Yeoh Siew Hoon goes to a place where everyone knows your name.
Each time I step into the Singapore Cricket Club, which is about twice a year, I feel like I have stepped back in time.
You walk into the bar and everyone knows your name. Well, not mine, but everyone seemed to know the member I was with. She is mobbed by men who insist we join them for drinks. She resists. I desist from getting involved.
There’s a woman with a guitar crooning, “Yellow bird, up high on banana tree.”
Outside on the verandah, there are no yellow birds but rather, men and women playing lawn tennis. My friend coos, “Oh good, we can watch tennis.”
There’s something infinitely pleasurable about watching other people run about and get sweaty while you sit in the shade and sip your gin and tonic.
The club is packed this evening as there’s also a darts competition going on. People still play darts?
I notice a few familiar faces darting about – yes, I come here twice a year and I see the same people. It’s the reason why club are so popular, I guess – the same people like seeing the same people.
The staff are delightfully old-fashioned. They actually spend time at your table, recommending what you should have that night.
There’s an Indian kitchen just by us so we decide to go ethnic. Crispy naan and the most delicious curries I have tasted in a long time. Chicken masala, dhall and fish tikka and, of course, a bottle of red wine to wash it all down.
The maitre’d laughs, “Of course, you can’t eat like this every night. Too heaty.”
He reminds me of a solicitious uncle who probably secretly eats like this every night but doesn’t want anyone else to do it because he cares for their health.
Our meal over, we decide to retreat into the air-conditioned comfort of the bar. I feel I have stepped into a Jewish wedding for the woman is now singing, “Hava Nagilah” and everyone’s clapping along merrily.
There’s a man sporting a Beatles haircut and a vest that looks like it could have been bought in Carnaby Street, London who keeps going up to the singer, and requesting songs.
“Those Were The Days” comes on and he and his friends sing along raucously. “Those were the days, my friends, we thought they’d never end, we sing and dance forever and a day …”
He and his friends are singing out of tune and the clapping is out of time but who cares – nostalgia is what it is. Sweet, heady, imperfect.
And oh yes, all night, I didn't hear a mobile phone ring. Twitter you not. It's forbidden.
