Better give this a bump, before it falls off the first page.
The night I visited a brothel.
I’m a proud Queenslander. It is often said Western Australia is ten years and two hours behind Sydney and Melbourne, well Queensland is only two hours ahead of the West. We’re conservative and often out of step with the southern states.
I was taking a B double from Brisbane to Melbourne, my first of two drops was in the industrial west of Melbourne. I knew there was a truck friendly pub close to my first delivery, so that was where I intended to park for the night. I arrived about tenish, checking the pub as I drove past. I was in luck, it was still open. It took me about ten minutes to find a place to park and walk back to the pub.
When I say this was a truck friendly pub, I meant that when the pub closed, they shuttered the bar but left the lounge open and lit fo truckies use. I entered the lounge and noticed two fellows, sitting sperately, but the bar was closed. I said “I thought the place was open, as I drove past.” One of the blokes replied “It was when you went past, it’s only just shut.”
I’m not a big drinker, particularly of beer, but this night I really fancied one or three.
One of the blokes got up to leave, offering me his last stubby (a 375 ml bottle of beer). I graciously accepted it and joined the other fellow, who had a stubby and a half in front of him.
We both finish our beers and I commented that one was never enough. He suggested we go across the road for more, I was a little confused and replied that I didn’t know there was another pub there.
He told me it wasn’t a pub, it was a brothel. I told him “I want a beer, not a bonk!”, to which he replied “Have you ever been to a knocking shop that didn’t have grog?”
Not wanting to show my naivety, I just shruged my shoulders and agreed to go with him. Still not wishing to show my country boy lack of sophistication, I cunningly accompanied him, half a step behind. These type of establishments were illegal in my home state and I had no idea of the etequette when visiting such an establishment. To enter the converted house, one had to walk around the back and up a flight of stairs. I followed my partner in crime up the stairs, happy for him to educate me in the ways of the big smoke population. The barsteward opened the back door, holding it for me to enter first. I stepped into what would have been the laundry of someone’s home. It was a small room, separated from the rest of the former dwelling by security screens, reminding me of a betting shop.
“Minding the shop” was a massive blob of jelly, an absolute caricature of a madam, at least twenty-five stone, with makeup applied with a paint scraper. A voice, sweeter than honey, asked “Hiii guuuys, what can we do for yooou, tonight?”
By this stage I was glowing brighter than a red trafic light, at a major intersection, in the middle of the night. In my embarrassment I blurted out “I just want some beer!” The reply, in less than a honey like voice came “This is a brothel, not a pub,” then moving her look to the fellow blocking the exit, “What’s wrong with your mate?”
He replied “Don’t worry about him, he’s a Queenslander.”
Feeling the glow emanating from my face, I turned on my heel and barged past the body blocking my retreat and relishing my mortification.
I almost ran back to the relative safety and privacy of my cab. I phoned home, hoping for a little empathy for my humiliation, but the only response from 'er indoors was laughter.
I spent about twenty minutes on the phone, receiving absolutely no comfort. A few minutes after hanging up, old mate banged on my truck door, simultaneously opening it and climbing onto the step. He again laughed at my situation and described what happened to him, blow by blow. This is not the place to repeat his story, but I was pretty disgusted as he had earlier told me he had a wife and couple of kids in Wagga.
It took quite some time for me to see the humour of the situation.