That Day With The Bottle
I no longer religiously document my regular clubbing escapades because every other night is a mimic of the weekend before. We party, we get drunk, I chalk up a hefty tab and when I hit the shops over the weekend, I can walk pass Paul Smith and think, ‘oh, I could have bought that’.
The last weekend was pretty much in tangent to my canonical proceedings; alcohol and women. We started at Butter Factory, which was as with every weekend, so packed with people that if you took a picture and posted it, it would qualify for a ‘Where’s Wally’ poster.
Beautiful people aside, the crowd itself can be quite deterring, especially when a room serviced by a very efficient air-conditioning system gets humid and it takes you so long to get to the toilet, that Cuba would have become a democratic state by the time you unzip your pants to pee.
And since this wasn’t Bangkok, it meant that I lose all privilege of being Singaporean and money cannot buy me a table for my bottle. I hate this country.
When we finally managed to get a table, the bottle took ages to come. And when it did, there weren’t any glasses. When that came, we had to wait for the ice. And when they finally got the ice flown in from Antarctica, there weren’t any mixers. People must really hate me over there.
The guys came back periodically to tell me about the crowd inside, but I was primarily fixated on my bottle, which I was pacing through pretty decently since I was constantly engaged in conversations that would always be interrupted at mid sentences by random toasts that always habitually ended with me skulling the glass.
Then it happened. The unthinkable.
I remembered coming back for a smoke with Denyse and by some cruel intervention of misfortune; she knocked over the drinks at the table. It was that reverberating echo and freeze frame of watching my bottle smashed onto the floor.
And I just stared myself silly as I watched my half filled bottle now lying in pieces on the ground. What do I do?
Do I recognise the clattering voice of fate and the evaporating scent of vodka as salvation? Do I take it as a divine intervention or perhaps a distress call from my liver that sent a quick text to God for help? Do I abandon the night and surrender to fatigue? Am I allowed to now throw tantrums?
I did nothing, all through her stream of apologies and offer to get me another bottle. I was caught in a mosaic frame of absolute ‘pissness ‘ and quiet capitulation with the demise of my vodka bottle as my term of surrender.
I stood up and suggested a change of venue because I could no longer sit at the table and breathe the air of evaporating alcohol and knew very well that, that would have more deservingly been appreciated if it was consumed by me.
Guy: “What’s at Zouk?”
Me: “Something you cannot find at 7-11 at this time. Alcohol and hot women. Together.”
And that was enough to convince them.
When we finally got to Zouk, that whole bottle episode was behind me and I celebrated that with two jagerbombs and some random glasses of champagne. Then more came, like the rivers of Babylon. It was shot after shot, and when that came to a cease fire, there was always a jug being stuffed to my face.
And when that ended, we threw up the insomniac’s favourite route by suggesting we continued the party at Living Room. And this was a conversation I distinctively remembered because I was talking so much crap, you’d have wondered if I was drinking Newater allnight long.
This was one of the girl’s friend who was complaining about having to wake up early for a wedding.
He: “You know what is the part I hate most about the wedding? The part where the brothers have to bargain for entry and the girls demand like $8,000.”
Me: “This is so simple. What you do is later when you get back, go to some mail order bride website and download their pictures. When you get to the house tomorrow and those girls tell you $8,000, you take out those pictures and you tell them fuckers that for $8,000, you can get like 4 of them to lick your ass everyday once before meals.
$8,000… That’s fucking ridiculous. You can get the whole fucking village, the girl and her unborn cousins to marry your friend. I’m serious man. Go prepared so that they know you mean business.”
When we got to Living Room, the crowd was pretty much the regular composite of drunks and whores. And by whores, I literally mean prostitutes who are plastered to the bar stools and will take any eye contact you make with them, legitimate reasons to approach you.
Slowly the guys all succumbed to fatigue and prior arrangements to fuck. I on the other hand, was already well tanked and beyond my capabilities to sustain an erection, so I decided to entirely embrace alcohol instead.
When it closed and the guys deliberated over how they were going to split the cabs, I started making eye contact with a girl at the taxi queue. I knew they were all going to board the same taxi and I was going to be stranded so I had to calculate my next move.
As soon as they got into the cab and drove off, I started walking towards her. I knew she was a working girl because even before I could wink impishly at her, she asked me if I would like to fuck her. And the last time someone was so forthcoming about getting me in bed, that person had a surgical vagina. Life is never always so good, even for the Butterfly.
Me: “Even if you are Miss Thailand, fucking you now is almost impossible.”
She: “I not Thailand. I from Vietnam.”
Me: “Wow. That didn’t make a difference. AT ALL.”
She: “So you want to sleep with me?”
Me: “If I said I would love to because I think you are pretty. Would you let me cut the queue?”
It was 6.30 in the morning, I was very inebriated, sleepy and exhausted but still capable of lying. I amaze myself all the time. And for the record, she actually gave up her cab to me. I love being me.