The Legend - Atila

There are men and then, there is alcohol that turns men into legends.

There has never been a doubt that alcohol is the great denominator synonymous with words like, ‘fun’, ‘puking’ and ‘regret’, and it makes a great excuse for waking up next to strangers. Just as the Gummy Bears need their gummyberry juice, men chained to inhibitions need alcohol to break away and become blog-worthy entities.

When I told the guys stories about Atila, everyone who didn’t know him thought it was incredulous. I was already benchmarked as an extreme caution on the intoxication scale whenever I got myself sufficiently inebriated to start trash talking, but this guy absolutely dwarfed my credits with his drunken misdemeanor.

When LB decided to make a comeback into my world of alcohol induced madness on Wednesday, he was pre-empted on tales of Atila’s path of peril, which was a buffer before the crude entertainment - that is Atila – came knocking. This started on the fact that we all knew that when alcohol is introduced into his system, Atila becomes a legendary being with the following superpowers.

1. Deafness. No, is never an option.
2. Thick skinned. Invulnerable to rejections and shame.
3. Multiple targeting system, capable of hitting on everyone in a skirt within a 2 metre radius.

In retrospect, he was probably the best wingman to have, because he was that altruistic and ready to answer the call of duty. I only needed to suggest to him that LB might need a wing before he literally sprang right into action, charging into the crowds to find him.

Atila, despite being in a drunken stupor, was smart enough to make the most out of the clubs environment. This included using the revolving platform in MoS to his advantage; he was now capable of hitting on different women by standing rooted to one place.

He would hit on one girl, start dancing up to her and when she got rotated away from him, he would turn his attention to the next girl that was rotating by. All this needed was a chopstick and it would have qualified as a human sushi conveyor belt.

Atila was a great person to have around because he was that entertaining and that shameless when it comes to fishing. The best part of it was that he would almost never remember what happened the next day.

But this is really the story of how he became a legend. (Some of you might have already read this before on Facebook).

Atila was named after the historical wrecking figure of Atila the Hun, a man that left a path of destruction in his wake, because this was simply the most befitting name to crown his reign of chaos and violence.

There are many things I can proudly say I have done in my drunken state. Trash talk, laugh at fat people, make women cry, but there was one thing that Atila completely overshadowed and paled me in my claimant as an Asshole.

It was that familiar crime scene of being at the dance floor and I don't actually know what Atila said to the girl next to me, but she responded with a huge slap. It was the slap that drowned even the Timbaland shit what was thumping.

Atila: "Ouch!! You slapped me!!" (Clutching his left cheek)

Before I even had a chance to recover from that initial shock, I saw her tighten her Ho' hand and bitch slapped Atila again. I would have commended her on her technique and swear that she's been a loyal follower of the blog and read all about how to give a proper bitch slap.

Remember, always use the master hand, don't flick and follow through hard. Locking the wrist is the secret.

Two bitch slaps in a minute. Now surely, not even Atila could have recovered from this embarrassment. What would any normal man do in this situation? Hands up if you said, 'walk away', because you are not in the league of Atila.

What followed next, was the greatest comeback in history.

Atila, while still clutching his cheek, threw his head forward at her and delivered a crushing headbutt. Next thing I know, both of them were cringing in pain. Atila was still clutching his cheeks and the girl was clutching her forehead, staggering back from the impact.

She: "My head! My head!"

I did what all normal people would do.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

I swear, I laughed so hard, I thought I was going to rapture my appendix. Then Atila turned to me with a wink.

Atila: "I head-butted her."

Best.comeback.ever

The Bangkok Blitz Pt 4 - Taxi

When I said that ‘Global Warming’ was an anagram for Toyota, I wasn’t kidding. If you’ve been properly acquainted with Bangkok’s famed traffic, you should be well aware of the following,

1. 1 km in distance approximates to about 10 minutes of driving time.
2. Despite what road signs may indicate, it is actually okay to drive against the flow of traffic.
3. It is okay to make a U Turn anywhere, just as long as you horn to indicate your intention
4. Traffic lights can be ignored, even if you are not driving an ambulance.
5. Checking of blind spots is not required. It is the duty of the trailing cars to watch out for you.
6. You can cut any taxi queue, so long as you offer to pay more
7. If you drive a Ferrari, you probably have not changed into 2nd gear before.

