Got the Monk
_The blue-green sea laps fitfully at the shore; a constant
tide of tiny crests crash on gold coloured sand, relentless and frantic. They
come so continually that the sea hardly seems to be drawing back, as if it were
lungs that breathe only out instead of in.
French onion soup to my left, coconut shake to my right, aforementioned ocean to the front and not a whole lot else. Most consider Koh Samui to be a party island, relentless and fitful like the choppy sea before me. Sure, a party can be found; right now a powerful headache caused by overindulgence reverberates around my tattered skull. The past five days have been spent with Matthew Bird and Richard Needham, two excellent chingus (friends) from Korea. Now they are gone. Let me fill you in with events up to now, including prostitute Connect 4, and how this headache came to be.
Thailand was always going to be the focal point of my trip; I am spending longer here than anywhere else, as there is just so much to see and do. It is basically an adult’s playground, for those who don’t know, and provides more sources of activity or entertainment than any theme park, stage show or brothel.
Arriving in Chiang Mai in the early morning, life in the town hadn’t even got off the ground. There was nothing. In fact, even when accommodation had been found and rendezvous had been undertaken, it was apparent that there was actually little to do in this popular tourist destination. People say the ‘vibe’ is very good there, that it’s really ‘chilled, man’. I found it a little dull. It did provide a good night out, however, and waking in the wrong guesthouse, an hour late for check out and 30 minutes late for the pick-up of a scooter is a sure-fire sign of a good night out.
French onion soup to my left, coconut shake to my right, aforementioned ocean to the front and not a whole lot else. Most consider Koh Samui to be a party island, relentless and fitful like the choppy sea before me. Sure, a party can be found; right now a powerful headache caused by overindulgence reverberates around my tattered skull. The past five days have been spent with Matthew Bird and Richard Needham, two excellent chingus (friends) from Korea. Now they are gone. Let me fill you in with events up to now, including prostitute Connect 4, and how this headache came to be.
Thailand was always going to be the focal point of my trip; I am spending longer here than anywhere else, as there is just so much to see and do. It is basically an adult’s playground, for those who don’t know, and provides more sources of activity or entertainment than any theme park, stage show or brothel.
Arriving in Chiang Mai in the early morning, life in the town hadn’t even got off the ground. There was nothing. In fact, even when accommodation had been found and rendezvous had been undertaken, it was apparent that there was actually little to do in this popular tourist destination. People say the ‘vibe’ is very good there, that it’s really ‘chilled, man’. I found it a little dull. It did provide a good night out, however, and waking in the wrong guesthouse, an hour late for check out and 30 minutes late for the pick-up of a scooter is a sure-fire sign of a good night out.
Bye Bye Miss Thai Pai
_Route planned, I had six days ahead of me to travel 730-odd
kilometres around North-West Thailand.
It was to be an epic undertaking. The first leg provided a 110+km trip to Pai,
a small town recommended by many other travellers, and absolutely bummed by
23-year-old-electrician-from-Southampton Ben.
The journey there, interspersed with constant stops for bike checks, was dangerous. My mount, Felch, seemed to take pleasure in giving dangerous wobbles around every 15 minutes, which, when going at high speed, was a brickable offence. It was only when I arrived in town a Canadian pointed out that my front tyre was flat. God knows how long it had been like that, but it’s hard to spot when you’re not on the bike, see.
Pai was so good I stayed for two nights, cutting predestined journey time seemingly significantly. The surrounding area is awash with hot springs, waterfalls, elephant camps and stunning mountaintop views. There is even a gorge nearby, which is no Grand Canyon, but still an incredible sight and an epic place to watch the sun go down. Sandstone chasms around 100 metres deep drop either side of a pathway not three feet across, and at points climbing and jumping is necessary to get around. So I ran around it, for fun, and it was exhilarating.
The town itself, easily walkable, teems with market stalls, restaurants, bars and coffee shops. The architecture is delightful, the people excellent and it gave me the ‘vibe’ and emotional restbite that I thought Chaing Mai would grant. The nightlife is excellent also, and a particular highlight was saving a nice chap from a huge, newly-turned gay man who kept stating ‘I’m not gay, but he is such a nice bloke I want to take him home and fuck him’ at 4 in the morning. Also, dancing with a 60something western transvestite (sexuality and gender poorly concealed) was quite amusing. Although the town is kitch, cool, like, whatever, it still has a seedy underbelly, and a smorgasbord of oddballs become attracted to the place.
