OF CABBAGES AND KINGS.

Vang Vieng in Laos's reputation precedes it. Rumours circulate of a land where restaurants play F•R•I•E•N•D•S 24/7, shrumours of mushroom shakes handed to you in every bar, where comatose teenagers float down the Nam Song river. That was the Laos of three months ago. We arrived in a ghost town, every bar closing at 1 AM. We had to make our own fun (not being slags), convieniently the rooftop of our hostel was strewn with mattresses which was perfect for (not slagging but) rooftop parties. Three nights in they were pumping; if we were in Clueless, which I always imagine I am, Cher would have described it as 'slammin'. We were truly the toast of the town...of forty people. Until five fifty year old, giant woolly jumper clad, Laotion (yeah that's right) men turned up. My train of thought went thus, 'Ok that's cool, we're expanding, our clientel are maturing... Snazzy jumpers, boy they must think this weather's cold for Loas... Why are they taking them off? The party atmosphere must be warming them up... Oh mother of Christ there's guns under those garms, and not the sexy kind you take to the 'gun show', the kind red necks take to an actual gun show and hunt animals a lot bigger and stronger than humans with, FUCKKKKK'. Awkward when you've spent the evening inviting everyone to your 'slammin' roof top party' then everyone gets arrested. Particularly awkward when a man orders the lad sat next to you to stand up with a gun and you do. Seven million kip (£600) fine or a year and a half in jail? Um...

Shame how tubing had been closed down by the Government; every single bar is boarded up or burnt down. Awfully depressing. There's no sign of the mudslide of mudpie dreams or the zipwire of death (three people had died so far that year on it - Oi spoil sports, if you're starting to drown STOP POPPING AMPHETAMINES). Now all anyone does is just float lazily down the river in a ring; laaaaaaaame. Seems we were unfashionably three months late to the party. Someone else who was late for the party was the current reigning King of Popworld, Harry Styles. Or a boy with his exact face, and The Hair. Ooooh suddenly floating down the river looks like the best time ever, yayyyyy fake tubing.

AUGUST 2012

NOVEMBER 2012

That evening, I found BFF at the bar chatting to the most beautiful boy the world has ever seen, his carved-out-of-diamond-by-an-angel face topped off by a mint-green snapback. Gotta love a boy in a cap, it hides all manner of horrors. Orright, I know when I'm not wanted, I'm off to find Harry Styles. Later that night I burst into our room (it had quickly become our room; the girl who'd been in there when we rocked up having changed rooms after one evening with us. Rude) to see BFF and Mint Cap awkwardly sitting miles apart, 'Oh shit I'll be outta your way' I race outta the room, shutting the door. A fraction of a second later and the BFF wrenches open the door whisper-yelling my name.

'Yeah? I'm leaving you be buddy, don't you worry'
'Noooooo please come back in'
'What? Why?!'
'He STINKS of cabbage'
'HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA you serious? But he's a megababe.'
(BFF practically crying) 'I knowwww, PLEASE PLEASE come back in'
'Soz fave, I got Harry Styles serenading me, laters.'

Seems after hours of him pouring out his life story, safely from the other side of the room, she eventually got Cabbage Patch Rid of him. What a waste.