5 Reasons The Photographer Hates You.

[Disclaimer: You can't spell 'satire' without 'ire' - as in, the ire you feel when you mistakenly think this piece is about you.]

It's no secret to those who read my blog - all four of you - that I'm well-versed in the craft (debatable) of photographing at nightclubs. I've shot tens, possibly hundreds of nights out, photographed at various parties, social functions and sophisticated soirees, frequented by newly-legal social butterflies; more mature folks; bearded indie kids in "ironic" flannelettes - and of course, fabulous homosexuals.

I've written before about people in clubs in my piece The Nine People You'll Meet At Venues, which covered the hilarious walking stereotypes I've seen parading around social functions, that despite years of changing cultural trends and the slow demise of various celebrities still hold true to this very day. What I neglected to cover in full detail however, in that piece rife with caricatures and offensive generalisations, are the ways in which those individuals affect me - the photographer. Because I have feelings too.

I'm going to take great pleasure in what I'm about to say:

I hate you. All of you, I hate you. I really and truly do. In fact, if I weren't currently working for a whimsical nightlife wonderland which permitted me the creative freedom to ignore your various shenanigans and focus on the acts, the venue and the atmosphere at hand, I'd probably still be stuck with you. And it would be awful.

I would have no choice but to succumb to your every whim. I'd be at your beck and call, unable to brush you off with a wave of my hand nor crush your gargantuan ego with the exhale of my cigarette. There are reasons why I hate you, my friends, acquaintances, bleary-eyed drunken fools - and I'm going to let you know. So let's delve into the five reasons why I hate you, and maybe some of you god damn white-girl-wasted miscreants will consider changing your behaviour. For my sanity, and the sanity of my people. Because us photographers cop a lot of shit.

This is not an exhaustive list, nor do these words and opinions represent anyone but myself.

Five reasons the photographer hates you.

1. The fucking awkward lean.

Women. Beautiful, gorgeous women. I see you sitting in the corner of the smokers room, or shuffling with your girlfriends in the middle of the dance floor - purses firmly wedged between your feet lest some gross bro-dude try and nab your wallet, or worse the little baggie of cocaine you bought from your promoter friend who swears it's legit but is really just crushed-up nurofen mixed in with a little bit of sugar from their mothers' kitchen cabinet - and I know that you know I'm there. Every week without fail, one of you will turn around and usher in your friends for a whisper, the desire for a photograph seeping from your pores like Paris Hiltons' latest shoddy excuse for perfume. You'll glance up at me, your eyes will flicker down momentarily to the camera around my neck, and you'll rush over with your gal-pals in tow - then ask me for a photo. I will oblige you, because it's what I'm being paid to do. 

You'll all line up for a photograph, pick up your bags - because god knows everyone wants to catch your fake Prada on Facebook - and then all will be lost when the inevitable happens. Hips will lock and backs will arch. It's the goddamn awkward lean.

I don't know what absolute monster made this particular pose a necessity for girls in photographs, but if I ever meet them I'd like to personally extend them a thank you for making it possible to weed out the decent people from the intellectually challenged. In fact, it's arguable that the more a girl leans over into the ribs of the friend next to her, the more likely she is to enjoy acts like Avicii and partying at outer suburban nightclubs. What are you supposed to be? What does it represent? Is it Strong Woman? Because it looks more like Frontal Lobotomy, and after putting up with it thirty times in one night I'm not too far off jamming a blade through my own front lobe.

This is the pose that differentiates the cream of the crop from the Stereosonic chick in denim booty shorts. This is you crossing the bridge from Delta Goodrem to Courtney Stodden, or worse the entire female cast of Jersey Shore. It's even more painful when they throw in a bit of duck face for good measure - nobody wants to see the four dollar lip smacker you slathered all over that outrageous pout. And I know, I know you've seen pictures of photographic models pulling awkward lean-esque bodily contortions in fabulous streetwear - but the fact of the matter is, your bones and features are just not angular enough to pull it off. There are other ways to unleash the diva within. I suggest buying some real cocaine and making friends with homosexuals.

You're better than this. You were meant for more than this. Stop it. Even if your parents don't believe in you; I do.

2. Photobombing and other stupid shit.

A photobomb can be funny when executed at the right moment. There are pages upon pages on the internet dedicated to some flat-out genius executions of the act. I myself have engaged in a number of photobombs and understand the absolute undeniable hilariousness of jumping in the background of a snap someone is taking and ruining an otherwise nice group shot, by pulling a face that makes you appear reminiscent of a demon from the dark and ugly depths. By all means, continue to hop in the back and pull ridiculous expressions when I'm bored out of my mind taking group shots of smiling teenagers. It keeps my job interesting, and it makes my night easier having to deal with hundreds of braindead patrons that all seem to want to spill a drink on me.

However, like flirting and oral sex; there are ways to do it and there are ways to not do it. Do: Jump in the background of a bunch of girls awkwardly leaning and terrorise their photograph. That's hilarious, and it's going straight online. Don't: Jump in the foreground of a shot I'm taking of the venue, or the headlining act, or an otherwise influential figure getting a photo as a promotional tool to prove they were there that night (because our venue is the best venue and all the cool people come here). How would you like it if someone jumped casually in the background of your wedding video? Or if someone massacred a clip of you giving birth by making stick figures with surgical tools? Or if your mother walked in halfway through your live-streamed masturbation session to tens of strangers on the internet? It's moments like those where other extraneous variables just aren't necessary - and frankly, you're fucking up my shot. Stop that.

And when you're done fucking up what were supposed to be some atmospheric wonders for the eye to behold; don't stumble over all bleary-eyed and giggly expecting to see the photographs. And especially don't ask me to take your picture. I am very good with Photoshop, and you do not want to know what I'll do with that photo of your face. Better start thinking of a gay porn name, because you've just been promoted to internet sensation.

A short list of other intolerable behaviours: Gang signs made with hands. Thug life crew shots involving several guys with their shirts pulled up over their faces. "I'm so fucked up look how fucked up I am" poses. Flipping off the camera while it's pointed at the crowd. Molesting your (ugly) partner. Exposing your genitals for the camera (see: I am very good with Photoshop). 

You might feel like a jokester and a hero at the time, but be warned. Those photos aren't going anywhere but my hard drive - and I've got a lot of time on my hands. I will 'shop you taking a dick in your ass.

3. Your requests border on harassment.

If I'm trying to get from one room to another, it's probably because a very important act is playing that I need to photograph, or because I've ingested far too much sambuca and need to throw up. Sometimes, though, the room is incredibly packed, and the journey from one end to the other is an arduous mission all its own, which results in a lot of weaving and making myself very small in order to navigate the crowds, which whilst holding three grand worth of equipment can be absurdly difficult to manage without accidentally dislocating an arm with a blow from my camera lens. When I am finally in place to photograph the main headliner, or in the queue to regurgitate my innards, it feels like all is well. But this dire time of need - and the urge to vomit hard liquor waits for no man - seems to always be when the lot of you camera-happy wasted wenches wants to run over for a photograph.

