ToP oF tHe ToWn

Friday night, Wander, Trev, Bernice and I went to a birthday party in the Top of the Town ….a very swish apartment complex on Victoria Road in Darlinghurst. Christopher was up from Melbourne for the weekend and it was his friend's Todd's 39th. I also finally met Christopher's new boyfriend Spiros whose introduction I'd been awaiting so long, I honestly thought he was apart of Christopher's imagination. Christopher is one of my closest friends and I always get quite nervous meeting the new squeezes of my close friends generally because like myself they quite often make disastrous choices. Spiros thankfully seems to be as vacant as us lot and runs even more late than I do so he should fit in perfectly. I was also a bit nervous about the party. I knew it would be a wall to wall glam homosexual event where everyone has a size 32 inch waste or under, wear enough body and hair product to solve the credit crunch and have more labels on than Fashion Week. None of them have eaten a carbohydrate since 1975, they think that Canola is a facemask and scream hysterically if confronted with a Big Mac. These people are not human. They are Professional Poofters (PPs).

I bought a new herringbone shirt (which cost more than my mortgage repayment) for the occasion and a birthday card with two scratchies for Todd. I met the boys for a few pre drinks at the Green Park and then we made our way to the Top of the Town. We waited in the foyer for Todd to come down and pick us up. Whilst waiting, PPs started arriving with tight shirts and shiney faces. The foyer had obviously been designed by Seven Eleven. There was enough fluorescent lighting and reflection to give you a tan. The only object I could see through all the light was a demented looking potted palm whose fronds were completely exhausted from constantly thinking it was daylight 24 hours a day. Todd arrived and we all crammed our way into a sardine lift. The PPs were determined not to be left behind. While making our way up, I congratulated Todd on his birthday. I gave him my card.

Todd: "But it's not my birthday?

The whole lift burst out into laughter. Great…..I hadn't even made it to the party and I was already wanting to jump down the lift well.

Me: "Oh," I was so embarrassed. I glared at Christopher. He looked slightly confused but was laughing at the same time.

All the PPs smirked.

Todd: "And I'm not 40 years old! " Todd looked at me as if I had half a head.

Christopher: "Colin I didn't tell you Todd was 40". And nor had I accused Todd of such a sin. He had misread the card.

Me: "I'm not saying that he is 40. I wrote on the card "Welcome to your 40th year" which is technically what turning 39 is….it is entering your 40th year of life."

Todd: "But I'm not 39….I'm 38"

Christopher: " …turning 39.."

Todd: "No I'm not. I've just turned 38."

Trev: "So it is your birthday then…"

Todd: "No that was a month ago…"

Trev: "Ah well you're well and truly on your way to turning 39 anyway."

Trev and Todd exchanged glares and the whole lift remained silent until we reached our destination. I originally wasn't going to drink but after that lift ride, no barman was safe from me. We alighted from the lift and made our way down a very dull hallway. If 7/11 had done the foyer, the Department of Corrections had most certainly done the common areas. The grey colour scheme gave the building that Maximum Security feel.

Todd opened the door and let the PPs catwalk their way in before us. And my my what a spectacular apartment. Amazing views of Sydney from Darling Harbour to the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge to Kings Cross. You just don't get views like this from the second floor in Dulwich Hill.

As I expected the party was littered with PPs in all directions each wearing enough cologne to power a 747. Out of the fumes came the apartment's owner, Peter, to whom we were quickly introduced. Christopher and Spiros dived head first into the party, while Wander, Bernice and myself went straight to the small kitchenette and deposited our alcohol…..well in my case, my bottle of lemonade. As soon as Trev offered me a glass of his shiraz, I obliged. I couldn't survive this night without drinking……..it was ridiculous of me to think I ever could.

We walked out onto the huge balcony, which covered the entire breadth of the two bedroom apartment. The railings were glass, with crome finishing's, and the floor both inside and outside was marble. It was all very glamorous. Sydney was the piasta resistance though……….270 degrees of her humming out there in front of us.

