Heat degrees

The place: Heat 'Discoteque and Cocktail bar' (Also known as the locus point where dignity collapses on itself).

I spoke to four males, three by virtue of sitting at the bar, sinking Tooheys (beer on tap in these places is beyond pathetic)after losing the people I was with in the haze.

Sam - was with a girl, and we made some joking comments at her expense and the short exchange ended with him buying me a drink. No wonder there are so many horrible women out there: it becomes clear how many females venture out with little or no money, relying on their pancake make-up and legs to subsititute for personality. If I can be rewarded with a drink for simply being friendly, imagine the drinks I'd get if I was a good looking woman. The onus is on the males to change their habits.

Edward - from Canada, 22, approached the bar with an older woman. I insisted that he not buy her a drink and he agreed, since he had only known her 35 minutes and seemed like the type who hadn't been out in ten years and was relying on the folly of friendly males to pay her way all night long (and would still have the temerity to object to the description 'whore'). Edward was bald and asked me to guess what instrument in his punk/ska band he played. I guessed singer, but he said drummer.
'But drummers are fat, not bald' I insisted.
'No, no, ' he retorted, 'Drummers are fat *or* bald'.
He writes for popmatters.com and has been here for only 3 months. He alerted me to the fact that popmatters is looking for pro-bono writers.
Other topics discussed: Green Day re-politicising punk; Jet being ok in his books bcause 'anyone who can sing Cold Hard Bitch with a straight face is all right' but that they shouldn't do ballads ever; the new Cradle of Filth album was terrible; the popmatters staff is based in New York so I should dispense with the pleasantries if I apply for a job.

Jason - had a front tooth missing, described himself as Afghani and was there to support his 'cousin', a Serb, who was working behind the bar.

The fourth man was Molly Meldrum himself. As we were leaving, he was walking in with a small entourage (the only remembered-member of which was a very small, skinny guy), wearing the hat and all. Someone alerted his presence to me, and I spun around to find myself face to face with Ian, and shook his hand. I said, in a bout of verbal
diarrhoea worthy of the climax of a Rob Reiner film, 'Molly! I'm sorry, mate, I love you' and, cooly, he replied 'Don't be sorry!' And he was off.

Was Molly worth all those hours in Heat? We may never know.