Keys to the VIP

It was late on a Wednesday night. I had just finished work and was heading back to my gloomy hotel nestled deep in the red light district of Manila. I asked the taxi driver to drop me off at the 7eleven as I had to buy some water.

As I approached the fridge I was forced to wait for a girl to finish selecting her RTDs. After getting my drink I queued at the counter behind her. To my surprise she asked for a bottle opener… in an Australian accent.

I butted in and offered to open them for her with a lighter. New Zealanders and Australians absolutely hate each other, especially if they're playing Rugby, Cricket, or just generally. It is absolutely mutual. They think we're a small Australian state, and we think they are convicts. Its nothing new. But when we are outside our own countries we tend to be tight as a velcro glove on a sheep (one for the aussies).

She turned out to be a model slash actress working in Manila. I call her 'slashie' (credit goes to Anthony), and she calls me "7eleven". She lived in the same area as the apartment I was about to move in to so we exchanged details and said goodbye.

I didn't really give her much thought, but about two weeks later on a Friday night I sent her a text to see if she wanted to meet up. She replied and asked me to come meet her at a club close by. I was with a colleague (who was absolutely blind drunk) and we ambitiously zig zagged our way there at about 3am.

She was outside with her flatmate, we greeted each other and she said she had a shoot the following morning so was heading home 'early', but offered us to look after the flattie who was going to a night club underneath the intercontinental hotel - a short taxi ride away. I looked around and found my heavily intoxicated friend wandering aimlessly as if searching for something but never finding it. I called him over and asked if he wanted to join. He muttered something nonsensical and stumbled toward a taxi - we followed and the three of us piled in the back.

Upon arrival the taxi slowed to be checked for bombs. My friend opened the door, muttered something and wandered off into the neon lit city streets. It was obviously that time for him, possibly to vomit on a street corner, hit a girlie bar and lose his money to a woman with questionable gender, or simply catch another taxi home. I decided not to pursue him. He had been here long enough to look after himself.

We got out of the cab and she ushered me past the long line of patrons waiting to pay as she screeched in Tagalog to the doorman. Free entry - YUSSS.

As we entered arms locked, she led me through the writhing nightclub. This is exactly what I'd been looking for. Manila's night life. No (or very few) prostitutes, and a LOT of westerners. A huge nightclub that shadows anything in Auckland, this was obviously the place to be. Beautiful people, many-a-potato and excellent energy. We crawled through the hectic crowd and she pulled me past a cordoned off area with a security guard.

It was here that she introduced me to a large group of diverse people. I met Roberto, a mega rich Italian property developer, Charles an American restauranteer/nightclub owner, and a gaggle of eager Filipino models thirsty for Moet and/or Patron Tequila.

Prior to leaving for Manila I had a dream. This sounds absolutely retarded but please bear with me. I was watching a LOT of Gossip Girl and had decided that while in Manila I would attempt to infiltrate the A-List. Search out the celebrities and find the high powered businessmen. My hypothesis: These people have access to more opportunity, and have more fun… and because of my ethnicity and social status, it will be much easier than in New Zealand. Call me fickle, I don't give a fuck. This was my opportunity.

After an excellent night of partying my host asked if we could catch a taxi home. I hesitantly submitted to her request. As we drove I noticed my apartment building and asked the taxi driver to drop me off. She was relatively comatose, and muttered very little English in response so I paid the fare and got out of the cab. She got out too.

Curiously I asked her where she was going… she said "I live here - where are YOU going?" We awkwardly walked for the same lift. I thought she was following me and vice versa. She pressed 16, I pressed 17. What the..?

To my surprise, slashie and her flatmate lived in my apartment building, one floor down. We are all now close friends - in the tv show sense of the word. We share DVDs, kitchen utensils and sometimes toilet paper if we are feeling intimate.

This is the beginning of a beautiful story and many exciting adventures… hopefully more to come. Watch this space for A-List exploits, corruption and scandal.