I downed in quick succession three glasses of shiraz and suddenly recalled that apart from a cracker at Trev's, I had not eaten. I was starving as was Bernice. We searched the apartment for food but like all good PP pads, it was completely devoid of any culinary nourishment. The pantry in the kitchen contained a fire extinguisher and a street directory. What was more concerning though was that not only was the premises devoid of food, it was also devoid of furniture. With the exception of one very small couch at one end of the living area, a bed in one of the bedrooms on top of which was a laptop playing music, there was not a skeric of anything else. There were no tables and chairs, no sideboards, no coffee tables, no bookshelves and no cabinets. The place had some nice art; in fact the place felt more like an art gallery than someone's home. Bernice and I wondered if the owner had spent all his money on buying the apartment and had no money left over to go to Ikea. Me think not.

The lack of something tangible to rest an ass or a glass on also explained the epidemic of clumsiness that seemed to have beseeched the party. There were people everywhere dropping glasses, spilling drinks and tripping over like there was an earthquake on. The marble floor certainly didn't assist this process and nor did the fact that people were starting to become quite drunk.

Bernice and I, giving up on food returned with another bottle of red to find Wanda attempting a conversation with a PP. Wanda always likes a challenge particularly when the challenge is one which resembles a young Christopher Reeve lookalike circa the superman years. His name was Paul (good god I know a lot of Pauls) and he was delicious……until he opened his mouth. He had what I call a world accent. Such a dialect was invented by Elle Macpherson who has perfected it over the years as a new spin on the traditional transatlantic/pacific accent. It's incredibly irritating and has been embraced by many an Australian PP.


Wanda: So what do you do Paul?

PP: Fashion (this usually means they're a shop assistant)

Wanda: Oh nice. Buying or designing?

PP: David Jones (I was right)

Wanda: I run my own art direction business.

PP: Right

Wanda: So do you know Peter and Todd?

PP: My boyfriend knows Peter. He did the interior design for this apartment.


I really can't recall how the next event happened. It's one of those things where you just wished the earth could have collapsed below you, swallowed you up and taken you away. Yes I was trying to light my cigarette and hold onto my glass of shiraz at the same time. I believed I had mastered this art over the last couple of hours due to the furniture famine that had robbed all guests of the ability to place a glass anyway else but in their hand or on their head. Well at least I thought I had. I soon found out that I had not.

My shiraz appeared to shoot out of my glass like a torpedo. Projectile was an understatement. It was on hearing the very words "interior design" and "this apartment", my right arm seemed to develop Turret's syndrome. Did the owner really pay someone money to do the interior design of this apartment? My right arm obviously could not hide my shock. The shiraz shot up into the air and like some sort of water bomb, burst into the air above our heads and came down like rain all over myself and the PP.

The whole party came to a standstill and stared. As wine trickled down the PP's face and I looked at shiraz all over my beautiful herringbone shirt, I realized I'd actually successfully lit my cigarette and had not dropped the wine glass. Maybe I could set myself alight and self-combust. Christopher was in tears; I couldn't quite work out whether it was from laughter or embarrassment.

Looking at the shiraz stains, I had another kneejerk reaction and ran to the kitchen. Thankfully I found a bottle of soda water. I ran back out and threw it all over the PP's shirt and then mine. PP's reaction was that of a cat taking a shower: absolute disgust. I continued to pour soda water all over my shirt……I'd spent a fortune on this shirt and I didn't want it ruined after one night. The whole party continued to stare like they were watching a car crash in slow motion. By the time I was finished, we were both completely saturated. I offered the PP more soda water but he declined. He went to the kitchen to be comforted by other PPs. I saw Peter, the host and owner of the furniture challenged apartment and asked him if he had a hairdryer.

Peter: What do you think?

I then looked at his bald head.

Me: Perhaps a towel?


C