How to get your Thai motorcycle licence in Pattaya

Finally, after three days of messing about, I got my Thai motorcycle licence. It was a close run thing. I failed the written test the first time. Didn't help that the same question came up five times and I got it wrong four times. I started to doubt myself after seeing it four times and changed my answer.  Luckily, this being Thailand, the girl let me try again and I passed. Did you know it’s legal to drive a tank used for warfare (their terminology) on Thai roads but not a vehicle without a windscreen? Neither did I.

So here's your step by faltering step guide. 

Step one is to get a medical cert from a clinic to prove you are healthy enough to cope with the extreme stress of driving on Thai roads. This is given on payment of approximately 100Baht without any sort of medical checks at all.

Step two is to go to immigration in Jomtien Soi 5 with two photos, your tenancy agreement and two copies of your passport. They’re quite quick and efficient, to be fair to them, but if you don’t go early enough in the day you have to come back the next day to collect the paperwork; which is, of course, what I had to do.

Step three: Drive for several miles out of town to the driver and vehicle registration office, near the regent's school on 36, without yet having a legal licence. Make sure you get there before 9 am as if you arrive later you’ll be told to come back the next day. And yes, that’s what I had to do. 

There’s an eye test and more forms to fill out. They’ll help you but in a much more surly and world weary way than the immigration people. It is a very busy office and I can understand that us non Thai speakers are an extra irritation in an already hectic working day. Don’t worry about the eye test, the Thai man in front of me was blatantly colour blind and was just guessing when it came to green/red. In fact he just said red for both until the expression of the official warned him and he went for green a couple of times after that. I knew the word for red had forgotten the word for green. Luckily they let foreigners do it in English. I could probably have said bread, fellow and spleen and would still have got the nod.

Be prepared to be there until around two O’clock. Why? Because you have to watch some vaguely driving related soap operas in a little room packed with other foreigners, most of whom are asleep. I had a little nap myself. I never did find out if the boy injured in the accident recovered or not.

After the videos there’s a short break for lunch before taking the practical test. This involves driving around a very short course. It starts with a slalom followed by driving along a raised ramp about a foot wide, not sure why, but I nearly fell off. You have to stop a couple of times; only putting one foot down and then you're done. Next its into the office for the aforementioned computer based, multiple choice, written text. 

There’s not much advice I can give you about the test except that common sense won’t really help you. When the question asks you which picture illustrates correct parking don’t be fooled by the cars parked neatly in car-park parking spaces. It’s some sort of trick. This question came up three times and I got it wrong three times.

It’s different if you already have a motorcycle licence from the EU or the USA. You’ll only have to do the eye test and they’ll give you the Thai licence. Just fill out the forms. There might be some other countries that are OK too. Australia and NZ probably but you can do your own research my fine antipodean friends. Anyone know why antipodean gets a red line on Word’s spell checker? Me neither.

The day after receiving my new licence I pulled out of Central Festival shopping centre straight into the sweaty arms of a lurking gang of police officers. I flashed my shiny new licence and they told me to be on my way. I have to say, that felt pretty good. I drove straight to the nearest bar spent the 400Baht it had saved me on a few celebratory drinks before driving home. Only kidding, but it felt good. I drove along beach road in the late evening sunshine with a happy smile of victory on my face and all the hassle of getting the licence was worth it.

Christianity: Essentially a cult based around human sacrifice?

Jesus died for our sins. He was beaten, ridiculed, tortured, stabbed and left to die nailed to a couple of planks of wood in the blazing sun of a middle eastern desert. All for us.

Thanks Jesus.

It was really pretty typical of the primitive cultures of the time. The Mayans were sacrificing people to their gods, the primitive Celts loved a bit of human sacrifice, or so we're led to believe. The Romans sacrificed anything and everything to their Pantheon of gods.

The only real difference is that the bible claims that Jesus was god. And also a man.

Let's think about this for a minute. Jesus is the son of God but he also is God.

God is all powerful, all knowing and all seeing. He has a plan for us all and yet still allows us free will, that's how great he is. He can do two completely opposite things at the same time. Wow.

Jesus is a man who feels pain, love, betrayal, abandonment, loneliness and probably a welter of conflicting and changing emotions. Like all of us, except Chuck Norris, who just feels well prepared, all the time. But, and here's the problem, he's also God and therefore feels no fear, pain, despair, lust, and presumably doesn't get that annoying itch from healing sunburn. A paradox? Not for God!

