DON'T BANGK ON ME RETURNING.

Thai boys (you'd think they'd be 'men' if they're boxing, but uh uh not in Thailand and certainly not in the Patpong area of Bangkok) have great bods. Since I've just established this as fact, the boxing's where we're at. I've got to get Muay Thai boy.

After lots of sexy gyrating - who doesn't love a good short man gyrate - and rolling around on the floor in the best shorts a groin has ever worn the fighting kicks off (ooh nice pun).

 
I GOTTA GET ME SOME OF THESE


We are the official sponsors, jumping up 'me... me... ME!!' to pour water down the washboard that is their abs. The match (Game? Fight? Fornicating? Sports lingo's beyond my fashionfoodfashionfood train of thought) ends before you can say say paedo. A pole appears through the middle of our table and the venue turns into a strip bar for the playground crushes of the prepubescent. Glazed baby faces and eight year old's limbs grinding to Neo whilst their Caucasian grandfathers watch on; 'Tonight I want all of you tonight...' Time to retreat.

To cool down after this excitement we went and tested our underwater cameras in the rooftop pool of our hostel. NOT WITH THE CHILDREN.

COOL HUH?

Some lovely American boys invited us to come sit on their 'balcony' (electricity generator strapped to the side of a building overlooking the Gangnum Stylings of the Koh San Road), so safe sat their in our dripping bikinis - no the American boys weren't THAT sexy, they were dripping from the swim. It seemed vital at the time to sit here until 6am (No.1 rule of life; when they're playing the Marshall Mathers EP across the road you can't leave), attempt to go to bed for tens mins then get up at 6:30am A M to see TIGERS - there's not a lot I'd get out of bed at this time for but later's Bangkok I'm off to be Jasmine. Over it.