Day 10: Dickhead of the Year (My Own Award Ceremony)

Yes, you read that title correctly. And yes, I am indeed accepting the "Dickhead of the Year" award, with myself as the sole, deserving recipient. You might be asking yourself, "Why, pray tell, would this esteemed individual be so honored?" Allow me to enlighten you, or, more accurately, allow me to air my own foolish laundry. Some of us learn from our mistakes; I, apparently, prefer to put on a theatrical production of mine. Cue dramatic lighting and a swelling soundtrack.

What’s the first cardinal rule of departing a hotel? You get up, shower, meticulously ensure you haven't left any precious belongings strewn about your room, then descend to reception to check out, settle your bill, and hail a taxi to the airport. Upon arrival at said airport, one typically proceeds to check-in, presenting passport and documents with an air of practiced efficiency. This idiot, however—and by "this idiot," I mean yours truly, the current reigning Dickhead—failed to locate his passport in his pocket.

"Where in the blazes is my passport?!" I internally shrieked, a cold dread creeping in, rapidly followed by the hot flush of self-loathing. I distinctly remembered having it when I checked into the hotel. After that, it had enjoyed a well-deserved sabbatical, not being called into active duty again. My mind raced: *Oh, good heavens, is it still in the room? Or perhaps deep within the abyss of my luggage, engaging in a daring game of hide-and-seek with a cruel sense of humour and excellent hiding spots?*

And so, with the grace of a startled gazelle and the public spectacle of a roadside attraction, I commenced unpacking my rather capacious suitcase right there in the foyer of the check-in area. Every single person, from casual passerby to seasoned traveler, seemed to pause and observe my frantic excavation. I rummaged through my bag, then again, then one more time, but my elusive passport remained stubbornly absent, clearly enjoying its newfound freedom. Defeated, and with my pride smarting (as well as my back from all that rummaging), I resorted to ringing the formidable lady who organizes all my trips. To her credit, she’s been an absolute superstar throughout this entire endeavor, though I suspect she occasionally questions my cognitive faculties. I don't blame her; I do too.

She, bless her patient soul, managed to get a hold of the hotel. And what did the hotel do? They sent me a picture. A picture of my money wallet, my passport, my rather flashy gold watch, and a few other miscellaneous items that had clearly decided to make a permanent home in the hotel room safe. Yes, I had conveniently forgotten to empty the safe. So, while I was busy performing a one-man show of luggage-based despair, the poor hotel staff had to meticulously count all my money, tuck it back into my wallet, gather everything, and then get a driver—an actual human being—to sign for it, put it in a taxi, and dispatch him to my location. I imagine there’s still a small group of hotel staff wondering if I was testing their honesty or just genuinely that absent-minded. (It’s the latter, obviously. My acting skills aren't *that* good.)

I then had the immense pleasure of enduring yet another dose of public humiliation, awaiting this delivery in the outside terminal two building. The driver, with the solemnity of a bank teller, proceeded to count all my money in front of me, meticulously verifying my watch and all other items were present and accounted for, before I sheepishly paid him the paltry £7 for the taxi ride. All that drama, all that self-inflicted agony, for a fiver and two! I felt like I should have offered him a bonus for the sheer theatre of it all.

Once all was said and done, and my precious belongings (and even more precious dignity) were reunited, I finally settled into the lounge, patiently awaiting my gate to open for the flight. What an absolute Dickhead I am. The first thing you check when you’re leaving a hotel is the safe. And I, in my infinite wisdom, completely bypassed this crucial step, presumably to offer a little excitement to my travel day. It’s a good thing I decided to come to the airport early. I’d gone to bed at a ridiculously early 9 o’clock last night, then sprung out of bed at 5 o’clock this morning, devoured my breakfast, and set off. Otherwise, I’d have been well and truly stranded, likely offering to wash dishes for a flight ticket. And I’m not even good at washing dishes.

Anyway, I have nothing else to report at present, apart from my self-awarded "Dickhead of the Year" title, which I’m considering having engraved. I shall report back later when I have something more sensible – or perhaps, more comically disastrous – to share. I believe the next phase involves checking into the new hotel and then embarking on a walking tour. After that, I’ll get back to you.

Well, hello again. I’m in Ho Chi Minh City now and have been for the past three or four hours. I dropped my bags off at the hotel, had a quick shower and change, then met the tour guide outside. We then embarked on a three-hour motor scooter tour around the city. It’s not really a riveting tale to report back on, because for all its bustling energy, the majority of Ho Chi Minh City proper is just built-up bars, restaurants, and all kinds of stuff you’d find in any urban sprawl. All of the *truly* exciting, and by exciting I mean "likely to cause a minor heart attack," stuff happens outside the city, and that’s where I’m going tomorrow. So, I’ll drop a few pictures on the site later on tonight when I’ve been down to the Walking Court, which is where all the bars and restaurants are. I’m going to try and have an Indian tonight – I’ve earned it after the day I’ve had.

There are ten million scooters in Ho Chi Minh City; this is for a town that’s probably about as big as Manchester. Can you actually even fathom what it might be like on the streets? Hanoi was kamikaze pilot scenarios, people trying to kill you all the time. It has to be said that, even though I didn’t think it was possible, this is another level entirely. It’s like Wacky Races on steroids, and they’ve over-prescribed by a hundredfold. I was on the back of the scooter today, and there were about a hundred scooters on the other side of the road, all coming towards us. My guide then had to turn left. In the UK, one would stop, wait for the traffic to go by, and then shoot through. Nope, not this guy. He just ploughed straight into the traffic, and they all seemed to know what they were doing; they just dodged each other. I was sitting on the back there, absolutely having "squeaky bum time," thinking, "Somebody’s going to hit us!" And they didn’t. I said to him, "How the hell do you actually do that?" And I looked over to my left, and there were about five people on the other side of our bike and I said to him how does this even work he said well what happens is as soon as somebody sets off to do that he says everybody peels on the left-hand side of them so that if anybody's going to hit them they hit him first and I looked over to my left and there was a whole bunch of people in behind us and I said so right so we traveled on we had a cup of coffee looked at a few monuments I wasn't really that interested to be honest with you because it was 34° outside and sat on the back of a rice grinder pounding away my backside it was just prime time, it was so hot on the back of that scooter about the only thing my ass was missing was a steak knife and a little bowl full of béarnaise sauce. I could have fed it to 8 or 10 people. We all have gotten the back of that scooter anyway. I got back to the hotel safely. I've got a humongous bath in this hotel and a separate shower actually. I've just been soaking in it for the last 10 minutes. My aching back and my poor little bottom, they're all okay now. So I'm going to get dressed, go downstairs, have a mango juice at the bar downstairs, and then go and search up an Indian because I've got my head around an Indian tonight and there's loads and loads and loads of Indians around here. So that's about the size of it. I'll drop some pictures on later 'cause I've got nothing to show you at the moment, just a few pictures off the back of the scooter, but you can't exactly do a David Bailey when you’re driving on the back of a scooter. One time, I'm looking for people who are just missing you. I did take a video that I might post of the volume of traffic; it's hard to comprehend unless you've actually been here. But anyway, I'll drop the pictures home later and see where it goes. Okay guys, once again, thanks for listening, and apparently my analytics are showing now I've got 36 followers. You read that, 36! If you're actually actively following me, reading all my posts, that's 32 more than I thought I'd have, because with my family, that's 32 more people I've never met. Please drop a little comment on there, tell me who you are. It all makes it worthwhile because I'm spending a lot of time on my holiday here doing this, and I'm hoping it benefits other people, so it would be nice to hear from you. Thanks very much for reading. Okay, bye bye.