by MATT NORTON
Over dinner a few weeks ago, I was having a conversation with some friends about homophobia. My stance was, that personally, I’ve never really experienced it. I’m English. I grew up in Scotland. The extent of ‘discrimination’ I experienced came from the locals who were still a bit sore that the English beat them in some war a long time ago. Or something.
I did have a can of beer chucked at me on holiday once. Terrible waste. I assumed it was some statement about my taste in shoes, which I quickly discounted due to the fact the dude was making it from the back window of a 1990 Honda Accord. Those in glass houses, boys…
So, what happened on a Saturday in January was a surprise. My friends and I went on a booze cruise which, I know is asking for trouble especially when a key selling point is the free t-shirts on which you’re expected to draw penises. Or when the the aim of the game is to avoid a lap-dance from an Elvis impersonator. In my defense, I thought it was a corporate do, I was invited by a digital marketing agency… lordy! I turned up with business cards.
But, reticent to scrap a Saturday plan, three girls, two boys and two gays (myself and flat mate, Tom), set off, suited and booted with the promise of some chicken salad on the high seas. Well, Sydney Harbour.
All in all, we got off quite lightly with ‘Elvis’. The girls from other parties flashing their boobs at passing boats kept themselves to themselves…. kinda. But, while the boat pumped out “D-I-S-C-O” and other such club classics, little were we to know that there was a storm-a-brewin’. (Like that? It’s a little boat joke!).