Saturday 31st May
A night at the movies
One of the great delights of living in this amazing city is the availability of an incredible and exuberantly eclectic supply of films both old and new. Where else in the world can you stumble across a copy of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis on the same stall as Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner? Where else can you find one of the earliest Tom and Jerry collections next to a copy of Fritz the Cat (the first X-rated cartoon)?
So it is that after a week of gorging myself on classic films I begin to think of our dear old Blok M bars in terms of movie titles. Let’s see if you can work out the name of the bar from the film title. (You’ll find the answers at the end of the blog, after the Epilogue.)
A Touch of Class
Dirty Dancing
Ghost Town
The Music Man
Where the Girls Are
The Land that Time Forgot
Reach for the Sky
Bad Company
The Lost Chord
Match Play
Swinging left into the Blok after successfully avoiding multiple collisions with the lethal assemblage of buses, bajajs and ojeks tearing past the Blok M terminus, I have a twinge of conscience about not having seen the Club for a very, very long time - so I pull into the curb and park outside the place, step out and stroll towards the entrance. Suddenly a chorus of siren voices rings out from further down the street, hailing me by name - "No, not there - wrong - the Club is here!"
Shamefaced, I slink towards the correct entrance. Has it been so long that I’ve forgotten where the Club is? I ponder sadly. The entrance is dingier and more nondescript than I remember it, and as I push through the creaky outside door I wonder what to expect. The inner door swings towards me, and an old friend I haven’t seen for ages staggers out. We exchange befuddled greetings, and he leaves me to venture into the unknown.
In fact, the place is exactly as it was the last time I was here. Indeed, the only deliberate improvement I recall over the last ten years was a lick of paint some years ago, and that’s now so faded into the rest of the decor as to be unnoticeable. The cracked mirror by the rear corridor is still there, the flag with the Welsh dragon still adorns the wall; the only change is a football club banner at the far end of the wall. The bar television, too, speaks of a bygone age - it’s a bulky CRT model, mottled and flyblown, hanging in lonely isolation at the corridor end of the bar.
The front bar is the same as ever. The mock stone flag floor, beige and russet square tiles, looks as it did the first time I went to the Club. The ancient pool tables are still there, and the old colonial-style whicker armchairs round the bar walls retain their sad, shabby patina of mournful neglect. The kitchen at the far end of the bar seems to be closed - mind you, the only clue that it ever did function at all was the half-empty sauce bottles and crumbling cruets that used to huddle in forlorn ranks on the long table.
The back bar, known to the Club cognoscenti as the Dark Side (or to my good friend David Jardine, the ’sticky side’), is dim and threatening. Half a dozen girls are sat there like spiders in a communal web, hoping that a victim will come their way. They beckon me to join them, but I resist the temptation with surprisingly little effort.
A couple of the old girls I’ve known for more than eight years mosey up and greet me warmly, one sitting down next to me and the other launching into the fabled Club shoulder rub. Three others join them, and all but one (the prettiest) of the group on the Dark Side. She smiles knowingly, showing that she’s a cut above the older lasses - and ready, willing and able should I indicate a more personal service.
I’m the only guy in the place, so I have the full and undivided attention of the Club ladies. I receive the mandatory offer of dalliance in one of the upstairs rooms, but gracefully decline with a ‘next time, maybe, OK?’ excuse.
After a very pleasant hour of chat and badinage I drink up and prepare to go. A dozen eager faces suddenly peer at me, mutely imploring the Reveller to leave them a little something. So I slip the senior girl a very handsome tip to distribute among the ones I was in conversation with, and bid them all farewell.
The next stop is Top Gun, and a dish of their unsurpassable sop buntut. It’s only nine o’clock and the place is quite empty, a good time to just sit and reflect on life, the universe and everything.
I’m quietly musing on the day’s events, when in shuffles my old mate David Jardine. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, our paths being so unpredictable that we frequently miss each other by a matter of minutes. So we have a good chat about our latest experiences, swap puns and bon mots, and mellow into the evening. My sop buntut comes and goes, a delicious repast of textures and flavours that has become an immutable part of my Jakarta experience.
As ten o’clock draws near, the guys and girls start to drift in. It’s the usual suspects, with a fair number of OEM’s from up north. As they enter, each goes to his or her regular spot, greets their regular friends, says hello to their regular barmaid, and orders their regular drink. We are such creatures of habit, I reflect, building our own little universe of safety and certainty.
The keynote for the evening is vivacity, I decide. There’s a lot of movement - not the usual ebb and swell of the crowd, but an animated jostle, random spasms, individual bursts of brief activity that pepper the whole bar.
There doesn’t seem to be any particular fashion synchronicity tonight, but there are a few outlandish outfits that make me chuckle quietly to myself. One tall girl flounces in wearing what looks like a loose dress badly stitched together from bits of recycled parachute silk; the girl with her is wearing light hot pants and a matching top - but the middle section is made of what looks like coarse loose netting that’s been hacked from a deep-sea fishing net and sprayed with brilliant white gloss paint.
