Well, last Tuesday saw the third Glam Cham, Asia City’s networking event, at One Bar in Exchange Square. Shouts out to our marketing team Logan and Joanna, who I saw busily labeling envelopes late in the evening at the office. “Do you want to join us?” they pleaded with doe-eyes as I walked past with my Givenchy. “Uh, no,” I replied and walked out.
Anyway, everyone had a blast at Glam Cham III, especially some power banker bitch who was telling people that she was my good friend, “and the brains behind Johannes Pong.” I’m sorry, but the only female power banker who’s a good friend is now a power lawyer, and she was working late in her office and definitely not at Glam Cham. So I think I have my first stalker. Sure, I have unoriginal haters and creepy fans writing me love/hate emails, but this is officially stalkerama. I wasn’t going to put this in the column, lest she read it and believe that I’ve officially let her into my life, that my mentioning of her has cemented our mutual love and possibly our sexual attraction for all eternity. Or maybe it really is a friend who had way too many free flow drinks and not enough complimentary canapés and decided to bullshit around the bar for shits and giggles.
Well, at least it felt that I have arrived. Every celebrity columnist needs at least ONE psycho-stalker. Without stinting, I asked our Publisher and Omnipotent Executive Editor, Mr. Freeman, for a little budget for bodyguards, preferably two—a Russian and a Gurkha. Without stinting, he flatly refused. Goddammit.
Our boys from production thought it was a public holiday the next day and decided to do vodka shots like there was no tomorrow. In the process, one spirited designer who shall remain nameless kept dropping shot glasses on the floor and breaking all the wine glasses within his reach, because he was such a hot mess. Our photographer joined in the festivities after his obligatory party picture taking and politely offered shots to editorial, as if we were wimps in that department. Our fierce Deputy Editor, after numerous wines, took the challenge, downed a shot, and promptly lost her marbles. A shot of pure vodka was handed to me. “Come on! Nightlife can do vodka shots!” came the taunts. I looked at the cheering mass of drunken party shot monsters, saluted them and promptly poured the vile shot into my glass of vodka soda on the bar, without any of the enforcers noticing my sleight of hand, of course. “This is how Nightlife lasts,” I enlightened my friends Doris and Nick as they oooh’d and aaah’d in awe. Sorry guys, I didn’t want to throw up like I did at the first Glam Cham event at Pi. Nor did I want to fall down the stairs, which is what our fierce Dep Ed decided to do afterwards (her knee is fine, thank you all for caring).
The next morning, the first email I got from fierce Deputy Editor was: “Do you know how I got home last night? Cos I have no recollection at all.” Which is a pleasant change from the usual, “Bitch, please, get your fuckin shit done.”