And from our latest taxi experience,

8. Taxi’s can have a DVD player, full set of gauges and other electronic gadgets, but they don’t have enough battery to run the fare meter.

When we first arrived there, we were marshaled by TheScout’s moral stamp of commuting ethnic, which dictated that every taxi ride was to be strictly by meter, even if it meant passing up on several cabs for a difference in fee that would probably be less than $2 tops.

It was as he argued, ‘a matter of principles’ - I never understand these anyway -, which was met with some disagreement on my part, because $2 was a price on ‘principles’ I was willing to sacrifice, so long as I got to my destination faster.

This eventually changed when we got tired of standing in the torrid humidity, bargaining with taxi’s to run the trip on meter. Our surrender to 'principles', eventually got us on the ride of a life time.

It was a cab we took to Paragon. He was young and adamant on a fixed fare of 100baht, but we were seasoned and rooted to our then crumbling punctuation of ‘principles’. Under the cursed afternoon heat, with perspiration trickling down my back, we eventually surrendered defending our cause and agreed to his fare.

The only thing was that we wanted him to run the meter anyway. It was fundamentally experimental, just to see how much the difference would chalk up to, but there was a subtle symbolism in that to ease our bruised pride for caving in on 'principles'. It was like asking a eunuch to wear a condom.

Me: “You on meter, but I still pay you 100baht.”
Cabbie: “No no. No meter. 100baht.”
Me: “Yes, we give you 100baht, but I want to see meter how much. Just for fun.”
Cabbie: “No no. No meter. Car no battery.”

We laughed our asses off. For one, you have to see how much electronic junk he had in the car to understand why this was perhaps the dumbest funny excuse anyone could conceptualize. He had at the passenger side, an LCD TV with DVD player. He had a full set of gauges lining his dashboard and side pillar. He had a fully functional mp3 headunit that was arguably more advanced that what I have in my car and some other stuff which had lights running round it.

All that shit and not enough battery to run the meter? All that cab needed was a popcorn machine and it would have qualified as a mobile theatre, and he actually came up with some bullshit of not having enough battery? Amazing.

Reznor: “You have to give it to him for effort babe. This is the best excuse I’ve heard.”

That however, was the least remarkable thing about the cab driver, because however proficient he was in giving excuses, he was about an infinite fold better at driving. In that 10 minutes cab ride, he had defied every traffic regulation that had been institutionalized.

It was the cab ride from hell.

He was weaving between cars, driving against the flow of traffic, ignoring blind spots, believed that braking isn’t as important as accelerating and should only be done when your horns don’t work. In short, if this was a Singapore driving practical test, I would need a calculator for his demerit points, because an immediate failure just won’t do it justice. And some new underwear, because I might have peed in mine.

Reznor: “Can someone tell him this is not an F1 trial?”

I was not going to trash talk the driver. He had just mis-timed an emergency brake, had to swerve to avoid the hit, and as a result, caused the car on that lane to slam the brakes to avoid colliding as well. All that near misses and instead of breathing a sigh of relief - as normal drivers would -, he was back to cursing the traffic.

We eventually got off at Paragon taxi stand and I parted very willingly with the 100baht, with trembling hands. Then this group of ladies got on to that cab.

Me: “Anyone wanna warn them?”

The Bangkok Blitz Pt3 - Picture Post

I'm not a huge fan of posting pictures on this blog, but as with all my other holiday posts, I usually use them more for a narrative account than to detail everything about the trip.



This was the night at Scratch Dog. It was insanely packed, I was already well intoxicated enough to drink Johnny Walker red label without complains and I couldn't remember how much they charged me for the sisha.

What I do remember was that the waiter who brought the sisha kept puffing at it and it pissed me off so badly I grabbed him by the collar and told him to get lost.

Then one of the local guys we got to know there came over to inform me that it was standard club practise for the waiters to start the pipe. Whatever.

The guy in the yellow polo tee was a local student whom we got to know along with his bunch of guy friends. He was a freeloader. Not that I gave a shit, because his female friends were going home with me anyway.