The 160km road to Mae Hong Song is a well paved, winding course which combines astounding mountain views and straight flats hand in glove. Very little traffic uses the road, and with tyre fixed, Felch and I put the foot down and really began to enjoy ourselves. Again, hot springs, viewpoints and waterfalls attempted to distract us on the way but with nightfall approaching the town was the only place on the agenda.
Prince’s guest overlooks the small lake in Mae Hong Son, temples line the opposite shore and a ring road winds its way around the water. The town is chilled, small and a good place to relax. An Aussie and a quartet of Yanks provided some company come nightfall despite overprotective Alex attempting to challenge me at mind games in order to prevent me from winning the heart of the lovely Sophie (which I was doing but had no intention of seeing through). Around the town, a large number of sightseeing opportunities present themselves. Morning broken, break fasted, Felch and I went exploring. First stop, mountain temple. Great views. That’s about it.
The journey there, interspersed with constant stops for bike checks, was dangerous. My mount, Felch, seemed to take pleasure in giving dangerous wobbles around every 15 minutes, which, when going at high speed, was a brickable offence. It was only when I arrived in town a Canadian pointed out that my front tyre was flat. God knows how long it had been like that, but it’s hard to spot when you’re not on the bike, see.
Pai was so good I stayed for two nights, cutting predestined journey time seemingly significantly. The surrounding area is awash with hot springs, waterfalls, elephant camps and stunning mountaintop views. There is even a gorge nearby, which is no Grand Canyon, but still an incredible sight and an epic place to watch the sun go down. Sandstone chasms around 100 metres deep drop either side of a pathway not three feet across, and at points climbing and jumping is necessary to get around. So I ran around it, for fun, and it was exhilarating.
The town itself, easily walkable, teems with market stalls, restaurants, bars and coffee shops. The architecture is delightful, the people excellent and it gave me the ‘vibe’ and emotional restbite that I thought Chaing Mai would grant. The nightlife is excellent also, and a particular highlight was saving a nice chap from a huge, newly-turned gay man who kept stating ‘I’m not gay, but he is such a nice bloke I want to take him home and fuck him’ at 4 in the morning. Also, dancing with a 60something western transvestite (sexuality and gender poorly concealed) was quite amusing. Although the town is kitch, cool, like, whatever, it still has a seedy underbelly, and a smorgasbord of oddballs become attracted to the place.
The 160km road to Mae Hong Song is a well paved, winding course which combines astounding mountain views and straight flats hand in glove. Very little traffic uses the road, and with tyre fixed, Felch and I put the foot down and really began to enjoy ourselves. Again, hot springs, viewpoints and waterfalls attempted to distract us on the way but with nightfall approaching the town was the only place on the agenda.
Prince’s guest overlooks the small lake in Mae Hong Son, temples line the opposite shore and a ring road winds its way around the water. The town is chilled, small and a good place to relax. An Aussie and a quartet of Yanks provided some company come nightfall despite overprotective Alex attempting to challenge me at mind games in order to prevent me from winning the heart of the lovely Sophie (which I was doing but had no intention of seeing through). Around the town, a large number of sightseeing opportunities present themselves. Morning broken, break fasted, Felch and I went exploring. First stop, mountain temple. Great views. That’s about it.
Neck It
_A number of Long-Neck villages, as they are delightfully
described, surround the town so a visit to one was undertaken. The road there
was well paved, barring a number of fords, which on a scooter are not easy.
Sure enough, slowly crossing one, Felch slipped from underneath me and I was
thrown into the water, bag, camera, full pockets and all, which provided the
Thais with a great source of amusement upon arrival.
Burmese refugees cross the border into Thailand, seeking sanctuary and a new way of life. Traditional in their lifestyle, many have been allocated areas of land from which they are not allowed to leave as they are not citizens of the country. The particular village I visited was a line of huts, nothing more, from which the denizens sell their…..well…..tat. It was interesting to see numerous females with necks as long my forearm, and droopy earrings the size of apples, but it soon got boring. To me, they look like they are being exploited. No English ability, no chance for an interview, postcard and pictures acquired, I was quickly off again, gingerly crossing the fords from which I came.
