The Night I Spewed Blood
"Thank you for calling the Australian Government.................Bromwin, can I just put you on hold for a wee minute...?"
 
It's a funny old thing this travelling, when you are on your own and move into a hostel you have to make friends hard and fast, otherwise you are the weirdo that doesn't talk to anyone and you become an outsider, and I'd imagine you'd have a pretty rubbish time too.  I wouldn't have this problem of course, I'm ace.
 
So you make your new friends very quickly, and you pretty much stay friends for the entire time you are in the country.  Some are party friends, some are adventure friends and some graduate into the echelons of being actual 'we'll still stay in contact once we live hundreds if not thousands of miles apart' friends.  These are the people you make a proper effort to say goodbye to, and these are the people who cause internal drinking injuries.
 
I headed back to Kings Cross for the first time in over a month, and I'd forgotten how much of a hole it is.  Maybe I got used to it, maybe I just blocked it out, but I've never seen such a hive of scum and villainy.  We were all saying goodbye to Caroline, who we'd met at the Asylum back in May.  She's been away travelling and Aiden Mark and I have all flown from the filthy grove to our own flats, but we've kept in contact for occasions such as these.
 
We had a mug of wine whilst waiting for everyone to get their arses in gear, and with the promise of free beer all night and pizza on arrival we made our way to the Sugarmill for the night.  You have to admire the SM for trying, it's a really nice venue and they do attract the crowd that they are after at the weekends, but a backpacker $4 beer night was woefully out of place.  You wouldn't drive to Aldi in a Bentley, you'd have poor people with sticky hands messing up the lovely aesthetic.
 
So as we sat in the SM ruining the admittedly lovely aesthetic, gorging on the pizza with nuts on it(?) the typical beginning of a big night thing happened.  Nothing.  There were about twenty of us, who mostly vaguely knew each other by situation, all not saying much.  Why not?  Because they all see each other all day everyday whilst lying around the hostel watching movies claiming it's "backpacking".  Once you get past the initial three questions "Where are you from/Where are you going/How long have you been in Australia for?" YOU NEED TO COME UP WITH CHAT.  As you can imagine, I was doing my best - I do have a Green Scout Cubs Badge in chat, but it wasn't really happening.  Well someone had to get the orgy on the go, so I sped up the drinking, enforcing a 'rounds' policy, and therefore imposing a higher drink to minute ratio.  At one point Caroline had three drinks backed up, I'm sure of it.
 
As soon as party juice was applied the night started in earnest.  Aiden the Dubliner spread the word of Steve and got us all dancing like trains.  Or rollercoasters.  I can't quiet remember the genesis of it, but not to be outdone I invented the kayak dance.  It's a winner, as you can do it sitting down.  As the night continued the need to sit down was lost on the dwindling group (some of whom had fled as soon as it became apparent that "free beers all night" might as well have been one of the main plot points of The Da Vinci Code it was such a lie).  Why sit when you can dance?  Badly.  The only reason to sit was for the intrapharynxical injection of soft government friendly and taxable drugs.
 
It was during one imbibcation break that young Caroline shared one vital piece of information.  She had lived in Kings Cross for three months on and off, and had yet to visit a strip club.  This was her last night in the southern half of the world, and with a cheeky glint in her eye I could tell that she was up for an adventure, to open her consciousness to a new world, to delve into the subculture of Antipodeans' depravity.  It was my duty, my calling and my obligation to ensure that Caro didn't miss out on any aspect of her international expedition. 

Plus I'd get to see some big fat titties.

As you walk along Darlinghurst Road, you pass strip clubs left right and centre.  I don't know which one is the best, I don't know which one is the worst.  I don't even know how many there are, but it's in the double digits.  When you pass, even at 3pm, there are bouncers hawking for business - or if your exceptionally unlucky, one of the dancers themselves.  Why unlucky?  Well if they weren't the ugliest of the bunch wouldn't they be inside earning the big bucks?  Dealing with the 'greeters' is an art.  You can ignore them, you can politely decline but the most fun comes from blatant sarcasm.  "I'm wearing flipflops and carrying a frozen pizza, does it look like I'm on a night out?"  - No Al, but it looks like your a loser having a night in who's only chance of seeing some nakedness is by paying for it.
 
Saying yes to one of these hawkers throws them off I'll tell you.  I think six of us were ushered to a booth by a scantily and whatevertheoppositeofclassilydressedis.  I think I paid for the round, and I'm pretty sure I was escorted to the cash machine to help finance this.
 
Sure as chips are hot chips, the ladies of the group didn't like it.  Frenchie drank her drink pretty quickly and left in disgust, taking the guy that was trying to sleep with her with her. Whether or not he withered after so much drink is unknown, nor does anyone care but let's face it that's the closest to Stephen Fry's level of wordplay I will ever get, and therefore justified.
 
Some of the others drifted off, so I took the horns by the bull and invited Caroline to take a seat centre stage, that's right, closer to the titties.  The floor was sticky, the seats weren't much better and the dancers immediately clocked us for skint backpackers, electing to dance towards the dirty old men than us.  You know why Scotland still has one pound notes yeah?  $5 is the lowest denomination in folding Australian money.  You can buy a meal from Hungry Jacks for that.
 
A couple of drinks down, Caroline has been at the edge of the stage for half an hour or so and she had firmly decided that she didn't like it.  Not in a funny kitsch way, not in a this isn't for me way, more in a I want to leave - stop the bus - I'm getting off kind of a way.  To be fair it was about four in the morning and time to go anyway, so we headed back to the Asylum through the quagmire* that is the Cross at night. 
 
