Well reader, after only a month, I’ve already failed in my resolution to hit the redlight less-often. Last Monday, the Patpong Night Market introduced some 25 food stalls, and this portly punter sampled nearly half of them over the past 7 nights in a row. (For a pictorial slideshow companion to all the content in this post, click the YouTube link at the bottom.)
A full third of Soi 1 is now devoted to food, with a seating area and a beer kiosk doling out Chang on tap. It’s a veritable human zoo every night now, with people from all corners of the Earth jammed together in a fit of epicurean reverie–even Thai tourists are in the mix, a thing heretofore unseen in the Pong. You know what? It’s more than a zoo. It’s as if a circus rolled in and set up their big top in the middle of a zoo, and all the animals escaped to run amok. Every night, punters, mongers, and sex tourists are thrust shoulder-to-shoulder with vanilla couples and families, visitors of every ilk, and hippies and weirdos galore in a wild frenzy. It’s a new experience, even for a Bangkok local who’s used to living in a city that’s already completely bananas.
Here’s a rundown of the food currently on offer in the Pong: lamb and chicken doner kebabs, pad thai, somtam, whole fresh lobster/crab/squid/prawn/mussels, all manner of fruit shakes, gang kiow wan and other curries, 3 kinds of fried chicken, bbq ribs, pork/beef/chicken/fish skewers, eggs on a stick, whole fried pigeon, bugs, pancakes, pork noodles, crab sticks, omelet, mystery meat on a stick, coconuts, avocado juice, durian, mango and sticky rice…I can’t remember the rest.
But before the Monday emergence of the food stalls, I made a Sunday visit t’Pong out of sheer boredom. ‘Twas a typically quiet Sunday (probably the last quiet Sunday Patpong will ever see). In XXX, an old geezer dragged his equally old farang wife inside to watch the show. The poor lady stared into the middle distance, seemingly trying to mentally erase the experience from her memory as it was happening. At ear-splitting volume, House of Pain demanded that she get out her seat and jump around, but she did no such thing. Her decrepit husband struck up a convo with Earn as his wife descended deeper into despair. Then the mamasan came over to comfort her. But that wasn’t the worst behavior onPong that night. In Bada Bing, a Korean American among an entourage of dipshits proceeded to crip walk around the stage like he thought he’d impress somebody. Instead, everyone ignored him, and soon the gang of gits moved on.
In King’s Corner, a farang couple drank margaritas out of small champagne glasses. I didn’t even know you could order those. Of course, King’s would be pouring that fake Thai tequila, but the farang were too smashed to notice. The female got up and danced, but thankfully did not mount the stage.
On Monday I was onPong again to buy a birthday gift for a harem girl, and that’s when I discovered the newly-installed food court. Ostensibly, my only reason to hit the Pong was to get a knockoff LVT bag for said harem girl, but I greedily perused the food before hitting Pink Panther, Delaney’s, Black Pagoda, XXX, Bada Bing, and King’s Castle, as well as the clusterfuck that was and will be Soi 1 for the foreseeable future.
On Tuesday I Ponged, specifically to try some of the food that caught my eye the night before. I started with chicken wings dipped in various sauces (bbq, Korean, spicy, regular)—10b each plus 5 bbq spareribs for 200b. They were sweet, spicy, and quintessentially Asian. I loved ‘em. All the tables in the beer garden were taken, but luckily I can pull up a chair outside King’s Castle and nobody will flinch. The hostess hustled out a SML and for a few moments, time stood still. The chow was perfect, and messy, so the aforementioned hostess brought me a wet nap and a stack of napkins and all was right with the world. Then I grabbed a bottle of fresh-squeezed avocado juice, which I took with me to XXX Lounge and there created a new cocktail that I call a Holy Guacamole. It’s avocado juice, vodka, lime, and salt. On later consideration I probably should’ve used tequila. XXX’s manager asked where in the hell I found avocado juice. It turned out most of the people working on Soi 2 had no idea there was a food court and literally thousands of people over on Soi 1.
In Bada Bing, five female farang tourists in matching wife beaters and cargo pants were whooping it up, dancing with abandon—but not onstage, for once. They remained on the ground, out of the way of the gogo dancers, and for that, they had my quiet respect.
