Steve was a king. Not an impressive king like Marcus Aurelius. He was kind of infamous, but pathetically so. Infamous kings were people like King Leopold II. Leopold’s infamy often tied him with Hitler as history’s most evil man—Steve would never carry such plaudits. Steve was just a sad man living the dream of sadder men. Once a week, Steve would put on his little show with his slightly less impressive friend.

The phenomenon of the Thailand Girly Bar live stream was not a curious one, because curiosity leads to discovery, and there was nothing fulfilling about the findings. These live streams were somewhat of a symptom of pandemic lockdowns and an ill-thought-out extra revenue stream. Most of them were Lynchian horror shows of absurdity. A bunch of bar girls on camera, sometimes dancing awkwardly with faces drenched in tedium, asking for what I could only assume as lonely, bored old geezers to buy them drinks. With the power of the internet, the experience of getting fleeced by broken farm girls in a loud and obnoxious girly bar is now inside your own home. If the Metaverse ever really picks up steam, then the future is going to become even cringier. All these men had to do was use PayPal or similar and send over portions of their children’s inheritance to their chosen lady, and she would be able to get a modest percentage of the earnings and not have to endure the mild banter of an old monger.

Watching a Girly Bar live stream was a depressing experience. The girls just had a serious lack of enthusiasm; they weren’t born for this kind of limelight. Seeing the comments in the live chat from the viewers made it even worse; some of them were ever so chivalrous. I always struggled to understand the appeal of the experience and what kind of man would want to spend money on lady drinks when he’s not even in the country, let alone in the same room. The banter from the girls was possibly the worst kind imaginable, so much so that I don’t believe it even constitutes as banter. I would understand the appeal of it much more if the girls were perhaps doing some naughty stuff on camera—they are all prostitutes, after all. But that rarely happened, because this was on YouTube and that would go against the terms of service, and also because anything even remotely deemed pornographic was illegal in Thailand.

Men tuned in, so they got the mongering Thailand holiday experience minus the key ingredient: sexy time.

Steve had a plan, though. Steve was making content for the new era. Steve already had his own small YouTube channel filled with the usual Thai sex tourism vlog content. Steve was building a brand—a brand built on the sex industry. Steve’s live stream was him talking nonsense for hours and hours, drinking away his profits, and then at some point during the ‘show’ he would be joined by some of the low-skilled and lower-paid workers. It was at this point that the girl bar live stream experience was taken to new heights. Men at home would send in donations and pay for girly drinks while Steve would interview them, and these interviews were inspiring; if man thought the winning speeches by Miss World contestants were the pinnacle of observant thought, man would be quite wrong.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Barry75 wants to know if Fon has a boyfriend. Fon, you got a boyfriend, love?”

“No have.”

“Hear that, Barry75; she’s on the market!”

Yes, Steve, she is on the market—the meat market.

“What do you look for in a boyfriend, love?”

“I look Tinder.”

"No, love, no, er, what kind of boyfriend do you want?”

“Handsome.”

Handsome, as I understand it, has always been code for affluent-looking.

“We’ve had another donation for drinks,” the girls scream and cheer. Once the drinks arrived, they would perform a weird chant that was as unharmonious as it was cringe-inducing—the kind of cringe that would lead to your balls being sucked up into the depths of your lower intestines. The horror. The horror. The unforgiving horror.

“Right, ladies, we’re going to have a quick survey, and I’m sure the fellas at home will like this one. Spit or swallow?”

Steve knew his audience.

"I not do that,” said, er, whoever number 12 is supposed to be.

“Oh what! Come on, love, you got to do sucky sucky.”

“No!”

“Bad news, guys. What about you, Pla?”

“I do the spit, yes.”

“And where do you spit it?”

A hard-hitting follow-up question.

Laughter and chatter in Thai.

“In him eye!”

“You spit his jazz in his eye?”

“Ya!”

“You bloody nut-job!”

Puns, puns, puns.

Following this insightful treat, there was a period of 'sexy’ dancing. Sexy dancing is sexy in most minds, but for the farm-fresh ladies of Pattaya girly bars, sexy dancing was an awkward swaying and twisting that was devoid of rhythm. The only thing that could be compared would be an expressive movement exercise session for the over-95s. An occasional attempt to shake the backside like the black ladies do may occur, which was great as it demonstrated that white girls do indeed do it better than some races.

The men in the chat loved it, though. They clearly had never seen any professionally made music videos made after 2003. The donations would roll in like an avalanche. Little Liam and Lisa would not be getting very good Christmas presents this year from Grandpa. There would be two fewer pints drank at the Legion come Friday.

During the dancing, Steve will catch up on his drinking, and after he has topped himself to a more cretinous level, he will go and bother punters in his bar. A staff member will take the camera mobile and follow him as he unleashes his impeccable interviewing skills on very red-faced holiday makers from Hull and Stevenage.

“Where you from?”

“Blackpool.”

“Fucking Blackpool, how’s the tower?”

Banter.

“Good one.”

Banter.

“You enjoying Thailand?”

Insight.

“Fucking ace.”

Further insight.

“How many birds you shagged?”

What else would he be doing there?

“I can’t remember, honest to god!”

Dick riddled with E. coli.

“He’s lying. Take care, pal.”

Steve moves onto the next one, and the next one, and the next one, and by the time he’s trying to get the next one, he’s on the floor and there’s sick next to his puffy face.

Steve was a king, alright, the king of Bin Town. Filthy, stinking old Bin Town.