Inspired by my recent viewing of the Social Network I've decided to blog whilst drunk. Wow. Novel. Here come's my stream of consciousness, unedited, unadulteRated. R-RATED. Shiz.

Listening to Washed Out's EP and wondering where he is right now, cos, like, this shit is kewl.

Feeling guilty because I shrunk the beb-master skirt my sister bought me for christmas, it was mustard, Aline and had buttons. It was Ali McGraw to the max and I hearted it desperately and now it's gone. To the anorexics. Or fashion forward children. I wonder what it's like to live a guilt-free life. I feel guilt approximately ten times a day. On a good day. I'd love to know what it felt like to be unfettered by these societal cufflinks and iron bed posts.

I realised tonight that Jarvis Cocker should take over from David Attenborough should he wish to retire/ die. There is obviously no voice that comes even close to the shrink wrap, cottonous, peach fuzz that is Sir David's voice (and when combined with khaki shorts and a gorilla is there any human on earth that is more like a deity?), but I think the Reverend Jarvis would approximate to the nearest degree. So on that note i am going to write to Jarvis at 6 music to suggest he petition for this, in the unlikely event that David should expire before his all-bets-are-off brother Richard.

*Air drumming interlude to I want you to stay Maximo* AS TIME GETS MORE COMPLEX, YOU'RE ALWAYS MY REMINDER!

Miss northern accents. Sigh. Will defo have to do a month at home this July. I am starting to get pangs of missing homeness...Probably due to the skype call I had this morning with my mum, auntie jill and uncle Ken (who for the record only said that it had been "quiet since I left" well by the way betch...) when they begged me to come home, said I should buy a house and settle down "How old are you now? Come home you old bastard!"

Well not just yet, Ken, I will not go gentle into that good night, yet. To quote Michelle Pfeiffer.

I'm not sure what the plan is at the moment, not feeling very Hannibal I need a sign. Should I stay or should I go? Three months of farm work beckons if I decide i want to stay...I've seen the big eared boys on farms, I'm not sure they'd appreciate my penchant for Gainsbourg and Piaf, or even Wagner.

Anyway actually too drunk to write any more. OFF TO watch Harry Potter. Cos I'm THAT cool.

Santa died for somebody's sins but not for mine

Instead of the usual blow-by-blow account of what I’ve been up to I’ve decided to have a general discussion about some of the weirder aspects of Vietnamese life. A wander down the street in Saigon where my friend Stu lives provides endless insight into the ways of the land and I never tire of walking down it. Life happens on the street here; house doors are left wide open for all and sundry to see, families inhale their Pho, watch blaring televisions, feed their babies (more on this later), go to school, drink and play cards. So here are some of my observations made over the past week:

a) a) People here use scooters to carry just about anything you can think of. Pane of glass carried with no gloves on the back of a moped? Sure! Stacks of geese in bags? You betcha! A family of four including a casually carried newborn baby? Piece of piss. You can almost hear Partridge’s take on it with Crash Bang Wallop Part III; “Look at these idiots, I don’t think they follow health and safety regulations in VIETNAM”, “SHIT! That guy’s asleep at the wheel, with a pillow!” (I have seen this). It’s remarkable really, almost like a twisted, polluted ballet in which the pedestrians, taxis and mopeds interweave with no rules and no speed limits (like in Germany) and yet you never see any accidents. Glory be!

b) b)Women are paranoid to Madonna-like proportions about getting a tan. They do not want to be brown, they want to be white. Which means that even in 35 degree heat and humidity that makes the sweat spring from every pore (I swear I can hear it) they will wear gloves, a jumper, a scarf covering the bottom half of their face, trousers and even cleated socks with their flip flops. As well as the ubiquitous conical hat. They shout at white women in the street to cover up, they cannot understand how we would want to be darker, when you cannot even buy moisturiser or shower gel without whitening cream in it here.

c) c)Which brings me onto my next observation: overfeeding. Being thin is not in, in Vietnam. It’s still classed as a sign of poverty here, hence pencil thin women drink protein shakes to get a rounder figure, and babies are fed to within an inch of regurgitation until 10pm every night to act as some gluttonous exterior sign of wealth- “We have money, look how much we can feed our child! Count the tires! Just count ‘em!” Consequently you get some hefty little bruisers about yey big cruising the streets of Nam.

