The gay telegraph has been running overtime, you can still hear it, rat-a-tat-tat. My phone screamed at me: “Did you hear?” “What’s happening?” “Are you working tonight?”
Rumours flying around with no one knowing much — ‘he said’, ‘she said’ all piling into the biggest Chinese whisper, some facts, others overheard from a friend’s friend’s aunt.
Not long ago gossip travelled from mouth to mouth. Now we are saturated with technology, a tsunami of messages via text, voicemail, Facebook, email and the odd bump into someone on the street.
A basic fact like a shop shutting can transform into a wonderful story, which may include Russian spies. Their cover blown, they had to make a quick exit to their homeland.
Hearing this, you nod. “Yes, I thought there was something strange, they used to come in and out at all times of the night, and with that sexy accent … well.”
The real story is they closed to paint the place.
The real rumour washing over Sydney is about the Midnight Shift. There is a buzz about what is happening, and there is no denying there is something a-brewing.
With no facts, I really have nothing to say. I received a message on Saturday to say that I would be working as usual and the club will be trading.
When I skipped in, an official-looking man was walking around with a manila folder, not smiling much. And two new security guards who had a hard time understanding that I was the man who did the show, and the bag I was carrying was my costumes.
It must be my masculine butch look that confused the security guards — it confuses me sometimes too.
All the staff have our fingers crossed that the venue will operate as usual, and if there is any dramatic change, that it will still operate as a gay venue.
We are sitting tight till something more concrete is rat-a-tat-tatted to us.