Saturday 9th June
The lost weekend
There are good nights, there are bad nights, there are so-so nights - and there are nights that just suck. This Saturday, alas, is one of the latter.
Having missed the Blok last weekend I’m really looking forward to a rollicking night out, and roll into Jalan Falatehan at about 8.30 pm. Not many cars about, is my first observation - and not many people, either. As I enter Top Gun I have a sense of foreboding: the place doesn’t feel good tonight. There are very few customers in the bar, and almost no Sweet Young Things. There are plenty of frowsy OEMs listlessly mooching about. but nothing to stir the imagination or set the pulse beating faster.
One of the good things that salvages the evening from disaster-area status is the presence of five of my oldest friends who periodically surface in Top Gun, but rarely all at the same time. So it’s a hand-shaking, back-slapping reunion, a very pleasant half hour of chat and banter. My old friend Dave Jardine is already at the bar, so we settle down to enjoy our beers and catch up on the week’s news.
Most of the guys are by now focused on the bar TVs watching some tennis tournament or other, which turns out to be the French Open. “The only French open I like has nothing at all to do with tennis,” I rather naughtily quip; “Nor golf either!” chips in Dave.
After Dave’s departure to catch the late night bus up north I pick up a conversation with one of my old friends and pool-buddies from way back. We’re both pretty well primed by this time of the evening, and I have fragmented recollections of rambling on about Ernest Hemingway and cat neutering, followed by Harry Potter and the gullible victims of mass marketing.
Tonight’s band is not of the best. Nor the second best. They struggle valiantly, but can’t hit the notes and are way off key. They do, though, find an appreciative audience in a bunch of about twenty lads who belong to some sporting group that’s out for a night on the piss. The girls quickly weigh up these guys as of No Commercial Interest, and drift out of the bar in clutches of twos and threes. Even Dumb and Dumber has given up and decides to cut her losses early. As she swishes out of the bar with her support troops in close pursuit the place is immediately emptier and a bit forlorn, and other girls follow her example.
I remark to another of my old mates that the only vintage thing about tonight is the age of the girls, and he agrees that most of them are way past their shelf date. We then idly speculate on the pros and cons of a cull to weed out some of the real dead wood, but agree that the root of the problem is that there’s plenty more where this lot come from and it’s better the devil you know than the one you don’t.
By 11 pm I decide to leave Top Gun to its own devices and bid farewell to my old friends and the bar staff. And with immaculate timing, the band’s lead singer hits an excruciating off-note just as I push the door open and wade through the bunch of waiting street urchins.
As with most rumours, there’s often a germ of truth buried in the wilder speculation and sensational gossip. The persistent rumour that D’s Place is closing down turns out to be unfounded - but it is moving to new premises. Apparently the building owner has other plans for the place and isn’t renewing the lease, so the owners are obliged to find a new home for the bar. The story is that a building has been identified and earmarked, and that it’s down the street in the vicinity of My Bar.
Quite a few of the D’s loyalists are sad to hear the news, as even though it may be reincarnated in a new location the old place holds happy memories for them and it won’t be the same experience when it moves down the street.
Some time ago the word on the street was that Everest would be on the market later in the year, but now I hear that the owner has signed a new lease on the place and it will be business as usual for the foreseeable future. The Everest regulars are very happy with this news - they’re a loyal lot, and relieved that their favourite watering hole has been reprieved.
One thing that drove quite a few of the old regulars out of My Bar was a gang of African types who made it their late-night hang-out. I’ve mentioned the antisocial habits and activities of some of these characters in previous blog posts, and the Blok M Forums document what some of the punters feel about these gentlemen. I’m very disturbed, therefore, when one of my informants tells me that they’re now gathering in Top Gun instead of My Bar. If this is so, it doesn’t bode well for the place.
So this hasn’t been a very inspired or inspiring night down the Blok, but we take the rough with the smooth and chalk it up to experience. Next week can only be better, and as the Shagger will be in town for the weekend’s festivities I eagerly await my next sortie.