On Wednesday I was back in the Night Market for more fried goodness. This time it was chicken strips and crab sticks. The street has quickly become a mecca for foodies, rando’s, and gogo dancers to scarf down dinner between rotations on the pole. If one didn’t want to visit a gogo, one could easily stake out a chair near the food and watch dozens of stiletto-heeled, kimono-clad lasses grazing like so many glamourous gazelles.
While it’s true the US govt and evil corporations commit widespread pollution, individual Americans typically know how to clean up after themselves. Woodsie the Owl taught Gen Xers to put litter in the trash. Not so in countries like China, as evidenced by a table of Chinese tourists who, after their meal, simply rose and walked away, leaving a giant pile of trash for the next person to clean up before sitting down to eat. Is it stupidity or cuntery that makes for such lack of consideration? It’s a rhetorical question.
The Night Market and the gogos make for an interesting juxtaposition. They draw in two opposing kinds of tourist, the twain of which are destined to never meet, except when bumping into each other outside King’s Castle as one set stares with rapt intrigue (or disgust) while the other tries to push past and into the bar.
The gross, unwashed hippie demographic is up inPong. Their cloud of rancid, patchouli oil-slash-body odor follows them like a fellow traveler, inspiring nausea wherever they go.
On Thursday I swung into G’s German for a salad in an effort to counterbalance all the fried stuff I’d been scarfing down in the Night Market. Then I hit the Market for some brownies, which unsurprisingly go really well with a Cuban cigarillo and a black Russian. Talk about a winning combo. I’d finish the night with a lamb doner but by then I was so hammered I barely remember it. My friend Best, formerly of Electric Blue, does half the week in Black Pagoda so I hung out with her for a bit. In Radio City, a Middle-Eastern cunt walked in slow circles around the stage, inspecting the girls like goats in a Moroccan meat market. He kept accosting the staff, babbling something about ‘money-money.’ Then he tried and failed to run out on his checkbin.
On Friday the traffic was so horrendous it took an extra hour to get home from work. I nearly missed an appointment with a harem girl, and finally made it t’Pong around half 8. Soi 1 was already in a state of total chaos. Pu, Momay, Beer, Earn, and Ya among others were thrusting hard in XXX Lounge. Black Pagoda had a drink special on: double Tanqueray and tonics for 180b. The place was rammed. Mint, Saa, and Ploy barely had time to grab my junk between keeping customers company. Pink Panther was teeming by half 9, with around 50 girls jammed in there. It’s almost too many for the Pink. My usual girls were MIA, which meant a mixture of reverent wai’s and hungry eyes from the rest. Panther staff are excellent but even they were overrun by customers. I had to bus my own table.
Also in Panther was an old Pongmonger who’s been coming at least as long as I have. I remember him from the Electric Blue days as early as 2012. He disappeared during the plandemic, as all punters did except for me and one other guy, and when he reappeared, it was clear he’d had some kind of tragic accident. Judging by the way he walked, I’d guess he got hit by a car. At any rate, he returned, walking slowly and gingerly, sometimes with the help of a crutch, but goddam—he returned. He didn’t let a life-altering event alter his redlight life. I hope that when I inevitably suffer a similar mishap, I’ll have the stones to keep Ponging.
Back in the heyday of Glamour A-Gogo on Soi 2, there were three OG dancers that brought a vein of sensuality to the joint. Their names were Noey, Nat, and Ning. Noey is now a hostess over at Muzzik live music bar on Soi 2. Nat splits her time between Black Pagoda and Twister Nana Plaza, and Ning is over at King’s Corner, after squeezing out a Covid baby. Her body, which used to be near perfect, is back to hottie status post-baby birth, with only a few tummy scars to show for her trouble. But it doesn’t matter. She’s built like a battleship. A brick house for banging. A fortress of fuck. A nexus of nutbusting. A stronghold of sex. A bunker of breaking one off. A female fornication factory. I get dizzy just looking at her.
