Stealth Bomber

In case the Victorian AFL fans were wondering if the title referred to the mighty Essendon team, it doesn’t, but yes I am a huge fan of the Bombers……we will win the premiership cup again!!!!!!!! I know, I know….it’s the premiership flag, but my friend Nickers insists on massacring the theme song and substituting the word cup for flag. No, she’s not a supporter!

Now that you know that the title does not refer to the greatest AFL team there is, what does it refer to? Well, it’s not actually something that I myself, am aware of. It’s more what my friends think of me when we are out cavorting with the men of the world. We always psych ourselves up for a big night by having a few bevvies – for our overseas friends, that’s Aussie for beverages – getting our heels on, applying killer lipstick and then heading out for a night on the town. We do this no matter what city we are in, as we wouldn’t want the local men to miss out on all our talents. And this is where I must say something good about the Brits. Their men-folk are far more forthcoming when it comes to women. They are not backwards in coming forwards. They know how to walk up to a girl, make her feel hot, buy her a drink and then see where the night takes them. Australian men have a lot to learn from their ancestors.

So we are usually dancing away in some club with drinks in both hands, eyeing the talent among us and invariably my eye lands on a hot guy who I know I can get a decent pash from. It doesn’t take long for me to get what I want. So off I go and do my thing. Now here comes the part that baffles my friends. I tend to cop an earful from them at the end of the night, because from their perspective, we are all dancing away making obnoxious woohoo calls, when suddenly one of their own disappears. Now that’s normal, as someone always has to go to the toilet or go to the bar to replenish and within a few minutes is back amongst their friends doing death defying moves on the highest of heels.

It’s when it turns into half an hour or an hour that my friends start to think something is wrong. They start looking for me (unbeknownst to me of course, as I’m having way too much fun with some guy) in the toilets, at the bar and around the club. Sometimes they have luck and other times my whereabouts is a mystery. Here are some of outcomes of my disappearing acts:
One time, my friends found me downstairs in a secluded part of a pub playing tonsil hockey with some random guy. My friends are relieved, no harm done, just annoyed as they would rather have spent the previous half hour having fun with a guy rather than playing hide and seek with me.

I still can’t see what they are worried about. I know I’m safe. Surely they have telepathically picked up on my safety.

Another time, Heidi and I were in a club in Soho with Forrest doing our thing. We had by this stage, ditched the only local Londoner in our group, Clint, as he refused to enter a club in Soho, despite our assurances that there were other straight men who went out in Soho. But we couldn’t persuade him, so it was just the 3 of us. Forrest is probably no taller than a large garden gnome, so Heidi kept a close eye on her, so that she wouldn’t be trampled on by the drunk patrons. While doing so, my stealth bomber tactics took over and I disappeared into the crowd with my new mate. Torn between keeping Forrest from being caught underfoot in a stampede and finding her friend of old, Monica decided to give me a good hour, but alas I did not return. She left Forrest sitting on a stool to give the illusion that she wasn’t the shortest person in the room and headed out through the crowd looking for me.

I still laugh at her description of how she found me. Apparently from her perspective it looked like I was hunched over against the back wall of the club clutching my stomach. She rushed over thinking the worst. She grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me around and was astounded to see Sammy Davis Jnr with his arms around my knees. She looked at me, looked at him and thought her drink had been laced with some hallucinogenic.
When I first spotted this guy, I thought to myself, whoa, what a gorgeous man. I love black men and as soon as I see a black man everything else fades away. It’s like I have no control of any of my senses, I lose control and have no perspective on things. It wasn’t until Heidi was looking dumbstruck at the two of us, did I realise that this was a very short man and had a striking resemblance to Sammy Davis Jnr.

Now, I’m about 1.75m tall, so not really basketball material but to this guy I must have looked Amazonian. I didn’t think it was possible that Forrest wasn’t the shortest person in the room, but yep, here he was, clutching my knees and looking slightly annoyed that Heidi had interrupted his fantasy kiss for the night. I looked at Heidi and told her to get another drink to get over the shock, while I said goodbye to my Hollywood film star.

But my worst disappearing act, even scared me. We were out at Bad Bob’s, another club in London. Before you ask, no, it does not belong to Bob Gedolf. Clint, the local Londoner, who actually went into this club because it wasn’t in Soho, convinced me that this was Bob Gedolf’s club. I of course, told everyone I knew, only to be corrected by Clint once he’d had a good laugh at me.

Anyway, I digress. We were up for a big night with about 15 other people for Heidi’s farewell. She was leaving London as she was certain that she would contract some disease from MD’s toilet seat if she stayed any longer. As we entered the club, I did what I always did, searched the room for a tall black man (this time I was searching before my beer goggles were put on) and I found him. His name was Avalon. Oh Avalon. How I miss Avalon. Before I weaved my magic, I made sure Heidi was in good hands as she’d already had a fair bit to drink. Sure enough she was on the dance floor spraying everyone with her 2 drinks. She didn’t realise that if you jump up and down with 2 drinks in your hand, someone was bound to get wet and she’d have no alcohol left. But she was surrounded by her friends, so I felt it was the right time to get to know Avalon a bit better.

We talked and drank and he then suggested we go out the back for a smoke. At this stage, the laws hadn’t changed yet and you could smoke inside, but I soon realised it was a bit of the wacky tabacky that he intended to smoke. So we left the club, walked down a dark alley to the back of the club where we couldn’t be seen and shared a joint. I was loving every minute of it. It wasn’t until Avalon said to me, “Do you see the danger at all in walking down a dark alley at 3 in the morning with a complete stranger without having told any of your friends where you were?” It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had been completely oblivious to the lack of safety. In my head, I was happily drunk, with a gorgeous man, smoking weed and I had nothing to worry about because my friend Heidi was being looked after inside.

I looked at him and asked if I had anything to worry about, because a criminal would of course tell me the truth, but he allayed my fears and walked back into the club with me. His parting words were “next time you may not be so lucky”. Since then, I have told whoever I was with, where I was going, just in case!

My Russian friend Ioanna on the other hand, did the ultimate Houdini in Mexico. But the story of PT will be left for another time.