I have no problem photographing people. Genuinely, I do not. Oftentimes, if someone is particularly jaw-dropping, I will accost that person for a photo all on my lonesome, because we need you in our album. However, when I'm standing there, visibly focused in pursuit of an excellent photograph of the headlining act, the creme-de-la-creme of the music industry, is it really necessary for you to rap repeatedly on my backside an infinite number of times because you're desperate for a snap of you kissing your friend on the cheek? Stage lights change - as a song heats up, things become more dazzling and vibrant - and I might only have mere seconds to get the shots I need before everything goes dark and foggy, just like all my hopes and dreams. I ask you - can you not wait five, ten minutes, before I get a photo of you and your out-of-state friend who's never been to this club before but swears it's the best place on Earth ormaybethat'sjusttheMDMAtalking?

I realise how much you appreciate your nights out. I do. You've had a hard week. Perhaps you work at Coles stacking boxes, or you're an up-and-coming corporate executive lashing backsides all day. I'm here for you. I'm here to make you feel nice, to make you feel warm and fuzzy and welcome. But here's the clincher - I'm staff too. This is my job, my passion, and anyone who has ever seen me at work will know that the sight of me in the depths of a creative outburst whilst photographing the high and mighty lords of electronic music, is not too dissimilar from witnessing the visible effects of ecstasy.

All I ask of you, is that when I'm visibly engaged in photographing an act, that you don't shriek in my ear or punch me in the shoulder or throw me a death stare like I've just called you morbidly obese because I didn't respond within the fraction of a second that you wanted me to. I don't come into your work and sit on your desk whilst masturbating to photos of my own face - so just be patient. We will get there. You will get a photo of your bois and gurls having a drink at the bar, and it will be a special bonding time. For now, though, just leave me the fuck alone so I can do my job.

4. You're just too cool for this.

There will always be a subset of unique individuals who think that they're just too great to ever be photographed by someone as feeble and insignificant as the in-house photographer. These guys only ever want to be snapped by friends on disposable cameras, or alternatively by The Cobra Snake, because the only reason they're even out in the first place is to project their blatantly misguided sense of superiority outwards for the world to see. I personally blame their parents: instead of helping them achieve realistic goals and develop their skills, they've instead drowned their kids in affection, showered them in fantastical praise - and landed up producing some of the biggest and most insufferable narcissistic monsters I've ever had the displeasure of encountering. They're just too cool for this, and even so much as approaching them with a camera in hand is met with a response as if you'd shat on the ground in front of them.

It's a disappointment, really. These guys generally know how to dress, and it'd be a shame not to have them in the album. I mean, Givenchy is still Givenchy even if Daddy payed for it. Plus, you'd think they'd be more inclined to pose for a photograph if they knew their face would be plastered all over the internet. But they don't. Social climbers young and old have made names for themselves by popping up on Facebook pages the world over, always lurking in the confines of a photo album displaying the attendees of a special event or social function, the next big thing du jour - so why not you? What makes you so special? Or is it that I'm simply not special enough? It's always the latter, and you're always sure to let me know: The in-house photographer is worthless. I mean, I don't even have a blog.

Well guess what, bitch. I've been around this town, and I've been pissed on and degraded more times than I can count by prissy little shitstains such as yourselves, who think running a fashion blog makes them the next Rachel Zoe. The money I could have spent on Alexander Wang I instead invested in camera gear, and that should be neither here nor there - but to someone like you, it's simply an affront that I don't invest my time in doing up my wardrobe over my professional inventory. I'm going to give you the serve your mother never did, so here it comes:

Nobody cares. It's unfortunate, but it's true. So stop the bullshit; smile for the camera. You look pretty damn good, so own it. But before you take this as an opportunity to go from too cool for the camera to the centre of every stage; cease to hurl your bitchy narcissism unto me. Thou shouldst know I give less of a fuck than a coked-up Charlie Sheen. I will indulge your fantasy of glamour and your fever dreams of winding up in Vogue, but I will not indulge your arrogant side-eye when you realise I'm the in-house photographer. You paid to get in just like everybody else, so unless you're willing to flash those boots you spent almost two thousand dollars on, cut the bullshit, refrain from spitting on my face, and keep fingering through that September issue in lieu of acting like you're in it. You've got some life lessons to learn.

But really: if I tell you I'm a street style blogger, will you let me take your picture?

5. You think you're tough as shit.

Occasionally at the venues I frequent there will be an influx of males who look as though they've stumbled in from a cheap strip joint after drunk-hollering at the ladies and throwing five dollar bills thinking they're "making it rain". I can't dictate who enters the joint - that's the doorgirls' job - and suffice it to say I am at the mercy of these characters from the moment they catch a glimpse of me, looking straight out of an ad for G Star Raw, or the figment of my hypermasculine nightmares. G Star Raw is not so much a clothing label as it is a state of mind - if not that, then Mossimo or the rough side of General Pants - because you can always spot a shopper of that sort and kind by their attitude. You can also tell they probably use the word "shoppo" unironically, and no doubt took up a trade because it accommodated their tan and fitness regime.

You hulk over to me, dribbling spilt tequila on your printed muscle tees purchased from brands like G Star Raw which haven't been culturally relevant since Guy Sebastian won Australian Idol, and expect - no, demand - a photo, using your brutish masculinity as a way to coerce me into bending to your will. The Boys will gather up before me and strike some sort of bro-pose - generally the reverse-and-to-the-side peace sign, or alternatively the straight-and-casual stance with the blank facial expression like you've just been told 'the condom's burst' - or HEAVEN FUCKING FORBID you flex your muscles. And yes, that has happened. More than once. 

If the photos are unsatisfactory, you make out like it's my fault, and almost threaten me with your physicality - like I am somehow responsible, like I gave birth to you whilst smoking meth. Like I'm now on a hit list, or will soon be the victim of a drive-by bottling. But here's the thing: it's not me, buddy, and it's not my camera. All I did was point it and press a button. That was my role to play in this scenario. It's you. It's you who looks like a foot. It's you who resembles what I could have been if I'd decided community football, anabolic steroids and date rape drugs were for me.

You're not proving anything by intimidating the photographer into taking a shitty photo. You're not making me want to run from you and hide whilst simultaneously wishing I had your "aesthetics". Your bodily progression is admirable to me simply because most days I cannot be bothered walking to buy smokes, let alone lift a pair of measured weights. Your fashion sense is shit. You are shit. And I hate you. But I also want you to be my friend because this section of the article will piss a lot of people off and if there was ever a person you should engage a gang war for, it's definitely me. 

