Tuesday February the 23rd
The majority of men go to Pattaya with one thing on their mind, a cheap thrill. Sex is more accessible here than anywhere else on earth as every bar (and there is plenty) has ways and means of getting you shagged, if you so wish. I love a night out in Pattaya; however, I am a happily married man with no intentions of that sordid behaviour, so over time I have evolved activities to keep my mind focused and thoughts pure. Recently my favourite pastime has been to compile ‘The Jobshite Files.’
Many years of solving pretty serious crimes has left me very adept to sifting though people’s fibs. A while back it became clear that most men in Pattaya lied, hysterically, about their work.
You see Pattaya is where men come to retire or start a new life; in most cases starting afresh appears to mean altering the old vocation. Many men just exaggerate their position, i.e. a Postman becomes a Regional Post Master or a Checkout Supervisor at Tesco becomes a Checkout Supervisor at Waitrose, no harm done. But, often and most excitedly I hear some quite baffling proclamations and am told secrets so unbelievable I start to believe them. It didn’t take long for my meeting with these men to become a mild and later obsessive hobby.
I rank their lies from one to five, one being a slight exaggeration and five being a complete fabrication. In general my findings show the average to rank as two, which is fine, I’m happy when I meet a two. It’s ok. However, the holy grail and most revered of all ‘The Jobshite File’ encounters is a five, a lie so incredible you spit your drink in their face whilst they tell you it. It’s the reason I started speaking to old men.
This tale here is a recollection of my only ‘five’ encounter to date. Oddly, I didn’t meet him in Pattaya, I met him last week whilst the family and I took advantage of our half term and made haste to Koh Chang; he was from Pattaya as well but like us merely holidaying on the island. His name was Ray. Picturing him isn’t difficult. He was 63, small, slim, few teeth, curved chin, deep set eyes behind thin rimmed glasses, dyed brown hair and an infectious smile; a relatively typical expat but with definitive character. He was charming.
This is my version of our meeting…
I dined with my family at a restaurant on Kai Bae beach and arrived back at the resort bar at 9pm. After a day of drive, sun lounging and feast I intended to have one drink and follow Carolyn and Astrid to my room; that was until a bouncy creak of a voice addressed me from the opposite end of the bar.
“You’re next door to me you are.” The accent was West Country but with evidence of posh, authority and wheeze. I didn’t pay him much mind as I was tired but politely I acknowledged his statement.
“8 or 10?” Slurping my first taste of the bars draught.
“Room number 10 we’re in, always stay in room 10 us.”
Silence and sipping followed. I could feel him looking at me, waiting his chance to pounce on my openness. I didn’t give him eye contact, as that would be silly; I just stared into my drink hoping it would finish. I couldn’t be arsed to start a conversation with this man no matter how eager he was, and he was eager…
“Where you from then?”
I took a deep breath, I’ve been asked this question more than any other in the last six months, recently I’ve felt obliged to make a country up, but tonight I didn’t have the patience to sit through an inquiry or give an explanation.
“England”
My reply was sharp but he didn’t pick up on the hint, just his beer, and made his way to the stool next to me. If I had a bag I’d have made a point of putting it there.
“England you say, well then sir, very good to meet you. Swindon, I’m from. I was scared you were Russian! Ha. I sing a mean Elvis…” He sat down, I forced a smile. I obviously had to change tact; he wasn’t leaving me, not soon. “But Neil Diamond, now that’s my kinda music, I loves Neil Diamond.”
It became clear I had to engage in a conversation, which was not a huge disaster, normally socialising would be my main aim but tonight I just wanted a rare quiet drink. It was not to be. With a sigh I took the initiative.
“My name’s Will. Yours?” I offered a hand; he grasped it and didn’t let go.
“Oh, Lovely to meet you Will. Glad to see a fellow Englishman here. You know they’ve changed the Koh Chang TV channel to Russian? Russian!” he didn’t tell me his name.
“Well I suppose more Russians come here than anybody else.” I offered.
“Fair point Will, but still. Who speaks Russian?”
“I speak Russian.” I lied, easing into the fun of a crackpot conversation.
“I’ll let you into a little secret Will.”
“What?”
“So do I!”
I burst into laughter shortly before he did. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a hardship.
“So what is your name?”
“Oh, sorry Will, it’s Ray, Ray from Swindon.”
The resort bar was lovely. It was small but the lighting and décor really exaggerated a welcoming feel. Fairy lights littered the intruding trees and hanging baskets of exotic flowers gave the place a colourful lift amongst the natural wooden tables and chairs. It had a stage, empty, but a mic stand was in place for who I later knew to be the resident singer - Lek. At this time Ray and I were the only people in the bar…
“It’ll get busy in a minute, just you wait.”
