Saturday 21st April
Vintage stuff
This Saturday is a very special day for all Indonesians, but especially for Indonesian women - it’s Kartini Day. In her tragically short life Raden Ayu Kartini (1879-1904), born into the Javanese aristocracy, was a pioneer of rights for Indonesian women and for social change in her native Java.
There’s a lull in the music, and the band leader makes a short speech about Kartini day. All the girls in the bar respond enthusiastically, and there are cheers all round.
If we reflect on the lot of the Sweet Young Things, it would have been a darn sight worse without the seismic changes that Kartini’s influence brought about in Javanese society. Treated as chattels to be kept in seclusion until an arranged marriage had been brokered, denied education and contact with the world outside their immediate family circle, Javanese girls had no hope of a life of their own. Kartini’s influence spread far beyond her native Java; via the Netherlands she became a figure of international stature and a historical symbol in her country’s struggle for independence.
Poverty still stalks the kampongs, and behind its glass and concrete facade Jakarta is a harsh place for those with the misfortune to be born without a silver spoon in their mouth. In spite of all this the Blok M girls are plucky and tenacious, and carry the spirit of Kartini into the twenty-first century. As the little speech from the band finishes, I raise my glass to Kartini and all the Blok M girls.
The Serious Brigade are out in force tonight, and marathon battles are being waged at the pool table. Every angle is carefully measured before each meticulous shot, grim faced combatants stalk round the table analysing the game ahead, the cue is positioned with razor sharp precision, and an expectant hush descends on their circle of friends as that final, decisive click of the stick on the ball is awaited.
“Sod this for a game of soldiers” I reflect, and settle down with my old friend Dave Jardine to while away the time in conversation. As we put away beer after beer the mood mellows, and - what a coincidence - the frumpish old girl whose back-turning antics are recorded in a previous blog post is back again, and performing exactly the same ritual! We have a good laugh and wish her well as she wanders off into the murk of the back bar area.
When my turn finally comes I’m face to face with one of the real wizards, a grey-haired demon who clinically pots every one of his balls with practised verve. But the gods of pool are on my side tonight, and as he pots the black down goes the cue ball. I sympathize with his fate, and walk over to shake his hand. But no, he protests, it’s not game over - it’s ball in hand for me. Gobsmacked, I ask him what on earth he means, as it’s a clear scratch and he’s lost the game. “League rules!” is his cryptic reply. “League rules!” echo the camp followers in mindless chorus.
Now this “League” was the self-appointed gang that organized the first inter-bar pool tournament - and nothing more. They formed what may most charitably be described as a fascist junta and unilaterally drew up a list of weird and wonderful rules for the competition. What makes their diktat all the more absurd is that there are world standardized rules for eight-ball pool which are universally accepted (with minor local variations) - and these state unequivocally that a foul when potting the black loses the game.
Being British I quietly put my pool stick back in the rack, tell him that regrettably I don’t accept the league rules on this point, and return to the bar to resume my drink and my conversation. But up rushes one of the Serious Brigade to berate me, and browbeat me into admitting that I’m in the wrong. “Every bar, every pool hall, every home, they play these rules” he expostulates, “If you want to enjoy your game of pool you got to go along with them!”. I refrain from telling him to his face that this is the biggest load of bovine manure I’ve heard in a long time, and quietly ignore him. At which he gets even more agitated, and just won’t stop ranting. “I’ve been playing pool in this bar for ten years”, I calmly reply, “and it’s always been the rule that you lose if you foul on the black”.
As usual, the Reveller has done his homework very thoroughly on this point. Any doubting Thomas might like to click here and read his review of eight-ball pool rules from around the world.
As I drift into the murk of the back bar area, the visual effect is stunning. Figures standing and lounging in front of the brightly-lit pool table are thrown into exaggerated silhouettes, a kaleidoscope of blurs, shadows and halos of shifting hues. I’m instantly and evocatively reminded of those wonderful posters of the Moulin Rouge by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec, and John Huston’s classic 1952 film of his life and times.
