… Part 1 in an intermittent series… or musings from across the globe

Big Pimpin Singapore style. Never mind the old Singapore sling at Raffles. Nowadays it’s all about Chivas Regal and green tea. Felt like an Asian Busta Rhymes sipping on the distinctly random mix. Not sure what the old school Scots would have to say, but Sauce and I were agreed that it’s an unexpected improvement. Drop a bit of Liptons in your gran-pappy’s tipple this xmas. That and roadside curry as a late-night kebab alternative. Yesssss. Dipping the naan in the 4am sambal is an undiscovered revelation round Cannon-way.

Butter Factory: best club in asia(!) so far. Got the funk- as our vid clips should attest. Attica, however, where we ventured to on the following night-off is a horrible ex-pat euro hell. Scourge of nightclub society across the world- I travel half-way round the world to avoid tables full of slovenly DRUNK ENGLISH men brandishing bottles of Belvedere like they could tell the difference. Half of them weren’t even English, but they all look the same to me.

After the set in Singapore…. Houseparty= Jacuzzi in the bedroom. Nice. 80s batchelor power-pad. Carpet up the walls. Wet pants in a glorified bathtub. So wrong it’s right. Like top gun. Except there really is no way to be pale and English and look like you belong in a Jacuzzi unless you’re Hugh Heffner and it’s the 60s. I looked more like hugh Heffner in his sixties. Soggy Pringle pants and a London studio-tan to die for. You can never be waxed and chesty enough for that hot-tub glam vibe. But it would appear you can be drunk and English enough. Brandishing my bottle of Belvedere. And so it goes.

Tip on how to not bribe/freak-out the passport control at already over-tense Singapore airport: don’t keep your spare currency folded in your passport as you hand it over to be checked. That has all sorts of scary implications for them, apparently.

Jetstar to Oz…. “plane seating etiquette…” What ARE the rules on going to the toilet on a long-haul flight when you’re not in an aisle seat? I always sit aisle cos I need my freedom… my AAA cattle-class pass. If you have three seats in a row- you are the Gate-Keeper.

Newly discovered Rule 1 is: NEVER sit next to old people in the Gate-Keeper’s throne. Used to see a mother and baby already seated as u approached up the aisle and want to just keep going when u get to ur seat cos u knew it’d be screaming and hell all the way to touchdown. But I welcome the shrill screams of babyhood over the weak bladders of olditude anyday. I had the “super-friendly travelling 70-yr old couple from anywhere-small-town England-visiting other –old-family in-anywhere’s-ville Oz” waiting for me in 21a and b. They like to chat. But I have the tattoos and Ray-bans combo in effect, so ride that out like the friendly air-biker I am….Courteous but you don’t wanna engage me too much, cos you’ve heard about my sort.

So I’m deep into season 5 of the Wire and get the nudge….They want up for toilet… holding my laptop, standing in aisle, balancing.. I don’t pause..They shuffle off, I sit down…. 2 shoot-outs later, HE gets back. But where is SHE? Nowhere. But HE wants to sit back down in the middle when we both know SHE is gonna be back 1min later and WE will have to get back up again and do the stupid laptop dance. SHIEEEEEEET as Clay would say. Is it just me? I think HE should wait there till SHE gets back. I’m not getting up AGAIN to yo-yo about for you fools, I’m high on Baltimore gangsta-isms and I ain’t movin around for no moms and pops, long in the tooth getting-up in my grill, toilet-needing fools, you heard?

So I get up straight away and tight-smile him in like it’s no biggie. But I stay standing… juggling my headphones and macbook.. he sits there looking around for her- UP and down the plane.. like he didn’t go the SAME toilet with her at the back. Like he lost his crazy play-away wifey?? Anyway. 2 long plane minutes later, I’m now perching on the arm.. she gets back..”oh I was waiting for u…blah blah. Enough” and he gets up…I get up (it’s anarchy).. we laurel and hardy about and finally we’re all back in our seats. An eon of palava later.

He says thankyou and of course like the humble brit I am, I say. That’s ok. No problem. Hurrumph.

Sydney day 1.

Sauce stopped for Smuggling raisins at customs…. I could hear the distant thwack of rubber glove to wrist as they escorted him to the darkened room…. meanwhile

I felt like a less welsh Howard Marks with my two individually concealed Gillian McKeith cereal bars bulging in my bag. See why ppl risk the threat of jagged-whips dipped in horse urine and lifelong jail sentences when the thrill of BEATING the customs MAN is so visceral. AND I had a bit of a sniffely nose, which I consider tantamount to breaking the border with swine flu if the many signs are anything to go by. Yeah I did it, Oz!! I brought a borderline cold and 3 tasty (killer) cereal bars in and you’ll never catch me now.

They actually told Sauce it was his straw hat that really caused the concern… I kid you not.