Scribbles from the Same Island Read online

  In some ways, this was a wise move because the only people that measured in grams when I last lived in England were drug dealers. And they’re most welcome to them. So, I will continue on my crusade to preserve some traditions and hold back the technological tide for as long as possible. But it’s difficult not to get trampled under the march towards greater efficiency.

  According to the various transport operators in Singapore, the new ez-link card relies on the Global Positioning System (GPS) of satellites to track the location of the bus. So if you’re reading this on a bus while picking your nose, then let me assure you that the GPS has you in its sights. Think about that. Now, go and wash your finger.

  But when the ez-link card was first introduced, there were some glitches in the system with cards being misread or overcharged on buses and trains. So, in April 2002, a Bus Task Force was established to remove the kinks and increase ezlink’s efficiency.

  Yes, that’s a Bus Task Force — in proud capital letters, no less. I assume this means that muscle-bound men in ski masks, abseil from helicopters onto the roofs of buses and shoot, on sight, anyone whose ez-link card is rejected by the reader. Machine-gunning their way through the bus, the fearsome task forcers will cry: “Right, you dithering bastards, the next person to slow down this bus by pissing about with their ez-link card will get a bullet in the balls. Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise this was a school bus.”

  If that doesn’t speed up boarding time, nothing will. No, wait, perhaps they should introduce those moving floors that they have at airports. You could just step on and have your ez-link card scanned as you glide past. If the machine fails to read the card, rather than emit that repetitive beep, it should administer an electric shock. Watch how fast the commuters move down the aisle then.

  Don’t laugh; there’s probably a civil servant involved with public transport reading this and thinking: “Actually, an electric shock device could speed up boarding time by 0.3 seconds. That would make each bus route 4.7 seconds faster. And that, most importantly of all, could add 0.8 per cent to my increment at the end of the year.”

  It could happen. And when the Bus Task Force starts landing on my bus in Thomson Road, I’ll head for Tioman. You’ll find me lying in a hammock, fanning myself with my old farecard.

  NOTE: True to form, I continued with my trusty farecard until December 2002, when I returned to England for a working holiday. When I came back in the new year, I went straight on the bus and tried to use my farecard. My fellow passengers looked at me as if I had just shit on the floor. I had to use cash in the end. But to this day, I still forget to swipe the ez-link card as I leave the bus. So, if you spot a sweaty ang moh running back towards the bus eloquently shouting, “Wait, you bastard, I forgot to beep this fucking stupid card”, please refrain from calling the police again.

  THE SKIN

  EVEN though it was my friend’s birthday, I didn’t want to go to a nightclub. I no longer drink and when I try to dance soberly, the crowd parts frantically and someone usually makes a desperate call to the Singapore Zoo to discuss my recapture.

  “But it’s your boss’ birthday,” my colleagues pleaded.

  “I’ve never even heard of the club,” I retorted.

  “It’s off Orchard Road. The area’s also known affectionately as ‘the four floors of whores’.”

  “I see. What time are we leaving?”

  Once I’d handed over a month’s salary in exchange for an entry stamp and a tepid Coke, it became immediately obvious that something was amiss. The clientele’s diversity was staggering. There were over 50 white, expat males, which made up around 80 per cent of all the men in the club — and just two white women. Many of the men were older than my father. Some even danced like him, which was most disconcerting. I thought he was a one-off.

  Just where do these people go during the day? If you stopped reading this book right now and walked 50 metres in any direction, I’ll wager that you’ll encounter very few ang mohs.

  Step into any nightclub along Orchard Road at the weekend and you can’t miss them. Like vampires, they prowl the dance floor looking for female victims and, my god, there was no shortage of eager sacrifices that night. I thought all this SPG nonsense was going the way of the expat CEO.

  Have these young ladies not read the news? In recent months, ang mohs with fat wallets have been dropping like flies. Many are fleeing back to the West quicker than you can say: “You know, perhaps we should have hired that Nanyang guy after all. The New York guy nearly ruined us.”

  But no one, it seems, has relayed this information to the beguiling beauties currently doing the nightclub circuit. I’ve never encountered so many women harbouring obsessions with ageing ‘foreign talents’.