Mae Sariang, the next port of call. Stopping at some Hot Springs on the way, I was greeted to a fine pool of naturally heated water……which cost way too much to enter. Instead, I paid a quid and had a bath heated naturally by the spring, read, ate and listened to music.
The road to Mae Sariang was pretty dull, really. I spotted another foreigner on a bike, presumably doing the same trip as I, so we played Cat and Mouse for a bit before his superior steed sped off, as Felch was clearly incapable of keeping up with the velocity of his day-glow yellow motorbike.
This day was February 14th. Being thousands of miles away from home, spared of lovers sickeningly indulging in each other, I was pleased as punch. Valentine’s Day is a real non-entity of hopelessness for me, so not having to suffer the rigmarole of it was just ideal. Mae Sariang is a quiet, sleepy place, located on a river’s curve, loosely spattered with temples. Some Thai’s were playing guitar in a bar but that was about it. Early to bed, a chance to rise early enough.
A choice of pegging the remaining 200-odd Km to Chaing Mai or a stop off awaited presented itself. I chose the former. The decision was mostly based on the fact that the roads just got better and better. En route, another Hot Spring visit ensued, followed by more epic driving through some of Thailand’s highest areas. One particular stop off was the highest peak in the country; 2565 metres of mountain rising high into the sky, with a convenient road going all the way to the top, with temples complete with escalators on the way. It proved to be the highest I’ve ever been.
It also proved to be a better road then the one from Pai. The scenery was simply stunning, barely a soul used the roads which twisted up, around and down like a snakey Helter Skelter for adults. It was an experience that moved Felch (by this point promoted to High Lord Chancellor of the Felchequer) and I, and although my arse was red raw by the time I got back to Chiang Mai, it generally pissed over any other drive I’ve had, including the time I drove from Manchester to Dorset with a Fiat Cinquecento packed full of stuff, shattered dreams and top speeds of 60 Mph.
Burmese refugees cross the border into Thailand, seeking sanctuary and a new way of life. Traditional in their lifestyle, many have been allocated areas of land from which they are not allowed to leave as they are not citizens of the country. The particular village I visited was a line of huts, nothing more, from which the denizens sell their…..well…..tat. It was interesting to see numerous females with necks as long my forearm, and droopy earrings the size of apples, but it soon got boring. To me, they look like they are being exploited. No English ability, no chance for an interview, postcard and pictures acquired, I was quickly off again, gingerly crossing the fords from which I came.
Mae Sariang, the next port of call. Stopping at some Hot Springs on the way, I was greeted to a fine pool of naturally heated water……which cost way too much to enter. Instead, I paid a quid and had a bath heated naturally by the spring, read, ate and listened to music.
The road to Mae Sariang was pretty dull, really. I spotted another foreigner on a bike, presumably doing the same trip as I, so we played Cat and Mouse for a bit before his superior steed sped off, as Felch was clearly incapable of keeping up with the velocity of his day-glow yellow motorbike.
This day was February 14th. Being thousands of miles away from home, spared of lovers sickeningly indulging in each other, I was pleased as punch. Valentine’s Day is a real non-entity of hopelessness for me, so not having to suffer the rigmarole of it was just ideal. Mae Sariang is a quiet, sleepy place, located on a river’s curve, loosely spattered with temples. Some Thai’s were playing guitar in a bar but that was about it. Early to bed, a chance to rise early enough.
A choice of pegging the remaining 200-odd Km to Chaing Mai or a stop off awaited presented itself. I chose the former. The decision was mostly based on the fact that the roads just got better and better. En route, another Hot Spring visit ensued, followed by more epic driving through some of Thailand’s highest areas. One particular stop off was the highest peak in the country; 2565 metres of mountain rising high into the sky, with a convenient road going all the way to the top, with temples complete with escalators on the way. It proved to be the highest I’ve ever been.
It also proved to be a better road then the one from Pai. The scenery was simply stunning, barely a soul used the roads which twisted up, around and down like a snakey Helter Skelter for adults. It was an experience that moved Felch (by this point promoted to High Lord Chancellor of the Felchequer) and I, and although my arse was red raw by the time I got back to Chiang Mai, it generally pissed over any other drive I’ve had, including the time I drove from Manchester to Dorset with a Fiat Cinquecento packed full of stuff, shattered dreams and top speeds of 60 Mph.
