Thailand’s Case of STVs

Greetings and salutations, reader. My name’s Bangkok Seven and this is my blog. Earlier this week, the Thai government (and Pattaya One, where I got most of my info on the subject) began spelling out their proposals for getting tourists back in country starting in October. What they spelled sounds more like something you’d catch from a promiscuous bar girl—namely, STVs aka Special Tourist Visas. They also revealed plans for “fun quarantines,” travel bubbles and “sandboxes,” where tourists would be able to move around freely in a localized area, eg Patong. As for the prospect that quarantine could be fun, I refer you to one of my earlier blogs titled “The Most Comfortable Prison” wherein I describe the mildly hellish ordeal that was my quarantine experience back in July.

I suppose in the best of circumstances—that being, say, a family of four being quarantined together in a resort for the first two weeks—could theoretically be pretty OK. But for those tourists who come here specifically to move about the geography, and specifically to places more nefarious than resorts, it’s 2 weeks of wasted time. Expensive, wasted time. In a UK poll, just 6% of folks said they’d be cool with quarantine before hitting up TLOS.

Now, I’m not gonna say the people making decisions are brain-dead retards, or anything like that. I won’t say that a lobotomized toddler could come up with better ideas, no sir. I’d never disparage those Thai officials who apparently have their heads so far up their asses they think a 30-step process—including prepaid ASQ hotel plus 90 days in a hotel at a singular location, along with $100k in Covid insurance and testing before and after arrival, chartered flight, and criminal background check—is reasonable. There’s a perfectly logical reason that goes beyond the obvious, “dumb as a box of rocks” explanation, and that’s saving face. While Western governments artificially inflate their Covid numbers for political reasons, Thailand has done the opposite, downplaying the number of cases in order to look like they executed a competent handling of the virus, when in fact it was a combination of weather, culture, and dumb luck. Nonetheless, they want to keep their banner status as a low-Co (short for low Covid, copyright BKK7) nation, and so have constructed this elaborate nonsensical maze for prospective tourists to navigate. I’m going to predict that only the die-hard monger with a six-month hard-on will endure such torture to get his chafed junk back in the red-light. Although speaking of, it seems that when it comes to the survival of the gogo bar scene in BKK, another solution has presented itself: Thai tourists.

This trend began a couple of weeks ago when a gaggle of hip Thais attended an event hosted by the Patpong Museum that included an informal tour of some of the bars plus a gaping eyeful of a mild BDSM show at Bar-Bar, all of which seemed to go over like gangbusters. Flash forward to last week, when yours truly personally witnessed a large group of Thais—both men and women—roll up to the door of King’s Castle 1 in a caravan of black vans with tinted windows and proceed to spend several hours and what looked like several thousand-baht partying like noobs in the gogo. And when I say “partying like noobs” I mean they ran the list of cliché tourist red-light faux pas. For example, one of the dudes took off his shirt and got onstage with the girls—a thing I absolutely revile. They also had the entire cast of dancers parade in front of them so they could pick out a favorite, something I’ve only ever seen Japanese tourists do. As a matter of fact, I mistook them for Japanese tourists at first, what with their white Levi’s 501s and polo shirts. But hey, at least someone besides me is spending cash in Patpong. Better to have Thai tourists than none at all. Although having said that, I did witness some crazy antics from other Thais in the Pong this week. On Tuesday night, I was sitting in Black Pagoda watching the traffic on Soi 2 when I noticed a trio of young Thai dudes standing next to their fancy SUV in the Foodland parking lot, brazenly doing whip-its with a canister of Nitrus. They were visibly shit-faced and erratic. It’s not something I’d expect a farang to attempt—not out in the open like that.  But maybe this is a new part of the “new normal.” When the foreigners are away, the Thais will play (in the RLD).

One thing they won’t do, though, is barfine. Which is fine, because there are still enough farang milling around the red-light who will. On Friday night, I sat outside XXX Lounge with a Cuban cigar and a glass of Chivas. In the time it took to consume both, I witnessed half a dozen dudes bringing gogo dancers to The Strand for some short-time bootie banging—3 from XXX itself, 2 from King’s 1, and one from Glamour.

And speaking of XXX Lounge, I was in there by myself on Wednesday when a tender Thai couple sidled in and sat down at a social distance. The male patiently explained to his consort what the girls were doing and why, all whilst closely scrutinizing them like they were moving museum attractions. On the same night, I passed by The Paddy Field and peered inside to see five customers—all Thai. So, all is not yet lost. The Pong pushes on.

Patpong did pause this week, however, to mark the passing of Uncle Vijit, father of Mrs. Patpong, local icon, and something of a mentor to Michael Messner—the owner of the Patpong Museum. He wrote a lovely obituary for the man, whom he held in high esteem, which can be found here:

Some of the gogo bars shut briefly on Thursday so employees could go and pay tribute to the Godfather of Patpong.


A nice bookending to the week was the celebration of my pal Kee Mao Moo’s birthday, which was had in Le Bouchon. I had foie gras ravioli and duck confit, paired with a Brouilly Beaujolais that gave me fits of joy. Unfortunately, I then piled on a glass of Pastis and several pints of beer, got harrowingly drunk, and completely missed Black Pagoda’s Half Moon Party, complete with day-glo body painting. Thankfully our friends from Bangkok Nights were there, and donated the attached photo.



When I awoke on Saturday morning, I was surprised and chagrined to find a photo of Ging from Glamour nearly stripped and holding a shot of tequila. Which meant that 1—I went to Glamour during my drunken stupor, 2—I bought her a drink, and 3—I took off her top and shorts, leaving her bare, though apparently none the worse for wear, if that smirk is any indication.

And that brings me to the end of my blog for this week. I hope you enjoyed it—ah, goddammit that’s a lie. To be honest, I couldn’t give a fuck whether you liked it or not, but if you did, I guess it’s a bonus for everyone. And cheers to every weary whoremonger and gogo hound coping with the fake pandemic by going out, having a beer, and pinching an ass or two. You’re the salt of the Earth, my friends. Peace.