  There was only Ulrika Jonsson in England. The stunning TV presenter had a fling with the talented, though slightly unusual looking, Sven-Goran Eriksson. But Jonsson has had affairs with several sporting personalities, so it’s difficult to deduce whether she actually had feelings for the England coach or just loved the smell of men’s dressing rooms. Yet, even she would be out of her league in Orchard Road.

  One gorgeous Malay girl, wearing a dress the size of a handkerchief, spent several hours flirting with no less than four different white men before settling for a plump, American chap. He couldn’t believe his luck. She couldn’t believe his wallet.

  Clearly, there were just not enough ang mohs to go around. And this fact became painfully obvious when a tipsy 30-something made a beeline for me. Now, I’m not going to kid myself here. In England, women have remarked that, in a certain light, I resemble James Dean — albeit after his fatal car crash. I attract women like an Opposition candidate attracts votes in Toa Payoh. Yet this did not deter my new, distinctly exotic companion.

  “Wha’ your name?” she slurred.

  “Stamford Raffles.”

  “Ha. Would you like me to dance with you?”

  “Er, no. Thanks.”

  “Come lah, let me dance for you.”

  “With me or for me?”

  “I dance for you.”

  “No, really. Thanks.” Like the leaflet distributors, she just wouldn’t bugger off.

  “Don’t be shy lah. Come, I sit on your lap.”

  “What?!” But it was too late. Before I could move, her backside came at me like a Tomahawk missile. My first reaction was to scream, my second to call for security and my third would’ve involved several sharp toothpicks. A quick shift to the left allowed me to narrowly escape her weighty plunge.

  Yet, my physical rejection merely encouraged her. She stood up again, eager to launch herself a second time, so I dashed off to join my friend in the toilet. This desperate measure suggested that I was gay and she backed off, finally.

  My poor friend at the urinal was besieged by questions. Who is that woman? Why does she want to gyrate on my groin? Where the hell did that long-stemmed red rose come from? And, most worryingly of all, where the bloody hell did she intend to put it? But that’s it, as far as I’m concerned. The next time I go to a club, I’m wearing a sign — a huge placard across my chest that will say: “I NOT RICH, I NO CONDO, I LIVE IN HDB.”

  It’s ironic, really, because in every other facet of Singaporean society, there is an increasing realisation that white skin does not automatically equate to a greater talent or bank balance. Except, of course, in the nightclubs — a situation that ang mohs, fat wallet or no fat wallet, are always keen to exploit.

  But do not fear, because what goes around comes around. On the way home, I spotted a pair of middle-aged ang mohs chatting with two lanky ladies, while brandishing their wallets. As I approached, I noticed that the two women were, in fact, heavily made-up men — a biological fact that had gone unnoticed by the two drunks.

  Now that’s a truly novel way of introducing expats to the concept of value-added services. I just hope the two ‘ladies’ offered to show the ang mohs their long-stemmed red roses. But seriously ladies, it’s time to stop putting ang mohs on a pedesta
l — or your lap.

  NOTE: Unsurprisingly, quite a few letters came in over this controversial issue. But this time, interestingly, every one of them agreed with my rather critical views of exploitative Caucasians and naive Singaporeans. Many were just getting tired of the predictability of it all. So am I.

  THE BAN

  WHEN I was 18, I was banned from my local pub. Considering I grew up in a part of London where chicken molesting barely raised an eyebrow, this was quite an achievement. The public house was so dilapidated that when I first asked the barmaid where the toilet was, she replied: “You’re in it.”

  On one hazy occasion, I found myself looking for the men’s urinal in the ladies room. For some reason, the sight of women applying lipstick in the mirror didn’t warrant concern. Probably because I was being strangled at the time by an irate landlord, who kept shouting obscenities like “pervert” and “dirty little bugger”. Apparently, he was not impressed when I said I was looking for the jukebox. So, I was banned from one of the worst pubs in London.

  Among friends, there was a certain cachet to being booted out of a notorious drinking den. The incident awarded me some priceless street-cred. It allowed me to concentrate on my A-Levels and gave me the opportunity to use the word ‘cachet’.

