Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the donkey they rode in on, reader, how many more cunting tourists can fit in this town before it pops like a giant pimple? Every 30 meters there’s a group of twats looking at their phones trying to figure out why their hotel isn’t on the spot where they’re standing. Sweat-stained American douchebags walk the thanons like it’s our privilege to host them, talking too loudly about their annual income with a baseball cap turned slightly to the side. Every taxi that pulls to the curb expels asshats and luggage like a vomiting Autobot from a Transformers movie. Buses continuously excrete teams of foreigners like a horse dropping road apples. I couldn’t be happier for Thais. The invasion of these troglodytes is an anabolic shot straight to the buttocks of the country’s economy. But for mongers like me, it’s a goddam nightmare.
And that’s only one current inconvenience. These days, what feels like a fart turns out to be a tiny dollop of shit and what feels like a shit ends up being nothing at all. Is this what it means to get old? I don’t know. Maybe I’m not long for this world.
Morrissey famously once sang, “I will be in the bar, with my head on the bar.” Were I to sing my life, it would go, “I will be in the gogo, with my hand on a gogo dancer.” Not as poetic, but accurate just the same. Speaking of that Manc cunt, he just cancelled his Bangkok concert for the second time in a row.
Greetings, reader. How’s your World War 3 going? Since we only have 6 years and 6 weeks left till the World Economic Forum institutes global communism, it seems prudent to live each day to the fullest. And while I’ve filled my days and my bed each week with a different long-term harem lass, I don’t spend every night in the gogo anymore. It’s too much of a good thing in my old age. So it’s important to make the few mongering nights count. Friday and Saturday were crazy, but I’m getting ahead of myself.
On Monday I had no intention of leaving the house but the owner of Session—the cigar shop in Silom Complex—emailed me to say they got some new Drew Estate sticks—specifically, the Tabak Robusto Negra. I picked up six, and lit one up at G’s German, paired with a Firestone Nitro Milk stout. The combo was exquisite. ‘Twas so good, in fact, that I got another can to go and finished the stogie out in front of K1 and ordered a Black Russian, whereupon I discovered a new drink, pouring a bit of the Nitro into the glass and voila! I had a Black ‘Nyet’ro (see what I did there?), and in case you’re wondering, it might’ve been the best cocktail I’ve ever tasted. I briefly considered calling it a Soviet Stout but it didn’t seem right, the current world affairs being what they are.
While relaxing with the stogie and watching the hordes of brain-dead tourists, I noticed a gang of white clams having a Derby King supper, stealing looks into the doorway of King’s 1, stuffing their fat faces and trying to get the waitress’ attention. They were doing that Western thing where they hold up one hand and wait silently for someone to walk over, all while sporting a smug, superior expression. After watching them fail for 10 minutes, I finally got fed up, walked over, and shouted to the waitress to come over (she’s a friend), telling them, “Raising your hand won’t work here. You have to speak up.” Every single one of them pretended I didn’t exist. They didn’t thank me, or even look in my direction. Seven bitches sat at that table and not one of them even smiled. It’s just more proof that there’s never a reason to speak to farang clunge. I keep forgetting to not help foreigners. My old self always wants to step in. I’m learning, but this slow transition from Jekyll to Hyde is taking too long. The tourists in the beer garden—random strangers—strike up convos with each other. They’ve so much in common. They’re all shit-eating cunts.
Tuesday began with an afternoon downpour that kept me trapped in my apartment for hours. But then a brief respite lasted just long enough to walk back to G’s with another Tabak and a plan to experiment. It started with a new menu item—pork spareribs. And they were fantastic. Then I matched the cigar with a Floris Chocolat followed by a Krombacher Dark. I couldn’t make up my mind which was better.
My Friday started in NanaP with a visit to Angelwitch and my buddy Joey D, who put up a cool new light inside the bar (see this week’s YouTube slideshow, link below). They’re doing a thing where you can shoot Nerf balls at the girls with an air gun for 300b. And they’ve got Fireball shots for 150b apiece. Some dude on Twitter commented that it’s the same price as the bars in Germany. Yes Einstein, bar prices in Bangkok are the same as back home. And you’re not paying for the booze. You’re paying to look at nude chicks. For fuck’s sake.
