The F1 Weekend Pt 1

Four nights of mad partying, three days of F1 night races and early morning reveries, I salute myself for surviving the F1 weekend and I did it all with a sore ass.

It’s been a hectic week which explains why I haven’t had time to devote any time to literary merits, but it did escalate to an affair with debauchery – intemperance and scorning of morals, I might add. Such is my life story, a never ending loop of throwing caution to the wind and daring consequences to fuck me, over and over again.

Let me recount.

Alcohol? In my latitude of consumption theory, I would have labeled it a moderation of sorts, but in your yardstick, it might be under, ‘monthly consumption’. Hot women? Loads of it. Sex? Plural. Celebrity encounters? I almost speared Alonso with my umbrella. Liver? I’m searching eBay for a new one. Abrasions? Right between the butt cheeks.

It all started with Red Bull’s pre F1 party launch on Thursday and if you were there, you will know that when we throw a party, we throw a kick ass one. You only need two things to have a great party; alcohol and hot women.

There were about ten models working the PR in blue cheongsam and when I say models, I really mean models and not your run of the mill girl who has a Facebook account with 200 pictures and credentials as some flyer girl outside the supermarket.

These were girls who were super tall to begin with and legitimately gorgeous – for the Chinese models at least. Some excerpts of our conversation.

Gaya: “Do you party a lot?”
Me: “It’s my job to party!”
Gaya: “I am number one party animal in Singapore.”
Me: “That is rubbish, last I checked, when I looked up, no one’s ass was above me.”
Gaya: “Then how come I’ve never seen you around?”
Me: “That’s cos you are a head taller than me.”

Me: “Are you local?”
Jas: “Yes, I’m Singaporean. Woohoo!!” [Throws her hands in the air]
Me: “No one is that proud to be Singaporean, you are obviously not local. Where did your parents come from?”
Jas: “My dad is from China and my mum is from Mongolia. You know Mongolia?”
Me: “Of cos I do. Your daddy’s ancestor spent years trying to keep them out of the country by building a wall. Obviously your daddy didn’t share their sentiments.”

Sen: “You are funny.”
Me: “Being half a head shorter than you, I have to be funny.”

It was a difficult party for me. For one, there was so much alcohol floating around and we didn’t need to queue for it, but I couldn’t explode myself onto the drinks with a resolute cause to get plastered because I had people to entertain. And secondly, there were so many hot women, I didn’t know who to start a conversation with first.

P: “This is a great party!”
Me: “Yes, I know. I’m not even drunk and there are at least 20 people I would fuck in an instant. Just imagine how much more that number will grow to when I become drunk.”

And I also bumped into couple of old friends who all seemed to have similar opening lines.

Cass: “What are you doing here?”
Me: “Look around, there is free booze everywhere and women in bikinis, why would I not be here?”

J: “Hey, what’cha doing here yo.”
Me: “I don’t know. To play Scrabble?”

I never understand why people find it surprising to spot me at party events. If you spot me at some orphanage or old folks home, then that would be surprising. Bars, clubs or anywhere that serves up debauchery in a bottle, I will be there.

I also realized that a lot of people have no idea who the F1 drivers are, other than Lewis Hamilton. When David Coulthard, Sebestian Vettel and Mark Webber showed up at the party, many people were just snapping pictures of them, well, because everyone else was doing it.

I know this for a fact because there was a lady right next to me who was frantically clicking away on her camera, and I figured she had to be some fan of F1 at least, but she then turned to her friend and asked, “who are they?”.

I’m pretty sure the guys had a blast, because I remembered Reznor trying to throw someone into the pool and got thrown in himself and his phone got so fucked even Hermione Granger can’t do shit about it. I laughed so hard at him being a moron I might have damaged my vocal cord.

Puppy had a great time dancing with a chick, who was a full head taller than him and when he was grinding her, all I could see were his hands on her torso. It was fucking hilarious because it looked like a live impersonation of those deities with many hands. He was so trashed, he had alcohol amnesia and couldn’t remember half the night.

