It does not seem that long ago that I spoke to James Howland about his book ‘The Palace Addiction’ but following its success, he has been working hard on the sequel ‘The Palace Addiction 2 – Where Eagles Fly’.
The book is due to be released on Wednesday 23rd November, but thankfully, as James is a valued TEB contributor, he kindly allowed us a sneak peak to share before it hits the ‘online’ shelves.
James told us all about The Palace Addiction in July 2015, but what about the sequel? What is it all about? Well, here is all you need to know …
Fed up with the rut of everyday working life, James Howland, a primary school teacher and fanatical Crystal Palace fan, decides to move to Australia for a year. However, there’s only one problem. How will he cope without his beloved South London team? Follow his journey to eleven different countries as he discovers red and blue around the world and gives an ‘upside-down’ view of the 2014/15 Premier League season. From setting 4:30am alarms to bribing brothels, the addiction won’t let James escape.
The book contains insights about the season from Mile Jedinak, Steve Browett and Palace fans living around the world.
It will be available on Amazon as a paper back for £8.99 and an ebook for £3.99. THE perfect stocking filler for Christmas.
The extract below that James has allowed TEB to exclusively share is from his time in Phuket, Thailand. Enjoy!
In the evening, Lucy and I sat on the main strip of bars drinking beers as we observed the mobs of British tourists getting rowdy, and the lady boys dancing up and down the street. Inevitably, the Magaluf comparisons were easy, like most of the girls in the area. The strip was lined with bars playing the same crap music, offering the same drinks deals and semi-naked dancers on the bars. I would love to take the moral high ground and question the motives of people traveling half way around the world to find what they could see in Blackpool, but what was my main motive for the evening? To watch Crystal Palace.
After a while, we went to a second bar, which although similar to the first, had the novelty of housing a shark in it. However, at 1:30am, disaster struck. Lucy decided that staying up any longer was not a priority and she wasn’t going to watch the game with me. I couldn’t believe the rudeness. I’d just met this girl and she deemed sleep more important than watching Crystal Palace play on TV at three in the morning. I still had an hour and half until kick off and I now had no company.
I must admit, I did consider not watching the game. However, after the disappointment of not seeing the Swansea match, I decided to stay out alone, despite the rain that had begun to fall. Besides that, Villa hadn’t won in nine and were one of the few teams in the league who were even worse than us. In fact, they’d only scored three goals in that time too. Surely we were favourites? The first place I headed to was the Aussie Bar. You know, the one that claimed to show ‘Every Premier League game live’. Well, they were only showing the Manchester United and Liverpool games, despite there being six Premier League matches that evening.
Inevitably, having had a few beers, and feeling a sense of injustice, I got into an argument with the bar manager as he refused to change one of the many screens to show the Palace match. Even though no one was actually watching the other games. Luckily, Palace’s tradition of kicking off at 8pm UK time instead of 7:45 allowed me an extra fifteen minutes to find the game.
The second bar I went into agreed to change the channel if I purchased a drink, which was fair enough. Unfortunately, I realised that I was out of cash. With just a couple of minutes to go until kick off, I sprinted back through the rain to my hostel to get some more Baht from my locker. When I returned, true to our words, I bought a beer and the girl behind the bar switched the screen to show Crystal Palace against Aston Villa. There I was, in an empty bar, at 3am, in South Thailand, watching my beloved team alone. It goes against everything I enjoy about football: the social element, the togetherness, and the tribal traits. It was a show of pure commitment and addiction. I couldn’t face missing it.
I watched the half surrounded by ladyboys, bemused bar girls, possibly prostitutes, and repetitive chart music booming around the otherwise empty bar. Such is the prevelance of working girls in South East Asia that it became hard not to be skeptical of any native female who spoke to me.
The half itself was frustrating. Palace were the better team, although mainly because Villa were so dreadful. We’d huffed and puffed against a weary and thoughtless opponent, but it was my beloved Palace who went into the break behind. Scott Dann, our usually reliable defender, who was reportedly being watched by the England manager, Roy Hodgson, made a horrendous error where he decided to keep the ball in play to avoid giving away a throw in on the half way line. Sadly, while he saved us from conceding a harmless throw in, he gifted possession to Villa’s star-man, Christian Benteke, who duly ran through on goal and scored. Thankfully, in those grotty surroundings, I’m sure my early hours, drunken language wasn’t anything new to the bemused bar girls who sat and watched me rage.
Unfortunately, the bar staff soon realised that keeping the bar open purely for me was unlikely to be hailed as a leading business model and at half time, I was asked to leave so that they could close.
Still, I didn’t consider it a problem. Although many were shut as it was now nearly 4am, plenty of bars were still open. Avoiding the ladies who were physically grabbing me in the street, I simply nipped over to the bar next door, where I was directed to the DJ (and TV controller). As he spun his decks, he raised the TV remote control above his head and whizzed through every channel, stopping at various points for me to examine the teams on show. Regrettably, not one channel owned by the bar showed Selhurst Park and off I trudged to find the game elsewhere.
Undeterred, I passed a couple of bars with their shutters down as I did my best Yannick Bolasie impression: ducking, turning, shimmying and weaving my way past opponents – working girls blocking my route to find Palace in this case, rather than hapless full backs trying to stop our winger. Quickly enough, I found another open bar – complete with TV screens, chart music and half naked girls dancing on the bar. Once again, I was thwarted as the British owner refused to change the channel from the United or Liverpool games.