These were the other group of girls we got to know there. The great thing was that they spoke Mandarin because they spent between 3-4 years working at Taiwan. They weren't the best looking that was for certain, but sometimes, communication is a plus point.

The thing about the lighting at clubs is that it makes certain people look better than others and when I look back at the pictures it's like, 'is this how she looks like?'.

So in tangent with my dynamite fishing mantra, I just went along with whoever had the most interest in me. And there was quite a hilarious morning incident that followed.

Now, who was it that picked me..

The Bangkok Blitz Pt 2

The choice of Shio was more of a banausic selection than it was an inspirational crafting. It was a nod in tangent with the saying that sometimes, we let fate pick us. If I’ve learnt anything, it’s that hitting and scoring are two very different brackets.

Simple logic; if you hit on someone, you might not always score, but when someone hits on you, you will score – taken that you don’t fuck it up.

Shio came with a huge expectation weighted on her. This was due to my preconceived notion that, all Japanese women ruled the bed and were born with an innate talent in oral fellatio. Her predecessors were after all, women who have made me weak in places more than just the knee.

The first was an 'American' born Japanese who had silicon for tits, but had a face so hot, I could make pancakes on them all day. Then came the Japanese doll, and we all know what happened. And now that baton fell on the youthful shoulders of a young Japanese undergraduate.

God had a great sense of humour that night, putting my favourite national in my favourite nation and just to nudge things along, he throws in a table lined with whiskey, vodka and champagne. When Butterfly is drunk, everything is a great idea.

The best thing about Shio was that she quickly understood the entire dynamics of the 3 hour relationship. She didn’t ask if I was attached, or anything beyond the superficiality of age. Not even spiritual beliefs or if I supported Seppuku or even my preference between soba and udon. At least I didn’t remember any of it.

The bad thing was that she was absolutely vanilla once the lights dimmed and the fornication ran riot under the sheets. It was pretty much me doing the solo tango with a coat hanger.

Uneducated in oral sex? Now that’s vulgar. Pardon the racial stereotypes, but being raised in an era where the proliferation of Japanese porn across the cyber medium has shaped my crude perception of them as a superior race of bedside companions, I am unable to fathom a situation as such.

Now, in my myopic interpretation, a Japanese not knowing what a blowjob is, is like Indians not knowing how to assemble a computer or Singaporeans not knowing how to cheat on parking coupons. It’s incredibly dumb-founding.

When she told me that she didn’t know how to give a blowjob, I was so shocked, I almost insisted on checking her passport just to see if she might be Russian, or Puerto Rican or maybe from Jupiter even, because I never believed I’d actually hear it from a Japanese. This was like a Brazilian telling you he has never heard of soccer.

My reaction would have been punctuated with a “What?!”, but I kept my composure – it might have something to do with the copious amounts of juices in me, including a very sinful gulp of champagne – and instead took a mental note of the night and saved it as, “Must submit this story to Ripley’s believe it or not”.

We woke up hours later from TheScout’s morning call and Shio suddenly became more interested in my daily activity and planned itinerary for the coming 3 days. And there was only so much ambiguity I could run her through with, that it degenerated into her solution of,

“Call me when you know, ya?”

I obviously didn’t call because I took it that our plans were malleable as we didn’t want to rivet ourselves to a single course of plan and be dictated by time and place. Temporal and spatial freedom was the play of the day, and we decided that impulse was our best tour guide.

I told her that I was going to soak myself with every drop of decadence Bangkok had to offer and ran a gauntlet of everything from A-go-go bars to massage parlours to playing ping pong with a bat up my ass, but nothing could winch her in disgust.

This was hazardous to my psyche because she would reply my every seemingly depraved adventure with, “have fun, call me when you are done”. She was an absolutely wonderful person, but all I really wanted was for her to just say,

“You are an asshole.”

Why do things just never go according to plan?

Note: I'll upload the pictures on Facebook.

The Bangkok Blitz Pt 1

For every cause, there is an indefinite effect. And for every action, there is a plausible reaction.

There aren’t many things in life we can be certain about; sex doesn’t always reach a climax, alarms don’t always wake you up and caffeine isn’t always your best friend.

