IN 2015 I WENT TO PATTAYA WITH BRIAN & DEREK AND STEPHEN HOUGH. THIS IS A SHORT GLIMPSE OF OUR STAY AT THE BAAN SUOY GAY RESORT HOTEL WHERE BRIAN & DEREK STAYED FOR MANY YEARS.

The code for the characters is this:

Gary = Brian; PJ = Derek; Patrick = David White; Howard = Stephen; Cameron & Finlay = the Scottish owners of the Baan Suoy; Geoffrey and Margaret were not there but are referred to as Gerald and Mary.

(You can skip the italics about Prince Bira which is there to give context to the changes in Thailand over my lifetime).

Postcard from Pattaya

Madam Fin floated on his lilo alone in the pool. His attitude was abandoned. Eyes shut, head back with his legs conveniently splayed, overlapping the sides of his floating hammock. The sun ravished him with aggressive heat. He seemed to welcome the pain just as his face had welcomed the bloody attention of the surgeon’s blade in the unrealised hope of a few more years with the appearance of youth.

‘What the fuck do you think you are doing?’ Patrick was shouting already. ‘Stop cleaning this bloody room. Take your fucking hose elsewhere. And mop up this mess!’

The garden boys took no notice and continued to drench the glass doors and hose the plants round the doorway of Patrick’s room and beside the swimming pool a few feet away.

‘There is no need to speak to them like that.’ Finlay’s Scottish burr floated across the water. Other critical voices including PJ and Gary’s joined in from the bar on the other side of the pool.

‘They don’t understand English.’ It was a chorus of disapproval.

‘I have asked them nicely five times. I’ll get Cameron to have a go at them if you are going to be so sweet.’ Cameron was Finlay’s uncouth Glaswegian partner.

PJ and Gary started their day at 11 o’clock with breakfast in the broken sunlight under the palm trees of the poolside bar. Gary had a hard-back copy of The Seven Lives of John Maynard Keynes beside him and was reading a newspaper with his breakfast, like any middle class Englishman in the Home Counties (though he came from Home Hill, Queensland).  PJ chatted with Dot his Thai companion who always stayed in their rooms when they were in Thailand. He and Dot had finished with sex some years before though Dot was only thirty, looked twenty five and was fit, smart and still attractive with a pert bubble butt and a proper job as a dental assistant.

Howard had already had breakfast in the hotel restaurant as Patrick joined them. PJ introduced the boys. Patrick sat down in one of the deeply cushioned rattan armchairs and ordered muesli and fruit.

Gary’s love interest Dim was an altogether different proposition from Dot. Tall and athletically well built he was unlike the slight and feminine figures that permeated the hotel and could be seen on the streets accompanying overweight Westerners or working in restaurants, shopping malls and massage parlours. His skin was darker brown and his heavy muscled body came from a different heritage. Gary said he was typical of the jungle and farm people from the North where he was born. When Gary was in the UK Dim went home and worked on the family farm, going fishing, shooting birds and wildlife in the jungle and rejoining the life of his village. He liked nothing more than fast cars, violent action movies and loud predictable rock music; and fucking both men and women and an occasional kathoei.

Dim and Gary had met seven years ago at the same time as PJ met Dot and he also stayed in PJ and Gary’s rooms when they were at the hotel. At breakfast he sat silent and bored with occasional flashes of childish activity designed to remind Gary of their special bond. Gary was such a laid back individual that Patrick reckoned the power equation of their relationship was nicely balanced, but sometimes he found Dim’s surly presence hard to ignore.

’Gerald and I were both born and brought up in the East. We have an understanding of things that you can only get if you have lived in a place for a long time or better still gained your knowledge as a child.’

Gerald was an older friend of them all who had been to the hotel with PJ and Gary many times during the twenty years they had been coming to the East. His aging partner had been once and hated it. Gerald had been at Kings Cambridge and in the Foreign office; he was charming and urbane. His winter coat had been with him since his university years and had a small section of dark velvet round the back of the collar.

