A group of Ah Bengs were beating the shit out of some cocky Mat Sallehs outside the club next door. The thing about these Mats - who claim to circumnavigate the world, follow every race, visit every bar - is that they are apparently not street smart. You don't mess around with stoned Ah Bengs. One phone call from one of them and half of Pandan Indah, Pandan Perdana, Pandan Utama, will be there faster than Alex Yoong.

All of a sudden, our club decides to close at 3:30 am, leaving us high and dry (literally). I remember our friend, Wak, telling us about a club that closes at 7:00 am, somewhere along the Ampang diplomatic row. You see, Wak is no ordinary drunk like us. He is the tireless ADC (Aide-de-Camp) to the party princes and princesses. He settles their fights, keeps track of their bar tabs, liaises with car jockeys, keeps the leeches at bay and leads them out through the backdoors whenever there is a raid. I'm surprised he is not already a Datuk by now.

Since we don't have an ADC, we summoned our own cab and Muthu arrived at the scene promptly.

Muthu: Going home so early Macha?
Me: We're going to party in Jalan Ampang.
Muthu: I know that place, they play house music.
Me: Wah Muthu, you know your music.
Muthu: House music my house also got Macha.

We were greeted by a long line at the door, on arrival at 4:00 am. Another boozer Sharizal previously observed that me and Paul kena every bouncer in town. Unfortunately, this time the burly face at the door was as familiar as my MP. Fortunately, good old Wak was there and he waved us through.

Even though the place was dark and packed like a lucky draw hamper, it took us only 1.7 seconds to realise we were in a Malay gay club. The homophobic Mentri Besar is going to get another heart attack if he ever steps in here. The bad news is that even gay clubs are racially polarised these days. Gone are the gay muhibbah days of (now defunct) Blue Boy, Back Room and Carbon. I have not been to Liquid, Velvet or Frangi recently to ascertain if they have also gone the way of local universities.

The owner turned out to be a friend of Paul and he shoved four free jugs of beers in our face. The nice thing about this club is that the clientele and atmosphere is very egalitarian. Eveybody was drinking either bottle stouts or draft beers. No premium whisky bottle one-upmanship as seen at the many bars in town these days. Everyone was friendly and the the music ranged from classic house to garage. The poorly designed bar occupied half the place but it is an unavoidable consequence of its previous emergency room days.

Since we were well stocked up for the night, we decided not to be fishes out of water and went with the flow (literally again). Woohoo! The only babe in the house was sitting right next to us, lucky us! I dutifully chat her up and fifteen minutes into it, she excused herself to go poo poo. It was only then that Paul slapped me on the shoulder and told me she's a bloke. Damn, if only I knew earlier I would have used the titular pickup line. Shit!

At 5:33 am sharp, the club's AWACS (Aman Warning And Control System) received signals of an impending raid. The lights came up and the music went down. Nervous patrons streamed out obediently and the boss gave air kisses to every guy at the door. Me and Paul made up our minds to grab more beers at the Seven Eleven outside. To our surprise, we found Muthu sprawled in the back seat of his cab, surrounded by empty cans of stout. He must have waited for us, and it took a few hard slaps to wake him.

Paul: How you gonna drive Muthu?
Muthu: I cannot Boss...
Me: Never mind Muthu, you sleep here and we take another cab.
Muthu: No No! Here's the keys. You drive me home please Macha...