Being a typical Briton, I love my home comforts and always try

Host: The evening lay thick over the streets of Bangkok, humming with the buzz of scooters and the scent of chili, lime, and grilled fish. Neon signs bled into the humid air, turning every puddle into a small, shimmering universe.

Inside a dimly lit pub, tucked away between a tailor shop and a travel agency, the air conditioner groaned with old-age persistence. The walls were covered with Union Jacks, vintage posters of The Beatles, and a chalkboard menu offering Fish and Chips – 250 Baht.

Jack sat near the window, shirt sleeves rolled, grey eyes scanning the crowd with his usual skeptical calm. Jeeny sat across from him, a small smile curving her lips as she stirred a pint of ale she had no intention of finishing.

The pub was full of expats — tired, sunburned, nostalgic. In the corner, a TV played a Premier League match with the sound off. The bartender, a Thai man in a Manchester United jersey, hummed along to Wonderwall.

Jeeny: grinning “You look oddly at home here, Jack. Almost... sentimental.”
Jack: snorts softly “Don’t let the pint fool you. I just like consistency. Same food, same drink, no surprises.”
Jeeny: “Olly Murs once said, ‘Being a typical Briton, I love my home comforts and always try and find an English pub wherever I go.’ That’s you, isn’t it?”
Jack: “I’m not sure if that’s an insult or an observation.”
Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Host: A waiter brought their plates — steaming fish and chips, wrapped in faux newspaper, a slice of lemon perched like a small, yellow moon. Steam curled upward, mixing with the faint smell of malt and fried nostalgia.

Jack: “You know, there’s something about this — about finding a piece of home wherever you go. It’s... reassuring. The world keeps spinning, and you still get your pint, your fried cod, your salted chips. Maybe that’s the only real stability left.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s a kind of fear, Jack. You travel halfway across the world just to hide inside a replica of home. Doesn’t that defeat the point of traveling?”

Jack: “I call it survival, not fear. You can’t just dive into every culture without a lifeline. It’s overwhelming. A man needs something familiar to remind him who he is.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s why so many people never really change — they travel without ever truly leaving.”

Host: The ceiling fan whirred above them, pushing lazy waves of air through the pub. Outside, the street vendors shouted in Thai, their voices carrying through the open doorway like the rhythm of another world knocking.

Jack: “You think home comforts make people weak, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Not weak. Just... timid. The world has so many flavors, so many stories, and yet we chase the same taste we grew up with. It’s like carrying a bubble around and calling it safety.”

Jack: “It’s not safety. It’s identity. Every culture does it. You think Thais stop drinking iced tea just because they move to London? They find it, even if they have to pay triple. It’s not about escaping difference — it’s about preserving roots.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t grow if you’re always holding on to your roots. Growth means discomfort, confusion, maybe even food poisoning once in a while.”

Jack: smirks “Ah, there it is — your romanticism of suffering. You think a man isn’t living unless he’s in pain.”

Jeeny: “Not pain — transformation. Even Olly Murs said he’s surprised he never got food poisoning. Maybe it’s because he’s willing to taste everything. That’s what I love — the courage to try, even when it might go wrong.”

Host: The pub’s door swung open, letting in a brief gust of rain-scented air. A group of tourists entered, laughing loudly, their faces flushed with heat and beer. The bartender smiled, switched the TV channel to cricket, and the room settled back into its familiar, comfortable melody.

Jack: “You talk about courage like it’s easy. It’s not. You try ordering something you can’t pronounce in a back alley, and tell me how brave you feel when your stomach starts rebelling.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “That’s part of the adventure! Every meal is a risk, every place a story. I once ate something in Vietnam that I didn’t even recognize — but the vendor’s smile, the way she watched me eat it, that was worth the risk. You can’t buy that kind of connection in a pub trying to be London.”

Jack: “Connection doesn’t keep you out of the hospital.”

Jeeny: “Neither does boredom, Jack. It just keeps you from ever feeling alive.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered beneath the dim pub light, a reflection of the neon outside mingling with her conviction. Jack’s gaze drifted toward the window, where the rain began to fall, soft and steady, blurring the world beyond the glass.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just too... British for my own good.”

Jeeny: teasingly “There’s nothing wrong with being British — until it becomes a cage. You can love your home, but don’t let it keep you from seeing the world as it is, not just as an extension of your island.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You seem to thrive in chaos. For you, every airport is a poem. For me, it’s a test of patience and sanitation.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you keep traveling.”

Jack: “Because deep down, I want to be surprised — I just hate admitting it.”

Host: Jack’s words lingered in the air, a quiet confession hidden behind humor. Jeeny reached across the table, her fingers brushing the rim of his pint.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes travel honest. You want to be safe, I want to be changed — and somewhere between those two is what it means to belong.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So, we’re both lost then?”

Jeeny: “No. Just wandering — and that’s not the same as being lost.”

Host: The TV crackled, the match ending in a roar of cheers from a table of expats. Outside, the rain began to fade, leaving steam rising from the pavement. The city lights reflected off the wet streets, painting them with colors the sky had forgotten.

Jack leaned back, took a slow sip of his beer, and looked at Jeeny with something softer than irony.

Jack: “You know... maybe this is what home really is. Not a place, not a plate of food — but a moment that feels right. Maybe that’s why Olly keeps finding pubs — because he’s not looking for England, he’s looking for comfort in a world that keeps changing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We all carry pieces of home in our pockets — a taste, a song, a smell — and when the world becomes too big, we take them out and remind ourselves who we are. But if we never put them down, we’ll never know who we could become.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the pub grew quieter, the rain now just a distant drizzle. A faint smile crossed Jack’s face — not victory, not defeat, but something in between: the small, human peace that comes when certainty finally gives way to understanding.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Next time, you pick the place. But if I get sick, you’re explaining it to the doctor.”

Jeeny: laughing “Deal. As long as you promise to taste something that doesn’t come with a side of nostalgia.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped entirely. The pavement gleamed under the streetlights, and the city hummed with its usual symphony of chaos and comfort.

Inside, two travelers clinked their glasses, their voices lost amid the warm, familiar murmur of the pub — a place that, for one fleeting night, was both home and elsewhere all at once.

End Scene.