THEY WERE BIZARRE, MAN, I mean they looked weird. Here I am in the middle of downtown Bangkok, it's all pretty insane, you know, bars and shit for the G.I.s on R'n'R, and incredible whores in Cadillacs and Buddhist monks walking by, and buses with people hanging out the windows, and anyway I'm just grooving on it all and who do I see? Perry fucking Engles, in the flesh, Peregrine Kirkwood Engles himself.
And, as if that isn't bad enough, there's two of them. I didn't know the other guy, Charles something, from the House, I think. And they're dressed for cricket. Literally, man, literally, pressed white trousers and M.C.C. blazers with fucking silk cravats.
Nothing much happened, really. They seemed glad enough to see an Englishman and carted me off to have a milkshake in one of the awful American-style coffee shops, which was at least air-conditioned. Turned out they'd got some travel scholarship or something. Anyway, they were gallivanting about in fine style, staying at the Inter-Continental, no less. So I told them about my hotel, which was basically a brothel – you know, I go to pick up my key and the guy says, "You want girl? Very clean, very young" and I say, "No" and he says "You want boy?" We had a good laugh, chatted a while, I let them pay and that was about it. I think they split the next day.
It really is a bit much, you know. You travel halfway round the world and then you bump into Perry and Co. doing imitations of the Great White Chief. There oughta be a law.