–Santa, the Man Mountain and a bottle of water called Virgin–

Today in the cold light of day, I saw Santa coming out of our building. I never knew he lived there. His white beard and white hair lining his ruddy face, but today unlike other days when I saw him in the coffee shop between the two vast condominium projects, his face shrunken and redder than ruddy, looking older and weather beaten, and it shrunk towards the centre in a way that plants shrivel if encountering hot water. But still his natural smiling face just visible within that vastly hungover look. Next to him his Thai wife looking fresh, or at least as fresh as anyone in her 50’s can look, with her down turned lip edges from a life of hard toil and stress, but today as always now, looking content with her lot.

I wonder if Santa had challenged the Man Mountain to a drinking competition and managed to back out a quarter way through, suffering only the minimal damage that would account for the sickly, ruined disposition today. The Man Mountain, now there is a character of contradictions and mystery. Not that I would know in reality, but in the world my mind creates that is how he exists.

The Man Mountain can be found sitting at a table under an umbrella abutting the parking zone and a little away from the shop that sells drinks – everything from the bottle of Virgin brand water that I buy to accompany the bowl of noodles, the Kao Man Gai, or more likely the roasted chicken on egg noodles served on top of a bed of bean shoots and accompanied with a tiny dish of teriyaki or high number soy sauce at the small food shop next to the drinks one, and squeezed into the corner with the sad somtam shop renowned for its dry grilled  catfish, dry grilled chicken and somtam swimming in excess sauce, and the shop serving every German fried dish known to mankind, and probably a few more. The irony and brilliant marketing strategy of anyone branding their water as Virgin strikes me hard in a town known for its openness about absolutely anything to do with sex, where it would come as no surprise to discover that your bank manager was involved with half a dozen or more different people at any time with absolutely no regard as to which sex they were as long as they were up for “it”. It being undefinable but certainly within the framework of the most mundane to the most extravagant sexual practices.

But this is moving us well away from the nature of the Man Mountain and his personality, probably. I ponder the juxtaposition of this statement and the one at the end of the last paragraph. An obvious contradiction. So, let’s say the personality of the Man Mountain as concerns matters here. Thinking about it, I really wouldn’t want to ponder the other side of those things involving the Man Mountain.

Anyway, let’s try once again to get back to the Man Mountain. So, sitting eating noodles and suddenly he is there at his usual table perched on the stool he always sits. He wasn’t there when I arrived. He never is, but suddenly appears. I have never seen him walk to the table, not one time and yet he appears. This is strange because the Man Mountain is not a small lithe man, but a true giant at least in size if not height. His face twice as big, at least, as even the over sized monstrous face of Keir Starmer our latest prime minister back home. His jowls hang heavy and many, with bags scattered around his face, but it is also a face that exudes happiness, exudes love, exudes fun, exudes kindness, and an utter joy of a life lived in the manner desired nay, desired by he, a life well lived and a life with yet more utter joy to come.

The Man Mountain would in front of him on the table, always have a large bottle of Beer Chang, but unlike some he would never once drink from the bottle, but have a small glass from which to quaff the nectar. With ice or not, I never notice. But the sheer quantity of bottles he could get through in the hours he remained seated at that table was a true wonder of the world. A wonder that deserves to be recognized by one of those international bodies or star rating bodies that recognise other such things such as beauty spots, restaurants, cities and all kinds of nonsense, not one of which deserve the recognition of the Man Mountain’s table filling, chair filling and even the ground around he, filling ever growing army of empty large Chang bottles. It is a true wonder of humanity and its ability to defy expectation, to defy any scientific reality relating to bodies and their consumption ability, indeed to defy even sanity itself. The Man Mountain, a phenomenon that seemed to just appear as from nowhere and to defy all reality as to what a human can drink. And always he would be smiling, nodding at anyone coming into view and occasionally gleefully laughing as he chatted with someone on a large smartphone that looked miniscule in his oversized huge but gentle hands. Happiness personified.

For some masochistic reason every time I see the Man Mountain, I have this thought:

“Don’t challenge him to a drinking competition. Don’t do it”

Quite why this destructive idea always hits me when seeing him, I cannot explain. Even I, who as someone who has enjoyed a drink throughout his life know that the Man Mountain is the ultimate, the unbeatable, the Messi, the Novak, the Pan Zhanle of drinking. Nobody comes anywhere near in terms of ability. It is an unchallenged and, in his case, an unchallengeable ability. A skill unrivalled. And yet there it always is, popping up in my mind…

“Don’t do it.

Don’t even think about it.

Don’t do it ever.”

For you know anyone indulging in such an insane pursuit would be hospitalised not just needing a stomach pump, but in need of a quick instant liver transplant. Maybe even the kidneys too, I think. And of course, having been whisked away in one of the trucks that race each other, and sometimes even shoot at each other to be the first to get to the victim of some sudden accident, heart attack, knifing, stroke, fight or others incident, and taken to some haven of health and emergency intervention. And while this was happening the Man Moutnain would just be completing his warming up before moving on to the main event, and of course for someone so gentle, kind and happy, hoping that the latest self destructive person would be alright and that he would meet or at least see them again, to nod at as they consumed a plate of roasted chicken on egg noodles served on top of a bed of bean shoots and accompanied with a tiny dish of teriyaki or high number soy sauce.

*****

And that brings us back to Santa. Had he really? Had he more balls than I, and actually challenged the undisputed world champion to a drinking contest?  Had he actually entered the competition and progressed at least part way though the Man Mountain’s warm up routine before realising that it would be far better to back out, and offering his apologies as he retreated on unstable legs, but knowing he would at least live to make it to the coffee shop the next day.

And as I pass Santa and his wife, I think:

“As the coffee infuses his body and his usual American breakfast, that he grinds extra fresh pepper over every day, hits home and the effects of his already morning ablutions kick in, his face will start to unshrink and like a flower with water and sun will once again flourish.

For there is a light that never goes out.

There is a Light that Never Goes Out is a short musing by Graham. If you enjoyed There is a Light that Never Goes Out, you may enjoy: