"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…

Ode to Patti.

I spent yesterday sat around a pool near the harbour reading the best book I've read in ages: Just Kids by Patti Smith. She's my new hero.

It's the story of her multifaceted love for the photographer Robert Mapplethorpe, whom she met at the age of 20 on the streets of NYC. But we also get to see New York's beatnik art scene at that time- Warhol, Candy Darling, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix... Beautifully written, inspiring and the best ode to the vocation of the artist I've ever read. It certainly was worth trudging round all the book shops in the north to find the last copy.

Here's the opening preface:

"Much has been said about Robert, and more will be added. Young men will adopt his gait. Young girls will wear white dresses and mourn his curls. He will be condemned and adored. His excesses damned or romanticiized. In the end, truth will be found in his work, the coporeal body of the artist. It will not fall away. Man cannot judge it. For art sings of God, and ultimately belongs to him."

Thanks Patz.

An education

I’ve gotten a wee bit behind with this as was just so tired from not sleeping and the 12-hour work shifts. Even if the work was looking at the sights of Singapore…

Let’s go back to Saturday morning. It was the first emotional part of my whistlestop tour as we travelled to Eastern Singapore to see the Changi museum. We had a quick breakfast of hard boiled eggs and toast with soy sauce- apparently another Singaporean breakfast choice. Can’t get used to the sweet condensed milk coffee though. The Changi prison was where the Japanese held their prisoners of war after their successful takeover of Singapore during WWII. I didn’t know this but this was considered Great Britain’s biggest catastrophe during the war.

The Japanese launched a surprise attack (favourite MO it seems) and the Brits were forced to unconditionally surrender…The museum was really sad in places, when women talked about being forced to be ‘comfort women’ to the Japanese soldiers at very young ages. They told their stories in voices that were cracked with age, but nevertheless still ripe with pain. There was a story of a 60-year-old woman who actually fought and a woman who risked her life every day to feed the prisoners through the walls. There were also Christian murals painted in secret and stories of how the POWs kept their spirits up by quilting, performing plays and keeping a sense of humour- in the face of dysentery, cholera and malaria, as well as torture. Puts it all in perspective really.

After whiling away a few hours there, we went for lunch at an upmarket Mandarin restaurant in a colonial house, Min Jiang. But I have to say it wasn’t all that great- very bland. The cold mango cream pudding was the only winner. On the way to the Jurong bird park we passed through Katong- where you can still see the beautifully ornate houses of the Peranakan people (the people who came about from the union between male Chinese immigrants and Malay women). There were some pretty interesting things on offer- including spirit capturing.

The bird park was average-but I liked seeing the lithe little penguins shoot about underwater, and the man-made waterfall built inside an aviary was spectacularly lifelike. But I didn’t get to see many exotic birds. The best bit was the hawk show where they got a mini Joseph Gordon-Levitt to hold a bird of prey on his matchstick arms. They managed to create a terrific sense of dramatic occasion by playing every television music department’s favourite, Clubbed to Death. I tried to stifle the laughter, honest.

The evening brought the highlight of the day. A fresh mango cocktail with ricotta cheese and vodka. Sounds gross but it was so creamy and perfectly blended. The view was the show stopper though- all neon like skyscrapers from the city's best vantage point. For tea we headed down to the East Coast to eat another Singaporean classic- fresh chillied crab with sweet dough balls (and of course Tiger Beer). Cracking the huge red claw to reveal grey/pink flesh, smothered in a thick, hot sweet chilli sauce, and mopping up the excess with a delicious fried dough ball. Is there anything more immediately satisfying than eating with your hands? Unself-conscious, get-stuck-in, pure unadulterated enjoyment of your food, the best instant gratification has to offer. Bloody marvellous. My mouth was like a beacon to the ships in the port afterwards though. Aaaaooogah!

MF...

Is that Sully from Dr.Quinn Medicine Woman I see before me?

Just got in from an evening out in Clarke Quay, an area next to the river that is popular with both locals and expats. It was a pretty strange experience, a Disneyland of bars, restaurants and clubs that revealed how town planning gets done these days. The place oozed the cold corporate determination that could only come from a bunch of suits in a boardroom brainstorming 'just exactly what it is kids want these days'.

Answer? A bar where people sit in gold spray-painted wheelchairs, drinking fluorescent liquid from test tubes and IV drips (Why let the physically impaired have all the fun?!); an ‘Asian-inspired’ bar (if Asia was a steakhouse in hell) all dark batchelor pad interiors reminiscent of bad Malmaison hotels, with the added bonus of a plethora of pornographic up the skirt panty shots alongside regular performances from the 'Coyote Dolls'; and finally a bar that was originally intended to be a Beatles style vintage affair, but has ended up hosting a rock tribute band that play all the hits from the 80s- and Linkin Park... but more of that later.

The day had started off much more civilly, with a trip to Bukit Timah Nature Reserve in the north of Singapore. It’s one of the country’s best-preserved rainforest and I loved being underneath the canopy of the foliage, with that gorgeous earthy smell permeating the humid air. Some of the trees were so enormous it was awe-inspiring. I know it sounds corny, but there’s something so restorative and soul-soothing about being surrounded by old trees in dappled sunlight. I tried to catch a glimpse of the elusive flying lemur (‘winged avenger of the night, taunting gravity…’) but didn't get lucky this time.

We next took a little walk at the Dairy Farm- no longer such, but named after the colonisers who couldn’t quite pallet the local buffalo milk and decided to ship in their own black and white Daisys. The Singapore government has turned what was once a quarry into a breathtaking lake where endangered birds like the Little Grebe and White Bellied Sea Eagle are now beginning to thrive. Ah, I love it when a plan comes together.

We then headed back into the centre of town for a spot more greenery in the shape of the Botanical Gardens. Beautifully landscaped by some British chaps, who loved Kew Gardens so much they decided to do something similar over here. The standout bit for me was the Celebrity Orchid Garden; a place that dedicated orchids to the best people on the planet. I was lucky enough to see the big three: Jackie Chan, Lady Diana and Margaret Thatcher. (No Hitler?) My other favourite orchid name was the Golden Shower. Don’t know why. At lunch I enjoyed a Singaporean classic dish of chilli crab spaghetti as well as a delicious and refreshing Ginger jive, made of fresh ginger, fruit punch, orange and honey. Zowy!

Another siesta later I headed out to the Civic District where the statues of Sir Stamford Raffles (or Razzer as I like to call him), the founder of Singapore, stand among the city’s oldest buildings near the river. Evening meal consisted of huge tiger prawns with chillied asparagus and rice- eaten outdoors with a cocktail of course.

And so we’ve come full circle, ending the evening at Clarke Quay. But before I go I just want to share with you my favourite member of the rock band, a bassist who looked like an Asian Steve Buscemi (amazing drunken best man speech in The Wedding Singer: 'Best man? The better man!'). And that wasn’t even the best bit; take a closer look at his forearm, is that a tattoo of Sully from Dr.Quinn Medicine Woman??

See you tomorrow, same time, same place? Yes in my office after school...