Now I’m not saying I make good decisions, but I do make the best of bad ones. And that, my friends, is what separates the idiots from the slightly resourceful idiots.
So picture this. I’m in Elan, Taiwan—which I now pronounce “Eee-lan” because it sounds fancier and I’m a cultured wanker. The sun’s out. The waves are rollin’. I’m surfing like I’ve just been reborn as a Hawaiian god. Poseidon’s second cousin. Hair flowing, tan glowing, and in my mind I’m filming a bloody Corona commercial.
What I forgot is that the sun in Taiwan is not your average Australian sun. No, it’s the bloody devil’s torch. Within an hour I’ve gone from Bondi Beach bronze to full-blown lobster thermidor. My back is crackling. I’m sizzling like bacon on a Sunday. The only thing missing is Gordon Ramsay yelling at my spine.
So what do I do to recover from this self-inflicted human rotisserie session? I think, “Brendo mate, treat yourself to a massage. You’ve earned it.”
Spoiler alert: I hadn’t. And the massage lady takes one look at me and says, “Oh no. No no. You too hot. You burn. Skin go bubble.” Which I assume translates to “You’ve cooked yourself like a bloody Bunnings sausage, mate.”
But again, I’m a man of solutions. And whiskey. Mostly whiskey.
So instead, I settle for the next best thing: a one and a half hour foot massage. And you know what? It turned out to be the best worst idea I’ve ever had.
This wasn’t your regular dainty spa experience with flute music and essential oils up your nose. Nah, this was Taiwanese foot kung fu. My masseuse? A large unit. Built like a fridge and powered by rage and Red Bull. And thank Christ for that, because her thumbs could’ve crushed a watermelon.
She didn’t just massage my feet. She interrogated them. My left arch confessed to crimes it didn’t commit. My toes realigned like soldiers under command. At one point, I’m pretty sure she hit a pressure point that made me re-live every poor life choice since Year 9.
But it gets better.
I’d snuck in a flask of Islay whisky—the smoky kind that tastes like someone set fire to a bog and bottled the ashes. Every few minutes, I’d sneak a sip while this human bulldozer kneaded my soul through my soles. And somewhere between the whisky haze and the foot murder, I fell asleep.
Dead asleep. Like, snoring while my legs twitched like a dreaming Labrador asleep.
When I woke up? Pain gone. Burn forgotten. Feet softer than a politician’s promise.
So yeah, I surfed, got roasted like a Christmas chook, couldn’t get a massage, got manhandled by a beast of a woman, drank whisky like a pirate, and passed out in a foot spa. And still, I walked out refreshed.
Moral of the story? When life gives you sunburn, skip the aloe and grab a whisky. And always—ALWAYS—choose the fat masseuse.