I on the other hand, pulled off something that had everyone in applause. She was tall, immaculately sharp nosed, piercing blue eyes and a figure so hot, if she rode a cow, it would turn into steak instantly. It is good to be me.

The next day I woke up with a huge pain in my ass, and it wasn’t someone’s cock in me, or a vodka bottle or her teeth. The alcohol numbing me had worn off and I suddenly realized that I was having abrasions right between my butt cheeks and it was making walking an arduous task. Perhaps this is retribution for laughing at the Paralympics.

I knew it was going to be a long day at the race circuit doing pit lane walks, paddock tours and champagne toasting at night. And I also knew that there was going to be a lot of walking between venues and that I might pass out from the pain, so I tried to arrest the exacerbation of the wound in the only logical way I know.

Powder.

It was a simple theory. Powder reduces friction and friction causes pain. So less friction would generate less pain. I am a fucking genius and deserve to win the Noble award someday for my theory.

So I piled on the powder, lots of it. I spent at least a good 10 minutes getting powder all over my ass, into my crack and I went through nearly half the bottle doing it. I’m not joking. I had so much powder in my ass, you could make noodles on it. It was so much, that if I farted, donuts would come out.

It was so bad at some points I actually thought I was getting tattooed in my asshole. It no longer mattered that I was arms length from the drivers or spotting other global celebrities, because if it required walking, I was busy frowning.

We skipped the whole test drive on the first night for dinner with the Formula Una girls at Mimolette and then headed down to River Valley Pool for the Chivas Live party, which turned out to be a total disaster, because there was an insane bottle neck at the bar and accessibility to drinks is paramount in my life.

We eventually headed to MOS and the boys came down to join me. I barely lasted the night, because I was in so much pain, I couldn’t even walk properly and LB, who was clearly inebriated himself, had to send me home.

This was the longest, most painful walk back to the car because not only was my ass cheeks potentially dripping pus, LB was trying to talk to every random girl and it was taking forever to get to my car.

LB: “Your face is turning pale dude. Hahahaha”
Me: “Seriously, you have no idea how much pain I am in. It’s not even funny. I think my thighs are dripping with pus. I need to go home now.”

This was going to be a long week…

Hope Is Not What You Need

If I decide to never believe in love and relationships, I only have my friends to blame.

When I said that relationships make people dumber, I was half bitter and entirely inspired by people around me. Of course, I also had a phonebook of empirical references in the forms of lived experiences and third party stories.

This is because I am surrounded by friends who are perpetually plagued by relationship woes that I’ve become a hotline of sorts. Yes I hear you saying, “but Butterfly doesn’t give a shit about anything except for that glass of vodka Red Bull”, and that is correct. Just that I also enjoy laughing at people in silly predicaments.

I’ve heard all that uncompromising situations people get caught in. Having an affair with a married man. Check. Can’t leave a relationship even though love has died. Check. Boyfriend cheated on them. Check. Cheated on the girlfriend and got caught. Check. Got caught again. Check. Broke up after a week. Check. Guy doesn’t love you, just wants sex. Check. And the list runs so long, if I actually ran through it all, it would qualify as completing a marathon.

And I am that cruel reality, because I will show you what an idiot you are.

The problem is that people tend to look for the silver lining in things that obviously don’t exist; like, Big Foot, happy ever afters or algebra solutions. People just don’t know when enough is really enough, when to move on and how to do it. Thankfully, you have me to spoon feed reality and practicality to you.

Hope is not what you need. This is what you need..

A Brain.

We all need this to start with to ensure that this liminal phase is as smooth as possible. For one, you need to know when to throw in the towel and salvage your dignity. Here are template scenarios.

1. They are cheating repeatedly behind your back.

To forgive them once was either a mask of magnanimity or a stroke of stupidity. Some will argue that it is true love, but it just pronounces my point that being in love makes you stupid.

