3 Wise Monkeys, Sydney
2003.
They were at Löwenbräu in The Rocks. Everyone got litre steins. They were $17 each. Simmo was trying to force Chewy to do a round ‘cos it was his from before they got to the city but it would’ve been $102 for six — and the rounds at Pymble Pub were only $21 for six. They’d had five there. They didn’t want to go anywhere shit. Nearly everywhere they knew was shit: Wallaby, Pontoon, Cargo, Star City — some of them did want to go to Star City though. No gay Anglican College chicks. Gay just meant shit by the way, not lesbian. Anglican College, where they’d all went, was a boy’s school until the end of year nine and then became co-ed for 10, 11 and 12. The girls were all pretty fucked, because why else would you change school schools halfway through? Either probably because you had no mates at your old one, or you went to an all girl’s school and had too much confidence. They weren’t really mates with any of the girls from school anymore.
Nugget had bought a backpack from home. He wanted to steal one of Löwenbräu’s glass steins.
“Don’t be gay. You’ll spend the whole night carrying it ‘round.”
“Such a fucken baby. You don’t have to carry anything. Fucken relax.”
“Good places won’t let you in with a backpack!”
“Emotions! So fucking emo!”
Nugget unzipped the Mossimo backpack, slid the glass in. They feigned casual as they walked out, but the bouncer knew what was going on and intercepted Nugget before he reached the edge of the roped off area that defined the front beer garden. Nugget pretended he hadn’t seen the bouncer, used a group of tall men in their 30s to shepherd around. Nugget faked left and ran right, the bouncer lunged at him, causing a muscly bald guy to spill a stein over his lavender button-down. The bouncer got a hand on one of the bag’s loose straps, wrenched it out of Nugget’s hand. The stein tumbled and smashed inside the bag.
Nugget ran. The rest tried to down their respective steins before the bouncer circled back to them. The bald bloke in lavender was pissed off. They didn’t care. They followed each other left down George St.
“Orient?”
“Nah, shit.”
“Where else, but?”
“Jackson’s on George.”
“Too early for Jackson’s.”
“Orient’s shit, but.”
They caught up and debated more. They’d go to The Orient, The Mercantile, Shelbourne, Pontoon, St Patrick’s Tavern, Trumps Tavern, 3 Wise Monkeys, Pontoon Bar and Cargo. Every time anyone seemed settled or relaxed they demanded each other scull drinks and move to a new venue. They got refused by bouncers, they begrudgingly paid covers. They hated music everywhere that had girls and anywhere playing music they liked was full of blokes, which — for the purpose of the impossible scenarios mapped in their collective brain — was intolerable.
They didn’t like dance music. They didn’t like R&B. They didn’t unanimously agree on what music was good or bad. They got refused entry for not wearing leather shoes. They got refused entry for having drunk ten beers but saying they’d only drunk two. They got refused entry for admitting to have drunk ten. They got refused for not having any girls with them. They recruited some girls in the queue and failed to realise the opportunity this presented. They drifted apart from the girls once they were through the door. Simmo bought a round, but it was shit here, so they sculled and moved on. Old friends were boring, new people didn’t get it.
Nugget made a wanking gesture at some young Lebanese guys in a done up Pulsar.
“Fake exhaust faggot!”
“Fucken what, cunt?”
The Pulsar screeched still outside the Four Seasons. The back door opened and Nugget bolted, nearly knocked over a woman waiting for a taxi. The car door shut again and the driver and all four passengers laughed at Nugget’s cowardice before taking off again. “Pussy faggot Aussies!”
“Fucken wogs,” said Nugget, under his breath, avoiding eye contact with the others.
They were always moving. It was important to move. They got smaller, they lost numbers. Timmy got the shits and walked back to his sister’s in Crow’s Nest. Smithers went off to buy cigarettes then got lost and didn’t have his mobile. Chewy got a cab to his girlfriend’s in Stanmore. They ended up on the dance floor at 3 Wise, lurking as a pack, encircling the small number of women around. The Proclaimers came on and everyone sung along. Sparrow bought a round of bourbon and cokes — doubles, no ice — and they sculled them and stood in the corner. They watched two guys — both in lavender business shirts — both dancing their way toward the same woman. They laughed and called them lavender cunts, yelling it across the loud room. They got another round of bourbons in and pledged to stay until Macca’s breakfast kicked in at 5:30.
They drank those then another round and then they ran out of steam. So they — there was only three of them left now — walked up to Park Street Maccas. They ate their burgers and wandered over in time for the 4:10am Hornsby via North Sydney nightrider. Going over the bridge, a drunk bloke had a go at them for singing. Nugget nicknamed him emotions and they chanted emotions at him until he got off at Lindfield.











