Happy Mardi Gras!

Dear Lars,

I’m heading south with my moral fibre still intact! I was nearly seduced by the pristine views and shimmering seas of Sydney harbour but alas, I came to my senses and saw this city for what it truly is; a no good whore without substance, class or social conscience. After trawling the sex clubs of Oxford Street, there is no love to be found in these streets where boozed up men loiter like lost souls, tossing off to sleazy porn, waiting to pounce like vampires. It’s far more spooky than sensual. The whole experience was miserable and I wandered home feeling soiled and sad to be queer; not to mention the vile stench of amyl nitrate all over my clothes. The best thing was the guy at the counter selling the smut and buzzing patrons through the entrance. He looked more miserable than the punters; he seemed guilty for taking our money and so he should; profit’s all that matters in this corporate wasteland. The bums have got the right idea; they take their own drinks and listen to the music from the gutters outside the club. They know it’s hardly worth paying to watch a mob of queens in titty tops prancing about podiums like retarded go go dancers.

I was tempted to stay for Mardi Gras but the reality is you can hardly see over the shoulders of gawking spectators waving rainbow flags and blowing whistles at their favourite floats. Unless you pay five dollars for a milk crate to a local scalper; you gotta have some kind of scam to survive in this city of swines! Anyway, who wants to stand in a crowd of queens four feet deep, being groped like a piece of meat; burnt with a cigarette or splashed with beer? There should be a ‘special place’ for us positive people, being as vulnerable as we are; all that pushing and shoving is just no good for a compromised immune system.

Rest assured, the queer tycoons will be spitting on us from their penthouse suites above the Golden Mile; throwing condoms filled with water at the dykes on bikes below. It’s bound to be another balmy Sydney evening and the crowd will be stuck together by a film of amphetamine sweat; absolutely everything sticks in this town! Why blow fifty bucks on a pill when you can lick the sweat from your neighbour’s throat and get just as high?

The religious right will be out in force, waving placards at the potential ‘gay and lesbian recruits’ – saving souls and scaring the pants off innocent men and women, contemplating our bankrupt lifestyle. That’s before they succumb to the lure of the flesh and strip down to their hot pants for a night of sex, drugs and debauchery! The cops will be out in force; zapping queens on speed with tayser guns and taking the hottest boys into custody; shackled in handcuffs, escorted back to the lock up for a bit of slap and tickle. It’ll be bigger and bolder than ever, tits ’n ass on every corner; costumes, cosmetics, cunts and pricks galore! Sin City at its crudest; if you aint proud to be queer, you never will be!

The pollies wouldn’t support it if it weren’t such a money spinner. Do you think they want a clan of half naked poofters parading down the street on dog leads, blowing kisses to impressionable children in the crowd? Next, those queers will be exchanging vows on the steps of the opera house and demanding the same legal rights as heterosexuals in this town. Just because we started out a penal colony, doesn’t mean we have to encourage rampant sodom!

Anyhow, Lars, you can see why I’m getting out of here before the circus hits town. Call me a party pooper but I just aint up for all that hanky panky. Not to mention the fact that me and my mother were attacked while dining at an Oxford Street café! Some lunatic demanded a cigarette and kicked over the barricades surrounding our table, calling my mother a cunt and a whore! I’ve said the same things about her, of course, many a time, but she’s my flesh and blood; this guy had absolutely no right! Thankfully, the tranny waiter chased him away with a corkscrew before I gave him a piece of my mind. She offered us a complimentary slice of chocolate cake but it was awfully stale and just added insult to injury.

The Golden Mine is on its last legs; it’s been taken over by crystal meth casualties and the victims of the outrageous cost of living in this city. We paid 4-50 for a coffee at Circular Quay this morning; how the hell are you supposed to run away from the nutters if you can’t afford any caffeine dammit? I’ve barely had a decent meal in this tardy town. Of course, the locals exist on a diet of amphetamines, viagara and suntan lotion!

I was nearly poisoned by a contaminated chicken and coleslaw baguette at Manly Beach this morning; then a blue bottle attached itself to my hand in the surf. Luckily I was able to flick it off before it stung me with its tentacles, damn nuisance. You do your best to swim between the flag but the fat people bawl you over; I swear they’re more of a health hazard than the Pacific currents!

I caught a train to the Blue Mountains and spent two days walking off the frustration. This city gives me an atrocious attitude; it always did. Within days, I’m charging about, dodging people, shoving people, challenging them to take me on – it brings out the worst in me, Lars. I drank cheap vodka till midnight at a bar in Kings Cross with the charming name, ‘The Bourbon and Beefsteak.’ Mad people were screaming at traffic lights and Lebanese bouncers with thick necks stood outside strip clubs like savage guard dogs while emaciated prostitutes swayed in the shadows with ladders in their stockings and make-up scrawled over the faces, melting in the Sydney heat. Every few metres we stepped over a trail of vomit or ingested the smell of faeces and piss. This city just had a month of non stop rain but it’s as filthy as ever.

The bars are full of backpackers, busty bimbos and beer swilling yobbos; toothless thugs with prison tatts and tarts with reptilian skin and suntanned complexions. Someone’s taking a bath in the fountain, someone’s pissing on the wall, someone’s passed out in the doorway, someone’s shooting up in the alley. Get out, before someone steals your wallet, spikes your drink or sells you their body.

Oh Lars, I feel like I just crawled out of a trashcan! I hope you feel the same after reading this blog. Today, this city is awash with sub tropical rain so I’m taking time out to reflect on the journey. I should return to Melbourne as soon as possible; I’m all out of AIDS drugs and you know what they say about skipping doses? Resistance, my friend, resistance! Every dose stops the virus replicating in your bloodstream. Ádherence’ is the catch cry of the AID$ industry; it keeps the virus in check and the cash pouring in to the drug companies; good samaritans they are – handing out substandard duplicates to expectant mothers in the third world and the orphaned children of New York City! If only, we could all be so altruistic.

Tchüss,

Jimmy