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Disappointing Miss Daisy

 

By Mike Bell

 

Are you one of those old farts who spend his remaining days grumbling about the standard of driving on Thai roads and the cost of Heinz beans in Tesco Lotus?  Or are you of the other persuasion – nothing to do with which way your sexual proclivities lie – is your glass half empty or half full?  If you are one of the latter, you are like me.  I wake every morning to blue skies and sunshine with a smile on my face.  I bless the day I decided to move lock, stock and one smoking barrel to Pattaya.  I am in the Land of Smiles: when I walk fifty metres, I see more attractive girls about me than you can see in a UK marathon.

 

I am in the Garden of Eden but there is a snake in the grass known in teaching circles as Ascension Deficit Disorder.  Golfers may refer to it as a Sch-wing and a miss.  Athletes talk of Taking the gold at the Lake Flaccid Olympics. Bankers, I said bankers, may be bouncing the check of Love. In short I am alluding to that dreaded condition which affects men of a certain age, in a hot climate, with a new sexual partner, after a few drinks; Brewers Droop.

 

I am not ashamed to admit, on occasions, I have been a few parts shy of an erector set.  My least favourite film is The Null Monte showing twice weekly at a cinema down Soi Six.  My first thought was what a waste!  I am not talking money matters here though it does matter, I mean.  I am talking about the beautiful face with the enchanting smile hovering over you and yours; the perfect nubile body with its soft coffee-coloured skin.  Where was I?  A thousand baht is not to be sneezed at, and if at the end it all goes pear-shaped or rather not banana shaped, well sometimes the journey is more exciting than the destination.

 

Fear not, however, help is at hand in the shape of the little purple pill or sachet.  Over the last four years, I’ve done an extensive survey on this type of medicament.  The brand name varies but usually ends in AGRA; Viagra, Kamagra, Edegra or Niagora.  My studies began when I confided in my son about my little problem.  It’s not something a son wants to hear from his father.  He’s already resigned himself to inheriting your fading eyesight and the same bald hair pattern.  I tried a few euphemisms.  ‘So there I was, all doled up with no where to go.’  No reaction.  ‘The other night I found myself, 180 degrees short of perpendicular Heaven.’ 

 

He was very good when he finally understood I was performing with Flaccido Domingo.  We went to a pharmacy where he ruined his reputation by asking for some chemical assistance while I skulked outside.  He came back with a sachet for me and a date with the pretty little pharmacist who saw him as a bit of a challenge, I think. Since then I have never looked back or down for that matter.

 

I have become emboldened enough to discuss the after effects with the pharmacist and try new brand names.  (In my case, the pharmacist is a helpful young fellow on Soi Bukao.)  We’ve got quite friendly as I go in his shop twice a week.  It was difficult explaining at first why I only wanted his products on a Monday and a Wednesday; why I couldn’t take a box home with me. Eventually he got the picture.  He dubbed me ‘Less than Magic Johnson’ and I asked him how he knew so much about these products.  He was quite open about it; his uncle tried every new brand and delivered his verdict.  His uncle’s 76!