On a business trip to Singapore I floated what I thought was a pretty uncontroversial statement: Hong Kong is better than Singapore in every way, especially nightlife. My friend stopped eating his curry to respond. “I see your point, I understand your point and I think your point is retardo,” he said. “First of all, stop calling me ‘retardo,’” I said, “and second of all, what are you talking about? Do you know how many times I’ve woken up with my shirt missing in an industrial building in Chai Wan? Singapore can’t begin to handle Hong Kong.”
And with that, it was on.
The rules were simple: we would have a bender in each city and evaluate the next day—or, as the case may be, the next days—what constituted nightlife insanity. Since I was in Singapore I thought it better to start there. So far I had gone to a bar with a bunch of dudes then was dragged to a bar of, um, professionals and lots of dudes. This was not my idea of a good night out—watching “transactions” is only fun for about 30 minutes.
So the bender. Our first stop was the W Hotel, which conveniently was where I was staying. If you’re bendering, do it at the W because your room feels like a club, the lobby looks like a club, and Ws actually have clubs people go to. “How’s your Hendrick's and tonic?” my friend asked. “Pleasant,” I answered, “but this is not a bender.” “We chill then we go,” he said, calling me “retardo” a few more times.
1am: we find ourselves at Vault, as you do, which was an old bank but now is a tasteful bar filled with attractive Singaporean women in short skirts. “I love it here; I’m friends with the DJ,” my friend said, not knowing that everyone is always friends with the DJ. We entered and sure enough the DJ waved at us, like he waved at everyone. “We need shots,” I said, getting three Singaporean girls to join us for a round. “Cannot!” they said in unison. “We are on a diet le.” I stared at them and downed their drinks. My friend came by with another round. “Shots?” he asked. “Cannot,” they said and I cut them off by drinking their drinks. This was getting sloppy.
Onto Pangea, the newish Marina Bay Sands club. There was a long queue and I wasn’t going to wait. “Don’t worry about it,” my buddy said, and walked up to the bouncer. “We’re on the list,” he said. “Tim’s party.” The curtain was parted and we were in. “Who’s Tim?” I asked. “I have no idea” he said, “Just say you’re coming for Tim’s party and there normally is a Tim having a party.” “Makes sennnssse,” I slurred, and we celebrated with more gin and tonics. “Oh my god I missed you!” a very drunk girl yelled, approaching us. My friend and I looked at each other—no idea who this was. “Are you here for Tim’s party?” I asked and she laughed and fell down. We then proceeded to string sentences together and I found out she was a dancer and could do a full split and then did it on the dance floor. “Now you try,” she said. I tried and remember hearing some sort of ripping sound coming from my lower body. “I can’t walk,” I told my friend. “I’ll get you a drink,” he said. I nodded.