|
|
| The
premise: |
Hang
out in Devonport on a Friday eve and observe Shore youth kulcha.
|
 |
| Props:
|
Notepad,
fish and chips, two bottles of expired Newcastle Brown Ale. |
| 8:40pm |
Parked
myself in the domain on a beachtowel. Unwrapped fish and chips,
knocked the cap off Newky Brown #1. Chilly eve. Group of three
youths of indeterminate sex possibly indulging in indeterminate
sex under adjacent poplar. |
| 8:50pm |
Six
males and two females enter children's playground from park's
north entrance. Two females sit on the swings occasionally cocking
their heads and looking up at two of the boys in a manner that
suggests that they believe their dispositions to be flirtatious.
They are, in the same way that a horse copiously depositing
its shit is flirtatious. Knocked cap off Newky Brown #2. |
| 9:00pm
|
A
couple of the boys who won't be scoring the chicks have turned
in the best fashion of manliness to cigarettes. One of the chicks
stops flirting and goes over to one of the loser-boys to scam
a pole. Loser-boys' visions of fumbly gropings last all of 12
seconds - the length of time it takes for the girl to get the
cigarette lit and return to the swing to continue talking to
the other two guys. Newky Brown finished. Fish and Chips expired.
I repair to the Masonic. |
| 9:15pm
|
There's
a band on and the place is dripping with hormones. I am about
double the average age of the people in here. I order a Glenfiddich
and sit in the corner. A guy in a shirt that seems to double
as mode for outing its wearer as a homosexual, skulls a handle
and pops it on top of his head to show that it's finished. Only
it's not quite finished and the remains dribble down the front
of his shirt. Unperturbed he stumbles to the bar, spies me,
gives me a conspiratorial nod and asks me if I'm enjoying the
band. I say that I'm not, really, that their bassist's a bit
crap and that their sound guy must be aurally-challenged because
I can't hear anything the vocalist is singing. Shirt-boy says
something about 'oral', laughs uproariously at his own joke,
and returns to his mates with fresh horses. |
| 9:20pm
|
I
order another Glenfiddich. |
| 9:30pm |
I
order another Glenfiddich. |
| 9:45pm
|
I
order another Glenfiddich. The band sounds better. Some lass
of about 20 looks desirously at me from across the bar. I miss
the edge of the bar with my elbow. Always a quick-thinker, I
recover by pretending there's something on my shoe that I have
to fix. When I get up, she's back with her boyfriend getting
a pash. |
| 10:00pm
|
I
order one last Glenfiddich. |
| 10:05pm
|
Some
tool spills his drink on my knee. He says sorry. I say, "That's
gonna make my pants dry." He says "Calm down, mate". |
| 10:07pm |
I
order a Glenfiddich for the road but start to feel a bit queasy
halfway through so go out for some fresh air. There's a few
people outside doing the same, or puking, so I start to stride
away purposefully to show how drunk I'm not. After a few paces,
I realise I'm going the wrong way but don't want to lose face
so I hang a left up some godforsaken street with an eye to going
around some back roads in a nice circle that'll take me back
to the main drag. |
| 10:35pm
|
I
get back to the main drag busting for a piss and suffering mild
hypothermia. The bus is waiting so I get on. |
|
10:50pm |
Arrive
Takapuna. Run to the Pumpkin Patch carpark and relieve myself
voluminously. Feeling a bit sickly so I take a pew in the doorway
of the shop to gather my thoughts. Notice a seeping damp in
the posterior area of my jeans and try to assure myself that
it's just rainwater even though it hasn't rained since this
morning and the shopfront is under cover. |
| 11:00pm
|
Climb
wearily into a cab and reflect on the trials of journalism.
The taxi smells of piss. |
