Goodbye Yellow Brick Road 2

Another final post for the second time in my own blogging history then. (see www.millsdoescanada.blogspot.com for more details) I would say have your tissues at the ready, but you're on the internet and the chances are they're close to hand anyway. I've done a lot of fantastic things on this journey - seen some amazing things and met flocks of fuckers (you can have good fuckers too) but in order that we have agreeable symmetry here, there needs to be a resolution at the end. Of course, were this Star Wars, or any traditional hero myth (I'm the hero, needless to say) this would be the darkest night of my soul, being the second part; but regrettably life doesn't always echo the Star Wars universe. Which is a bloody shame if you ask me; although on the plus side, I don't have to lose a hand.

So now there were two. Nabila and I had spent an incredible 10 days in Bali, but with Christmas and New Year blobbing satisfyingly around our waists, it was time to make a move. Flying into Kuala Lumpur late at night meant that as we drove towards our hotel, the iconic Petronas Towers were a shimmering and sparkling beacon lighting our way through the darkness. The differences in wealth were as blinding as the landmark we sped towards and perfect asphalt signalled a far richer country than those I'd been ratting around in previously. The room had a [superlative] view of the towers, which you can see in the photo at the top, and a free bar from 5:30pm-7:30pm meant I could bring the tone down, Norfolk-style.

Acts of shame:

After getting carried away the first night of the free bar and barely remembering eating in a restaurant with the 'best Malaysian food in KL' - although photographs indicate I was there - where I constantly harassed the waitress, reminding her she was Malaysian. Not maliciously, you understand, just out of drunken incredulence - I thought it was a good idea to get whammed the following night as well. The whole time I've been out in SE Asia I've never had any shoes, just sandles/flip-flops, so not wanting to waste time after going out for the day - a trip carefully engineered by moi to get us back in time for the free booze - I arrived in the Horizon Club (see - Horizontal Club) with my dazzling yellow flip-flops flipping and flopping with growing temerity towards the chilled beers.

Walking into the club is a feeling I can only compare to how Charlie must have felt as the doors to the Chocolate Factory opened. Just for the record though, I definitely wouldn't have swum in a lake of beer because with that much beer available, some pissed-up inconsiderates would unquestionably have taken a slash in it. So as Nabila rolled her eyes skyward, I skipped, danced and sang my way through free drink after free drink until I'd shelved the flip-flops and now was swaying towards the bar blitzed and barefoot. Fancying a break from watching the Discovery Channel playing out opposite her, Nabila decided to go for a wee and that's when, wrapped up in a drunken blanket of beer, another hotel resident bent down and started whispering in my ear.

There is a certain dress code in the club, you know? You mustn't walk around without any shoes on... This is, I'm sure, where I was meant to reply, but not wanting to grant the nonsense any credence whatsoever, I kept my mouth shut and stared fixedly ahead. The man started walking away, looking back open-eyed and nodding - It's just a bit coarse. Nabila came back to find me ostentatiously gnashing about some pompous cunt, pointing at my flip-flops and deliberately talking extra loud so he could hear me, while sneering towards his table in an attempt to goad him. Anyway, turns out he was autistic, so....

Crashing on - aside from the autistic baiting, Kuala Lumpur was a great couple of days. Went up the towers, went to Chinatown AND Little India, had a beautiful authentic meal, went to the national mosque and nearly had my ear bitten off by a parrot (see pic for a shot moments before he sunk his beak into the pinky goodness) One lasting memory which took days to leave me was a nasty batch of food poisoning and on the train to the culinary Mecca of Malaysia, Penang, I took a turn for the worst. Everything was fine until suddenly it wasn't anymore and I couldn't stop throwing up. All the time. Took the shine off the staff spiel at the hotel we arrived at when, as he proudly showed off the original fixtures and infamous seaview, I joined in at the toilet, loudly retching in approval.

The sickness lasted for two full days after that and couldn't have come at a worse time, being in the foody capital of the country. Just passing by food in the days following the M25 event (busy at both ends) resulted in a cold shiver of dread gobbing down the back of my throat, but on the flip side, I got a great workout on my abs. Which crippled me for about a week afterwards as well.

We took a taxi over the border, when I eventually stopped puking, and I was finally back where I started. Back in Thailand after all these weeks. Because of time constraints we had to stop in a pretty seedy town called Hat Yai - which I've since learned is no more than a brothel with city status - where I saw a beggar man lying on the ground who looked like an ant that had been blasted with a magnifying glass. All claws, bunched up skeletal legs and arms and a constantly shocked-looking expression on his twisted face gazing vacantly upwards. Honestly, if Nabila hadn't endlessly made fun of him for hours afterwards, suggesting he had just arrived in town and was simply surprised by the sleazy milieu and so on, I don't know if I would've got over it so quickly. What can I tell you? She just hates poor people.*

One night in Hat Yai and then a hasty bus ride out of the southernmost tip of the country to the infamous beaches made infamous by the beach movie called The Beach - and James Bond classic, The Man With The Golden Beach - which was to be our penultimate destination. As we had become used to at this stage, the resort (Amari) was stunning. Set just off the beach, with its own private area on the sands out front, the rooms came with an outside hot tub, a spectacular view of the picturesque ocean and a pot-bellied sense of entitlement. This was where I'd do it.

Unbeknownst to all you; well, most of you, I'd had a plan since arriving in Asia. Something I wanted to do, but not just anywhere; it had to be perfect. It took some arranging (me asking and the singer saying yes) but on our last night there, after spending days snorkelling, swimming through azure/green lagoons (see pic) feasting and blissing out, I got up on stage and starting singing to my girl. I sang my girl Your Song (enough pronouns?) but as I looked at her from the stage (bar) I couldn't hold it in, I was actually overcome with emotion and, worse still, it was having a detrimental effect on the high bits. The reason for this anomalous display of emotional vulnerability was sitting in my pocket until the end of the song, where I brought a confused Nabila onto the stage (bar) took the ring I had bought in Vietnam out of my pocket, got down on one knee and asked her to be my wife.

I know! She said yes, by the way and that night saw the return of the busy hands eluded to in chapter one, the insatiable strumpet. I had waited for the moment, the place, the night and it was all perfect - but more than that, I had waited a lifetime for the girl to be right and, aside from her politics, she is.

So back in England we are - the soon-to-be Mr and Mrs, going about our plans, our ideas and our dreams. This is the end of English Bitcherature and I finally have the happy ending we all aspire towards. Fuck you, world - I win! (Apart from the fact I don't have a job - anyone need a video doing? I specialize in montages of me) This blog was about how I move on from teaching, which I've definitely achieved. It was also about avoiding a life of extreme violence and ritual murder (see post one) which I have also done; although it has been tough considering all the travellers, children and teachers I've encountered (see post 26/13 - well, all of them really) who have been just asking for a series of rabbit punches to the throat.

Reading through the year's events it's almost as though there's no message at all to be found - no point, no reason, no intention; so what was it all for? Well, I'll leave it to Doc Brown, who bewilderingly sums up his motivation behind endangering the very fabric of time and space when he reads Marty McFly's warning about his impending murder by exclaiming 'I figured, what the hell...' Not good enough then and not good enough now. But that was the '80s for you. X

*She doesn't really.