A Stand Up Guy

A light rain began to fall. To avoid the dark one-way street in Paddington, the Uber driver dropped me two blocks short of the club. “Enjoy the walk,” he said as I slid from the backseat, trying to keep my show jacket from getting wet.

“Enjoy the one-star rating,” I replied.

At the club’s narrow front door, Jenni was running hard eyes over a queue before unclipping a tatty velvet rope and shepherding select patrons through. Her uniform: black jeans, brown bovver boots and a Hello Kitty T-shirt.

As I slipped past, she whispered: “I’m surprised they invited you back, Mr Something-to-Offend-Everyone. And … no politics this time, Harry.”

I gave her what resembled a sincere smile. I’d been practicing.

The hallway to the main bar and event room was lined with photos of grandees who’d visited the club over the decades. Halfway along was a framed black and white print of a nonplussed Bob Hawke in the Sydney Swans' nearby dressing rooms in ’84.

A beery boofhead in a leather vest leaned in close. Very matey. “Hey, that Hawkey. What a bloke!”

“Every Australian male voter’s dream candidate,” I said. “A high functioning alcoholic and serial philanderer.”

“Is that a joke, funny man?” A pause. “You suck.”

“At least I get paid for it.”

I felt my arm being clasped above the elbow. “No politics,” repeated Jenni as she shouldered Leather Vest aside and steered me further into the club.

Right on time. Above the din, I heard the MC tapping the microphone with his fingertips. “Ahem, ladies, gentlemen and however else you wish to identify – everybody’s money is good at our bar – here’s the man … unless that’s too binary … very few of you have been waiting for. The one, the only … and thank God for that … Harry Palmer.”

I took the steps up to the stage two at a time. Given there were only six, that was the extent of my athleticism. Lifting the mic off the stand, I faced the crowd as they ate, drank, stood at the bar, flirted, checked their phones and generally ignored me. “Evening all. Excuse my nerves. When you’re from the North Shore, it’s scary but thrilling being in the Eastern Suburbs.

“Everyone here is so glamorous. Take your drug dealers with their bright white Lacoste sneakers and look-at-me cars.

“What must the cops be thinking when they see a 25-year-old guy with a fade haircut driving a $600,000 Lamborghini down Old South Head Road at midnight? That he’s heading for his nightshift at the kebab shop?

“On the plus side, you know the blow is halal.

“Even the use of language in the Far East is different. Up North, when we say we’re going to powder our nose we don’t mean two of our mates will join us to cram into the end cubicle of a pub loo to do lines off the cistern lid.

“Across the Harbour, when we talk about drugs and lines we mean queues at Chemist Warehouse.

“Speaking of queues … they’re exotic here as well. Have you experienced the cosmopolitan delights of Double Bay Woolies’ checkouts just before sunset marks the start of the Sabbath? The Exodus is on. The only other place you’ll hear so many raised voices and accents like that is in a Shul in Jo’burg … or maybe St Ives.

“And I’d expected a mazel tov from you for making it on time tonight. After driving over the Harbour Bridge I rediscovered the Eastern Suburbs’ dirty little secret – there’s no parking … anywhere.

“I drove with the windows up and doors locked to find the kerbs lined bumper-to-bumper with ten-year-old VW Golfs covered in cobwebs and leaves.

“Why are you laughing? Yes, you in the Paddo local dress code. A sleeveless puffer jacket. You rebel you. To get here on time, I’ve parked across your driveway.

“Pro tip: if you find an empty spot never reverse into it. Right at that moment, a Mercedes convertible will nose into the space while the driver shouts: ‘I was here first, darhhlink!’

“You really should come and see our suburbs. The streets are empty, no parked cars. It’s almost post-apocalyptic. I’m told that after a nuclear blast, cockroaches will survive … but not in the North. We’re obsessed with insects and cleanliness. The air smells of one part Mortein to two parts Toilet Duck.

“You have your traditions too … like being ignored by restaurant staff. North of the Bridge, restaurants are pathetically grateful that someone, anyone, has turned up. Not here. At bills in Bondi, there’re customers who’ve been waiting to see the menu since 2017.

“Allowing more backpackers in just adds to staffing problems. Venue owners will still train Irish barstaff to add lime to a drink by picking up a wedge of fruit with the same hand they wipe their arse with, squeezing it over the booze then dropping what remains into the glass. Presto! A vodka and lime plus a side order of E. coli.

“Consider yourselves lucky. To live a full life, nobody needs to leave the East. During Covid lockdowns, residents here shrugged – they were spoilt for choice … the beaches, the Harbour, the vibe. When I was locked down, all I had near me were two retirement villages and a coffee shop serving Nescafé.

“OK, I have to admit I lived in the East for a few years – in a Rose Bay flat. It’s there I discovered that elsewhere in Sydney people put things IN letterboxes but in the East they take things OUT. Three credit cards were nicked from my post. It’s because banks choose plain but instantly recognisable envelopes. My suggestion to banks: send credit cards in envelopes with a fake pathology logo and a banner reading: ‘Returning herpes samples.’

“Living in Rose Bay taught me the key to keeping safe over here is to remember that Cadbury is lying to you: there’s not a glass and a half in everyone.

“As for the greatest status symbol, forget a Harbour view. Only wealth rules. If Melissa Caddick staggered out of the water at Watsons Bay covered in seaweed with a missing foot and wearing a sandwich board saying: ‘Make money now, ask me how’ there’d be punters lining up, desperate to know how to get rich quick.

“Before I go, I should add that I was told you’d be a tough crowd. Well, you won’t find me pandering to you to score some last-minute applause.

“You’d never catch me pointing out the obvious – just look at how gorgeous and how handsome you all are, sitting there perkily on your beautifully-portioned moneymakers.

“Am I right or am I right?”

I was right. Always pander.

Slipping the mic into place, I backed away.

Outside the club entrance, the rain and the crowd had dissipated. Jenni was lighting a cigarette. Shaking another one out of a soft packet, she lit it alongside hers and handed it to me.

I let out smoke and a sigh. “As I once said to Dolly Parton: ‘What a way to make a living’.”

“Cowboy up, Harry. To quote Groucho Marx: ‘Nobody told you that you had to go into showbusiness’.”

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Copyright 2023 GREG FLYNN