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It’s 9am, Sunday, and I’m surrounded by a seething mass of pumping, grinding, spinning, grinning, stumbling, fumbling, fondling, fugly humanity. White-haired men with bellies spilling over their belts like the puff pastry on French onion soup gyrate spasmodically and piston their arms quickly in and out, apparently wrestling with imaginary, possessed chainsaws while their meaty heads loll loosely atop lazy necks. This, I believe, they call dancing.

The affection the men enjoy from the dark-skinned, dolled-up young women at their sides seems to vindicate such movements as effective attractors of potential sex partners. But don’t be fooled: this is a false economy, with the scales tipped heavily in favour of the white hairs. The girls are willing to overlook certain dancefloor faux pas and age discrepancies because, let’s face it, unions forged here can be profitable – and there are some places where you’re just not going to find love at 9am on a Sunday.

Welcome to The Bridge.

Twelve hours earlier, I was on the other side of the fence at this Lockhart Road institution, a reveller not observer, enjoying the comforts of one of The Bridge’s booths. I was here with friends in what is widely known as the bar’s ‘safe’ hours, where it could still be argued that a trip to its sometimes-seedy confines can be justified as a legitimate venture. We were here to enjoy the free food, drinks, and confetti that marked the bar’s seventh birthday.

That’s right, the always-open spot has been helping Wan Chai’s desperate get drunk for more than 61,000 hours straight. And it’s the oldest-looking seven-year-old you’ve ever seen. Before the early dawn, when the staff pull down the aluminium shutters and hang heavy curtains over the doors, you can clearly see its sullied floors, the dark wood bar top, the walls adorned with old photos of the world’s great bridges, and you can sit on high stools by the large open windows while perving at the passing Lockhart Road traffic. The happy hours are long (noon to 10pm) and fair ($40 for a pint of Hoegaarden), meaning the cheap upholstery on the seats is well worn. The kitchen – serving up everything from fish’n’chips to curries to cheese toasties – is more industrial than elegant. Men piss onto piles of ice in the urinals, and the bathroom floors are stained with the dried detritus of 2,500 days’ worth of spilled drinks and bodily fluids. I’m not ashamed to say I’m a great fan.

That’s not to say I’m happy to have dragged myself out of bed at such an ungodly hour on God’s day to stand in a corner alone and pretend to be hammered while ignoring the hopeful glances of ladies looking for an early morning escort to, um, church (round here, the places of worship charge by the hour). A Thai girl ignores the suit beside her to cast longing looks my way; in another corner, a black woman wears a low-cut shirt that reveals breasts like medicine balls; a Filipina with pretty hair tries to hook me with her legs as I walk by.

I had come here with the plan of ordering bacon and eggs to eat in a corner while I observed the post-birthday morning madness, but the lack of available seating put paid to that. I content myself with a leaning spot at the bar. I write notes into my cellphone and pay attention to important things, such as song lyrics from the actually quite banging techno that fills the bar: “When the lights go dim and there’s no one left, I can go on and on and on”. I marvel at the confluence of races: Latin American, Southeast Asian, African, whites. Asia’s World City indeed. I wonder why there’s a man wearing sunglasses. I see a portly middle-aged man grind into the behind of someone 20 years his junior. At 10am, the barman finally flashes the lights for last call, but none of the hundred-plus partiers look like slowing down.
It’s all I can do to raise my glass of OJ and salute the crowd. Happy birthday, Bridge – here’s to the next 61,000 hours.

Hamish McKenzie