We made a significant scientific breakthrough in Bangkok, one so mind boggling I’m amazed none of the scientific journals would publish it, or why on the whole they’ve blocked my email and mobile phone – I’M TRYING TO HELP YOU ALL DAMN YOU.
It’s to do with two of the most ubiquitous topics known to man, particularly since the explosion of the internet.
The night before
Just to explain the chemical process that went into this discovery. It involved a trip to Green and Whites, a place up the road where you sit on decking surrounded by very fetching outdoor lighting and eat exceptionally delicious Thai food for about £3 a head.
All quite civilised had the drink not been flowing with such abandon, continuing at Vikings bar, with multiple ‘towers’ of beer (as wreckless as they sound) whilst a cover band trawled through mid-nineties classics like ‘Kiss Me’ and ‘Truly, Madly, Deeply‘.
Such irony in this benign soundtrack to our physical demise.
The mourning after
O what a painful day we awoke to. Matt has a particular kind of sigh slash puff slash groan to accompany his hangovers, and judging by the severity of his puffings I could tell this was a bad one. Meanwhile, the heat, dehydration and alcohol had reduced me to something akin to a rice krispie in a microwave.
There was, however, no benefit to languishing in our puffing den. Action was needed and so we hauled our asses onto the BTS, and through some baffling combination of dozing and jabbing at my phone came to a conclusion. Our path was set.
It is about the destination
I won’t describe the scene as we traversed Soi 53 towards our destination.
But eventually we reached it. It looked civilised, and welcoming and rather posh actually. The Purr Cat Café.
A world of weirdos
A smartly dressed lady opened the door, politely requested we remove our shoes, and presented each of us with a fresh pair of slippers as she ushered us into the lobby. She handed us a menu complete with scones and earl grey tea. She instructed us politely to wash our hands thoroughly before smearing any of these felines with our bacterial hands. Clearly these weren’t no soi cats.
On the wall, a poster advertised a special offer where you could pay to bathe a cat three times and get a fourth bathing free! A chaise langue in the corner was adorned with cushions printed with cat faces. I was struck very suddenly, and very strongly, with the notion that human beings (myself included) are profoundly weird.
And then we were through.
‘Can you keep the humans on the sofa and away from my floor please?’
The café staff lingered in the far reaches of the room, face masks clinging to their features like starfish, presumably to protect the cats from any human-feline transferable diseases.
The cats themselves were languid, long haired breeds, many with screwed up faces and big eyes like gold coins.
They were beautiful actually, with their well-groomed fur and sense of disdain. All were utterly, entirely uninterested in people. I felt a grudging respect as I ordered a dish of milk to attract them over (it was served with a lid like some sort of platter). There was only one set of suckers in this room, and they didn’t have whiskers.
I am trying to think of a comparable experience to being among those cats. I don’t particularly like Cristiano Ronaldo, but I bet it’s like being a Cristiano Ronaldo fan in a room with Cristiano Ronaldo.
Remember how, a few paragraphs back, me and Matt were suffering from a crippling hangover? No, I had forgotten too. Because I have to say, after an hour in this bizarre environment we had both completely recovered.
Now, say what you will about the passage of time, metabolic rates, hydration or whatever. It was the cats wot did it, I tell you.
The mouse: moral of the story?
A winding staircase with balustrade had been constructed in the middle of the room, and some of the cats were perched atop this, eyes fixed firmly on the transparent conservatory roof above them.
This became a spot of great interest for a whole bunch of the cats in the room, and soon we realised why: there was a mouse running around on the other side of the glass, entirely safe from the killer instincts below, and presumably pulling moonies and middle fingers at every given opportunity.
And I’m leaving this post here, because really, this mouse is the hero of the piece, the one who represents the non-drinkers shall we say.
I’d love to hear your thoughts on stuck up cat analogies, names for smug mice, or any other random nuggets, so please do leave comments.