So I made it to India ladies and gentlemen! It was a twenty-four hour journey which started in Glasgow, then to Heathrow, then to Istanbul and finally to Delhi. That’s what you get when you fly with Turkish Airlines. I thought I was gonna be buried underneath a heap of molten airplane somewhere in the Afgan desert. So I got to Delhi and fuck all noteworthy happened. Hated it man. Far too chaotic and It felt like every cunt was tryin’ tae penetrate me via ma wallet. I lost a lot of money in a day in Dehli, but I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first. I opted to take the plane to Goa and kept to the original promise I made to myself. Get to a beach and not think for about three weeks. But Goa, I don’t know man. It feels like I asked for a Jimi Hendrix record but got a Kula Shaker tape. Not quite the hippy groove I was imagining, just a sort of tragic attempt tae cling on. It’s quieter than I thought which is both good and bad, but it’s a hoor of a lot more expensive than I thought it would be. There were lots more inappropriately G-strung German men playin’ beach tennis than I thought there would be and I saw a Cow eatin’ a bike tire. Mental man. Like I said, not quite what I was expectin’ but I guess that was the whole point of comin’ here in the first place. Escaping predictability.
Beaches, relaxin’ tae the max, cocktail in a half coconut, blah blah blah. Beach paradise in the sun, you know how it is darlings. But I will say one thing about Goa, I’ve never bin hassled to buy so much shit I didn’t want in my entire life. Honestly man, the sandy beaches of Goa are strewn with about half a million sunglasses salesmen. Nothin’ you can possibly say to them will deter them from huddlin’around you like drunken tramps around an oil drum fire. Their fuckin’ relentless man and a pure nightmare to get rid of. The followin’ exchange of words was it for me. No more Goa.
“Hello my friend, your cuntree?”
“Oh ho! Scot-o-land! Capital city: Edinburgh. President: David Cameron!”
“Ha ha, aye that’s right aye. He’s a prick though.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You want buy sunglasses? I give you nice price!”
“No thanks man.”
“Mate, if ah want any price it’s the fuckin’ Indian price.”
“Ha ha! You is funny guy!”
“Just looking, no have buy. 500 rupees only.”
“Okay 100 rupees.”
“100 rupees, India price.”
“And 500 rupees is Scotland price?”
“Nothing, no. No sunglasses please.”
“This is nice price, nice sunglass, your sunglass not so nice as much these.”
“Cunt, these are Ray Bans. Real fuckin’ Ray Bans.”
“No. Is fake.”
“Look at them! They’re real!”
“Don’t fuckin’ bend them! Here gimme them back.”
“They just look fake to you because you’ve never seen a real pair.”
“I is see real pair. These thing. Yours fake I think.”
“How many Rupees?”
“I dunno, about 5000.”
I didn’t bother explainin’ tae him that ma cousin Sandy’s mate Mental Gerry had been on the way to my 21st and realized he hadn’t bought me a present, so he nicked a pair a Ray Bans fae some flashy cunt’s BMW. I promised that I would make an effort tae be more truthful with people but tryin’ to explain all of that tae this guy seemed like a pointless gesture of honesty.
“5000 rupees?! From her?” he pointed at a woman selling jewelry and sunglasses a bit further down the beach.
“No. I got them in Glasgow. Mate, I wouldn’t pay £70 for a pair a sunglasses from a woman on a beach in India.”
“It doesn’t matter. No. No Sunglasses today.”
“Please. Two pairs. Nice price.”
“Brother. I don’t need two pairs of sunglasses!”
“Yes! Two eyes, two sunglasses!”
“No cunt!?! Two eyes, one sunglasses!?!”
I couldn’t do it any longer. I just walked off. I don’t think doing that to this guy was as bad as walkin’ away from that cunt at the party. I still felt kind of bad about that. Doesn’t matter now though. This was different. This guy was going to chip away at me all fuckin’ afternoon until I bought something to make him go away. You know his stuff’s shit, he knows his stuff’s shit, you both know that he’s selling you silence. So I walked away from him and kept walking, all the way to my beach hut made oot of banana boxes, packed my bag and left Vagator beach with the compass set for north.
That exchange had been the second last of that kind in Goa. I had spent ten days goin’ up and doon the coast oan these rickety buses that sounded like football studs in a tumble dryer, searching for the one thing the hippies all failed to get; a bit of fuckin’ peace man.