As I usually get ants in my pants on day four of any holiday, I was granted special permission from the Fuhrer to attend an “event” to stop me bugging the rest of my tribe. This event was- Mouy Thai or Kickboxing to the rest of us. I clambered into the pick up with the rest of the full blooded males from the hotel, chewing raw meat and demanding Thai brains spattered all over my face from a kick that could KO a kangaroo.

Actually I was a little worried. How would I handle seeing severe pain? Would I have to fit into that annoying man thing, you know, the one learned at school from playground fights, or could I leap into the ring, Ghandi-like, and show a nation the error of it’s ways, extending the hand of peace (and getting bitch slapped for my trouble)? Hmmmmmmm.

I made a pact with an ex soldier called Steve that ON NO ACCOUNT was he to let me volunteer for any “Kick the Shit out of the Drunk Farang” contest, even if it was the eight year olds. ( I am as many of you know a master of the ancient Scottish martial art- Up Yu).

And so it began. First of all two greased up kids whacking the living bejesus out of each other. Actually, it was a lot more like dancing, and I began to think that this whole show was a set up to cream it in off the tourists. A fact I shared with my immediate neighbours, two fabulous Aussies called Kate and Derianne. Being Australian/ Kiwi, they instantly connected with me through the international language of swearing and we fecked and arsed our way through the whole shebang.

But then it really started- eight young men (twenty five is the retirement age for Kick Boxers) fighting knockout to win the title. Champions from every local Island and the main man from Bangkok. Only three rounds instead of the usual five so they went at it hammer and tongs.

And I loved it! It was energetic, skilful and edge of the seat. There were two knockouts- and I mean knockouts- lads lying prone on the floor and being woken with smelling salts and some rather aggressive neck manipulation. (Not a Doctor in sight!)
Me and the ladies went for “Pinkie” as we christened him to win. He had an honest face that could take a kicking and looked like the boy next door.

I had asked the gentleman next to me what each competitor was called. He answered Yes each time. He looked like the old guy in Gremlins, complete with stringy beard. However, I already have an Eve, which I on no account feed after midnight, so I left him to it.

Pinkie smashed through his first round beating a mulleted bouffante easily. Second round he just made it to the final with more elbow and knee action than his opponent. Then, after a “show match” between two tired older boxers which got rather heated towards the end. It was- The Final.

Pinkie was facing the Thai Mike Tyson. He was hard as a bag of nails. As my Scottish screeching echoed round the stadium, Pinkie fell over in 35 seconds, his honest face squashed against the canvas. Ach. Bollocks.

As I usually get ants in my pants on day four of any holiday, I was granted special permission from the Fuhrer to attend an “event” to stop me bugging the rest of my tribe. This event was- Mouy Thai or Kickboxing to the rest of us. I clambered into the pick up with the rest of the full blooded males from the hotel, chewing raw meat and demanding Thai brains spattered all over my face from a kick that could KO a kangaroo.

Actually I was a little worried. How would I handle seeing severe pain? Would I have to fit into that annoying man thing, you know, the one learned at school from playground fights, or could I leap into the ring, Ghandi-like, and show a nation the error of it’s ways, extending the hand of peace (and getting bitch slapped for my trouble)? Hmmmmmmm.

I made a pact with an ex soldier called Steve that ON NO ACCOUNT was he to let me volunteer for any “Kick the Shit out of the Drunk Farang” contest, even if it was the eight year olds. ( I am as many of you know a master of the ancient Scottish martial art- Up Yu).

And so it began. First of all two greased up kids whacking the living bejesus out of each other. Actually, it was a lot more like dancing, and I began to think that this whole show was a set up to cream it in off the tourists. A fact I shared with my immediate neighbours, two fabulous Aussies called Kate and Derianne. Being Australian/ Kiwi, they instantly connected with me through the international language of swearing and we fecked and arsed our way through the whole shebang.

But then it really started- eight young men (twenty five is the retirement age for Kick Boxers) fighting knockout to win the title. Champions from every local Island and the main man from Bangkok. Only three rounds instead of the usual five so they went at it hammer and tongs.

And I loved it! It was energetic, skilful and edge of the seat. There were two knockouts- and I mean knockouts- lads lying prone on the floor and being woken with smelling salts and some rather aggressive neck manipulation. (Not a Doctor in sight!)
Me and the ladies went for “Pinkie” as we christened him to win. He had an honest face that could take a kicking and looked like the boy next door.

I had asked the gentleman next to me what each competitor was called. He answered Yes each time. He looked like the old guy in Gremlins, complete with stringy beard. However, I already have an Eve, which I on no account feed after midnight, so I left him to it.

Pinkie smashed through his first round beating a mulleted bouffante easily. Second round he just made it to the final with more elbow and knee action than his opponent. Then, after a “show match” between two tired older boxers which got rather heated towards the end. It was- The Final.

Pinkie was facing the Thai Mike Tyson. He was hard as a bag of nails. As my Scottish screeching echoed round the stadium, Pinkie fell over in 35 seconds, his honest face squashed against the canvas. Ach. Bollocks.