Scribbles from the Same Island Page 5

  I was using the little boys’ room more often than George Michael. It was costing me three dollars a day and that didn’t even include those cute packets of tissues given out in Singapore. When it reached the stage where my wallet had to make a choice between urinating and eating, I headed for the local K-Mart supermarket. Surely the facilities would be free there? Indeed they were, but they were locked — deliberately. Frantic and cross-legged, I asked a girl at the checkout if they were being cleaned.

  “No,” she replied. “You can get the key from me.”

  “What key?”

  “The key to the toilet. And could you please bring it back when you’re finished.”

  Bring it back? What the hell did she think I was going to do with a key to a K-Mart public toilet? Pretend it was an Aussie souvenir and send it to my mother? Though, in truth, if I stuck a magnet on the back of it, she’d happily stick it on the fridge.

  In the end, the thought of carrying a large toilet key around a supermarket was just too embarrassing. I hadn’t even bought anything. So I headed back to the “we-rip-off-bladder-burstingmen” establishment.

  Slightly perturbed that the 50 cents didn’t include piped music, light refreshments and a full massage from a Swedish sex siren, I asked the chain-smoking attendant why: a) most public amenities were locked and b) why the rest cost a small fortune.

  “Aborigines,” she replied. “If we don’t charge or lock up, they defecate on the floor and vomit up the walls. Some even go in to sleep. I wouldn’t like to think about the amount of diseases that must be in that toilet.” And then the ignorant woman took my 50 cents and blew smoke in my face. Now, has that put you off emigrating yet?

  The only negative experiences I have had in a Singaporean urinal involved being watched by a disturbingly zealous cleaner. Many times I have asked the female toilet cleaner at my office if I might relieve myself, only to find her still cleaning the floor behind me. I had expected her to wait outside. But no, she decides that the spot right by my feet, which is shockingly close to my exposed testicles, must be cleaned at that exact moment.

  I have also cut a path to several toilets at hawker centres — an expedition which required side-stepping the unwashed plates of mee goreng, hopping over the cigarette cartons and sliding along various liquids of an unknown origin. It was only the absence of a giant, concrete ball that prevented me from resembling an incontinent Indiana Jones.

  But these public antiquities are in rapid decline and will soon be replaced completely by those state-of-the-art amenities in most shopping centres. Yet, be careful; these could become a dangerous social menace. PM Goh suggested recently that if Singaporeans are to succeed, they must become more self-reliant. These modern toilets encourage anything but self-reliance. Recently, I went to a toilet that flushed the urinal for me, dried my hands automatically and, wait for it, released water from the tap without touching it.

  Just putting my hands under the tap’s censor did the trick. Now, I know we need to conserve water, but this is ridiculous. I appreciate the “Keep toilets clean” campaigns and their importance, but, surely, Singaporeans can turn a tap on for themselves. I’ve met some loonies in Toa Payoh, but not even they would go up to a tap and say: “Now, this must be the dimmer switch for the lights.”

  Whatever next? Perhaps plumbers will install a magnetic contraption above the urinal, which automatically undoes the zip on your trousers? That might be worth 50 cents.

  Until then, let’s demonstrate remarkable self-reliance and stupendous multi-tasking skills by flushing our own toilets and washing our own hands.

  Believe me, it’s a better alternative than going up to a supermarket cashier and asking for an oversized toilet key like a guilty schoolboy. But if we really want to curb Singaporean migrations to Australia, then I would seriously urge the government to consider that magnetic zip idea.

  NOTE: I received an irate email concerning this article, from a man who thought I was trivialising the stayer-quitter emigration debate in Singapore. He reminded me, quite forcefully, that the state of a country’s public toilets is not high on the list of priorities for potential emigrants. This wasn’t an issue, he claimed, that would affect ‘normal’ people. I tried to picture these ‘normal’ people, but I quickly stopped. They were starting to scare me. Nevertheless, I thanked him for his email and for pointing out that the majority of Singaporeans don’t have public urinals on their minds when they are choosing what country to spend the rest of their lives in. Of course, what I really wanted to say was: “Please, please let me pay your airfare to Australia and don’t ever return to Singapore again, you sad bastard.” But I didn’t.

