View from a bar

Saturday night started at the Courthouse Hotel; Mick wanted to watch the rugby union match between the Waratahs and the Crusaders. While it resembles rugby league in many ways, union has a really stupid point system – three points for a field goal? – so it kind of irritates me. As always, though, the real entertainment was outside on Taylor Square.

One bloke in particular had me riveted. Gaunt, in his mid-forties I suppose, he was, as they say, “on the nod” – completely smacked out but nonetheless standing. He’d bend over, sway a little, stumble to the side then regain his bearings, eyes closed as he made his way towards the traffic. While the people at the table next to me were pissing themselves laughing at him – “He’s totally noddin’ off!” – I was petrified that he was about to stumble in front of a passing bus. But this is the amazing thing – they never go down. I don’t know how they do it.

When the game was over we headed across the street to the Oxford, where we set up camp in the smoke-in wardrobe in front of the open window: prime people-watching position. And straight away, there was another bloke doing his little ‘on the nod’ shuffle:


He snapped out of it briefly when someone asked if he was okay, then promptly went back into that weird, hunched-over stance, like he was praying or literally shitting himself.
Still, somehow, he didn’t fall over. If he had a home to go to, I don’t know how he got there.

As the evening progressed, we watched another bloke repeatedly pass us, clutching a takeaway coffee and muttering to himself as he paced back and forth, looking angrier each time:


We lost count of his appearances after a couple of hours, but then the traffic, vehicular and human, became more fascinating. Upstaging all the shiny, two-bit cars with their ridiculously oversized spoilers was this anomaly:


But Saturday night on Oxford Street is mostly about suburban chicks these days and they didn’t disappoint.
Actually, now that I think of it, they did – none of them got run down while cackling and clacking across six lanes of traffic in heels they could barely stand in. Seriously, it was an inappropriate footwear festival and I have a feeling there was a Chicago-themed party going on somewhere because there were a lot of teeny sequinned outfits going on:


As for the Oxford Hotel itself, it was pretty quiet. I reckon all the negative “Oxford Street is dead – and dangerous!” publicity has scared off a lot of queens, which is a pity. Lord knows there was enough of a police presence. They were in paddywagons, on foot patrol, on horseback and in some sort of van I haven’t seen before, grilling some poor man about a minor infringement of public decency:


Then again, it might just be the god-awful remix of ‘Careless Whisper’ that emptied the place.