Melbourne - Victoria's prize shit-hole
April 12th 2009 11:17
Travel across the Westgate Bridge and observe the newly-erected safety rails edging the sides. A belated precaution tackling the issue of suicidal jumpers and deranged homicidal parents. A sad necessity obscuring the most appealing view of this dingy shit-hole of a city fuelled by alcohol, greed and try-hard desperation.
Cruise down Spencer Street and see the clusters of skanky youths blocking the footpaths outside pubs and clubs. Loud. Drunken. Obnoxious. Forcing passers-by to skirt around them.
Slimy, self-important bouncers flanking the doorways, smug and self-satisfied tough-guy wannabes.
Little whore-like strumpets in cellophane-tight dresses riding up their arses. Pale legs that spread like warm butter at the sight of a football player - or perhaps the offer of a free drink. Crowned with fake hair, bleached to the colour of new snow and to the texture of dry straw. Faces painted like horror-house wax dolls.
Attached to the tails of these Paris Hilton hopefuls are their equally uneducated male counterparts. Meticulously scraggy with expressions as dark as their girlfriends’ are empty.
All they know from weekend to weekend is the refined art of city crawling. Drinking themselves into a stupor then finding an easy target for a brawl. Before slinking off home to the comfort of their self-proclaimed ‘upstanding’ yet voluntarily ignorant parents’ houses.
On to Docklands now for a nice dinner at our own little Darling Harbour take-off.
Good food, but conversation is difficult over the drunken bellowing of the St Kilda Football Club theme song flowing repeatedly in craggy off-key tones from the yobbo scum at the table beside us.
When their painful chanting stops, their air-headed conversation continues on equally loud and rowdy.
Patrons at tables all around this noisy bunch of feral deadbeats cast frequent, quick, unhappy glances in their direction. Waiters come and go. Nobody says anything. The group themself are oblivious to all but themselves.
Dinner over, Docklands offers little more entertainment.
On to Crown Casino for an up-close look at the real car-crash. I’ve avoided this hole for over five years. I thought it could be no worse!
A few structural changes since my last visit. The foyer somewhat resembles a claustrophobic construction site. Round the corner and enter the circus.
Like a box of liquorice all-sorts, chewed up and spat into a bowl. What a jumble of sad-sack human trash.
Along with the previously mentioned fuckwits (over compensating security guard try-hards, Paris Hilton wannabes and their male counterparts) we have piles upon piles of desperados.
Smug suites. Crusty old hags dressed up like Christmas triffle. Ferals in thongs and too-short tracky pants. Leering old losers. And, of course, tons of gambling addicts feeding handfuls of dollars into slots, eyes fixed, sad defeated faces illuminated in the neon glow of the monsters eating up their savings.
The air reeks with the sour smell of body-odour mixed with a sickly-sweet stench of perfume and cologne.
I take a sip of my Vodka-Lemon-Lime & Soda - and gag. Vodka my arse! This stuff was pure Metho! Nothing like the drink by the same name I’d had with dinner.
Squeezing through crowded masses and darting for an exit. Out into the smoggy ‘fresh’ air, and swept into the upstream flow of people on Southgate.
For a while I almost enjoy myself. The filth of the Yarra River is masked in blackness, and looks nice. Stopping here and there to watch street performers.
I side-step and dodge a dirty junkie staggering toward me from the opposite direction. Something about him creeps me out more than your standard run-of-the-mill junkie scum and I’m glad when there is some distance between us.
Five minutes later I become suddenly aware of someone walking too close behind me, to my horror it’s the same junkie creep, not half a meter away and moving in fast. I dart away, and alert the rest of my friends to his presence.
Meanwhile the junkie has stopped along side us, and stands, as if waiting for our next move. We go into Southgate while someone goes to the loo. And junkie waits for us outside a while.
Then, either too wasted to know what he’s doing, or blatantly bold (and stupid) he walks right past us and goes into PJ O’Brien’s, only to re-emerge a moment later and linger again.
Hand in my bag, I locate a sharp object I could stick in his throat should the need arise.
Someone suggested we go to the Backpackers Bar, which turned out to be full of more wankers, not to mention the dozens lingering outside having a smoke and making a noise.
Finally it was time to jump in a cab. First time I’ve seen one of those taxi-driver safety-box things. A really thick plastic box that goes around the back of the drivers seat and wraps not only around the sides but right up and over the top, so to protect him from a knife to the head I suppose. As I pondered the sad necessity of this ugly piece of armour, it dawns on me that in the case of an accident my head would undoubtedly fly forward and collide with this thing, causing all kinds of damage to me.
Leaving the city, I got that old familiar feeling of relief and remembering why, even though I live just on the outskirts of this god-awful place, I avoid it like the fucking plague.
subscribe to this blog