After 10 pm there were no empty seats in either King’s. I flitted back and forth in a holding pattern on Soi 2 until a spot opened up in K’s Corner and sat down just in time for their 22.00 show—two topless chickies caressing each other to Rihanna’s “Diamonds.” The place was so crazy it took over 5 minutes to get a drink order in. The staff were simply overcome with punter dross. Two Japanese blokes ran to the front of the stage to get a better look. One tried and failed to perform cunnilingus on the girls. After the show, two girls came up and wai’d be before heading onstage, and it took me a few minutes to realize I’d nailed them in a threesome over 8 years ago. After a quick informal tally, it turned out there were six girls onstage who’d passed through my bed at least once in the last decade. Which is a lot for one stage, even for a dirty monger like me.
Friday was the last night for The Paddy Field. They’re closed as of the posting of this blog. Thankfully though, their sister pub Shenanigan’s will expand, taking over the space that used to be Boots, creating 70% more space. So the Paddy staff will just move over there. In its place, the lease owner will install an erotic library, curated by a famous Austrian virtuoso. I was officially Paddy’s last customer, slipping in Saturday afternoon to drink their last four Beer Lao’s before the inventory got trucked over to Shenanigan’s.
Speaking of Saturday, I swung into 7-11 on my way t’Pong to pay my phone bill, and a Bada Bing girl came in. She tried to say hi but I had my headphones in and couldn’t hear her, so she ended up yelling, “Hello, Seven. Seven! Seven!” The staff must’ve thought she was crazy, or just really liked 7-11.
Standing room only in King’s Castle by 21.00. They informed me that I’d polished off all their Kahlua, so black russians are temporarily off the menu.
Barfining is now a tricky thing on Soi 1 because of the crowds. It’s impossible to be clandestine. When a lone Chinese dude enters K Castle and then emerges 20 minutes later with a girl on his arm, their agenda isn’t a mystery.
King’s Corner was full by 21.40, perhaps in anticipation of the 22.00 show. There was a big party in Black Pagoda—a gang of Japanese guys led by a Thai redlight tour guide. Bada Bing was surprisingly quiet, except for a fat farang woman who clamored onstage in her mom jeans shorts and smacked the asses of a couple dancers while her boyfriend took the chair next to me at the edge of the stage. Clearly they were headed down one of two roads—breakup, or a threesome followed closely afterward by a breakup.
I walked from one end of Soi 1 to the other, then did the same on Soi 2, searching for a place to have a cigar and a glass of wine. Le Bouchon used to be that place. It’s possible to do at French Kiss, if you can grab the only outside table. Delaney’s has a place to sit outside and smoke but there’s not much to look at. Patpong needs a classy cigar bar, or wine bar, or cigar and cognac bar. A place that’s a cut above everything else. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as lo-so as they come and I love every joint in the Pong. But I can’t drink wine and smoke Cuban H Upmann’s in any of ‘em.
At 23.30, I turned to head home, but on realizing I still had 1,000 baht in my pocket, decided to stick around and see what late-night Pong was like. I slipped into Shenanigan’s for a wee, and the fucking farang at the urinal next to me deliberately turned and pissed all over the wall, reaffirming what I already know—that foreign tourists are the fucking worst.
I doubled back to King’s for a nightcap—Chivas on the rocks. Later at night, the tourists lean away from food and towards beer, while the Thais take over buying grub. I fear a future fattening of dancers thanks to their new easy access to all things fried.
A blanket observation of after-midnight bedlam is, the farang are much drunker and more hostile, but the Thais take it in stride. A gogo dancer in K Castle got so drunk she had to be laid down on the chairs outside. A passing farang lady looked on with concern, not realizing that the drunk dancer was safe as a baby in her mum’s arms. A moment later, two of my coworkers tumbled out of King’s like fruit off the back of a truck. They made marble-mouthed conversation for a few minutes, then asked if I wanted to accompany them to XXX. I said I was headed home, which was a lie, though after another Chivas, I did make a hazy retreat to my bed.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of red-light events. In the meantime, you can read more about Bangkok life on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Redlight videos and slideshows, including the companion for this post, can be found at
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Follow me on Twitter @BangkokSeven for daily pics from the redlight, and until next time, keep your balls warm, your beer cold, and cheers to another week above ground in the greatest country on Earth: Thailand.
Pro Tip Post-Script: When trying to decide between a lamb doner and a chicken doner, consider who you’ll be with the following day. Because lamb doners cause horrendous, hot, painful gas that could peel paint off a wall. So if you’ve got a date, or a work presentation, or will board a bus to Chiang Mai in the morning…get the chicken.
