Hong Kong Hangover
It was around eight o’clock in the morning on the Monday after Hong Kong’s infamous Rugby Sevens weekend and I was in a hotel room with three guy friends, drunkenly listening to one of them—in a Sailor Moon costume—tell some random story about monkeys jacking off with their feet. If the sun had come up at that point, none of us really noticed. We were just as trashed as the room our bro rented, solely for the purpose of giving us a place to drink on a Monday morning. Two of us didn’t manage to stumble home till around 6 p.m. that evening, having spent the entire day watching cartoons and Canto soaps on TV, feeling the repercussions of our ridiculous weekend.
“On this day, God wants you to know that your life needs to stop resembling a Ke$ha song,” I thought to myself.
My life had, indeed, racked up more party points since my move over here. Prior to it, I used to think that Manila nightlife was totally boss. Booze is cheap, bars are aplenty and shit doesn’t shut down till sunrise. Hongkongers, however, totally spank Manileños in the partygoing department. Maybe it’s the Catholic guilt thing with Filipinos. Seriously guys, don’t act like you haven’t gone home earlier than you wanted to on a Saturday night just so you could make it to church with your family on Sunday morning. Maybe it’s the fact that Hong Kong doesn’t have an open container policy, making it okay to run buck wild in the streets with an open bottle of cheap whiskey and 7-11 the most popular “bar” on every block. Or maybe it’s just that Hongkongers know how to hustle. They work hard and they party harder, because they know they deserve it.
For those who want to witness Hong Kong nightlife at its most debauched, the Rugby Sevens weekend is when it all goes down. This is a three-day event consisting of Hulk-like rugby players from all over the world tousling about in Hong Kong Stadium, located in Causeway Bay. The real appeal, however, is the fact that locals and tourists alike use this tournament as an excuse to go on a disgustingly hedonistic bender. People (many show up in costume) are at the stadium as early as 7 a.m. just to get good seats. Trust me when I say they start drinking just as early. The matches start as early as 9 or 10 a.m. on Saturday and Sunday (Friday matches start in the late afternoon) and end around 7 p.m., at which point the drunken denizens wobble over to Wan Chai or Central, taking their merrymaking and jackassery well into the wee hours.
“Every year, Sevens weekend is like a test of how hard I can party,” said my friend Ian. Surprisingly enough, I didn’t see him that whole weekend.
I decided that the smarter and cheaper option this year was to skip the matches (What on earth do I care about rugby anyway, other than ogling the players?) and meet my friends for the post-game shenanigans. I figured that I knew myself well enough to realize that three days of binge drinking would result in cirrhosis or alcohol poisoning. At the very least I would black out, puke my guts out on public transportation or suck face with an unattractive stranger. So I sat out the games and headed out to Wan Chai to meet my friends in the evening. I felt pretty pleased with myself, thinking I’d made quite the grown-up decision.
I was so freaking wrong.
Wan Chai was a massive shit show on the Saturday and Sunday of that weekend. There were so many people roaming around that even the 7-Elevens were packed. On Saturday night I ran into a few of my friends, some of whom were blacked out at the time. The highlight of the evening was going dancing with my friends (dressed as Sailor Moon and a princess) in a nightclub that normally operates as a venue for sleazy foreigners to go pick up Filipina prostitutes. I stole a magenta-colored feather boa from a stranger and took the groove all the way to the streets, when I met up with my other friends Steve and Jaz (and Jose Cuervo), and randomly broke out dancing to Footloose on a street corner. Sunday night was meant to be an early one. I met up with friends at a tribute concert and was about ready to go home until Steve and Sailor Moon (yup, he was still in that same outfit) rolled in. We then proceeded to turn the bar into a three-person drum ‘n’ bass dancefest, then somehow ended up sitting in the street with two other friends, singing to The Smiths outside 7-Eleven. By the time Steve peaced out to take his drunk ass home, the rest of us decided to keep the party going at the hotel on Monday morning.
“I feel like a pig pooped in my head,” I told Steve over a late lunch of beef brisket noodles (best hangover/sick food ever) on Tuesday afternoon.
“I feel like two different people j***ed in my nostrils,” he said, in a voice that sounded like he was dying of throat cancer.
We spent the rest of the afternoon going over pictures from the weekend and talking about how much fun it was. Although if someone had showed up right then with a bottle of alcohol, I’m pretty sure he or she would’ve gotten some serious pukekake action from me and Steve.
In the end, I guess the question to ask is if nighttiming like it’s going out of style is worth feeling like your liver and dignity took a giant Shoryuken the next day. If that’s the case, then, my life really isn’t like a Ke$ha song. Bitch seems to feel great after a weekend of hardcore drinking. I tend to wake up in the morning feeling like P.Shitty and wanting to spend the entire day blowing chunks or slitting my wrists. So why keep doing it? I think that batshit, balls-out partying with friends is alright every once in a while, so long as all the fun bits and tomfoolery outweigh the crappy after effects. If your life starts to feel more Winehouse than Ke$ha, then maybe it’s time to reassess.
Now that Sevens weekend is over, I’m happy to take it easy and come home to practice more recipes for my cookbook and download trashy shows online. That said, I’d be just as down to watch a gig, attend a birthday party or chill with my friends for no other reason other than the fact that they’re 100-percent awesome sauce. Life’s too short, man.
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Email the author at Francesca.ayala@gmail.com.
