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Zombie In Your Head 

 

Richard Lala December 2025 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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I met this incredible lassie, while on holiday in Thailand, she was my Spanish wild cat and I was her funny, Scottish, Play-Thing.  

 

I was there with a group of friends, not one of them had an interest in KickBoxing, but we were on Krabi Island, and I really wanted to go and see what it was like - what would a bitch [GAY] like me want with martial arts, I hear you ask? Well, I’ll have you know that my Auntie Shirley trained with sense (Billy) Coyle, and if she hadn’t buckled at the pressure of public performance on the day of her final test, she would have undoubtedly been the first female in UK history to gain her black belt in aikido. But before today, that’s not where my reverence has been for the incredible arts of fighting.  

 

I was mercilessly bullied throughout High School. Being a Goth, I had my music to get me through - never underestimate the power of music. Eventually, thanks to ‘Stars In Your Eyes’, I discovered Boy George - a ‘boy’ who wore makeup - and I was transfixed…he quickly turned that sad, little, dark moon child into a shining New Romantic rainbow. His songs spoke to me and helped me cope with being unifiedly targeted with hatred. While I have most certainly come to terms with my existence, I’ll always look back and wonder why I was so overtly, collectively bullied - like some dark cloud unifying everyone against the existential dread of their mere proximity. 

 

To even dare to speak to me was seen as “gay” by association. No one dared speak kindly in any way to me. In fact, if the other children, perhaps raised to be empathetically conscientious, didn’t join in with the taunts of “bender”, “poofter”, “shirt-lifter”, “shit-stabber”, “jobby-jabber” - the list goes on…but, not wanting to alarm the censors, I think I’ll leave it there…don’t want my words used as a ‘bunch of sticks’ to burn me! If the other pupils refused to join in with the mob mentality they risked being exiled alongside me, and in a remote, Highland high school with zero alternate options, absolutely no one wanted that! Mine was the fate most dreaded. 

 

Bullying has lasting effects upon the psyche. To this day I tense whenever I hear people laughing behind me - I’ve swung round a few times only to realise that I’d frightened the joviality out of some innocent partygoers - I can’t tell you how many times I’ve taken my jacket off to check my back after hearing someone regardlessly spitting behind me. But the truly traumatic, psychological effects of prolonged, vindictive bullying impacts on much deeper, unhealthier levels that I’d perish to mention here. 

 

I walked into the Thai KickBoxing arena telling myself not to lick my lips should a splash of blood from a punched face splatter mine. I was trembling with anticipation, visibly smiling with excitement at the thought of watching these men beat the living daylights out of each other…something I wish I’d been audacious enough to do in school all those years ago - instead of solemnly limping home and silently crying, while wishing Freddy Kruger would slash them all to pieces in their dreams - all so I wouldn’t have to endure another day of constant torment, taunting mockery and inhumane ostracism. You can certainly criticise my experience, but at least you can’t disregard my honesty with any undue flippant, captious opinion. My horrid fantasies are founded in real life persecution. The roots of my pain are deeply bedded in my psyche, and while I have made great efforts not to harbour unfounded hatred, my resentment lingers like the angry wakings from a traumatic but familiar nightmare. I could go on to describe how the worst of me balances the best, but we’re here to hear about Thailand, not the sad, splintered remnants of my abused past. 

 

I went into the Thai boxing expecting to see two dudes kicking heck out of each other but instead, I see two devout athletes piously honouring the four directions of the ring, the way a highly trained stage performer might remember to do. But wait, I’ve jumped ahead… 

 

Upon entering the arena, the ring was bare. Wanting the full experience, and because it included a T-shirt (for the old memorabilia), I purchased a VIP ticket, and was led to a raised two seater couch, where I was later joined by a giant, handsome Polish man. We sipped our beers, I wondered if his friends, like mine, had no interest, or if he was travelling alone, but before any real conversation could get started, the lights came up and a tiny little girl, couldn’t have been more than nine years old, entered the ring. I instantly recognised the music and as she raised the microphone to her lips, it wasn’t long before the pair of us were joining in with the world famous Cranberries’ song, Zombie. Wow! This little tot could sing! Soon we were applauding her with appreciative cheers and whoops. 

 

Introductory entertainment over, we prepared for the spectacle we’d paid to see. I was sat like a wolf ready to gorge on blood, but instead, I was fundamentally changed for the better. No, I didn’t get my “payoff”, quite the contrary, I was actually humbled by the immense reverence of the martial artists on display. These men were not kicking hell out of each other. They were bound by principled moves, in the way a dancer is confined to steps and order. There was no blood, yes, there were more than a few surprise kicks, so lightning fast they sent the sparkled recipient staggering backwards. But their incorruptible moves, matched with the attentive referee, saw that no one was really hurt. I was enjoying this new brand of fighting. It wasn’t quite aikido, whose goal is to nonviolently end conflict by matching the opponent’s force, but it was certainly a far-cry from the no-holds-barred cagefighting we’ve become all too accustomed to in the West. This Eastern method of combat was refined and respectful. I was in awe of its humble, refined restraint. 