Now back to the gym with you.

---

But really, the harsh reality is that this is a job like any other, one which demands at least a decent level of respect. It's easy to mistake it as one big booze-filled fuck-around - and oftentimes it is; just ask my liver - but there's a lot more to it than just pointing and clicking. It's a craft in and of itself, which involves methodologies and creativity and talent and skilfulness, all fully available to be pursued by anyone who feels like doling out five thousand dollars and a small chunk of their soul in the process. I encourage anyone who genuinely believes it's a laugh and a half to try it for themselves - deal with the sweltering crowds, tolerate the self-sustaining stereotypes and attempt to fill a quota whilst engaged with wasted wenches and hassling patrons.

Photographers don't get the same respect as a doorgirl, or a bartender, or a security guard. Oftentimes all we have to protect ourselves with is a staff lanyard hanging from our necks - and even that goes wilfully ignored when a camera comes into the equation. When you've had a few brews and suddenly your inhibitions go out the window, replaced with the desire to fulfil liquor-fuelled egotism, who can blame you for getting a little pushy with the photographer? Everyone wants a snap on a night out, so they can have something to remember their night by when the morning creeps up and the hangover kicks in.

Us photographers hate you for so many more reasons than we can comfortably express without fearing the loss of our jobs, and these are just a few of them. So please. For all of the snappers that have come and gone before, and all of the youths no doubt plunging themselves into the depths of the nightlife to pursue a questionable career shooting babes and big acts - consider these. Consider your friends, the photographers. Because Photographers Are People Too.

I need to go and edit some photos from the weekend now, because my job doesn't end in the three to five hours I spent shooting on a Saturday night. Hopefully I won't need to 'shop a dick in a mouth.

"Fucking *patrons*." - Ancient venue staff proverb.

21.

As I lie here in my bed, slightly hungover and both rifling through music to put on a playlist and watching episodes of Firefly from 2002, I come to the realisation that in a brief hour and fifteen minutes, I will be 21 years old. Has anything about today encapsulated what has so-far been my early twenties? Has today been a fitting and well-rounded step into future days as a 21 year old? Today I ate a stack of food in bed whilst in a mildly hungover state and watched TV shows that are over a decade old. The answer? Probably not.

21 in my family is supposed to be this remarkable age where you suddenly flourish with maturity and wisdom, and when I look back at all the 21sts I've attended throughout the years, everybody always seemed so grown-up, and while not wise to the ways of the world, per se, definitely wise enough to put myself at whatever age I was, to shame. 21 is the first big party you have - and I've never had a big party. I've never celebrated my birthdays in any particularly extravagant fashion, because I've never been allowed to. 21 is "a big birthday", and I won't see another "big birthday" until I'm 30.

What have I achieved and accomplished this year? Moreover, what have I learned?

I would say the most apt answer is, well, I've learned how very much I do not know at all.

I've learned that I'm too young to make bold statements about myself, because I'm forever changing. I've realised that the things I say and do not need to purposefully define me, nor do I need to explain myself every three seconds regarding something I've said and done in relation to something I'm saying or doing; I've learned to edit, to rewrite. I've learned that cutting out toxic relationships does not mean wiping slates and friendships entirely clean, eradicated with efficiency like windex to wine stains; I've learned that no matter what you do, there are always going to be people in your life in some capacity that have hurt you - but despite whether they're in the same city, street, or even in the same room, they do not control you, nor can they hurt you again or take a hold of you, unless you let them, and if you know to let them brush past you with ease like perfect strangers akin to a passing breeze, then that is all they will ever be.

I've learned that it's possible to move on from being badly hurt, despite how even as your life changes course over and over again, the pain still lurks in the back of your mind - and I've learned that to still feel lingering woes and grudges from severe betrayals is, too, okay, so long as you do not let those hatreds stagnate within you.

I've learned that people are wrong when they make sweeping statements like "Those people are not your friends"- because statements like those imply that you are either a stranger or a friend to someone with no in-between, and it insinuates that relationships are formed with the same boring formula over and over again. This isn't true at all. I've learned that I can meet people in all different capacities - in the street, in bars, in clubs, on holiday, on the internet - and those people can be just as part of my life, and I can feel just as strongly for them, as I could a close friend I've known for years. Because it is not about how long you have known a person, or how you met a person, but about how that person makes you feel.

I've gained a sense of community in my workplace. I've felt included, comfortable, and at ease in an environment that I might previously have felt anxious about. I've settled. I've learned the value of productivity, of doing at least some of the hard yards - and while I will never have a Bugati or a Maserati, I have learned to appreciate myself, to feel confident in myself, and I have felt honest pride at the notion that a person I hold in high esteem might seriously appreciate myself and my work.

I've met people that I am confident I will know for years to come - because I've realised how very young I am; how painfully inexperienced, and how you don't need to rush around and question your connections with every second person, because you have years to form relationships and strong bonds.

I've learned that, as much as my sometimes-crippling anxieties might fool me into thinking otherwise, my life will not end tomorrow, and there is no need to run blind into the night pursuing goals that might not be achieved for years - as long as I'm happy, content with the company that I keep, I can take a moment to smell the breeze, to note the industrialised beauty of the city, and that's okay. I've learned that every mistake, lie or hurt can be forgiven - and sometimes, those dramas can transform themselves into opportunities.

I've learned that what I do is just as valuable as what you do, and just because I work at night does not make me "a party girl" - because with my job comes that sense of community, and there is merit in its aims, even though you might not see it. I have learned not to apologise for myself - because I am fucking awesome, despite being weird as fuck, and no pretentious fuckwad side-eyeing me for lame commentary can knock me down. I have learned that a fantastic mind is more valuable than a Dior shirt, and honest affection without expectation of reciprocation is more precious than gold. I have learned that one beautiful person who radiates positive energies is more valuable than ten people with negative world-views - even if the hippy-esque notion of 'positive energies' might make me nauseous, it's true.

I have learned that a big night out won't kill me, and I have learned to thank my anxiety for making me cautious - for making me smart.

Lastly, I've learned that there's nothing wrong with writing sappy-as-shit little pieces like this about all of the wonderful things I've learned in the past year, because while putting away that yardstick I use to measure my life might be in my best interest; while keeping score or formulating an image of myself might be the fast lane towards denying reality; sometimes you need to remind yourself that you're doing alright.

Even if you're lounging around in bed for days after the hangover has faded, uncertain of what you're doing or even if you'll ever get to do the things you form in your mind - even if you're terrified that in a flash you're going to wake up at 30, the next "big birthday", having achieved very few of the things you put your mind to once upon a time - just relax. Breathe. You're not going to die, and you're not going to fail. You're - I'm - still so young, despite being twenty-one, and it's amazing once you figure out that everything is forever just getting started.

