9.9.13 - The [Pink Pool] Party at the End of the World

I imagine those (few) of you who have read all of these posts would think that by now I’d described the most decadent, indulgent, almost insultingly hedonistic elements of expat life in HK. Junks. Jetting away for weekends to paradise-kissed-spots. Gambling £20 a go in Macao. Dancing the night away in the openly red light district-esque Wan Chai.

I thought I’d probably seen it all too. Turned out that wasn’t right.

If I said to you,  “Party at a yacht club”, what would you think? I thought – posh. Sophisticated. Probably some fantastical old-boy-dress code (Boaters mandatory, all women must wear floral print, that sort of thing). Gin and tonics all round. A civilised, white table-clothed meal, with a chap playing the piano for entertainment.

On Saturday I went to party at the yacht club. But crucially, it was a pink-themed pool party at the yachy club. Which apparently makes all the difference.

I turned up in my pink, shiny stade francais top, thinking this would be risqué in a yacht club do. But once inside, I could see how tame it was.

A usually genteel setting, the pool had been filled with pink inflatables, and pink blow up flamingos and squeaking ducks were strewn around. The main drink on offer was pink.

But to begin with, it looked like just any party. Sit with friends, sink some beers, eat some buffet nosh. Standard – aside from having a sedate dip in the pool.

But then, I started to notice. Lots of the outfits were pretty outlandish. Pink full-body morph suits. Pink leopard skin catsuits. Pink bikinis which, when the tiny pink dresses covering them were shed, that were somehow more revealing than if their wearers had had nothing on at all.

No sooner had I noticed this than everyone started breaking all the rules around the pool – a place of many rules usually. Running (in heels. And that was two men). Bombing. Ducking. Jumping into a stack of 6 inflatable rings at once. Diving in the shallow end (5 head stitches for that man). And yes – some heavy petting.

As soon as some rules got broken, and the club-loud DJ set kicked off, it was like the sort of party you imagine might be held when an apocalyptic meteor strike was hours away. A few of the more striking sights: A slight girl, dressed as a sailor aside her pink microskirt, picks up one of the 6 foot plus blokes flirting clumsily at her in a fireman’s lift, and dumps him in the pool. A man dressed in 6 inch high hot pink heels, pink wig and tight-fitting pink dress dives flawlessly into the pool before raising his still-heeled foot out of the water like a synchronised swimmer. People you know to be top executives in big-hitting firms start miming things with a blow up flamingo that should never be mimed.

All in a city where a worker on the minimum wage would have had to work 26 hours just to get into the party.

I’m not getting preachy. Did I have a good time? Yes. Would I go again? Absolutely. But should you sometimes have a bit of a reality check on these experiences, and take a minute to acknowledge how extraordinary and – ultimately – unbelievably frivolous they are? Of course.