On a drive through the Batangas countryside, we stumbled on Fantasy World – an abandoned theme park. Needless to say, an opportune moment for a Drone shot.

Originally touted as the “Disney World of the Philippines”, work began in 1999. It was supposed to be fully operational by 2005. However, financial difficulties and construction delays led to its eventual abandonment in the mid-2000s. The structures and features of Fantasy World remain in a state of disrepair. Hard to say how big it should’ve been, but the huge multi-room hotel left dormant (captured briefly) suggest they had high expectations.

Williamsburg Town FC travel to Upstate New York to play in the annual Woodstock Cup. “While heartbreak on the pitch, it’s the off-field friendships that steals the show”

The Lads take an RV to the upmarket Hamptons. If you know the Hamptons, you know it’s not a place for an RV. Especially if you’re going to break down on the only road into town, blocking a fleet of Ferraris and Lamborghini’s in your wake. That was just the start of our adventure. A short clip from the East Village Mates (2020) film.

23/01/2011

Cigarettes and Football

Rented out bikes and after a ride around town decided to head out and explore some of the countryside out towards the beach, where we checked out a lobster farm. On our way back, stopped off at this bridge over a river, where we hung out with these two little kids who counted fishing and fags amongst their interests; that smoking Indonesian baby on YouTube has clearly been an inspiration.

We headed back, but decide to cut through the town and continue exploring the other side. Deep into the rural suburbs, we come across a group of young lads playing football and park up the scooters to join in. We are definitely the cool guys who you look up to when you’re younger, who instantly make you feel safe. That’s the dream anyways. I let one of them sit on my bike with me and let him think he has sole control as we glide around the park. After a knock about, its time to drop the bikes off and board the over night coach to Nha Trang.

22/01/2011

Today was an admin day; reserved solely for sorting out travel plans, booking daily excursions and doing our washing. We also found out from the locals that Hoi An translates as a “peaceful meeting place”.

We walked to the old town for a look around before going to see what time the coaches left for Nha Trang as rumours had spread that you needed to book way in advance and this was a concern, as we had to be somewhere to watch the second leg of the Carling Cup semi-final against Birmingham. The topic of conversation was West Ham’s bid to take occupancy of the Olympic Stadium after London 2012. Both could see the potential opportunities for the club to expand, although there was no denying it, what essentially would be a retail park would be no match for the buzz of the Boleyn Ground.

A few weeks before leaving for Asia I was there for the Wigan game, and sipping my pint in The Queens I noticed how sad it would be too see one of the last real traditional parts of the East End go. I mean the area changed a long time ago, but one Saturday every other week for 10 months of the year, the old East End returns here to this otherwise normal street in the Borough of Newham. With its fierce yet communal atmosphere, you can almost smell the old sprit of of the blitz – whether or not that was all bollocks or not, is irrelevant. A move to a Stratford would see this lost forever.

I don’t claim to be the biggest fan, and I can remember the pivotal moment when I lost faith in the Premier League. It was shortly after England’s heroic performance in the 2007 rugby world cup, and despite having a weakened team from when they won it 4 years earlier, they showed true determination in getting to the final. In fact all the teams did, and for the duration of the tournament I witnessed blokes taking hits that would probably kill me or you, and getting up straight away, dusting themselves off and carrying on. So when I turned on Match of the Day on the first day of the following season, I was that bit more put off by the diving and dissent.

Of course, not all the players were like that. Mark Noble and Scott Parker were the remaining few I could rely on to restore my faith in the beautiful game. But coming to Upton Park is always special and win or lose it’s a great day out, I just don’t think you would find the same character while having pre-drinks in a Walkabout or a quick bite in Nando’s before kick off.

