When the night has come and the moon is high.
Should not all human life apart from night shift workers be at home with the family.

Or is it better thet they be surrounded by loud mouthed dead beats who the more they drink the louder they get.
Would it not be better to be at home making loud noises than standing(or sitting)in some over priced bar till 1,2or even 3am.
All the while listening to some tormented idea of music and having to shout louder to be heard above it.

Dont get me wrong here I think a good night out and getting one over the eight is ok now and again but every blumming night no way.

I have been staying at a hotel in YSW for the last 2 weeks and it is so sad the amount of time not to mention money some people spend in the bars.
( i am just above the bar and cannot sleep for the noise most every night)
I guess these people are either single could not carelessers or married could not carlessers with too much money and too much time on there hands.
Also i know that Hong Kong TV is crap but where as the romance gone?

Go home early cook your own dinner invite a friend or treat a loved one to some attention and just see how much pleasure this will bring.

I for one miss my quiet lovley home in Pak kok over looking the Lamma Chanel where we my husband and i could sit in peace and quiet every night and enjoy our time together.

O well thats enough of that who ever the people are that drink and talk very loud every night hope your earing is not getting damaged with the noise and long may your livers servive

Coming soon to a web site near you!! the full story

If you give me a list of names and photographs my people can teach em a few manners

Thanks Tony
The beans will be all over the floor very soon

Ah Eileen, sorry you are having to deal with all that racket in your last few weeks here. I spent the night out looking for frogs. It is amazing how uninhabited some parts of this island seem at night. Many places are very quiet. Hang in there. I am looking forward to the expose'.

Ayaaaa, Eileen, Eileen!! You should never have forsaken the quiet backwaters of Pak Kok for the bright lights of Yung Shue Wan. You're not the first Pak Kokker to be lured by the neon, and doubtless not the last. You should return to the house on the cliffs before these lost souls drag you deeper into the swamps and sewers of the Banyan Bay metro!

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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.

You will find quite a few of them playing petanque in Tai Peng on Sunday afternoon. Bring a bottle of Pernod and join in!

Don't forget your French Army Knife.

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Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like bananas

"o"la,la Ed-banger a bit close to the bone is that me thinks
you naughty boy.

Excuzes moi, mon cherry- I don't mean to offendez vous.

Bonet de douche Rodney, bonet de douche.

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Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like bananas

I'm setting my alarm tonight so I can come down the village at three just to get the rabble going on a few dozen verses of "Come on Eileen".

I'll bring the drums...and free booze for everyone...

I should not bother with the drums no one will hear them for the House Music and Im sure the free booze will go down a treat.

When you gonna open the can of beans, honey? I might have to break out a can of my own, but please, don't make me open this.

Eileen's story about her night of torture on her "beloved Isle of Lush, Bangs, Tweets and Loving" is now online.

June 1: The Howls and Cackles of the Local Banshees!

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Click here for Lamma-zine stories and recent Lamma Spotlights of the Week:
Photo, Video, Person, Wildlife, Bird, Artwork.

Truly shocking! What a bunch of lightweights.

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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.

I think I know the hotel: it's where I stayed when I first washed ashore on Lamma in 2005. It's very nice. Tell the truth, I did not notice any bar sounds. However, I DID wash ashore during the terrific rains of June 2005, and left part of my luggage on the balcony of the small room, innocently thinking that the roof ledge would protect the bags. I'd forgotten what I learned in Outward Bound, that no bag is waterproof against water (water water water) when the flood gods fare loose from Neptune's realm aargh, whether aargh ye be on ship or shore.

Aargh. Several bags were soaked.

As to the lads' carouse, you have my sympathies. In San Francisco, in 2003, I was staying at a budget ass tourist estaminet when awakened by The Drunk Smokers who in San Francisco then, and now in HK, must smoke outside, as if drinking is a job and they are taking a break from the wearisome work of getting shitfaced plastered berserko.

[It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it.]

The Bright Young Things in the fashionable bar who were smoking and chatting were not that Bright. Indeed, their conversation, as it filtered up through the mild sea-blown air of 'Frisco, was something like "I tole him he had to do da Web page in five daze and yew know what he said to me? Fucker said it would take five weeks!" and "Shut up, you slut! You SLEPT with him?"

Finally, I heaved myself out of bed, and called down in a loud voice as it were from Heaven, "why don't you dickwads and whores take it inside? People who work for a living trying to sleep!"

[This may seem ill-bred, but it is the custom in Amer-i-ka-ye to be direct and Jonathan-plain spoken, and to speak Truth to Power. And, drunk chaps.]

[Indeed, the hotel was not only used by tourists it was also used on a monthly basis by the proletariat who can no longer even rent (buy? u crazy?) in San Francisco.]

The wads dared me to come down. The "whores" said you not gettin' any. I dialed the cops, and they found out that this hip, fashionable place had no License, and closed it down. Thus it was that a small, but perhaps representative, segment of the world proletariat, got some sleep in the belly of the beast.

