The best gay friends are the ones who live in the city centre, in those sleek queer-looking buildings, with ridiculous swimming pools, oversized gyms, impressive views and all a stone’s throw from the scene. Right?
Little did I know that one of these friends of mine would soon be the solution to our looming global shemozzle, the GFC.
So, I got really excited at news he found a place last month, with unobstructed city views, a gym, Olympic-sized pool and smack in the centre of Sydney. I wondered if it was a scam where you rock up on moving-in day to find your bond money being spent by cyber-bandits in the Ukraine. That thought only lasted a nanosecond as he offered me a tour.
“Bring your towel so we can go swimming,” he said.
As we shared the lift (only servicing upper levels) our fellow passengers were clutching the usual rich-people items — ugly pooches, Louis Vuitton shopping bags, wanky key rings etc.
As we got off at level 43 and entered, I got really excited at the thought my friend had finally made it as a power gay, living in a luxurious residence. Ha.
My jaw, face and towel all dropped onto the tiled floor when I saw his room. My friend was living in the laundry. No windows and the fixtures still attached. It looked about two-by-two metres and made the booths at Bodyline look oversized — at least those had room for a sling.
How would my mate make out in there, I thought? It only looked possible standing up and if he backed in the wrong direction I am sure a bronzed washing-machine pipe would have gone up his
ass.
We sat down and had a drink and it was at this point I realised we had singlehandedly solved all the world’s upcoming problems.
What awesome practice this was for the GFC! Think about it seriously for a second. If people pay to live in converted laundries, let’s all rent out the spice rack, broom cupboard and bathroom so we can keep our credit card payments down and continue shopping.
Besides, I’ve had loads of deep and comfortable sleeps on and around my toilet (although not yet in it) after a trashy night on Oxford St, so what’s the issue?
By JEREMY MASPERO