 

After the third bout my beautiful Polish brother in boxing, whose big thigh next to mine was like a tree trunk beside a fence post, got up and left. I was only beginning to enjoy stretching-out when this beautiful, wild cat tugs my sleeve and asks if she can sit up beside me. I gallantly agreed, extending my hand to help her climb up. She needed no help! Springing to the platform like a tigress! ‘Let’s get a drink’, she said. Calling the waitress and ordering us drinks. When they arrived, I went to pay, but she shoved me backwards into the settee and ardently paid. This rare specimen of female empowerment had me both wishing I was Straight, while at the same time relieved that I wasn’t. I don’t know how best to describe her, she was like a wild cat, intense, excessive, expressive, and knew nothing about the boundaries of personal space. It seemed the more she flexed, the more rigid I became. This of course made her all the more eccentric! 

 

Let me describe the scene. Arena, ring, tiered VIP couches and her standing, up on her haunches, on the couch next to me, yelling at the opponents as she punched and elbowed the air in front of her. It was exciting and impressive because she was just so completely uninhibited. Turns out she was Spanish, an MMA [Mixed Martial Arts] fighter who was dating a boy from Dundee, whom she called her ‘Ginger Ninja’…he was also a kickboxer, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a certain sense of nervousness, incase he came in and got the wrong idea of me frolicking with his misses! It is difficult to use mere words to describe how amazingly intense this wonderful woman actually was; ‘energetic’ simply doesn’t cut it! She was like a tornado, unpredictable and both exciting and terrifying all at the same time. There’s me, sat like Sean Connery in Medicine Man, with my white trilby, trying to look comfortable, while ‘Spanish Fire’ has her tattooed leg thrust in my face showing me the bruises from her latest frivolity with her beloved, Ginger Ninja. 

 

‘Look’ she said, sticking her tongue out. ‘He did this!’ Her tongue piercing was ripped sideways, tearing through half of her tongue. Turns out he’d punched her during their “play-fights” a little harder than he meant. I could see why such play-fights could get carried away…her frequency was so highly vibrant it would be difficult not to get swept up in it. ‘Look!’ She pulled the neck of her top across her shoulder to reveal another bruise from their high jinks escapades. Now, usually when a woman speaks to me about being bruised and bashed by her man, she’s looking for advice on how to ditch him…not best him in their next fight! She absolutely blew my mind on every level! Soon the boxing became a secondary act, as she’s scrolling through her phone, showing me image after image, video after video, of her man competitively training, boxing, flexing - the Ginger Ninja was a hottie! But all this intensity was a little overwhelming, so I excused myself for a smoke. ‘I’ll come with you!’ 

 

The next minute we’re outside at the arena bar, she’s showing me defensive moves, which basically meant me in a headlock with her knee up my back! The little bar ran along the wall and the barman behind it was visibly afraid. ‘I challenged him to a fight for ringside seats!’ She said, pointing at the barman and hopping about like she’s ready for round two. He smiles nervously. ‘Beat your ass, didn’t I?’ She taunts, grinning in a way you don’t know if it’s playful or she’s going to spring across the bar and bite his nose off! 

 

‘Are you a proud Scotsman?’ She asks me. The next minute he’s opening a white, expensive looking box of malt whisky. Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this yet, but she’s completely steaming drunk…handling it well, but totally intoxicated. I try explaining that the way to drink malt is to sip and sook, but before I can even explain about the vapours, she asks. ‘Like this?’ And necks the full glass - remember, the measures in countries abroad are two thirds alcohol to one third mixer, or in this case, ice! I’m not the most comfortable around drunk folk when I’m sober, so I leave her toying the timid barman and head back in for a pee. On my way back into the arena I clock two guys taking rest on our couch, and I quietly think to myself, just wait till you meet my tiger! 

 

I come out of the toilet and she’s got the pair of them cornered. One’s almost laying on top of his buddy, they’ve both got their arms out mercifully terrified. ‘We’re sorry, we’re sorry, we’ll move…’ but they couldn’t get past her. She was standing there, legs in widened attack stance, arms spread like Xena Warrior Princess, fingers like hooks, ready to maul the pair of them. I tell them it’s ok, usher them along the couch with my hands and, taking her hands, calmly guide her into the seat. She’s got them so squashed together, they’re practically sitting on each other’s lap, making space for me. This was where I made my goodbyes. Spanish Fire tells me she’s coming back to my hotel room, but I make excuses about my family waiting for me and I leave. I thought she was going to cry…and I too felt my heart yearning to stay. We were like kindred spirits and, as brief as our encounter might have been, I think I will always remember her with a smile of pure, treasured excitement.