If you are upset because you got cheated on, my sympathy goes out to you. If you are upset because you got cheated on again, then this is like a re-run of a sitcom, so I will laugh at you. Reality is cold and so is my tongue, because if you are too stupid to value yourself, then you obviously don’t need my respect either.

2. You complain about your partner incessantly

If you want to continuously bitch about something, then do something about it. It’s like watching a drama serial. If the same shit is airing repeatedly without any attempt to advance the plot, it will bore me.

I can sit through a session of you bitching about your partner, but if you have so much displeasure and feel that unhappy being together, then why not break up. I know some people who have so much to complain over the same issue, that they could get mutes to yell ‘shut up’ at them just to get them to stop talking.

3. You have been physically abused

If this is the case and you are STILL with that person, then this is not true love but the best manifestation of stupidity. Just so you know, I secretly snigger at how dumb you are as a person. Those bruise marks may be emotional scars to you, but to me they are just tattoos of stupidity. I laugh louder if they are on your face.

4. You are not allowed to watch your favourite TV program

Having the sovereignty to channel surf at your own prerogative is the foundation on which every successful relationship should be based on. Where hairdryers are exclusively for women, remote controllers should be the sole proprietorship of men.

The freedom to watch any TV program is a right that sometimes becomes surrendered when people get into a relationship. And that is wrong, just like having your steak well done, or going deep throat with braces.

I know so because I was in one such relationship and when she said ‘no watching this’, it came as an order and usually with a frown. If I went against that, she would make it clear that I will never see her tits for weeks to come.


Naturally of course, the case scenarios are never ending libraries of kaleidoscopic mixes of abuse, money, sex – or lack of it and lies, lots of it. Well, that pretty much sums up the fundamentals of relationships if you ask me. Yet, even with the onslaught of this shit wave, why do people still cling on so blindly?

It’s because love springs hope, and stupidity. And true love just stems from true stupidity.

Here is what will happen if you had a brain to think, instead of relying on trivial things like emotions, your heart or a penis.

1. They are cheating on you repeatedly.

You dump their ass. Repeatedly.

2. You complain about your partner incessantly

You dump their ass. Why bitch when you can spend your time doing more productive stuff like Sudoku.

3. You have been physically abused.

You dump their ass. Remember, you ever need to bitch slap, always use the master arm, lock the wrist and follow through with the slap.

4. Not allowed to watch your favourite TV program

You dump their ass. And do it fast before they start imposing rules on using the toilet or restricting your food intake.

Now, how much easier is life if you just used your brains? This is so easy, it’s like beating polio kids at hop-scotch. You might feel guilty at first but once you get used to it, you’ll wonder why you didn’t think of it earlier.

Life is too short to be taking shit from people, unless of course you are in the waste disposal line, then I guess more is better. If you ever need to execute a break-up, then do it properly, because time is an opportunity cost and it waits for no one, maybe except Usain Bolt.

I live for today, I do not cry and I stop for no one.

Butterfly Hates Credit Cards

There are several truly evil things in the world, like Hitler, vampires, parsley, and step-mothers. And of the last couple of months, credit card sales people.

Now we all know that vortex of debts credit cards can lure, tease and ditch us in, with promises of gastronomical delights and stunning supercars as prizes. We all know that credit cards are detrimental to our savings accounts and are mutually exclusive to each other, like Louis Vuitton and discounts. And we all know that credit cards look best in black.

For the longest of time I’ve kept my loyalty to American Express, despite the comparative lack of perks and high annual fee. It wasn’t so much that I was a staunch believer of cash, but it was a concoction of laziness and lacking opportunity that kept my wallet shy of a visa.

For the longest of time, I’ve always wanted the DBS black card, but at the same time, I’ve always only had people from Maybank and Standard Chartered calling me about their ‘new’ platinum cards. This went on for like forever and every time I would assert my disinterest for it and remind them not to call me again.