We collected our washing from downstairs and while neatly folding them back into our bags we analysed which item of clothing would make our team selection for the World Cup. The main talking points around this, were as follows;

1. Ben’s blue T-shirt which had picked up a hole in it from when he lent it to a friend was forced into retirement, which ran parallels with the career of Dean Ashton who effectively sustained a career-ending injury himself whilst on England duty.
2. My Ted Baker jumper that had been handed down to me from both my brothers was like Teddy Sheringham when he was at Man United; rather old with many thinking he was past his peak, he still ended up playing a pivotal part in the historic treble winning season. It had ended up on the scrap heap many times, often being saved from the bag to the charity shop at the last minute, but here it was on this epic trip holding its place as my smart-casual option.
3. The shirt my Dad got me for Christmas was goalkeeper Ben Roberts. With only a handful of appearances, he was now fortunate enough to be on this trip, just as Roberts was when he found himself playing in goal for Middleborough in the 1997 FA Cup final despite only ever making 16 appearances in 7 seasons previous.
4. This was certainly the swansong for my white vintage adidas T-shirt, also a handy down from an older brother, but he’d had a fantastic career as a journey man getting appearances for my other brother Luke and my Dad. Despite being my most capped player this trip, I can confirm he will be retired at the end. He was my Van Der Sar of the 2010/11 season.

After an explore of the town (I was really loving this town as place to get comfortably lost in), we headed back to Sun Bar after meeting another one of the promoters. We said we would only go if Bin would be there to which he confirmed “Bin’s there, Bin’s there”. We were sold. Watching the Ernie-esq fella (you remember Ernie the guy we met on the way to Laos who was suspected of being a DEA officer but was nothing but an overfriendly gay dude who didn’t know it yet) dance to Jay-Z and Sean Paul, Ben noted that “these American and Canadians probably listen to this music on their iPods. To them, it’s so much more than just cheesy club music. They actually enjoy it”. Its true, but then and I reminded him that it may not be exclusive to our North American friends, as one of our good mates from University had the Baywatch Theme and Summer of ’69 on his most played list.

21/01/2011

We reached Hue around 2pm and had a coffee and sandwich before changing on to another coach to Hoi An. I chatted to a young local boy who collected coins from all around the world. Amongst his collection he had a British 1p, 2p and 20p each with our Queen on them. Where had he got them from? Who had given them to him? Who carries around coppers when travelling around Vietnam? I understand the dollar being carried around; not only are they useful currency but the yanks keep them in their wallet to hand out to locals like business cards on behalf of USA Plc.

Hoi An is class, a beautiful little town and I was looking forward to chilling here for a few days. Also, the local people seemed to have warmed a bit, and we no longer felt we were watched by pairs of black eyes everywhere we went like in Hanoi. We had dinner and a few beers at a perfectly lit restaurant that overlooked the river. Next to us was a Mum, her daughter and the daughter’s boyfriend. Could easily be the other way round, her Son and the Son’s girlfriend, but you get the point. A sign of a good place can be found where parents are dining with their mature children.

We were handed a flyer by one of the local promoters for a club/bar called Sun Bar where all the action was tonight. We already had a flyer and just for a bit of fun we told him we already promised another promoter we’d go to his club, showing him the exact same flyer we’d received earlier. He laughed and told us they were the same place but we kept it up “yeah, I’m sure there will be lots of pussy and free shots, but we are already going to this one”.

We got chatting to two young lads Jessy and Mattie who had snuck off from their families back at one of the restaurants (families are another positive indicator of this town) to come for their first alcoholic beverage. Jessy was a sweet boy who was in love with his girlfriend back home, and wanted to marry her and settle down as soon as possible.

Not to sound like Carrier Bradshaw or anything, but is it really possible to make such long-term plans at that age? Preferences change so much through life, and never as much as they do between the transition of teenager to young man. What you perceive as cool in adolescence you soon find yourself looking back at, with disbelief that you ever felt that way inclined. Forget girls for a second, and imagine if I had the money and permission to get a tattoo when I was his age; acting on what I thought was cool at that time I would be sat here with a ghastly union flag clad British Bulldog on my right arm with “made in England underneath” scrawled underneath. Fortunately, most tattoo artists where I lived respected the fact I was underage. Which I was always thought was unfair, as they didn’t reject Laura-Marianne, a girl in my class, who got a large butterfly on her early developed right boob when she was 14. Speaking of which, Mattie (who wanted to be a superstar DJ when he grew up) was in even graver danger as he was adamant he would get “one of those authentic Buddha tattoos that everybody back home has”. Guys, guys, guys. There are more rewarding ways to mark your youthful rebellion. Just wait to your 17 and get arrested for being drunk and disorderly; you’re too old to have your parents informed, but too old to be charged/fined for the offence. It’s a bit of a laugh, and you get to spend a night in a cell. That should do the trick.

