The Hong Kong Rave Club

If you’ve watched enough Hong Kong movies and wondered if rave culture in clubs is as blatant as movies portray, then you should know two things. Yes it is, and that if you have a stomachache in a club, you are fucked.

And you know what else will get you fucked? Staring. It’ll pretty much get you the same ass beating and trash talking in Singapore – but in Cantonese.

That said, I’m sure if you throw some dough around, it’ll get you fucked in all merit of the word. It’s Asia, there are definitely people in the club who would go down on you for money. Think about it, we’re Chinese, we basically invented prostitution.

The great thing about being back in Hong Kong was the weather. It was chilly enough to bring a coat but not freezing to the point where I feel the risk of amputating my fingers every time I smoke.

The down side was that our entire day was spent sitting through a seminar that I hardly even had time to appreciate the in-room movies, let alone do some shopping to exploit the cheaper designer label prices.

What we didn’t do in the day, we made up amply for in the night. Ceaseless flow of alcohol, and a gratuitous wide eye appreciation of cornucopian parade of Jagerbomb trains. And along the way we were singing so loudly on the streets that we only needed a reindeer and it would have been a Christmas carol.

Then there was Club Pipi, reputed dance club and the biggest Hong Kong had to offer. And from the entrance it looked like it was ostensibly living up to its billing, with a whole throng for people that looked like they were there for the next Young & Dangerous casting.

Crowds were a good thing for us, because only an hour ago, we were at this club that was so empty, they had more urinals than people. Ironically, that place was called Full House. I laughed so hard, I peed all over the floor. It’s like calling your daughter Princess and she turns out looking like a toad, with a missing ear.

The place was large, I’d have gushed over it except that in Singapore, we’re used to mega dance clubs. It was obvious that this used to be an old cinema judging from the usher isles and impressively high ceiling. It’s a pity that I don’t give a shit about décor so long as there’s alcohol.

So it all started again. The familiar surreptitious comments and glances on the place, the people, the music all while keeping a close proximity to the bar and penning out the drinking itinerary.

The first bottle of vodka came out. I was still periodically tapping my feet, trying to coax them into beat to dance to some cataclysmal mash of pop and R&B that would have made deaf people frown.

Then, it came. Almost instantaneously, without warning, or regards to the glasses of vodka that awaited my lips. That all familiar rumbling in the tummy.

This was bad. I was in a club, having a stomach upset and needing to shit badly. Very badly.

I placed the glass down and started walking briskly to the toilet, periodically breaking out into hops and skips, whilst clenching my butt tighter with each approaching step.

It was full as I expected it to be. I now wished I hadn’t laughed at Full House because if this was there, I would be picking my cubicle by how much toilet paper they had. Maybe this was karma, and it sure picked a great time to get back at me.

I immediately rooted myself outside the nearest cubicle, started pulling out paper from the communal toilet roll and prayed. It was the only thing I could do because it felt like an eternity just waiting for my turn.

Then I realized, there was actually more than one person inside the cubicle. And since this isn’t a gay club, the obvious was beginning to settle in. People were actually doing drugs in there.

I glanced over to the other cubicles and it was the same circus there. I am fucked. How long am I going to have to wait before I’m allowed to do what the toilets are actually built for. Am I the only legitimate toilet user in this place?

I was breaking out in sweat just bending over with my hands supported on the wall. A thousand scenarios raced through my mind. Maybe I could run to some back alley and shit by the drain, or a basket. Maybe I might not make it that far, so will the stairs do? Will I get thrown out if I shat my pants?

Or maybe, if I just prayed hard enough, they will be done soon?

Then some guy taps me on the back and says something in Cantonese to me. Generally, my comprehension of the language is as good as a midget trying to do a pole vault. So when I’m trying to hold my shit in, everything sounds like penguins singing the national anthem of Antarctica.

Me: “I… don’t speak.. Cantonese.”

He: “Oh, if you want to use the toy-let, I think maybe you try sum-where else. These pee-pole will be in there long time.”

FUCK! Hope was the only thing I had left that perhaps their packet of blow was about done, or that one of them was going to OD and they would come bursting out, dragging the muthafucker with them. And now, it was all gone.

I was at a crossroads, a decision making axis where all great men have come to face. Do I stay and wait, or do I leave in search of more toilets?

I quickly made my way back to the guys.

Me: “I need a toilet. Badly. Like a VIP toilet, or for crew.”

Sam: “Okay follow me. I bring you to VIP toilet.”

So I did, and 30 seconds later, I ended up at another toilet – to his credit -, but with the same powder carnival. Maybe this was just another cue from God to crap my pants.

I went back to the bar where the bottles had multiplied and they were on to champagne. I was going to have none of it, I was not going to dance and I certainly was not going to shit by the looks of it.

Some of the guys came up to me, visibly inebriated with a lot less concern for my plight.

They: “Come drink!!”

Me: “Don’t touch me. Like seriously don’t touch me. I’m trying to concentrate on keeping my shit in.”

Then 15 minutes in, one of the guys had deliberately poured champagne on one of the girls, another had gotten emotional and I was still gently pacing the place, singing hymns to myself.

Me: “Hey, I need to go like now. I’ll see you guys back at the hotel.”
Nana: “We’ll all go back together.”
Me: “Then we need to go now. I don’t think you want to be there in the cab when I shit myself.”

I eventually made it, with dignity intact. And it took me a sprint across the hotel lobby that would have made Usain Bolt look like Terry Fox.