Obviously, they, like all other sales people who are deaf and never understand ‘no’, kept calling me up every month. Sure, they changed the tele-marketers but it was always someone with a funky accent and equally deaf. Till one day,

Tele-sales: “Hi seer, I am cawlling from Starnd-dard chart-tard bunk, and we wood like to ark-stand our plut-ti-niam card to yew.”
Me: “It’s okay, I don’t want it.”
Tele-sales: “Bart why seer? It is free for..”
Me: “I know, I know. I just don’t want it. But hey can you get DBS to call me? I want to apply for a Black card.”

She hung up shortly after and they have since stopped calling me. I made the deaf hear again. I am one amazing human being, more awesome than David Blaine.

I finally did get down to applying my DBS cards and it went from my primary objective to get one card to getting an entire collection of cards that I will never get to use. So much so that I will soon have so many cards in my wallet that if I put all the magnetic strips together, I will qualify as the new North Pole.

Sales: “So what credit cards are you looking at?”
Me: “What do I qualify for.”
Sales: “That will be all of them. I will recommend you take, this..this..this and this.”
Me: “Do I need that many?”

He went on to tell me specific perks for each of them and all I heard was, “discounts off drinks and one-for-one” and I was sold like a slave to a colonial tea plantation willing to work without lunch.

These guys are pure evil beings with eyes that pierce your very soul and scour your weaknesses. He had me by the nuts. How could I - knowing it to be a cardinal sin - turn down anything that gets me twice the amount of drinks with the same amount of money?

This guy was so good, he could convince Michael Jackson go back to being black again. And the next thing I know, I’m taking on cards I have never heard of before. I knew then that if I stayed to chat with him more over coffee, he might have convinced me to buy a camel and trade in my car.

That said, I was never against the idea of having multiple credit cards. When I was working part time as a tele-marketer for Ready Credit 9 years ago with Huixx, I never understood why anyone would turn down something that was free.

We were offering free usage of a credit facility and throwing in a Gianfranco Ferre pen prized at $129, when in reality it cost $15, and some G-shock replicas from China that lasted just long enough for an erection. Like, how can you possibly say no to these?

“Just keep it for a year and cancel it when the waiver period is up.”

That became my best selling formula.

Then just last night over dinner I was telling the guys about how amazingly fast CitiBank processed their credit card application and the reason why I signed up for two of their cards, which supposedly gave some pretty good perks.

Faith: “It’s all the same one. Trust me.”
Me: “Huh, are you sure?”
Faith: “What dividend card, what clear card.. all the same. You just need to carry one card out.”
Me: “Fuck…”

Me: “But there are some cards which can help you earn flyer miles right??”
Germ: “Yep, I checked on those, but apparently it isn’t even good, cos you sacrifice one component..”
Me: “What?!”

Fuck me backwards. I am now a victim of credit card dependency. I better fucking win a supercar next year, or I will be VERY pissed.

How Men and Women Differ - Pt 2

Is fidelity an ascribed gender characteristic? Do men really have a higher propensity to cheat?

I don’t know the answers, neither am I concerned with it. What I do know is that I have a phonebook with enough empirical evidence – none on speed dial thankfully – to prove that women will cheat on their partners, even when they are in love.

A paramount aspect in the deconstruction of the premise of fidelity and gender, lies in the probe of the driving mechanics behind every blemish in mankind’s fall to temptations. Simplistically put; why do people cheat.

For men, the ownership of a penis is a biological excuse to proxy the chastising of societal myopia on sexual liberty. Men have a penis, which drains blood from the brain to the penis in several instances, attributed usually by, short skirts, cleavages, hot women in body hugging latex or maybe in some parts of the world, the rear end view of a sheep.

When men see a hot woman, the thought process runs through a stimulus of varying questions. They think,

1. I wonder how it feels like to be in bed with her
2. Does she blow well?
3. I wonder if she licks ass
4. I wonder if we have to spoon after sex

When women see a hot man, they think,

1. I wonder if he has a nice personality

Yes, it sucks not to have a penis. It’s a generalization of a sample population I know, because I do have female friends who are primarily concern with more pressing issues like penis length, girth and wash board abs. And similarly I do have male friends who are also concerned with trivial stuff like character and compatibility, things that only prove to me they are gay.

