The ravings of Hong Kong’s most obnoxious expat
12-18 May 2002
Wake up next to a large rodent. As more light is shed on the matter, it transpires that it is, in fact, a lady of Southeast Asian origin sleeping with her mouth slightly open, displaying a truly impressive set of incisors. It all comes back to me. Even though I am not a tooth fetishist, this delightful girl afforded not one but two definite frissons. Firstly, no sooner do I complain in these pages about the tendency for women in Hong Kong to shave under their arms, than – lo and behold – I encounter one who does not. Secondly, she is a Muslim, and should therefore, according to many respected interpretations of her faith, now be stoned to death for adultery. She obviously sees the opportunity of spending a night with me as well worth the risk of such a punishment – and who am I to question her judgement?
Monday, 13 May
Nineteen weeks ago, I wrote to the Transport Department offering to pay for the procurement and installation of signs to be posted along the Mid-Levels Escalator saying "Stand to the right. Let others pass" in Chinese and Filipino, the two languages whose speakers seem most in need of reminding. The response, from a low-grade flunky who gets $50,000 a month for staring out of the window, is that neither the “signage” nor their voluntary funding is "appropriate". Appropriate to what, you cretinous fleck of dog spittle? You smear of public-sector pus. Will now have to write to the Police Commissioner asking him, yet again, to endorse the suggestion that the use of cattle prods be legalized on this and other crowded pedestrian thoroughfares.
Wednesday, 15 May
Finish reading – for the first time since the late 70s – “The Family”, Ed Sander’s masterpiece on Charles Manson’s dune buggy attack battalion and the Tate-Labianca killings. Sanders was a founder of The Fugs, penned a charming song called “They’re cutting my coffin at the sawmill” and has recently completed a history of the year 1968 in verse. Has anyone else in Hong Kong even heard of him? No, of course not – they are too busy staring at the screen on their Hello Kitty mobile phones.
Friday, 17 May
Some alcoholic lesbian novelist once wrote some nonsense about it being “a truth universally acknowledged” that a single man with money needs a wife. Perhaps, in her original draft the sentence concluded with the phrase “like he needs a ruptured spleen”, but the typesetter was having a bad day and left it out. Rosabelle Lam, fragrant socialite and art gallery owner, adheres to the abbreviated version, and calls me in yet another attempt to fix me up with what I take to be a typical victim of the shoe and handbag industry. Grace, by name (though probably not by nature – only in Hong Kong will you find so many girls a) called Grace, and b) who eat with their mouths open).
My lack of enthusiasm prompts the usual accusation of fear of commitment. Look the word up in a dictionary, woman! Mittimus – “we send” – a warrant to imprison someone. Rosabelle insists I list the attributes I require in a woman, presumably so she can conduct a more focused search. I suspect the list will turn out to be quite lengthy, but to start off I have emailed her the following….
1. Must not be Caucasian (goes without saying, of course – the very idea makes me feel ill – but better get it out of the way)
2. Must be sterile
3. Must never have been married to Dickson Poon
4. Must be financially self-dependent, and then some
5. Should not expect to see me more than once a week, unless I determine otherwise.
I will expand on this in due course and help Rosabelle narrow the field.
Saturday, 18 May
An email from my Scottish police officer friend Morris, who is now based in the New Territories. He thought he would miss Hong Kong Island, but life in the country has some real advantages. He recently attended a course on the humane destruction of animals and is now qualified to blow dogs to smithereens with a 12-gauge shotgun, which he is naturally doing with gusto. The lucky devil – and they actually pay him to do it.
Still trying to think of a way to despatch the neighbour’s yapping curs with A-Hing’s carbofuran. The wretched animals never actually appear in public, apart from rare occasions when they venture onto the balcony. I will obviously need to find a way of getting tainted meat to them at short notice when they are there. Must remember to keep some fresh chicken on hand at all times. The beasts shall be silenced.