Ah, but wait - boots are back! Several of the Sweet Young Things are wearing mock-cowgirl tight short boots, which are completely at odds with their outfits. One girl is wearing futuristic short black tight shiny boots with sweeping chrome high heels - she looks as though she’s just stepped off the set of a particularly horrible science-fiction ‘B’ movie.
The Twilight Zone is quite full, so after saying farewell to Dave I wander into the murk to see what’s happening. The darkness has an almost tangible thickness to it, a hazy quality that matches the mood perfectly. There are the usual guys sitting at their tables surrounded by bevies of young hopefuls, the regular clusters of Sweet Young Things hanging out animatedly around the central pillar and flirting with any guy who passes by, and couples so engrossed in each other that they might as well be in the middle of the bus terminus as in a Blok M bar.
I sit and watch the pageant unfold, smiling and nodding at girls and guys I know, and greeting the bar staff as they flit by serving drinks. A good night for the regulars, a good night for the bar, and an excellent night for people-watching. Time flows by in a comforting tableau of happy chatter and jovial flirtation.
It’s nearing midnight and I’m ready to move across the road and see how the west-side hostelries are faring, so I haul myself out of my comfortable spot by the back of the band podium and edge my way through the now solidly packed Twilight Zone. Ignoring several carefully-arranged accidental body brushes from a couple of dangerously gorgeous Sweet Young Things, I ease through the limp crowd of Wallpaper Girls and head for the front bar.
Suddenly, silhouetted against the hazy light, a ponderous figure looms towards me. Good lord, it’s the Shagger himself - ready to carry out a sweep of the Twilight Zone and the rear bar. Joyful greetings and ribald comments about our expanding girths are exchanged, and I’m lured back into the gloom with the promise of a glass of Pernod.
Now my very good friend the Shagger possesses in profound abundance all the sterling qualities that make up the archetypal reveller - a robust build, a well-developed paunch, a cast-iron liver, a totally depraved sense of humour, a dirty guffaw you can hear across a crowded bar, a dedication to lust and fornication that knows no bounds, a homing instinct for the sleaziest girl in the place, the rutting instincts of a feral tomcat - but withal, a gentlemanly courteousness towards the girls and a generosity that is legendary.
His only regret in life is that his work takes him around the world and away from Blok M for long stretches of time - so when he passes through for a spot of R&R he’s got serious time to make up for. Every moment is precious, and he stalks the Blok with stealth and purpose.
We settle down next to the rear bar and catch up on each other’s gossip. Now the reason I like to sit here is that it’s the quietest place in the bar when the band is belting out its repertoire full blast, and as the drink flows we end up evaluating the bedability of some nearby beauties. The Shagger fondly fondles one of his old conquests who sidles up to him, beaming with pleasure at his return and clearly hoping for a more intimate renewal of acquaintance.
But a single glance from the Maestro lets her know, politely but firmly, "Not tonight, Josephine!" His practised eye has already marked out a lissome creature at the next table, a vision of innocence and coyness. Faster than you can say "what a cracker!" he’s at the table, an avuncular arm round her slim waist lest she fall off her stool in a swoon at being singled out by such an august figure as the Shagger.
After a little playful dalliance they separate, and it’s time for the Shagger to go. He’s presently based in deepest south Jakarta, so I offer him a lift and we prepare to depart. While he nips off smartly (I suspect to fill a gap in his already-crowded timetable), I stroll across the road to buy a shawarma at D’s Place. As I’m waiting for the chef to assemble the delicacy up walks my old buddy Raymond, who’s togged out in his pool team gear and going to join the rest of his gang in D’s. I take the food pack and glance through the kitchen hatch into the front bar, which is packed with laughing, carousing pool team players. D’s is going from strength to strength, I note approvingly.
Swinging left towards Melawai, we both remark on what a great night it’s been in Top Gun, an occasion to match the best the Blok has to offer. But we also share the feeling that such nights are increasingly rare, to be treasured as reminders of past greatness rather than as a harbinger of future quality. As the city lights recede and we slip down a quiet side road, a feeling of contentment and richness descends on us.
The Shagger drops into a philosophical mood, and recounts the story of a wealthy celebrity who, on his deathbed, is asked how come - for all his riches - he’s left almost nothing in his will. "I spent eighty percent of my fortune on drink and women", he confided "- and wasted the rest." Thus speaks a true reveller.
Now the answers to the bar movie title quiz:
A Touch of Class - One Tree Bar
Dirty Dancing - D’s Place
Ghost Town - Oscar
The Music Man - Highway to Elle
Where the Girls Are - Top Gun
The Land that Time Forgot - The Club
Reach for the Sky - Everest
Bad Company - My Bar
The Lost Chord - G-String
Match Play - Sportsmans