Man Who Walks Through Turnstile Backwards.........
_After a night’s stay in Chiang Mai, I caught the bus to Bangkok,
where the arrival of good company from South
Korea awaited. I wondered aimlessly around the
dingier parts of the city for a good while trying to find a guesthouse, until I
finally found PC Guesthouse, which had a threadbare booking form, meaning there
were plenty of rooms available.
George Orwell, in his height of homelessness, would have found this a difficult place to stay in. I was too tired to argue. My room consisted of this:
1. A bed (lumpier than a field of Oprah’s arses, and bereft of duvet or blanket)
2. Pillow (which smelt odd)
3. That’s it.
For additional extras I was treated to two windows, complete with crusty tissues blocking the holes in the mosquito nets, and an array of stains, smells and holes on the walls that, if it was considered modern art, would be a prize winner. I never knew there were so many shades of brown.
Fortunately, Matt and Rich arrived and we met with little fuss and over food, they told me their hotel room was large enough for all of us to stay in, thanking the beejesuses. An uneventful night followed, which was nice, as quite simply, I hate Bangkok. Loud, seedy, noisy, full of annoying street sellers, it made me feel as I had walked into a Pirate’s haven. I’ll be back in a few days; perhaps my opinion will change. It was great to be in comfortable company once more, however. What was a shame is that the out-of-proportion taxi driver, who looked a little like a Thai Woody Allen, had no idea where he was going and took us around the houses, literally, for about 30 minutes more than necessary.
George Orwell, in his height of homelessness, would have found this a difficult place to stay in. I was too tired to argue. My room consisted of this:
1. A bed (lumpier than a field of Oprah’s arses, and bereft of duvet or blanket)
2. Pillow (which smelt odd)
3. That’s it.
For additional extras I was treated to two windows, complete with crusty tissues blocking the holes in the mosquito nets, and an array of stains, smells and holes on the walls that, if it was considered modern art, would be a prize winner. I never knew there were so many shades of brown.
Fortunately, Matt and Rich arrived and we met with little fuss and over food, they told me their hotel room was large enough for all of us to stay in, thanking the beejesuses. An uneventful night followed, which was nice, as quite simply, I hate Bangkok. Loud, seedy, noisy, full of annoying street sellers, it made me feel as I had walked into a Pirate’s haven. I’ll be back in a few days; perhaps my opinion will change. It was great to be in comfortable company once more, however. What was a shame is that the out-of-proportion taxi driver, who looked a little like a Thai Woody Allen, had no idea where he was going and took us around the houses, literally, for about 30 minutes more than necessary.
.....is Going to Bangkok
_A short plane ride, longer bus ride and even longer ferry
trip later, we finally arrive in Koh Phanang, home of the full moon party. With
this in mind, I was expecting an island full of smelly wanky travellers and
young gimps more focused on their ability to acquire buckets than their ability
to mingle quietly in a foreign country. There were numerous aforementioned
tosspots (I can’t believe that word didn’t show up on spellchecker), but it was
quieter than originally thought. Maybe it’s because our arrival was at Black
Moon party time, the opposite of Full Moon party time.
Yo Yo is 26, and Burmese by official recognition. He runs a stand selling buckets (normal beach buckets full of whiskey & coke, gin & tonic, etc) on the beach and advertises his business with signs dotted with slogans saying ‘What’s the craic’, ‘fuck my bucket’ and ‘get your rat out’ (which was created later). He has lived in Thailand for 10 years, buying a passport when necessary and assuming a new identity when doing so. He has a son, and a wife, who kicks him out for taking magic mushrooms. He is a slight man, interesting looking, friendly, funny, and has obtained a very interesting British accent.
Running from the law for months at a time, Yo Yo believes his dead mother protects him when the fuzz are on his tail, which hasn’t been for some time now. When asked about Burma, he explains that is was not a good place to live, rife with poverty and fear, and had to leave friends and family behind. He thinks it will change, and in two-and-a-half years he will return.
Returning home from the party, we discovered our neighbours were still awake, so Matt and I joined them for a few late night drinks. Matt took it upon himself to pretend he was German, which they believed, so I acted as translator in half-Korean, half-Deutsch and had much fun explaining such phrases as ‘budgie smuggler’. They completely bought it, ropey rave-heads that they were. It was an act Matt had to keep up for three days. Then next afternoon, upon waking, Christian the bearded was still awake for seemingly no reason. If I ever end up that ropey I hope someone shoots me and uses me for rigging.