After my latest refusal, I rushed out into the street once more, conscious that back in South London the players would have nearly finished their half time oranges and to their relief, Warnock’s northern drones would be all but over. With time running out, I began to get firmer and grumpier to the many generous offers I was receiving.
No thank you,” turned to “No, I don’t want to go for a f***ing ‘good sexy time’!”
Soon, I found yet another bar with TVs, showing the football. I pleaded with them to change it over. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving a Palace game half watched. Villa had been atrocious. I was sure we were going to get back into it. Not watching it wasn’t an option.
“We change channel if you buy me drink!” came the answer from behind the bar, without even the smallest hint of a cheeky smile.
“Fine!” came my frantic reply.
“…and you buy all my friends a drink too…” she added, pointing at her fellow bar staff, sensing the desperation in my answer.
“Yes whatever! Just look for the game!”
She went to find the remote control, via a quick and excited giggle with her colleagues, before she began to flick through the channels.
“This one…” “No!”
“This one…” “No!”
“This one…” “No!”
“This one…” “No!”
“This one…” “No!”
Then I was interrupted. Someone tugged my arm and I instantly turned to see who. I was met with a smile and a familiar question.
“Hey, where you from handsome?” (Well, it was familiar in Phuket, if not in London or Sydney!)
“I JUST WANT TO WATCH THE BLOODY FOOTBALL!” I replied and turned back to the screen.
“This one…” “No!”
“This one…” “No!”
Each time, my repeated answer became a little slower and a little more depressed as the realisation came to me that not only had the second half kicked off, but it was unlikely that I’d find anywhere to watch it. I don’t know who was more gutted. Myself or the bar staff. They’d lost their free drink.
The bar next door was showing football too but as the bar staff wore a Manchester United shirt and very little else, I decided that it was unlikely to be a successful destination. Finally, I began to accept my fate and that staying up until 4am had been fruitless; I’d have to follow the second half on twitter at the hostel – in the dark and alone.
As I returned back to my bed disappointed, I noticed a small, seedy looking bar, fronted by two nearly naked Asian ladies and decided make one last attempt. I asked the bouncer if they’d change the channel and he assured me that they would for any paying customer. Excellent! I’d finally made it. I went to the bar and was told to sit down. Once I was seen to, I bought an expensive half pint, much to the annoyance of the waitress who tried to insist on me having a full pint. However, I really wasn’t in a drinking mood but was more than happy to buy a beer in exchange for the game.
Sure enough, I asked at the bar and a man was summoned to change the channel. My persistence was rewarded. In all their glory, five minutes into the second half, red and blue shirts flashed up on the screen. I had my Palace fix. Right, now for the points I thought. Then something hit me. I realised something. I’m not sure what I saw first or whether it was the combination of a few things: the posters, the bouncers, the girls, the side doors or the hidden rooms. Whatever it was, it quickly became apparent that I was watching Crystal Palace vs Aston Villa, at 5am, in Thailand, in a brothel.
“Hi, where are you from handsome?” enquired one girl while stroking my arm, less than a minute after my drink had been delivered.
I glanced over towards the bouncer and then back at the screen in front of me. My quick and rude dismissal from earlier wouldn’t do here. Not if I wanted to carry on watching Palace.
“London,” I replied, not taking my eyes of the screen. “I’m cheering my team from London, Crystal Palace!”
I sussed that as well as trying to hint that I wasn’t interested in paying for sex, I might as well try and convert a Thai prostitute to my addiction.
“Ah we cheer them together!”
Maybe my plan was working.
On the pitch, Palace’s attempts to break down a flimsy Villa defense were no more successful than girl’s attempt to break down mine. After sitting next to me for a couple of minutes and trying to engage in football related conversation, while I largely ignored her in favour of tutting and sighing at the collapse of the Palace attacks, she upped and left. What was upsetting was that Villa were actually playing appallingly. They weren’t organized at all, and they continued to give us the ball on the edge of their area, but we didn’t create a single clear chance. We were clueless.
My lack of interest in the continuing stream of girls seemed to only increase their determination as I appeared to be some sort of challenge to them. Making sure that I was always polite to the working girls as the bouncers looked on, my frustrations and anger at the football began to boil over. Considering I was in a brothel, perhaps it was appropriate that my favourite word appeared to be ‘f***ing’. With my new favourite adjective usually being followed by ‘useless’ or ‘pathetic’ or ‘Palace’ or ‘Warnock’. Mainly Warnock.
The game dragged on, as did the propositions. Usually, when you’re chasing a game desperately, time seems to vanish as the opponents eat up precious seconds and the match slips away from you. However, that night, such was my confidence that we could play for a month and not score, time seemed to pass ever so painfully slowly. We created nothing and Warnock’s lack of subs was as baffling as his appointment had been. He just watched on hopelessly as we created nothing against a woeful Aston Villa side. Still, I’m sure he blamed the referee. It couldn’t possibly be Neil Warnock’s fault that we had one win in eight. There was to be no happy ending that night.
Around five am, I got back to the hostel after our 1-0 home defeat.
1 comment
Looking forward to reading the new book
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