I'm experiencing a lot of hopelessness and dissonance and you should revel in that with me.

I'm about to start an overdue assignment. It's three in the morning. It's meant to be on one of many books that we may select. Unfortunately, I possess none of those books. I do not have the money to buy said books. I have attended one class of the subject the assignment is on in five weeks of the semester. This is due to a combination of being horrendously sick for about four weeks, and having my face fitted with braces metallic enough to make me appear reminiscent of a character from Revenge Of The Nerds. There was also this one time where one of the wires on my lower braces SPRUNG FREE FROM ITS CONFINES AND BEGUN VICIOUSLY POKING THE INSIDE OF MY RIGHT CHEEK UNTIL IT BLED PROFUSELY UNTIL I COULDN'T TALK AND HAD TO HAVE AN "EMERGENCY ORTHODONTIC APPOINTMENT" TO FIX IT LEST MY CHEEKS WIND UP IN TATTERS. I now have a severely sliced-up mouth and a very poor attendance record.

So naturally, I'm thinking I'll just drop it.

That will put me down to two subjects this semester. I'll technically be a 'part-time' student.
But you know what? Compared to the gruelling pressure and shame of being consistently absent, inept and late-to-the-party where uni is concerned, I would consider it a blessing. It also should be mentioned that it'll give me a lot more time to watch re-runs of Doctor Who, and I consider that to be far more beneficial to my existence than any second-year Literature subject. More than that, it would give me more time to focus on the things that I enjoy - like photos and writing.

What I'm saying is, I've hit a mental slump.

I referred to it over the weekend as being in 'two worlds'; as having 'one leg in, one leg out' of my university studies. On one hand, I'm a privileged student at a university studying a creative writing degree and I owe it to myself/my future to attend/get shit done. On the other, I'm kind-of a photographer kind-of working nights and kind-of feeling professionally and socially committed to that glittering realm of relentless disco-piggery, pained hangovers and kewl musak. Two worlds.

The nagging question in my mind in the face of all this lifestyle dissonance is this: am I hopeless? Am I descending into an abyss that will land me without a degree and eternally unemployed? Will I wind up like -insert failure relative here that everyone has-? Am I going to wake up in a few years time having achieved nothing with my life but a well-trained liver?

I feel stuck. I thought I'd have done more by now. Some of my friends are the editors of big magazines and copyrighters for fashion brands and designers of popular labels and international jetsetters, whereas I can barely save up a few hundred bucks by the weeks' end without blowing it all at Revolver on a Sunday morning. Last weekend the bartender gave me a free pot of cider - simply because my card declined. Now that's tragic.

Let's make one thing quite clear: I am twenty years old. Twenty-one in October. Sure, some people have their shit sorted out early - but those people are freaks. I am a youth-stricken post-adolescent with plenty of time, but despite knowing how much freedom I've got to explore and binge on sangria, there's still that listlessness that comes from not seeing an end game with any of the things I'm doing, and from having the motivation to tackle the things (read: the degree) I set my mind to when I was eighteen.

Then again, when I was eighteen and started my degree, the only nightclub I'd ever been to was IQ Thursdays, and I never fathomed at that point that I would wind up taking photos at clubs and bars every week for the next two and a half years. That just wasn't something I could see myself doing. Hell, I could barely stay up past five in the morning. If a potential one-night-stand wasn't interested by two in the morn, I was going home because fucked if I'm having it off with a total stranger when I could be passing out in bed over McDonalds and a movie by three instead. Now, though, it's "Good afternoon, family. It's one in the afternoon, and I'm going to bed. Forever. And no, I'm not on drugs. But don't look in my eyes."

That's when I realise that I've been feeling this for years, and it's not even my fault. I'm not even entirely to blame here, because I didn't do this to myself. We were taught this in primary school. We were taught this in high school. We're still having it fed to us like cattle being fattened up for the slaughter:

"Go to school, go to uni, get a degree, get a job, work-full time until you wind up married with children". 

That's the natural process which we are forced to contend with. That is the measure of your success, and failing at achieving this list of expectations set out to us by society can cause - as I'm experiencing - a lot of discomfort and a feeling not at all unlike a mild midlife crisis. And the worst thing you can do to yourself is decide early on what you're going to do for the rest of your life, because before you know it, you're twenty years old lying in bed at four in the morning feeling completely unsure about what it is you should be doing with yourself, and whether or not you even like any of it at all.

The pressure to simply be a success is high and mighty, but unfortunately for those who laid their whole lives out in front of them before they'd had their first cocktail or STD, life doesn't always pan out the way you planned. I'm going to try and get my shit a little more together, while possibly putting down the yardstick I use to measure my life with. My skin might clear up, too, and my braces might fix my face faster, until I am a beautiful twenty-two-year-old with a magical jaw and perfect complexion - AND MY SHIT TOGETHER! (Not.)

I think I'll drop the subject. I'll acquire six credit points this year as opposed to seven or eight - but at least I'll feel a little more free to experiment with other areas of interest that I enjoy. I don't want to drop everything and sink into my mattress, because I sure as fuck want my degree. But I do want more freedom to explore my own head and what it is I actually want out of the next two or three years - because shit is forever changing, and if you don't agree with that, then you're an idiot who's probably well on the road to "stuck" too.

Sangria, anyone?

A Collection of Poems #2: Second-Year University Edition.

This is the Art

This is the Art

The woman, driven and lost in her own curiosity

Ascends the wooden staircase from the dim-lit crowd beneath

A dinner party at one in the morning; red velvet hues

This is the Art

He awaits her in cover of dark

In the room next door

So much hope

This is the Art

A young lady sits at the bar of the gathering beneath

She sits idly by, staring, furrowed brow, holes in the wall

Vibrating with such immeasurable anguish

This is the Art

The party pianist plays pleasurable musical prose

Bouncing off a beautiful audience lulled into a stupor – it proves fruitless

Yet he is still deeply mesmerized by his own fingertips

This is the Art

A boy kneels over in the bathroom, shielded by a stall door

He retches, his heart rate pulses and then plummets

Wondering amidst his panic: where can I come by a hit tonight?

This is the Art

An elderly woman passes by the building with its red hues glowing from the windows

Peers inside, but cannot bring herself to marvel over young ladies with long legs

For she was once a spritely thing

This is the Art

The fine lady sings the blues – so very well, such curves, so sensuous, so fine

And is watched by all of the tuxedo-wearing penguins scattered about the room

A shudder at the stand. She is the courtesan helplessly fondled.

This is the Art

An old man rests his legs at a stool by the bar, watches the sad one

He sees the crowd as a mindless blur, all the children of time blending into one

Seems to age hastily in the presence of their vacuity

This is the Art

A girl on the rooftop three floors up, spellbound by the sounds three floors down

Young and freckled, slender, flaxen-haired, satin smooth. She teeters off the rickety edge

She takes a step forward, spreads her angel wings, and flies away.

