The Luminous Friday

Sometimes in life, we get inspired by the most unlikely of things, like dildos, poverty, silicon boobs and anorexia. On Friday, it was a 50% discount on the front of Zara and a reject rack of t-shirts.

There, hung 3 of the brightest most luminous t-shirts that would have made even John Wayne look queer. It came in three colours, bright queer orange, luminous gay yellow and striking homo green. You would have believed me if I told you the clothes were inspired by sorbet flavours.

It was Friday, we were looking to do something crazy and this was our solution. We would grab 5 of these, hit the clubs, and get people to autograph our t-shirts. And besides, we would be so easy to spot, you would have seen me at St James all the way from Bukit Panjang.

When I got to the club with LB, I was coming off two heavy sessions of beer and cognac. RotiPrata, Nana and HY were already there with a line of Red Bull and Vodka. Then it all went downhill.

We got smashed so quickly I don’t even remember the actual sequence of events that led up to a wager between LB and me about him getting some girl to allow him to squeeze her tits and me punching his balls if he failed.

LB: “Can I touch your breast? I don’t want to get punch in the balls by him”

Girl: “NOOOO!”

LB: “How about I just poke?”

In honesty, there really wasn’t anyone there that night except for the whole group of about 14 of us, which was pretty much everyone in the club, save for a couple of stranglers at the corner who were in part peripheral friends. It was in fact so empty, our shadows would have been bored.

Then the champagne made it’s introduction upon our lips and ignited a new desire for St James – which really was in part a plea from HY.

Next I know, we are staggering out the club, fumbling down the stairs and I started lying restlessly on the stone chair outside the place in a pose that would have made Ji Gong proud.

Then with a marker in hand, egged by boredom and enough alcohol in my pee to start a Toyota Prius, I started doodling on the chair. Right until the security guard came along.

He: “Excuse me sir, no lying down here.”

He was sturdy with no expression on his face. The same kind of sadness and disdain for life I would have if I was a security guard. I quickly lifted my back up as best I could.

He: “Did you write on the chair?”

Me: “NOOOO!”

I replied with the only instinctive lie I could muster and all this while, he was staring down at me and there I was sitting, with my marker still uncapped in hand, trying to lie my way out of it.

He: “You know this is vandalising?”

Me: “Dounch worry, I help you clean.”

So I started licking my fingers and rubbed it valiantly against the ink mark, at best smudging it.

He: “The ink mark is still there.”

Me: “But I ran out of saliva…”

To say he was livid was to say the least. There he was bearing down on me for blatant misconduct and there I was, visibly drunk, and licking away on his stone chair.

He: “I can call police you know!”

Me: “Dounch need to call, I continue rubbing for you.”

So I continued greasing my fingers with saliva and wiping them all over the ink trace on the chair. He gave up, still furious but beyond wits end because the other guys were laughing and they were quite possibly mre drunk than I was and also because I ended up talking to the stone dog that was lying next to the chair.

Me: “Ah Wang!! Dounch sleep! Dounch Sleep!”

The cab came and I had to coax an inebriated LB into the cab with HY and his two newfound female friends whom he had only minutes ago, tried to persuade them to allow him to cop a feel.

I scrambled up to drag the rest of them out. I was gaining sobriety by the seconds and not entirely pleased with that it wasn’t even because I was dancing it off. When I got up, it was as if God had heard my prayer, because the champagnes kept coming and I was pretty sure it would suffice the journey to St James.

When we finally did leave, RotiPrata shafted a huge roll of toilet paper into our cab and I was striking up banter with the driver.

Cab: “Why you carrying so much toilet paper?”

Me: “It’s toilet paper to yew, but this is money to me. I sell toilet paper. Uncle, if I wind down your window and start selling toilet paper to the other cars okay anot?”

This was by far the coolest cab driver because most cab drivers usually ignore us when we are drunk, but not only was this guy playing along with my crap, he was actually sporting enough to commit to a karaoke session with me.

When we got there, RotiPrata was spewing all over the sidewalk and if I wasn’t so fixated on getting to dance, or perhaps with a lot less alcohol, I might have showed more empathy or compassion – maybe a pat on the back, instead of just laughing.

By the time we joined the others, there was already another full bottle of vodka, LB had broken a pool cue and it was just as boring as the last place. So what does LB do to spice up the night? He starts tearing our T-shirts.

First it was D2’s, then when my guard was down, he ripped it all the way to my navel. It was like watching Hulk Hogan 20 years back – with smaller biceps and bigger belly.

Me: “WHAT THE FUCK!!”

LB: “HAHAHAHA!!”

I grabbed a full glass of Red Bull by the table and began chasing him round the place.

Me: “You muthafucker! Your shirt is gone!”

LB: “Please please! My shirt very expensive. My shirt very expensive!”

So we traded. I took his shirt and he had to content with my t-shirt which by then would have qualified as a safety vest. All he needed was a helmet, some boots and he could have passed off as a construction worker.

Me: “You fucker. If you so much as bite me again. I will burn your fucking shirt!”

30 minutes later, we were in no state to party. I didn’t want to spend my night singing at Mono, LB didn’t have clothes and RotiPrata had on his ‘I’m too fucked. Get me home’ look. So we got into a cab. Or at least LB and I did, and RotiPrata forced his way in.

Me: “Why the fuck are you in the cab with us?”

RotiPrata: “Together lah..”

And mind you, it isn’t like we stay near each other, or that he was going the same way as us. And it wasn’t like he has to pay for cabs and that’s why we are sharing, so it entirely puzzled me why he even wanted to get in with us.

This turned out to the cab driver’s worst ride of the day.

LB: “My wallet! I drop my wallet!”

He frantically searches the chair.

LB: “Uncle! I lost my wallet! Can you help me find?”

Cab: “Mister, how to help you find?! You know I am driving right?!”

RotiPrata had to practically calm the driver down because it looked as if he was going to throw LB out the cab in the middle of the expressway. And it got worse shortly after because we were all arguing on who was going to get to drop off first.

RotiPrata: “Why can’t you drop me off first?!”

Me: “That’s because you don’t even fucking stay near us!”

RotiPrata: “Okay, then uncle, can you stop me at the overhead bridge infront?”

Cab: “Mister, this is the expressway, I can’t just pull over and stop you!”

RotiPrata: “Why? Why? But it’s just up ahead.”

Me: “It’s the fucking CTE!! How the fuck is he going to just stop in the middle of the road when there is no road shoulder there?!”

When we got to the traffic junction after exiting, RotiPrata immediately stormed out of the cab, showed us the middle finger and decided that he was going to walk home instead.

Not only was this absurdly hilarious to me, but the fact that he was going to walk home with a torn luminous t-shirt and a broken watch amused me to no end.

Then 5 minutes later, he called.

RP: “Where the fuck are you?”

Me: “Reaching home.”

RP: “Muthafucking cheebye the both of you!”

Then next day, LB called.

LB: “What happened last night? RotiPrata said you kicked him out the cab.”

Me: “I didn’t kick him out dude, he jumped out the cab. Did he manage to catch a cab?”

LB: “He walked all the way home, with his tattered shirt.”

Then he sent LB this SMS. “You broke my watch, tore my shirt and made me walk all the way home. I don’t know how you are going to make it up to me.”

Us: “HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”