Smashed, Singapore

There are advantages to getting hammered in Singapore. Like not caring about where your hotel room is. Unfortunately, that's only an advantage when you don't know where your hotel room is.

I made the mistake of going for dinner with a French colleague after work. I was weak, I'd been in the office for almost twelve hours, I didn't know what I was doing, etc etc.

We got a taxi out to the East Coast and then failed to find the original spicy crab restaurant, which (implausibly enough) was concealed in a car park next to a shopping centre. Yeah, really. Singaporean people are renowned for being sensible, and as we all know, the bigger the brain, the bigger the effect of turning it off. No sensible town planner would put a hotel on the 6th floor of a car park when there was a perfectly good, almost antiseptically clean shopping mall next door. But this defiance of reality/common sense was enough to hide the only true chilli crab restaurant from us tonight, leaving me to eat less-than-perfectly-vegetarian vegetarian Thai food (it was full of prawns) in a food court in the basement of a shopping centre, deep in the nowhere of the East Coast of Singapore.

Oh well. A taxi back to central Singapore later, we yomped to Clarke Quay and I got soused on IPA, which would make sense except (a) a pale ale should never be described as a "dark beer", (b) I have to get up tomorrow morning and (c) how much have I drunk?

Accentuating the positive, my French accomplice did laugh at a lot of what I said, which gives me hope for rebooting my stand-up career in Singapore, and I've drunk three pints of IPA. Against that, I've drunk three pints of IPA, and I don't know where I am, except occasionally taxis pull up alongside me and roll down the road at (shambling drunk) walking pace. That's right, I'm being reverse curb-crawled. What sort of life is this?