  But in Singapore, however, it is ridiculously easy to earn yourself a ban of any kind. Last year, a journalist was not allowed to attend functions of the Comfort Group, the taxicab company, after penning a critical commentary about its CEO and his supposedly generous salary package. This is grossly unfair.

  I mean, where’s the slap from incensed ladies whom you’ve embarrassed outside the toilet cubicle or the kick up the backside from bouncers? At the very least, a credible ban must be followed with a severe battering from your mother, preferably with a broom handle. It always did for me anyway. I mean, if bans are given out so cheaply, then why can’t I have one and all the kudos that comes with it?

  Attempting to answer this question, I met covertly with one of those ‘disgruntled staff members’ of the Comfort Group. There are plenty of them — they’re called Singaporean taxi drivers. On the condition of anonymity, one cabbie told me everything. “Though must be careful, ah?” He cautioned. “Must protect my rice bowl. Unlike my bosses, my rice bowl very small. It’s like my taxi — cannot smash.”

  He then proceeded to discuss the hypocrisy of big bosses at Comfort, the high rental of his vehicle and his astronomical insurance and petrol costs. It seemed too good to be true — this guy was revealing the complete inside story, a scoop no less, which would guarantee a ban and subsequent notoriety in media circles. It was too good to be true, however, because the driver was a raving lunatic. An utter fruitcake — his hands spent more time gesticulating than they did on the wheel. In fact, he treated the steering contraption like an electric fence and the more animated he became, the less he touched the wheel.

  “Comfort threatened to sack me twice. You know why or not?” he bellowed.

  “For not keeping your hands on the wheel, you bloody madman?” I offered.

  “No, because I’ve had two accidents. They said I was a bad driver. Ridiculous right?” And then, he turned round to ascertain my reaction. That’s right. We were careering along Thomson Road and the old loony turns around so I can reassure him that he is a competent driver. I wouldn’t have trusted him with a shopping trolley.

  “But what about your big boss?” I asked, pointing towards the windscreen, something he didn’t acknowledge very often. “Was it fair of him to ban that journalist?”

  The cabbie shrugged and said, “Singapore’s like that. Even before your time, it’s been like that.”

  Now, call me naive, but I thought those hip, swinging Singaporeans of wealth and power were dancing out of the shackles of stereotype. In a desperate bid to keep the younger ones from living with koala bears, kangaroos and crocodile hunter Steve Irwin, the Republic’s elite is supposed to be more open and more tolerant of criticism. We’re allowed to know the incomes of CEOs of public-listed companies, I’m told, because of something called ‘corporate transparency’. But not everyone in the corporate world is ready to embrace this freewheeling, radical notion of transparency.

  The Comfort Group proudly announced that the ‘disgruntled staff member’ who leaked news of the journalist’s ban to the media has faced ‘severe disciplinary action’. The employee was to be hanged, drawn and quartered, but the rack was still rusty after all that exertion during the Spanish Inquisition. So the guilty party settled for castration, followed by a quick, lethal injection. This is just the kind of carefree, trusting environment that will convince the quitters to flood back to Changi Airport, isn’t it?

  Incidentally, if the bigwigs at Comfort ever feel like relocating to Australia, then my cabbie friend and I will gladly pay your airfare. I’ll even get Mr. Look-No-Hands to drive you to the airport. Is that enough to earn me a ban now?

  NOTE: Apparently, it was not enough to earn me a ban, which I was devastated about. I couldn’t sleep for a fortnight afterwards. In media circles, I had to stand on the periphery and watch big-shot writers discuss their various establishment bans. It was so humiliating. However, having the article published in this book will certainly not do my chances any harm. So if you’ve bought this book, you have possibly contributed to a major transport operator banning me from ever being allowed to step into one of its taxicabs again. Nice one.

  THE SEX

  WELL, what a miserable month October, 2002, turned out to be for me and many other Singaporeans. Despite interviewing Oasis songwriter Noel Gallagher just the week before, the bad boys from Manchester proved to be no more than choirboys in the end. After the tragic Bali bombings, they decided that Singapore was not an oasis and returned to England with their guitars between their legs.