d) d)The women are direct. To the point of eye watering honesty. I have been told on several occasions, and with a disgusted down tugging of the mouth, that I’m “too thin”. And that’s not even been the worst of it. It’s become an almost daily occurance for a gaggle of women to laugh and point at their noses, and then at me. Yes, it’s really f***ing funny that you’ve got noses cute as buttons and I look like an emaciated Captain Hook. Thanks guys. Thanks.

e) e) Men let their hair and nails grow. There have been several, rather disturbing sightings of men with long nails, really long. The kind of nails you’d go, “Oh my God, look at that man’s LONG nails!” We’re still not entirely sure why, although it could be another nod to, “Look at me I don’t have to work in the fields, I can grow my nails long”. Either that or women here have a serious penchant for Nosferatu-esque accoutrements. The curly facial hairs are also gag-inducing, and I’ve been put off my food on several occasions now as one of those pesky coiled, wirey hairs got a little too close for comfort.

f) f) And finally, and this one’s a bit of a rant, Religion. Namely Catholicism. Since the French came and conquered they left behind some great stuff, namely baguettes, Laughing Cow and their peerless architecture and town planning. Not so great has been the imprint of the ever-pervasive and ever-growing iconoclastic religion. Take the street I’m staying on for example. People here are not wealthy, they live in pretty small houses, almost all of which double up as a shop, garage, restaurant, bar, you name it- the Vietnamese are nothing if not business savvy. So imagine my horror when I walk down the street, and see two huge white Catholic churches, that must cost half the country’s annual GDP to build, in the midst of being erected. Hop on a cruise down the remote Mekong Delta, there’s nothing but water, mangrove, small canoes, rice-laden boats and! A Catholic church shining like a beacon of monstrous incongruity. Glance into each house as you pass and tally up the number of Buddhas and the number of Christ and Mary images- it soon becomes obvious who’s losing the battle for wall space. But I guess it’s happened for centuries, since the biggest genocide in history was carried out in South America by the Spanish. It just seems even more out of place and anachronistic given the current crisis of faith that even the Italians have mustered.

StiStill there is a funny side to all the over-zealous worship, there’s a huge replica of Notre Dame cathedral in Saigon, not by a Seine-like river mind, no, this one acts as a roundabout. And Sophie (who lives here in Saigon) told me about her friend who went to a shopping mall at Christmas to see the nativity display (the Vietnamese are mad about Christmas, with little fairy lights, fake icicles and Santas adorning every building as far as the eye can see). They’d really pushed the boat out on this one though, creating a beautiful touching scene, Mary, Joseph, cattle lowing, some well wise men etc etc, until her eye wandered up to see a huge red and white Santa Claus, nailed to the cross.

I love the smell of Napalm in a morning

Greetings from poolside at the hotel Nam Hai, Hoi An. And wowsers Mctrousers do I wish you were all here to see this. An infinity pool that stretches out towards a turquoise, steady sea, the horizon broken only by distant mountains and palm tree fringing. Plus I have a trusty Mojito in hand, which makes everything infinitely better. What can I say about this special country, with its conical hats that bring romance to any picture, smiling people, lush greenery and food that makes the palate zing to life?

I last left you in Singapore, working frantically to deadline in self-imposed isolation, which I have concluded is the quickest way to insanity known to man. Don’t try it. Ever. Unless you like waking up in the middle of the night trying to catch all your random thoughts in a metaphorical dream catcher wondering if you’ll ever feel sane again. Nevertheless, I managed to make the deadline for the book and felt a soaring sense of elation that I can only liken to how Nelson Mandela might have felt at his release, when I boarded the plane for Hanoi in the North of Vietnam.

The flight was longer than expected, Vietnam is much bigger than I thought. I arrived at night and after a happy reunion with Rosie Foodie Nonce-meister Jonst crashed into a plush bed, courtesy of my companion’s amazing media bartering skills. The first day was spent trawling the motorbike and scooter-laden streets and tiny side streets of Hanoi. The city has a youthful buzz that I hadn’t expected to find. The buildings are crumbling, and have both a Chinese and French influence, with potted plants that descend from the balconies at the tops, but the people are a mix of old and new. Wiry looking women balancing poles with food on either end, which made them look like walking Libra signs, stride purposefully along the streets, while the hip young gunslingers zip about on scooters dressed in modern clothes- some of them pretty damn cool actually. On the whole there’s an air of a country that’s forgotten its horrific past and is finally coming into its own, America in the 50s full of youth, promise and hope.

