Is there anything worse than blundering into your favourite restaurant to find it occupied by a table full of your countrymen? Twenty cliches from London blithering on about the football and trying desperately to be wacky ‘boys’.

You can hear their Brexit hearts beating in blue passport pride. COVID must be behind us. The English are diseasing their way to the vulgar centres of crudity and vice once more.

They remind me of the country I left and affirm the reasons why I have no desire to return. People that never seem to learn, grow, mature and experience any curiosity in anything other than the grossest macro features of the world. You know their only interest in what lies over the horizon is whether or not it serves cheap beer and has the game on. I suppose one should admire a system that mass produces personalities so easily. How nice it must be to take your world with you. It must occupy so little luggage space.

After coming face to face with my worst self, I cannot hide from the growing realisation of what a disease of the mind tourism really is. The flash-packers all hang out on ‘I’m a self-centred entitled cunt street’, yet here in the centre of Bangkok you get less self-centred delusion, more aging simulacra. Both are crucibles of the repressive identity replicating without hinderence across their ginger-bread men selves. The flash-packers all strut likes its sports night in the student union bar; facking Landoners all dacking and diving. You can see the introverts in the group desperately wishing for release from this long-tabled hell. It seems the only busman’s holiday where at least one of the passengers clearly prays for a high speed collision.