Never let it be said that I’m not protected when I go out at night. Even when I was living in the depths of Redfern, as long as Adam was near me, I knew I’d be fine in the company of someone who knows…. well, I’ve lost count of how many martial arts. This is the guy who once announced he was “popping up the road to the pub for a beer”, disappeared from the face of the earth for five hours, then drunkenly called home to bark “I got invited to the Redfern RSL. AND I’M THE ONLY WHITE PERSON HERE!” This was followed by a sudden eruption of angry male voices, what sounded like the phone being dropped into a schooner of beer, and then a disconnection.
This had me pacing the floor a little until Adam arrived home a few hours later (happily hiccuping and, somewhat surprisingly, unable to recall any incident involving Redfern RSL at all). “Did you hurt anyone?” I asked cautiously. “Hmm, maybe,” he replied. Then, a thoughtful look to the sky, an addition of “yeah… actually, probably,” and a swaying stroll to the bathroom for a quiet spew.
Adam’s hungover vomiting annoys me. It’s all streamlined, fast, quiet and efficient. It’s such a graphic designer vomit. I’m a bit of a yeller and like to show off a bit – I’ll lean over the bed into a bucket and give my best impression of a bayonetted soldier. We’ve had more than one neighbour knock on the door because they think I’m being murdered by Adam (who, admittedly, looks somewhat capable of murder, and is probably confirming their worst suspicions).
It also really helps if I’m listening to angry metal when I throw up. I’m sure why, but it just helps. Hatebreed’s a spew favourite.
Anyway, Hatebreed, spewing, where was I… there was a vicious error of judgement on Friday night when we made a haphazard decision to visit Stonewall. Let it be known how gargantually enormous my detestment for this gay hangout is. Tonight’s events were a prime example of why I fucking hate the joint.
The place was packed in tightly enough for the frigging ceiling to fall in (oh, wait, that already happened, and all the gay boys overdramatised and thought it was a terrorist attack. Man, the imagery that news article illustrates still makes me bellow with laughter, and crikey, even want to recreate it as the first video clip for my band).
We were gently working our way through the intensely packed-in crowd, when I could sense this glittery, pink faux-street-stencil-t-shirt wearing boy-thing, with more hair product than actual hair, huffing and sighing in frustration behind me. I’d like to think he was simply admiring my arse, but I’ve got bogan arse, not gay arse (I’m blessed with extra crack, y’see. Man, now you know all about my bum AND my knob!) He pushed up against me in an attempt to, I don’t know, summon forth the magical crowd-parting powers I’d obviously been repressing most of my life. Unsuccessful on his first shove, he then piledrove me into the crowd, sending about four other people around me toppling.
This was when Adam spun around and struck like a cobra. His hands spun out and grabbed the necks of the two most likely candidates behind me and lifted one of them off the ground. “What’s the problem here, then?” he sneered, transparently slipping into his long-abandoned, but still somewhat dormant bouncer skills.
‘Fgaagiiehhh,’ protested one of the boys. I think he was trying to say: ‘the immediate problem I am faced with, is that you are hurting me in the neck.’ (The correct answer, for five points, was actually: the jukebox is playing an Aqua trance remix).
Adam’s eyes slowly slid into evil little slits, and the two boys gibbered out their apologies and swore on their family’s honour how deeply sorry they were, before running outside, somewhat upset.
Of course, Adam had grabbed the wrong throats, and the shover had long pushed further into the crowd… but still. The thought was there.
Which is see why I love the man who recently told me the biggest reason I should be with him, is ‘you should love me because I could make you bleed, but I don’t‘.