Yet on the polar spectrum of this, lies the realm of definites. These are things we know that will reciprocate with an exponential – or at least marginal – receipt of gratification. We know that laughing at Whales or throwing a stones at them feels greats, or that mushrooms always goes best with melted cheese. And we all know that partying in Bangkok will always guarantee a great time.

There are many reasons to go to Bangkok. Never opened a bottle in your clubbing repertoire? Go to Bangkok. Never eaten a rat? Try one in Bangkok. Never had a two dollar taxi ride? Get one in Bangkok. There are just so many reasons to go there that if your job was to market tourism in Bangkok, it would be so easy, it would qualify as a social welfare inheritance.

The trip was coined on a blitz of impetus. LB, had over lunch one day informed us of his trip up there to visit a friend, and suggested that we travel up together. In immediate response, I quickly ran my Bangkok marketing campaign through Reznor again, highlighting certain note-worthy aspects which included $40 vodka bottles and an exploitation of the exponentially lower cost of leaving, which would mean we get to spend lavishly and at a fraction of the cost.

If you’ve sat down over coffee with me while I palavered you with tales of decadence, a debaucherous affair with alcohol and carnal intemperance, you will know that I can sell any destination. And that I did. I had coaxed Reznor to commit to a $273 plane ticket, which I assured him was the best deal in town and that the budget flight was probably going to be the worst experience of the entire trip.

I on the other hand would have to battle a bout of jet-lag. I was after all going to be flying after a night of heavy partying to Bangkok to engage and introduce Reznor to the seduction of Bangkok’s nightlife.

A slight delay in the departure, a less than ideal 2 hour flight nap and a very long customs clearance at Suvarnabhumi airport, couldn’t even dampen the long anticipated return for us. LB was still submerged with nonchalance, Reznor was afloat with so much anticipation he was hopping around so much, he only needed fur to qualify as a Gummy bear and I was pressured into ensuring my pitch on Bangkok would not decay into a mere gimmick.

The plan as it was, was that LB would leave with Pearl for Char’s place and would probably join TheScout, Reznor and me on one of the nights for some unbridled madness. And he left, and I knew there and then that LB was no longer the same man that accompanied me on those excursions to Phuket and Taiwan. He had lost his joy of the night. He had gone pussy.

I suggested a limo ride to the hotel as a symbolic broadcasting of our arrival in style. It was a silver BMW 7 series and it felt great to sit in comfort while watching the others huddle together on the back of a tuk –tuk. Yet on hind side, after the erosion of adrenaline of arriving in Sin City, it did seem like a stupid way to blow our cash.

It was at that time, an educational necessity more than it was a luxurious pamper. I was after all going through the intricacies on the clockworks of Bangkok and how to milk it for it’s worth with Reznor, and the first rule I always emphasized, was the absence of a budget; you can’t enjoy if you keep thinking about money.

The limo ride was great because it soaked Reznor right into the role of the budgetless tourist and suddenly from the concierge to the bellboy, everyone was beaming smiles at us as if blowjobs were part of the welcoming service.

We wasted no time, almost as if we had an invisible itinerary to abide by, of which that invisible thread would in finality lead an option of having a bedside companion. It was back to RCA, the golden walkway of the Promise Land (that is Bangkok), the congregation of the beautiful and famous and the familiar site of my dynamite fishing.

Slim, held great memories for me through the years that I’ve been there and it was always the automatic choice to kick start our Bangkok trip. This was largely because of the insanely cheap drinks and hordes of beautiful women who would give me more than just their attention.

Immediately, as we got in escorted by waiters who could smell heavy tippers from a mile, we got into a small debate on where we wanted the table. I was of course rooting for Flix, where they played some semblance of Trance, while the others thought the right investment was at Slim.

TheScout quickly cajoled me with a bottle of Absolut and a Martell. This immediately raised our profile and soon everyone started giving us the eye. We had distinguished ourselves as foreigners immediately because we were buying ‘premium’ drinks when the industry standards there were half priced Johnny Walker Red labels.

I randomly flashed my smile at people who made eye contact with me and soon one of them popped up behind me to say hello, so I offered her a drink for her brash initiative and then proceeded to make small talk with her. She had a distinctively familiar accent, which sounded almost pleasant as a memory. Then I realized,

She was Japanese.

