1. The Law of The Jungle

I had been set up. I had been given the gram of shit so the police could arrest me and bang me up in prey sar prison for five years…

The little girl’s face was beautiful, yet unfinished. I look into her one eye, which looks back at me. How old is she? Four? Five? Her hair is cut short. Her little friend has one eye oversize, top lid hanging low. Her right cheek, like her friend, is swollen, also unfinished, unique in its beauty, like her friend. Her hair is longer.
Sot s’art, I say. Sot veng, nung sot klai. Pontai sot s’art tain pi.
(Your hair is beautiful, I say. Yours is long, and yours is short, but both are beautiful.)
The two unique children share a glance and giggle into each others’ arms. Their eyes meeting are two stars colliding in the universe – an explosion of light – a champagne supernova in front of my eyes and everyone watching.
It’s then I realize the gram of crystal meth I’d been given by the Bong Tom the night before was not because I was the new James Bond. Was not because I was now accepted into the Cambodian gangland underworld and could now get drugs for free.
I had been set up. I had been given the gram of gear so the police could arrest me and bang me up in prey sar prison for five years.
I think back to the moment the Bong Tom had given me the little plastic bag.
You are jit l’aor , she had said, with a rising tone, like a question.
Yes, I’m jit l’aor (a good heart) I’d replied.
And now, as I see the two deformed little preahneang’s eyes explode in love and light I realize I am being tried on the street.
Whoever says there is no law in Cambodia is mistaken and knows nothing of this street justice system.
I had made a ten year journey from HTB church in London’s Knightsbridge to a homeless, penniless crystal meth addict on the streets of Phnom Penh and I was being tried and judged on the street.
Was I jit l’aor or jit akrok ? Did I have a good heart or a bad heart?
A good heart would see me free. A bad heart would see me spend the next 5 years in Cambodia’s notorious overcrowded Prey Sar prison.
How had I come from being a passionate born again Christian missionary – 10 years in the church before being called to Cambodia – to being homeless, friendless, and penniless on the streets of Phnom Penh – facing 5 – 10 years in a Cambodian prison?
What had happened?
And what will happen?
A fallen, broken, missionary on meth in Cambodia: penniless, homeless, friendless – would God, like 99.9% of my Christian brothers and sisters, turn His face away from me and abandon me?
Or would He pour out His and save me?
Follow my blog for the next chapter of my true story: Breaking Bad in Cambodia: Missionary on Meth.

150. Strong shit.

I sit there for ages reading Coppola’s LIVE CINEMA.

He only published in 2017.

See, this is a new thing, he’s doing…and I’m the fuken experiment.

Back in the Penh I read an article about how he talks about Susan Sarandons film Stories People Tell or sth…

I haven’t seen it.

But he bangs on waxing lyrical about how the future of cinema is LIVE mixing REAL LIFE with drama…

Yeh and I’m the fuken experiment.

You can imagine the conversation between the James Bond producer Barbrara Brocolli and ol’ Francis Ford Coppola.

BB: I just dont know what to do after the next Bond, after Daniel’s gone. We need to reinvent 007. Should he be gay? Should he be a woman? Should he be transgender?

FFC: How about taking a leaf out of ol’ Susan’s book…make it a real life James Bond … mix reality with drama…

BB: Hmmm…what are you thinking Frank?

FFC: I got an old friend who recommended an unknown British actor to me…we’ve been watching him in Cambodia…Roman’s been doing some workshops out there with the Khmer kids so I asked him to take a look…

BB: And?

FFC: Hes an interesting prospect. Trained for 3 years. Won a few awards…best newcomer, some radio acting…even made a short with Idris Elba…

BB: Really?

FFC. But here’s the fun stuff. 10 years ago he did a big FUCK YOU to his acting career and went to Cambodia to try to save kids from child sex trafficking. Now he’s a homeless crystal meth addict living on the streets…but still spends his life trying to help the poor…

Broccoli stares at Coppola disbelieving.

FFC: You said you wanna reinvent James Bond. Reimagine him. Pluck him from obscurity. Stream him in reality. Stream him live as he fights to stay alive on the streets of Phnom Penh and see what your Executive producers think…

BB: The Chinese will wanna see him, and there’s the Bollywood financiers, too..

FFC: Invite them to Cambodia. You come, too. Or just pass around the access code to the live stream. We’ve got Phnom Penh wired…. a 24/7 film set. Eyes on every corner, in every hotel, every bar. Lights in car headlights. Mics in lamposts and fake plastic trees.

A cute staff member pops her head around and tells me the book shop is closing shortly.

I tell her thank you.

She did come and see me quite a few times, ol’ Barbara Brocolli, in Phnom Penh.