All the best, Eileen.

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Publish and be damn'd

Spinoza, was this on Broadway, by any chance? Sounds like the place I was in up there among the lap-dancing and hustler clubs. Loved it.

Eileen, come back! Big Tamasha in bay. Chinese dragonboaters in deep despair since you left. Too much of wailing, wailing. Come back to Lamma.

No, the Dickwad and Whore was in an alley off Sutter Street in the downtown financial area at the base of French Hill (this is the hill up to the gate of Chinatown and a Frenchy cafe). It attracted a lot of riff raff stock brokers and their doxies.

I don't mind people getting crazy but except for mean drunks, drunk chaps are usually in a friendly, expansive, Falstaffian if not Rabelaisian mood, and when confronted by a forthright, manly chap who needs his beauty sleep with a simple request, they will chill.

In extreme American cases, said forthright, manly chap might be advised in Frisco and points east to carry a Remington peacekeeper hogleg style, but God would usually grant him no need of that in the old days when men were men and the sheep were nervous.

The problem was I yelled out the window like a Charles Bukowski character.

I eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep in which dickwads were trying to interest me in a Web development scheme. But suddenly, we were crossing Salisbury Plain on a bicycle with the crew of the Marin ferry, and the dickwads were trying to interest all the TARS in the particuLARS of a scheme that the dickwads were interested in.

[PS: it is an American solecism of the first water to call San Francisco, Frisco. Don't call it Frisco unless you are one of those sublimely self-confident British milords, mad bishops, or intellectual-Marxist-Militant-Tendency hard cases who keep garden gnomes in your garden, because this is the spirit, a lofty spirit that takes no note of class, in which I use 'Frisco. Literally, before I write, the sort of zoot-polyester American who called it Frisco was a traveling salesman who couldn't get laid even in Chinatown because he ordered chop suey at Jimmy Wong's, from the cute "gal" in the Cheong-sam.]

[But, I digress.]

I am also familiar with Broadway, but my favorite watering hole in the 1980s was on Van Ness, an unlikely street for fashionable bars, being ugly-widened in the postwar American style to four lanes.

This was Henry Africa's. A little on the touristy side (being on a suburban-style street for starters) this place redeemed itself, to a degree, by having an interesting clientele (easy to come by in 'Frisco) and a true lunatic of an owner.

It appears he had served in the dear old French Foreign Legion, La Legion of the Damned, march or die mes enfants and Beau Geste, hey hey what what.

He had a sign labeled "The Perfect Master" over the bar. It was his drill Sergeant, dear old Lucien *le Maudit* who would take him for delightful marches out in the desert where they have all the sand.

He was a complete martinet and usually a hair from the edge, but he served a mean martini cocktail.

The bars and hustler clubs of Broadway were for later in the night when we called, for madder music and stronger wine. Your Englishman goes home and so to bed: your Frenchman sits quietly until closing time: your Russian calls for Gypsies.

Your American usually seeks out the Fun in low places.

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Publish and be damn'd

Hmm...if American bars were named like pubs...The Ball and Chain instead of Elephant and Castle, The President's Dick in place of The King's Arms, The Donald Trump in place of The Duke of Gloucester.

But one pub name is unconvertable and *sui generis*: it was in NYC: The Slaughtered Lamb.

It could have, I believe, been in the UK. I say this because New York City "bars" are in a city (o City city) which predates our Revolution, and before the Revolution, Manhattan was rotten with coffee-houses and public houses filled in turn with us Yanks, plotting to obtain what Samuel Johnson called, being a spoilsport, the Liberty to drive Negroes.

The British took Manhattan quickly enough, and the public houses were, for most of the conflict, taken over by Redcoats crying "bring in" and their flash blondes, damning General Washington's eyes while he knelt virtuously in the snow out in Pennsylvania.

They sang a tune, "Anacreon in Heaven". This tune can only be sung if you're drunk, and it became the melody of the American national anthem, which every after has been slaughtered at baseball games in a variety of styles including Tex Mex and Hip-Hop for the very good reason that it can't be sung sober in the style intended by its author, Francis Scott Keys.

Keys was inspired by the fact that powder monkeys idly firing Congreve rockets in the Chesapeake bay weren't getting the range in the War of 1812, and couldn't nail the flagpole. The powder monkeys were unmotivated because overall, the War of 1812 was conducted half ass backward by both sides. Its most glorious moment from the American point of view was Andrew Jackson's offside victory at New Orleans, which was two weeks after a peace treaty. A clumsy moment was the burning of the White House by British troops who probably sang the early 19th century equivalent of we don't need no water let the motherfucker burn.

Pub names for Lamma Island: The Grim Ferryman, The Black Rainstorm, The Ghost Teacher, The China Trade, The Squealing Pig, Bird Flu, Rick's Cafe Americaine, The Hangover of 1997 (get it? hangover, handover, nyuk nyuk).

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Publish and be damn'd