Hello again.

‘Uptown Ranking,’ remember that tune? Gets you juicing, gets that energy cranked. Yeah?

Had me a good one, sleep I mean. Took two Zanex with a double scotch, I was gone. Twelve hours straight.

You ever have to fly long distance, there’s your solution. I once flew to Thailand, hadn’t any pills, watched four movies cold. Yup, one after another. That’ll put you in the zone, give you the old red eye. I think Jack Nicholson was in one or all of them. I flew Thai Airways, they keep you subdued with food. I went to Thailand to get laid.

Doesn’t everyone?

Oh sorry, you probably love the culture.

Bollocks.

Try Paris, shit-head.

Whoops, I lost it there and I do apologize. But it does actually elucidate my crusade.

Which is:

To restore politeness. In Thailand, man, they have that shit down.

Even the flunkeys at the supermarket wear gloves and bow when you approach.

I shit thee not.

First few times, you’re a Londoner, think he’s taking the piss, might have to bang him up side the head. No, straight up, it’s the real deal. What happens is, you get used to it. I mean, even the bar-girls, before they suck you off, ask permission. Like you’re going to say no?

Then you get back to Blighty, the cricket’s gone to shit, Beckham has yet another ridiculous hairstyle, and the first person you meet goes:

‘Fuck you.’

Got me thinking.

Then my old man died and you know what? He was a gent. For real. Treated people with dignity and respect.

What’d it get him?

Rotten lungs and a fucking tin-plated pocket-watch, they really broke the bank on that one. My inheritance. Course, with his insides all messed up, he didn’t get out. Once, two years ago, he’d managed to get to the local shop. Took him a time on the way back, with his Racing Post and Cadbury’s Flake, he got mugged. Feisty old bugger, he fought back, that old English spirit of Dunkirk and ‘Having a go.’ Four teenagers, two of them girls, gave him a serious kicking.