The Lost One

They say that if you blink three times in a mirror

Candles lit all around, of course

And say three times, “Rise, The Lost One, prithee”

That I shall rouse and rise above to claim thee; and it’s true.

Though I haven’t the foggiest about the blinking – nor the ‘prithee’!

The last time I claimed a soul

A woman walked merrily down an alleyway aisle after being consumed in scotch.

I thought to myself, “Well, that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

Popped out of the wall in a shadowy form, intangible

Cleaned her right off the sidewalk – not even a peep!

Children sometimes sing about me

And it’s not insulting; rather a little cruel and unkind of their elders.

Shouldn’t they think to say, “Let’s not teach the children of him, those frightful man-eating deities!”

I’m simply obligated to steal them now.

And who’s to say I’m even a man – I might well be a woman!

My lair, it’s grown a little overstocked

Too many different bodies to constitute a decent wallpaper or ornament

But I suppose it’s my fault, “I’ll take the tiny shack in the nether realms!”

Though I suppose I can’t complain, really

It’s rather difficult to bother about space – not when you’re incorporeal!

I’ve found it rather lonely though, you see.

Wherefore art the dating websites for ethereal spectral succubi?

What would my profile read – “Dainty baby-eating spectral witch seeks fit, sorted, similar.”

And I wonder, are there even any men left,

As I’m fairly sure we killed them all – they couldn’t do anything right!

Though I suppose I can’t complain about my life

Or rather, my un-life, however left of centre it may be

The goblins still pop out of the sewers to say hello on the occasion, “Go away, you evil bitch!”

I throw them the bones of my leftovers sometimes when I’m finished,

As I’m often finding myself a little overfed – and hobgoblins cannot live off rats and mice alone!

Still, I tell you, of all the pains in my un-life

The worst would be the ones still alive when I yank them through the spectral void.

So frightfully loud and agitated – “Please, let go of me; I’ll do anything!”

They flutter about in my arms, screaming rubbish about servitude.

You’ll sit quietly, silly girl – skinning is a fine craft.

I suppose it’s all I’m good for, really,

Skinning infants and donning witch-rags to steal the souls of the innocent.

You’ll have to excuse me for my actions – “My baby, where is my baby!?”

It’s a hard-knock life in the abyss, and a girl has to eat her share.

So goodbye for now, I’ll take the child – I’m sure you can make another!

Train-hoppers

Derelicts, drifters, vagrants, vagabonds.

They would know to call us names from the clothes we wore.

Tearing at the seams from a journey never ending

We have no home, no fixed address, or place to rest our heads

But for the harsh stone spine on the coal trains’ back

Flying low across the tundra.

It is not an ordinary life by any means -

‘Tis not for the young, the dainty babes,

Nor the unsullied.

Eventually you grow accustomed to the scent

Of smog: smoke so thick you could choke in an instant

Should your skull loll in cloud forms’ way.

Once I had a friend who scaled the hills with me

Those rusted ragged shapes and structures.

Her hair was blackened, though she swore blonde roots.

Her cheeks lit up when twilight settled. I watched her become fire.

The train we rode sang ricka-ticka-ricka-ticka-ricka-ticka

But she sat idly by in silence, staring holes into the spirit of the universe.

We paved our way across the land

To destination unknown, fabricated by our hand.

One thousand hundred million miles, it seemed

She stayed in dreams, while I watched the skies and surrounds.

Rucksack tight against my chest for warmth, we flew

Leaving dashes on the world map.

Several times my friend bled -

But there can be no aid, so she let it seep.

Several times others came looking for us,

Ones with no intent to fly across the soil as we were.

We hid between the carriages and beneath crates and chests

Until they went away, and the train picked up again.

My friend and I met many on our wild and wondrous ride -

Other travelers amiss in civilisation but awash with the need to journey.

Trading food and warmth,

Dirty-faced smiles and pleasant exchange.

Where have you come from? Where are you going?

All aboard the locomotive. Our train into the wild.

Then one day, when all was calm,

And the vehicle had come to rest before a storm,

She bid me farewell – that blackened mug, blackened hair.

Those cheeks lit up not for dusk, but for me.

She took off into the night, a wisp, unperturbed.

Our paths diverged.

My journey carried on across the continent

On the back of a roaring dragon of smoke and steam.

Its wings flapped, screeching out into the sky,

Rolled over hilltops, towns, and deserts – through other peoples’ dreams.

We blazed trails upon trails and were never bored.

Watched the land zip past in motion blur while we stayed perfectly still.

One day, however, the rolling journey came to an end.

The wheels stopped. I hauled up my rucksack. I hurled it overboard.

Clapped my feet down onto the warm, dry ground.

I picked up my things – and took off on foot.

Journeying, for some, is a delicate venture into wealth

But there is no venture quite like losing everything by choice.

I boarded many more machines, and many others with my spirit, my presence

Came to join me - other pilgrims on a journey of discovery away from industry.

Rode the backs of roaring dragons o’er lands untouched by man.

Derelicts, drifters, vagrants, vagabonds.

Worshippers of serendipitous circumstance.

Yet still as I pave my way across this strange earth

Places so unfamiliar as to bother and shock

When the sun slowly begins to set, and twilight takes hold – but for a moment

I remember my friend – her cheeks alight with wonder, her hair and soul aflame

As another day did lose its way down the side of Mother Earths’ mountain.

Sitting idly by in silence, staring holes into the universe.

Such is our plight - these transient days.

Derelicts, drifters, vagrants, vagabonds

Homeless, hobos, miscreants, criminals

Pilgrims, journeyers, adventurers, wanderers

Forever Train-hoppers.

- Based on the photographic works of Mike Brodie.

Skin

Still I can feel them crawling in my skin,

Through veins and arteries freely to play,

In time the transformation shall begin.

In deepest sleep I saw them writhe in sin,

And none did rise to meet the light of day.

Still I can feel them crawling in my skin.

My blade did draw from me an awful din,

Set blade to flesh and run along to flay,

In time the transformation shall begin.

You tried to drag my form back to my kin

Fruitless to keep my evil spawn at bay;

Still I can feel them crawling in my skin.

Danced long into the night to rid my twin,

Yet still he tore and ripped in bloody spray

In time the transformation shall begin.

And now, my love, I loathe the fool I’ve been

My lips apart with darkness making way

Still I can feel them crawling in my skin,

In time the transformation shall begin.

Tour de Inferno

Suicide is tricky.

I should know – I’ve attempted it several times.

I’ve even managed to achieve it successfully.

What? Boy, wipe that shocked look off of your mug.

What do you think we’re doing here?

Yes, well, if you ever manage to get it done right, you’ll no doubt wind up here.

In the belly of the beastie with the whores and liars and queers.

