Drunk and Disorderly in the Belly of Brisvegas

	Downloads Bookmark this site Set as homepage Andrew W Scott

“We’re getting away with it all messed up…that’s the living”
- Getting Away With It, James

The following words will not be a parable of virtue nor will they be an anthem to sound decision making. Lock yourself in. This is a low-rent tale, pieced together through the haze of drunken memory and the shards of hungover conversation, of red wine and heavy gambling and weird times and brutal pursuit and crazed behaviour. This is the tale of the Punting Ace Christmas party. Thompson thought the Kentucky Derby was decadent and depraved. He was probably right but it is fair to say he would have reached a similar conclusion if he was thrust into the belly of the beast last Saturday evening, where there are few terms that give justice to the rapid rate of descent the night took. Madness reigned supreme.

As I sat on the six-in-the-morning flight direct to Brisbane, my eyes heavy with hate for the dawn light, thoughts of the day and night ahead certainly didn’t even graze the depravity of what lay ahead of me. The oversized, mustachioed gentleman crammed in next to me certainly didn’t either. Nor did the cute red-head stewardess named Sara, who spent the flight using her obvious attractiveness to maintain order and sell expensive tea.

When I hailed a cab and hurled myself into the front seat, the Brisbane heat already far too hot for my sensibilities, it soon became obvious that I had entered into a vortex of madness. The cab driver, speaking in some unknown accent, joyously demanded to know where I was headed, open beer in hand. “Charlotte Street…Oaks Tower…128” I mumbled. This was a flashpoint, a moment of clarity that, with the benefit of hindsight, should have steeled me. Guzzling beer, this foreigner had no idea where Charlotte Street was. I hadn’t seen this kind of wanton disregard for the social mores of Western society since I wandered in heat and drink inspired haze many months ago is the town called Las Vegas. There was certainly no condescension of his early morning beer ways, at least not from my seat. In some ways there was a touch of jealousy. A beer did seem like a good idea. But a burly Brisbane cabbie who knew very little of the English language and was clearly running high on a sustained beer buzz at a time when coffee is deemed to be a lot more appropriate was surely a sign that things were going to get a little wild.

After a high-speed and circuitous parade through Brisbane streets, with much yelling and threats of violence, your cantankerous author had arrived. The Oaks Towers seemed a more than adequate residence for a Saturday evening. It provided the comforts any decent writer with a penchant for fun needs; a refrigerator, ice, multiple television sets, a king sized bed and an air conditioning system that can take you to extremes. The rules on smoking, unlike nearly every other venue and abode in Brisbane, seemed not to be stringently enforced and there was a certain amount of appreciation, on my behalf. Not that it was ever really conveyed to the staff of the Oaks Tower, who became increasingly aware of my presence at the back end of the evening.

My room, however, was not prepared, my early arrival throwing staff into shock. “Never mind” I replied. “Send me to Mr. K’s room…we have some heavy drinking to do and preparations need to be made”. After a brief and jagged explanation, I was escorted to level forty where a man closely resembling a young Tom Selleck confirmed my story. That Tom Selleck doppelganger, with his eighties-renegade-cop-who-plays-by-his-own-rules moustache and big-framed brown sunglasses and tan linen-looking suit, was none other than Jess Kirley, one of the two Punting Ace warlords.

“Quick…downstairs” he said, hurrying me through my routine. “We have a stretch limo waiting for us”. I found it hard to concentrate. It looked as though he should have been chasing violent criminals through the backstreets of Philadelphia, circa 1982.

The day started civilized enough. Quality champagne and fine transportation- the only way to travel to the races. Your author got the absolute pleasure of meeting Sue and Garry Elliott, both of whom somewhat contributed to my career many years ago by nurturing a young kid named Matthew. Matthew would become Matt and would one day sign on some aspiring wordsmith to fill his punting website with various diatribes and ramblings. Young Kelly, an absolute delight and as much fun as cracker night, embarrassed me with her warm hospitality and barrage of kind words. Times were good. Love, as they say, was in the air.

Things, however, quickly descended into the enjoyment of drink-fuelled fun. As alcohol tends to do, confidence was heightened and silliness hammered logic with a king hit from behind. Wagers too grand in size were placed on hopeless horses without proper form analysis being undertaken. I attempted to blame Natural Destiny but the real fault laid with me. Sentimentality also ruled the day and when it became apparent that Carael Boy was racing at Taree, the wallet was opened and a wad of bills was handed to numerous bookmakers. Not surprisingly, the sentimental special did not come home and at least one Punting Ace writer was left cursing and mumbling about his luck.

It was at the Treasury Casino, though, where things got somewhat wild. Unexpectedly wild. Shots of bourbon and big glasses of whiskey and vodka were the order of the evening and all appeared to be going swimmingly. Then in a flash it all started getting strange and ugly and in less than four hours many in attendance would be chased from the building by giant bouncer’s hell bent on violence.

One minute the air is filled with good clean fun. Matt was laughing heartily, Jess was playing the social butterfly, Kelly and I were engaged in conversation of a deep philosophical nature, Jamie talked poker and there was plenty of love. Smoke time. I would not be the same for the rest of the night and possibly never will be. Exchanging pleasantries with a seemingly keen type of girl, I was hit in the face by a remark that was so strange and kinky in its content that I retreated and could merely comment that “she should have gone to the races today because I’m sure something could have been sorted out”. What was said is far too inappropriate for these pages and that probably gives the best indication of how perverted it was. It takes quite a bit to get your drunken author to blush…

The rest of the evening is somewhat blurry. My notebook is filled with random scribbled phrases such as “public embarrassment in the bar by some cowboy…seemingly shooting for height…handbags should be cleared from the floor forthwith”, “horses have many functions but that isn’t one of them”, “always check the neck…ALWAYS!” and “Tom Selleck has just been haled as a well-known porn star…spotlight shines bright on the man and the career…women scream, men applaud…Tom jumps on stage and waves to his adoring crowd…we have a modern day Pete North on our hands here…only Ron Jeremy would be better received” What most of this means, I do not know.

What I can assure you of though, dear reader, is that security at the Treasury does not like hairy writers covered in red wine and wait staff at high priced restaurants don’t appreciate drunks attempting to seat patrons whilst making low-rent recommendations. A number of us were chased through the labyrinth of the Treasury, our nimble toes the only thing that allowed escape and avoidance of a severe beating. There were threats hurled and warnings never to return made.

Sometime in the late hours, I arrived at the Oaks Towers, covered in red wine, demanding to be checked-in. “I am sorry sir…we are completely booked…and at any rate, this isn’t the drunk tank and your kind aren’t welcome”. The response was simple. “I have a booking Fat Boy so get me my key and take me to my room”. After five minutes of back-and-forth, apologies were issued and undertakings were made and my room was found.

And that was that. As much as I will reveal, at any rate.

We can try hard to justify this piece. We can look for an underlying moral, a screed about avoiding the punt when smoking red wine and keeping cool in times of crisis. But there is no point. This is just a tale about a wild night and getting away with it all messed up. We survived and that means a lot to me today.