...or maybe anywhere.
After self-applying enough moisturizer to hopefully keep my back from turning into something that belonged to a Biblical leper, I reached deep into the recesses of my inner youthfulness and summoned the strength to meet my new friends for a few beers in town. This took a healthy dose of self-convincing with words similar to the ones my younger brother, Chris, likes to throw out when a rally is needed to keep the night going in Vegas. I asked myself: “How many times will you be in Cairns, Tim?” Except Chris would find a way to truly personalize the line and make me feel as though not going to one last bar two miles from The Strip at 3:30 a.m. would mean we missed a golden opportunity to fortify the family legacy together.
“Dude, how many times are we gonna be in Veehhgasss…TOGETHER?”
“Alright, alright…Cab, please!”
After assuring myself that this was a one-time opportunity, I rallied with a few slices of terrible pizza at a corner shop that also served tall beers. So I ordered one of those, too. The girl behind the counter told me that P.J. O’Brien’s, the Irish bar where I was to meet the boat crowd, was just a few blocks up the streets. On first glance, it was just another Irish bar in any old country—outdoor seating, lots of dark-stained woodwork, lots of beers to choose from and big, uncomfortable booths to sit in. To be honest, at 9 p.m. it was actually rather lame and empty and I was thinking of going to bed.
After assuring myself that this was a one-time opportunity, I rallied with a few slices of terrible pizza at a corner shop that also served tall beers. So I ordered one of those, too. The girl behind the counter told me that P.J. O’Brien’s, the Irish bar where I was to meet the boat crowd, was just a few blocks up the streets. On first glance, it was just another Irish bar in any old country—outdoor seating, lots of dark-stained woodwork, lots of beers to choose from and big, uncomfortable booths to sit in. To be honest, at 9 p.m. it was actually rather lame and empty and I was thinking of going to bed.
That was before the toga party arrived, the pole dancing on the bar and the strip dancing on the back stage. Now I have your attention, don’t I? (I knew I should have led the story with that part.) Anyway, it turns out, a fair amount of Irish immigrants landed in Australia in the 1800s. And it’s a safe bet they weren’t envisioning this place when they landed in the Great Southern Land, or maybe they’d have come here 300 plus years ago. (According to a little online research, the Australian embassy in Dublin reports that 30 percent of Australia’s population claim some sort degree of Irish ancestry. Fun fact of the day there for you.)
Before I get into how the night ramped up, I feel it’s important to state that this was a Tuesday night and to point out that evidently the day of week doesn’t matter much when it comes to partying in Cairns because it’s as much a backpacker town as any place on the planet. Best as I could tell, heaps (Aussie term) of young people from around the world blow into town on bus tours of some kind, see the reef and/or the rainforest, spend a few nights at a hostel drinking and fornicating, then move on down south toward the Gold Coast. You don’t get the impression that too many people actually work any kind of 9-5 job in Cairns. Most of the jobs seem to revolve around tourism, and, with one of the world’s natural wonders just off the town’s front porch, I suppose they should.
After having a few pints with my new pals, the scene picked up a bit. In other words, a toga party arrived. Yep, it’s still Tuesday. Among the toga party crowd of 25 or so people in their twenties and thirties from Adelaide were several scandalous looking young ladies with nothing against creating a little attention for themselves. Before long, two hired female dancers in cowboy hats and jean shorts with inseam lengths that specialized in brevity were on top of the bar dancing around poles that were rolled out as props. Effective props, I might add. I’m not even sure how I just remembered the cowboy hats, to be honest. This was starting to turn into the greatest time any person this side of Charlie Sheen has ever had in an Irish bar on a Tuesday.
Clearly spurred on by the two hired dancers, patrons were now volunteering to take part in a dance-off on a small stage at the back of the room. The price was something like a $100 bar tab for you and your friends. I’m not sure what the exchange rate was at the time, but based on what I saw next, 100 Aussie bucks must go pretty far in Adelaide.
