Still Kicking Against The Pricks.

I don't give a fuck if I'm in Hanoi or not; do not push in front of me at the post office. The locals can go home as far as I'm concerned.

My first meal was at a little shop front. Over a couple of Tiger Beers, I had a beef broth. The meal was put in front of me, and the smiling assasin whom servred it said, 'try the meat'. I kind of knew where this was going. There was dark meat, and light meat in the soup. I grabbed a big piece of the darker meat and ate it. He smiled, 'do you know what that was?'

Did I want to know?

'I spell it for you. D - O - G.'

I didn't flinch, it was pretty fucking tasty, and a big part of me wanted my first meal to be dog.

The same with the lighter meat.

'C - A - T.'

'No, not Garfield.'

He smiled again, and that's when I realised he was taking the piss. I said as much.

He frowned. The literal translation of taking the piss is as unnerving as it is poor in its grammar.

Haven't seen a Westerner yet. Let's fucking keep it that way. They're a bunch of c*nts.

Except for the one I left behind.

Nice timing Co**on, you've done it again.