Charles Worrall
Our editor-in-chief Sam Barron (@TheKingBarron) is currently practicing his very special brand of non-violent colonialism across south east Asia, hence the temporary lull in Truth Bar content. Now a slave to 50p beers, and thus nearly entirely incoherent, Sam is sending me a hiccupping account of his travels.
It is my job to curate, sometimes even embellish, the best bits in the hope of steering more people away from wasting good Sterling in such doomed economies and impoverished lands, often bravely promoting falsehoods in order to convey a greater truth.
We start at the beginning....
Mumbai to The Long Hostel
I'm sitting in a wheelchair; the Mulligatawny soup I ate several hours prior has worn me down to a point of (near) disability. My legs are so heavy with spice, the respite the chair offers is all too welcoming. I fear but do not regret to say it, but the bowl didn't reach the splendid highs set by M&S Selly Oak branch years before, the Indian original only amounting to a pale imitation of a once mighty British knock-off. But enough about broths. I have at this point been in Bombay's bosom for a mere 6 hours of a daunting 21. I go looking for a Daily Mail.
Hour 15
Rosie is sleeping in a most undisturbed fashion as I loom over her, returning the passing glances of intrigued Mumbites and other dark men, my shoe laces tied to my excellent Osprey Travel Sack (£80, I spare no expense). Considering my options, I decide to break up the monotony with a trip to the bathroom where I discover such wonders as..
-A man washing the inside of his mouth with soap. I assume he has been cursing and now deeply regrets it,
-Showers in the toilets which, I assure Rosie, are NOT for cleaning the inside of the toilet.
Time has lost all relevance - I take a trip to the smoking room with a new friend, his name unpronounceable, his accent indecipherable. We chat about separate things but I'm fairly certain he mentions that I am "tall" and "clever", or maybe it was "better call Saul" and "leather". I am disappointed as I realise neither are likely.
Hour 21
As I step on board our flight I inform Rosie that I will be sleeping for the next 8 hours. I am true to my word.
I wake up in Bangkok, why am I in Bangkok? I tell myself its another problem that only sleep will fix, I tell Rosie to "sort it out" and return to my slumber, my dreams are of Michael Keaton's batman suit and Visas.
I regain consciousness in Ho Chi Mihn. I've read previously that Vietnam was a somewhat corrupt county, each man a shyster or a crook, so naturally I found a woman to help us through customs. She tries to rip me off for $30. In all honesty she may have received this sum had it not been for Rosie's flaring nostrils and stern temperament. Incredibly, Rosie and her stubborn resolve force the Asian wasp to abandon her pursuit, leaving my Vietnamese Dong (a currency I am unable to say or spend without laughing) completely intact.
After a few skirmishes with Ho Chi Mihn's Hostage Negotiators, or taxi drivers, we are able to secure a cab at one tenth of the previously cited charge. This takes all my cunning (and someone's Vietnamese mother) to achieve and within moments we are tearing through the monsoon battered streets of downtown Ho Chi Mihn. Caught in an endless swarm of mopeds, ridden by children, the elderly, women in high heels, men in high heels, people playing violins composing symphonies, another playing a sorrowful score on a Steinway grand piano, I think I even saw one woman cooking dinner, a small stove propped up on the back seat. But I have yet to decide how untrustworthy a narrator I am to be.
Day Two
'Snake juice, Vietnamese hookers, rich Chinamen and a pub quiz'
"What is morning glory?" I ask Rosie as I pursue yet another dense Vietnamese menu. "is it like, fried dicks?" I say intelligently. As it turns out they are a more delicious version of a green bean (in the sense that green beans are very undelicious), served in yet another spicy broth, alongside my now almost inescapable 12-15 Saigon Specials. For pudding Rosie selects the 'traditional' option of banana pancakes which are woefully under seasoned but woelessly (new word) banana'd. My pudding consists of one part dead cobra and one part heavily fermented rice wine, which upon daring a Dutchman to consume with me, I discover is a powerful aphrodisiac