It’s not a bad place – actually quite a treat, almost romantic.

Well, between the torture and the fire and time infinite (also known as boredom).

There’s also a rather fetching barbecue night on Thursdays.

So tell me – was it a once-off experience or did you fail miserably?

You can tell me. We’ve got time. All of time and space, in fact.

It’s a tour de force through pain and anguish

A long and winding sorrow – a terribly insipid snare.

Oh, stop crying, child. There’s nothing you can do now, is there?

There’s Hitler looking askance. He’s a gem once you get past his fascination with eugenics.

Brit Murphy is in the corner with MJ talking pharmaceuticals.

Most of The Beatles are in the other room, playing for the big mans’ minions.

What? Didn’t you know that all celebrities are bound for here?

Well, I suppose not. Its not like anyone really knows until they’ve kicked it, do they?

Speaking of kicking it, I’m still so curious – how did you kick the bucket?

Was it a self-performed car crash? Drowning? Gas-in-the-car-show?

Or was it a plain old-fashioned slit-wrists biz?

I can see you’re a bit calmer now. That’s good. So which was it?

I’m quite fond of reminiscing, you see. I’ve had years to be nostalgic.

Oh, hang on. We’ve got to sign you in.

Yes, well, there are a lot of us here, with more coming.

I’ll need your name, date of birth, and your still-beating heart from your living years.

No, dear, we don’t need a blood sample – it’s long since coagulated.

You’d sooner die here than feel bliss.

You hear that? That’s the sound of another poor sod getting a lashing.

The crack! is the least of your worries. Indeed, it’s terribly contrived.

You should be frightened of what you can’t see.

The invisible deities. The silent shrouds.

The flecks of dust in light beams.

Well, now that that’s over, it’s best you be on your way.

I’d start in the torture chamber and make your way to the casino.

Oh, no, you don’t get to play. You get played for.

For whatever part they might be interested in taking.

From looking at you, I have a hunch you’ll wind up feeling a tad emasculated.

Anyway, I’ll be off. I’ve got to go get spit roasted by the Manson family.

No, I mean, an actual spit-roast. Fire, death, smog. Speared in the gullet. Charming.

Try not to get lost. It’s a very big place.

It’s a little bit like jail - if jail consisted of ten-foot daemons from your most Lovecraftian nightmares.

Every terror you’ve ever envisioned, locked in chains of a cavernous kind.

Oh, and – I know you’re confused. But trust me, dear.

This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity – you should be happy you’re here.

No tour-de-force, rather a tour-de-inferno.

You’ve made your bed – now lie in it. Try to lie with glee.

They prefer you smiling through your teeth.

War: A choice

This was not a choice that I desired to make.

They argued with me and told me no,

Grabbed and grappled at my arms through teary eyes.

They screamed until their voices were sore,

Blind from salt-water drops of love dripping down onto the denim of my shirt.

I shrugged and sighed.

My tears met theirs, and flowed together.

This was not a choice I could have changed,

When I arrived to the damned station to bid adieu to normal life

And when they screamed and begged for me not to depart

My own heart tore asunder into shards of glass

So that when I looked into them, into my own forsaken eyes

I could not recognise myself. I could not cry.

This was not a choice I would have pursued, was it not the only one available.

Many boys would have agreed, yet none could brave refusal.

Still we trekked and slipped and sled

Until our feet were sore, and packs we could not heave.

Then we heard a rattling sound across the sky. A boom. The squawking of birds.

And knew the first platoon were to come to an end. Too soon.

Now I carry my own cleaved flesh across the dust

And wipe my own blood from out of my eyes.

I hear my comrades fall behind me with a deafening thud

And feel the burning toll of the sun pound down upon my skull.

I trip, and stagger to the dust, let out an awful scream of indignation.

I claw at the sand, attempt to stand. Bloodstained yellow.

Soon it was only I who remained in the barren wasteland of our pain

And I trekked evermore across the land, below starry skies and God’s hand

Then I feel something strange pluck at the strings of my courage

A rusted harp so close to strings snapping apart.

I feel a weight falling over me

Was this death? But no… Lightness. Feathered. Floating. Free.

Now I float, indiscernible from a stiff cold breeze,

Blow warm smog on the window of home in wintertime.

And as cruel time spins clocks ‘round that doomed date again

I descend, lay a hand upon a fragile shoulder – I mend.

Then sometimes, when desolate melancholy strikes, I rain upon the world.

Salt-water drops of love, wrung from the denim of my shirt.

This was not a choice that I desired to make.

Heterotopia

Heterotopia

The stillness in the room.

The ceasing of any ebb or flow, of any liquid form of time or space or tempestuous desire, existing outside of the confines of that one expanse in the realm.

An uncanny place that is “neither here nor there”.

You stand up, unsure of your surroundings. You are in a small and softly lit room, with light billowing in from a nearby window, and you quiver at the strange and sullied notion that something is not right. You look down at your wristwatch, the one that you carry around with you to tell the time and inform the schedule which so ruthlessly dictates your days; the dainty little thing, a circle of gold around the outside, leather on the strap; you hear a ticking, and you see the watch move – but you do not know for whom it slowly chimes. The wristwatch, it seems, ticks only for you. It ticks with a smile, relaxes and stretches over the curves and contours of your wrists, and cuddles the very skin of your flesh, beckoning you to unwind and take it all in.

You gather yourself, and make your way over to the windowsill, covered by a curtain, one with billows about as if affected by a light breeze. You feel light fall over your face from behind the curtain, as soft and as velvety as the drapes themselves. Small flecks of dust particles scatter about and dance playfully within the beams of filtered light shining down upon you. You pull back the curtain with a rustle – and are horrified to discover that outside of the window there are bricks stacked high and mighty, and the light itself billowing seamlessly like the velvet fabric of the curtain you so roughly pulled back, is naught but an illusion cast upon you like a holographic dream. But you do not fear being locked inside; for the bricked-up wall seems to smile at you, and you know that it is stacked high, sealing you inside, locking you within your strange and uncomfortable surroundings - only for you. For you and only you. It seals you inside, remains sturdy and dependable, and keeps the warmth in, beckoning you to stay strong and stand tall with fortitude.

You turn around with a start, and look in front of you only to note a tall and mighty door standing mere meters away, away from the bricked-up window with its daintily wafting drapery. You take several uncertain steps towards the door, the floorboards of your strange little room creaking in your wake, and when you finally reach the mighty door, antiquated and battered, you attempt to pull it open at the handle. It swings outward – and you are horrified to see that behind it, stands another door, as tall and as mighty as the one you had just yanked from its bearings. You realize, too, that the door you had previously opened, the one with the rustic handle you held in your hands mere moments ago – had disappeared. The door before you was indeed the same door you held in your grasp. But you do not fear this elusive way, for the old door seems to smile at you, and you know that it stands tall, a mighty way, a guardian – only for you. For you and only you. It seals you inside, too, like the sturdy brick wall, awaiting perhaps a word, or a phrase, or a moment in time, to swing open and release you from your bizarre circumstance, beckoning you to make good use of your time here.