If this was anywhere else, I might have raised her hand and shouted “Bingo! We got a winner!”, waved goodbye to the boys and head off to find the nearest chapel to get married in, but this was Bangkok and my attention to her was solely on premise of nationality and divided equally with that one very hot girl by the bar below and the other one across the table playing snobbish.

We also did meet this group of Singaporean women who were up there in force to celebrate one of their girlfriend’s hen’s night. I immediately gave her my condolences.

Me: “You do realise that it is all going downhill from now on right? But anyway, where’s the groom to be?”
She: “In Phuket!”
Me: “What? Phuket? Oh man, you got the short end of the stick. Have you any idea how crazy his Bachelor’s party is going to be?”
She: “I KNOW!! SHIT!!!”

The girls were a great bunch to hang out around, but TheScout quickly set us back into perspective. We were in Bangkok and hanging out with Singaporean women? That was going to be the dumbest holiday party plan ever, so we bailed and re-introduced ourselves to the locals.

TheScout sent for a 5000baht champagne much against my protest because we were already clearly inebriated. I was no longer sober enough to choose who I wanted to go back with, so I left it to whoever had the greatest interest in me.

I got the hot girl up to our table and the Japanese girl was clearly not too pleased with it. The hot girl was also clearly not too happy that our table had a surplus of women in comparative ratio to men – which is effectively three – and you know how myopic Thai women can be, so she didn’t take to me as much as I hoped she did.

She was hot, and in my opinion, arguably the hottest in the club and on a regular night well deserving of my utmost attention, but I was already drunk and beyond my means to coax, charm and assure anyone of my undying 3 day devotion. And so I auctioned myself to the one that would take me for the asshole I am, and the Japanese jumped on it.

I, of course knew about it when TheScout told me about her confession to him of her interest in me. I, of course knew from the body language and jealousy when I had my arms around someone else. And I of course knew, when she had her tongue in my ear.

Next thing I know we’re heading out of the club to Scratch Dog to continue the partying. And it was this incredibly packed place with shisha and cheap whiskey. I didn’t remember much because we went in a huge group and I wasn’t even really enjoying myself because we were packed into a corner and there wasn’t even any sofa in sight that I could offer to buy over.

What I did remember was that group of guys trying to cock-block us with regards to some girls and they were force feeding them some negative notions on going back with us. On lesser men it might have worked, but not on me, not when the girl was determined to stay over with me.

That itself provided some comedy because here was a girl, whom I just met, trying to convince her friends that she’s going to be perfectly ok spending the night with me, when I could be some potential axe murderer.

She: “You don’t think I’m easy right? Do you?”

This was hilarious to me because she was the 2nd girl in 3 days to say this to me. I don’t know if it’s for self-assurance or for moral checking, but I seriously do not generally judge, nor do I give a fuck. I, on the contrary, applaud people who are direct and can cast that whole virginal façade aside.

We just met 3 hours ago, we have a mutual interest in each other and we are going back together. I cannot find a flaw in that.

I left Reznor to sleep with TheScout, while the Japanese girl, Shio, spent the night with me. Now surely this was going to be laced with so much salacity that censoring it would nullify my purpose to write. Now surely I would re-certify that Japanese ruled the realm of the bedroom. Now surely, I can’t be wrong.

Or could I..

Hong Kong Pt 2 - The Choice

There were only two real eligibles who I knew would commit to a foray under my sheets – or maybe the sofa, and it now entirely boiled down to the one with the highest marginal success rate. More often than not, your best bet isn’t about who you want to head home with, but who really wants to go back with you and this was a common premise that would serve as the canon for my filtering process.

Since they both had their tongues down my throat and made their interest equally vocal, I did a quick mental evaluation.

Mickey was younger, prettier, spoke better English but she had one friend who was drunk and needed some attention. I could score with her but I might also be cock-blocked by her pissed drunk friend who might need babysitting duties, which includes a cab ride back.

Jane, on the other hand, was less attractive but had a great ass and smile, came with a group of friends and had her arms round me, which I took it as a territorial decree of me as a taken property. The final confirmation of this was her reluctance to leave with her friends for supper.

And I was going to reward that.