  THE GAMES

  SINGAPOREAN killjoys ruined the Asian Games 2002 celebrations. Despite the five gold medals won by the Republic, there were still pessimists on hand to cheapen the achievements of its bowlers and bodybuilders. And that’s tragic.

  It’s not easy to knock down 10 milk bottles with a plastic cannonball, you know. It’s no small feat to slip on a pair of skimpy Speedos and strike a pose without slipping in all that cooking oil that has been smeared all over their bodies either. Bodybuilders are under intense pressure to ensure that they bulge in all the right places — especially as they are only wearing a pair of skimpy Speedos. There are no extra points awarded for that muscle. And we shouldn’t even consider what sort of training programme it would require.

  But no one should downplay these sporting accomplishments, particularly when they bring the medals in at such a prestigious continental competition. In fact, why stop there? Let’s exercise cool calculation rather than sporting snobbery and petition the Olympic Council Asia (OCA) to include other widely practised “sports”.

  According to the OCA, a sport must have a high participation rate to be considered for inclusion in the Asian Games. That being the case, I humbly nominate the sport of queuing. By definition, it requires mass participation and Singaporeans have turned it into an art form.

  Queuing encourages Sports-For-All and collectivism, which will keep the government happy. It is also cheap. Unlike elitist sports such as horseracing and sailing, queuing equipment can be afforded by just about everybody. A singlet, loose-fitting shorts and a pair of flip-flops should guarantee maximum performance.

  Like a melodrama made for the Hallmark Channel, children would sit on their mother’s knee, look up in admiration and say: “Mummy, when I grow up, I wanna be like you. I want to queue, too. But I don’t want to do it just for a cheap quilt with matching pillow and bolster cases; I want to do it for my country. Mummy, I want to queue for Singapore!”

  Regional queuers could congregate at the National Stadium for the referee to announce: “On your marks, get set, HDB flats for sale!” The last, sleep-starved person who remains upright wins the race. It might not measure up as a spectator sport, but consider the medal potential for Singapore.

  The same could be said for the sport of queens. And when I say queens, I mean talking aunties. Put any Singaporean woman over the age of 60 on a bus. Tell her to talk, incessantly, on any subject she likes and I guarantee she will shut out all competition, quite literally. Foreign aunties would be screaming for an oxygen tank before any Singaporean woman finally stops talking. Though the English old lady would run her a close second, I must admit.

  The referee could stand between them and shout: “On your marks, get set, gossip!” to begin the inane conversation. Incorporating the three-strikes-and-you’re-out rule, the jabbering aunties should be supplied with three prompts if the chatter starts to flag. At intervals, the referee could shout subjects like: “food”, “noisy neighbours” and “grandchildren” to keep the contest going.

  Be warned, though. Singaporean aunties have a tendency to disagree, whereas their English counterparts love to agree with everything. So the final talk-out could well consist of: “Grandchildren? Cannot tahan. No, no, no, no, no.”

  “Ooh, I know.”

  “Very naughty one.”

  “Ooh, I kn
ow.”

  “Kids today; no discipline.”

  “Ooh, I know.”

  “No, cannot. No, no, no, no, no.”

  “Ooh, I know.” It would be riveting stuff.

  However, if you’re looking for a testosterone-charged, pumped-up, adrenaline-filled extravaganza, then you might consider the 4 × 100-metre bookie runners’ relay. Using their handphones as a baton, four illegal bookies would settle in the starting blocks, wearing the appropriate sporting attire — a singlet, loose-fitting shorts and flip-flops. The race referee would then cry: “On your marks, get set, Manchester United half ball!”

  To make it a fair contest, the illegal runners must all natter continuously into their handphones to take bets, check the form-guide and discuss their upcoming court cases. Even if they didn’t win the race (they’d face strong opposition from the gambling Thais), they’d make a few dollars by the time they crossed the finish line. Indeed, money and sport are intrinsically linked in the modern era so there’s every reason to include illegal VCD sellers at the next Asian Games.