Standing back, and looking around you

You hear your dainty little watch tick over and over again

And the delicate drapery drift in the impossible draft

And the door handle creak in suffocating anticipation

You realize

This place is neither here nor there

This place is for you

But ‘tis an uncanny nightmare

The Nine People You'll Meet At Venues.

[DISCLAIMER: Here is the definition of 'satire' for those who might choose to get offended and angry over this piece. It's a hard word to grasp for some. I, myself, could not grasp the concept of satire for many years, and wound up curling into a ball of tears and shivering every time I watched an episode of 30 Rock or The Simpsons. It's been a rough time.]



Working as a photographer in Melbourne’s nightlife, it’s been [part] of my job for the past two years to document people in venues. Let’s be honest: when I’m not sashaying about taking photos of pretty lights and half-reasonable outfits, I’m most notably having some sort of eccentric-looking cocktail at the bar.

While I’m not always sober, that shouldn’t suggest that I’m not always attentive. What has made my jobs interesting – what has made them so gripping and enlightening – are not the lights, or the sounds, or even the culturally renowned DJs spinning sick beats – rather, it’s the people you meet at venues. The sometimes pleasant, sometimes vapid, but eternally fascinating and interesting people, gallivanting about the place several nights a week.

Being a dude who gets paid to take photos of various fabulous whores on their nights out, it’s hard not to notice some distinguished types running around Melbourne at night. So having said that: we’re going to go on safari. A satirical and scathing field trip, if you will, through the most interesting people you’ll meet on the town – the Nine People You’ll Meet At Venues. Whether they’re brofisting brodudes or catty well-dressed socialites, these are some of the many archetypes that make up the nightclub scene.

THE INDUSTRY FIGURE

They’re reserved, they’re observant, and they’re modestly cruising along – but judging from the looks of them, you just don’t know how to feel. They’re either dressed more suited to the Mornington races than any nightclub, or maybe they look so eccentric and vibrant-looking that you wonder if they’re modeling Romance Was Born’s new collection. Regardless, all you can think is: what on Earth is someone old enough to be my dad doing grooving to Bubble Butt by Major Lazer? Does this joint have a liberal door policy, or is it time to hide the underage girls?

Wipe that judgmental smirk off your face, child – because little do you know, you’re in the presence of the most powerful man in the room. The Industry Figure runs the night; or owns the venue – or owns half of the city you’re so recklessly pissing on. Be pleasant and respectful, because The Industry Figure could have you kicked and blacklisted with a simple text message – then barred from every club in the region, forcing you to get a taxi home. Then, when you wake up the following morning, you’ll check your emails only to discover that your order for a ticket to Future Music Festival has been mysteriously revoked. That’ll teach you for being so judgmental.

In all honesty, though; The Industry Figure is probably one of the loveliest men in the room. With a business mind, humor and genius that is probably beyond your feeble entry-level understanding, you best sit down, shut up, and pay attention – because you could learn a thing or two from this guy on how to be successful. Maybe one day that’ll be you in the several thousand dollar threads.

THE “BRO”

I probably don’t need to go into too much detail about what this guy is all about – because there’s a Bro in every industry, everywhere. About as exciting and intellectually stimulating as a rock, these poor Cotton On-wearing miscreants never quite advanced past VCE, but they sure did take a level in beer-guzzling misogyny. They flock up behind the velvet ropes in packs, with their “boys” that they met playing football as youths, only rarely bringing along members of the female gender - just to give the bouncer a reason not to knock them back. Granted, they’re friendly as fuck most of the time, and they’re here to party - and party hard - guzzling shots and pints with livers of iron, which makes for an entertaining evening. They might get into a punch-on later on, just for kicks, because their skulls are actually hunks of steel, rather than firing neurons and synapses.

They’re mostly harmless, really, once you get past the liver damage, catcalling and occasional King Street brawl, and the most exciting story they’ve got to share is from that time they got really stoned and ate a bag of chips. Ladies, beware: They will try to take you home, and you will later end up with a mysterious fungus, given to them from the multiple “no homo” circle jerks they partake in behind the scenes at overnight COD4-sessions. In twenty years you’ll find them at your local pub, placing bets on the races and loathing going home to their missus that they knocked up at the tender age of twenty-four.

MY 18^TH BIRTHDAY GIRL

Beware the screaming. Beware; for it will drive you mad.

These girls have never been out drinking in a licensed venue a day in their lives – but now that they’re finally of age, they’re going to take the night and make it theirs. Or something. They’ve spent their whole lives watching Sex And The City, emulating Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and the ditzy one, preparing for the day they can finally hit the town with their girlfriends. Now, after eighteen years of waiting - it’s Vodka Cruiser time. They’ve had their pre-drinks; they’ve hopped out of the maxi taxi, and you better believe one of them will have a big tacky badge saying ’18!’ tacked onto their Supre maxi dress - which they will all point at in a screaming mass as they approach the agitated door girl. “It’s her EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY!” they’ll shriek - like anyone around actually gives a shit.

Bar angry junkies or juiceheads, these girls are single-handedly the biggest nightmare a photographer – or any person working in any venue – could ever have to deal with. They will accost you for free drinks every five minutes. They will request retarded songs by the likes of Justin Bieber and Ke$ha, and then scream the lyrics at the top of their lungs. They will grab and pull at you demanding that you take photos of them giving awkward leans and smiling faces – god damn, can these get the hell out of here, so we can have some peace and quiet?

Fortunately for everyone, however, these abominable wenches will be out the door by one in the morning to the tune of “I’m sooo drunk, SOOO drunk!” having consumed far too many vodka-lemonades than their frail juvenile bodies can handle. At which point the rest of us – those who can hold their liquor – can drink in peace.

THE FASHIONISTA

The Fashionista only has one rule – to appear far more glamorous and wealthy than they actually are. They will assure you that they write for a heinously successful fashion magazine (if not that, a blog) – when really, the only way they’ve managed to afford the Balenciaga they don so proudly is through their minimum wage shifts at Gloria Jeans. Masters of deceit, their aim is to make you feel insignificant, as they stand idly by the bar sipping cosmopolitans and puffing out their chests, planning their next move across the club, under the full expectation that someone will recognize the designer of their attire and thus dub them superior. In their minds, the only thing that separates them from ordinary patrons and themselves - is the Burberry scarf wrapped tightly around their neck.

