So I’m obviously having a great time in Bali. Not doing a whole lot right now (until the conference starts) but I did get to go to a bar called Mixxwell in Kuta last night. And by night I mean morning, as apparently not one person worth any cool points ventures out before midnight.
That worked perfectly for me because as a man entering my twilight years (that’s certainly the understanding here in Young Bali) I could nap. And I did. For 5 hours. From 7pm to midnight.
There then followed the obligatory realisation that, much like Richard’s wife, I had screwed up the packing algorithm and bought with me about 34 tops and no bottoms. So following an intense debate with myself I settled on the two oldest and most tired things in my wardrobe (it’s ok – Seigfreid and Roy came out of the closet decades ago – I meant shorts and a polo).
If you’re booking a taxi in Bali, make it Blue Bird cars. Safe, sedate with an accent that will grate; but with drivers who will get you there pretty much before you leave, it’s the Concord of charabancs.
To the bar now. Settled in, packet of Marlboro Lights in hand – but actually, wait, you don’t need to smoke in Indonesian bars – because everyone else is! I reckon I’d smoked enough to sound like E.T. before I even got to my white melamine chair.
The drag acts at this bar are a sight to behold. Perfect word for word duplication of every Whitney sound known to mankind – without actually singing one single word. They are illuminated by a crew of boys dressed like they man the pit-stops at the Singapore Formula One: white pants, black shirts with checkered collars and 2 colossal, light-house sized hand lamps pointed right at the pile of Avon and synthetic hair – that if you closed your eyes, ears, and every other sense – was just like Whitney (probably in her more ‘Bobby, can you role me a joint’ period that the ‘I will always love you’ era.
Anyway, my ‘colleagues’ and I danced the night away, well they danced I sat and nibbled my finger nail (it seemed like the safest snack).
To bed, and in closing, I have to tell you of the most bizarre dream I think I’ve ever had. Basically I’m instructing a legion of students in a large lecture theater. I ask them to watch the screen and learn and I play a video.
The video is of me talking to camera about how nice Kim Kardashian is, and I’m exceptionally drunk. I’m also, for some obscure reason, wearing surgical gloves and am chain-smoking. I then direct viewers to a small tv screen next to me to demonstrate how Kim has come off the rails.
The clip plays and it’s of Kim being chased by penguins in the Arctic (I know, you don’t get penguins in the Arctic, because Polar bears can’t get the wrapper off etc.).
I would have told you how this all ‘panned out’ but I was then awoken via a scam call to my villa asking me if I wanted to know what prize I’d won. I said no, and hung up – bitchy words and snipey comments excused for humour about – I actually had a brilliant night and didn’t need a 2 hour timeshare pitch to spoil it.