Ray was right, a 60-year-old Thai hippie with round-rimmed John Lennon specs arrived on his bicycle with guitar in tow, he set up his gear and within one strum a couple more people arrived followed by a few more and a few more. Fairly soon the bar had a healthy crowd of nations clapping, singing and whistling along to Lek’s surprising talent.
Three beers in and I was no longer being polite, Ray was the tour de force of chat, his enthusiasm and genuine humour truly made the best come out of me. We discussed all kind of matters and soon I was preparing to ask him the question – ‘What do you do for work?’ First I had to know a bit more
“So are you married Ray?”
“Married? I’m a veteran. I had three English wives and they’ve all gone on to become hugely successful without me… Ha. I’ll tell you one thing though Will…”
“What.”
“I must be the only man to have made money from all three divorces… Well they cheated on me didn’t they.”
“Much money?”
“Not too bad, enough to get rid of their grimy memories… But I’ve got a Thai wife now.”
“Lovely.”
“She is Will, She is. We’ve been married 7 years.”
“Is she here?”
“Oh yes, she’s in the room, she can’t speak much English so prefers to stay in when I’m socialising.”
“I’d love to meet her.”
“Do you like my car?” A bit random.
“Which one is it?”
“That one” he pointed to a large, fairly new, blue, seven seated BMW in the resort’s car park. It was nice.
“Yeah It’s lovely Ray, is it yours or are you renting?”
“Just renting, I normally have something a bit smaller… Oooh Will, You’ll like this. Snakes – do you know your snakes?”
“Not really.”
“ Well, today I saw, and handled a wild Malayan Pit Viper – very dangerous.”
“What do you mean handled?”
“I mean I saw a Malayan Pit Viper and picked it up… Studied its movements, whilst captured.”
“Ray, you’re nuts!” This was brilliant. “So how dangerous is a Malayan Pit Viper?”
“Well, they’re known as a ‘lazy snake’ as they don’t move if they sense you coming, they just lay there. Now, this does not mean they are lazy, it just means they don’t give a shit. They will attack you. We call them ‘Finger Rotters’, if they get one of your fingers, it’s got to go, so I’m always careful when I see one in the wild.”
“And you actually picked it up?”
“If I see a snake I pick it up.”
I looked at Ray and had to admit I was impressed. He was one of the most limp men I had ever met yet he still had the balls to think I’d believe he charmed snakes. If a snake came into that bar I was certain he’d be standing on the stools, waiting for a brave man to come to the rescue like the rest of us. Now was the time to ask about his job.
“So, Ray, is that what you do for work – Charm snakes?”
“I wish I could work with snakes, but no, that’s just a hobby. For work I’m Head of Security for BMW.”
I spat my drink into his face.
If I had to describe my vision of the exact opposite of a Head of Security I would describe Ray. I am fortunate enough to know two Heads of different types of security companies and both are former special service veterans with glittering careers and mounds of models for bravery and victory. Ray, for all his charm, didn’t fit into that mould.
“Seriously, you’re head of BMW’s Security?” I was laughing, Ray was wiping my beer from his brow.
“Keep it down Will I don’t want everyone knowing… Besides my being here isn’t completely pleasure…”
“What do you mean? Are you on some sort of mission? Please be on a mission Ray.”
“Listen Will, be quiet.” He came in close “Yes, I’m on a mission but you need to keep it down. This place, drinking with you, it’s part of the mission.”
I played along, not believing a word he said.
“This is brilliant. Can I assist in any way Ray?”
“You’re already assisting.” Ray’s voice had become more serious and his stare more convincing. He leaned in again and told me, in a whisper, his intentions and my part.
“BMW doesn’t do good business in Asia, Thailand especially. They’ve tried all sorts of marketing campaigns and model changes but the cars just do not sell. If Asia began to sell BMW’s at the rate they sell throughout Europe BMW would be one of the worlds largest and most successful companies… 6 years ago my team noticed a relation in unsuccessful trade and holidaying Russians. We investigated and found it was more than a coincidence, you see BMW’s fail to sell in Russia as well, but, we know why; the poor relationship between Germany and Russia and a long standing dispute over taste, and the Russians lack of, we accept that. But what we’ve also found is cells of Russians polluting the Asian car markets with BMW smear campaigns. We call them Speedo Cells”
“Ray you’re fucking mental.”
“Shut up and listen. I’ve chosen you as my decoy, you are a part of this now…” He took a sip from his beer, I mirrored. “… Those 6 men sat at that table, they’re Russian yes?”
“Um yeah, I think so…”
“Well they’re also the very reason I’m here. 4 of them were part of the very first Speedo Cell, the other two are new but equally as involved.”
“They look like normal Russians Ray.”
“And I look like a harmless drunk.”
“Fair.”