‘And you behave like an old colonial.’ PJ said disparagingly.

‘Of course I do! You behave like a Rickmansworthite because that’s where you came from. It would be ridiculous to expect you to be anything else! You are good at managing things and people. That’s what middle-class people from Rickmansworth do. I am full of admiration for what you can do.’

Patrick realised that PJ and Gary had long ago codified their views and believed they were politically correct liberals and that any other position was wrong. Many years earlier they had espoused the Socialist Workers Party and its principles; partly because all the young men, gay or straight, believed in solidarity both in and out of the bedroom. Nonetheless Patrick knew that both of them were intelligent enough to know there were glaring anomalies between what they thought they were and their behaviour in the East. Today was not the time to take them to task so he moved the subject on,

‘How did Pattaya become the sex capital of the world? Do you know? It seems so strange as I remember Siam when Prince Bira – Birabongse – was a successful Grand Prix driver just after the war. Its reputation was nothing like this then.’

‘It was the Americans.’ Gary spoke with the certainty that he was expressing a generally accepted view, a universally acknowledged truth and his next remark seemed to support the theory.

‘The north was used for R&R during the Vietnam war so many of the mothers went with the Americans and were able to give their families a better life. It seemed normal for their kids to do the same for the farangs when the tourist industry took off.’

 ‘But why Pattaya?’

‘Well, first it was Bangkok and this is the coastal resort nearest Bangkok. Also there was a US base down here. It’s the local airport now.’

F1 Biography: The Prince of Grand Prix

By Tony Greene -

Jan 25, 2011

Since the very early days of competition, royals and other blue-blooded members of the aristocracy have played a part in motorsport.  The reasons were obvious, since not many folk beyond the noble and the rich could buy a motorcar for competition in the early 1900s, let alone for private use.  Through the coming years, Carel Godin de Beaufort, a Dutch nobleman, and John Chrichton-Stuart, also known as the Earl of Dumfries (you may just know him as Johnny) both showed speed on their way into Formula One.  German noble Wolfgang Von Trips almost became World Champion.  For nearly two decades, however, a short, bespectacled, Asian prince also played a major role in international motor racing.

His grandfather having been the inspiration for Yul Brynner’s character in “The King and I”, His Highness Prince Birabongse Bhanutej was born HSM Mom Chao Birabongse Bhanutej Bhanubhandu in 1914 to HRH Prince Bhanurangsri Sawangvongse, the son of King Rama IV and younger brother of King Rama V, and Mom Lek Bhanubhandhu na Ayundhya.  Racing history authors would rejoice when, in 1935, the young Prince of Siam would enter his first race at Brooklands under the pseudonym “B Bira”.

Having lost his mother at a very young age, Bira was orphaned at thirteen when his father also passed away.  The young prince was already studying at Eton in England and was originally put under the legal guardianship of his elder cousin, King Rama VII.  When Bira moved on to study at Cambridge, where another cousin, HRH Prince Chula, was also studying, Chula was granted guardianship.

 In 1932, Bira fell in love with motor racing and was given an MG Magna for his 18^thbirthday by Prince Chula, though he had to obtain written permission from both his cousin and the king before he could race it.  As a 21^st birthday gift, Bira was given a new, vastly more powerful ERA, which he named “ Romulus ”.  He had recently met a young Scandinavian lady at a party who wore an evening dress of light blue and yellow, so Bira had the car painted in the same hues and these would become the national racing colors of his country.

In 1935, Chula established the White Mouse Racing stable to support Bira in the 1.5 litre Voiturette class, the lead up class to the big 3.0 litre GP cars.  A second ERA was purchased, christened as “Remus”, to be run at the local British events, while “ Romulus ” was used for the team’s international campaign.  The team began well, finishing 2^nd in the Grand Prix de Dieppe in France , despite having to stop to change spark plugs.  1936 would prove even better with four wins, with ten more coming between 1937 and 1939 before the onset of the war brought international racing to a standstill.

