LARGE-scale crime is taking place on the seedy streets of Sydney at
this very moment.
Sinister, shadowy figures are plying their sickening trade, making thousands
of dollars by pandering to the needs of people desperate to get high.
No. We're not talking about heroin deals on the streets of Cabramatta. We're
talking milk crates.
No takeaway food shop is safe. No supermarket laneway. And especially not
milk factories or depots. Where there are milkcrates left unguarded, these
faceless criminals will steal them. Shameless thugs with astute business
minds; obeying the basic tenant of good business: steal in the gloom, sell
in the boom.
These crates in a few short weeks will be worth their weight in gold. On
one night to be precise – Saturday night of Sydney's Gay and Lesbian
Mardi Gras street parade.
Your correspondent fell victim to these pedlars last year when he witnessed
his first street parade along Oxford Street.
"Psst," a weedy little chap said after sidling up to me and my
buddies. "Wanna get high?"
"How much?"
"Ten bucks, cheap."
"Ten dollars! Forget it!"
He was gone in a flash, waddling away with a stack of stolen crates pressed
to his chest. On the lookout for other desperate customers.
We went back to enjoying the sights and sounds as the parade passed. The
sounds at least.
We had made the mistake of slipping into a bar in a nearby street late in
the arvo for a few old bloke's beers – Reschs. The crowd a few metres
up at the Oxford Street intersection was still only a few deep and we figured
we'd found the right spot for a good view of the march.
We were in mid-tenth schooner when the roar of motorbikes told us the Dykes
on Bikes had thundered past, signalling the beginning of the world-famous
over the top extravaganza.
We rushed out of the bar to be greeted by a sea of people. We soon discovered
that watching the Mardi Gras goes something like this: the first three of
four rows closest to the road can stand and watch just about everything.
Then there are several rows of well-prepared people with stepladders, chairs
and the like.
Then there's the other half-million, hopeful of a glimpse of sequined glitter.
And so we rushed to the 12th row and watched the backs of other people watching
the backs of other people watching the backs of other people, etc, etc,
etc watching the backs of legs of other people on stepladders, chairs and
the like.
With a fair degree of effrontery, badgery, undisguised thuggery and plain
good luck, you can eventually push your way up to behind the people on stilts,
chairs and ladders. This we did, taking opportunity of a thinned crowd,
many of whom went off to eat for an hour while the flight attendants section
moved slowly by.
We footsloggers arrived at the western front just in time to hear and glimpse
the Scats with Funny Hats sashay past in their stunning white cottontails,
oiled bare torsos and black top hats.
It was a joy to see snatches of them lost in a beautifully choreographed
dance routine, their voices lifted as one as they sang their signature tune,
Roberta Slack's The First Time Ever I Saw Your Faeces.
Then the most revolting moment of the parade arrived: a giant Pauline Hanson
with a chip on her shoulder and Hansonite minders with chips on their heads.
Sanity was restored as her nasal, droning "Please explain" became
fainter and eventually made way to the hum of the crowd up towards Mark
Taylor Square.
Someone with stilts must have pushed their way into the elevated row in
front, because they all nestled closer together and our faint window of
visual opportunity closed abruptly.
A roar from the crowd signalled that another crowd-pleasing segment was
passing by. Frustrated, I turned to a group of really nice looking young
men standing beside me in tight, white T-shirts with sleeves rolled up to
reveal bronzed forceps; well-built young men with strata-titled muscles.
"I haven't travelled all this way to spend the night staring at people's
arses," I said. They looked at me blankly as if I was from another
planet.
Just then the dealer came back.
"Psst," he said, "wanna get high?"
"How much?"
"$10"
"A tenner, hmm. $10. That sounds quite reasonable really. Will that
get me high enough?"
"Not really. Most people need two."
I parted with $20 and stacked my two milk crates on top of each other. With
five of my buddies, I was soon teetering atop the wobbly crates getting
a passable view of the action. The two other in our group waited behind
for their turn.
And then the night turned nasty.
Another two-crater had just been constructed beside us and was clearly carrying
far too many people then they were designed for.
A little fellow about five feet nothing was proving a deft hand at crate
osmosis, first placing his left foot on our crate and then pushing his way
fully onto our territory. The domino theory came into play and one of my
friends fell off the far end of our crate.
People naturally protect their territory and much pushing and shoving ensured
before the cratecrasher was pushed back onto his own block, dislodging six
of his own friends in the process.
Moments later as I was taking my turn off the crates, a full glass of beer
was tossed against my back. I turned immediately, instinctively walked around
the group of nice young boys watching people's arses, and confronted one
startled cratecrasher.
"Next time you feel like throwing beer all over some guy's back,"
I thundered, "at least have the guts to do it to his face!"
His eyes popped and I think he got the message.
I thought it rather tragic that on a night when a half million people of
various sexual persuasions come together for probably what is Australia's
biggest fun night out, I was probably the only person there in a right,
royal tizz.
Footnote: If that altercation wasn't bad enough, the market value
of milk crates drops alarmingly once the parade is over.
I wandered the city streets for so long trying to flog my two crates for
three bucks the lot that I missed the last fairy to Manly.
