by Steve Deeks
I reluctantly trudged through the heaving venue and climbed up on to the stage, where Mark and another man, relishing every second it has to be said, were stood. Three girls then appeared and stood below each of us, with their heads roughly coming up to our waist area; with the not so subtle implication of them being at the right level for something else. I looked across the packed bar, where people were shouting hysterically and waiting intently with cameras for the action to start. It was weird to say the least to suddenly be thrust in to the public glare not knowing what was going to happen to you, especially when just a few seconds earlier I had been happily minding my own business.
As soon as the buffoon on the microphone shouted: “Go”, things went into a frenzy and descended to a further low. Before I knew what had hit me, the girl below me was frantically putting her hand up my jeans touching my inner thigh with her bare hand. Frustrated, she pulled her hand out the bottom of my jeans and started to roll my right trouser leg up, leaving my hairy leg exposed to the public. I looked next to me where the other two girls were doing exactly the same to Mark and the other man. A few seconds later one of them ecstatically shouted out, “Touched it, touched it”, and the game came to an abrupt halt.
It soon emerged that the winner was the first girl to touch someone’s underwear having forced her hand up a trouser leg. “It could have been worse,” I thought before having a rethink and realising that in fact there would have been a fair chance of hand touching manhood - a possibility confirmed by Mark. “Her fingers touched my cock,” he whispered excitedly in my ear, as the winner was announced.
“I hope you didn’t get a hard one,” I replied.
“Nah just a semi.”
“No one will be none the wiser then – not with your pecker.”
“Fuck off, she was gagging for a touch of my package – she couldn’t miss it.”
I rolled my eyes predictably. “I suppose because your cock comes down to your thigh?”
“Nah my knee.”
The only good news from the whole degrading experience was that we were each awarded a jug of beer for our efforts in entertaining the crowd, which had come as an unexpected bonus to me and made up for some of the shame I was feeling after being dragged through the mud on stage.
Once the beer was out of the way we moved on to shots, from which point things became a bit hazy. I don’t know how we got separated but somehow Mark ended up at a different place, prompting some of the most pointless and incoherent phone conversations I’ve ever had. After about 25 missed calls to one another we finally managed to speak. “Where are you?” Mark shouted, like I had abandoned him, when really it was the other way round.
“I’m inside,” I answered, clearly referring to the only bar we had been to and the one in which we had spent several hours eating, drinking and making fools of ourselves on stage.
“Inside where?” came the disbelieving voice.
“The bar…you know, the bar we’re in.”
“What bar, where?”
“The bar we’ve been drinking in all night…where are you?”
“I don’t know…it’s got a blue wall inside. Stop being an idiot and come here -”
“- But I have no idea where you are,” I replied scratching my head.
And so on it went. Unsurprisingly we never saw each other again that night but the next day Mark informed me he woke up surrounded by strange people he had never met before, with no idea how he ended up there. The next day was, as expected, spent in sloth like fashion recovering; the smallest of tasks, like getting and eating food, feeling like a major achievement such was the complete absence of any energy. Conversations were restricted to monosyllabic grunts, while having to contend with the sense of a pneumatic drill penetrating my skull, on top of a bout of amnesia largely rendering the night pointless, as beyond the briefest of snippets I was essentially unable to recollect anything that happened.
Still, it was always interesting to wonder what you may or may not have done the night before, with curiousness aroused when people gave you little nuggets of information. “Remember when you had that fake pair of boobs on and were playing the didgeridoo with all those aboriginals?” I was informed. “No…really?”
“Yeah, they couldn’t wait to see the back of you in the end.” Looking to the sky I would then spend several minutes trying to remember the event, the build-up to it and the aftermath in a vain attempt to piece together the night. Sometimes fortune (or perhaps misfortune) would shine on me and one incident would be the catalyst for remembering other things. But there was also the flip side of wondering if certain memories were real or just a figment of my wild imagination. “Was I really sitting on a bar stool with my trousers round my ankles pretending I was German?” I would ask, only to be met by a shrug of the shoulders and look of blankness from a friend, adding to the surreal confusion I was already suffering with.
After nearly two days to recover from my birthday it was time to leave this sweaty place that was Darwin. I was getting a flight to Cairns, in north Queensland, where I hoped my life would not be in such danger.
Chapter 19 - Cairns
I arrived in Cairns late that evening and after dumping my stuff off at the backpacker hostel, Nomads, in the city centre I made my way to the nearby esplanade. Although dark, it was clear this was a focal point, with masses of people congregated around the area watching an assortment of artists, ranging from a man juggling fire objects, which he would put deep in to his throat, to aboriginals dancing around while playing foghorn music.