The Angelwitch girls have gotten used to me, the way waterfowl grow accustomed to a crocodile, and are more fun to be around now that they’re relaxed in my presence. It’s the same at Geisha, since last week’s photo shoot with Jack Nites. Everybody wai’s, everybody smiles. Thais are genuinely great people. When someone uses the term ‘sweetheart,’ it’s usually a flippant commentary. But the Thai people truly have sweet hearts. Even the security staff. I popped into Billboard and immediately left with beer in hand, because it was so crowded and the bouncers outside brought me a stool so I could enjoy my Heiny with a view of the beer garden.
How is Twister still selling beers for 160b? I guess Covid hit some bars worse than others. Whenever I walk in there, the staff scrambles to find one of my friends to keep me company. But 90% have moved to Virgin in Patpong, so pickings are slim there now. Speaking of, I sped directly from Twister t’Pong and the King’s 1 terrace for a cigar and a chat with Som. As I strolled up the soi, I was accosted on the street by a former Radio City girl who insisted I come see her at her new location: Virgin. After settling in at a table with Som, I became distracted by a couple of farang slags sitting in the beer garden. They were keenly interested in watching the men come and go from K1, scowling with derision at every customer, passing condemnation like their shit doesn’t stink. I used to hate chicks like them, but now I just feel sorry for them. The Red Pill movement in the West has effectively ended dating and relationships and given rise to the Passport Bro’s trend and the utter abandoning of single women. And they only have themselves to blame.
On Saturday my Bolt driver took me the wrong way to Cowboy and I ended up at Terminal 21. I tried to get a slice from Pala but the CTQ (cunt tourist queue) was too long so I hoofed it to Spritz for some pork and a Heiny (160b each). Then I hit Dollhouse but only one of the gals I like was working so I bailed after a happy hour draft (still 95b, thank Buddha). Rainbow was busy and fun per usual. Bee was M.I.A. but Satang and Aom were on hand. Aom just returned from a short stint in Phuket. I asked her if she enjoyed it. She said she prefers Bangkok, that the pressure to pump customers for drinks in Phuket gave her anxiety. From Rainbow I swung into Baccara for a piss. Both floors were rammed, with four rotations of 15 girls each. For perspective, though, Patpong’s 3 King’s have exponentially hotter girls. 99% of customers were Japanese. 190b for a SML.
Then I mo’taxi’d t’Pong for yet another cigar and yet another chat with Som on the K1 terrace. It’s becoming routine. I don’t even need to go inside. The staff see me coming up the soi, prep a Black Russian, and bring it out to my table. Som sees the barmaid walking outside with a BR and pops out to join me, like the gears of a clockwork universe. One malfunctioning cog is, I keep trying to force Som to like cigars. It’s not working. On Saturday, I was so hammered by the time I got to King’s, I had the audacity to send a Line message to the owner of G’s to ask if someone could walk over a can of Firestone Nitro Stout (so I could make another Black Nyet’ro). I assumed he’d say no, because what kind of asshole makes a request like that, but 5 minutes later, who should show up with a Nitro Stout but Guido himself. I was so grateful, I almost cried. He’s a living legend.
Virgin has taken the Pong by storm. Their instant success and stellar lineup has secured a spot in the redlight history books for this bar that, in under two week’s time, has dwarfed all others of its type. It’s drawn so many new girls to the Pong that some of them actually don’t know Seven. They make the hungry eye at me like I’m a tourist. They have no idea they’re barking up the wrong tree. Jane spotted me from the stage and make a flamboyant flourish as if seeing me for the first time. I shouted that I’ve seen her many times in the past two weeks but she never noticed me. She said she came over from Twister. ‘Twas one of those convos in a loud gogo where neither person knows what the other is saying. She asked me for a drink. I put a hundy in her undies. Suddenly Ning sprang forth shouting my name, and I realized if I stuck around I’d be putting money in dozens of pairs of panties. I finished up my beer and vamoosed.
