Day Two – Barren, no Bonk
There are, for some reason, three taps in the shower. The one on the right is for hot, the one on the left for cold. The one in the middle must be for… Warm? Soap?
As it transpires, it’s not a tap. It diverts the water from the shower head to the low-set tap. Thus ensuring that the weary traveller can easily alternate between boiling his head and searing the skin off his feet.
Eventually, after skilled and precise knob-manipulating that made me feel like a safecracker – or a fluffer with a cold sore – I settled on a temperature somewhere between “saute” and “poach”, and showered.
Our destination was the Phoenix Hotel – On Nutter says that on his last visit, four years ago, this was home to the finest breakfast in Angeles.
We had planned to get a bus up to the hotel, but none of them seemed to be going our way. A motorbike with sidecar (“trike” – local equivalent of the tuk-tuk, and at least half as irritating) pulled up.
On Nutter eyed the vehicle approvingly, and said “I think we can both get this one”. I eyed the sidecar warily. It wasn’t very big. I eyed On Nutter’s prosperous frame. “Er…”, I said.
He slid snugly into the sidecar, arse-first, and nestled comfortably – like a satsuma in a teacup.
“No, you get on the back”, he said, before I could turn a foolish look into a foolish question.
I eyed the rear fender incredulously.
“No, on the back of the bike.”
The mounting for the sidecar was in the way.
“You’ll have to sit side-saddle.”
I felt a bit like a Bangkok uni girl. But then, don’t we all, on occasion?
The Phoenix Hotel restaurant was comfortable enough – the vinyl tablecloth had a few of those reassuring cigarette burns, which usually mean that even the tea is fried.
On Nutter opted for the breakfast steak, sausages, and poached eggs on toast.
I went for bacon, sausage and scrambled eggs, with toast and a mug of builders’ tea.
One of my sausages appeared to have exploded in the microwave, the bacon had the consistency (and, I imagine, the taste) of shoe leather, and the eggs seemed to have cheese in them. I hope it was cheese. The toast was nice though.
As I struggled with the first slice of bacon, I realised On Nutter was staring at my plate like a hungry dog. He had finished his breakfast already.
“Are you going to finish that?” he asked, visibly salivating. It would not be the last time I heard this question.
“I don’t think so”, I said. I did finish the toast.
On Nutter finished the rest. He said it was lovely, so perhaps it was just my fragile physical and mental state.
After breakfast, we walked up Perimeter Road (I think) to a particularly dingy bar called Nifty’s.
One of the least attractive women I have ever seen stared at me as I walked in, mumbled “oh my God!”, and grabbed my penis firmly, using it as a makeshift rein with which to lead me into the bar.
The interior made the night shift at the Soi 7 Biergarten look like the cast of Dream Gakuen 10.
There was an unoccupied bench seat next to the door, uncomfortably close to a middle-aged sweating Asian man with his cock out, who was being eagerly wanked off by a couple of depressingly ugly girls.
I wanted to see if there were any seats further into the bar that weren’t next to men being masturbated, but On Nutter wouldn’t let me – “just sit here”, he said. I did, but took the half of the bench furthest from Wanky Yoshi.
“You want drink?” asked the barely-human girl whose hands I had by now forcefully shaken off my penis.
“Um, lemonade”, I said.
“HEEEUUUUGH??”, she rasped far too closely into my face.
“Ouch. Er, Sprite?”
“Sprite!”, she shouted to what appeared to be the cave troll from the Moria sequence in The Fellowship Of The Ring, in a fright wig.
“What’s your name?”, she asked.
“Young Penfold”, I lied. After all, I figured the month couldn’t really get much more embarrassing for him – what with his bad call on the WWF Royal Rumble (or whatever) and then sharing his bum-rape shame with the world, and not even winning a prize for doing so.
I wiped a few speckles of spittle from my ear. “Young Penfold”.
“Young, oh for fucks sake, why am I even here?”, I muttered, looking around in desperation for a towel. None were forthcoming, so I just stood up and walked out. Wanky Yoshi looked up, puzzled. I closed the door behind me, and exhaled.
I get a bit tetchy when I’m hung over. And a bit more tetchy when I’m sat within eyeshot of a middle-aged bloke with his knob out. And yet tetchier again when I’m being hassled by sub-human hookers.
I left On Nutter to it, and decided to walk back into town and clear my head. It worked, particularly when I spotted an establishment called “Wobbly Pensioner’s Home (cheap rooms!)”, and I was in a pretty good mood by the time I got back.
I returned to the hotel, craving a “proper” internet fix – despite being able to use my mobile with the many open WiFi hotspots around town, the resultant thumb cramps were affecting my beer grip. At reception, I discovered that I could rent a laptop for P250 (à¸¿175) a day. Sold!
Meanwhile, it was On Nutter’s turn to explore Blow Row. He was rather taken by a tartlet in the subtly-named Gobbles Bar, and had his way with her in an, um, minimally furnished back room.
On Nutter writes:
I think I told you about the following but I insist it goes in the trip report. The short time room at Gobbles Bar set a new low in basic standards of hygiene, as you can see from the attached pix. On my first visit, there was a pair of rotting knickers on the stool. When I tried to use them as a flannel, they just disintegrated. Sadly, they had been removed by the time of my second visit.