After a handful of races in 1955, B Bira abruptly retired from racing and returned home to Thailand to briefly run an airline and, subsequently, a car business before moving to France and then back to England.  From racing on four wheels, Bira would move on to become an Olympic sailor, representing Thailand in the 1956 Melbourne Games, Rome in 1960, Tokyo in ’64 and Munich in 1972.

On 23 December 1985, an elderly gentleman collapsed and died at Baron’s Court Underground Station in London from a heart attack.  No identification could be found on him other than a note in his pocket, handwritten in an unrecognizable foreign language. Scotland Yard sent it to be analyzed at the University of London where it was identified as being written in Thai and addressed to Prince Bira. The Royal Thai Embassy was notified, discovering unceremoniously that their former prince had died a forgotten hero, having once made such an international impact for Thailand.

Extremely short sighted and always driving with glasses or special built goggles, Bira was considered to be a good driver by his peers, if not among the very fastest on his day.  But racing only tells a small chapter of his story.  A versatile and cultured man, B Bira was studying sculpture at the Byam Shaw Art School in London when he originally discovered racing.  Upon retirement from the sport, he took to the arts again.  On a bronze base relief on a fountain in the corner of the Silverstone paddock, motorsport fans will forever be able to look upon an example of the work of B Bira, the Prince of Siam.

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Gary looked up from his newspaper and offered Patrick some papaya. He had a unique way of speaking; generous, rapid and direct.

‘What you need to know is you must never say anything bad about the King. It’s best not to mention the Royal family atall. Whatever their political, religious or other differences, everyone loves the King. He is very old and no-one knows what will happen when he goes. The eldest son lives in Mayfair, living the high life and doesn’t fit their idea of what the King should be like. One of the sisters does most of the official engagements.’

‘Is he a God?’

‘No - he is a human; and a Buddhist like most of the country.’

‘And can you explain what the two political parties are all about?  Isn’t one the guy that bought Man City and isn’t the other one led by the General who had a successful coup some years ago?’

‘Yes the red shirts are the party of the peasants and they are led by Thaksin who is a billionaire. He brought in the famous rice policy that guaranteed the Government would buy all the rice that was grown. Of course the peasants loved him for that!’ He smiled a merry smile. ‘It made Thailand the biggest rice producer in the world but has now led to a glut and all the rice is rotting in government warehouses.’ Gary’s eyes sparkled with ironic humour; they creased upwards as he grinned; gleeful and attractive. He continued ‘The general’s party is the party of the traditional upper classes and they are in power at the moment.’

‘Weren’t there street demonstrations and riots recently?’

‘That was a while ago but it’s quiet now. You’ve nothing to worry about!’ Gary grinned again.

Patrick stood up and rubbed his legs.

‘I am being bitten like crazy even though I covered my legs with Paul’s special anti-insect stuff.’

‘Do you want to use my spray’ Howard asked.

‘Why don’t you move away from the tree’ PJ suggested.

‘Yeah move round here, away from the tree.’

‘No, I won’t need the spray thanks; but I will sit over there.’ Patrick exchanged seats with Gary and pulled his chair into the sunshine. Within a minute or two a haze of midges surrounded his head.

‘What scent are you wearing?’ Gary exclaimed ‘It’s certainly attracting them!’

‘Nothing except the anti-midge and Channel; it doesn’t attract anything else these days.’  Patrick rubbed his legs again. ‘But it always happens to me. I have sat with Jane and her husband at their house in Italy and Jane and the girls never get bitten but Richard and I are covered in bites; some of them take a year or two to go.’

‘Mary’s the same. She always gets bitten.’

Patrick looked at PJ. ‘But she is stoic. I’m not.’

‘How are you boys?’ The raw Scottish accent wrenched the warm morning air apart!

