Most people think Thailand spews with fakes. Fake bags, t-shirts, shoes, belts, umbrellas, lighters, moustaches; you name it.

And they’d be right. When we remove ourselves from our hotel to shuffle into town to eat food that costs AUS2.80 a plate, and slurp on Singha and hold back vomit when we see 75 year old men nuzzling 17 year old Thai girls/boys/goys, we’re drowning in ‘designer labels’. (And rain. It hasn’t stopped since we hit. Makes the extremely dodgy electrical wires hanging above our heads buzz and spark; the sewers smell even, uh, sweeter, and our hair become even more disobedient.)

But none so funny as this one, which was gloriously housed in ‘Central Festival’, a largely empty mall posing as Phuket’s answer to Bondi Junction Westfield, and exactly the kind of badly executed take on a label I love to make up when I text friends from here. (‘Ssup Marge, Pede, Donk.)

Oh look, it’s raining again.
Guess we won’t be slothing around the pool today.
Again.

Before I rack off, one little note on beauty over here which, I’m guessing, won’t surprise many: You can not buy self-tanners here. (Even though if you were a Smart Person you would pack more than one bottle, so really, it’s your fault and you deserve to look white.)

Tanning products simply do not exist here. They’re as invisible, as oooh, SUNSHINE MAYBE? Because these guys do not want to be tanned. They don’t even want a healthy glow. To them, white skin is the ultimate sign of beauty and elegance. (Hence all of the whitening products over here. Oh, yeah. Plenty of them. You can buy them with your petrol. Seriously)

They’re onto something though, wanting to look all Russian Doll-like. After all, Gemma and Daria and Julie and Lily and Natalia and all the other super-popular-and-successful-pale-skinned kids stomping down the runway in Prada and Fendi (‘Prasa’ and ‘Fende’) are all pale as.

Whatever. I’ll board that boat later.
Right now, I need DHA, DAMMIT.