The esplanade, I had been told by reception at my hostel, was the hub of the city centre. Just like with Darwin, though, it surprised me how small and compact it was, especially after finding out the city had a population of around 150, 000 people. It was a lively place, with flocks of people enjoying themselves outside in the multitude of bars and restaurants. What I hadn’t realised, though, was just how desirable it was with reception informing me it was the fourth most popular Australian destination for international tourists after Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane. This could have had something to do with the fact the place represents the starting point of travels along the Great Barrier Reef and down the east coast, explaining the thriving backpacker culture that exists there.
I met my northern English friend Lee, who I’d arranged to meet up with, near the esplanade before walking the short distance to PJ O’Brien’s on Lake Street. A traditional pub with a scattering of people it also had the distinct benefit of showing English football on its televisions, which naturally impressed me. They even served pints of beer, so taking advantage of such novelty I splashed out and got one.
After barely a couple of swigs and the briefest of catch-ups on a small two seated table, two heavily intoxicated beef-cake Australians adorning grubby vests came over to our table for no particular reason, other than to offload a torrent of drivel that we had no interest in.
The fat one of the pair had all kinds of things on his white top, including at least half his dinner, some blood and, just for good measure, an array of spillages from his snakebite drink (lager and cider with a dash of blackcurrant) that made it look like he was off to Gay Pride with his newly formed pinkish colour top. “You forgot to put your bib on when you had your dinner then?” I joked . Unfortunately my attempt to put him off being near us didn’t work and instead prompted an in-depth history of his day, in which fundamentally it transpired he had been drinking all sorts since early afternoon and was now a bit pissed. To add to his woes he had some aggro with the pub after being told to leave a couple of hours ago but had sneaked back in, with his mate cunningly buying him drinks from the bar.
Fortunately the pub manager then spotted the drunk and ordered him to leave. “Come on mate, I’m not even pissed,” the idiot spluttered, beer splashing out of his wobbling glass on to the floor. To my amazement it only took three times for him to be told to leave before he headed to the exit. But oddly the other man stayed on and, even after finishing the drink he
was on, went to the bar to get another one, indicating we would have a further period of purgatory in his company. Offering me a drink I decided I deserved some compensation for the inconvenience of his company and elected to have the most expensive refreshment I could see – a double Jagermeister with Red Bull. After massively outstaying his welcome and punishing us enough with his muffled ramblings, he finally got the hint and decided it was time to leave, much to my eternal relief. I did, however, manage to elicit another Jagermeister out of him before he left. “Good to see you got some payback,” Lee smiled in his thick Yorkshire accent.
After finishing our drinks we left the pub and made our way along the sea front arriving at the less than imaginatively named Bar Club in Sheridan Street. A band was playing in the outside area by the swimming pool and the place was rammed with backpackers, all in their traditional attire; women who may as well of worn nothing, while men were in shorts and vests so they could impress the ladies with some bulging flesh. Unfortunately for many of the men, they also happened to be casually sporting sandals, showcasing their disgusting toes in all their glory.
I started to get an impression that Cairns was a place for the habitual stalker as Lee’s cousin Heather, who we’d met up with, was under fire from an oversized Neanderthal, who was sticking to her like a fly on a cow crap. Naturally, though, she was taking full advantage by repeatedly allowing him to buy her giant cocktails until deciding she’d had enough alcohol and enough of him for the time being.
“I told the fool I wasn’t interested so he’s finally gone now,” she pointed out, slurping down her cocktail.
“Maybe he would have left earlier if you refused to let him buy drinks for you?” I pointed out.
“True but he saved me a lot of money.” I couldn’t argue with that fact and I suppose the individual had brought it on to himself by being a big wet drip.
It just never ceased to amaze me the naivety of some men who ply women with drink in the vague hope they will score on certain occasions. Fair enough, we all know that by the law of averages the drunker women get the better the chances are of scoring. But in many instances it is just simply never on the cards, leaving these poor misguided men rummaging around their pockets desperately trying to find some cash to pay for yet another drink for their intended conquest, only to embarrassedly realise they’ve spent it all on her already, prompting him to leave empty handed with his tail between his legs.
All that money and effort wasted on a woman who fleeces you in return. Still, it always provided tremendous entertainment when observing these buffoons, especially at the precise moment when reality kicks in that they won’t be getting any action, leaving them scratching their head in confusion at where it all went wrong. The incident was certainly the highlight of my night, outdoing the deafening band by some distance. Feeling bloated with all the beer and with no other dimwits to entertain me, I decided it was soon time to leave and go back to the hostel.
I awoke the next morning, looked out the window and was delighted to see nothing but blue skies. Although it was warm when I arrived the night before, I had fully expected my presence in the city to bring in the clouds, just like in Darwin.
I went for a stroll in the hope I would get my bearings, with the place appearing nothing like it did the previous night amid the darkness. I grabbed a bacon sandwich from a café and continued my walk along the road parallel to the sea front, which I could actually see now it was light. Nearby was an area full of outdoor gym apparatus, where a collection of sweating meatheads were poncing around hoping passing women would look their way, while adding to their steroid pumped muscles in the baking sun.