  Weightlifting already has the ‘clean and jerk’ and ‘snatch’ categories, which are pretty vague to most sports fans. Initially, I thought they involved pornography. I’m almost certain you need to do one before the other anyway. But Singaporeans should petition for slight variations — the ‘jerks, clean and pack’ swiftly followed by the ‘snatch the cash’.

  Training funds would not be required from the Singapore Sports Council — experienced ah bengs are fully trained. The sport’s set up is simple enough. Two competitors (from Woodlands and Johor Baru, respectively) would warm up behind two old wooden tables full of illegal VCDs. Their strict training regime usually involves furtive glances along the street and continuous smoking.

  The athletes could perform in whatever they feel comfortable in — though a singlet, loose-fitting shorts and flip-flops appear to be remarkably popular. Then, the referee could mutter: “On your marks, get set, aiyoh, CID!”

  In such situations, ah bengs demonstrate quicker reflexes than any martial arts exponent. The jerks can clean the table and pack away the VCDs before you can say: “Was that the Pamela Anderson-Tommy Lee home video?” The first athlete to then grab the box, snatch the cash and sprint away wins the gold. The defeated opponent, however, must settle for silver and six months in Changi prison.

  Nevertheless, with these new sports added to the Asian Games’ schedule, Singapore could easily become the most bemedalled country in the region. If nothing else, imagine what these additions could do for the local flip-flop industry.

  NOTE: A friend of mine, who works at the Singapore Sports Council, said this column was well received around the office. I expect to be made SSC chairman any day now.

  THE DANCE

  UNLIKE those Coyote Ugly beauties down at Mohammed Sultan Road, I can’t dance. On a good night, I look like a break-dancing C3PO with rusty joints. Such talents are hereditary. My father was famous (in his house) for his Michael Jackson moonwalk. After his seventh beer, I would hear: “Come and see this, son. I taught Michael Jackson everything he knows. Watch this moonwalk.”

  “Dad,” I would reply. “You’re just walking backwards.”

  “No, son, look and learn from the white man who taught the black man. Now, watch the Jackson spin. Ready? Here, that’s no place to put a basement.”

  He has emptied dance floors from England to Spain. But as long as you granted my dad some floor space (by dancing in another club), he was essentially harmless. Rather like bar-top dancing in Singapore. Well, at least I think so and I have the support of Prime Minister Goh Chok Tong on this one.

  Speaking on National Day 2002, the PM suggested that Singapore might allow bar-top dancing. It doesn’t at the moment. According to the Public Entertainment Act, dancing has to be confined to a dance floor that is “demarcated by permanent fixtures at least one metre high.”

  Er, what?

  Never mind the Dutch coverage needed to get up and bar-dance, I’d need a few beers to understand the law preventing it. What I want to know is, who are the people who waste trees to write this rubbish on paper? Have they been to a club before? Have they conversed with women before?

  I’d love to see them chat up women with a line like: “Excuse me, madam, but you have a lovely pair of ‘permanent fixtures’.” But it seems that bar-top dancing, as seen in the American movie Coyote Ugly, is a really, really serious issue for some Singaporeans. The subject was a topic for discussion on a Mediacorp TV talk show I watched one evening and I noticed that two phrases kept popping up — “Asian values” and “good monitoring”.

  I respect and admire genuine Asian values, with their emphasis upon the family unit and filial piety, but on this occasion they are being used as an excuse, not a reason. It reminds me of newspaper headlines like: “Maid Abused For Not Giving Wealthy Tai Tai Face” (‘It was Asian values, Your Honour’).

  On the talk show, I heard someone say: “We grow up with Asian values, which means we are not prepared for those evil Westerners who corrupt us with pretty, scantily clad girls dancing on bars. These dancers will poison the young, insult the aunties, arouse the uncles, bring down the parliamentary system, cause anarchy in the streets, intensify the haze and global warming and force a passing meteorite to hit Mohammed Sultan Road in 2010.”

  Or words to that effect anyway. Besides, anyone who uses the term ‘scantily clad’ deserves our attention at all times — preferably through the window of a padded cell.

