Friday 16th May
Streets ahead
I have a work meeting on Friday evening, so when everything’s wrapped up I decide to head Blokwards for a quick drink and to catch up on the week’s gossip. The northbound traffic is the wrong side of diabolical tonight, and it takes ages to reach the hallowed halls of Jalan Falatehan. A man could die of thirst in this lot, I reflect. Then, at long last, the bright lights of Blok M can be seen shimmering seductively in the distance, and I give a profound sigh of relief.
Turning into the street isn’t easy as several cars have been ingeniously parked so as to make a vicious chicane, and the place is packed with cars, bajays, taxis and ojeks. Parking rather precariously next to one of the famous Falatehan mega pot holes, I decide to pop in to D’s Place and see how things are going.
And everything’s going very well - very well indeed. There’s a fair crowd of guys in the place, a healthy buzz of conversation, and the early shift of D’s camp followers. The most populous area is definitely the middle bar, though there’s a fair number in the front around the pool table.
As I sit down at the bar, something feels different from last week’s foray, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Ah, the lighting! That’s it. The bright bilious pink is now a warm user-friendly tone, the ghastly green is now a cool hint of mint, but the dungeon is still a study in the darkest of blues - just as nature intended.
Sinking my first beer of the night I feel comfortable and relaxed, which confirms my earlier feeling that new D’s will make a good early evening watering hole for the weary Reveller. After recharging the old batteries I decide to cross the road and see what the tide’s brought in.
It’s good to see that Top Gun, too, is having a good evening. There are customers aplenty, a good attendance of girls young and old, and the staff are bustling around like bees in the proverbial hive.
Looking round the room, for one brief moment I think I’ve landed in a funeral, as most of the girls are wearing black, Now there’s nothing quite as alluring as one of the svelte Sweet Young Things in a nicely fitting black dress - except, of course, a white mini skirt. There’s a fair number of Indramayu girls clustered around the end of the bar, including a couple who’ve recently returned from Singapore. Back for a spot of R&R, they tell me - but if they’re in Top Gun dressed to kill and sporting full warpaint, it looks to me more like a busman’s holiday.
Suddenly my admiring gaze is rudely interrupted by a most amazing sight. A fulsome figure in a short black and white stripey-patterned dress is waddling at high speed towards the door, followed by a robustly stout guy who’s struggling to keep up with her. Good lord, it’s Dumb and Dumber! She’s obviously scored, and is making sure her prey doesn’t have any chance for second thoughts. Good for her! I think to myself - but I hope the guy’s been taking his vitamin pills.
A stroll round the territory is next on the agenda, so I up and wend my way to the back bar. The wallpaper girls are out in force, lounging by the mirrored wall. Blimey, I’ve seen more animation in Madame Tussaud’s, is my thought as I edge my way through this static group.
The Twilight Zone is fairly full, mostly with older girls doing their best to look seductive and mysterious in the dim half-light. I’m reminded of jungle spiders that spin their vast webs between the trees, then sit patiently waiting for a victim to become ensnared. By the time their potential mates have gravitated to the Zone from their fuelling station up at the front bar, they’ll be too plastered to notice niceties. Beer goggles are a wonderful thing.
After chatting with a couple of my old mates and catching up on their news, it’s time to move on to the next port of call. So it’s out of Tog Gin and across the road to Highway to Elle for a mid-evening respite.
There aren’t so many guys in Elle tonight, but quite a lot of girls - many of them wearing white boots, knickers and bras. Ah, the dancers! There are a few stunners who’ve got it and are obviously flaunting it, but most of them look like moonlighting salesgirls from Pasaraya down by the Blok M bus terminal - which they probably are.
As I sit at the bar looking around, the dancers start doing their stuff. Oh dear. It’s a lifeless, mechanical set of poorly choreographed gyrations, with all the sex appeal of a limp lettuce. A few of the guys are idly watching the show with blank detachment, for want of anything better to do.
After a pleasant drink I bump into Daryl, the owner, on the way out, and ask him how things are going. Business is doing very well, he tells me, but comments that most nights there aren’t enough girls in the place - whereas tonight, when there aren’t many guys, there are lots of girls. That’s Blok M for you, I commiserate. All the guys I’ve spoken to like Elle, and many of them call in for a casual drink during the evening, while some have made it their regular watering hole.
I decide to drop in to D’s again and see what it’s like as a late-night joint. Not bad, I nod to myself as I walk in. A lively crowd, plenty of girls, many of whom seem to have regular blokes - it’s not so much a pick-up place as a place to take your pick-ups. As I’m pretty well tanked up by now I order a cola to quench the thirst, and sit down at the front bar.
After a couple of minutes up walks Carl, one of the owners. He tells me how the place is developing, admitting that the original lighting was a bit over the top and garish. We agree that the two bar areas are now well lit, and I beg him not to make any changes to the Dungeon as it’s just right the way it is. He says they plan to put a small bar at the far end of the Dungeon, which - given the cavernous depth of the place - might work quite well.
Carl twists my arm to have a Pernod, and as I stir in the ice and water he goes on to say that they’ll be knocking out the wall arch between the front and the middle bar, as there’s a dead space in the corner where no-one likes to sit. Now that’s a good idea, I reply, because it’ll retain the identity of each bar whilst making movement easier and add more seating.
We spend a long (and increasingly boozy) time mulling over menu items. We discuss the best way to make fish and chips, with the traditional crispy/moist batter and proper chips made from whole potatoes. But mushy peas, that’s the problem. How to get them really mushy and pasty is the thing to crack, and the man is working on it with the devotion of a cordon bleu chef. We range far and wide - from sausage and mash to shepherd’s pie, from rice to bread and butter pudding.
By this time I’ve worked up a healthy appetite and my mouth is watering, so Carl drags me into the kitchenette for a bit of grub. Blow me, but he’s got a couple of shawarma roasters going full belt, and a dozen little containers set into a chilled steel unit full of all the goodies that make a genuine shawarma - yogurt, onions, sauces, salads, and more. The front ‘window’ turns out to be a serving hatch into the street, and he plans to put a few chairs and tables outside. I reckon this enterprise could be a nice little earner - lots of guys are going to line up for a tasty takeaway shawarma, and I’ll be first in the queue.
Carl urges me to take a shawarma home with me, but as he hasn’t yet got the takeaway boxes he rustles up the full monty and dollops it onto a large plate, then waves me on my way with a cheery farewell. Now I’m so far gone that I forget where I parked my car, and end up walking, somewhat unsteadily, down the middle of Jalan Falatehan clutching the plate like a lost waiter. The grinning security guys put me out of my misery by ushering me to my car and guiding me safely into the road.
I edge my way gingerly southwards, with exaggerated caution - but the roads are completely empty save for the occasional lone biker, and I’m soon safely home, The only trouble is that my long-suffering stomach thinks it’s still in the Blok, and my slide into sleep is a roller-coaster of semi-delirium - in which white mini skirts pass hazily before my eyes.
What a night! A ‘quick drink’ becomes a marathon booze-up, a full-blown Blok M epic with a truly wacky ending in the crazy tradition that’s been the hallmark of my years on the Blok. A brilliant night, a night to savour, a night to remember. Once again, the street comes up trumps and defies commercial logic - so here’s to the next time!