I Snuck Into Singapore’s Marina Bay Hotel Guest Area And Realised Being Rich Isn’t That Great

I Snuck Into Singapore’s Marina Bay Hotel Guest Area And Realised Being Rich Isn’t That Great

I had a realisation one day while I was walking in the city. A few friends and I were stoned out of our minds in Melbourne’s Docklands when we were passed by two near retirement-age blokes casually driving ATVs down the footpath. We didn’t initially question it, because they were wearing high-visibility clothing.

High-vis clothing equals “I’m on official business – don’t fuck with me,” and is a one-way ticket to getting away with whatever the fuck you want. You could walk up to the pope and snatch his communion wine right from his cold clammy grasp, and he’d just smile and take it. Because you were wearing high-vis clothing. And even the supreme pontiff himself don’t fuck with high-vis man.

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But stoned me realised that one doesn’t necessarily need to be wearing high-vis to reap the benefits of it. You see, high-vis gives the wearer confidence, authority if you will. Thus, high-vis can be made redundant as long as one adopts a high-vis mentality, i.e. act like it’s your goddamn god-given right to be doing something, and wait for shit to fall into place.

I’m on the 57th floor of Singapore’s Marina Bay Sands luxury hotel as I write this. It costs a minimum of $400 a night for the “worst” room here. You know that infinity pool you see in all those shitty Instagram posts tagged #fromwhereyoudratherbe and #noregrets? That place. And here I am, using all the Marina Bay guest facilities without actually being a guest.

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How? High-vis mentality my friend. I was meant to be here. I wish I could say I planned this, that I concocted some Oceans 11-esque master plot to get in, but I didn’t. I just got lost. I was looking for a space museum. But somehow, I ended up at Marina Sands Hotel rooftop bar.

I was sipping the cheapest beer they had when I noticed the fence that divided the bar from the guests-only infinity pool had a little section with a dip in it just short enough to casually, albeit awkwardly, jump over.

It required some stealth, but this wasn’t Assassin’s Creed shit: more like 16-year-old derros jumping Flinders Street Station ticket gates shit. Not exactly rocket science. All I had to do was wait for the sweet moment when all the waiters were distracted.

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This father with his son were actually really fucking adorable the way they frolicked in the water. But I was kind of freaked out by how liberally they were treating the 57-storey drop. But then again, I dunno – I’m a bitch when it comes to heights.

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The bar was full of shiny stuff. Sunglasses are recommended.

I couldn’t believe how easy this was. I didn’t even look like I was rich – I was wearing a lame printed singlet I racked from Factorie years ago, some crap shorts also racked from Factorie, (bless you Factorie and your lack of security tags) and a pair of running shoes I’ve worn like three times a week since 2010 that are literally falling apart. I looked like a scummy backpacker, which, incidentally, is what I am, but they don’t know that. They could be thinking I’ve got some tragic pseudo-poor genius complex or some shit, I mean, Steve Jobs walked around barefoot right? But then again, I wasn’t exactly splashing around and peacocking my presence there. I just sat on one of the poolside chairs and observed, like a creepy infinity pool vulture.

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The bathrooms were real nice, but underneath the aesthetically pleasing appearance of basically everything, nobody seemed too happy.

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I heard a woman bitch to her bad boy boyfriend about her chips being too soggy. He called the waiter over and spoke in a way that made me want to throw up and nuke all of humanity. I don’t even know why the Paris Hilton wannabe was complaining – the chips looked spectacular to me.

Seriously, apart from that father with his kid, the vibe was so fucking low. I mean, you’re in a bloody infinity pool. Everyone seemed too posh to smile.

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Holy shit this chair though. It was the best part of the day.

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Both these guys were staff, and while sitting on my orgasm chair I felt the vibe changing from Leo voice I’m the king of the world to Oh dude you’re in trouble real fast. So I acted. Just as one of the staff was about to come over to me, I got up and went over to him and made friendly enthusiastic small talk and asked him for a lighter. Lighters are up there with high visibility clothing. God tier.

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As soon as my smoke was lit, I got the fuck out of there and took some photos of flowers. The view was okay. But I’d had enough, so I went downstairs to see what else I could weasel into.

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I got into the hotel gym, which is really great when you consider that the normal rate for a “full service” gym in Singapore is $60 per session. $60 for a session? Are you fucking kidding me? There’s no way I’d pay that much to lift stuff and then put stuff back down then lift stuff again and then put stuff back down unless Scarlett Johansson herself sucked my dick whilst I did it. And even then I’d feel like the price was a bit steep.

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Look, with views like this, running wasn’t even that bad.

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These flowers were nice. And like these flowers, we will all one day die. Will money save you from that inevitability? No.

Look, money is nice; I’m not doubting that. But maybe P. Diddy was onto something when he sang, “Mo money mo problems,” or maybe money just turns people into assholes. I dunno man, but from my experience, whether it be Singapore or Rome or Tokyo or back home, the most fun is had in the scummiest parts of town; the best laughs are had over cheap beers and cheap pizza. Most “high-end” places just feel a bit lifeless and sterile. I’m staying in the dingiest part of Singapore and spent last night having the best conversations in crappy bars and in run-down parks with people sleeping on park benches. I’m talking laugh till you can’t breathe shit.

I watched the people in that infinity pool for a good two hours, and all I got was fucking depressed.

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