“Cheers to the new boy, Flynn.” Joel raises his glass.

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“Cheers.” I join the chorus with my new workmates from crude oil and derivatives trading. And why not, cheers to me. I’ve arsed my way through yet another day, have not fucked anything up too severely, even the July hedges were apparently without error. I’m still on track for trading greatness and now have a pint of tiger to lubricate any grave thoughts regarding the churn and burn nature of the industry I’m now a part of.

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We’re gathered around a bench in the early evening happy hour glow of an Irish pub overlooking the sullied, steamy waters of Boat Quay. There’s an ice cold, air-conditioned bar inside, completely empty of customers. My drinking buddies couldn’t possibly enjoy the indoor comforts. Their nicotine addictions render the great outdoors the only viable location for downing alcohol.

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The Singapore crude trading team comprises Keith Wang and Huan Lee. I hope that I don’t spend too many hours chuckling at Keith’s surname. Obviously it’s hilarious, Wang, gold, but Keith is one fucking serious looking fella. He is Singaporean, but as I’m quickly realizing, being Singaporean can mean just about anything. Most likely, it means you’re of a Chinese, Malaysian, Indian and English combination of descents. He seems reasonably calm with a pint of tiger in his grasp, but I’ve watched him through the afternoon inflicting certain ulcers on his gastric lining, and brokers’ alike, as he yelled orders and spat instructions down his broker box. My sympathy is with the brokers who mixed up his orders. When Keith speaks, it is incomprehensible unless you are fluent in English and Mandarin, which I guess I am. According to my CV at least.

 

Meanwhile, Huan Lee is the picture of cool. Sure, he’s been dealt a poor hand in the looks department. To a Lord of the Rings fan, Huan resembles a less malnourished Asian version of Gollum. A modeling career was never on the cards, my precious, but he is a silky smooth character, swigging on his tiger, drawing on his Marlboro, chatting with the sort of polished international accent gained from an English college tertiary education mixed with a youth dedicated to US gangster rap.

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My original interviewer Andrew is here too. He trades fuel oil, not crude or derivatives, but felt compelled to pop along for a few pints, having met me at ground zero when I was in the interview stages, as well as to feed his alcohol dependence. He’s from Durban, is a rugby fanatic and alarmingly racist considering the two crude traders are quite obviously Asian and standing right next to him.

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A fellow Australian, Paul Maher, is the oil derivatives trader for whom I’ll be deals desking. He is a no-nonesense kind of bloke, heart on the sleeve, beer in the hand, ciggie in the ear, fists of fury in dispute resolution sort of man. I like him. Within moments of shaking hands and about to wallow in the obligatory small talk requisite when meeting new people, he instead launches into a merciless diatribe of the debacle which is the Mumbai office.

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They routinely cost him small fortunes by managing to ‘lose’ his trades… yeah, his trades just ‘go missing’ between being executed on the exchange and traveling through cyber space to the world’s second most populous nation for settlement and reconciliation. These David Copperfield trades then usually ‘turn up’ moments before expiry or when they’ve become heavy losses. Fucking beauty. I will now be taking care of all his trades, risk reporting, positions management, etc and he makes it clear that it will be impossible to be worse than the Mumbai-ans, but his shouting will be far more intense face-to-face as opposed to over the phone, “so don’t fuck anything up, mate”.

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Joel takes charge after the fourth tiger pint and says we should dine at a Japanese place nearby, Kinki’s. Noone argues. Kinki’s raunchy title doesn’t quite match the sumo wrestler on the restaurant’s signage. No funny business or pole dancing here, this is a ‘Japanese with an urban attitude’ restaurant overlooking Marina Bay. We’re seated at a table for the six of us by the window. It’s now 8.45pm. The Marina Bay light show sprays neon through the night sky and across the harbour as Joel orders a combination of dishes for the group as well as six Asahi’s, two jugs of sake and asks for the wine menu. Before I have a chance to feign marvel at the light show, plates of sushi, bottles of beer and ceramic cups of sake arrive.

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“Gents, grab your sake. To Flynn, welcome.” Joel leads the way and we each shot our sake in unison. As my first hit of sake makes its way south, Joel is already refilling everyone’s ceramics. “One more to Paul.” Swig. Refill. “To Keith.” You get the picture, six sake shots in sixty seconds. Nicolas Cage lost in Fukushima. I’m wasted, but the drinks keep coming. Joel is now in possession of three bottles of red, pouring us all hefty glasses in between ordering us to shot more Sakes and to eat more ‘faggy’ sushi.

 

I’m thumped to life by the blaring of my 6.30am alarm on the Blackberry drumming bedside. Piss off. I fling my arm and magically hit the snooze button. Bullseye. I’m lying prostrate, palms by my side facing the ceiling while my neck is jammed at ninety degrees, peering out from my pillow through the window to the glares of the waking sun next to that fucked up floating serpentine. Hangovers like this shouldn’t be possible on a Tuesday morning.

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“Mmm, good morning.” I roll over. There is a blonde with flawless fake breasts, zero clothing and crystal blue eyes, “I have very fun night. You very nice, crazy man. I had such a fun.”

 

Who the hell is this chick? And where did she learn English? Her language teacher should be ashamed.

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“That’s great. Listen, I have to get to work. I got your number yeah?”

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“You don’t want fuck?”

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“Umm.”

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She rolls my aching body over and straddles me, rubs her cement bolt-ons in my face and with both hands violently pulls her blonde hair towards the ceiling as she arches her back and grinds me. My hangover vanishes as I search alcohol-fortified memory banks for any idea of who this girl is. She starts screaming, loud, licking her fingers and telling me to fuck her harder. I try my best, that’s all anyone can ask of you right, and down her in my morning glory with impressive speed. You’re welcome. I roll away a load lighter, oddly well prepped for day two on the path to international commodities trading superstardom, and walk to the shower.

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I try in vain to wash myself. I doubt a liberal dose of nivea visage exfoliant over the loins will clean me sufficiently. I hop out, dry off, shave and head back to the kitchen for some breakfast. The blonde, name unknown, is sitting by the kitchen bench in a little black dress and pink stilettos, brushing her head of sex hair and looking extremely whorish.

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“So, you pay me now, yes?” Ah, for fuck’s sake.

 

The five-minute walk to the train platform is more than a tad discomforting. I suppose that’s inevitable. It’s not customary for my journey to work to include being mistaken for a pimp. There’s a Citibank ATM at the station, $300 SGD and this debacle can be over.

 

It’s a blessing barely a soul in Singapore actually knows me. Imagine dear Nan was part of the throng of public transporters walking past right now. Sure, I’m copping plenty of raised eyebrows of curious approval from male gawkers, and even though Jesus was praised for associating with prostitutes, I’m fairly certain none of the horrified women walking past will be following me to Galilee.

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I hand the blonde the cash, not bothering to ask her name, how rude, though she mustn’t care too much for such etiquette, she kisses my cheek and asks me to marry her. I politely decline. Shame, she might have been the one. I escape through the turnstiles and continue solo down to the train platform.

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I walk up the stairs at Raffles Place station with the balance of a new born giraffe thanks to a resurgent hangover beating drums through my temples while images of bouncing silicone play on repeat in the front, centre and rear of my thoughts. Day two, I’m ready. It takes more than a hangover and the need for an urgent STD test to sour my mood.

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