  They had been due to play their first ever Singaporean gig at the Singapore Indoor Stadium, but the belligerent brothers shit themselves after a terrorist attack thousands of kilometres away. If there were similar nightclub bombings in Spain’s Costa del Sol, would they cancel a gig in Britain? Besides, is Southeast Asia really that dangerous for Westerners? Surely the average British celebrity has more to fear from being cornered by British TV star and man-hunter Ulrika Jonsson at a showbiz party.

  I’m a white man living in Singapore and the only bodily harm I fear is from being tapped to death by my mini-mart owner. Her palms pummel my forearms with every word she utters. And she does enjoy a sentence or two.

  “Ah ang moh,” she begins brightly, tapping my hand and arms. “More toilet rolls, is it? Too much curry again, is it?” Tap, tap, tap.

  “You must watch your diet, eh?” Tap, tap, tap.

  “Stop tapping me! I need all this tissue to wrap around my sore arms, you daft old bat.”

  I have left the shop with more bruises than a sadomasochist, which, incidentally, is my subtle way of introducing my next topic — sex. To be honest, it salvaged a miserable month as far as I was concerned. Rather depressed with the regional news, I was delighted to learn that, in some quarters, I’m considered to be obsessed with the physical act of lovemaking.

  I received an email from a reader who said something like: “We’ve read your newspaper columns and come to the conclusion that you must be a pervert. Therefore we are promoting a number of board games designed to improve sexual relationships, and we thought of you.”

  Well, I was appalled, at first. And then I asked them to send me one of the games. Two days later, FOREPLAY — A Game For Lovers arrived on my desk.

  It’s like Trivial Pursuit for nymphomaniacs. You play the game with your wife or lover (or wife and lover, if you’re feeling really bold) and, through a series of questions, you learn more about your partner’s sexual desires, preferences and ambitions. The game finishes, hopefully, with you and your partner moving onto something a little more physically stimulating. No, not Scrabble. But you do get extra points for length.

  The game is proving quite popular, I’m told, and ca
n be bought by Singaporeans at www.sensualfire.com.sg.

  But I remain skeptical. This is Singapore. In this country, you cannot even have SEX on a number plate — for several reasons. Firstly, the number plates aren’t wide enough and you’d fall off and scratch your bare arse on the tarmac. Secondly, ‘sex on a number plate’ sounds like a song by Eminem. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, the Land Transport Authority recently decided against using vowels as the middle letter of three-letter prefixes in vehicle licence plates. Thus, sensitive words like SEX, SIN and SUX are avoided.

  One TODAY letter writer applauded the decision, saying that her young son should not see his mother driving around in a car with the word SEX on it. How times have changed. When I grew up in Dagenham, which is on the outskirts of east London, children hoped to avoid seeing their mothers having sex in the car.

  Considering that startling thought, is it fair to say that we are dealing with a more conservative society here? This is a country where a sex scene in Eminem’s movie, 8 Mile, has been cut even though both Eminem and his screen partner are fully clothed throughout their lovemaking session. The game’s distributor, Passions Of Life, disagrees though, claiming that Asians invented the Kama Sutra, while Bangkok is the sex capital of the world, with Geylang, I believe, coming a close second.

  This was the line I took with my girlfriend when I asked her to play Foreplay with me — all in the name of investigative journalism, of course. But the game didn’t last long. One of the cards instructed her to sprinkle talcum powder on my neck. The dust irritated my sinuses, and I ended up looking and sounding like a pig with respiratory problems.

  This irritated my girlfriend. I know because when I asked her, “Under what circumstances do you think the most enjoyable lovemaking sessions occur?” she replied, “When you’re at work.”

  Rather miffed by her sarcasm, I asked two girls in the office to play the game together instead. This was a somewhat pitiful attempt on my part to realise a long-harboured fantasy involving two young ladies, preferably with bisexual tendencies and a steamy shower. Nothing of the sort happened. Though I was engrossed by the constant giggling and playful slapping, which was a trifle disturbing. In truth, though, it’s just a bit of saucy fun and, God knows, we’ve needed some of that recently.