tuesday I did some work, although most of it was preparatory stuff and requiring me to go off and get the draft manuscript printed so I could read it — I cannot read at length or with total concentration from a computer screen. I was down to two days and had achieved, at best, 10 percent of the target set for myself before this journey commenced. Mrs. Boss’ thoughts of this being a holiday rather than a working week away were now starting to haunt me and were much truer than my explanation for such a break.