Something strange and fun happened on the way to the pool last night, Ivy pool that is. Ripped_panel_beater and I were up for a pay-day break- out, so we were on a our way to The Strand Arcade’s free Cointreau Christmas Cocktail Party when I decided it was best he didn’t drink on an empty stomach after the last few disastrous nights out where he had drunk before eating and ended up shit-faced at the dinner table sleazing onto poor innocent girls trying to eat at the tables around us. So seeing as Mr. Panel Beater had been kind enough to sponsor the last few big boozie nights out due to funding issues my end, tonight was my night to reciprocate, so off we went to sushi on Stanley Street, and then walked through Hyde Park into the city. We missed the Cocktail party and went to Marble Bar (boring), then Zeta Bar (also boring) both in the Hilton, then made a bee line for Ivy, and choose Ivy Pool, which was also full of stuck up suits without a clue how to party, despite drinking like fish. But at least it was busy. We struck up a conversation on the island in the middle of the pool with a bunch of bankers from the Royal Bank of Scotland, and were suitably bored with our time with these wanker bankers, when out of the night a very glam glam, tall leggy brunette came bounding onto the island and wanted a chat. She told us she hosted parties, then asked for coke, then told us that the hot blonde that the whole club was staring at, who she was here with, was a high end escort. Suddenly her motives seemed to crystallize, and she was viewing the island with the 5 males on it as a money making opportunity. Seeing as last time were out Mr. Panel Beater had bought drinks for girls who turned out to be hookers, I was thinking to myself what is it about this guys, does he had “will pay for sex” tattooed on his forehead? We were in the middle of the pool with the whole club looking on watching this extremely hot hooker poll dance the umbrella, lap dance me, and generally shake her money makers at the whole place trying to drum up business. I decided I wasn’t happy being part of this public spectacle after a little while and voted myself off the island and went and talked to her friends under palm trees. Apart from the extremely tarty looking hot blonde (you have never seen some one spend so much to look so cheap, if my fucking blackberry camera was any good I would have photos to prove it) there was also an extremely hot Italian stallion and a rather nice faggy handbag along for the ride. Turns out the Italian was disappointingly brought up in England and sounded like one of those unfortunate characters off East Enders. He was tuning the hot blonde something chronic, and was forcefully asking her for sex in front of me. Which was hilarious because despite looking the goods, his attitude shot himself in the foot. I love it when hot people don’t have the brains to turn themselves in the lethal package they could be if they only had nice manners. Mr. Panel Beater latter found out that the blonde had treated herself to a vaginal resurfacing and she actually wanted to fuck the Italian but couldn’t due to her new designer vagina, but the Italian didn’t know this and just kept begging harder and harder, so funny when we all knew why she was saying no. 
Out of nowhere a hot black beautiful young man, who says he is a cage fighter from Los Vegas appeared on our sun lounge, flirting outrageously and feeling me up in front everyone even though he had a “girl friend” in tow. She was apparently his promoter doing the rounds of Sydney booking him a fight for sometime in the future. She was majorly in love with him and I could tell she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown as she was so deluded she had let herself believe that a guy, who looked like him, would ever fuck her more than once. She had another suitably frumpy white girlfriend in to toe who kept trying to pull Mr. cage fight off whoever he was draped over at the time saying “Those too are engaged” Apparently they had only met at the airport 4 days ago and fucked once. Other frumpy white women would come up and go week at the knees talking to His Royal Black Hotness, salivating all over the concrete, it was sooooo bizarre. His Royal Black Hotness ran off to the toilets with the leggy coked up brunet and the gay hand bag, and Mr. Handbag reported that his big black cock was indeed as big as he was promoting all over the club and that he had sucked him off for 5 minutes in the toilets with an audience, got to love those toilets at a Ivy pool, the only club where they encourage group sex in the showers!
The Black Hotness managed to ditch the wicked white witch and hang with our little hot posse, when I asked where she was, he said “who cares” and the hand bag said “probably at the bottom of the pool drowning her broken heart” and I said “weighed down by the ball and chain that she is” hahaha we all laughed at her delusions. And Pain. Hahaha I’m still laughing now. Turns out the_opens theory that white women who have black boyfriends, are all greedy bitches, might be true (See An Existential Crisis) Turns out the tarty blonde wasn’t a hooker, she was banker who dressed like a tart, and the brunet ran invite only swingers parties and the Italian had met the blonde at one of those. And both women had children! Visions of the tortured Saffron Monsoon waiting at home for her drunken mother to come home, “I guess you havebeen making a spectacle of yourself all over town again mum, I can’t go anywhere because of you, thanks a lot, I hate you, you fucking slut!” The brunette wanted to go for a ride in the inflatable swan in the pool and was trying to negotiate her way into it in 8 inch heels, the whole club was watching with baited breath and with cameras ready to catch the moment she went tits first into the pool, but unfortunately she must of managed a moment of clarity in her coke haze and it never happened.
When I got home I realized I actually picked up last night’s under pants and put them in the wash hamper, this was one of Bridget Jones’ points in her manifesto on telling the whole truth about Bridget Jones at age 32. I’m only 30 and managing to do it, slightly drunk, and I guess a blog is a little like a diary. So I am either two years ahead of Bridget or that movie has educated a whole generation on how to not end up a lonely old spinster who is eventually eaten by her own Alsatians after dyeing alone.
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