Rosie was doing a street food slide show for the Guardian Food section, so we were on a mission to find the best street food Hanoi had to offer. The first stop was a coffee shop that’s been around since 1936, which serves up extra strong coffee made with the help of a trusty weasel. They feed little white weasels on the plantations coffee beans, which the little mites then process through their vital organs and then, to put it bluntly, shit out. Apparently the chemical composition of the bean is changed and makes the best coffee in the world. The interior of the cafe itself was like entering Alice in Wonderland world, with its stooped ceilings, overturned bottle crates and miniature stools serving as chairs, and equally mini tables whose tops were etched with messages of love, phone numbers or a rather cheesy Vietnamese photograph. I ordered a weasel coffee with condensed milk, which came in a little ceramic cup with a heart emblem on top. It blew me sideways. The air of faded grandeur added mystique to the experience, making it feel more like a ritual as the locals sat about, smoking and sharing plans for the day to come. A perfect start.

We spent the rest of the day trying local foods that are all made at stalls around the city, local delicacies using ingredients from the local province and loads of herbs, noodles and pork- which I had to abstain from. Worse luck. After a much-needed siesta (or watching Mad Men in my case) we headed back out again for more local food. Sadly my hunger and lack of veggie options all conspired against me and I ended up-horror of horrors- eating at an all you can eat Pizza buffet. Well I was hungry damn it! We finished the evening at an outdoor café perched on the seemingly ubiquitous tiny crates, eating a yoghurt dessert with jellied fruits in the shadows of a rather gothic and impressive church.

The following morning we headed out to Halong Bay- a mystical place with calm emerald waters, pierced with limestone boulders jutting out in various shapes and heights, surrounded (at this time of the year at least) by an opaque mist. It was rather touristic though, with hoards from the Merrell and socks wearing brigade jostling to climb aboard their boat. Ours was a rather charming junk ship, with faded strips of orange and navy paint and a miniature pagoda on its roof. The crew were amazing and immediately made us feel at home. Less so one particularly annoying couple from “Tazzy” Australia. It was their first trip abroad after a life of raising “foive kidz” and we didn’t hear the end of that. “Do you hev a big family? “ “Oi don’t agree with thet, when you’re a mother of four boyz…” “Why don’t you girls get married and hev kidz?” ARGH! Do shut the fupp up you silly woman. But the other guys aboard the ship were great, including one spectacularly stereotypical socks-and-sandals wearing German, named Ollie. By the end of the trip we had him belting out Tina Turner’s ‘Private Dancer’ (“Deutschmark!!!! DOLLAR!!! I take American Express!”) on the ship’s deck, as we glided through the calm waters back to shore. The food during the cruise was also worthy of mention, with Asian greens such as morning glory drenched in garlic, crispy fried prawns and heavily peppered and super fresh calamari.

Next morning we hopped on a short flight to Da Nang, where we were picked up and transferred to our hotel in Hoi An. What a magnificent hotel it is too. Beach cabanas of impeccable design, with jasmine scented body lotion and a pool to die for (I may have mentioned this earlier?) The first evening we went into the little streets of the town centre to try and find some fresh local seafood. The streets at night are lit by lanterns, which makes for an incredibly festive and romantic atmosphere. Sadly we ended up in a tourist trap eating dried-up red snapper with a coarsely chopped chilli and lemon grass topping. Nicht so gut und never again! The next day we had better luck though as we met up with a couple of local girls who run a tailoring shop (Hoi An is famous for its tailoring shops which have the ability to copy any dress imaginable) who took us to a local seafood place where we tried banana flower salad, greens drenched in garlic and butter and braised fish in a claypot. Utterly divine and a far cry from the horror of the night before. The great thing about the women here is that they have fantastic senses of humour, they are liberated and open and moving forward in a progressive way. Sadly, apparently the men are known to be lazy drunks, which is why the women are so strong- both physically and intellectually. The women run their own businesses, have children and still manage to achieve it with humour and happiness. Truly inspiring.

Another thing of mention before I head off, was the local food market we visited on bikes yesterday. A rather shabby affair, with low corrugated iron roofs, makeshift stalls and the place where flies abound. And yet, and yet… The women who work there were so full of smiles and looks of curiosity, the children smiled shyly behind their hands all of them wanted to talk to us in the only English they know “Hello” and ‘Yo” (I’m not sure why they love ‘yo’ so much, I even had to slap a child’s hand and say yo! as I passed him on my bike!) But the piece de la resistance came though when I spotted a Karaoke machine in the far end of the market. I pointed to it and the next thing I knew the stallowner was running around like a blue arsed fly trying to locate a microphone. Uh oh. This is it, don’t get scared now. He eventually found one and I was coerced into singing Michael Jackson’s 'Beat it' to a steadily growing throng of locals. This was sure to test their senses of humour to the limit. I made Rosie go first which she managed with the usual amount of aplomb, applying gusto and a generous amount of shimmying. It was so funny to see the locals crowd around laughing and clapping as we made utter fools of ourselves in a scene reminiscent of Bridget Jones in the Thai prison. I’ll never ever forget it…

But that’s quite enough from me, more to come from what is fast becoming one of my favourite countries…

"You will pay the price for being a fussy eater".