Inversely, women are much more into details when it comes to sex. I’ve sat through many sex talk sessions with my female friends and I realize women divulge a lot more than men do. Here are some of the things they ask,

1. “Was he good?”
2. The size of the penis
3. “Does he kiss well?”
4. “What did you do after sex?”
5. “When?? How?? Why??” All these usually start with, “Oh my gawd!”

Men keep it simple.

1. “Was it a good fuck?”

Men don’t really want to hear details of their friend fucking some other chick, more so if it’s a hot chick. They are also not genuinely interested to know if that girl was great in bed, what they really want to know, is if they can score as well.

Cheating.

Men never really need a reason to cheat. We cheat for a multitude of reasons. Manchester United just lost, we celebrate, so we cheat. That girl has bigger boobs, we cheat. Some freelance prostitute is giving a discount, we cheat. We drink, we cheat. It’s Friday, we cheat.

Do I believe that men are more prone to cheating because having a penis is a biological default for higher propensity for infidelity? No. If you've seen the number of women I know who have cheated – or still cheating - on their boyfriends, you will buy my “Stay single. Don’t get cheated on.” T-shirts.

Men, women, we all cheat. Temptations are created for humanity to fall. What fun is there if no one falters?

The difference is that when men cheat, they think they won’t get caught, while women cheat and blame it on men. It’s never ever really just their fault.

Well I’m sure women have truly validated reasons to cheat, besides a gratuitous revenge fuck or one too many champagnes. I am actually curious to venture into some depth to understand the female psyche beyond the superficial reasoning of emotions. Is there actually one?

Now you have me for an audience. Thrill me…

The Hotdog Story

I missed this story completely. This was on the night of the 26 drinks pub crawl.


There was a reason why I didn't actually detail the 'Hotdog Story' on the night we had our birthday celebration by pub crawling along the Singapore river - and if we had on lifejackets, I'm sure it would have passed of as a duck tour.

Well, that was because I didn't fully appreciate the hilarity of the incident, because I didn't see the entire shit pan out before me and largely because I was already tipsy. Here, is the pieced recount from Huixx, LB, Reznor and Tigerlily's versions.

We were all leaving wine bar for Orchard Towers, drunk no less. Niner was already suffering from alcohol amnesia and barely able to do a decent catwalk. Apparently, Niner bumped into some dude at the hotdog stand and that guy dropped his sausage, so he turns round and yells at Niner.

Niner, obviously shit housed drunk and barely able to even focus on cleavage, does not respond to the guy, which pisses him off even more so he moves in to grab Stefan, at which Huixx intervenes.

Huixx: "Hey you!! Stop this nonsense! Here's $4, take it and stop this nonsense!"

The guy ignores her and throws a claw which catches Niner on his face/neck. Pandemonia erupts. The guy is still yelling at Niner, trying to pick a fight over a fucking $2 sausage. The bouncers are sniggering over the absurdity of it. Reznor is trying to pry them apart and in the midst of it all, LB is shouting,

LB: "HAHAHAHAHA!! IT IS JUST A SAUSAGE!! IT IS JUST A SAUSAGE!!"

Not even knowing what just happened, my instincts kicked in and I immediately restrained the guy from getting into an altercation with Niner - and prevent him from dishing out anymore pussy catfight moves. And for my troubles, the guy yelled, 'fuck off' to me, twice.

At this point, some crazy ass chick comes by, yelling about Niner dropping her sausage too and this girl wasn't even anywhere near the scene when it all happened, and I was pretty convinced she probably just got off the bus and thought she'd try her luck at a free suasage.

Girl: "You drop my sausage! Buy me back a sausage."

And I checked.. there weren't any sausages on the ground.

