Friday 6th April
Dolly mixtures
I wander into Top Gun rather later than my regular time, expecting it to be half empty and solemnly quiet as usual. But lo and behold, the place is full and humming with action! The euphoria soon wears off, though – there’s a long list of names chalked up on the pool table slate, so my ritual humiliation is delayed for almost an hour. But as I stake my claim on the pool list and turn back to the bar, it’s like an action replay of Top Gun ten years ago. One of my oldest Blok M cronies is at the pool table, another is propping up the bar, and yet another is sitting at one of the far side tables. And the girls! Looking round, I count eight of the dear things who I met during my first week on the Blok back in ’97, and another dozen or so at least who hark back to that golden era, the Blok M fin de siècle. Ah, instant nostalgia!
As I order the first drink of many, one of the more serious pool regulars at the table is being asked about the swish, stylish and very expensive looking pool stick case he’s toting. With the pride of a connoisseur he lovingly unzips the top of the bag, revealing a veritable armoury of poolware. “There’s twenty individual pieces of wood in this” he says with awe, holding up the tip shaft he’s just gently extracted, “and the butt alone cost three hundred dollars”. “That’s Singaporean, or US?” gulps my gobsmacked friend. “US, of course!” frowns the proud owner. “And this butt, now this one cost eight hundred.” I reverently stroke it as a believer might touch a holy relic, or an art historian the canvass of a Rembrandt.
I mention my own modest stick, a handmade British job that cost a mere hundred quid in toto, and we get to talking about chalk. “I use green chalk for the psychological edge it gives me when I play the hard guys,” I tell him; “they think that anyone with different coloured chalk must be a real pool maven with supernormal skills – an illusion that’s shattered after my first dismal shot, but it’s nice while it lasts.” He grunts, and digs a neatly folded plastic bag from a pocket. “Keeps the chalk moist and more compact” he explains. I half-jokingly ask him why he doesn’t buy a humidor instead – and from the glint in his eye, I suspect that’s just what he’ll do.
One of the great things about alcohol is that it’s the ultimate social lubricant. A few bottles of beer, a couple of slugs of spirit, a glass or two of wine, and we’ll open our mouths and our hearts to the world. And of course, it’s great stuff for opening the mouths, the arms (and hopefully the legs) of one’s favourite Sweet Young Things.
Now as all the Top Gun regulars know, the Reveller is a marked man in that fine establishment. His every move is observed and noted by the entire Indramayu mafia, and will be reported back (with all manner of wicked little twists and exaggerations) to She Who Must Be Obeyed. But the ever-resourceful Reveller has evolved a remarkably efficacious counter-measure, which involves plying the arch-narks with tequila on the strict condition that they don’t blab. The neat knot in the tail of this technique is that if they were to spill the beans, they’d be accused of trying to bag me and would suffer a horrible fate.
Few things happen on time in this wonderful country, which is one of its most enduring and endearing attributes. One of the deadly exceptions, though, is the Top Gun musical wannabes, who always manage to strike up bang on ten o’clock. Last night’s band isn’t too bad, and the girl lead singer is really rather tuneful. But suddenly a new voice starts up, with an excruciating inability to hit the top notes. “Poor girl, she could do with some singing lessons” I think to myself – but when I turn my head, I see that she’s a he.
As my bottle is almost empty I half lurch off my seat, grab one of the peripatetic bar staff, and ask for a Pernod. Ah, a new guy, I notice – let’s hope he gets the drink right. A couple of minutes later he reappears with my drink and deftly lowers it onto the table. I gently point out to him three basic Facts Of Life. Number one, Pernod is served in a tall glass; number two, the glass should be half-full of ice; number three, it should be served with a bottle of plain water. He looks a bit crestfallen, but whisks the drink away and reappears in a flash with everything spot on. Now this young lad is clearly a valuable asset to the establishment, and as I contentedly sip my Pernod I wish him well in his new job.
I’ve complained on and off about the lack of individuality among the girls, and despaired at length about the invasion of OEMs from Up North. But now, I’m delighted to announce that there’s a most welcome addition to the Top Gun regular Sweet Young Things – and she’s a stunner. Petite, slim and lissome, vivacious and flirtatious, she plays a pretty mean game of pool and is excellent company. She wears tight-fitting leather kit and skin-fit boots – absolute wet-dream material. She’s also deaf and dumb, which makes her success all the more commendable. She’s rapidly becoming a hit with the guys, and gets the Reveller’s Award of the Week.
I mentioned some time ago that Top Gun still lacks atmosphere, especially late at night. Well, last night things are definitely looking up. The area between the band and the back of the bar is full of punters, with clusters of slightly seedy looking girls and rather louche looking blokes. The space is dark and promising, and bodies sway as they dance on and next to the central podiums. As I feel my way through the throng I’m grabbed by the arm and dragged onto a seat – by a very sexy girl I first met quite some time ago. Indeed, she’s the original of the QuickFit species immortalized in the Types of Girl page.
The net is tightening around the Anonymous Cowards who posted obscene hate comments on this blog. They can run, but they can’t hide; they may skulk in the recesses of their filthy lair, but the Reveller will find them out. A very nasty aspect of this sordid little drama is that they not only attacked me, but deliberately tried to make it appear that one of my close friends was the perpetrator. I have also heard more about the meeting at which the Reveller was reviled as the arch-villain of Blok M, the slanderer who is single-handedly responsible for driving trade away from Jalan Falatehan.
After I recount this sorry saga, my friends and I have a hearty laugh at such palpable nonsense. I would indeed be flattered to think that I wield such power and influence, but it just ain’t so. The opinion around the table is that labeling the Reveller as the sole scapegoat is quite farcical, and that my comments do in fact mirror the thinking of a substantial section of the Blok M parish. The Reveller’s view is that the owners would do well to reflect on the words of the Good Book: “First cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother’s eye.“
Yes, the Shagger is back in town! Even as I sit typing this blog post my phone rings – and it’s the man himself, announcing his return from foreign climes. He tells me that he’s got a few minor domestic matters to attend to, and will be down the Blok on Wednesday next. What he really means of course is that he’s busy juggling a handful of his regular consorts, dividing and ruling so that each is kept in blissful ignorance of the others. I shall of course put the word round his previous conquests that he’ll be there, and will take care to keep clear when the stampede begins.
