Imagine some short, shirtless, cutoff jeans clad Asian guys. An old rusted group of pots assembled into a drum set, a couple of guitars, and a lead singer in a Hawaiian skirt, coconut bra and Spanish sombrero. We’re on a boat in the middle of a couple islands off the coast of Vietnam. The staff on this booze cruise are attempting their boy band show. The singer is up on the table waving his coconuts in front of a shocked Vietnamese audience. The foreigners at the back are giggling and carrying on. Pause. Out comes the inflatable bar, I jump of the top deck of the boat. Hooking our toes into the side we float on inner tubes sipping orange and rum cocktails miles from shore. The bartender tries to refill my drink. I try to evade. “Don’t be lazy,” he says. “It’s hardly twelve,” I exclaim. No dice. Drink up.
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