As usual, I missed the kick over the weekend with work, starting late 3 days running. Bloody blogging, cost me a packet......talk about suffering for my art.
For this was a long weekend in Sydney, the Queens birthday. How many birthdays does she have ? It’s a different date in different countries ! Fortunately though, I’d checked the gig guide and noted a weekend of festivities at Darling Harbour, latching onto the caper around sundown each day.
And the joint was jumping. Centre feature was a Jazz Festival which, coupled with an International Hair Expo and perfect weather, had folks out in their thousands and thousands. Talk about an Indian summer in the middle of winter - with temperatures peaking at 26 C, a full 8 C above average ! With multiple venues around the U-shaped bay and a floating Aquashell centre stage, a broad cross-section of people got out and dug it, lingering well into the evenings.
At midnight last night, I picked up an head chef there, who reckoned they’d done as much business as the Olympics ! So I forewent the Airport routine last night to work the rank at the Convention Centre, hosting the Hair punters. Talk about a sub-tribe of the Hair and Beauty industry. For these guys were no ordinary hairdresser apprentices, fresh out of trade school. Sharpsters, hucksters, hookers and teasers, they averaged an age of around forty-something.
Convention Centre to Kings Cross, Kings Cross to Oxford Street, Oxford Street to Convention Centre, Convention Centre to Cargo Bar, Cargo Bar to Star City....and so it went, all night long. Clashing with the departing regular jocks, jillies and families from the Jazz Festival, they made for an interesting and eclectic crowd.
The blokes favoured open neck pink shirts, collars up, tails out, with sports jackets and the mandatory receding hairlines, bordering on baldness. Tough guys with even tougher women. Fast talking, fast women in killer heels and plunging back-lines. For the grand finale last night, a steady stream of cabs deposit waves of big hair, straightened hair, honey blondes, midnight brunettes, butch cuts, wafer-thin catsuits, lesbian chic....and the beat goes on.
Many passengers had not only fast mouths, but leaking noses - Sydneys' gravity is a bitch. Seems to come with the territory in the upper echelons of hairdressing heaven. But the predominate feature of these hairdressing women was a hunger for devouring men with withering stares, leaving your average, hunting, Sydney gal looking a mere wallflower. Indeed, my aforementioned chef insisted while this mob were terrific for business, their women had his waiters running for cover.
Scrubbers dressed as lamb, with knee-length leather boots and pin-point stilettos, spray-on jeans and push-up bras. I suggested this particular segment of the hair industry, appeared somehow related to the porn industry. He laughed uproariously, ‘You’re on the money mate !’. 'Mate', I reply, ‘I’ve been around’.
Later, around 11 pm they start to filter out. One woman totters past in 6" heels, weeping, mascara running, giving the appearance of wearing black eye patches. She falls in a cab and is whisked away from her weekend nightmare. Next thing, lounging against my cab, I’m spotted from the opposite multi-level car-park, by a red laser spot. I quickly hop back in the cab.
A regular, stylishly dressed woman jumps in requesting, ‘Get me outta here.’ She’s an industry journalist, also bemused by the uncertain crowd and sits in the front, happy to chat. Unbelievably she’s heard of blogs, from some media school, and exhorts me to join the Media, Arts and Jugglers Union. I tell her I’m more interested in acquiring an editor and a lawyer. Something makes me give her my blog address, which I’ve rarely done, maybe half dozen times with passengers.
Finally, sometime after 1 am, my night is saved by a Fairfax staffer who takes me all the way to Church Point, up on the Pittwater. From there she will cross the channel by water-taxi to her abode somewhere on the opposite shoreline, accessible only by boat. To awake this morning with only the sea breeze, seagulls and lapping waters to ease her into the day. What a locality, what a job, what a life.
The Swanker, a man at leisure, reflects on his Sydney public holiday.
Recent Comments