SINK. rates and ladders.

How many meetings does it take to kill a man? We can’t be far off.

Last Sunday, we met with George at a Thai restaurant in Kirribilli (more famous for it’s tiny Thai women than it’s food) to discuss the next edition of SINK, but with George’s credit card on the table, we swiftly spiralled into stupidity.

My photographer, James, was walking around the restaurant in a tuxedo – stalking the waitress, while George detailed his newest idea for a good story.

“I want you to review a brothel” he began in his London accent, his face a sweaty mess from the abundance of chilli we’d just eaten. “I think it’ll make a great story, could even become a regular…”

I queried into the legality of his latest idea, to which he simply replied: “this is a new rag my boy, we’ve got to keep it edgy!”

There was no time to argue with his ridiculous concept, as James had stirred the kitchen staff with his behaviour. He was now trying to kiss the waitress and asking for her phone number… The Walrus paid the bill, left a hefty tip and we stumbled into the night.

The Walrus gave us some cash as he squeezed into his Daihatsu, but before we had time to ask for a lift back to the city, he’d rolled off down the hill grunting: “Call me once you’re done!”

The Walrus’ garbled yawp brought a twinkle to James’ eyes. Still a little damaged from the waitress’ lack of interest, his ego appreciated the idea of storming a hooker.

“Sure – why the fuck not? Have we got any booze left?”

I gave James the money from the Walrus and told him to get a couple of long necks and a bottle of wine – he came back with 2 bottles of Chimay and a bottle of vintage port and some white Muscat… we barely had enough money left for the train, let alone a punt.

…

We eventually arrived back at Central a little shaken, we had shared our carriage (and our Chimay) with a gap-toothed drug dealer with a lazy eye and an aggressive head. He seemed a nice enough guy (perhaps swayed by our booze), with a love of the word ‘pussy’ and a myriad of mobile phones squeezed into his left hand. However,  anytime someone would walk through our cramped carriage, Gappy would hulk into a strange rage.

“Oi! What the fuck are you doing you pussy?!” he’d bark.
“Just walking to the next carriage” was the standard reply.
“You calm the fuck down!” Gappy would order, staring at them with his bigger eye until they sauntered out of sight.

He was a nice enough guy to us – and that’s all that really mattered.

…
We were stumbling up Elizabeth Street towards the Brothel, when we saw that someone had left the front door to Hibernian House wide open, James demanded that we went in to take some photos – and I agreed based on the premise that we met someone interesting and got a quote or two on prostitution.

The graffitied guts of the Hibernian were a bit too much to handle right now, our blurred words still staining the walls from our previous visit (we had crashed an industry party ‘disguised’ as nude bartenders) and we were beginning to realise that not many people want to open their doors to the press at 11:00 on a Sunday evening.

We got to the roof, drank some more and James got the photo he was after, as well as a delicious ladder he found on the way out; “this is just what we’ll need” he announced maniacally.

“What for?” I asked, already helping to carry the ladder out the front door.

“Who knows?” James chuckled, winking with one, stupid eye.

…

We were now drunk enough to enter a brothel with confidence – and a ladder.

…

The security guard who answered the front door of the Black Cat was not what I was expecting. He looked less like your standard standover and more like a country footballer. He was slow in all of his mannerisms, from movement to speech, drifting around on his venison limbs. More surprising was how accommodating he was to two young press members with an antique ladder and a camera the size of a hatchback.

“Do you have a ladder room?” James inquired in a strange, new accent – shaking the ladder with his spare hand.

The guard assumed him joking at first, until the silence became deadly awkward and he agreed to rest the ladder by the cloakroom.

The Madame greeted us and took us through the price list (which we couldn’t afford to even consider) and took the batteries from James’ camera. The agreed activity was that James was going to “do nasty, nasty things” to one of the girls, while I sat and watched with a cup of tea.

I had hoped that our ridiculous request would be enough to get us kicked out and back into the cuddling arms of the street, but The Black Cat turned out to be a most accommodating whore house.

The Madame told a girl to put the kettle on as she escorted us upstairs and into an uncomfortably small waiting room.

We were seated in a corner, surrounded by curtains, with giggles and grunts coming from every, audible angle. And before I had a chance to remind James that we had no money – the girls began parading in front of us one by one, performing the same routine they do every night:

“Hi, I’m Jacqui” a gorgeous blonde with a creepily young face chirped, as she twirled back behind the curtains.

“My name is Sandi – pleased to meet you” a tiny Chinese girl in lace shook our hands as we inspected her like a second hand car.

And this went on as the seven girls were brought out to us one by one, all the while, unsuspecting that we had no money, or control of our cocks.

“I have suddenly lost all confidence in this” I whispered to James as the Madame approached… It’s been too long between drinks.”

“Don’t worry” James soothed instantly “I’ve got a plan to get us out of this without losing face.”

And with that, he shot off the velour couch like a startled frog, shook his sleeves down like a pianist and marched over to the Madame.

“My Dear, we have encountered an issue” he began “my friend here as lost all confidence in our mission and I have lost all faith in my cock.” This puzzled even the accommodating Madame. “You see Madame, I am quite drunk… and afraid that I may not do your girls justice with this amount of booze in my system.” He was talking like an English lord and his movements were precise and stately as he round off his final remark: “However! I took a liking to several of your items and I solemnly swear that as soon as most of this booze has left my system – I shall come back and systematically defile at least 4 of those girls. Especially the blonde one with the teeth.”

I expected to be thrown out. I’ve heard tales of false gamblers having their hands smashed with hammers and I was beginning to drown in fear for my cock and balls.

But the matronly Madame smiled, gave James back his batteries and simply said: “Then I’ll be seeing you soon love.”

The security guard handed us our ladder and we strolled back into the awkward night air, trying our best not to giggle.

But once the funny wore off, once reality kicked in – I realised that we’d done it again. We’d spent all of the Walrus’ money and had no story to show for it… his final words still echoing in my head.

I tried to explain our situation to James, who was standing in the middle of the road, taking a piss at whatever car came past.

“Don’t worry Robbie – we’ll just give him the port – Poms like port right?”

He was strangely right, our fat editor would see this as a wonderful apology, regardless of who paid for it. Or perhaps we could cook up a false story? I’m sure the hookers would play along… We could invent some brilliant tale of Asian threesomes and present the yarn to our editor with a bottle of vintage port!

So, we walked through the night air, drunkenly oblivious to the emerging Monday morning on the horizon, stumbling through Surry, swapping fake stories of beautiful women and wild sex, laughing through the stillness, carrying an antique ladder on our shoulders

But we had no sooner reached the front door of our safe house when I realised – James was no longer carrying the booze.

…

So, we walked through the night air, dragging a ladder behind us, bickering with one another like angry octogenarians. Staggering through the morning, all too aware of the impending Monday – back to get the booze.