The Girl with the Ironic Tattoo

The thing that really caught my eye was this English lady's bum.

Not only was she wearing her denim shorts in a high-waisted homage to all things geriatric, but her bottom seemed to be fleeing from the severity of the actual cut-off, a style designed to both encourage permanent wedgies and recurring yeast infections in equal measure.

On her left cheek, she had tattooed an angel drinking a pint of beer.

Eat your heart out, Portland!

London hipsters are bringing new levels of charm and class to your movement, so throw away your tapered acid wash jeans and buy some assless chaps already!

But don't quit your knitting gypsy band...

I was privileged enough to do an ethnographic study of London's hipsters during the Lovebox music festival this month. It was Robbie's idea - he is musically cooler than me, though we were mostly there for Gay Sunday's electropop-off between Kelis, Robyn and Blondie (Kelis won). Otherwise, it was a line-up of bands way too cool for me to have ever heard of.

Beardyman? I'd call that a five-o-clock shadow, sir.

Architecture in Helsinki? I really liked them until I found out they were Australian... I guess 'Architecture in Hobart' doesn't sell ringtones.

To be fair, I'm ignorant about most bands. The last time I paid attention to music was 1994 when my bestie Nina and I went to see Bush, Korn and the Presidents of the United States of America. Even then, I was only a fair-weather fan.

But I wrote Kurt Cobain a haiku when he died. At 14, I didn't have any real problems. However, in my poem to Kurt I so totally related to his, in 5-7-5 syllable stanzas, as taught by our junior high school English teacher.

To make myself even less cool, The Diplomat escorted me to his memorial in downtown Seattle. I placed my hand-written prose next to the shrines of burning candles while forlorn people in short-sleeved lumberjack shirts woefully strummed 'The Man Who Sold the World' on their ukuleles.

'Ok, let's go, honey - we're going to be late for Swan Lake.'

More excited for the tutus, I bounced all the way to the ballet hall. Well, you know, bouncing with angst.

So it wasn't a big surprise to find myself lost with the London cool kids. I did what The Diplomat encourages in all situations of self-doubt - I went shopping. At the festival vintage market. To replace my very un-ironic sneakers with something everyone else was wearing: leather boots.

'You look like a lesbian cowgirl, but in a very obvious, American sort of way.' Robbie is very encouraging. 'But you wouldn't fit in in Shoreditch - sorry darling. Try to act like you don't really want to be here.'

But I did!

And secretly, so did everyone else including Unfortunate Wedgie Girl, who was trying to dance to Metronomy in a very awkward sashay intended, I think, to ease the denim burden on her beer-swilling angel.

The question is, was it PBR?

The Ping Pong Show

There were just so many questions.

Like, if lungs are fundamentally necessary to smoke cigarettes, was the upside down naked lady technically 'smoking' that Marlboro Light with her reproductive organ?

Should she be worried about cervical cancer?

And how did she propel those glow-in-the dark ping pong balls so far across the room that one nearly hit my travel mate, a girl I call the Brazilian Princess, on the forehead before she absently batted it away?

'I need to go wash my hands now,' she said, leaving me alone to marvel at the skill required to shoot darts from the confines of one's vaginal cavity. What accuracy!

'The Pussy Show' is indeed disgusting and degrading. And it is also as ubiquitous in Bangkok as fried noodles and corrupt pink cab drivers, with more giggling.

We were in the Thai capitol for 9 days waiting on our visas to Burma to be approved. It was Thai New Year time – Happy 2554! Thais celebrate with a three-day water festival that involves squirt gun fights with local kids and everyone else on the streets, including the good-natured cops.

By the third day, we were looking for something a little less wholesome to do.

We found it.

The Brazilian and I covertly shopped around Patpong, the red light/fake watch district, looking for a show. It was around 8 p.m. when we started getting approached by greeters who presented laminated menus of that night’s special.

Most of the ‘specials’ were the same – darts, horn instruments, painting.

‘Maybe we should just have a look inside and see what looks, you know, the least disturbing,’ Princess suggested.

The Super Pussy had a nice neon sign, but the girls had that depressing 'I've-just-been-trafficked-in-from-Laos' vibe going on, so we left.

Queen's was empty, apart from an old white guy chatting up a chubby go-go dancer in the corner. What really killed it was AC/DC. 'Thunderstruck' is mood music for monster truck shows, not housing goldfish in your reproductive organs.

Finally, on our third try I was sold - the DJ was jamming some Snoop Dogg and the vaginal gymnasts were chirpy and smiling, not all strung out on heroin or oppressed by their station in life.

What a breath of fresh air!

We were the only patrons until a curious couple came in, followed by Creepy Indian Guy, who was alone and not nearly as enthusiastic about the novelty of it all as the rest of us. He didn't even applaud when she squirted a whole hot dog OR played taps on the kazoo. I guess there's no accounting for some people's taste...

We wondered if the girls would come up with something for the New Year festival, but I guess opening a bottle of soda water with your pelvis is anatomically easier than pulling the trigger on squirt gun. Go figure.

The fun ended when the mamasans realized we were giggling more than spending and called the Brazilian over for the bill.

'Three thousand baht each?'

The equivalent of $100, I'm not saying the performance wasn't worth that much - anyone who can write a love letter with a Sharpie in your privates deserves some serious cash - but we didn't have it.

So we went for the door, which was promptly blocked by three Thai mob bosses, all women, all built like linebackers, all effectively annoyed. The negotiations started and in less than 60 seconds, the price dropped to $7, a real bargain in my view. And like that, we'd been kicked out of Club NoPhoto.

Lots of Thais I met are pretty ashamed of this style of Bangkok entertainment, including our cab driver that night who offered to drive us straight to the temple to cleanse our sins.

But be encouraged, people of Thailand! A 4' picture of the king hung over the stage, just above the Vaseline-lined ping pong balls.

If that's not patriotism, I don't know what is.