Day Five – An Unexpected Party
After afternoon intercourse (we woke up at 3pm), Martha pointed out that it would be her birthday tomorrow. I’d actually noticed this on her license card on the first night, but had immediately forgotten about it in my boozy haze. Apparently there would be a party at her home, and she would love me to attend.
Once I’d confirmed that her parents would not be present (just her sisters, aunts, cousins and friends), I agreed. It would be an interesting experience, hopefully without too much pressure being put upon me to marry the poor girl.
She was unable to join us for breakfast, due to her weekly STD checkup, so I wandered over to the poolside restaurant alone, where I found On Nutter sitting near the water’s edge, reading a newspaper. I was surprised and disappointed not to see a pair of comedy eyeholes cut out, through which I had imagined he would be watching the frolicking hookers in the pool.
I had a Spanish omelette for breakfast. And, yes, finished it.
I was beginning to worry about the Martha situation. Sure, she was slim, attractive, great in bed, and good fun to be with, but she was also becoming increasingly clingy – behaving rather like a lovestruck teenager. Which, at 19 years old, I suppose she was entitled to be – but I was already dreading having to comfort a weeping lovelorn hooker when it was time for us to leave Angeles.
Attending her birthday party would make things worse, of course, and the right thing to do would arguably be to just dump her at once and avoid her bar for the rest of the week.
The trouble was, she was still the hottest girl I’d seen all week, the sex was great, and I didn’t much fancy my chances of finding a suitable replacement. Onwards, then…
After breakfast, we returned to Gobbles bar. On Nutter’s girl from Day Two was pleasant enough, to be fair, but I didn’t think much of the other “talent” on offer. Still, On Nutter’s girl was too pleasant for him to resist, at least. They retired to the dingy back room again, and I headed back to the hotel.
Later, a few drinks before dinner. We’d spotted a Mexican place nearby – Tequila Reef – and were eager to try it out. I like Mexican food.
Firstly though, a quick beer in Blueberry Hill, where a middle-aged Filipino was crooning karaoke for our listening pleasure. Or lack thereof. One and out, and to Tequila Reef.
I particularly like burritos – Bangkok’s Sunrise Tacos chain is not renowned for excellent food, nor for speedy service, but their large burritos are sufficiently huge to fill even the most girthsome of guts. Allegedly.
Wary though, that I was in an enclave of American eateries, I plumped for the regular-sized (“pregnant”) burrito. The large one was referred to on the menu as “pregnant with twins”. Classy.
On Nutter went for the ribs and chicken combo, and we ordered a side platter to nibble on while we waited – quesadillas, nachos, etc and so on. San Miguel Light is the perfect companion to Mexican food, and we were making reasonably good work of the starters when the main courses arrived.
On Nutter’s “ribs and chicken combo” was half a roast pig, upon which proudly sat the singed corpse of the world’s largest chicken.
As I smirked, my burrito arrived. In writing this, I was struggling to come up with a more accurate phrase than “like a baby’s arm” to describe it. It’s a good phrase, but the burrito was far bigger than that. So I have opted for “it was like a toddler’s torso”.
The amount of food on our table could surely have fed most of the impoverished, the malnourished, the beggars; the general unfortunates of Angeles City. We ate it all anyway.
Two beers later (Valhalla, and then Dollhouse) I was ready for bed. I staggered by Martha’s bar to bail her out for the night, and didn’t even have room to finish my San Miguel Light. Luckily, On Nutter was on hand to finish it on my behalf.
And so back to the hotel, Martha in tow, where I was, regrettably, too stuffed and tired to be capable of stuffing and tiring her.
Day Six – My Name Is Peter North
I was rudely awoken from my carbohydrate-fueled slumber by the birthday girl herself, at the ungodly hour of 8am. She had to head home to make preparations for the party. I grunted an acknowledgement, eyes closed, heard the door close behind her, and drifted happily back into sleep…
…for about two minutes, until the phone rang because reception have a policy of calling the room whenever a girl leaves unaccompanied. A nice, well thought-out policy, but an irritating one on the morning in question, all the same.
She returned at around 11am, physically dragged me out of bed, and we took a trike to her place – I imagine it was on the outskirts of the city, but really can’t vouch for that with any certainty. We both fitted neatly into the sidecar though. If only On Nutter weighed 38kg – our dignity could still be intact…
Martha’s place was a small but pleasant bungalow on a sleepy suburban street. There were, as you would expect, no other white faces to be seen in the neighbourhood. Her sisters, their boyfriends and husbands, her aunt, some other friends and the token unconvincing ladyboy were already in attendance, sat drinking beer outside on the porch – upon which a rented karaoke machine had been set up. Karaoke. Oh, joy.
The Filipino guys were all drinking large bottles of Red Horse beer. The girls were all drinking small bottles of San Miguel Light. I smiled, introduced myself, and was swiftly handed a cold bottle of San Miguel Light. Evidently I was one of the girls. Oh well.
Food began to appear, and pretty soon the table was laden with barbecued fish, fried chicken, pasta salad, pork chunks in sauce, spaghetti bolognese, and boiled potatoes which were, for some reason, purple.
