What women think
December 2007

Sydney Side Story

The intelligent part of my brain told me it would be a bad idea. Right from the start it set up roadblocks, sent semaphore signals, IM-ed in some crazy manner.

Sadly, I missed all the warning signs. Instead I opted to open the door wide and lay out the welcoming mat for the frivolous, irresponsible, down-right blonde part of my brain.

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It started like this: I flew to Sydney one weekend with ostensibly two purposes. One to catch up with a gorgeous girlfriend (hi Fionna!) and the other to see the Princess Diana exhibition. I love Diana, adore Diana, believe that we could indeed have been kindred spirits or at the least best friends had we the fortune to meet.

As it stands, she never had the chance to make her way over to Brisbane's southern suburbs, thereby depriving us both of the chance to go for coffee and a movie. Or to sit up till 4am getting horrifically drunk and talking about what arses our first husbands were.

Likewise, when I was in London, she was never home when I called; instead she was in Africa curing AIDS and clearing landmines or at the White House dancing with John Travolta.

The exhibition was just enthralling. It was respectful, complex and a very fitting tribute to the woman so many could identify with, and not just because of the great clothes she wore or the louts she dated.

I found myself moved to tears as I viewed all the various memorabilia of Diana's life - her school report cards, the condolence books, a family home movie.

Even her passport was there. In the bit where you sign your name, she had signed just "Diana". Couldn't you just die!!

And yes, the wedding dress is as ghastly in the flesh as it was on television back in 1981. I think that a few of the tears I shed were tears of pity that someone masquerading as a fashion expert made that lovely young woman clamber into that fairy floss monstrosity and step out before an audience of one billion people. No wonder she bungled Charlie's name.

Next stop was lunch in Darling Harbour which turned into an afternoon wine-fest at Fionna's flat in Rose Bay which, at about 10pm, turned into "let's get dressed up and go night clubbing".

This is when I began steadfastly ignoring the intelligent part of my brain that said this was a very bad idea. Very bad. Horrible. That I needed to be aware of my age, that my right knee sometimes gets a bit dodgy, that I couldn't name a single song from the Top 40 for the last five years. Except Grace Kelly by Mika. That is a fabulous song. It's my ring tone. Of course I had to get my daughter to load it onto my mobile for me.

Dressed in long, long boot leg jeans (are they still in fashion?), RMK black patent stilettos (always in fashion), gold glitter eyeshadow (was a bit pissed ...) and my gut sucked in (well I am 42!) we caught a cab to the Bristol Arms Hotel in Sussex Street. Housed in this little drinking hole is the Retro Club - a veritable buffet of all-you-can-eat 80s music.

In theory, my idea of heaven. In reality, I was in hell. No, actually, if I owned both the Retro Club and hell, I would rent out the Retro Club and live in hell.

In all fairness, the music was sensational. Blondie, Duran Duran, Billy Ocean and the stalwarts like Mickey and Love Shack. It was Hot in the City. Tonight.

It was the crowd that was less than sensational. What are 25 year olds doing in an 80s club? They were born in this decade, therefore they cannot lay claim to it as their own. They've got their own decade full of repetitive, unoriginal, nauseating tunes with offensive lyrics and even more offensive film clips. Butt out of my decade Britney.

How do they know all the words? Have they been secretly loading their parents 80s CDs onto their iPods and bopping away to KC and the Sunshine Band while telling their friends it's Fall Out Boy?

And even though I don't feel like I'm 42, clearly I must bloody well look it. Once upon a time, long long ago, I would go out to night clubs and be flicking the blokes off me with one hand whilst applying lipstick with the other, remembering all the time to look bored.

Apparently no more. I sat around like a young-ish version of an old granny and watched the boys swarm to my 35 year old girlfriend.

Remember those days when you'd go out with your bestest girlfriend and you'd see two blokes and you'd say, "I don't want the ugly/short/hairy one".

It was like they were saying, "I don't want the old one." I guess if the average age of the place was 25, I was bound to look like someone's mother. Obviously not Stifler's mother.

Going for a fag was a nightmare. Getting out of the place was easy; getting back in meant queuing at the door to get into the pub, then queuing to get up the steps to the nightclub, then queuing to get into the nightclub. I love heels and wear them everywhere, even to the letterbox to get the mail, but after all this queuing palaver, even I was rethinking the merits of ballet flats.

We left about 2.30am and we were starving. We hovered around a 7-11 next door that indicated we could put a frozen meat pie in the microwave for two minutes before consuming. Tomato sauce complimentary. We thought about it but decided it was a blatant example of false advertising, as there would be nothing resembling meat nor pie in that food. It's odd what you sometimes consider when you're hungry.

Back home in Rose Bay, we rubbed our aching feet, drank restorative cups of tea and began designing the blueprint for our own 80s nightclub.

Requirements: no kiddie drinks (ie. breezers, Jäger bombs, house wine). No patrons under 35, ID check compulsory. Free foot massages. Good lighting, big mirrors and quality toilet paper in the bathrooms. No tacky ink stamp on your wrist to verify you've paid.

And free admission to all grandmothers.

Read other columns written by Bron

Bron McClain p 0412 326 300 e bron@bronmcclain.com