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[My Weekender]: Phil Boyle

Mad musings on Marathon training, McDonalds, and Monty Python references from Phil Boyle, a ginger-headed mentalist.
Last updated: 2015-11-09
Phil Boyle is the account manager at Grebstad Hicks Communications, he tells the media about stuff that’s opening around Shanghai. It’s a job, apparently.

How bloody quickly did that week go? Here we go again. Following my birthday week and my brother in town from Angola on a personal mission to destroy me by death-by-reverse-Jäger-bomb, I’m ready for another weekend of waking up at odd times, nearly suffering a coronary, hanging out with the McNugget man and losing at football. Hell, I love Shanghai sometimes...

Fridays are always a dodgy one: you plan to get an early night to save your energy for football... next thing you know it's 3am, you're dressed as a panda and singing Billie Jean at a KTV bar. I'll be kicking things off with a swift pint in the Big Bamboo (I know, I told you, this frickin rockstar lifestyle), then off to Jimmy's Kitchen. It's in its pre-pre-opening stages or something like that, but they feed me anyway. It's old-school British food. I suppose my mum would call it "a 'reet good bloody feed, lad.” Mulligatawny soup, fish and chips, baked Alaska… I’ll then try and avoid harnessing the powers of Mr. Creosote and stumble out to wash the grub down with some raspberry rum concoction at Rhumerie Bounty on Yongfu.

I imagine I'll wander upstairs to The Apartment, scrounge a free drink off Robb at the bar, look around at how pretty everyone is, realize I don't know anyone in Shanghai anymore, cry into my Rum and Ginger and head for a taxi fulfilled. Then I'll speed-dial up my McNugget fix en route home in the back of a taxi to get to my door just in time for the McDonald's guy to open the door for me. Shanghai has that shit down. Nowhere else in the world do you get a personalized Ronald McDonald butler service. Mr. Belvedere has nothing on this guy.

Saturdays somewhat fly by. I'll wake up at the crack of a sparrow’s fart to make it to The Camel to play football for Voodoo FC under the watch of "he's 'avin a larf" skipper Ned Kelly, lose, head back to The Camel to fire down an all-day breakfast roll and a few pints of "Iceberg” (half beer, half Margarita – it's a Canadian thing) then pass out on my sofa dribbling for an afternoon kip. My fiancé will probably kick me up the arse to get up and we'll find our way through the darkness to the Earth Hour dinner at Issimo. There's something cool about eating pasta in the dark – I can flick tomato sauce all over myself, and no one will know...

I'll then perhaps think about the Earth for a bit. Then go to No. 88. I don't think they think about the Earth.

I might manage to stay awake to watch England lose to Wales at football, but a man can only suffer so much pain.

It's then Sunday, and while I should be in Century Park tripping over Rollerbladers, ducking Frisbees and avoiding wedding photo shoots, training for the Great Wall Marathon, I know I'll get to Pudong – but be too tempted by a Bloody Mary Kit at Blue Frog and then inhaling the grilled rib eye steak lunch at Morton's. I'll pick up a few provisions from city'super. Then, to the sofa. The sacred sofa. I love my sofa, it's ace. I’ll fall asleep while watching Californication and dream of Prince Will holding my hand down the aisle. Sigh...

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