Mostly Fondly
"Celebrating the 10 year anniversary of a bunch of 18 year olds trekking across the globe to teach English and dance on bars for 9 months."
So said the invitation to the much-anticipated ten-year Hong Kong reunion which was held on Saturday. I'm not sure a single sentence could ever sum up that 19th year of my life quite as accurately and succinctly as this does.
The reunion was about as traumatising as expected. That is to say, very. And all I can say is that everyone looked and acted pretty much exactly the same as they did 10 years ago, which I really wasn't expecting.
Some people are still living together. Some people are still teaching. Most of us still have ties with Hong Kong. And all of us retain our love of being outrageously loud and raucous and drinking in excess, apparently. Now though, we all have a lot more money (thankfully, as our bill came to, wait for it, over £700. Impressive.) and, as my old flat mate said, we all have better hair.
It was fun in the way everyone recounted old anecdotes, and as many of you will know, those Hong Kong days anecdotes do tend towards being kind of extreme. Some of them I had forgotten, like the hepatitis-strawberries in Shenzhen, and Sammy Land. Like nights out with Triads, bosses who molested you, Hurricane parties, weekend Christian retreats with glow-in-the-dark crucifixes and speaking in tongues, and English day camps with DAVID COSTELLO. Who brought who home, who did what where, and the never-ending arguments over washing up and cleaning. In this respect, I was pleased that my worst enemy, an old flat mate, did not go. I was not so pleased when one of the organisers read out an email from my ex. After 10 years I feel I have the right to not give a shit about him now, and I also feel I have the right to not be harassed about him now. Let's be clear. He prayed for our sins and his parents called me spawn of the devil.
Aside from that unnecessary angst, which led to some violence, it was a good night over all. The food was good. The karaoke was appalling. There were some really very moving speeches. Somehow I was convinced to go to a club afterwards, and I really could not tell you where it was, but I do know we got in through the guest queue because one of the girls is now a policewoman and apparently this means bouncers are your best mates. Things get a bit fuzzy after this, but I’m fairly sure there was some dancing. I hadn't a clue how I was getting home and at the end of the night ended crashing at one of the guy's flats in Battersea, in their housemates' beds. I slept for a couple of hours then got the train home. I made it back for 9am. That's pretty epic even for me, and was entirely appropriate for a Hong Kong reunion.
We did some insane things back then, as the now-policewoman said; we did things we were lucky to get away with. (Though arrests and unfortunate STDs were not uncommon.) It was good to let loose, be 19 again, hang out with people who know all your deepest, darkest secrets. As one of the guys said, none of us could ever become politicians for the sheer amount of dirt all of us have on each other. But it was also nice to come home, to remember that I’m not 19 any more and whilst I love to drink, it's not the only thing I love. It's easy to forget the sickness and the hunger and the heat and humidity and the epic loneliness and misdirected teenage angst I think we all felt at some point there, but had no outlet for other than alcohol and sex. God, I make us sound debauched, and maybe we were, but I don't regret a thing. And I'm happy to come back to my life of gay porn and friends who know we now and to Japanese, ironing, commuting and living on my own. I loved Hong Kong, that time and those people, but I wouldn't go back to it if you paid me in gold.
Not least because I couldn't handle the hangovers any more.
So said the invitation to the much-anticipated ten-year Hong Kong reunion which was held on Saturday. I'm not sure a single sentence could ever sum up that 19th year of my life quite as accurately and succinctly as this does.
The reunion was about as traumatising as expected. That is to say, very. And all I can say is that everyone looked and acted pretty much exactly the same as they did 10 years ago, which I really wasn't expecting.
Some people are still living together. Some people are still teaching. Most of us still have ties with Hong Kong. And all of us retain our love of being outrageously loud and raucous and drinking in excess, apparently. Now though, we all have a lot more money (thankfully, as our bill came to, wait for it, over £700. Impressive.) and, as my old flat mate said, we all have better hair.
It was fun in the way everyone recounted old anecdotes, and as many of you will know, those Hong Kong days anecdotes do tend towards being kind of extreme. Some of them I had forgotten, like the hepatitis-strawberries in Shenzhen, and Sammy Land. Like nights out with Triads, bosses who molested you, Hurricane parties, weekend Christian retreats with glow-in-the-dark crucifixes and speaking in tongues, and English day camps with DAVID COSTELLO. Who brought who home, who did what where, and the never-ending arguments over washing up and cleaning. In this respect, I was pleased that my worst enemy, an old flat mate, did not go. I was not so pleased when one of the organisers read out an email from my ex. After 10 years I feel I have the right to not give a shit about him now, and I also feel I have the right to not be harassed about him now. Let's be clear. He prayed for our sins and his parents called me spawn of the devil.
Aside from that unnecessary angst, which led to some violence, it was a good night over all. The food was good. The karaoke was appalling. There were some really very moving speeches. Somehow I was convinced to go to a club afterwards, and I really could not tell you where it was, but I do know we got in through the guest queue because one of the girls is now a policewoman and apparently this means bouncers are your best mates. Things get a bit fuzzy after this, but I’m fairly sure there was some dancing. I hadn't a clue how I was getting home and at the end of the night ended crashing at one of the guy's flats in Battersea, in their housemates' beds. I slept for a couple of hours then got the train home. I made it back for 9am. That's pretty epic even for me, and was entirely appropriate for a Hong Kong reunion.
We did some insane things back then, as the now-policewoman said; we did things we were lucky to get away with. (Though arrests and unfortunate STDs were not uncommon.) It was good to let loose, be 19 again, hang out with people who know all your deepest, darkest secrets. As one of the guys said, none of us could ever become politicians for the sheer amount of dirt all of us have on each other. But it was also nice to come home, to remember that I’m not 19 any more and whilst I love to drink, it's not the only thing I love. It's easy to forget the sickness and the hunger and the heat and humidity and the epic loneliness and misdirected teenage angst I think we all felt at some point there, but had no outlet for other than alcohol and sex. God, I make us sound debauched, and maybe we were, but I don't regret a thing. And I'm happy to come back to my life of gay porn and friends who know we now and to Japanese, ironing, commuting and living on my own. I loved Hong Kong, that time and those people, but I wouldn't go back to it if you paid me in gold.
Not least because I couldn't handle the hangovers any more.