by Steve Deeks
Then, all of a sudden, Pat spotted a couple in a room in the adjacent hotel. Without a hint of hesitation he started the inevitable chant, “We know what you’re doing,” before imitating putting a phallic shaped object into his mouth that pushed the side of his cheek out. The mortified woman immediately pulled the curtains shut to avoid any further distress. But no doubt, unless she was deaf, she could still hear the chanting from the collection of strangers ringing in her ears like a foghorn. There was a real spirit of camaraderie and even those with the most limited of English were now being swept along by the raucous behaviour.
One enthusiastic recruit, a smiling Chinaman was in Sydney to improve his knowledge of the language. Yet it wasn’t long before he had added to his English vocabulary following several teachings. A short time later he was jumping up and down clenching his fist shouting along with everyone else, “You like cock…you like cock…you like cock,” to the woman in the hotel room. It had been an eventful night and was the first real time I had spoken at length to any Australians. It had felt weird being in the country and having not met any locals, so this night provided a mini triumph in that respect. Crazy they were, but also were good fun.
I saw the Aussies at the same place the following week having a few quiet games of pool with their beers. I knew it was the calm before the storm. With Pat undefeated I was duly invited to a challenge and then, in the blink of an eye, thrashed him with the Australian having barely had the chance to play a shot. “Why are all Pommies good at pool?” he asked, shaking his head after his winning run had come to an end. “Right you’re banned from playing now.” I thought they were joking at first, but after not being allowed on the table again, realised they were deadly serious.
Following a few more beers and with energy levels and stupidity beginning to take hold, Darren announced that as some friends would soon be arriving at the venue it would be a good idea to play a practical joke on them and pretend I was related to him. Added to this he said he would tell them I was younger than what I was. “We don’t want people thinking we’re hanging out with a grandad, you know mate?” Darren joked.
When Darren’s friends turned up we inevitably got chatting and things seemed to be going fine until one nosey girl said: “I hear you’re 24?” she asked suspiciously having been incorrectly informed by Darren, who I could see smirking behind her. I smiled casually feeling obliged to go along with it before attempting to deflect the discussion away from my relatively considerable age (30) by talking about Neighbours and Home and Away.
Despite my superb efforts in pulling off being a 24 year old, all my hard work was nearly undone as they soon wanted to flex some moves on the dance floor, which I most certainly did not. To make matters worse no one else in the club was dancing, with there also the added disadvantage of the platform being conspicuously raised by several feet in the centre of the busy venue, meaning that should you decide to climb the steps onto the stage then you would have a sea of raised eyebrows intently studying your every move. This was not an ideal situation to be in if you hate jigging about to pop music like I do. So with a not so heavy heart I declined the numerous invitations for me to join the gang and instead sat sipping my beer alone like an old man, cringingly watching them all dance.
Even Pat, who had momentarily opted to stay with me, suddenly sprinted onto the dance floor like a young whippet when a song he was rather fond of came on. I was more than happy where I was and despite intense coercion remained firmly sat in my seat, watching Rob prancing about like Michael Jackson, as Darren puffed his chest out, while Pat bounced around in no particular direction like a rubber ball.
Concerned that I was conspicuous by my absence and that I may be drawing attention to my age by my passionate resistance of joining in, the heat was taken off me when a couple of random girls from the crowd decided to get involved. Whilst it was clear that they would not be winning any beauty pageants, this was no obstacle for Darren, who swiftly moved in for the kill on one. Seconds later his tongue was stuffed down her throat, before his wandering hands soon found their way to her substantial breasts. Clearly not inhibited by self-consciousness in front of the packed venue watching this sordid episode unfold in front of their very eyes, Darren then boldly moved his right hand due south, slowly under the girl’s skirt, as if almost hoping she wouldn’t notice until it was too late, where he then attempted to cash in on her eagerness.