Three girls from the toga party took their shot at “glory” onstage, each finishing with less bed sheets on their body than the previous one until the final contestant decided it was too hot outside to sleep with any linens on at all and then showed off what the good Lord gave her, and he gave her some good stuff. Your $100 winner, ladies and gentlemen! My Matlock/Lt Colombo detective skills (actually, more just a hunch) tell me that she was brought in by the bar staff to stir things up. I say this because she did things you don’t see from any woman who hasn’t rocked platform heels as an occupation. We’re talking scissor kicks with no sheets or knickers covering anything. If she wasn’t a stripper by night, she’s leaving the hard-earned money of many men on the table.
Before I get into how the night ramped up, I feel it’s important to state that this was a Tuesday night and to point out that evidently the day of week doesn’t matter much when it comes to partying in Cairns because it’s as much a backpacker town as any place on the planet. Best as I could tell, heaps (Aussie term) of young people from around the world blow into town on bus tours of some kind, see the reef and/or the rainforest, spend a few nights at a hostel drinking and fornicating, then move on down south toward the Gold Coast. You don’t get the impression that too many people actually work any kind of 9-5 job in Cairns. Most of the jobs seem to revolve around tourism, and, with one of the world’s natural wonders just off the town’s front porch, I suppose they should.
After having a few pints with my new pals, the scene picked up a bit. In other words, a toga party arrived. Yep, it’s still Tuesday. Among the toga party crowd of 25 or so people in their twenties and thirties from Adelaide were several scandalous looking young ladies with nothing against creating a little attention for themselves. Before long, two hired female dancers in cowboy hats and jean shorts with inseam lengths that specialized in brevity were on top of the bar dancing around poles that were rolled out as props. Effective props, I might add. I’m not even sure how I just remembered the cowboy hats, to be honest. This was starting to turn into the greatest time any person this side of Charlie Sheen has ever had in an Irish bar on a Tuesday.
Clearly spurred on by the two hired dancers, patrons were now volunteering to take part in a dance-off on a small stage at the back of the room. The price was something like a $100 bar tab for you and your friends. I’m not sure what the exchange rate was at the time, but based on what I saw next, 100 Aussie bucks must go pretty far in Adelaide.
Three girls from the toga party took their shot at “glory” onstage, each finishing with less bed sheets on their body than the previous one until the final contestant decided it was too hot outside to sleep with any linens on at all and then showed off what the good Lord gave her, and he gave her some good stuff. Your $100 winner, ladies and gentlemen! My Matlock/Lt Colombo detective skills (actually, more just a hunch) tell me that she was brought in by the bar staff to stir things up. I say this because she did things you don’t see from any woman who hasn’t rocked platform heels as an occupation. We’re talking scissor kicks with no sheets or knickers covering anything. If she wasn’t a stripper by night, she’s leaving the hard-earned money of many men on the table.
This, of course, riled up the crowd, who now turned their attention back to the bar where hired female dancer #1 and hired female dancer #2 were beginning another round of routines. When they concluded, it was time for more patrons to take to the bar top, including guys who thought they could dance and some who clearly knew they couldn’t but were not going to be out-efforted in the make-a- fool-of-myself portion of the competition. Among these was our new Irish plumber buddy, Alan, who chose to reveal his badly sunburned chest and back while twirling his shirt around above him. You’d hire that guy to fix your sink, right?
When things slowed a bit (girls stopped getting naked) we moved on to Gilligan’s, a hostel/entertainment complex with square bar, pool tables and high-energy dance floor. Based on the fact that there were 200-plus people in here on a Tuesday night, the hostel/entertainment idea is a brilliant business model, actually. The jungle tour I had reserved for 8 a.m. was in jeopardy. Then I heard the voice of reason again—“Tim, how many times will you get to do a jungle tour in Australia?”—and set my alarm for 7:30 the next morning.
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