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Bar Baccara, it turned out, was a compact, dark square room with a bar against the far wall set beside a spiral staircase. The inside walls were ringed by three tiers of narrow seats and a large platform stage topped with over a dozen dancing Thai girls, acted as the undisputed centrepiece. The only place I had ever been to even remotely like it was a London strip club I once stumbled into towards the end of a rowdy stag do. These girls however, were of a very different calibre. Whilst the East End’s finest tended to sport stretch marks and grumpy attitudes, Bar Baccara’s immaculately put together attractions skipped cheerfully around to blaring pop music and looked to me to be genuinely enjoying themselves.

Looking around at the stunning ensemble of girls working there – who all wore a full-length black evening gown, a schoolgirl outfit or a bikini – made me very conscious of the fact that I wasn’t really into the scary young lady hustling me into the bar. The place was crawling with girls in a different league. Unfortunately, she seemed to pick up on my reaction to bevy I was surrounded by. She jostled me into a corner seat and plonked herself down on top of me.

Staring straight into my face with her big crazy peepers, she yelled over the music, “Why you no like me? I good girl, I can do everything for you!”

Having been here three times now, I can laugh about how I reacted. I should have just told her I wasn’t interested and picked out someone I did fancy getting stuck into, but I was alone, fairly drunk and a complete newbee to this scene. So anyway, I starred straight back at her, told her she was beautiful, asked her to get us a couple of drinks. Then, as soon as her bobbing head dipped below the mob of girls at the bar I hoped up and nipped straight back out the door. I trotted briskly down the road laughing to myself but when I threw a look over my shoulder to see the bitch coming towards me at full tilt I decided to take to my heels. I shimmied through the drunken crowds, skipped over a soi dog, sprinted down to the end of the road and hoped onto the back of one of several motorbike taxis congregating around a set of traffic lights. I threw a look behind me but the girl was nowhere to be seen.

I breathlessly shouted, “Nana Plaza, please boss,” to the puzzled looking teenage driver who wrenched his battered, grubby little steed of its stand.

Unfortunately, just as he started to take off the little bitch caught up and grabbed me by the hair from behind. I grabbed the driver by his fluorescent orange traffic vest in a desperate attempt to stop myself from being wrenched off. He in turn gripped the handlebars, turning the throttle in the process. This caused the bike to rear up onto its back wheel with a mighty whine. Luckily, the force this generated proved enough to wrench my aching head free from the clutches of the now screaming lunatic bargirl.

Me and my giggling accomplice sped away into the night with screams of “You fucking shit guy! You pay my bar!” ringing in our ears.

So a few minutes later I was in tipping my driver outside Nana Plaza. The Plaza itself – best described as a four-story shantytown consisting solely of battered strip clubs – didn’t appeal, so I strolled off down the road to see if I could find a bar where I could mull over the trauma of my first night in Thailand with a quiet drink. I spotted a small pool bar called Hillary II that looked reasonably quiet. It didn’t have a screaming gaggle of girls outside, which at that moment was an advantage, so I walked gingerly inside. I ordered a Chang at the bar then wandered off to find a quiet corner. I plonked down at an empty table near the window and lit up a smoke. I dreamily watched the human canaveral of the grotesque slew it’s way past the window. For people watching, Bangkok couldn’t be beat.

Halfway through my third beer I had begun to make friends with one of the lounge girls. Her name was Moo. Rather unfortunate, I thought. The injustice of the moniker her parents branded her with was somehow made worse by her stumpy-featured face and plump figure. She was by now means a pretty girl and there was no chance I was going to try to pull her, but she seemed like a genuine person so I hoped she wouldn’t try it on with me.

Despite my reluctance to show let on that I was in any way keen, I did get a bit of a laugh out of her. She kept taking the piss out of me for drinking alone, and for the sheepish way I had entered the bar. When I introduced myself as Michael, she said, “Michael what? What your second name? Bean? I think you Mista Bean!” before falling around laughing. She lightened my humour instantly, and had me in stiches when she told me her name was Moo, and that it meant ‘pig’.

Apparently in up-country Thailand where most of these bargirls are from, the Monks are tasked with naming peoples’ nippers. However, there can be a delay of a month or so between when the kid is born and when they get their name. During this period they are given a nickname by their parents – often based on their physical appearance – which can stick with them for life. Now, it was kind of funny in that the unfortunate girl did have a face to match the name, but funnier still was that people could call a pig a ‘moo’. The notion made me chuckle every time I looked at her. I mean surely to God they could have reserved that name for a cow?

So Moo drifted around the bar, racking up balls for the only two people playing pool, chatting with a young Thai lad working behind the bar and getting drinks for other customers. I was at the stage where I could laugh to myself about the trauma of the night’s beginning so I felt it was time to go pull. Just as I stood up to fish my wallet out of my pocket to pay my bill, Moo suddenly walked briskly towards my table with a big grin on her face and her arms linked behind her back. She had a surprise for me.

To be continued.

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