Still not convinced, I told Jessie my theory on the perils of settling down too early, which went something a little like this:

“To make a honest man, one needs to be at peace with himself. In order to be at peace, he must be free of temptation, or at least be in with a good shout of resisting it. The only way to be free of this is to get it out of your system, and by this I mean by the time you eventually settle down with the person whose right for you, make sure you’ve had enough experience to ensure that you won’t one day wake up one Saturday morning next to your adorable sleeping wife and wonder what it would be like to be waking up with somebody else, even if for just one time. It’s not a problem thinking about it, but actually doing it is. Once you do, that trust is pretty much gone. And then what? You might have enjoyed it, and realized what you’ve been missing which is likely to lead to it happening again. And again. Hopefully, it wasn’t enjoyable as it is with your wife, and by doing so you realise just how lucky you are. But why run the risk? Just make sure you crack on with as many girls as necessary in your youth (that’s what it’s there for), so when the time comes to call it a day, you’re ready. Of course, this theory isn’t perfect as you may find the right person early, and by delaying a relationship for the above reasons, you may lose out altogether. I used to think Ashley Cole was a bit of c**t for cheating on Cheryl Cole, but in light of this theory, it just goes to show the implications of rushing into a marriage at such a young age. William Blake had it right with “the road of excess leads to the Palace of wisdom, for we never know what is enough until we know what is more than enough”.

Of course wear protection when going down this road at all times and have your wits about you otherwise you’ll never make it to the Palace. I’ve met quite a few lads so far who are certainly following Blake’s words, but who are not taking precautions, especially when heading down the road of lost innocence. Just remember kids, if she lets you in without a hood, how many other non-hood wearing blokes have been there unprotected? And if these non-hood wearing Blokes have been happy to go in her without one, how many other girls have they been inside without? And if these other girls have let them in without wearing a hood, how many other blokes have they let in without one? You get the point: wear a fucking condom. All it takes is one person in that chain to have something, and “boom”, epidemic.

It particular annoys me when I meet fellow Brits on this trip who reveal their unprotected promiscuity to me. After all, if they don’t care about themselves fair enough, but what isn’t cool, is then recklessly bringing the disease back to Blighty, where me and my friends live. A Thai recipe book for Mum, Samsung whiskey for Dad, Singha beer T-shirt for your little Brother and a letter from the doctor for your girlfriend.

Afterall, you wouldn’t use a public toilet to go for a shit without laying down a healthy layer of toilet roll between your arse and the toilet seat.”

Round about this time, me and Ben had been keenly discussing the concepts of “nests” (the layer of tissue you place around a toilet seat); he opted for a dual layer around the rim, with a solitude sheet running down from the front of the seat down the bowl, which would prevent any interaction between your dangling phallus and the piss-drenched surface. I never thought of the added runway, but it sure does seem more efficient then holding your old boy in your left hand.

Despite my polemic on the lifestyle choice to settle down too earlier in life, I can’t quite say I’m up in numbers myself. In fact I’m a little bit surprised I’ve been here 3 weeks and not even come suitably close to a shag. Though of course when the times come, I’ll be sure to take the necessary precautions. Though saying that, knowing my luck, I’ll be the Roy Castle of the safe sex advocate.

We also met Bin at Sun Bar; a young Vietnamese boy who was severely overweight, but in a good way. He worked behind the bar and couldn’t have been more than 12 years old, chain smoking his way through his shift. To be fair to him, he worked long hours. Needless to say we got a photo with him. Good old Bin. Bin. Bin. Bin.

