The Origin of THAT Picture
Note - Originally published on another website in November 2003, this story explains the origins of this photograph, whilst also describing one of the more eventful nights of my life:
Please bear in mind that, some days earlier I had lost a bet to my friend Simon, the upshot of which my hair became the dreadful state shown in the picture. As was the style of the time, the names of the innocent have been changed. The following text is as it appeared in 2003, when I was living in Sydney:
It was a Friday night in late October. To clarify, it was the night of Halloween. I had never believed before this night that there were so many scary people in the world, and I’ve accidentally been to the Hellfire Club.
The sad fact is that I found it difficult to persaude anyone to drink with me that night. Simon and Keith were working, the girls from House 19 were at various work do’s and God only knows where CoolHand was. Clutching at straws, I remembered that the American guy I had met at the leaving Barbeqeue for some dour German girl had mentioned that he wanted to go watch his country play France in the Rugby World Cup that night.
AmericanRugby is an interesting fellow. He likes drugs more than life itself, for a start. He has also been capped nine times for his country at Rugby Union, having been a professional for two years before succumbing to injury and retiring. He is also very good looking, a fact that will come into play later. AmericanRugby has many interesting stories about his former international colleagues – the captain is an ‘idiot’, the kicker ‘so pathologically nervous that he can’t stop vomiting before a game’.
AmericanRugby and I proceed up to our local, the Warren View, stopping only to pick up his fellow countryman Mr.22. The original plan was to go home after the match and play drinking games. However, by about ten o’clock, when the rugby finished (a resounding victory to France, in which AmericanRugby loudly derided France and the French and loudly cheered each and every American kick and tackle) we were well lubricated and looking for mischief.
Much like his compatriot JSP, AmericanRugby is curious about most things. Despite living in Newington Mews for about a quarter of the time we have, he has noticed something about Enmore that has escaped my attention: down Enmore Road is an establishment, occupied, but simply bearing the legend ‘70 Enmore Road’ and nothing else. AmericanRugby wanted to investigate this strange building and believed myself and No.22 to be fine companions to help him with his quest.
There is a sign in the window at the front of 70 Enmore Road that states simply ‘Go Round the Back’. Curiosity piqued, we find it strangely impossible to disobey. Walking down a dingy alley, we find a long concrete corridor leading to a barred front door. Not being bereft of Dutch Courage and fortified by the presence of my international companions I vigorously attack the doorbell, at which point we all spontaneously flee back down the alleyway.
AmericanRugby is disgusted with us and rallies the troops back to the doorway. Reluctantly we follow and the door opens. The lady standing in the doorway, framed by the harsh neon lighting from inside, almost defies description. About fifty years old and sporting an ancient kaftan, she bounds over to us, shaking us each vigorously by the hand and inviting us in a voice far too high for her large frame to ‘come in, come in, make yourself at home’.
We follow her into an office area, where a young, scared-looking Asian guy is sitting perusing a magazine. ‘I’ll just deal with Steven here’ squeals our host, ‘and then we’ll sort you strapping young lads out’. She grabs him by the hand and leads him up a flight of stairs and, presumably, into oblivion.
We stand, awkwardly, half in shock. Mr.22 decides to flip through the Asian guy’s magazine.
‘Uh, fellas, I’ve found a brochure’
The brochure consists of strangely artisitic hardcore porn shots with the name of each model written underneath. The mystery of this place which, in all honesty, was never all that mysterious was now beyond any doubt. As if on cue, the madam bounced back in ‘Right, let’s sort you guys out then’ she beamed. Just to eliminate any uncertainty as to our predicament AmericanRugby asks ‘So… is this a stripclub’. The answer was delivered as cheerily as an inquiry as to the current time ‘No honey, it’s a brothel’.
Madams have an interesting ability to make you feel guilty for not paying money to sleep with a prostitute. As we eventually managed to leave she called out ‘well, if you want to come back we’re open to 5am’ to which I immediately replied ‘Oh good, see you later’. Best to placate her somehow before the large enforcers, who were bound to be there somewhere, made their presence known. It was 10:30pm.
Wandering thankfully back onto the Main Street, now much more sober, our intrepid group decide to find another bar. AmericanRugby knows the perfect place. It’s very dark in there, he says, but the music’s cool and the drinks are quite cheap. Note for the future: Dark bars are Bad bars.
Our destination was a long way away. We began to walk in its general direction. CommentDeleted was coming back from a work-do. She accompanied us. Before we knew it, we had arrived at this new bar.
We’d been there for about ten minutes and bought a round of drinks before we noticed that, apart from CommentDeleted, there were no girls in there. Not a single one. On closer inspection most of the men were involved in various stages of copulation with each other. Within half an hour I had had my backside grabbed three times. The first two may have been accidents, the third added his own sound effects.
The final straw was probably when a beautiful girl came on stage and started singing and dancing. It was some time before I realised that she wasn’t actually singing, slightly longer before I realised that she wasn’t a girl. CommentDeleted was convinced otherwise; she was too drunk to argue with. We were just finishing our drinks when a girl approached us. She was very short, which is probably why I hadn’t noticed her before. She was also very keen to take a photograph of myself and American Rugby for ‘the paper’. The following brief but intense conversation flashed between us:
Me – Dude… this is a gay club…
AmericanRugby – Who gives a damn, no-one knows us here.
Me – …No…
AmericanRugby – Oh, go on…
The time for talking was over. Before I knew it, AmericanRugby had grabbed me and we were posing to have our picture in Gay Times, or whatever other rag serves the homosexual community here. AmericanRugby, as I’ve mentioned before, is inordinately attractive, so I have no doubt that our picture will be published.
The next few hours were spent attaining an appropriate level of drunkeness. CommentDeleted left first – she got too drunk too quickly. Some hours later Mr.22 followed her: after putting in a creditable performance he was condemned to a Saturday selling shoes the next day. AmericanRugby and I kept drinking until about 3am, by which time a week of early nights had caught up with me and I decided it was high time we retired to bed.
On the way back we stopped off at House 19 to see if anyone was awake. CommentDeleted and her male housemate were passed out on different chairs. Being a helpful sort, I removed CommentDeleted’s socks and attempted to insert them into the underwear of her housemate. Waking up, he was unimpressed, as demonstrated by a string of obscenities delivered in a thick Somerset accent. I found this inordinately amusing.
Returning to House 36 we discovered LikesBiting and Bambi passed out on our sofa and Keith berating them for being ‘boring, drunk, bastards’. I sat down beside them and the rest of the night is oblivion. Suffice to say that AmericanRugby and Bambi got to know each other much better, him becoming her third pull of the night.
How I managed to get into bed and undressed is an unknown. The fact that I had managed to remove my socks first points to the fact that I wasn’t that drunk – I blame my sorry state mostly to tiredness. However, barely two hours of blessed sleep had passed by before I was rudely awoken by the sound of all hell breaking loose.
Simon (thumping on our door) – Open the door!
Phil – Do you have any idea how hungover I am?
Simon – I don’t care, open the door!
Keith – Go to bed Si.
Simon – Some git just beat up my girl and exploded my nose.
Phil – …Oh… great…
Suffice to say the next hour or so was spent stumbling around the streets of Newtown looking for the girl who Simon was with and had ran away after being pummeled in the face. And if anyone wants to read that story, email me and I’ll let you know how to find it…
The picture above was eventually published both on the gay website Sxnews.com.au and in the gay weekly SXNews. What I find remarkable is that the girl taking the photographs snapped about twenty shots in the bar just while we were watching, and yet the picture of two grinning loons was the only one published…