I chilled in my hotel room while this was occurring, then met On Nutter for dinner at Azzuro – an Italian restaurant situated directly on top of the Club Lancelot gogo bar. On Nutter almost wept when I only left him one slice of my pizza, and didn’t order any dessert.
We checked out Club Lancelot after dinner – no wine this time – a nicely done-out bar. Appearing something like a mediaeval banquet hall, or something, the decor was sadly more impressive than the lineup. At least they danced though.
That’s another difference – the Filipina gogo girls may not be as attractive on average as their Thai counterparts, but they do seem to actually enjoy themselves on stage. Watching girls actually moving in time to the music in a gogo bar was a novel experience for me, and one I can heartily recommend.
Then a couple of beers at the Dirty Duck, which, while friendly enough, just didn’t contain anyone who really stood out. On Nutter was frolicking with a relatively cute waitress, and considered barfining her but stopped just short. I was more than ready to try our luck elsewhere.
Genesis, further down the road, was okay – one service girl had comically enormous boobs, but little else to offer. Considering the size of the bar and the number of girls, I was actually quite impressed that I didn’t particularly fancy anyone on the stage.
By this point, I’d spotted another three mullets, and a weirdo on a hand-pedalled low-slung tricycle with a live monkey sat on his shoulder. Yes, really.
Blue Nile had an even worse lineup than Genesis, which puzzled me as the girls loitering outside had all been attractive – and were the only reason I’d ventured inside in the first place. Just as I was considering wandering back out to grab one, they shuffled onto the stage – introduced as the Blue Nile Dance Team.
A couple of dull choreographed routines followed, during which I was amazed to learn from the waitress that none of them were barfineable. Except the ugly one. Astonishing.
“Is he your Dad?” asked the waitress.
“No”, I said.
Sometimes it’s just not your night, and I know when to throw in the towel. I walked back up the street, had a chilli dog at Kokomo’s (a restaurant/bar with 24-hour alcohol and junk food service – dangerous!), and went to bed.
Day Three – On Which I Considered Having A Wank
I woke up at 2.30pm. Which was nice. On Nutter had already eaten, so I had brunch alone at The International – a sports bar with a poker room. Poker is a dullard’s game. The friendly waitresses are all barfineable, of course, but none particularly appealed.
I ordered a tuna sandwich. Angeles is, as I have mentioned, largely patronised by an American presence. Hence my sandwich was the size of a Buick. Seriously, aren’t sandwiches specifically designed to be picked up and eaten? This one was loaded so high with tuna (in watery mayonnaise, I regret to inform you) that it positively wobbled. Closing the bread roll over the filling was physically impossible. I had to use cutlery. For a sandwich. I didn’t eat at The International again.
Given that I still hadn’t seen anybody I wanted to have sex with, I decided to relax with a foot massage. Oddly, I was shepherded into a booth, and asked to remove my trousers. Sometimes the girl needs to reach above the knee, so I’m used to changing my jeans to loose-fitting trousers. But I wasn’t used to being massaged in my underpants. Well, actually, The Heckler‘s underpants. But that’s another story.
Anyway, I found myself lying back on a massage table, in a rickety booth in the middle of a row of rickety booths, with the (pretty cute) massage girl sat on a stool outside the booth, which meant that we couldn’t close the curtains. Which meant that every time another of the massage girls went past, they would stop to stare at the Englishman reclining in his smalls. A lesser man might have felt a little vulnerable – but I am not a lesser man, and waved cheerily as they gawped at the ruck in my slim-fit (on me, anyway) drawers, teasingly suggesting the outline of my mighty gusset gopher.
“Are you married?” asked the massage girl.
“No,” I beamed.
She looked around warily, leaned forward on the stool, and pulled the curtains of the booth closed behind her. She was still sat outside the actual cubicle, but now so were the curtains. It looked deeply suspicious to me, and more so as she oiled her hands and slipped them right up my thigh and inside the leg of my undercrackers.
She started to look really cute at this point – I have discovered in my travels that there is almost certainly a positive correlation between the stiffness of a penis, and the perceived attractiveness of any members of the appropriate gender within line of sight of its owner.
Bizarrely, although she did more than enough to prompt a blustering erection, no extra services were offered. I squeezed back into my trousers, eventually using both fists to hammer my knob into place beneath the belt-line, and limped out into the Angeles early evening.
Aroused and frustrated, I wandered back over to Blow Row. The Black Pearl Bar was a pretty grim sight, but there was one cutie sitting outside. I joined her for a drink, but as I looked more closely, I became concerned about her age. She could have been 18, or even 20. But she could have been younger. I can usually tell with Thai girls, but I have little expertise with the Filipina phenotype.
She wasn’t wearing the usually ubiquitous licence, and while she claimed to have an ID card that proved she was 18, she didn’t seem too eager to go and get it when I asked to see. I erred on the side of caution, and left alone.
As dusk broke, we were about to embark on our third night out in Angeles City – and I still hadn’t got laid. I was seriously considering stomping back to my hotel room and having a wank. My balls were like watermelons, particularly after that massage, and then having to turn down the fledgeling fellatrix…
But sadly, there was no time. I had to meet The Baron and On Nutter for dinner – and another bar crawl…