And the Chinese.

And the Bollywood billionaires.

They all loved me.

The Chinese thought I swear too much.

But the Bollywood gang think I’m a natural.

And I saw Coppola doing Tai Chi on the riverside.

And I thought homeless Jack was Kenneth Branagh and French Andre was David Mamet.

Strong shit that crystal meth psychosis.

Ain’t it, Mr. Fox?!

147. Shax, Grammar, Fuk it & Coppola.

Its fuken cold now.

The wind bites shrewdly.

Shakespeare must have been walking along the Southbank of the river Thames right where I’m walking when he wrote that line for Hamlet.

Well The Globe is on the Southbank.

Not sure if that’s the original site.

Newgate Jail was around there somewhere.

You cant imagine jail back in them days.

By the way, fuk apostrophes.

Im at fuken war with em.

In fact, I’m leaving em out.

And I dont give a fuk.

If spell check fuks up the word, it’s too much ag to go back and press the arrow, select the apostrophe, move the cursor back, slot it in between the n and t of dont. It takes too long so fuk it.


Who fuken needs em?

I dont.

So if you dont see em it’s not cuz I dont know they shud be there.

But by the time I’ve put em in I couldve writ the whole fuken book, so, if u wanna read my shit, get used to the no apostrophes, short form words and fuked-off grammar.

Who the fuk wants to spend their entire life putting fuken apostrophes in basic words when time could be spent writing the good shit like drugs, sex and violence and the real fuken shit that makes this story about a failing Christian missionary to Cambodia, who falls in love with a Khmer chick, gets addicted to crystal meth and left to die on the streets of Phnom Penh, abandoned by friends family and the fuken church.

But not by JESUS.


I make my way into Foyles, out of the shrewdly biting wind, and am delighted to find the book I’m looking for staring me in the face from the shelf.


146. Live Cinema

I take credit cards, I quip, sitting begging on Hungerford Bridge.

A few people do hand me some cold coins, a couple of 50s a few twennies. I count my dough. 4 bucks 20.

That’s alright.

Not bad for 20 minutes.

There are a lot of people cuz its marathon day.

I get up and walk towards the Southbank.

The Royal Festival Hall.

It’s where I used to street perform.

Some African is playing a set of steel drums that give off a high pitched ringing sound.

I cant see him yet but the music gets louder as I get closer to the Southbank.

It’s very fuken busy cuz its marathon day.

Also, the Royal Festival Hall has concerts.

I reach the steps.

Another beggar asks me for money.

I’m homeless, mate, I goes.

He gives me the thumbs up.

He looks out his nut.

They’re all on spice apparently, whatever that is.

I haven’t been craving crystal meth.

Its bollocls about it being the most addictive and dangerous drug on the planet.

They just dont want people taking it and being super alert, is all.

Like most drugs  the illegal ones are the ones the powerful dont want the proletariat taking.

Alcohols ok. Let people drink and crash and stab each other at football and beat up their wives, but MDMA that causes empathy, emotional connection and deep thought…ban it.

They dont tell you Churchhill was on crystal meth when he fought and won the 2nd world war against the Japs and the Germans  whose soldiers were also all on it.

The entire Nazi army were on it.

Kerouac wrote On the Road on it.

JFK injected it.

Dont believe what the government tell you about drugs, that’s what I’ve learned.

They ain’t all the same.

Marijuana is medicinal.

It’s even in the bible.

And the leaves of the trees are for the healing of the nations.

Revelation 22.

The drummer must be under the bridge.

The wind is colder down near the river.

I make my way to Foyles bookshop under the Festival Hall.

I wonder if they’ve got a copy of Coppola’s book about Live Cinema.

Maybe I can learn something about this reality James Bond I’m in, eh, Mr. Fox?!

145. Begging Banks & Legs

I try to beg again.

On Hungerford Bridge.

It was named after the mass killing.

Which reminds me of my human rights song, which I haven’t sung in a while.

I sit on my O Neill jacket cause it’s still warm.

I sit a bit up from another beggar who’s wrapped in a dirty quilt and looks like a crack head.

I look like a meth head probably but I’ve been in jail in Phnom Penh for a week so I’m clean, fresh faced and fancy free.

Spare any change?

Sorry, I dont carry cash, is the reaction I get, one after the other.

So those are the victims of the cashless society – the beggars.

The banks stealing from the poor.

Someone should write a book about that, eh, Mr. Steinbeck.

Who is this coming from Edom?

I say to the random passers by, in my best theatrical Ralph Fiennes voice.

With dyed garments from Bosrah?

And why are your garments stained crimson?

Like one who has been treading the wine press?

It’s a quote from Isaiah in the bible about the second coming of Christ.

