palms

oh my god, you can't believe what happened. yeah, we went to palms!

you know, palms? yeah, it was totally tacky, but there was a group of us and it WAS the weekend, and they, like, got rid of the dick tracy cardboard cutout in the smoker's corner. no, it is TOTALLY a gay rsl, yeah, and the dj was so typical, i mean he didn't even mix. just started up the song when the last one stopped.

and the drinks were kinda overpriced, i know, and the people there weren't the cutest, but there was this one hot guy. anyway, i was really drunk and we pashed - but it was palms, so i just kept dancing, you know? and we sang real loud.

oh, i know, but we had so much fun, just dancing around and pashing and singing. it was real fun!

anyway, you were saying?

[like Palms has a website - i mean, as if]

Golden Sheaf

The first time I walked into the Golden Sheaf, I was meeting my first wife's ex boyfriend.

The one who fucked with her head, screwed with her feelings, and then proceeded to continue to repeat the cycle (several times) while simultaneously undertaking a passive-aggressive relationship with his other girlfriend. That was the night he learnt about the aluminium baseball bat we kept in the hallway cupboard and the imaginary list of ex-lovers we kept next to the front door, a.k.a. THE photographic list of of ex-fucks who were to be clubbed or given the good ol' Lorena Bobbitt if they ever came near the house.

To say he was a little scared by the prospect of either of us wielding a baseball bat and/or undertaking castration is an understatement.

I guess I just can't divorce the image of he-who-shall-no-longer-be-mentioned from the Sheaf. Nor of the girl standing behind us that night wearing what can only be described as a sheer leopard print dressing gown cinched at the waist.

These are the sorts of things that occur at the Sheaf.

Another time, I was sitting next to a good friend. After getting absolutely plastered on several ice buckets full of quickly emptied wine bottles, I watched as an incredibly hot blond english backpacker picked her up. (I found out later she screwed him in one of the adjacent construction sites before recommencing shits and giggles).

Hmmm... not much of a review I'm afraid. Ultimately, the Sheaf seems a mixture of so many not-particularly-interesting things to me. Maybe I'm just not the right kind of ostentatious for it - it's that brand of pretension that completely befits its location in Double Pay. Maybe its the wrong kind of trashiness that does it for me - for sure, it's a factor. Could be the certain pseudo-blokey nonchalance on the part of its (mainly straight) clientele, or perhaps the stereotypical eastern suburbs Paris-Nicole-Lohan air-kissing bollocks that goes on around you as you wait for the (admittedly good) steaks.

I dunno, it's not really my thing.

[The Golden Sheaf Hotel]