Stonewall, The Red Party, Gay Church

While not heralding any new wave in clubbing trends, Saturday night’s Red Party at Stonewall proved to be something of an unexpected ripper from my point of view. The five-dollar cover charge no doubt raised decent wads of cash for the very worthy ACON (AIDS Council of NSW) and had the side benefit of deterring a few dodgy punters from the perpetually crowded venue. A handful were still present however and I sadly happen to know some of them. Incidentally, Stonewall represents a strange set of contradictions. It appeals mainly to a younger crowd who, let’s face it, are not overly concerned with purporting any hint of class beyond air-kissing each other on arrival. It is (ordinarily) free to get in. The ground floor often feels so full of sexual charge and smuttiness (of which, I admit to occasionally being a component of) I fear of it turning into one big sprog pond, with foamy waves cascading out into Oxford Street and engulfing the discarded kebabs, the discarded shags, the deros and that ever present hip-hop busker. Yet despite these symptoms of trashiness, the place features some of the hallmarks of A Pretentious Club. Touches of stainless steel and glass hint at stylish modernity while almost blending seamlessly (or is it good lighting) with old-world original timber balustrades and ornate cornices suggestive of its nineteenth century heritage. (The ornate cornices sadly do not feature on the level where the ceiling recently had to be replaced – apparently the old one fell down onto the glitter laced revelers one night…imagine the squeals.) It is nestled among Darlinghurst’s Golden/Pink Mile of snobby clubs and clothing shops, some of which have names indicating that the proprietor has adopted the currently very trendy habit of prefixing words with ‘über’. A more obvious statement is that one receives one’s change from the bar staff on a saucer. Elegant, even if a pathetic invitation for a tip. I am just waiting for the name to be changed from ‘The Stonewall Hotel’ to ‘Hotel Stonewall’ in a classy French-esque noun-adjective vein. Or maybe all lower case - ‘hotel stonewall’. Better still what about ‘überhotel stonewall’? But for all this I love it and will probably continue to do so for some time.Anyway, back to Saturday night. There was actually a shaky start to the evening with Nick F's expression of dishevelment firstly at Vivien’s and my arrival being two hours subsequent to his and secondly that someone had, in our absence, given him shit about his dancing. The circumstances improved quickly however. Much our time was spent draped in the five metres of red tinsel I had purchased from a nearby newsagent, and dancing with people, some of whom I actually know. Indeed, of those I know I proudly count most as friends. At one stage I got teary and thought I must have been overcome with emotion at the gravity of the situation and the profoundness of The Sugarbabes's lyrics but soon realized I just had some tinsel in my eye. Further elation came with Jerry giving me the news that the goldfish I gave to him and Roy as a present at their housewarming/birthday party on the previous night had survived the last 24 hours and now had a name (Liza Minnelli), a bowl, and food. This survival occurred despite it being contained in a plastic bag and then a Brita water filter for much of the intervening period. The fish had already proven itself somewhat resilient that night while still under my care by first withstanding my driving during a cross-Sydney trip - in the boot - and later with me scooping it and some cloudy (but filtered, I assure you) water from its abode with a plastic cup, in order to participate in the evenings toasts.I also found the Red Party revelry favourable since I had to tolerate neither of the irksome events that featured in my previous two visits to Stonewall. On Wednesday night I endured part of a conversation between a pair of ex-lovers (you know who you are) discussing their issues with each others ‘techniques’. Friday night was marred by the drunken stage dancing/groping of some mangy haired guy who I suggested might be better put to use if he were turned upside down and used as a mop to curtail the runoff from the drinks he was constantly spilling. I also had to leave early on Friday night due to work commitments in the morning, in turn courtesy of the disturbing and insatiable appetite that residents of North Ryde have for lotto tickets and the Weekend Sydney Morning Herald at eight on a Saturday morning. Conspicuous in their absence from the Red Party were the two aforementioned ex-lovers, and Harley. The latter of these I have not seen (or should that be, ‘scene’) for weeks and I fear may be either passed out somewhere (again) or heavily involved in a new found institution, specifically, some sort of gay church. I am deeply concerned for his welfare since I cannot decide which of these scenarios is the more horrific. More likely however is that Harley is just in a sort of Nick F induced anti-scene hibernation. The thought of this just makes me feel über-sympathetic.