But the girl, who hardly seemed like the shy type, then shocked the crowd as she miraculously pulled away and careered off the stage, leaving Darren stood in frustration with open arms questioning why she would want to walk away at such an advancing moment. Annoyance soon turned to anger when he realised she wasn’t coming back, prompting him to overtly smell his fingers before flapping his hand in disgust to make it clear what he thought of the odour of the girl’s nether regions. Although the night had finished on something of a downer for Darren, at least he had provided everyone with significant entertainment.
On making the short journey back to the hostel I bumped into a small stocky man called Joe from London on the stairs. Within a few minutes of brief jovial conversation we were off to the pub for a drink, both in need of refreshment with the night still young at only 2am. Dodging drunks and an assortment of poverty stricken individuals pleading for spare cigarettes from the chain smoking Joe – only to be met by vicious cold stares – we finally settled on a relaxed bar near Central station. Delving into his wallet, Joe pulled out a giant wad of $50 notes and started counting them, before marching to the bar to get us some drinks. He returned with two vodka and oranges and two vodka and cranberries, as well as a beer each. Within minutes the drinks had been hastily consumed, prompting him to order some more.
Twitchy and always on the move, whether it was going to the bar or popping out for a cigarette, I got the impression Joe wasn’t one to keep still for long and was always on the look out for his next fix of excitement. Despite this, I was still slightly taken aback when he proposed hitting Kings Cross. “I fancy getting a blowey, you coming?” he said matter-of-factly, as if having his lower organ vociferously sucked on by a seedy stranger was the same as nipping down the supermarket and picking up some bread and milk. Sensing my hesitation, he attempted to put my mind at ease, “Look if you don’t want to get sucked off then don’t worry I won’t be long - no more than 20 minutes normally.”
I can’t say that I was that motivated to go but with nothing better to do I decided to go along, anyhow. On arrival I slowly climbed out the taxi, wondering what the hell I had done as I was confronted by a plethora of randy strip clubs that came complete with cheap flashing lights and a selection of horrendous bare fleshed women standing invitingly outside, hoping to allure any passing clientele.
I felt like an ashamed pervert as women and security staff fought to entice us into their establishments. “Hey guys, wanna good time? Good rates,” one smiled, with breasts bulging over her fishnet top as she dragged a cigarette. “No I’m fine, thanks for asking though. I’m just off to get some food,” I replied focusing straight ahead. I couldn’t believe how vile some of these ladies of the night were and wondered who these men were who would pay for an ugly crack-head pensioner in a shell suit? I reasoned that perhaps she represented the economy option compared with her superior competitors, who at least had their teeth in and came to work looking like they meant business rather than looking like a boy about to play football. Nevertheless, she had clearly found a niche market after branding herself differently and was clearly only too aware there would inevitably be the odd drunken man running short of cash who she could entice.
Continuing along the litter-ridden street that had a distinctive odour from the various puddles of sick and kebab that covered much of the area, Joe suddenly darted toward a particular strip joint that he seemed familiar with. A heated chat broke out with the bouncer, who had his arm round the Londoner while doing his best to get him in. After some whispering Joe pulled out his hefty stump of cash, causing the man�
�s eyes to visibly bulge whilst ensuring an even tighter grip. “Come, come I show you,” the individual muttered, ushering us quickly up the stairs. I felt every last ounce of my dignity drain from me as I followed them through a dark dingy corridor to reception, hoping that no one had recognised me entering the place. In any event, it was bad enough just knowing I was in such a hovel.
Perhaps realising I was being subjected to a severe form of torture, Joe paid the $30 entry fee for me. In truth the note would have gone to more use had it been set alight. We then proceeded into the pit where we walked up some stairs and finally into a dark small room, not dissimilar to a cinema studio, where a spattering of depraved men were engrossingly watching a woman with legs about as high as Joe’s head twirling around a pole while seductively playing with her nipples. A wrinkly woman, quite possibly a prostitute retiree, then came over and asked if we’d like any drinks. “Give me something strong. No, make that very strong,” I mumbled, shaking my head in disbelief that I could be in such a place – my proud unblemished record of having never frequented such a dirt hole now in tatters.
