Friday 22nd June
Smear campaign
My very good friend and fellow blogger Jakartass, ever mindful of the Reveller’s more depraved inclinations, sends me this picture of a new variant of the Marmite bottle – a plastic squeezable dispenser. I wish this product had been available many years ago, as it cuts out all the messy scooping, spooning and spreading that attends the more creative uses of Marmite.
In a comment on last week’s blog our regular reader and Blok M Forums contributor Duta Besar says: “I was waiting for the Marmite to be applied in the manner of a lubricant befitting its appearance”. Now I must confess that I’ve never used the stuff as a lubricant, but I have done a lot of other things with it. Let me just say that it goes absolutely anywhere, and one very interesting side-effect is that it seems to provide enhanced tactile feedback to the tongue. The Marmite taste, of course, overwhelms the natural odour and flavour of whichever part of the anatomy it’s applied to – but as you lick it off, the tongue seems to be more highly sensitised to the underlying body texture.
Never forget that Marmite is only one item for the carnal gourmet – indeed, one’s choice is limited only by the imagination (plus of course viscosity and the law of gravity). Here are other delicacies that I’ve used, with brief notes:
- Heinz Salad Cream (for a mouth-wateringly savoury suck)
- Condensed milk (sickly-sweet and glutinous)
- Bird’s Custard (thick, warm, sweet and smooth)
- Whipped cream (best made with real double cream)
- Clotted cream (a cholesterol nightmare, but has the advantage of not dribbling)
- Treacle, honey and maple syrup (nice, but messy – and hell to get out of the bed sheets)
- Vanilla extract (must be the real McCoy, and used very sparingly)
When they eventually – as I’m sure they will – remake the James Bond film classic Goldfinger, I have this vision of Jill Masterson’s body being smeared all over with Marmite instead of gold paint. Now that really would be the ne plus ultra of placement advertising.
Some people just never learn. Following the spate of hate comments that were posted on the blog not very long ago, I’m now getting rather nasty SMS messages. If, as I suspect, the same person or persons is behind these billets-doux, then my earlier estimate of their IQ being a double-digit figure is spot on.
Some elementary sleuthing has enabled the ever-resourceful Reveller to build a profile of the perpetrator:
- male
- native language not English
- semi-literate in Bahasa Indonesia
- not of European, Australasian or North American origin
- mentally unstable
- connected in some way with Blok M
- handphone number 0819 3210 7529
Now even to a bear of very little brain it should be obvious that an SMS is a dead giveaway because it reveals the sender’s number. So if any of my gentle readers recognize the above handphone number, they are cordially invited to shop the bounder by sending a private email to reveller@jakartablokm.com .
By the way, for anyone who gets persistent or abusive SMS’s here’s a little trick for you. Create a very, very long SMS that consists of at least 40 message units, and send it to the silly bugger. Apparently on some systems this can lock up or logjam their handphone account.
I don’t reach the hallowed portal of Top Gun until after 10 pm this Friday night, having been sidetracked by a blogmoot up north on Jalan Jaksa. Jalan Falatehan is already packed full of cars, taxis, bajajs and motorbikes when I arrive – and, not unexpectedly, the regular gang of little guttersnipes hanging around outside Top Gun. What really gets up my nose is that there are three security guys on duty outside the bar, not one of whom has the gumption to clear the kids away.
Growling the Two Magic Words at the little sods makes them scatter pretty sharply, and I stroll into the bar with anticipation of a good night on the Blok. My first impression is that there aren’t many guys in tonight – but there’s an eye-popping gathering of Sweet Young Things, an infinite variety of shapes, sizes and ages.
I enjoy a desultory and disastrous game of pool, as my concentration is utterly shot – I’m besottedly distracted by the dusky beauties dotted around the bar. Then, just as I’m about to return to my seat, up strikes the band – at full, relentless, and deafening volume. The moronic Top Gun management never learns, and three requests for a bit less volume are greeted by expressions of unctuous but passive politeness.
