Journalism is the sort of career that takes you places. America, China, the Middle East – there are stories all over the world, and they all need someone to write about them. Of course, in the first seven or so years of my career the furthest I got was Cronulla, but I assume I’m the exception that proves the rule.
So when the opportunity came up to fly to Toowoomba for the opening of the city’s first strip club, The Vault on Ruthven, I was all over it. Of course, I didn’t realise that Toowoomba is sort of in the middle of nowhere, and that there’s no airport, but I didn’t let that stop me. It was a chance to get out of the office, so I booked my flights and headed to Queensland.
It took two trains, a plane and two buses to reach the Garden City, and after six or seven hours of traveling, I was thirsty. Thankfully, I was met at the bus stop by The Vault’s owner, Thor (no, he didn’t have a huge hammer, or a beard), and he was just as thirsty as me. He took me up to the club, where he poured me a beer and told me I wouldn’t be paying for a thing all night. Shit a brick, nothing tastes as good as free beer!
I’m not gunna lie, I made the most of Thor’s hospitality, and enjoyed a bucketload of beautiful beers as he took me on a tour of the city’s best pubs. I’ve never been treated like a celebrity before, so it was brilliant, and Toowoomba really is a nice place. It’s definitely a step back in time, with a church on every corner, but the place has a great vibe to it and really is nicely presented. But I wasn’t there to admire the architecture, I was there to get monstrously drunk and perv on nude sheilas, and I succeeded at both.
After checking into my hotel (and being mistaken for a stripper by the lady at the front desk – there might be a career in it for me), I wobbled back to the club and was surprised to see a decent line forming out the front. I felt like a golden god as I swaggered up to the hefty bloke on the door and made my way inside while the other chumps waited. Shit, I could get used to this celebrity stuff.
It was choc-a-bloc inside, with hundreds of horny dudes drooling over the many spunks in attendance. Everywhere I looked, there were tits and fannies, so I grabbed another beer and settled in at the VIP table, next to a rapper named K-Nob and some sort of extreme sport yo bro dude called Gravy. K-Nob’s name was certainly appropriate, and the only thing extreme about Gravy was how extremely stupid his name was. But I wouldn’t have cared if I was seated between Hitler and Hotdogs from Big Brother, because all I cared about were the ladies on stage. And the beer, of which I consumed enough to drown a fish.
The girls on stage were very talented, and by that I mean they all had great jugs. Most of them were amateurs competing for the title of Miss Vault, with a handful of Oz’s best clothes-removers along for the ride. Actually, they were much more than a handful!
As I slipped further into the warm embrace of blackout drunkenness, I must’ve become very charming because, despite having spew all down my shirt, a very pretty young lady too a keen interest in me. Now, I’m a smart guy, but despite being at a special guest at a strip club, and there being no girls other than strippers in attendance, and barely being able to talk, and having a small amount of sick on my shirt, all I could think was, “Wow, I’ve pulled!”
It’s not the first time I’ve been convinced a stripper actually liked me and it won’t be the last, but the chick was fuckin’ smokin’, so I rolled with it. I mean, it was all free and it was nice to get some attention from someone other than the fat, bearded chick who lives next door to me (hi, Glenda!), so I ended up having a sweet night. I partied like a maniac, made a fuckwit of myself, lost my female companion in the crowd (on reflection, she probably finished her shift), danced in a cage and even managed to wobble on stage for a photo, then promptly fell off stage and into the crowd.
I don’t remember what happened after that, but let’s just say that it was wild, and that I may have touched some boobs at one point. They basically had to pour me out the door at the end of it.
I ended up staggering back to the hotel alone, and was confused and angered when my key wouldn’t open my door. I banged on the door and yelled out like an idiot, and a few minutes later – as if by magic – it opened. It was opened by magic, though, it was opened by the little old lady who was staying in there, and she then went on to point out that I was on the wrong floor. She also kneed me in the nuts which, on reflection, probably wasn’t unreasonable behaviour.
When I woke up on the floor the next morning, it felt like skinheads had been tapdancing on me in the night. After spewing up a few litres of warm beer, I set out on the seven-hour trip home. As I did my best not to shit myself on public transport, I was able to reflect on an odd and wonderful 24 hours, where I was treated like a kind and acted like homeless drunk, spent time with beautiful women and was assaulted by a grannie. A month later, I no longer worked at The Picture, and my story on The Vault was pulled for reasons I’ll never understand. I like to think of it as my last hurrah in the world of porn, a final wild story that came when work was not an enjoyable place for me. I’d like to take the opportunity to thank Thor for his hospitality, and recommend that if you’re in the area, drop into The Vault.
Because, really, who needs exotic locations and a respectable job when you’ve got tits?