Blood and Wine

Confessions of a nightclub addict.

I have a confession. I have failed you, my friends, and I am ashamed. Despite all your high expectations of me and all your requests (more like demands backed by threats of castration) for first-hand reviews and tales of bad behavior and lascivious conduct, I still failed to venture out a single time into the exotic landscape of Singaporean nightlife.

It is true. And I have no excuses. Perhaps it was the tyrannical boarding school, barring us from any nocturnal shenanigans beyond that most unreasonable curfew of 11.30pm. Perhaps it was the lack of wingmen and fellow nightlife enthusiasts amongst the Malaysian clique I hung out with, who preferred less uncouth entertainment like fancy dinners and theatre and birthday parties. And perhaps it was also the lack of any dough to spend on clubs and martinis, especially when I've been in a state of almost constant debt with my cellphone operator and college since coming here. Monthly allowance, my ass.

Whatever. I am not here to point fingers. But 21 months and not a single Singaporean club visited, not a single Singaporean girl chatted up over drinks, not a single Singaporean bar brawl?

And I yet dare to call myself a hardcore clubber. Shameful.

Well finally, my friends, it is a new chapter for me! The first step on the road to atonement and redemption!

I finally went clubbing! Last Friday night, to be precise.

Finally, a fortuitous juxtaposition of factors allowed me to experience the Singaporean nightlife for the first time! Key to this was my recent discovery (after 21 months of living in the same room) that one of my roommates shared my enthusiasm for scantily clad ladies and loose women and booty shaking and --

Wait, that doesn't sound right.

Oh wait, it does. Whatever.

Anyway. We'd finally agreed to hit the clubs as wingmen after 21 months of yelling gibberish at each other (during the so-called Dakun era) and having deep, intellectual discussions about such fundamental issues like whether there was any worth in studying for Growth and Reproduction, since study or not, we'd still fail so might as well go sleep, riiggghhttt? We hyped each other up. We reminded each other every five minutes or so that we didn't have any A-levels examinations to worry about so there was nothing wrong with a little partying. We were so ready to go.

Now all we needed to do was solve the Problem of the Curfew.

The Problem of the Curfew is simple: the boarding school curfew is officially set at 10.30pm on Friday and Saturday nights (when we'd want to be hitting the clubs). With some creativity, it can be pushed to 11.30pm but no later. To push beyond 11.30pm, we'd need parental consent, which can be obtained illegally (don't ask) but still would only allow us to stay out overnight, not stagger back to our rooms at 3 in the morning. So staying out beyond the curfew would automatically force us to stay out until 6am. Assuming the human body is a human body, there are only so many hours that the average teenaged delinquent can dance continuously before collapsing for lack of tobaccoless air and alcohol. Most clubs here close at 3am; being the optimistic, young energetic studs that we were, we estimated that we could go on until the place closed.

Therein lay the problem.

What the hell were we supposed to do from 3 to 6am? Sit by the roadside? Cry? Prostitute ourselves so we could at least go somewhere until 6am (a very horrifying somewhere nonetheless). Back home, we'd never have this problem. After the clubs closed for the night, everyone would hop into their cars and engage in some reckless and dangerous driving (if it can be called driving at all). And if we somehow survived those very exciting swings through the streets of Kota Kinabalu without having the privilege of becoming part of a gigantic fireball ballooning into the sky when our driver makes the mistake of stopping at a red light when the guy behind wasn't expecting anyone to be retarded enough to do something like that (stop at a red light? Hah!), we'd all hit Lintas, where there were mamaks to enjoy some refreshing post-clubbing teh tarik and roti telur tambah bawang, pool halls where each game seems to go on forever because somehow imbibing alcohol has a way of messing with your aim (and driving too? I didn't know that! Ha. Ha.), LAN gaming centres for a quick game of Counterstrike or Warcraft 3. It had everything! Even a health centre! Which specializes in, erm, health! Really, the whole place really comes alive in the wee hours of the morning.

Here in Singapore, it's a nightmare. Everything closes too early. So again, what the hell were we supposed to do until 6?

In a flash of inspiration, I suddenly remembered the 24-hour movie promotions I saw all those times dancing at the Cineleisure Mall during the Street Festival back in June. I'd solved the Problem of the Curfew! What do you do from 3am to 6? Watch a movie.

Brilliant, right? If the movie sucked, we could sleep! If we couldn't sleep, we could watch the movie! And if the movie sucked... Well... Watch a good movie?

So we set out last Friday night to really party here for the first time in a shameful 21 months. Weeks before this, I'd already received an invitation for some "Post-Prelims Party" at Club Aquadisiac in Wisma Atria, Orchard Road, where there would allegedly be lots of Junior College girls looking for a good time and thus, allegedly, lots of opportunities for trouble on that Friday night. So, almost drooling at the prospect of trouble, we set out for Club Aquadisiac that night.

Now, I was fully aware that Club Aquadisiac is supposedly not as hot as many of the other clubs in Singapore. Hence I was equally aware that the crowd would not be as hot either. I was also fully aware that this "Party" had been marketed to Junior College students: the crowd would be predominantly, pardon my French, immature.

So given that, what did I think of my first foray into the Singaporean nightlife?

As expected, I saw a lot of bad behavior due to the dangerously low average mean age. And by bad behavior, I mean pushing and shoving. Don't get me wrong: as a somewhat avid fan of the nightlife, I know it's a given that you'll get pushed and shoved in a club. You could even get hit in the face by a flailing limb attached to some completely inept jerk-off spazzing out on the dancefloor -- we have a term for that kind of dancing back home called syok sendiri which literally means self-entertainment or, more accurately in this context, masturbation.

But a ring of openly horny guys huddling around two girls? And by huddling, I mean suffocating the poor things -- what the hell is that supposed to be? Jumping around like it's a goddamned concert, bumping into everyone? Screaming moronic, Tarzanesque howls like you've never been near a double X chromosome before?

Terrible. Just terrible.

Other than that? Prices were kind of average for a Singaporean club, at a S$20 cover charge (including the customary free drink) and S$10 per glass of housepour. Definitely more expensive than the clubs in Kota Kinabalu (back when I was last home at least), but I heard it's not too far from prices you'd pay in Kuala Lumpur so I'm not too sure how that'll work out for anyone from home thinking of hitting the clubs here.

We staggered out of Club Aquadisiac at about fifteen past two in the morning. And, as planned, watched the Brothers Grimm at 3, which in retrospect, was a lot less funny than our exhausted brains had thought it was. So I offer you my four word review for the Brothers Grimm as a bonus: waste your money elsewhere.

In the end, it was rather okay, I guess. Not spectacular, but acceptable. I had fun. Okay, it was slightly more than just fun, but I'm not telling too much. It was also a complete blast of cash -- we dropped about S$70 each for everything -- but I keep reminding myself that it was a well-deserved party after months of working at my Preliminaries (which I'm still going to fail nonetheless, especially since I have my Economics S paper up tomorrow morning -- at this rate, I'll never qualify for the London School of Economics; more like the London School of Elephant, which is not in London but next to Taiping Zoo in Malaysia where you get to learn the fine and exciting art of scrubbing elephants... among other, horrifying things involving elephants). Still, it could've been better.

Next time, I'm hitting Chinablack!

P.S. If you plan to hit Chinablack, don't count on using just your Student or Concessionary Pass (in other words, your bus pass) as ID. Why do I know this? Because we changed our minds halfway and wanted to go to Chinablack, and then saw a sign on the wall near the bouncers. I had my Malaysian ID; my roommate didn't. Shamefully, we turned back, and contented ourselves with Junior College kids.
Commentaires: 11