The boyfriend and girlfriend from the restaurant we were in earlier were both in there having a cuddle by the pool table. Outside was the Mother looking through the glass door with one of the older men who worked there. It reminded me of a scene from the closing stages of a school disco with all the parents waiting outside at the end, waiting for the final dance to finish.

“Yeah, the mum’s even got the look bang on with her car keys and baby photo keyring wrapped around her finger” Ben hit back with.

“I bet she’s had her fair share of Mc. Donald’s happy meal toys and crushed crisps on the back seat of her Ford Galaxy people carrier”.

This is what I mean. Just with the mutual acknowledgment of the life cycle of a Slush Puppy machine in the Chang Mai jungle, we both knew exactly what we meant as we had obviously both seen this very subtle but definitive scene a hundreds time growing up, and could appreciate each other’s rich attention to detail. Following this we went on to discuss the best and worst of Kinder egg pre-made toys. Unfortunately Tiny Terrapins were the only ones we could remember from childhood, which hit our shops in 1992. Unfortunately, we were still trying to think of the other ones when a group of rather attractive girls came in, and walked straight past us. Suddenly it all made perfect sense why neither of us had had sex with any birds on this trip thus far.

We moved on to the river front, where we met a group of girls who were volunteering at a local school. Livvy was from a student from Australia and a dead ringer for Kate Beckinsale. Along with her was Julie, who after a series of failed marriages had decided she would take a trip of a life time and certainly knew how to have fun. At the end of her trip she was to look into adoption from one of the local orphanages with the aim of returning to Australia, a proud Mother. I really liked Julie, not just for her fun loving spirit, but for her good kind nature which had no problem shining through.

We all jumped on the back of some waiting mopeds and raced through this very scenic town (almost Tuscany-esq) to a late night venue on the edge of town where we played pool and got pissed up. Somebody before our time had etched a pair of cross hammers with ‘WHUFC’ underneath it on one of the walls. I pointed this out to Ben, but it was Livvy who was most impressed. Turned out her Dad was from Essex and a huge Hammers fan. Even had the cross hammers logo incorporated into the design of his driveway back in Australia.  A couple of boisterous Aussies lads challenged us to a game, and it felt like we were playing for the hearts and minds of the girls. Although by rights me and Ben had certainly won their minds, their hearts (or in this case, a quickie back at theirs/ours) was still anybody’s game. It was tense, and I remarked to Ben “come on mate, this is England vs Germany, Euro ’96 or Itailia ‘90”.

“Mate, its England vs Australia. That not a big enough sporting rivalry for you?”

Only if your principle sport is cricket or even rugby. My only bantering with the Aussies have come from verbal exchanges to see who can be the most moronic ( “get your shit stars off our flag”) on the back of the N98 night bus before it drops them all off at Willesden Green. Their barman wages have forced them out of Earl’s Court.

The sledging began.

“Not really, you guys are like what Tottenham are to Arsenal. We’re your biggest rivals, but you aren’t ours. We have a lot more deeper and meaningful revenges to seek in the sporting world”.

It went to and fro, and the baiting became bigger than the game. It was a fiercely contested game, played out in the most sporting of manner, between both sides.

It wasn’t meant to be and after several near misses on the black from both sides we went crashing out. Don’t worry Ben, sometimes it’s more poignant to be the loser in sport as long you’ve given a noble account of yourself. Think the England team, after losing on penalties to Germany in 1996, exiting Wembley Stadium in the light rain to the appreciation of gutted yet proud supporters while the BBC wrapped up their coverage with a montage, displaying the teams heroics over Walkaway by Cast. Just keep your chin up, make sure you shake their hand and get the hell out of there.

Those blokes probably ended up with Kate Beckinsale and her mates, which was only fair I suppose as they did win the pool game, don’t forget. Could have been oh so different though. I’m starting to think 19 year old Jessy may have it right, and I instantly regretted giving him that shitty advice earlier.

Back at the hostel after getting a bottle of water from the lobby, I got chatting to a trio of really cool Guys from Melbourne and discussed London clubs back in their room. Mostly about their favourite, Fabric. I didn’t enjoy being the one to tell them that the word on the street was that it’s on it’s last legs and looked like closing down soon.