Cameron was a big man. His head was shaved, he wore metal framed photochromic glasses and his skin was healthy but pale; surprising for someone who had lived in the tropics for over 20 years. He spoke with a rough tenement accent and aimed his friendly aggression towards Gary.

‘The hotel is quiet this time of year.’

‘The airport was swarming wi’ bloody Chinese tourists this morning. Like fuckin’ ants! We don’t want them here crapping in the beds and peeing in the pool.’ They all laughed; Howard and Patrick wondered what came next.

‘I was in the UK an’ it was colder than a witch’s tit. I couldna wait to get back.’

‘You have a very wide sexual experience.’ Patrick observed evenly. ‘But of course you were married.’

‘And I slept with lots of witches before I was married I c’n tell ya!’

Cameron delivered a few more dominant male boasts about how busy he had been that morning servicing his number one, two and three boys before giving the late breakfasters his blessing and going on his way.

Patrick stood up and looked at Gary’s book on the table.

‘How far have you got? Has he fought against the settlement in the Versailles Treaty yet, predicting that the French and American demands for punitive retribution will inevitably lead to another war?’

‘I’m not there yet.’

‘Has he given up Duncan Grant and married Lydia?’

‘Duncan Grant left him and married Vanessa and they have had a daughter.’

‘I don’t think they ever married and Duncan certainly carried on with men into his late seventies. One of his boyfriends, Bunny Garnett even married Duncan and Vanessa’s daughter much to their disgust.’

‘Have you read it’ PJ chipped in.

‘No but I’d like to when you’ve finished if that’s OK’ Patrick said turning to Gary. ‘I know a lot about Keynes from all the Virginia Woolf and Bloomsbury stuff I read.’ He pronounced Keynes, ‘Canes’. 

‘I’ll finish it in a day or two and you can have it. Lee knew Duncan Grant, you know, but he never went to bed with him.’

‘Well that was a mistake! Everyone found him very attractive; what a miss.’

Lee was a friend who had recently died aged ninety five. He was a big man, tall and handsome and had small parts in British films of the forties, the world of Isherwood’s Prater Violet, before opening a specialist bookshop in Camden Passage with his younger boyfriend Frank. PJ and Gary knew him through their antique business.

Patrick took his leave. ‘I think I’ll read in my room. Let me know if you are going to swim.’

The pool was empty except for a bulky but energetic swimmer wearing an oval snorkel mask lunging along the surface in an unusual semi-underwater butterfly stroke. The blue snorkel tube emitted weird walrus-like blowing sounds but the swimmer never raised his head from the water. He ploughed steadily up and down, length after length. Patrick couldn’t fathom the purpose behind this odd routine which was repeated daily for the twelve days of the holiday.

Before going into his room he glanced at the solid wooden loungers ranged round the pool. The only people on them were almost directly opposite Patrick’s room. Two heavyweight ‘bears’ sat with a couple of lean brown skinned boys. One of the boys was crisply handsome with well defined muscles. (Later PJ told him the older couple were French and Belgian and the others were in fact the Malay boyfriend of the Frenchman and his Thai servant).

Patrick watched the walrus continuing to splash up and down and decided that in this place the epithet ‘elephant’ was more apt than ‘bear’, particularly as the foreigners all seemed to have such huge bellies and so little hair on their heads. And, of course, white elephants have a special status in Thai culture. They are treated as holy and are believed to be vital to the wellbeing and prosperity of the Kingdom. In 1549 a major war ensued when the King of Burma tried to take seven white elephants belonging to King Mahachakkaphat who was called Lord of the White Elephants. Until 1917 a white elephant was even on the national flag and one still emblazons the ensign of the Royal Thai Navy. Their correct name in Thai is chang samkhan which translates as ‘auspicious elephant’.

As the days went by Patrick was able to confirm that he was correct in his choice of epithet. The Western white elephants were indeed important for the prosperity of Pattaya.

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