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The annual ritual of getting to the party haunts Rodney Hinde.
For me one of the most exhilarating elements of any major gay event at the former Showground is the excitement and anticipation as we all traipse from Taylor Square, down Anzac Parade or Greens Road, past the barracks and across the grass of Moore Park.
It’s a denim, leather, sequin, feather and largely scantily-clad convoy of GLBTQs in various states of undress and gorgeousness, strangely reminiscent of some epic film depicting crowds of freshly freed slaves crossing a border to claim their 40 acres and a mule, or wandering Jews joyously finding their way to a promised land; clenched buttocks, fake tan and sucked-in abdominals worthy of any Cecil B. de Mille extra – pockets full of pills a major yet politely overlooked detail.
And for a now-responsible late thritysomething who spent much of his twenties in a drug-fucked haze, it is always a trip down memory lane. However, during Mardi Gras 2007 the trip triggered a deliberately suppressed memory.
With an almost decade-old career-crushing drug conviction lurking in my addled mind, it was with abject horror that I received the dreaded text message wiring itself along the caravan of party-goers alerting us to the presence of sniffer dogs at the only entrance to the event.
Shock, anger and disbelief – the usual responses to unpleasant news. Accompanied by tales of police brutality, political conspiracies and exaggeration.
Everywhere there were hands darting down socks and undies in the belief that designer fabrics were somehow impervious to the canine olfactory sense. Seems the belief was not misplaced, as the only toxin the dogs seemed to pick up on was fear.
Seasoned queens in Calvins jam-packed with goodies sailed past the feverish dogs, while nervous fag hags in Supre frocks were hauled across the pavement, their night (and perhaps their lives) ruined by two tablets and an enthusiastic labrador.
My cool-as-a-cucumber friends held their heads high, as I held onto the waistbands of their G-Star jeans in a vain attempt to steady my shaking hands. No amount of reassurances assuaging my panic that I would be next in the police line-up.
So as I turned my ashen face to the left and espied a burly policeperson of indeterminate gender in an industrial blue boiler suit heading straight toward me with a chop-licking pup in tow, it was all too much for this highly strung faggot, who abandoned his friends in favour of a nearby wheelie bin, wherein I cast my six $35 a pop ecstasies with mixed emotions of sorrow, resentment and relief. And although relieved of one burden, upon entry to the party I was saddled with another – that of scoring again, or, God forbid, having a fabulous drug-free Mardi Gras party experience.
’Twas a short-lived burden, however, as once inside the gates, all those hands were again darting down the socks and undies, illicit substances a plenty being proffered (for profit).
And as I forked out yet more cash in the name of a liberating experience I considered the oppression of our people, the token gestures of our forces, whether they came under state or federal jurisdiction, and wondered where Clover was when we needed her most.
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