Unfortunately, however, someone forgot to remind them that the only people who truly care about what they’re wearing – are themselves. While it’s perfectly normal to dote on a brand, to admire an aesthetic or a stylistic choice, what separates The Fashionista from any other person who wears clothes, is the fact that The Fashionista sees their attire as an elevator of social status – and will not hesitate to let you know. Because, as we all know, donning Alexander Wang permits one to shit glitter.

Of course, it’s more than likely that a Fashionista could merely be a man or woman who genuinely appreciates and enjoys wearing fabulous clothes – but the real distinction between a Fashionista and The Fashionista, is that when the designer brands come off and the tacky tracksuit comes on; do these people still know who they are?

Well, that was deep. Deep like the pockets of a Saxony trench coat.

THE MORAL COMPASS

There’s really nothing quite like a man who insists on being the most boring and pretentious person in the room. It’s fine if you don’t want to have a drink, or do a line of coke in the disabled toilets – so long as your penchant isn’t for loudly and arrogantly judging others who choose to do so. The Moral Compass has never had a drink in his life, and won’t hesitate to let you know. He will stand in the corner for the entire night, sipping his lemonade and fanning his face whenever someone would dare light a cigarette in front of or around him. Approach him at a nightclub, and you can be sure he’ll loudly declare how he “doesn’t drink, that shit’s killer, you guys. Don’t you know how gross you look? Seriously, that doesn’t look fun at all.” – It doesn’t so much make you want to put down the double-scotch-and-coke you’re so happily swigging. Rather, it makes you want to throw down and break it across his face.

While it can be mutually agreed upon by most that smoking a crack pipe on the dance-floor might raise a few eyebrows, being off your head on ecstasy at a rave is pretty standard business. The Moral Compass is horrified at the notion that people would take E at a warehouse party, and just doesn’t understand why people need to drink to have a good time - and loudly so. The Moral Compass hates going to parties – but he probably doesn’t get invited to them, either.

In short: Shut the fuck up and sip your lemonade, or go the fuck home.

THE ONE WHO TAKES A LOT OF DRUGS

In stark contrast to The Moral Compass, the One Who Takes A Lot Of Drugs isn’t an uppity asshole at all. In fact, he’s probably the nicest person you’ll meet in the whole venue. He might even be the best person you’ll interact with all night. For the very simple reason that he’s high on something at any given moment.

 Expect hugs. Expect affection. Expect them to want to know all about your life, and expect lengthy diatribes about how “you can do anything if you put your mind to it”, and how “You’re just here doing your own thing, and it’s so beautiful, man. You’re what this is all about, man. You’re just having a good time. That’s amazing.” – [Actual thing said to me by The One Who Takes A Lot Of Drugs at a nightclub].

The One Who Takes A Lot Of Drugs is a breath of fresh, albeit mildly hazy air, and you can expect lots of hugs, affection and adoration from him or her, which will carry on all throughout the night. When you’re feeling down and out, or just want a quick chat or maybe just a cuddle, consult The One Who Takes A Lot Of Drugs, and you’re in for a Deep And Meaningful that will reshape the way you see the world.

Just try not to be around them when they pull out the little white baggie and head into the bathroom stalls, though. It might seem tempting at the time – especially after a few drinks – but trust me. They’ll be going hard until 3PM Sunday afternoon. It’s all fun and games - until you start to come down, at which point you’ll be spending Monday-through-Wednesday in the cavernous pits of hell.

THE “V.I.P”

Find them at any bar or club recently dubbed “the cool place to be” by no one in particular. See them pretending to be close friends with whatever ‘current’ DJ is playing behind the booth, whatever club promoter runs the club night, or whoever owns the venue. Hear them complain about the tacky crowd between lines of cocaine or bumps of ketamine. See them standing at the bar making minimal conversation holding fancy cocktails purchased for the mere sake of being in possession of a fancy cocktail.

See them sashay to the front of the queue, then observe them react with personal affront when the door girl refuses to offer them free or express entry, because contrary to what they might believe; they are no-one special in particular.

“Can I come into VIP? I’m a friend of the DJ. Yeah, his name is Paul. Paul who? Oh, I don’t know his last name. His DJ name? Yeah, I don’t know that either. What? No. Do you know who I am? You don’t? Ugh. I was in that music video! That video with that guy! From, like, two years ago? You don’t know it? No, I swear! Let me in! I’m cool! I belong! Validate me!”

THE ACTUAL VIP

Then finally, from amongst the ocean of pretentious douchebags, beer-swigging bros and vodka-sipping hoes – in rolls an actual celebrity.

They might be the headlining act for that night – a foreign import that the crowd loves – or they might be a big-time celebrity; a movie star, personality or musician. It might take a while for people to pick up on it – but once they do, there’ll be whispering, ogling, ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’, photos for Snapchat and the excitement building up.

The funny thing is, without the gasping schoolgirls: you’d never even know they were there.

Because The Actual VIP doesn’t need to assert status or dominance over the crowds like The Fashionista, The Moral Compass or The “V.I.P”. The Actual VIP just is. The Actual VIP does not demand special treatment (unless they’re an asshole) nor do they puff out their chests (again; unless they’re an asshole) – and more often than not, The Actual VIP does not mind mingling around the bar with patrons, with their friends or whomever they brought along prior to their show.

In a place built entirely on escapism and the illusion of glamour, it’s a sighing little irony when you discover that the one person in the venue, who’s meant to be the most glamorous, turns out to be one of the friendliest and most ordinary people you’ve ever met in your life.

Maybe one day you’ll meet again, and exchange more small talk. Maybe you’ll wind up good acquaintances. Maybe even friends. Maybe they’ll bring you into their inner circle. Maybe you’ll be the friend they brought along to their very own headlining show. Maybe that’ll be you they’ve got their arm strung over in the tabloid pictures.

Ha! Nice try. Like that’d ever happen.

THE PHOTOGRAPHER

Now, for the last of the Nine People You’ll Meet At Venues: The Photographer.

What a sack of shit.

Ugh. Get out of my face with that hunk of metal, you ingrate. Do you even know who I am? Honestly, you’re so fucking annoying. How much do you even get paid? Do you think people care about you? If you were someone important, you’d be in front of the camera, not behind it. Yeah, whatever. Get the fuck away from me. I don’t want a photo. I don’t care if it’s your job. Seriously, stop! I don’t care! I don’t want a fucking photo! Ugh, photographers! You’re all the same. You’re paid to be a nuisance, and that’s all you are. Hey, how about this – I’ll let you take my picture, if you give me a drink card. What? You don’t have any drink cards? Then what good are you? Oh my God. You’re useless! I already told you, dude: I don’t want a photo. What part of that is so hard to understand? Wow, are you new at this? How long have you been doing this for? Yeah, whatever. You’re just another hipster with an SLR. This couldn’t be, like, your job or your career or anything. You’re just another party girl who wants to get laid. Yeah, fuck off. Get out of my face. See ya.

Sob.