Sat right at the front, I glanced behind me at some of the characters. Most were in a world of their own as they studiously concentrated on every flick of the woman’s hair, as well as every gyration as she teased and tantalised the slimy men, who craved to see her finally remove her thong after ever so slightly pulling it down on several occasions, only to leave it agonisingly on for the frustrated crowd. I spotted a shaven headed man nearby, sat back deep in his chair with his legs wide open licking his lips and holding his groin. He may as well have been jerking off in front of us. With patience being severely tested matters became worse when Joe, with no warning, got up and left. “I’m just going downstairs for a blowey, see you in 20 minutes,” he announced, springing to his feet and storming out the room with the wrinkly waitress, who perhaps was coming out of retirement after all. He seemed to know the staff extremely well and I couldn’t help think he had been here before once or twice.
My plight was now infinitely worse as I bore the resemblance of one of the deviant regulars who pops in to watch a few shows by himself. Taking large sips of my beer I finished the large bottle in quick time before noticing Joe had left over half his drink, prompting me to quickly dispatch it. Not being able to bear the pain any more I sharply made my way to the exit door. Not knowing how to escape this shithole I hurried down a variety of dark dead-end corridors before stumbling upon a seemingly public area where three hookers and two men were sat chatting.
“Hi darling, you looking for something?” one asked looking up at me. Typical. All I had wanted was to get out of this place with no one seeing me and now here I was being cornered by one of the servants. “I’m just looking for the way out,” I replied sheepishly.
“Why don’t you stay a little longer darling?” came the gentle, husky woman’s reply.
“I’d love to but I’ve spent long enough in here already unfortunately.”
“That’s a shame darling. I could show you a good time you know?”
I sighed, feeling increasingly like a hostage. I knew I had to be firm but nice in order to avoid angering the lady. After all I had heard stories where they get the heavies to beat you mercilessly until you pay them more cash, whether you like it or not. “And I could show you a good time too,” I began, attempting to create some rapport and keep her onside. “But sadly due to circumstances beyond my control this won’t be happening as I’m already late for the opera.” Perhaps sensing I was being untruthful, her patience snapped on realising she wouldn’t be getting any of my business, prompting her to point indignantly toward another corridor, before swivelling round to continue her discussion.
As I turned to leave, the other hooker suddenly went berserk and lobbed a glass, narrowly avoiding my head, after an argument broke out. “You fucking cunt, I’ll kill you,” she screamed at one of the petrified men. Not wanting to hang about I accelerated out of the room and sharply down the stairs to the relative safety of the street, where I took a deep sigh of relief and went about putting as much distance between myself and the club.
By now the street was flooded with drunk, obnoxious Neanderthals and screeching overly emotional women, dressed as scantily as the prostitutes, who I did my best to sidestep. Apart from the array of strip clubs, there were countless bars and more traditional nightclubs with packs of angry looking doormen outside from the Pacific Islands. I got a cheeseburger from one of the many fast-food counters to pass some time waiting for Joe to finally finish his business. After a short while he appeared with a giant smile on his face.
“You enjoy yourself then?” I joked.
“Yeah needed that mate…good to let off some steam you know? She took a load in her face.” It was like a whole weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Not wanting to hang about any longer we hopped in a taxi and headed back to the centre of the city. I had rarely been happier to see my hostel.
The following weekend I got a text from Darren. “Party tonight. You coming? Gonna get some puss,” it read. I was beginning to realise that the Australian only ever thought about one subject. When meeting up with the lads in early evening, it soon became clear that this gathering was in the back end of nowhere, in a place called Berowra – about an hour and a half north of Sydney – and was not just outside the city as it had been described to me before I agreed to go along. Just how we would get to this godforsaken house no one seemed to know, as Darren exchanged countless phone calls attempting, to no avail, to figure this out.