The beer was flowing freely, and the karaoke session soon began in earnest. I was, of course, implored to sing – and, of course, absolutely refused to do so. I can think of no worse torture than karaoke parties, particularly when most of the songs are in Tagalog.
There was, however, one highlight. I had been previously unaware of the work of Parokya Ni Edgar, and so was unprepared for his masterwork, “Papa Cologne”:
My name is Peter North, and I’m from
I play a lot of tennis and I
Know a little judo
My darling likes me smelling good
It always turns her on
That’s why I always use
I have since checked, and apparently the porn Peter North is from Nova Scotia, and not Colorado at all.
But I didn’t know that at the time.
Karaoke aside, the party was actually pretty good fun. The food was fine – I’d been warned that the local food in the Philippines was awful – and helped to soak up the beer breakfast.
Everyone was friendly enough, the lantern-jawed ladyboy hardly tried to shag me at all, and it was a relief once again to have absolutely no problems with communication barriers – everybody spoke English.
As time drew on though, it was time for me to take my leave – I had a dinner date with On Nutter and The Baron. Martha had to get to work, although I’d obviously be barfining her again later.
I shook hands with all and sundry, and slipped the guy who’d bought all the beer a thousand pesos for his trouble (he looked like he’d won the lottery). A friend of the family pulled up outside on his trike – a free ride back to Fields Avenue, to take the whore daughter to work and drop off her spendthrift English customer. Nice.
It might seem odd to the outsider to have dropped the birthday girl off to work in her bar, but I doubt I could have stopped her really. As in Thailand, the girls at the bar act as each others peer group, and form their own support network – as well as close friendships.
I left her to celebrate and get drunk with her pals, as I headed to the restaurant to do much the same with my own.
We were in the same restaurant we’d visited on the first night, and the cold cuts and cheese platter was already on the table when I arrived. This time around, The Baron had been ordered not to ply us with wine, and so tutted and rolled his eyes as On Nutter and I commited the cardinal sin of drinking beer with dinner.
As I looked over the menu, bereft of inspiration, The Baron spoke. “You know, the cheese fondue is rather good here”, he said, thoughtfully…
I had never had cheese fondue before.
It was very, very good.
After the meat and cheese starters though, followed by a main course of, essentially, cheese, I was a little bloated. I may even have been sweating.
On Nutter was not.
“I think I still need a main course”, he said.
He ordered, and finished, a main course. I think (but could be wrong) it was pork medallions in gravy, with chips.
We definitely had black forest gateau for pudding, though.
“Just the Jack-and-Jill please”, said The Baron, as a waitress enquired whether we’d like anything else. I wasn’t sure she’d understand cockney rhyming slang.
My fears were well-founded, as she contemplated this request, then eventually brought over a large Jack Daniels in a brandy glass.
Beers followed, firstly in Rhapsody bar, to which I’d promised myself I’d return after being bought beers by the mamasan on our first night. Again, a less than stellar lineup, but a friendly enough environment – I think we stayed for two.
Onto Lollipop, again for the second time. There must have been several gogos that we didn’t visit at all, such is the scope of Angeles, but by this point we’d already hit most of the hotspots on the central strip.
The Baron dealt with the annoyance of being continually pestered to buy buckets of ping pong balls by taking two of the proffered buckets, and carefully slipping one, upside-down, on top of the other, without spilling a single ball.
I think I’m right in saying that I actually applauded.
I paid up, and left the guys to it while I went to collect Martha. On Nutter’s phone has a battery life measured in minutes, so we agreed to rendezvous in Angelwitch in an hour.
Down the road, Martha was a little worse for wear, but still seemed to be having a thoroughly enjoyable time, and was certainly pleased to see me.
A couple of drinks with her and her pals, and then we wandered down Fields Ave to Angelwitch – where they were, for some reason, showing heavy metal videos intercut with hardcore porn. I wasn’t complaining – just surprised…
Martha had just one birthday request – she wanted to finish the night at Sky Trax disco, just up the road. I knew nothing of the place, but gathered that it was the “cool” hangout in this part of town. Fine by me.
On Nutter and The Baron soon arrived – they had been at a Country & Western pub which On Nutter insisted that I must visit before the end of the week. There is little I loathe more than Country & Western – it’s on a level with karaoke. Country & Western songs on karaoke would be the worst possible sound in the world, I rather think.
As I suspected, neither On Nutter nor The Baron had any intention of darkening the door of Sky Trax – so our group split once more. Once Martha and I arrived there, I could kind of see their point.
Some of the girls were p4p, but by no means all of them – plenty of Filipino guys in attendance too, which was an odd sight after seeing so few of them all week. Kind of like spending a whole week on Cowboy, and then hitting a real Thai bar, I guess… “What, you mean there are Thai males as well?”
The music was toss, but perhaps I’m just getting old. Either way, it wasn’t helped by a complete arse of an MC spewing sub-wedding-disco whoops and hollers over the din.
Martha was happy enough though, and it was her birthday. It was my penultimate night in Angeles, I’d had a pretty good time, and I was ready for bed…