The choice became clear and though my eyes – and dick – would have made a more fastidious vote for superficiality, time only further corroborated my decision. Well, that much held true when it came to heading back to the hotel, but the composition of bedroom etiquettes changed and doubt began to loom my choice.

Naturally, I knew that having a girl come back to your hotel and eventually having sex, was akin to playing chess with meth induced mentally spastic 3 year olds. It’s a sure win, but there is always that pinhole pocket of failure.

Very seldom would a girl agree to go back with a total stranger and abstain from sex. It’s 2008, condoms come in new flavours, the ozone is still depleting and conservatism is fighting a losing battle with promiscuity. Women know the full consequence of their acquiesce to head back to a man’s hotel room.

No one heads back to just play scrabble, watch TV or ‘get to know’ each other better. These can be branded as vulgar foreplays, but it should in finality climax to intercourse. This is especially so when I am a tourist and these women know fairly well that I will probably never meet them again in the near future, so I cannot imagine why any of them would want to take the ‘relationship’ beyond a one night stand.

Jane was great in helping me find the way back to the hotel, removing my belt and finding the light switch, but her list of greats ended at that. For one, she took a long time to warm up again and instead of whispering sweet nothings like, ‘let’s shower’ or ‘doggy’, she kept assuring me of inconsequential things.

Jane: “I have never done this before”
Me: “What? Sex?”
Jane: “No! Going home with a man I just knew in a club!”
Me: “Me neither.”

She didn’t think it was funny.

Jane: “I hope you don’t think I’m that easy.”

At that point of time, I was already slightly tipsy and struggling to unhook her bra.

Me: “Seriously, I’m only thinking of how to get this off now. You can say that to me again later and I’ll process it again.”
Jane: “What?! Let’s just sleep then.”

Like now?! Like when I’m almost done with your hook? Like when I just conquered alcohol and regained my erection? Like when I have to fly off in 4 hours? Cruelty is a harsh reality to swallow, even when you are drunk.

I lay there buried in regret. If only I had picked Mickey, I might already be in Disneyland by now. If only I learnt to sweet talk more and not be such a wise ass. If only I learnt to lie more.

Jane: “Did you take anyone back to your hotel?”

And that was my window for a comeback. This was where I would infuse white lies into my game, where I would deviate from the truth with ambiguous remarks instead and where I would hopefully get closure.

Me: “What? You do know I just got here yesterday right?”

Now, technically it's not a lie, I just didn’t answer her question, but posed another question in return that would shape her perception of my answer. I am sneaky, but it worked and it almost immediately broke her reservations – or it could be the tongue running down her neck, or my finger down south – but it worked.

The downside was that this girl was a total vanilla. She had never given a blowjob and looked like she was determined to die an oral virgin. She didn’t know how to ride and she nearly fell over me. The only saving grace was that it was a novelty of sorts to me, because I have never had a girl moan or issue me instructions in Cantonese before, so a quarter of the time I had no idea what she was saying.

10 minutes later, Yang and Palmer started banging on my door, right in the middle of me going in hard.

She: “There is someone at your door!”
Me: “There isn’t anyone at the door, it’s just the TV.”

More banging on the door followed.

She: “No, I really think it’s your door.”
Yang: [from outside] “FUCK HER HARD!!!”
Me: “Hmm okay, I think you may be right.”

When it ended, she started sulking as I got down to packing my stuff. I, of course tried to ignore it as much as I could because I knew the best way to kill any attachment she had for me, was to come off as an asshole, and I’m great at being one.

She: “Don’t go. Stay here with me.”
Me: “I’d love to, but I can’t cos it'll break alot of hearts back home. Go grab your stuff, I have to get going soon.”

I started grabbing her bag for her, along with her makeup kit in the toilet, while she picked up her clothes littered around the bed. I picked up a scrunchie and threw it on the bed.

Me: “Don’t forget this.”
She: “WHAT IS THIS? THIS IS NOT MINE!! WHOSE IS THIS?! DID YOU BRING A GIRL BACK LAST NIGHT?!”

It caught me entirely by surprise, but it was pretty obvious that I had blown the cover and pretty much shot myself in the foot, even though it was after the war.

Me: “Damn room services, are they leaving their stuff behind again?”


Edit: I'll post the peripheral stories here. Add to read.