“I normally have teeth”
“OK.”
“Now in a minute I’m going to be asked on stage to join Lek in singing a couple of Elvis numbers. These Russians go nuts for Elvis. I’m counting on them dancing.”
“Sure.”
“And when they do, I want you to unzip this bag and throw it in the middle of them.”
Now I must explain at this point that although Ray’s demeanour and persuasion had visibly changed I was still certain he was fool. Another notch on the ‘Jobshite File’ bedpost. Little did I realise it was I being played.
“And now join by special frien’… Mr Ray… Woo.”
The audience, including the ‘Speedo Cell’ cheered frantically. Ray turned to me and with his most serious face demanded that I “Wait until they stand to dance then throw the bag discretely amongst them”. He remade his naïve grin and blissfully headed for the stage.
I didn’t know what to think. Ray being asked on stage was a bit of a surprise as I figured all of his stories of singing, snake charming and ‘Speedo Cells’ were lies. The audiences reaction was also a shock, he had obviously performed here before – and when he did start singing (Blue Suede Shoes) the audience went nuts, none more so than the Russians. Within half a verse they were on their feet – that was my cue.
Cue for what? I knew I had to throw his bag between them but why? Everything had happened so quickly. Two minutes earlier I had been building Ray up for his horrendous anti-truth, now I had been given a task to stop a Russian BMW terrorist group… And what is in this bag?
I casually unzipped and sneaked a peak. At first I couldn’t quite make it out so I had a rummage, my hand wasn’t in there for long, the thing moved, my brain clicked. Fuck! I was in disbelief. I looked around to see if anybody could tell me I was white. They couldn’t, Ray had captivated everyone. I decided to take another look, to be sure. I opened it again, slowly this time. I couldn’t decipher the object with my eyes but my mind did a good job of filling in the blanks. Then, it pounced, launched itself from the bag towards my peering face. Considering the alcohol I had consumed my reactions were surprisingly fast, I frantically fumbled/threw the sack away from me as I recoiled in horror. The music had masked the commotion and yelps.
The bag landed about two feet outside the ‘Speedo Cell’s dance circle but the snake had made haste and slithered towards the action. I could only presume it was the Malayan Pit Viper Ray had slighted towards earlier and his intention was for me to throw the snake between them. Well, I’m not sure if my unconventional way of doing so was in Rays plans but the snake was, seemingly, in place. What next?
Well, as was noted the Malayan Pit Viper is a vicious little reptile and it didn’t take long for it to sink its poisonous bastard fangs into one of the Russians legs. No music could hide his screams. It took a while for people to realise his shrieks were anything other than appreciation but when he hit the floor everybody knew something was wrong. The music stopped. One of the other Russians screamed,
“SNAKE!”
Ray sprung into action. He leapt from the stage landing almost directly over the serpent. Without hesitation he bent down, grabbed the head with one hand and the tail with the other, held it aloft and screamed a strain as he pulled the snake apart and discarded the parts onto the road without a tinge of remorse. He turned, inspected the victim’s wound and began to speak to his friends in Russian. I don’t know what he said but it was clear who was in charge. He rose from his squat with the Russian in his arms and made his way to his car. As he passed he gave me a knowing wink, as if to say well done and thanks. All six of the ‘Speedo Cell’ got into Rays car and off they sped.
The mood of the bar was a sombre one. Lek didn’t play again and most people, after making sure there was nothing that could be done, left. The bargirls were confused. Being native they obviously knew that a snake wouldn’t normally slither onto a banging dance floor and attack but they accepted it. I finished my beer and made my way to the room knowing the truth and the fact that it was far weirder than a snake doing something out of character.
I slept well but was woken early by a knock on the door. It was Ray. He had teeth! I had so many questions to ask him but he didn’t have time to humour me.
“Hey, just to say thanks for last night. I’ve got to go now, a speedboat is waiting but I’ll always be thankful for what you did. Oh and this is my Wife - Nai.” And with that he went.
I have no idea what happened to the Russians but if I ever want to get 6 of them into my car, for whatever reason, then I have a fair idea how.
… … … … …
I have now retired the “Jobshite Files’. Firstly because I can never better my evening with Ray but mainly because the ‘Files’ are bullshit. Who knows, maybe Bill from Kentucky did work at Area 51, or, Jose from Sweden did help N.A.S.A design the Space Shuttle? Who knows? All I know is that I would have bet all of my, my families and close friends possessions that Ray was a stinking fibber and what happens? Well, he seemingly told no lies – He spoke Russian, he had a Thai wife, he handled snakes, he sang a mean Elvis and I no longer have reason to doubt he is the head of security for BMW. He played me, and although I do not feel violated I do feel like the fool.
Another fine day in Thailand and the case of Ray – Solved.