Turning and facing the band area it’s the same - but with greater depth. The atmosphere is tangible and stimulating, and it’s clear that Top Gun is gradually evolving its own unique character. Making a mental note to bring my camera next weekend, I earmark a couple of likely revelling spots for future reference and stake my claim on one particular table that will henceforth be the Reveller’s late night lair.
For those of our readers who know the Blok M cast of characters, the names Tasya and Anis will bring back many a memory. Well, who should I see languidly surveying the landscape from the other side of the main bar pool table but the lovely Tasya herself. She still hasn’t lost that faint air of disdain and distance that she’s cultivated so well, her distinctive ‘if you have to ask the price you can’t afford me’ gaze. If she has deigned to grace Top Gun with her presence, then the place can well and truly be said to have arrived.
And as I’m chatting merrily with four of the Indramayu girls at the bar, who should join us but our very own Anis. She’s worn well, and is still a stunner - a bit less vivacious than she used to be, but she’s got character in trumps and knows exactly how to make herself the centre of attention. But tonight she’s a Girl On A Mission (which probably means the rent is due), so she wastes no time and sets off on her evening prowl.
Another Sweet Young Thing (whose face is terribly familiar but whose name I can’t remember) smooches up to me and greets we warmly and affectionately with a lingering handshake, and makes it very obvious that she is, as the French so delicately put it, disponible. Alas, I’m not in the mood for dalliance and anyway I’ve stacked away far too much ale to be of any use to her, so I give her my “not tonight, Josephine, but see you again soon!” look and breathe my most profound sigh of regret.
As Dave and I watch the OEMs trooping past on the way to their battle stations, I think of the perfect name for them - dreadnoughts, those massive, heavily-armoured battleships of the First World War. They carve their way through the waves of Sweet Young Things, weightily pushing through the crowd towards the rear bar area. But like their famous namesake these Sour Old Things belong to an earlier age of revelling, and should really be in some safe harbour rather than out on the high seas of Blok M.
There seem to be fewer active bar staff tonight, and attracting their attention is damn nigh impossible. Then, just as I’m reaching the edge of desperation and pondering darkly if a signal flare or thunderflash might do the trick, up trots someone to take my order. Clutching my Pernod and turning back to the Top Gun panorama I espy, in the distance, a dazzling vision - one girl in a white miniskirt, and another - tall and really quite statuesque - in the most breathtaking tight fitting white shorts you can imagine.
So smitten am I that my hard-won drink is instantly forgotten, and I sit drooling over this beatific sight. Then, as if in answer to a prayer I dare hardly utter, into the frame walks another very Sweet Young Thing wearing a pair of tight light fawn shorts. Echoing the poet Wordsworth I intone to myself, “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive”.
Say what you like about the Top Gun bands, musical or not they’ve all got incredible stamina. Tonight’s group is bashing out the beat non-stop for over an hour, and they are good. “Must be a Kartini day special” I comment to Dave, and even he agrees that they’re one of the better bands press-ganged into Top Gun’s service.
Twelve o’clock approaches, and I decide it’s time to head for home. But just as I’m getting up, a waiter rushes over with a very large double Pernod, compliments of the boss. So clutching this unexpected but most welcome supplement to my evening’s skinful, I wander off back into the darkness of the rear bar again. Fortunately I’m far too plastered to respond to the inveiglements of the luscious ladies of the night who lean towards me as I meander benignly through the throng.
But all good things come to an end, and by one o’clock I decide to leave while I’m still standing. The street is alive with passers-by, and the little food stalls are doing a roaring trade. And it seems to me that there aren’t so many taxis in the street, and fewer touts than usual. Can it be that there’s been a clamp down at last, I muse, as I casually tell the one forlorn little beggar in sight to piss off and go home?
As I chug homewards in my trusty bajay I experience a feeling of profound satisfaction, a oneness with nature and a slow wave of peacefulness. It occurs to me once again that the true value of Blok M is in one’s memories of the place - “emotion recollected in tranquility” as Wordsworth put it.