How do? Just thought I'd update this rather anaemic of late blog with a few images of the past few days while Mum's been in town. I pretty much haven't stopped laughing since she arrived, which is either because I've been in solitary confinement for what feels like an ice age, or my Mum is genuinely hysterical. Can't decide which. She did describe choosing what to eat at a local Hawker market like "Walking through a minefield" which I think is amazing, as well as pondering why all the homeless people in the world don't move to Singapore, since "they'd be so warm sleeping outside".

So here are some curios I discovered in Chinatown the other day: Ornaments of babies that look like fully grown adults, and why not?

And some Chinese popstrels, I heard the bass player's a babe, she can really wail.

Slightly worrying, bamboo poles used as scaffolding. Sure it's safe though. Probably.
Ah bless, taking a nap. Either that or they hit the glue hard that morning.
Mum won't let me put the one of her in the Monk get up from the Temple on here, which is a shame as she looks f***ing mental and it's amazing, but this is pretty much how I spent the entire time visiting the Buddha's Relic Tooth Temple, as I looked across at Mum with her moisturiser sliding down her face and hair that is increasingly resembling a 'piece'.
Ooh this was interesting, we got up at 6.30am (KMN) to go and see a Singaporean tradition of Bird Singing. The old guard of the Chinese community all get together on a Sunday morning with their ornate bird cages in toe for a training session. All the birds are hung from the ceiling according to what type they are (lest they should learn the songs of other birds!) and they then start to 'challenge' each other. An old man explained to me that while some birds throw back their head, open their beak wide and warble with bombastic ceremony, other birds get intimidated and stay silent. "Some birds have no challenging power, if other bird is too fierce well it will make the other stay silent". I felt like Daniel San. There's money to be made too, the strongest challengers with the loudest, most tuneful song and most stamina can sell for a real wedge. It was dead cute seeing the entirely male ensemble sighing as they gazed up at their beloved birds chirruping the morning away.
And finally, I'd been holding out on Raffles for a Sling at the Long Bar as I knew it was one of Mum's lifetime ambitions to go there. Here she is enjoying what I think is kind of medicinal tasting Singapore Sling, invented at this very bar in 1915. And me trying to emulate a 'cad' just outside the iconic hotel...
Not da Momma!

You don't have to wear that dress tonight...no really, I do. It's stuck.

Right, I have been really crap of late, not updating this, it’s not that I didn’t want to it’s just the lack of time really, working to fairly strict deadlines to get the first five chapters of the book in and they’re all the most labour intensive ones too (I sound like a guy fobbing off a girl he's not that into, “Uh it’s not you, it’s me, uh I didn’t have time, it’s been MANIC here…”) My day now basically consists of: get up, check FB, Hotmail, twitter, see if Diego left me any food, always good if he did as it’s proper chef food, then tap diddy tap, give it a little tap, tap tapperoo! All the livelong day. With periodic sighs, shuffling to the kitchen, listening to the Velvet Underground, watching Billy Connolly clips, more sighing, back to the computer, maybe a skype call from Rozzer- thanks Jonst.

All of which means I’m well on the way with the book, so here goes.

The thing that has gotten me thinking after three weeks in sunny Singapore is, what do these kats do for kicks? Kavorting escapism- we Brits are great at it, temporary forgetting of life's ultimate futility etc. They sure as hell can’t talk about the weather, “Ohh another sunny day, isn’t it hellish” I don’t think so. So how do they cope here when:

1) They don’t (can’t) do drugs, at all- unless they fancy the death penalty or at least a heavy jail sentence and a caning of the bad kind;

b) A lot of Asians are allergic to alcohol, or Muslim, so the UK’s favourite source of mind obliteration is out;

4) It’s too hot most of the time to play sport- we’re on the equator here and the humidity is, well it’s enough to make me sob heaves of frustration on a regular basis;

And d) the music scene produces one of two reactions in me, complete indifference or making me want to put my fingers through my eye, into my brain, and swirl it around. That or go full retard. (Speaking of, they play the proper Black Eyed Peas version of Let’s Get Retarded in Here on the radio).