Quick summary of the best redlight bars right now: On Cowboy, it’s Dollhouse and Rainbow. In NanaP, it’s Twister, Geisha, and Angelwitch. OnPong, it’s Virgin and the 3 King’s. And since I’m not paid by anyone to say it, you can trust it, unlike some other so-called nightlife bloggers who are wage slaves to the bars they promote.
In other news, gogo dancers have turned me into a quasi-currency exchange. Whenever a tourist tips a girl in the money of their home country, they bring it to me and I give them the equivalent in baht. I console myself by saying I’ll eventually hit up a real exchange and get the baht back for it, but the truth is I’m too lazy. I’ll just end up with a jar of foreign money on top of my fridge.
I don’t know what’s been going on with Twitter/X but for the past two weeks, I’ve gained and then lost 200 followers every day. Maybe it’s a glitch with the algorithm, or maybe it’s bots joining and then getting deleted. Or it could be something more sinister, like a dude falsely reporting my posts. But probably not. I doubt my words carry that much weight. Plus, my readership consists of about 10 people who take a keen interest in what I say, and that’s as far as my influence goes.
Speaking of that small contingent, some of them are bar owners. I guess they want to see what’s said about their venue, as well as their competitors’. I’m not sure why, since so few folk read my stuff in the first place, but I digress. Now, one of my many character flaws is, I’m honest to a fault. I say what’s in my mind, usually without a filter, and sometimes that pisses people off. Supposedly it’s because I’m a Sagittarius, but I think it’s because I’ve been lied to by people I trusted all my life. Now I blurt shit out without thinking, trusting that honesty’s virtue will put me on top. Like it’s some kind of asshole antidote. But no one hates honesty more than an asshole.
Anytime I say something negative—or what could be perceived as negative—about a bar, a huge headache ensues as that owner then reaches out to either make threats or plead their case, and I kick myself for saying too much—again. And every time it happens, I resolve to never say another negative thing about a joint, and instead say nothing at all. Faithful readers might’ve noticed by now that there are certain bars I never mention, as if they don’t exist. Because to me, they don’t. One of those invisible bars got that way through a misunderstanding. I approached the manager with a suggestion for improving the bar. And as soon as I began to speak, I could see he was offended. I backpedaled, explaining I was just trying to help. He said it was fine and I thought that was the end of it. But the next night when I went into the bar, the staff who normally shower me with attention ignored me, and when I waved to the manager, he looked directly into my eyes and then ghosted me completely.
Another glaring flaw of mine is, when I feel like someone has wronged me, from that second on they are dead to me. Even if it was a misunderstanding. I’m incapable of forgiveness and I don’t give second chances. The number of people I’ve expunged from my life in the blink of an eye after decades of friendship would astound you. And so when the manager of a gogo bar slights me—especially if I’ve dropped 20 grand a year in there for the past 5 years—I erase that place from my mind. What I don’t forget is the insult, and as Morrissey famously said, “I bear more grudges than lonely high court judges.” It’s a defect in my character. I know it is. But I can’t change it. So I guess it’s lucky for those “dead” bars that so few people read my blog. The effect of my lack of attention will be negligible.
If you haven’t yet, check out my MGThai video series on my YouTube channel. It’s strictly mediocre content from a Thai expat perspective.
Artwork and photo albums from inside the gogos are available for digital download at https://bentbox.co/bangkoksevenart at superlow prices.
And that’s all the monger that’s fit to ponder for now, friends. Check back next Sunday for another summary of this redlight life. In the meantime, you can read more about Bangkok life on my Substack: https://bangkokseven.substack.com/
Photos of everything in this blog can be found in the YouTube slideshow companion for this post at https://www.youtube.com/c/BangkokSeven
Follow me on Twitter/X @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: If you happen to be a Bangkok nightlife personality and also a fucking idiot, and you want to lie about how many followers/impressions you get, don’t say you have a reach of 10 million. That’s like in “Austin Powers” when Dr. Evil travels back to the 60s and demanding a hundred million dollars. Also, when you include the reach of the bars you work for, that’s not your reach, you dumb cunt. That’s the bar’s reach. You’re just a low-level employee. I guess this isn’t really a pro tip, because if you’re that retarded, you’re not a pro. And stupid people can’t learn from tips.