Continuing along the sea front the esplanade came in to view; with it much larger than it had seemed the night before, including an expanse of grass with benches and barbeques where people were lapping up the sun, all of which surrounded a man-made swimming lagoon with kids splashing about in. The previous night I had been none the wiser there was a water area within the esplanade, but as I looked across its glistening surface, with the sea just beyond it, it made for a postcard picture sight as the two merged into the blue of the sky.
Just as I was admiring the view my attention was grabbed by the sight of various women proudly sunbathing with their boobs flopped out. If I had been on a Mediterranean beach in Europe I wouldn’t have blinked an eye (they’re all at it there) but this struck me as slightly unusual in Australia, where the majority like to keep their assets under lock and key in public, arguably far more than their English counterparts, it has to be said. But incredibly, here, there were bosoms everywhere, to the point you felt like you had just stormed into the female showers.
“Slow down a minute will you?” Lee, eyes popping out of his head, whispered, as he tugged on my shirt. So I adjusted my walk accordingly to that of a snails pace, noticing that Lee’s head was flicking twitchily from side to side as he ogled at every available pair. You didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what he was up to. “Oh yes, she’s got lovely brown digestive biscuits that one,” he observed. “And that one…they’re not too bad either.”
After forcing Lee away from the esplanade we popped in to the tourist information to see what activities Cairns had to offer. While talking to an assistant, I suddenly felt myself compelled to ask about a crucial local issue: the sea of topless women. “So,” I said, clearly building up to an important question about tourism, “the women aren’t shy here,” I continued, flicking my head backwards in the direction of the esplanade.
“Nah mate they sure aren’t, and the guys don’t mind.” He had a beaming smile on his face and I could tell he wanted to tell me more. “In 2003 Mayor Kevin Byrne gave the all clear for topless sunbathing, which I can tell you as a community we’re all very happy about. Well, the men at least.” His smile was now splitting his face. “Sadly, though, they didn’t allow the topless beach volleyball despite our protests.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “How dare they…they should do what their voters want.”
“Too right mate,” he replied passionately.
What I found remarkable about this landmark ruling of women being able to freely expose their chests, was that it also stipulated that rugby and Frisbee (along with volleyball) were banned, while also making it absolutely clear that bare breasts were only allowed if sunbathers lay or sat still in the area north of the pool, with it insisted they must cover up if they go in to the family designated areas or the pool itself. The implication of all this was clear: yes boobs were allowed out, but under no conditions must they be seen to be bouncing conspicuously around.
I couldn’t help but wonder how they enforced the rule, though. I mean, what would happen if a lady was frantically gesticulating during a heated discussion, causing her breasts to bob like jelly? Some bosoms inevitably have more spring than others, so I was curious as to whether these individuals would be unfairly picked on over those with a firm (or fake) pair? And where was the precise demarcation of the area highlighting that boobs were out of bounds? Was there punishments of say three strikes and you have to cover up for the rest of the day? And who had the obligation of enforcing the code of conduct, and how was this carried out?
I guessed it came down to the poor lifeguards, whose key function, apart from saving lives, was to monitor bare breasts and ensure everything was in order. If they saw a woman openly flouting the rule, by say, going in to the pool bare-chested, I could only assume they would immediately get on the loud speaker. “Excuse me, could the lady with large breasts and big brown puffy nipples just entering the water please return to where she was lying and put a bikini top on without any further delay,” perhaps they would say, I thought.
Or would they take the more personal approach by walking up to the female, as she dipped her foot into the water. “Excuse me, err… you see those things you’ve got out?” the young male lifeguard would say, head nodding toward the offending pair.
The shocked woman, looking down, would reply, “What, you mean my breas
ts?”
“That’s right, err… you’re not allowed to have them out when you go in the water.”
“Sorry I had no idea.”
“No problem, but I’ll be watching to make sure it doesn’t happen again, you understand.”
What a job. The lifeguards must have been obliged to use their own interpretation of what constituted a wobbling pair; after all, one person’s definition of “bouncing” is not necessarily the same as another’s. Shy lifeguards would no doubt turn a blind eye where possible, while in contrast the more confident would inevitably be sticklers for the rules, powering over in lightening speed to discuss the potential infringements with the various female offenders.
Having spent countless mind numbingly boring hours at council meetings in my capacity as a reporter how I wished I could have sat in on the more serious matter of whether females could bathe topless. I can just see the chairman addressing the hearing. “So now we move on to item 11 and whether or not to allow female boobs out on display while sunbathing,” he no doubt said, or something to that end, to a roomful of grubby old men suddenly reduced to sniggering schoolboys.
“Also, should we agree to the item,” he would likely have continued, “then we need to put in restrictions on how much they – as in the err breasts (cue loud snorts from members) - are allowed to bounce, thus preventing offence to jealous women who are covered up, or those who have a saggy pair, while also attempting to curtail the inevitably high testosterone levels among males.”