Before I could go any further, though, I took the opportunity to nip into a liquor store near Central station where I sought out some much needed alcohol. My mood perked up when out of nowhere I saw a person offering small free cups of white and red wine as part of a promotion. Although I had no interest in purchasing wine I let the old guy talk me into trying it. I gulped down the white wine in one go. “Not bad…quite fruity. How do the others compare?” I said innocently attempting to get more free booze. The old man paused and looked at me like I had a drinking problem, before going ahead and pouring the second cup. I smelt the red wine before taking a small sip like a seasoned wine taster. ”Umm this one’s good, really rich and tangy. Just how I like it actually.”
There was a third wine on promotion, which I strongly hinted at trying. “It will be interesting to see whether this one compares favourably with the others,” I said, with the man apparently reading my mind and resentfully pouring out a third cup. “Not so good I’m afraid,” I winced after taking down a mouthful. “Think I’ll leave the wine and just go for some beer instead.” The man gave me a look of disgust as I waltzed out the shop feeling slightly giddy from the generous free wine.
Deliberations with how to get to our location weren’t getting any easier causing increasing frustration, in contrast with Rob, now emerging from the store singing and dancing with two bottles of wine. “Shut up or I’ll punch you?” a riled Darren shouted, knowing that precious seconds of trying to get into someone’s knickers at the party were slipping away. And then, as if by miracle, my phone rang. It was Joe. He was bored driving round looking for something to do so I suggested he come to the party – and, of course, give us a lift there at the same time. Although Darren was against the idea of another man attending the revelry, for fear it would statistically reduce his chances of pulling, I managed to talk him round, emphasising that his chances of getting some action would range between zero to non-existent if we didn’t actually get there in the first place. “He’ll probably nip off for a blowey at The Cross before long anyway,” I explained, which seemed to put Darren’s mind at ease.
After waiting patiently in the cold darkness Joe finally rolled up in an old Ford estate car. Reaching over to open my door, I realised there was no handle. “This baby’s seen better days that’s for sure,” Joe joked, “but I like to keep things on the down low, you know?” I didn’t have a clue what he was on about but nodded enthusiastically nonetheless. We made our way th
rough the busy Saturday evening traffic, with the Londoner swearing at anyone who dared to come anywhere near his battered car. “Fucking cunt get out of my way,” he shouted menacingly at one motorist, while sticking his head out the window just to ram home the point. A minute later he carved someone up, who had the audacity to toot their horn, prompting a foul-mouthed riposte as he looked over his shoulder at the car, seemingly forgetting about the road ahead.
Drinking their way through wine, beer and whiskey meant the Aussies in the back were now getting firmly into their stride. “Old wankers,” Rob suddenly blurted hysterically at three shocked female pensioners stood by the side of the road. Not wanting to be out done, Pat then decided it would be a good idea to bare some naked flesh and after winding down his window elected to stick his bum out, while Darren was indiscriminately firing hand gestures and insults at startled onlookers. “I fucked your grandma up the backdoor last night… she loved every second,” he yelled at several well dressed middle aged men, who attempted to dish some abuse back in before being flummoxed by the sight of Pat’s white bum glowing in the dark as we sped past. I afforded myself a wry smile at the ongoing antics and sucked in a few large gulps of thick smoky air caused by Joe and Rob’s chain smoking, praying that we would somehow prevail against the odds and make it to the house in one.
As forecast we made it to this largely desolate place after an intensive 90-minute journey. I gingerly got out of the car and felt my legs nearly give way. It had been an exhausting mission and I felt like I needed a good ten-hour sleep rather than a party. However, I soon realised that the wild party it had been sold as, was not quite the reality. After ringing the doorbell several times a large figure eventually came to the door. “I suppose you’re here for the party,” a grumpy middle aged man scowled, before rolling his eyes and turning round to fetch the host, Clare, who it became clear happened to be his daughter. “This should be some party,” I muttered dryly under my breath.