A red hot Japanese girl walks past in funky Emo shoes, denim shorts and with killer legs that go all the way up.

I pray my prayer of repentance for my unclean thoughts.

Our Father,

Who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be thy name.

Thy Kingdom come!

144. Thy Kingdom Cum

As I sit n beg on Villiers street loads of fit birds walk past. It’s a beautiful day so all the legs are out.

It’s not like Phnom Penh with legs in denim shorts spread on the back of motorbikes but everytime I see a beautiful ass or pair of legs I’ve got to repent.

And then I get this terrible, demonic, Satanic, Lucifer bestowed idea as I pray The Lord’s Prayer.

Whenever a sexy girl walks past I pray

Oh Father God,

Who art in Heaven,

Hallowed be thy name…

Thy Kingdom come…

And then I get a vision of millions of Angels in Heaven all jerking off to this sexy girl that walked past, and

Your kingdom come becomes

Your Kingdom cum

as all the angels shoot their warm, cupid arrows…

And my prayer continues…

Thy will be done…

And suddenly, like a Shakespearian sonnet, or a verse from the bible’s  Song of Songs, or one of John Donnes metaphysical erotogenic poems, The Lords prayer also becomes salacious, licentious, erotocized as if from the lascivious lips of Lucifer himself…

And Thy will be done becomes

You will be done

As in fucked

On earth as it is in Heaven


I will give you so much pleasure you will think you died and went to Heaven…

In fact, Shakespeare often metaphoricized ‘orgasm’ with ‘death’…

Thy will be done (made love to/ stimulated/pleasured) so passionately you will feel like you’re in Heaven.

Give me this day my daily bread.

Bread a metaphor for hunger / appetite / sexual appetite…

Give me this day my daily sex.

Do not deny me.

Lead me not into temptation.


By this time we’re almost already in…

The tip of the flesh is almost piercing the jina….

Its teasing…

Lead me not into…

By this time the lover is begging you to enter…to go in…

Oh lead me not into….

Deliver me from evil…

By now the teasing is at screaming point…

Your lover is begging you, can wait no more…

Forgive me my trespasses…

Forgive me, darling, for what I am about to do….

But give it to me…

While your lover is screaming do it, do it…

For thine is the kingdom

The kingdom is the sacred place.

The throne, the crown, the altar…

Where the blood sacrifice will take place…

The sheath for his sword

The kingdom the one, warm place every man longs deeply to be…

The power…

My manhood.

My hardness.

And we’re in.

And the glory…

The pleasure.


Don’t stop! Don’t stop!

And ever….

Pleeeeease  don’t stop!


Deep sigh and release of sexual tension.


143. Bleeding

I go in some bar on the corner for a piss.

It’s crammed with marathon runners and their friends.

People outside in the street, drinking.

Everyone stares at me.

It’s times like this I’m sure everyone’s in on it.

The whole London marathon thing is part of the reality film set.

Everyone knows I’m 007.

Or why’s everyone staring at me?

I don’t look homeless.

I go back out to Villiers street, sit down, hold me hands out in a cup position, and beg.

Altho I am begging for real, it’s also a form of street theatre.

When I was in Rome I saw a statue of a beggar, bronze, hooded so his face is hidden, holding his hands out in a cupped position the same as me, except, if you look closely, his hands have holes in them, from where he’s been nailed to the cross.

So I’m in the same position.

Of course, no one knows I’m copying the statue of Christ disguised as a beggar, plus my hands don’t have holes in them.

I get bored after about 2 minutes and scrounge a cigarette off a bloke drinking a pint with his mate in the street outside a bar.

A Marlboro.

That’s the brand I like.

I always thought Marlboro were the creative person’s cigarette.

I didn’t smoke for about 25 years then started in Cambodia again cuz cigarettes are so cheap and everyone smokes there.

The Bond producers have been putting pressure on me to quit the cigarettes tho. I can see why. It doesn’t go with the 21st century new Bond image.

They want a healthy Bond.

They like the fact I do yoga.

They want a yoga Bond.

I’m a defender of women’s rights.

They want the new post-Craig era J.B. to be a feminist Bond – an anti-misogynist Bond – a defender of women’s rights.

Like me.

They don’t just want an actor – they want an activist.

They want a Bond who defends women, not a Bond who just wants to get in their knickers.

Altho I do like to get into their knickers too, that is another one of my failings as a Christian missionary, I have to admit, if I’m being honest.

And I know the Evangelical right are gonna attack me and say I got no right being a missionary and you know what I don’t give a fuk cuz you know what…

It’s easy to be a Christian in Kensington.