Think about him up on that cross, supposedly suffering. He's not really, is he? He's God; he knows he isn't going to die. He knows he can't go to hell or oblivion. He has planned this all along. He's going to come back to life in a couple of days time, put in a couple of guest star appearances and then bugger off back to his opulent retirement in heaven. Which, by definition, is the best place you can be. He not suffering he's laughing. Like the guy on the cross next to Brian in the famous Monty Python film, he was probably laughing and singing. 

As far as I can see (assuming that it's not all just bullshit of course) the whole thing with the cross, the crown of thorns, the spear and the sun burn was nothing more than cheap theatricality designed to impress the primitive, unwashed, uneducated peasantry of the time.

Suffer? He's God, he can't suffer.

Last Will and Testament

As some of you may know I'm off to Spain tomorrow to partake in the mildly dangerous, and Aussie backpacker infested, San Fermin Bull Run. Just in case I should be too slow, stupid, reckless or unlucky to survive, I have prepared this, probably not legally binding, document:

Dear friends and relatives. Thank you for taking the time to read this, my last will and testament. I don’t know if I’ve been gored or trampled to death, or maybe a bit of both, but hopefully it wasn’t too horrific for my Mum. I know she will be upset anyway but it’ll be probably be slightly worse if I’ve been maimed in some hideous way or lingered, suffering for several hours before my eventual demise. I think my Dad will be OK, he’s always been a rock when the really big disasters have struck over the years. I know they will be thinking I was extremely stupid and irresponsible for taking part in such a dangerous event in the first place. It is essentially a relic of medieval times. Back in those days a couple of people dying a messy, violent death was a pretty regular occurrence. It was probably just a bit of laugh. I’m not laughing now!

I don’t have much stuff to leave, certainly nothing that anyone will want. I don’t really have anything worth any money and haven’t been a big collector of antiques or anything. My flatmate Anna-Marie, who’s just said she’ll be ‘so disappointed to see me back’ can still have my laptop, despite that comment which was hopefully a joke. Any money I have can go towards the transport of my remains back to the UK. I doubt my travel insurance covers me for recklessly endangering myself. Hopefully they can just cremate me on the spot and stick my ashes in a flask or something. Then they can just post them back or Trev can carry them. Unless of course he is killed in a valiant attempt to throw himself between me and the raging bulls. This is the practical option because I don’t think EU regulations would allow my first choice of funeral. To be put on a Viking longboat style craft with a load of wood and maybe a few fireworks, being sailed out to sea and set alight. It certainly makes more sense than transporting ten stone or so of rotting meat half way across Europe. When the ashes get back to Larne I want them scattered on the Antrim plateau. Make sure you check the wind direction; you probably don’t want any Big Lebowski type accidents.

If anyone feels compelled to have some sort of memorial service only genuine friends and family are allowed to attend. If you don’t give a shit that I’m dead please don’t come out of obligation or to represent your family. If you are just coming for the free booze and a bit of a party, that’s fine. If there must be speeches then they have to be either funny, short or heart breakingly eloquent. I’d prefer honesty but amusing lies would be acceptable. If you plan to make a reference to any sort of afterlife, you’d better be willing to present some very convincing experimental evidence to back up what you’re saying. I’m probably not looking down, or up at you, like some invisible peeping tom, analysing and, usually, if you believe the speeches, approving of your actions. What’s left of me is hopefully, if my previous instructions have been followed, drifting gently on the breeze or being digested by some unfortunate sheep. Ministers are not welcome unless they’re relatives. I don’t care what songs you play because I can’t hear them. However as it’s my memorial I’d like to think you’d play stuff I that I liked. If anyone wants to drink Jager bombs and dance to The Jackson Five, I’d really appreciate that. I mean I appreciate it in advance now as, of course, when I’m dead I won’t know anything about it. Please don’t wear suits, I never liked wearing a suit and always thought at work it was sexual discrimination. I mean, women can get away with wearing any old crap but I have to wear a shirt and sometimes even a tie. Gentlemen, loud colourful shirts please and don’t be embarrassed to wear pink. The ladies can, of course, wear whatever they want because who’d going to tell them they can’t?

