It began like any other SINK meeting, with a great deal of misguided creativity and too many drinks. The Walrus (George – our fat editor) wanted a photo piece on Oxford Street… it was going to be a big night for old Oxford and he wanted photos. He also explained that he had wired us $40 and told us to lock down a domain name for the website [ED: It was $50 and I’m not fat].
After meeting with George and sharing a few ales, we entered the throngs of Friday night at the impeccable hour of seven. With the hand Canon and the notepad in tow, we were ready to report on the crims and the creatives that haunt this great city. The problem was, this town is no-one’s friend at 7pm. The crowd was a bland psychedellia of black and gray as the corporate crowd lingered in all the right spots, not yet purged by enema of oddly dressed weirdos we were hunting for. The photos were posed and the people were mind-numbingly lackluster. We needed an interview with a homeless person, a model and an angry drunk… none of which were going to be around at this wretched, sterile hour of the evening.
So, we decided to tick box 2 and purchase the domain name for the new website. Though, to cure our horrific sobriety, we stopped along the way to purchase a hipflask of what appeared to be lighter fluid. We tried to return it to the bottle shop on Bourke, but those arrogant arseholes refused to accept “tastes like death” as a valid reason for a refund (the bottle was also surprisingly empty). Meanwhile, James (my photographer) was currently locked-in a heated argument with a television crew, screaming “You have no idea do you? Do you? Do you know what I am? Fuck you!” Apparently someone had the stones to ask if he was an actor… I pretended to understand and we walked away.
We purchase more booze for the walk and staggered around Surry Hills looking for an internet café that wouldn’t kick us out (which was becoming quite the running gag along the way). I have no recollection of where we actually ended-up (when we eventually went back to assess the damages, the store had been bulldozed… horrifically hinting that the whole thing may have been our conjoined dream), but wherever we were – the ethnic man behind the counter became an instant chum. He seemed pensively ignorant of our lack of sense, sobriety and social decorum – and did not mind that we puffed our pipes in the store. He simply took $2 for the use of his archaic computer and went back to singing against the songs spewing from the narrowcaster. And as we filled the convenience store with the old-age smell of pipe tobacco, we soon slipped into a familiar panic. SINK.com was taken… as was SINK.com.au. SINK.ORG.AU was available and it was the only remaining possibility on George’s list of approved domain names, but we had spent a hefty portion of the Walrus’ money on booze… making it an impossibility to actually purchase such a credible domain.
So, sliding under the justification of “A site by any other domain would still smell as sweet” – we purchased something a little south of the border – SINK.es. And like all things south of the border, they asked for no identification, no ABN and only took a tiny bit of the Walrus’ money. During this transaction, James had grown bored and began forcing our neighbouring computer’s display into a tub of water. An awful sound occurred and we exited the store with a brisk skip into the night air.
James was becoming angrier and angrier by the night’s inability to deliver him a good photo (which now had less to do with the general public and more to do with our collective drunkenness)… this rage eventually culminated with James smashing a coffee mug over my head. Blood began dripping out of my head like a stuttering pump, slipping behind my right ear and onto my shoulder. James’ rage was swiftly swapped for fear and he called St. Vincents in the hope of speaking to a nurse. She talked us through and we stymied the bleeding with a miraculous use of rags and an old, leather belt.
The nurse’s final suggestion was to pop into hospital, at which point that arsehole photographer hung up the phone. “No time for this nonsense” he blurted “we’ve got work to do!” He forced a hat on my bleeding skull and we staggered into the evening.
The photos were featureless, my notes were nonsense and we purchased a Spanish domain… Success?
Rob Scattergood.
Pictures by James Bloodworth