The barmen at Sim’s cosy guesthouse in Chengdu are great fun and I spent many a night with these fellas. Itay, the Israeli hiding out in China to avoid the war and Scott, a Tasmanian dude, probably trying to avoid Tasmania were all the fun you could need and on the night before I left for the North a guy called Steve, who used to work at the bar there came down and we decided to hit the town for the night. With the state of my arse I decided to play it safe and stay off the “dump-rings” and go for sushi at Sumo’s instead in a bid to try to keep my guts in for the forthcoming trip. Of course, as usual the irony of trying to eat raw fish to avoid getting the squits was somewhat lost on me.
We set off to the Ba Bi club sometime around 11pm. Crap fact alert – Chinese is a tonal language so any slip up in tone gives you a completely different word, and apparently if you say “Ba Bi” to a Chinese person in the wrong tone you will in fact be saying “Your father’s minge” – Getting a taxi was a minefield best left to the professionals. The guys let me do the talking because ‘m yellow. Oh dear.
At the club my bowels were, to my relief still pretty stationary and we danced the night away. At one point I heard some Akcent, a Romanian group I love and the night turned into the usual dance-obsession that I’m known best to my mates for. Itay spent the whole night underneath a crazy Chinese girl and spent the next day complaining that he didn’t dance enough, while Scott and Steve and I complained we didn’t get enough. I guess the grass is always greener on the other side.
At the end of the night, Steve gave his number to some Chinese girl and we left back on the cab back to Sim’s. It was 6:30am when we got back. The sun had been up for a while and people were beginning to get up and go to work when we slumped on the sofas in the bar. Itay’s 12 hour shift was about to start and he was none too happy about it. The rest of us decided there was no point in him going to bed or even getting changed so we sent him straight behind the bar to get us some Captain Morgan and Coke. By the time he had poured the drinks we were all asleep on the sofas.
At 9:30 in the morning I opened one eye and looked out over the scene. Itay was battling to stay awake, Scott was asleep on the next sofa and my French mate Thibauld was on the stools at the bar. “Fancy a beer?” he said. It would have been rude not to. As we all stirred we each found our way to the bar stools where the talk of last night was the buzz. I ordered some cokes and we sat cracking the tops open with a lighter. Times were good.
Then I decided to take a fart. Not wanting to be rude I had to warn the lads of its arrival and to give them a progress report on the way out. Better out than in I say.
So I let rip. “Ooooh it’s a nice one.” I said. Then I stopped in my tracks. “erm maybe a little TOO nice.”
“I think I’ve just shit my pants”
As I peeled myself from the barstool and headed to the bogs, the lads knew a new legend had been born in their midst. When I came back from the shower they were still laughing.
Weeks later when I arrived back in the bar Brad, an Aussie who I had never even seen before said “Oh YOU’RE the guy who shit himself at the bar? Pleased to meet ya son!” and bought me a pint. Wicked!
