A week in paradise

Basic instincts

Those guys who go down the Blok just to get laid are missing out on one of the greatest pleasures of the place - girl watching. Getting laid is the icing on the cake - to lick it off and discard the rest is to miss one of life’s great experiences, the pageant in the bar that unfolds every night before the careful observer’s eyes. Indeed, the most memorable nights of my revelling career are not the ones on which I’ve bedded a Sweet Young Thing or two, but those in which there’s been sheer pleasure in watching the girls’ behaviour in their natural habitat.

Now there are two sides to girl watching - observing them as individuals, and interacting with each other and their group. The preening and display rituals range from the erotic to the risible, but they’re always a visual feast of pure theatre. And the fact is that their display is aimed not at the guys, but the other girls - it’s showing off, and establishing themselves in the Sweet Young Thing pecking order.

One of the most fascinating sights in nature is when a flock of birds suddenly wheels and turns in perfect unison, obeying some collective primal impulse; the same thing happens in the ocean, when a shoal of fish darts and moves as one entity. It’s fascinating to see the same phenomenon in the bars occasionally, as I do on Saturday night. A group of girls, six or seven of them, are sitting or leaning on the My Bar disco bar top, and suddenly - in perfect unison - they skip onto the dance floor and start gyrating. A little later the same group all turn their heads at precisely the same moment to look at somebody further down the bar.

My Bar faces the music

“They’re closing the upstairs bar!” one of the Sweet Young Things whispers in my ear as I’m attempting to scrape the foil from the neck of my beer bottle, at the start of what turns out to be an alcoholic marathon in My Bar. “Yes, I’ve heard that too” I reply, not telling her that it came from the horse’s mouth a few days earlier. And it does make good business sense. I’ve always maintained that any bar that tries to be all things to all men is a chimera, a Frankenstein’s monster made up of bits and bobs that fit ill together.

The only bar that ever got that particular formula right is of course D’s Place - and they went and blew it by trying to fix it when it wasn’t broken. Oscar, Everest and G-String have never really made a go of the upstairs rooms, in spite of their best efforts. Even Sportsmans in its heyday never made a commercial go of its upstairs bar and restaurant. Guys have a natural herding instinct, and would much rather be crammed together in the dark smoky confines of a downstairs saloon than sit or lounge in the splendid isolation of an upstairs bar.

The closure of the upstairs bar inevitably has a human cost, and a lot of the staff have already departed. The upside of this is that one of the DJ’s has been given his marching orders - the Neanderthal who delighted in blasting the music out at full volume when the bar was virtually empty, and whose musical ear couldn’t distinguish between a good tune and a power hammer. So the other night I’m pleased to hear a more varied range of tunes and songs, and at a reasonable volume until the late-night influx of hardened revellers. Well done, My Bar!

Top Gun time bomb

I have a bone to pick with the management of Top Gun - they’ve gone and done something very dangerous that is seriously affecting my revelling. I refer of course to their special tequila promotion: three shots for 50k. Now this is an offer that I simply can’t refuse, and on Saturday night it leads to disastrous consequences. A particularly gorgeous Sweet Young thing that I’ve taken under my wing, and whose closer acquaintance I’m fostering, consumes so much of the ambrosial liquid that she slowly and gracefully slides off her bar stool and onto the floor. As I stoop to help her get back on her feet I very nearly join her, and we both regain our bar stools somewhat shaken (and certainly not stirred).

Tequila is like that. It slides down smoothly and hasn’t got the kick in the guts that whiskey and other strong spirits give you. It’s a sneaky, insidious drink, a cunning little bugger that waits until you’ve already had too much before the symptoms gradually manifest themselves - by which time it’s too late. So I slip her some taxi money and help her to the door, where a couple of her friends take over and I’m left to reflect on the pleasures that might have been. “Sic transit gloria mundi”, I murmur to myself - “or perhaps that should be sick transit”, as a post-bibular queasiness slowly sets in.

One Tree no tree

Progress is slow at One Tree and there’s still a fair bit of work to be done on the decor and the fitting out of the kitchen. In particular, there’s no sign yet of the much-heralded and eagerly-awaited tree, without which the Grand Opening simply cannot take place. I pop in on Friday night for a sociable beer with the charming waitresses, and once again enjoy the relaxed, unhurried atmosphere that’s already the hallmark of the place.

When asked if I’d like to see the menu I put on my most mournful hangdog expression and reply that, alas, the prices are just too high. I’m told that there’s a bar snack consisting of deep fried mushrooms at 15k, which is much more like it. I sample a mouthful, and they’re nice and tasty - but it’s a very light dish. And to tell the truth, I’m much happier with a salty nibble such as peanuts or popcorn with my beer.

Fashion frights

Fashion never stands still, and I’ve chronicled the changes over the years on the Blok M web site - but Wednesday night in My Bar marks a new sartorial low. I choke on my beer as I gasp in awestruck amazement at one of the Sweet Young Things as she waltzes in sporting a truly appalling outfit. She’s wearing a tight-fitting pink top, a blue on white poker-dot frilly-hemmed mini, and high-heeled black fabric boots with a white plastic shoe outline round the foot. Proudly strutting her stuff on the disco dance floor, oblivious to the impact of her somewhat eclectic wardrobe, she is without question the centre of attention.

Minis and high heels are making a comeback, and on Svelte Young Things they certainly cut the mustard - but for the fuller-bodied older girl the result can only be described as grotesque. One girl is wearing a black top and a tight denim mini that hugs her over-endowed rear and makes her waddle like a rather constipated duck. My jaw dropping, I turn round to face the bar and restore my faith in the girls by picking out the ones wearing clothes appropriate to their age and figure. But those ghastly visions still haunt me, and even now I shudder at the memory.

Dumb shows

The Blok has always been home to a number of deaf and dumb girls, good-natured lasses with real character. Many of the guys who’ve been knocking around the Blok for a few years will have fond memories of the Squeaker Twins, two highly intelligent and wickedly funny girls who could reduce Oscar’s customers to tears of laughter with their mimicry and facial expressions. The latest in this line is a buxom Indramayu lass who’s made her mark as one of the most successful business girls on the Blok.

It’s early on Friday evening in Top Gun, and she’s huddled with some of her Indramayu gang round one of the bar tables. I’m sitting at the bar waiting for my turn at the pool table, when she decides that the Reveller is her meal ticket for the night. Unable to speak, she acts out the things that she’d like to do with her victims, leaving nothing whatsoever to the imagination. Her face runs through a gamut of expressions - lustful desire, ecstasy, orgasm, groaning and sighing - that any Hollywood actress would give her eye teeth to be able to emulate. She mimes the delights that she’s offering with a lubricious salaciousness that has the members of her audience vainly trying to control their members.

Alas, I’m stirred but not tempted as she’s acquired the reputation of a gold digger who throws a temper tantrum whenever the remuneration is below her inflated expectations. I blow her a sultry kiss and wistfully shake my head, at which she pouts, tosses her head theatrically, and walks out of the bar with her nose in the air. At which I burst out laughing, have a good long chuckle, and call for another beer. Yes, the dear old Blok is an unfailing and never-ending source of priceless entertainment!