I went back to my room and fell asleep while watching Gold Diggers; The Secret of Bear Mountain, which matched all the criteria to earn a place amongst Orbiter Lover’s childhood films; two children, from different sides of the tracks, with a bowl haircut and curtains called Josh or Cody, going off into the woods in search of treasure. I actually remember seeing this back in the summer of 1995 at Saturday Morning Kids Club at Staples Corner Cinema (a magician, a film and popcorn all for an inflation defying £3). The club heavily subscribed to the school of thought of Richie Rich, Blank Check, Andre and Fly Away Home. We stopped going when Robert Warburton took up canoeing lessons on the Welsh Harp and I attempted to play football with the local football side.

We headed back to Hanoi Backpackers to wait for our pickup to the coach station, where we’d board an overnight sleeper bus to Hoi An. The madness and chaos outside on the streets of Hanoi, and the stark contrast in here, made it felt like an embassy and a place of respite and protection. We felt the same familiarity as any Wetherspoon pub. Even the two Vietnamese receptionists felt like they were on our side. A little bit like during the Anglo-Zulu wars, when the British still had Zulu’s fighting for them. Or like Men In Black, as I seem to remember Aliens working in the Intelligence HQ.

Knowing we had a long journey in front of us, and with some experience of how treacherous these journeys could be, we went on a hunt for valium, which we heard was available from all good chemists. This was not the case, as it hard to convey to shopkeepers what we wanted. We only had the hand gesture of putting something in our mouth and saying “V-A-L-I-U-M” and then doing the gesture to indicate falling asleep. It’s normally used to treat anxiety disorder or alcohol withdrawal pains but that might be a bit hard demonstrate. God knows the embarrassing difficulty girls must have when trying to buy sanitary towels (especially as their is a brand of tissue out here called Tampon). After walking around the city for nearly 2 hours and visiting almost every chemist, we had to settle on some herbal remedy called Rotunda. Now tired and ready to go to bed, I started to wonder if valium was in fact a tangible thing, or if it was the hunt and the quest for it which made you sleepy and drowsy. A concept of sorts.

We got on the coach around 7pm and necked some Rotunda. The coach seemed quiet which was good considering we only had 14 hours to our next destination. But just as I was getting comfortable, with the sound of the coach slowly driving off, I heard shouting outside. The coach came to an abrupt halt to let three guys get on. Now I would expect them to have just got on, settled down and let the peace continue. But no, they get on laughing and talking extremely loud. Two of the guys were of Mediterranean appearance and well built, while the other one was a much shorter pale thin lad with short curly hair. After he was happy that he and his mates had woken the whole coach up, the pale one looked over at me and Ben, and triumphantly stated “We’re Israeli”.

Well done Lads.

“We’re Israeli” he boasted, scanning us for a reaction.

“I thought you guys were Israeli” he said, to which I tried my best to look put out. We coolly told them we were English. Pointing at Ben he said “you do not look English, you look Israeli”.

I thought this was kind of ironic as Ben looked just as Israeli, as this bloke looked like Norman, the little kid who worked in the sweet shop in Postman Pat. They continued to laugh and one proceeded to cough throughout.

Ben’s account

One of the worst facets of travelling is spending vast amounts of time in confined chambers with dense concentrations of people in transit. I don’t perceive these people as potential friends but potential vehicles for airborne diseases. I think I’d rather be well in an average place than ill in and exceptional place. As our 50-bed sleeper bus departs, I think I’ve got away with it, but out progress is checked to allow a group of Israeli lads get on. One of whom has an audibly malignant chesty cough…..I hate him. 14 hours! Two berths away from this prick. may try to sleep with a bit of my jacket over my mouth. There is a two-man buffer between me and him, hopefully enough to absorb the lion’s share of malignant molecules before parading to my side of the cabin. ‘Throaty’ colds for Israeli’s must be exacerbated since the coughing up sound is an integral phoneticism in their language.