HYPERACTIVE AND THE HONG KONG SEVENS

Hyperactive at Swindlers, Wan Chai

My JD's smaller than your Tsing Tao.

Is it just me, or do these "hangover cures" look like bottles of poppers?

It's hard to knock the Hong Kong Sevens. Sure, the South Stand is a giant waterfall of human pee and vomit and who-knows-what-else, but that sorta just reminds me of "Spartacus," honestly. Sweat, saliva, armpits, fists, tits - just everything hanging out for all to see. Nobody cares. Body parts, bodily fluids - all part of the fun.

Bajillions of advertising dollars are poured into the Sevens. Tourists happily empty out their pockets to buy more beer in Wan Chai than you can ever imagine. There are more crazy costumes on the street than on Broadway, West End and HKAPA combined. I saw a guy committedly carrying around a ginormous, red dragon; a human banana vandalised with drawings of penises on his back; and of course the obligatory oh-no-not-that-again pair of Fred and Wilma Flintstone. I mean, honestly, you'd think all that beer would get the creative juices flowing more freely, right? Can we please see the British Parliament headed by The Iron Lady herself, Dame Margaret Thatcher? Now, that'd have been epic.

But hotel rooms are occupied, restaurant tables are filled, bars are bursting to capacity and even nasty Wan Chai dives are cashing in like it's Christmas. It's good to see, the good times are rolling. 

There was this cute, little, muscle boy who took his pants off along Lockhart Road and mimicked Tom Cruise jumping around in his underpants in Risky Business; this scrummylicious fratboy dressed as a female cheerleader, asscrack hanging out, humping the hood of a cab in the middle of the goddamned Wan Chai traffic; and some Buddhist monks who were asking for alms, per usual, except I couldn't quite tell whether they were for real or just costumed buffoons. I could have sworn that one of them had an "I <3 Mum" tattoo on his left bicep.     

"Where are you?" Caroline Whatsapped Thomas.

"Stuck in traffic," Thomas replied. "Cabbie says there's been a threat of nuclear attack."

In front of Swindlers, I'm swigging JD Coke straight from the bottle - premixed, natch. I needed the sugar-caffeine-alcohol triple whammy to get into the state of mind as everyone else. And then "Sweet Child of Mine" started sex-ing our eardrums. It's irresistible. And so what are we to do except sing along to it?

"I must have been 15, 16... when this track came out," Lore reminisced. "Classic."

"Yeah," I agreed. Although I never was much of a Guns N' Roses fan, I was horribly infatuated to Axl Rose back in the day. I must have been 12, 13... I wondered why I was having wet dreams about a skinny, white, shirtless dude who enjoyed dry-humping a microphone stand? According to Sister Veneranda del Rosario, heavy metal wasn't even music at all and is the work of the devil. I was so confused and lonely that "Sweet Child of Mine" became an anthem of sorts - the track I secretly loved listening and singing along to after choir practice for the epic Easter Sunday mass.

"It's so homoerotic," Lore observed, "all these guys in shorts, piling up on top of each other. Grabbing each other from behind. Pushing each other's heads into their sweaty crotch." 

Shit, the JD Coke must be working because suddenly, the Sevens were sounding sexy again... 

Sign me up for next year. I'm dressing up as Stanley Tucci in "The Hunger Games."

// AH, HUMANITY. //