Storming back to the bar I’m determined to drink up and drop out, but my old friend Frank puts an avuncular hand on my shoulder and forestalls me with an offer I can’t refuse – a bottle of beer. Sitting me down and soothing my smouldering temper, he hauls across a couple of stunning Sweet Young Things to take my mind off the diabolical racket. I can’t hear a word he says, so we go through an elaborate mime routine instead of even trying to talk. But his stratagem works, and lust quickly gets the better of my anger.
It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and who should suddenly grace me with her presence but Dumb and Dumber. Oblivious to the excruciating caterwauling of the wannabe Top Gun musicians, she exchanges pleasantries in the pidgin sign language that she uses – until she collapses in whoops of laughter when Frank brilliantly mimics her gestures, naughtily interpolating some rather explicit variations of his own.
The dear girl has had no luck so far, and is clearly in need of support and condolence in the form of expensive drinks. Her tipple of choice tonight is red wine, and on the bar in front of her there are four glasses – two empty, one half-full, the other full. Throwing caution to the wind she swigs the half-full glass and then drains the full glass in one gulp. “Not exactly what you might call a wine connoisseur”, I remark to Frank as she daintily wipes her lips. Feeling sorry for the poor thing I offer her another glass of wine. Her eyes widen, she breaks into a beaming smile of pure gratitude, and eagerly awaits the promised plonk.
As expected, she sinks this in one go and then does the Great Java Disappearing Act – she’s out of the door with her cohort before you can say appellation contrôlée, leaving the two of us chuckling at her predictable behaviour.
Minutes after Dumb and Dumber has swept out, in swoops a nightmare vision in a shiny black dress. Well, not a dress exactly – it looks as though a profoundly untalented amateur tailor has run it up from an industrial-grade bin-liner, to which he’s rather inexpertly stuck bits of glitzy coloured tape and shiny sequins. Gawping at this sartorial disaster Frank and I exchange looks of bemused incredulity, then we both crack out laughing.
Now one of the nice things about Jakarta in general – and Blok M in particular – is that just when you think you’ve seen it all, something even more absurd comes along. And so it is with Miss Bin Liner 2007: as she disappears into the Twilight Zone, a Sweet Young Thing in a white miniskirt walks past us. Now as you probably know, nothing turns me on like a white miniskirt – but this one is a hoot. Her skirt sags at the back like a limp flag hanging at half-mast, revealing rather more of her delectable posterior than I think she intended. The rest of her ensemble is a mishmash of cast-offs, none of which coordinate at all, making her look like a rather obscene rag doll.
Frank disappears after a couple of minutes, leaving his seat empty. Enter stage right a very demure and quite delicious Sweet Young Thing who’s been around for a year or so, and now has a new girl in tow. The newbie is another Indramayu stunner, but disturbingly young and inexperienced. Her mentor is pointing out different guys and giving her a running commentary about them – to which she giggles wickedly, and her face lights up with mock horror at one particular description.
At last, at long last, the band takes a break and I can hear myself think again. All around me I hear the staccato chitter-chatter of Jawa being spoken, its distinctive chopped rhythm interspersed with long, rising tones that mark emphasis or stress at the end of a sentence. This sound is the night’s leitmotif, a distinctive and memorable concatenation of homely noise.
All good things come to an end, and the band eventually returns to regale us with its banshee wailing. Deciding to get out while I’m ahead I tear myself away from the Sweet Young Things who are imploring me to stay, and strike off down the street. Overall it’s been a good night out, but it could – indeed, should – have been a classic.
As my bajaj driver whisks me out of Blok M with the unerring instinct of a homing pigeon, I reflect that there’s no substitute for an expat bar manager who sees it all from the customer’s point of view. To an Indonesian bar staff, my comments about the sound level fall – quite literally – on deaf ears. Maybe this is what separates the old days from the new order. How many old-style expat bar managers are there now in Blok M?
