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…