So what does that leave us?

Only two of the finest pursuits known to man: prostitution and gambling. (Shopping too but there’s not much scope for writing in that). Apparently Asians dig gambling, hard. They dig prostitution hard too, but we’ll come to that. So much so that they’re building a $5.5b casino resort to draw the punters in and rape them of their money in beautiful surroundings. The shopping centres are also full of fruit machines (combining two loves there) that noisy kids crowd around, pumping in the prime minister’s head like there’s no tomorrow, cheered on by screams of delight. Some of the bigger kids draw quite a crowd. Apparently, Las Vegas makes the majority of its money from Asians who flock to the soulless, oxygen- fuelled bright lights to blow their wads. So to speak.

Which brings me to their second love: prostitution. Around five years ago the East of Singapore, Geylang, was a traditional Malay haven, with beautiful Peranakan buildings and sea breezes. And it still is to a certain extent. Until night falls that is. Then, in scenes reminiscent of Thriller, the shes and shims come out to play, crawling and sassying onto the pavement to wait for their man. There's no expats here though, this is local territory and probably where my taxi driver goes since he can’t afford the four floors.

It’s so brazen, so unashamedly out there. Hotels that charge transit rates- a euphemism for by the hour- as well as tons of massage parlours where apparently not just the men, but lonely, unfulfilled housewives go to get a ‘release’. The sad story behind this sudden influx of prostitution though is that a lot of them are mothers to children they want to see get a good education in Singapore. Many come from China and Indonesia where they just can’t give their children the same opportunities. And there’s demand here, people can’t do much else, so prostitution thrives. But the locals understandably hate it. And it’s not just in the East, almost every bar or club I mention is met with a knowing look, a downward glance and a theatrical aside, “You know [moves eyes from side to side] that place is popular with the low/middle/upper class working girls, it’s got quite a reputation”… I get this with almost every place I mention. It gives you an idea of the overreaching presence of whoredom here. And for some, it's all in the name of having a Louis Vuitton handbag…

This kicks me onto another cultural inequality I’ve heard about here. Apparently the Filipina nannies get so lonely looking after other people’s kids all day (they’re the home help of choice here as well as Chelsea) that on Sundays they get dressed up in their finery and head to the Lucky Plaza on Orchard Rd hoping to pick up another minority- the lonely Indian construction worker. They then take them back to their place of work i.e. someone else’s home and get down to business. It’s apparently creating huge problems here as the Singaporeans keep coming home to a bare Indian arse scampering out the front door.

The point of all this being, that although on the surface Singapore seems a harmonious, egalitarian society, scratch ever-so-slightly beneath the surface and the whore-shaped cracks emerge; the inequality, the desperation, the obsession with money that permeates everywhere else.

But enough of the anthropological essay, let me tell you about the bar I went to last night. Much needed after the humiliating spectacle that was yesterday. I decided on impulse to get a traditional 40s era Chinese dress made, Shanghai in the war style, and yesterday was my first fitting. Unfortunately I’m a pear which means two different sized bodies in one (don't feel sorry for me, I've accepted my fate). Now, I got the dress on OK, but getting out of it quickly became a nightmare that saw my remaining scraps of dignity implode in not-so spectacular fashion. The attendant had to come into the tiny and already claustrophobic cubicle, while I stood in my knickers (full briefs thank God) with a dress around my arms and head. And it took AGES, unpinning, tugging, pulling….me getting increasingly flustered. Did I mention the attendant was a man in his 40s? Well, he was. So embarrassing. No woman should ever have to go through that.

Finally, after being charged $10 by a taxi driver who eventually admitted he didn’t know where he was going, I used my passable (read atrocious) map-reading skills and eventually found the Speakeasy- a bar based on prohibition era America. All traditional cocktails called Rockefeller and the like, outdoor seating, in a wonderfully restored Peranakan shop house. Flickering 1920s films projected onto the walls and attentive but not obtrusive bar staff. Easily my favourite bar in Singapore- and not really known either as it’s down a side street that evidently even taxi drivers don’t know. I got a bit carried away and sank an amount and strength of cocktails that would make Don Draper wince. At least the journey home was more interesting.

Anyway you’ve had quite about enough of my inane ramblings, I’ll take more pictures while on the Orient Express next week. I can’t wait!

How much is that laaady in the window?