Yo Yo is 26, and Burmese by official recognition. He runs a stand selling buckets (normal beach buckets full of whiskey & coke, gin & tonic, etc) on the beach and advertises his business with signs dotted with slogans saying ‘What’s the craic’, ‘fuck my bucket’ and ‘get your rat out’ (which was created later). He has lived in Thailand for 10 years, buying a passport when necessary and assuming a new identity when doing so. He has a son, and a wife, who kicks him out for taking magic mushrooms. He is a slight man, interesting looking, friendly, funny, and has obtained a very interesting British accent.
Running from the law for months at a time, Yo Yo believes his dead mother protects him when the fuzz are on his tail, which hasn’t been for some time now. When asked about Burma, he explains that is was not a good place to live, rife with poverty and fear, and had to leave friends and family behind. He thinks it will change, and in two-and-a-half years he will return.
Returning home from the party, we discovered our neighbours were still awake, so Matt and I joined them for a few late night drinks. Matt took it upon himself to pretend he was German, which they believed, so I acted as translator in half-Korean, half-Deutsch and had much fun explaining such phrases as ‘budgie smuggler’. They completely bought it, ropey rave-heads that they were. It was an act Matt had to keep up for three days. Then next afternoon, upon waking, Christian the bearded was still awake for seemingly no reason. If I ever end up that ropey I hope someone shoots me and uses me for rigging.
Down with Knives
_
Bikes acquired, it was exploring time. Before setting off, we saw a down syndrome lad with a machete. Waterfall discovered, real pub with ping-pong found, we had a nice mosey around the island, before an early-ish night before doing the same again the next day. I awoke with a dose of the sickness, once again casting my rule from the porcelain throne like a shuddering king of uselessness. Still, we set off to partake in some rock jumping/tombstoning/whatever you want to call it, more waterfall exploration, zip lining and beachy times. On the way to the beach, Matt’s brand new steed fell from beneath him, a minor accident on dodgy roads that would cost him a cool £70 for less scrapes than Winehouse’s arms.
Right now, I’ve continued the writing from the balcony of my bungalow and the couple next door are shagging noisily, making all the usual noises, a reminder that I’m not. He’s groaning too much for my liking, but should it be only the woman that moans? It seems to have finished already, however, so he can’t be that good. Perhaps I should masturbate loudly, or shag the sink in retaliation.
Anyway, that night the black moon party began. After a few shakes and a visit to Yo Yo’s, we went down to the party beach. Dancing away, I saw a familiar face. Ben, my travelling partner from Cambodia, clad in UV, stood in the crowd. It was awesome to see him, but I’m not sure what happened, but I must have saw him for 10 minutes before we got lost and didn’t find each other again. Pumping dance music, over-sized DJ area, it was an interesting affair, but not really interesting enough. Perhaps the fact we got there at 2 am had something to do with the tepidity of the place.
A knocking. It could be the pounding of mental fist on skull, but no. King Kong (the disabled child’s mother) is banging on the door, telling us it’s time to go. With 30 minutes left until check out time, we casually awake, while we get three more reminders that we need to move. All of the staff neglected to tell us we need to be up and moving in order to catch our ferry to Koh Samui, a fact which Matt did not take well, as did I, as it meant brunch would have to wait.
Bikes acquired, it was exploring time. Before setting off, we saw a down syndrome lad with a machete. Waterfall discovered, real pub with ping-pong found, we had a nice mosey around the island, before an early-ish night before doing the same again the next day. I awoke with a dose of the sickness, once again casting my rule from the porcelain throne like a shuddering king of uselessness. Still, we set off to partake in some rock jumping/tombstoning/whatever you want to call it, more waterfall exploration, zip lining and beachy times. On the way to the beach, Matt’s brand new steed fell from beneath him, a minor accident on dodgy roads that would cost him a cool £70 for less scrapes than Winehouse’s arms.
Right now, I’ve continued the writing from the balcony of my bungalow and the couple next door are shagging noisily, making all the usual noises, a reminder that I’m not. He’s groaning too much for my liking, but should it be only the woman that moans? It seems to have finished already, however, so he can’t be that good. Perhaps I should masturbate loudly, or shag the sink in retaliation.