Tigerlily: "I give you my sausage loh.."

And Tigerlily was also tipsy and trying to pacify the girl with her half eaten sausage.

Girl: "Buy me back my sausage!!!"

Then out of no where, some dude walks by her and says,

MysteryMan: "Yo! I got two sausages for you!" [flashes both middle fingers at her and walks off]

I almost peed my pants laughing.

When Idiots Tell Riddles

For as long as I can remember, telling a riddle didn't require any particular skill or flair and was a conversational gateway that had zero barriers of entry. All you need is to be able to speak. Unlike telling a joke where you might need a certain element of comic delivery and animation, giving a riddle is as easy as winning Terry Fox in a long jump.

Apparently, I was wrong.

I was with Yang at a bar a week back and we started making small talk with the waiters. This is fundamental marketing strategy for our work, so I started telling them about a joke Faith had told me earlier in the day.

"One day, a blonde went into an electrical appliance store to buy a TV. So she pointed and said, 'How much for that TV.' and the sales guy said,

'I don't sell to dumb blondes'.

Upset at his remarks, she went home, dyed her hair black and returned the next day.

'How much for that TV?' she asked

'I don't sell to dumb blondes.' the sales guy replied again

Puzzled but equally upset, she went back home for an extreme make over. She cut her hair short, did away with the makeup and changed her dressing. Convinced that the guy would now sell her the TV, she returned.

'How much for that TV?' she asked

'Look lady, I told you I don't sell to dumb blondes!', he replied

Extremely puzzled that he saw through her disguise, she asked, 'How do you know I'm a dumb blonde?'

He replied,

"Cos' that's a microwave!!"

Immediately after the punchline, Yang burst into laughter, but the bartender shot me a blank look, clearly not impressed. Then he shrugged his shoulder,

Bartender: "I don't get it."

So Yang retold the entire joke, deconstructing it for easy digestion then explained the punchline, of which the bartender shrugged his shoulders again, and said.

"I still don't get it."

I frowned at Yang, then we agreed to blame vodka for the slow thought processing.

Bartender: "Let me ask you a riddle. The world is this big (he makes a huge arc with his arms), what is in the centre of the world?"

Me: "The core?"
Bartender: "Nope. The letter L. Cos' it's the centre letter of the word 'world'."

He goes on to laugh and congratulate himself for pulling one over us. It was his redemption, his moment to savour for his juvenile triumph and he was going to be raucous about it with imaginary high fives.

Then it suddenly struck me, like the morning sinus bout. The middle letter in 'world' isn't 'L', it's 'R'!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

That's what happens when morons give a riddle, it becomes a joke.

The 26 Drinks Pub Crawl

It was one crazy idea, fuelled by a barrage of ingenuity and an entourage of people willing to hop on the bandwagon of this merry carnival of alcoholic intemperance. We just needed a convenient excuse to drink, and using our birthdays served up the perfect context.

When Candice got the drink list up and I started circulating it to the guys along with the post on the blog, everyone thought we were mad and they became apprehensive about committing to the whole 26 drinks idea. For one, the whole thought of mixing champagne with vodka and sambuca seemed like the vile concoction of a sadistic mixologist.

Secondly, LB along with Faith and Reznor’s repeated protest that the estimated drinks tab chalking up to over $300 each, wasn’t the most economically valuable option since we could easily get 20 bottles between the whole group of us.

As I am next in line to become emperor of the new world, and poster boy for all damaged livers, I ignored the protests and assured them that there was no need to drink that much, so long as they were willing to throw inhibitions aside and do the dares.

The dares were basically in place as drink substitutes, ranging from strike 1 (substitution for one drink) to strike 5 (substitution for 5 drinks) and based on the varying difficulty of execution. For example, drawing your face with a marker or pecking a stranger on the cheeks was a strike 1, while having a beer shower was a strike 5.

