I haven’t stepped into a club for almost 2 years to date and I know exactly why. Other than the mild hangover and minor smoke poisoning experienced after 5 hours of hopping around in what would, in any other circumstance, be considered a gas chamber, clubbing leaves me feeling overwhelmingly stupid.
As with any guy, the desire to club is fueled by three universal, all-encompassing motives. Women, women, women. Don’t believe all that crap about the need to de-stress or to (and this is a good one) exercise. And so it is that men flock to Mohammad Sultan Road by the droves in the vague hope of picking up some pretty young thing. Do note that in extreme cases of self-delusion, men have been known to be motivated by the hope of being picked up by pretty young things.
How does one go about picking someone else up anyway?
Do pickup lines work?
“You must be tired baby cos you’ve been running through my mind”? Use this and there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
The usual “wanna be friends?” makes you sound like you’re trying to get a hooker.
“Can I buy you a drink?” is a waste both of time and money. Not only are success rates low, unless you look like Enrique Iglesias, you have to get a drink not just for her but for yourself as well. This is regarded as courtesy and is meant to allow for interaction. In a club, this usually involves shouting like a National Day Parade commander at your prospective date/bed partner/rejector between sips of bourbon coke.
Clubbing sessions tend to start out with suicidal drinking in an effort to get high. Since I and Bryan (if he’s not already with some girl) are the ones who get the drinks most often, we get a headstart on slugging down as much liquid liver solidifier as possible in a single double-strawed breath. In other words, we get stupid faster.
The effects of alcohol on the average unsuspecting clubber begin with the onset of an ever so slight gyration of the hips in rhythm with whatever B-grade music is mashing up his insides. This is followed by the urge to nod one’s head as if to say “yes, yes, take me to stupid land”. The sufferer then begins to lose control of his arms, watching in abject horror as they flail wildly all around him while his hands begin making idiotic symbols such as that of a camera viewfinder whenever he hears the words “square rooms”. Now, I know that for some, this may result in a mild resemblance to Ricky Martin. I, unfortunately, end up looking like a glorified version of William Hung.
Of course, since alcohol is a diuretic, clubbers will need to make at least one trip to the loo per session. The journey there is a hazardous one. One must avoid the flying limbs of the similarly afflicted while simultaneously maintaining the helicopter motion of one’s own appendages. Collisions are unavoidable and all one can say is “sorry, brother”. Yes, everyone is now your brother.
Upon arriving, battered, bruised and with 500 new-found brothers at the toilet, the clubber is then faced with a 320 meter queue for the nearest urinal. Needless to say, this is the reason why potted plants are generally avoided in clubs. I remember once we couldn’t find a member of our group. Turned out he’d fallen asleep on the toilet bowl. Thankfully, most of my other friends have the common sense to pass out on the roadside where they can be easily located.
Speaking of which, the roadside of Mohammad Sultan at 3am resembles a warzone. Bodies strewn all over the place, grown men vomiting their guts out and sobbing teenagers calling for mommy. Sights like these make the heart ache but the brain laugh. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.
Alright. So I may not have done as many stupid things as some people have, trying to headlock a bouncer being one of them, but it doesn’t mean that I’m willing to take the risk. Just being around stupidity too much can leave you infected for life. For me, the limit was when I found myself having a heart to heart chat with a guy I barely knew on the pavement outside Zouk. “So how far have you gone with a girl?” he slurred. You get the idea.
As with any guy, the desire to club is fueled by three universal, all-encompassing motives. Women, women, women. Don’t believe all that crap about the need to de-stress or to (and this is a good one) exercise. And so it is that men flock to Mohammad Sultan Road by the droves in the vague hope of picking up some pretty young thing. Do note that in extreme cases of self-delusion, men have been known to be motivated by the hope of being picked up by pretty young things.
How does one go about picking someone else up anyway?
Do pickup lines work?
“You must be tired baby cos you’ve been running through my mind”? Use this and there will be much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
The usual “wanna be friends?” makes you sound like you’re trying to get a hooker.
“Can I buy you a drink?” is a waste both of time and money. Not only are success rates low, unless you look like Enrique Iglesias, you have to get a drink not just for her but for yourself as well. This is regarded as courtesy and is meant to allow for interaction. In a club, this usually involves shouting like a National Day Parade commander at your prospective date/bed partner/rejector between sips of bourbon coke.
Clubbing sessions tend to start out with suicidal drinking in an effort to get high. Since I and Bryan (if he’s not already with some girl) are the ones who get the drinks most often, we get a headstart on slugging down as much liquid liver solidifier as possible in a single double-strawed breath. In other words, we get stupid faster.
The effects of alcohol on the average unsuspecting clubber begin with the onset of an ever so slight gyration of the hips in rhythm with whatever B-grade music is mashing up his insides. This is followed by the urge to nod one’s head as if to say “yes, yes, take me to stupid land”. The sufferer then begins to lose control of his arms, watching in abject horror as they flail wildly all around him while his hands begin making idiotic symbols such as that of a camera viewfinder whenever he hears the words “square rooms”. Now, I know that for some, this may result in a mild resemblance to Ricky Martin. I, unfortunately, end up looking like a glorified version of William Hung.
Of course, since alcohol is a diuretic, clubbers will need to make at least one trip to the loo per session. The journey there is a hazardous one. One must avoid the flying limbs of the similarly afflicted while simultaneously maintaining the helicopter motion of one’s own appendages. Collisions are unavoidable and all one can say is “sorry, brother”. Yes, everyone is now your brother.
Upon arriving, battered, bruised and with 500 new-found brothers at the toilet, the clubber is then faced with a 320 meter queue for the nearest urinal. Needless to say, this is the reason why potted plants are generally avoided in clubs. I remember once we couldn’t find a member of our group. Turned out he’d fallen asleep on the toilet bowl. Thankfully, most of my other friends have the common sense to pass out on the roadside where they can be easily located.
Speaking of which, the roadside of Mohammad Sultan at 3am resembles a warzone. Bodies strewn all over the place, grown men vomiting their guts out and sobbing teenagers calling for mommy. Sights like these make the heart ache but the brain laugh. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.
Alright. So I may not have done as many stupid things as some people have, trying to headlock a bouncer being one of them, but it doesn’t mean that I’m willing to take the risk. Just being around stupidity too much can leave you infected for life. For me, the limit was when I found myself having a heart to heart chat with a guy I barely knew on the pavement outside Zouk. “So how far have you gone with a girl?” he slurred. You get the idea.
2 Comments:
I suspect Joel is slamming me discreetly. What with remarks like "I wonder how you can cheong so much these days?" etc. Haha.. Anyway i can picture how loony you look when u go clubbing hence i made a mental note: Never cheong with Wiliiam Hung.
shhhh!!
I think it was some from some email. Such corniness deserves to be preserved for posterity.
Post a Comment
<< Home