– Jackie Pullinger

You think you can do better at helping the young women involved in sex work here get off your fat lazy arse, stop reading the internet and come and live with the homeless sex workers in Phnom Penh.

And, I do not fuk the girls. I do consider the joining of two bodies sacred – becoming one flesh.

But I must admit I am happiest like a cat at a bowl of sweet milk.

That’s where I feel most at home.

But the only girl, ok, excluding two if I’m telling the truth (and I do live by the truth) after 10 years of celibacy in London I waited 7 years to slip my ding in Razor’s jina.

And I told her, when we did it, for me (and for God), it was getting married.

For me, I told her, if we did it, we were man and wife, and so, on 10 Sep 2016 I married Razor.

I always remember that date.

That was the date we got married.

Now here I am, sitting in London, homeless, 5000 miles from my bleeding love.

142. Shax & Mr. Fox!

It seems like 2 years already I’ve been homeless in London and it’s only my 2nd day.

Time goes slow when you’re homeless.

I wasted time, and now does time waste me.


Richard II.

When he’s locked up in the tower of London.

I wasted time and now does time waste me.

Probly one of my favourite lines in all of Shax.

I move through the bushes of Embankment park towards the streets that lead up to Covent Garden.

I need a piss.

Question is, do I go in the bushes or MacD?

I do remember a little pisser above a bar around the corner.

But I’m fenced in.

Do I climb the metal fence or walk 50 yards to the door?

What would Bond do?

Or Bourne?

They’d climb the fence.

So, to the amusement of some drinkers outside a bar in the park I attempt to climb the fence.

When I get to the other side I realized there was a bend in the bars I could have squeezed thru, so I come back in to grab my rucksack I’d left behind, and squeeze back through.

The drinkers outside the bar, young, well dressed, marathon runners and their friends, are laughing.

More Johnny fuken English than Jason Bourne / Bond.

And here have I the daintiness of ear to  hear the director laughing.

I wasted time and now I need a pee.

Fuk you, Mr. Fox!

141. Undercover

The helicopter reappears, tiny as a buzzing moth high in the sky.

I leap to my feet again, and dive for cover under the branches of a nearby tree.

The marathon runners and their families must think I’m a Jason Bourne type fugitive figure on the run, being hunted by MI5 or Treadstone or someone.

Most of them have no idea they are all extras in the new reality James Bond movie.

Most people think the new Bond movie is in ‘development hell’ and hasn’t started shooting cuz of all the stuff about Danny Boyle pulling out cuz of creative differences and they cant even find a new director yet…

You notice in the media there’s always some excuse why the new Bond film isn’t shooting.

That’s cuz it’s already shooting.

And has been shooting for about a year now…

With 007 plunged into reality.

A homeless, born again Christian, crystal meth addicted James Bond who went on a mission to Cambodia to combat child sex trafficking he got so deep undercover he became addicted to the same meds the young women he was trying to help were addicted to…

But now, phase 2, he’s back in London, clean, and his new mission is to get himself off the streets…

Most people, in fact, almost everyone, maybe only me and the technical team, the crew, who are obviously in hiding as its reality cinema, only we know the truth.

The new James Bond is being shot as we speak.

And guess who’s 007.

The helicopter whizzes away.

It’s safe for me to lie down again.

I stub my cigarette out.

I’ve got no money for water but someone’s left a plastic coca cola bottle lying on the grass with a drop left in the bottle, so I swig that.

Obviously left there for me by Mr. Fox!

140. Embankment Park

The park at Embankment is the perfect place to lie in the sun and try not to think about Wesley fuken Taller and poor little Coco and Razor…

All I can think about is day by day, hopefully finding a job that will pay me enough to buy my ticket back to Cambo…

And I dont suppose Mr. Fox is gonna be coughing up my $100 million for the live cinema reality Bond film as soon as I expected – which was when I got off the plane.

I thought that flight SGN007 from Phnom Penh to London Heathrow was the end of my heros journey – the road home.

Now I know this is the road home – getting myself off the streets of London back to the woman I love (and step daughter who loves me).

I’m very careful about saying I love her because Razor gets freaked out – I think it’s because of the elephants – and that psychopaths accusations against me – pure lies.

I enjoy the warmth of the sun on my face as I lie back on the grass.

I scrounge a cigarette.

A helicopter hovers above in the sky.

I jump up as if it’s looking for me – the fugitive James Bond.

All the resting marathon runners watch me take cover under a tree and watch through the branches as the helicopter disappears.

I cautiously lie back down, keeping an eye on the sky in case the Black Hawk reappears.

I drag on my cigarette, feeling like a very cool James Bond.

A motorbike revs loudly and speeds away.

My round of applause.

He liked the helicopter improv.

Thanks, Mr. Fox.