And so it started. After a mid-week long of coaxing my closest friends to embark on the night of mayhem and spreading the word of a pub crawl festive under the pretext of a birthday celebration for LB and me, we finally got it started.

I had catered for an attendance of 20, which is the equivalent number of laminated tags I made, but little did I know, that number was to be exceeded even before we could get into the full swing of things.

10.30pm: I arrive at ground zero - which would be Boat Quay- with Niner to see no one there yet. Half convinced that everyone has surrendered to the sheer daunting task of running the entire 26 drinks gauntlet, I start sending out ‘where the fuck are you’ text messages.

10.40pm: GT4 arrives and is appointed invigilator for the night.

11.00pm: Germ, Candice, Totti, LB and Esmond arrive, still convinced that this is a suicidal game no different from drinking a litre of detergent then burning up all your remaining cash just before you choke on your vomit.

GT4: “Someone better have 995 on speed dial.”
Germ: “Don’t worry, that would be me.”

11.05pm: We start off at The Cavern and L’cky joins us shortly. We kick start with our mandatory 3 drinks. I take a vodka Red Bull, a tequila shot and a lychee martini.

11.15pm: Finding the pace too slow, I do my fourth drink, an amaretto on the rocks.

11.20pm: LB, L’cky and Totti start off the night with the first dare, bar top dancing. Patrons on the outside start laughing at us, along with some periodic frowns because there are two dicks dancing on the bar and no one really gives a shit about men.

11.33pm: Kat messages me to meet her at the next location, Jazz @ Southbridge.

11.40pm: Huixx and Leo arrive, ready to catch themselves up to speed with the night’s proceedings.

11.45pm: Kat, Reznor, Tigerlily, Jerm, Boey, Botak, KJ, Freddy and 3 other female friends of Kat join us and start their assault of the 26 drinks. We hand them each a card to hang around their necks.

11.46pm: I do my 5th drink, another lychee martini.

11.50pm: Germ starts yelling at the waiter for not marching with her while doing the great Singapore workout (a strike 2 dare), while we kept persuading the waiter not to comply.

Me: “Babe, this is not counted. He’s not even marching with you.”
Germ: “YOU MUST MARCH!! MARCH!! YOU ARE GOING TO GET MY DARE DISQUALIFIED!! NOW MARCH!!!”

11.55pm: LB manages to get a stranger to kiss him. He is by default now, the greatest human being in the group. None of the women want to carry me for my dare. No one gives a shit about me these days so I sulk, then proceed to steal a sip of vodka Red Bull.

12.00mn: One of the guys remind us that this is after all, a jazz club and that we are making so much noise that it is drowning the singer’s vocals. We have 22 people, which makes up for more than half the pubs capacity and by simple economic calculations, figure that we are contributing at that point, the greatest to the cash register, and hence should be allowed to even pee on stage if we want to. We are horrible people.

12.10am: We head to Home Club, where Atila - the legend, joins us. This is so much more interesting now. Adrian and his female friend join us. Our total group strength is now 25, we have a shortage of tags, much to their disappointment but they drink anyway.

12.15am: One of the club bosses buys me an absinthe shot and beer. I take both in a gulp and proclaim myself the greatest human ever since Michael Phelps and Terry Fox.

Candice: “Oh my gawd! You are so going to be knocked out after this.”
Me: “A stupid absinthe is not going to do shit to me.”

12.30am: Atila buys a round of Jagerbombs, I take one and bring my total tally up to 8 drinks, the most amount consumed in the entire group, while a couple of others were probably at 7.

I can’t remember the exact chronological flow but there was a whole series of dares that played out at that place. There were lap dances handed out, L’cky kissed a waiter, Candice and Germ crotch grabbed strangers and the highlight of it all was LB and I kissing for the dare.

At 8 drinks, everything is a great idea.

1.00am: We make our way to MOS, where Faith joins us. A whole group of idiots walking with tags around their necks, laughing, singing out of sync and simultaneously finding people to do the next dare on. All we need were coloured beads and a lot less clothes, and we would qualify for mardi gras.