  Then there was the idea of ‘good monitoring’. There must be ‘good monitoring’ to protect the perilous dancers as they perform their death-defying routines. Some suggested protective clothing and iron bars. But that’s not going to guarantee the young ladies’ safety, is it? So, I’m offering a solution — The Mummy Bar-Top Dance. Realising that some Singaporeans like fads (Hello Kitty, bubble tea, sushi bars and Manchester United), I came up with a new one.

  Bar owners should swathe their dancers from head to toe in protective bandages. Wellington boots should also be thrown in to prevent slipping, while sunglasses can reduce the glare from strobe lights. The dancers can then get into a glass cage, which is assembled at a safe distance from the crowd — 50 metres should be sufficient. Bouncers who would make Mike Tyson look like Mini-Me from Austin Powers will protect the cage.

  Cushions can then be placed around the bar. Remember, these bars can reach astonishing heights — some are even rumoured to be one metre high. And as a final, safety measure, an ambulance, a doctor, two stretcher-bearers and a full medical crew will be on standby.

  There is still a fear, however, that such erotic mummy dancing could arouse male drinkers. So, they can be hosed down with ice-cold water at 30-minute intervals, thus ensuring that the only things in the bar that remain erect are those ‘permanent fixtures’. This is, of course, ridiculous. Yet, the rest of the world is watching this on-going farce.

  Remember, foreigners are not interested in tedious facts about low crime rates and high living standards, they are interested in stereotypes, which are much more fun. And this bar-top nonsense has added another bullet to the gun.

  Having just returned from Australia, I had to endure all the usual jokes. In Alice Springs, I was asked: “You’re from Singapore? Don’t they cut your hands off for chewing gum?”

  ”No,” I replied, giving my stock answer. “That’s for littering. Chewing gum warrants decapitation. After which, your head is stuck on a spike in Orchard Road to deter future gum-chewers.”

  It’s most annoying and this dancing debate is adding fuel to the fire. So if bars like Coyote Ugly want to introduce the American dance craze to boost revenue, then why not? In this recession, I’d rather watch beautiful girls performing well-rehearsed routines, than sit in an empty bar with all the atmosphere of a mortuary.

  God knows I’ve been to enough Singaporean bars where I’ve had to suffer deeply boring men screaming into hand-phones. On one or two occasions, I’ve even been to nightclub
s and watched executives tapping away at their laptops. Other than using a hammer and a chisel to knock their computers up their back passage, I really don’t know what you’re supposed to do with these people. Give me a sexy, well-paid dancer over a kiasu ugly man every time.

  So let’s make it happen, preferably without the mummy costumes, but hey, whatever brings in the customers. If it doesn’t, then I’m tempted to unleash a far more dangerous dance routine upon Singapore — my drunken father doing the moonwalk.

  NOTE: I’ve since been to Coyote Ugly, for purely research purposes, of course, and I was delighted to see the dancers up on the bars and having a few laughs. Unsurprisingly, the heavens didn’t fall, the seas haven’t risen and the bar hasn’t been struck by an evil plague of locusts. But the place is doing tremendous business. I can’t think why.

  THE TRIP

  HAVING just returned from a weekend in the Indonesian island of Batam, I was reminded of two absolute certainties in life.

  First, I always live up to my ang moh billing and bring back a face redder than a blushing lobster. I only have to poke my head out of the shade momentarily and the Indonesian sun will insist on giving me a souvenir. For the rest of the weekend, the hotel chef fries his eggs on my forehead.

  Secondly, and more importantly, the kiasu brigade always decides to spend a loud weekend with me. It’s got to the point where the travel agent asks “When would you like to travel?” and I reply, “I’ll go with the kiasus because I’m emotionally imbalanced and my psychiatrist needs the income.”

  These Batam trips have already put me in a psychological conundrum as a result of the recent national stayer-quitter emigration debate. Within 24 hours of returning, I was on the psychiatrist’s couch asking: “Does it really make me a bad person? I mean, I think I’m a stayer. But when I go to Batam for the weekend, I rarely, if ever, have nostalgic pangs for Singapore. I don’t think about chicken rice, Orchard Road, one-party governments or anything. Does this make me a quitter? Because when I’m here, and no one is around, I do have guilty, longing thoughts for Batam. What do you think?”