I was TuckerMax drunk.  I don't remember an awful lot of the journey home, but I know it was warm.  That's because I ended up back in my flat with not one but two jumpers that weren't mine.  Caro had offered to stay at her place (IN A SEPARATE BED YOU CHARLATANS OF THOUGHT) but I reasoned that I could get home safely and be well positioned to make it to work in the morning.  I presumably said my goodbyes, left the Asylum for the last time and walked the 3km home, most likely dancing and or singing to the four AC/DC songs and two Oasis songs stored in my phone.
 
I remember looking at my watch at 5am.  I set two alarms.  I woke up thinking, it's a bit bright for 7am isn't it?  It was.  It was too bright for 9am.  It was 10.30am.  That's late on top of three hours late.  I called in to work, saying I'd be in asap, noticed that I'd saved time by not getting undressed on the way to bed and charged out the apartment.  What is better to stave off a hangover?  Food.  What was in my pocket? $5.  You can see where I am going with this can't you?  Small coke, small fries, cheeseburger and an ice cream out of Hungry Jacks.  Straight on the train (oddly no-one sat beside me) and I was winging my way to work.  I think I was over the limit for driving in Australia, which implies that I was over the limit for being awake for me.  Evidence of this is giggling at eating an ice cream with chocolate sauce at 11.30am.  On a train.  On the other side of the world.
 
I get to work, realising that my work clothes are the same as my strip club attire which also triples up as bedwear.  I get to my desk and login, and no-one says anything.  Have I got away with it?  No.  My team leader comes over half an hour later, throws my guideline test at me asking why I hadn't bothered finishing it.  I didn't realise it was double sided, so I finished it off in my worst handwriting and left it on her desk.  I struggled through the day, brightening up when I spoke to customers but slumping into a grotto of pain in idle moments. 
 
Slumped over the desk, I saw my team leader coming towards me.  I just about managed a smile when she told me I had the best marks in the call centre for the test, they wanted me to start training people as soon as possible and that the manager of the campaign would be dropping by to congratulate me. Eh?  An hour later three more people had commented on my rising stardom and my adeptness at TPS reports.  I've not even been on this campaign for a week yet.  An hour and fifteen minutes later I took a call from Bromwin.
 
Bromwin was a lovely old lady from Victoria, wondering how much of a rebate she could get from the Federal Government to make her home more energy efficient.  During the pleasantries at the beginning of the call I thought something was wrong, as I was listening to her situation and assessing her case, I knew that something was wrong.  Just as I was about to reveal the crucial information to her, I managed to say  ".....just hold the line for a wee minute"  before SPRINTING to the bathroom.  Mercifully there was no-one in there, and so the deposit of aforementioned Hungry Jacks meal deal was done with style, grace and anonymity.  But why was it red?  Did I have some crazy cocktail last night?  I didn't eat on the way home, what would make my spew red?
 
Blood.  Blood make anything red.  I'd drank so much, that I made myself bleed internally.
 
Five minutes later I return to the phone, apologise to Bromwin the lovely old lady from Victoria for the unexplained wait and let her know that she would probably be able to claim $1,600 from the government.
 
Bleary-eyed and worse than ever, I asked a manager if I could go home sick.  No, I couldn't.  I don't know if he was joking, but I didn't have the power to form an argument against such a definitive and unjust answer.  I sat at my desk at represented the Australian government for the rest of the day, in my strip club pyjamas, now with added vomit specks.
 
I arrived late in the train station, down the escalator with hands aloft - a team of friends at the bottom waiting to the platform to see if I was still alive.  I regaled this tale to them, turning heads and earning a bit of old fashioned tutting for good measure.  I was feeling better, and with the same hangover mischieviousness that I had at New Year 2008, and we know what happened then.  (No, the time I pulled over in Winton and was sick out the driver's window outside a church at 11.30am on a Sunday was in the summer.)
 
What have I learnt?  It takes a certain type of girl to enjoy a strip club, jumpers with fake fur in them are really warm, I really really really stop buying rounds in strip clubs and internal bleeding is nothing to be scared of.

 
Safe travels a'body!
 
 
 
 
(*) 1: Soft miry land that shakes or yields under the foot 2: A difficult, precarious, or entrapping position. 3: An insatiable pervert.
 
 
 
 
( The Lurker Plenty One, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 18:16, 6 replies)

I really
really like this.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 21:13, closed)

Well thanky,
But in all modesty are you just easy to Empress?
( The Lurker Plenty One, Thu 7 Jan 2010, 23:24, closed)

*spang*
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 14:29, closed)

Masterfully written
and for a story that really goes no where, I really enjoyed it.

Have a click.
(bad_advice QOTW survivor from the first trollocost!, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 1:27, closed)

The best strip club in the cross
is Dancer's Cabaret, but it's not on Darlinghurst Rd, you have to go down a side street, in fact here are the details in case you're ever in Oz again...

36-38 Bayswater Rd
Potts Point NSW 2011
(02) 9368 0488

(for UK readers, Potts Point is what you call your address if you don't want to admit to being in Kings Cross)
(misskitty reeks of sex and turpentine; laudanum afternoons, Fri 8 Jan 2010, 2:06, closed)

Blood in vomit
isn't red (According to a paramedic I took a first aid class from) If you're throwing up something that looks like ground coffee (And you didn't eat anything that looked like that) then you should start worrying.
(Kendal, Wed 13 Jan 2010, 4:32, closed)