I think that’s about it. Sorry again for being dumb enough to get myself killed. If I’ve made any plans with anyone, I’m going to have to cancel. I’ve sort if rushed this a bit as I only thought if it a couple of days ago and I always was a terrible procrastinator. It’s a pity I didn’t put off my trip to Spain for a couple of more years though. If you are looking for anyone to blame then have a go at Trevor Whittaker. It was all his idea. No point in blaming the poor bull, he’s burgers.

If it so happens that I make it back alive, and I hope that I do, then this still stands until I write something to replace it.

Movember Men in Mankinis

Our team are stepping up to the challenge of changing their faces in the name of men's health.

Monsieur Mearns looks so much like a 1980's RUC man that he's considering changing his name to Billy. Greg's going for his trade mark wild man of the hills look and I've got my incognito, skin colour Mo. I think a wee drop of Just For Men might be in order for me.

We've raised £126 for The Prostate Cancer Charity, so far, thanks to the generosity of our friends and family. There are significant contributions in the pipeline from our respective places of work and I am quietly confident of reaching our goal of £500 by Friday next week. However we could still do with YOUR help!

Here's the most recent photographs of our burgeoning upper lip accessories. To rate us, AND DONATE TO US, go to our team page at: http://uk.movember.com/mospace/107595/

Thanks a million and remember, if we raise the £500 we will be going for a swim in the conker-crushingly cold Irish sea with only mankinis to protect our manhoods. Apologies to Mearnsy, not sure why your picture came out so small. Perhaps it's a premonition of what's going to happen to your genitals in the Irish sea?

Movember motivation

It's halfway through Movember and so far I've raised a grand total of £10.

I put in the £10 myself to get the ball rolling and thanks to my serious lack of commitment, so far, the ball has stayed stubbornly stationary.

So the time has come to up the ante, to roll up the shirt sleeves, grease the elbows and put in the hard work for the cause.

For it is a great cause.

Yes, the growing of a fine moustache may be, in some measure, a selfish pursuit but don't be fooled by the glamorous side of the Movember.

The event is dedicated to fighting prostate cancer, a deadly killer and ruthless enemy of gentlemen everywhere in the world.

Your moustache may make you look more sophisticated, more atttractive to women and gain you greater status amongst your peers but I say, ask not what your moustache can do for you but what your moustache can do for humanity.

Out of respect for the charismatic American leader, whose speech I've just blatantly plagiarised, I've decided to dedicate my midway point photo to those frequently misunderestimated Americans. The red necks.

Truck driving, god botherin', gun totin', tobacco chewin', trailer park dwellin', moustache lovin', comedy stereotype red necks.

And here it is:

Nice.

Now to the important business of raising money.

I feel there is obviously further incentive required to persuade our friends and rellies to part with their hard earned cash.

What do people like to see more than anything else? Our friends hurting themselves? Or perhaps humiliating themselves? You do, you know you do.

So, to utilize both of these elements simultaneously, the members of The Dunfast DynaMos, Northern Ireland division, have agreed, if we raise £500 before the end of November, to venture into the icy waters of the Irish sea dressed as the moustachiod hero Borat in his famous Mankini.

So if you want to see us suffer, turn blue and look like complete eejits for your amusement. Get your wallets out, go to http://uk.movember.com/mospace/107595/ and donate some money!

Planning to dress something like this at Larne Tennis Club's annual Senior Men's tournament today. It's an experiment in sports psychology. Will my opponents crumble when they see how professional I look? Wish I had the hair but C'est la Vie.

Bravado and Melanoma

Today my head looks like a ripe strawberry and feels like a baked tomato.

I normally avoid the sun due to my almost translucent, pale blue complexion. But yesterday there was pride involved. There was my fragile ego, a lack of preparation and a fair amount of stupidity.

I started a game of tennis with my 16-year-old cousin at approximately 1pm. Yes I know, the hottest part of the day. And it was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, birds singing, the breeze gently soughing through the leaves, old ladies dressed in white, playing lawn bowls. Idyllic.

By the time it got to 5-5 in the third set I was not only running out of energy, enthusiasm and patience but was horribly aware of the fact that my 2L bottle of water was already empty.

I could have stopped. I could have given in, let him win, suggested an honourable draw but no I continued to play and the sun continued to cook me with it's damned ultraviolet radiation.

My thoughts ran something like - you can't let your little cousin beat you, you're still fit, you can do it, you're at your peak...your peeeak.

I lost the set 12-10.

My pride and my epidermis may never fully recover.