Booze, Basics and Bak Kut Teh
From the satay-smelling, SPG-infested pits we’ve come to call Sluttica, to the “turn down for huat” crew camping the monochromatic curbs that define pavement from tar, smoking menthol cigarettes and scrolling Instagram while waiting for a cab, the ubiquitous commercial club fucker has ventured them all.
With his $300 Topman skinny-fit suit (or the cheaply tailored Bugis Street ones), and his neon coloured VIP wrist tag, he’ll continuously attempt to fist pump his way into your vaginal cavities, serenading you with the current top-40’s EDM tracks, his crappy dance moves, and shoving a bottle of vodka into your face.
Oh you’ll see them, looming in their circles, zombified by their phones outside the many clubs that bejewel Clarke Quay like a team of athletes in their pre-game hype phase.
“OH WE GON’ GET BITCHES TONIGHT!”
They usually spend their NS pay pooling cash together to book sofa seats in the most packed of clubs in hopes to impress the ladies.
I won’t deny it, I’ve been a Commercial Club Fucker, and I probably still am. Bottle service, shuffling, tectonic, grinding, the occasional toilet adventure, the commercial club scene drama, and who can forget the days of hangover and memory loss; I have done it all, too!
But wait, there’s more…
Body con Herve Leger dresses, 6-inch heels, eau de toilette, and 45 minutes of hair and makeup work, all just to take a group picture in front of a public toilet mirror!
That’s right, ladies! YOU GET SOME TOO!
Drunken girls sleeping on the ground with their hair in their puke, mascara bleeding on their eye bags; accenting their night. Then there’s the frustrated friend trying to wake her up, and another pissed off friend about to burst into tears, barking orders at everyone (“EY you send her home la, her panties everyone can see already!”) because her “sistah” got smashed while they were pre-drinking on the CQ bridge.
The female section of Commercial Club Fuckers range from the barely legal ah lian teen queens, to event models that amass digital fans by the thousands.
I love it all. The crowded smoking rooms you suffocate in, the mixing of Martell with Moët, the sombong/arrogant/yandao dudes who think they’re the club kings with their sacred guestlist entry (dudes like me la!), the people bargaining with the bouncers, the random dancefloor fights, and the crazy after-hours suppertime madness at the Balestier BKT joints.
Commercial clubs, man. They seem so glamorous with their sparkly bottle service and their $600 bottles of champagne you just HAAAAAAVE to brag to your friends about for buying. The suited NSF and his friends in their cheap suits and botak heads outside the Clarke Quay Mcdonalds. The Wefie gang decked out in dresses bought online, then decked out on the floor being talked to by “guys who want to take care of them”
We have been there at least once, we’ve all done the toilet squat when the speakers blare “GET LOW LOW LOW LOW LOW LOW LOW!” and sang Bon Jovi’s “It’s my life” like it’s the greatest song ever written. Because all that glitters is not gold; and all the glamour can be crass.
Because all that glitters is not gold; and all the glamour can be crass.
Then you wake up thirsty; in the clothes you wore the night before, smelling like puke, sweat, vodka and pork rib soup; hungover. You tell yourself you’ll never do that again, ever, rant about how you think the clubbing scene in Singapore sucks.
And then you’re back at it again the next time you caption your selfie with #TGIF, #YOLO, #OMGWTF.
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