1.10am: The whole entourage of us cramp into Sky Lounge and I immediately persuade Faith to get a bottle of champagne, while I take my tally to 11 with a vodka and sambuca shot.

More dares followed here.

I got some girl and her friend to carry me up for a photo. Jerm convinced some Caucasians to do the Singapore workout with him. Reznor belted out his rendition of ‘Love me’ to the cashier, and got ignored for it. Huixx did a sultry erection worthy, Vegas bona fide, Pussycat Dolls would-be-so-fucking-proud, lap dance for some guy and Leo stepped up to the plate and delivered an equivalent on a lady.

1.40am: We celebrate with a round of champagne and I do another round of peach martini and a blowjob. I am at 14 and going strong, despite trying to gag at the toilet bowl.

1.45am: LB and I draw our faces with markers.

It seemed like a cool idea then to have the numerical figures 31 streaked across my cheeks. It’s amazing what level of degradation alcohol can subject you to.

2.00am: I end off with a lychee and peach martini because I am a pussy and struck off 3 of the other remaining killer drinks in the list using dares. I am at 16 drinks. I pat myself for this mediocre achievement.

Over dinner today, the girls told me that I did either a flaming Lamborghini or a flaming AK47 somewhere along the line before we left for Butterfactory. Apparently, I am not as sober as I thought I was and I wasn’t just dreaming I had it.

The magic number is now 17.

2.30am: We head to Butterfactory.

The guys continued their round of dares but I secluded myself from all the laughing and snapshots and plastered myself by the bar with Leo. The thing was that the group was so huge, half the time I didn’t really know what was going on and I would hear them cheering as if they caught a leprechaun.

2.50am: I do a peach martini with Niner and Leo - which was suspiciously more like just a full shot of vodka. I cringe my face to show my displeasure to no one in particular.

3.10am: We arrive at Zouk’s Wine Bar.

3.30am: I get a tray of sour plum shots and Jerm gets a tray of apple shooters. I do five more shots to end the night at 23.

That was more than enough to clear the list (inclusive of the dares) but I had a mild reservation for an all out conquest because I had to wake up early for an event on Saturday. And while most of them were blessed with the luxury of sleeping in, I had a pre-set alarm ready to wake me at 10am.

3.45am: Almost everyone completes their list or are at least just a couple of drinks shy. Reznor is the only one that has about 10 drinks remaining after factoring in all the dares. I frown at him to show my disapproval for his performance.

He now officially owes us ALL dinner.

4.00am: We draw pictures of penises on our cards to signify our completion and subsequent survival of what initially looked like a kamikaze nose dive to the liver transplant ward. LB draws a tiny one for mine.

Girl: “Oh, why is yours so tiny?”
Me: “Maybe cos it is.”
Girl: “Is yours really this size?”

She spaced her fingers apart by an inch to mimic the length LB drew on my card.

Me: “That’s only on the good days.”
Girl: “Hahahaha.”

Somewhere along there, while we were getting ready to cap the night at Orchard Towers, Niner got into a mild altercation with some guy who I think accused him of dropping his sausage. Then some girl came in and joined the fray of verbal profanities and her claim- I think-, was also an accusation on Niner for dropping her sausage.

I did the only logical thing that people who have 23 drinks in them would do; I searched the floor for two dropped sausages.

I was tired, but unwilling to surrender to fatigue. D dropped by to join us with Lydia. Then everything became a quiet acceleration of movements and reduced thought processing. I know I was standing in the Thai disco, with some dancer having her arms around me and L’cky dancing provocatively against me, and all I was thinking of, was the dread of dragging myself out of bed in 5 hours.

Then against character and utter disrespect for unfinished beers, I left briskly, escorted out by Lydia. Without a singular prompt of a farewell or accompanying text messages, I left the remaining guys at the club and hopped into a cab bound for home.

I earned it. No one else had more to drink than I did and I just wanted to sleep.