Anyway, that night the black moon party began. After a few shakes and a visit to Yo Yo’s, we went down to the party beach. Dancing away, I saw a familiar face. Ben, my travelling partner from Cambodia, clad in UV, stood in the crowd. It was awesome to see him, but I’m not sure what happened, but I must have saw him for 10 minutes before we got lost and didn’t find each other again. Pumping dance music, over-sized DJ area, it was an interesting affair, but not really interesting enough. Perhaps the fact we got there at 2 am had something to do with the tepidity of the place.
A knocking. It could be the pounding of mental fist on skull, but no. King Kong (the disabled child’s mother) is banging on the door, telling us it’s time to go. With 30 minutes left until check out time, we casually awake, while we get three more reminders that we need to move. All of the staff neglected to tell us we need to be up and moving in order to catch our ferry to Koh Samui, a fact which Matt did not take well, as did I, as it meant brunch would have to wait.
Bob Glitter
_The boat ride was easy enough, and on arrival the taxi
driver took us straight to our accommodation, a bungalow with a single and
double bed, complete with balcony and hammock, close to the beach. I swam. I
touched something strange quite a distance out. I got scared and came back.
The next day would be our last full one together, so we went to go play football golf (kicking a football into a large hole, embedded in a green, much the same as golf) which was massively frustrating (Matt won, I got a watering can as the loser (the free key ring only went up to a score of 99. I got over that)) and did a little island exploration before trying some rancid Italian liquor called Grappa that Ronseal would compete with for flavour.
Heading into town, we were to meet a couple of Irish lads and they took us to a bar crammed full of ladies of the night. One particular wench carries round a connect four board, vis a vie, connect whore. You pay her some money, if you win, you get the same as a prize, if you lose, she keeps it. She never loses.
Matt and Ginge had to be up at six for the bus, ferry and plane, so I went to another black moon party with said Irish men and very tall Andros. We were out all day, so my pits were a-stinking. At around 2 am, with this in mind, drunk as a skunk, I wondered down to the beach for a wash. Forgetting it was a lake, I couldn’t figure out why the shoreline was muddy underfoot. Upon reaching what I presumed to be a beach, jumping mismatched flip flops first, it was soon apparent that this wasn’t sand.
The next day would be our last full one together, so we went to go play football golf (kicking a football into a large hole, embedded in a green, much the same as golf) which was massively frustrating (Matt won, I got a watering can as the loser (the free key ring only went up to a score of 99. I got over that)) and did a little island exploration before trying some rancid Italian liquor called Grappa that Ronseal would compete with for flavour.
Heading into town, we were to meet a couple of Irish lads and they took us to a bar crammed full of ladies of the night. One particular wench carries round a connect four board, vis a vie, connect whore. You pay her some money, if you win, you get the same as a prize, if you lose, she keeps it. She never loses.
Matt and Ginge had to be up at six for the bus, ferry and plane, so I went to another black moon party with said Irish men and very tall Andros. We were out all day, so my pits were a-stinking. At around 2 am, with this in mind, drunk as a skunk, I wondered down to the beach for a wash. Forgetting it was a lake, I couldn’t figure out why the shoreline was muddy underfoot. Upon reaching what I presumed to be a beach, jumping mismatched flip flops first, it was soon apparent that this wasn’t sand.
Bum Gun
_Sinking up to my waist, the filthy dirt in which I had
landed had entrapped me. I lost the flip-flops, and floundered like some kind
of spasticated seal, attempting to get out. Nobody was in sight, or so I
thought, so my weak pleas for help went unheeded. Eventually, I managed to
climb upon the dry mud, wondered back to the party with head held low, before I
saw two Thais laughing heartily at me. Ignoring their baleful chuckling, I had
to hose myself down with the bum gun (the hose which people use for washing
their sphincter with after vacating their bowels).
Fun fun fun.
Arriving home at around 7, Matt and Richard were still there. Fond farewells said, drunken bye byes spilled from my mouth. I moved room, got breakfast, and here we are back at the beginning, circular story complete.
See you spoon.
Fun fun fun.
Arriving home at around 7, Matt and Richard were still there. Fond farewells said, drunken bye byes spilled from my mouth. I moved room, got breakfast, and here we are back at the beginning, circular story complete.
See you spoon.