I never thought another Asian event could touch the Sevens. The all-day drinking, the “transactions” in Wan Chai, and the South Stand all contribute to an atmosphere that can’t be beat. But, I’ve learned, it can be bruised. It’s official: F1 weekend in Singapore is my next favorite Asian party.
Like the Sevens, F1 is ostensibly about a sport that Americans are completely ignorant of, which is kind of annoying.* But the real excitement comes in the periphery—the ancillary parties at, by, amid, among, around, behind, besides, and down from the race track. And every day I drank at least twice the number of prepositions in that last sentence.
The fun’s mostly at night but there were a set of incredible day drinking events, like the Bacchanalia Brunch (good name), coming soon to a Hong Kong near you. Instead of the Bloody Mary boozy brunch, the Bacchanalia was simply a nightclub event held in the afternoon. I was not prepared for “Welcome to St. Tropez” and a smoke machine at 2pm. However, after taking a shower—a champagne shower (BOOM! Comedy found) I was refreshed enough to engage in pouring from the bottle into rando girls’ mouths. Extremely drunk,
I went to use the restroom and found myself hit with a wall of sunlight and an old German couple staring at me, very confused. Note to self: Never leave the club.
This was followed up by a dinner at Catalunya and a rooftop bar with DJ Willy Monfret, which sounds like name-dropping but it’s actually name-remembering since I have no idea what happened. You know how in “The Hangover” they try to piece back their night using a digital camera? In the F1 Weekend version, it’s me frantically clicking though Instagram trying to find clues about myself, my wallet, and my phone.
Sunday continued: a rooftop party, nursing a horrible hangover at the pool, Rihanna, and the realization that my bloodstream was 35 percent champagne. Around 1am I was asked to go to a party with a cover of $8k. “I can barely walk,” I said, and demonstrated by falling into the pool. “I’ll buy your ticket!” some random guy who had met me 10 minutes earlier said. “SINGAPORE!!!!!” I screamed and did a dance where I fell back into the pool.
Flash forward to the club—music is awesome, everyone is having a good time, it’s great. I run into some HK buddies and ask if they really bought their way in. “Nah, MacGyver Clubbing” one guy told me. Apparently they had waited outside until people left and asked for their passes. “But how did you get the wristband back on?” I asked by pointing to the wristband and grunting. “Reattached with chewing gum,” he noted, showing the adhesive. “MACGYVER CLUBBING!!!!!” I screamed and did a dance where I fell onto a couch.