So...I don't have time at the moment to do a proper loadsa info blog, so I thought I'd just get together a few images that sum up the past few days. Here's the cocktail I had at the top of the Swissotel The Stamford's New Asia Bar, which has fantastic panoramic views of the city all the way to Malaysia. Sadly the music ruined the atmosphere a bit, I mean it's supposed to be a young bar, and it was full of the khaki shorts and jesus sandals brigade, and played Coldplay and Dire Straits. Hmmm...

So itching for something a little less commercial, I got talking to a young feller in the lift, an Aussie pilot for Qantas. And we know what those boys are like. He suggested a trip to Singapore's Orchard Towers A.K.A Four floors of whores. It sounded intriguing, so in a taxi I popped. The funniest bit was when he said to the taxi driver 'Four floors o' whores please mate' and the guy instantly went 'Ok!' When I asked him if he went there he was like 'Nooo...' where I expected him to then quantify with, 'I would never go to a place like that', instead he said 'I can't afford it'. Amazing.

So the place was full to busting of girls, drunk men and the Asian speciality, lady boys. Not very good ones though, they had five o'clock shadow like you wouldn't believe. The higher up the shopping centre you go, the better the quality of girl. It was sort of sad to see all these young girls with these fat western men, but there were a lot of local men there too. Apparently $150 Singapore dollars will get you a girl for the night (according to a Scottish steelworker who took a bit of a shine to me, thinking I was up for it ("I'd pay a thousshhand for you..."). The girls' toilets were full of them pouting and preening, while the men's was stacked to the brim with condoms for sale.

So the rest of the time has been pounding the streets, talking to people, finding out where to go. Saw some b-boys and gals in an underpass which was pretty kewl.

But I can't leave without sharing this final image with you that resides on the back of a popular bus here...They didn't come, did they Kev? By God I wish you'd take this back...

Flippin' my hair, workin' my hooves

Spent all of yesterday going from door to door of Chinatown, seeing if the hotels and restaurants recommended in the guide were still open- the less glamorous bit of guidebook updating. This is especially true when it’s 33 degrees and humid betty swollocks outside. I spent the entire day covered in a fine layer of sweat, particularly convincing on the upper lip, and a sheen of grime that reliably came off with a tissue every hour or so.

So it was with some trepidation that I entered a rather cool little boutique shop called Stevie’s General Store (after Stevie Nicks, also a good sign no?) that wouldn't be out of place in London’s East End Broadway market or Berlin’s Kreuzberg. The tiny equivalent of those areas here is called Ann Siang and Club road- although I’m told they’re becoming increasingly bourgeois. Nevertheless, a Morrissey and Johnny Marr T-shirt hanging outside the shop steeled me, I took it as a good sign, Inshallah.

The girl’s running the place were dressed in that insouciantly brilliant way that Asians have, where everything just hangs right with minimal effort. A simple grey vest and denim shorts with white high tops looked darn right amazing; her business partner with her cropped hair and black wide rimmed glasses and an oversized Breton T-shirt and long denim shorts also looked the business. Total Asian bebs.com. But these cats weren’t too-cool-for-school. They were really helpful, telling me all the hot spots in the city to go out and even going into the back to show me a special vintage import Japanese dress…It was love at first sight; a sleeveless maroon crepe number with lace overlay and sparse flower print, mandarin collar, cinched waist and below the knee length… So, despite the impracticality of such a thing, and dreaming of the Orient Express, I bought it. I would upload a pic, but I can’t really take one of myself wearing it.

I saw some pretty average hotels yesterday, not in a bad way, just in the sense that I’ve seen a few and they were, on the whole, nothing special. But there were two notable exceptions: The Hotel 1929 and the New Majestic Hotel. The latter was just unbelievable, each of its 30 rooms has been designed by a different emerging local designer, resulting in an incredible mish-mash of differently themed rooms; the David Lachappelle-esque ‘pussy parlour’ with a blinking, pink neon light of a topless woman inside and a mirrored ceiling (“This is one of our more popular rooms”; a white minimalist room with an outdoor bath surrounded by bamboo fencing; a suspended bed (Don’t come a-knockin’!) and my favourite one, which had a mural on one wall covered in owls and trees. Snarf!

And so today I’ve spent my morning in my gorgeous hotel room at the Fairmont (sister hotel to the Savoy in London) cross referencing maps, Time Out Singapore and the bible of cool, Wallpaper, to leave no stone unturned in the hunt for the best the city has to offer. I thought I’d find that part unbearably laborious, but I actually really love it. I keep thinking about the people who will buy the guidebook, and have a really great experience in the city thanks to my help.

With that in mind I’d better get back to it…