Sunday, September 16, 2012

Sydney Harbour Scrape



Oh, why not.  Everybody knows everything I've done (including some police stations in North Sydney, and Prague, of all places).

The time is January of 1999.  Some things have changed, and some have stayed the same.

Here goes: It was the last day of a month-long work stint in a boring office building in North Sydney (just across the Harbour Bridge from Sydney proper) that I decided that as a farewell party to my short-term co-workers I should get them good and soused.

So I announced over email that that evening we would gather at my corporate-rented apartment, adjoining the water's edge of the North end of Sydney Harbor, and have a drunken party.  A sort of "all are welcome; none gets out alive"-kind of affair.  I am happy to report that all showed up, and all got out alive.

But there was ... underwear swimming into Sydney Harbour to the extent of reaching the chains of anchored yachts (about a quarter mile, in the middle of the night).

Now, for the second half of the story:

It was around 4 am, after the irresponsibility had been taken care of, and all had gone but me and a certain other, that the police showed up.  A noise complaint from the neighbours, of course.  I might have gotten away with it if only I hadn’t left the stereo on too loud.

When my "certain other" was asked to show up at the door and present identification, and I went back inside to do the same, the next thing I hear is "Stop! You can't do this! Don't you know who I am! Do you know who my father is?!"  Oh boy.

Turns out that the UNcertain other flipped out his ID card from his wallet a bit too quickly and nicked the policeman's cheek, and thus they dragged him away from the doorway, filing it as assault.  In this instance, the police had no time for lineage.

I had to stay up the whole night, dig out a phone book just to find out what police station he had been taken to, call a cab .. the whole boy-scout bit.  I got him out of jail (barefoot; he hadn't been wearing shoes at the time of the drag-off), and literally kicked him on the ass as we walked off from the station.

So, the point of the story is:  Don't look for trouble, it's got your number and it will find you.  (Also, when you play with foolish boys, turn the music down).

Something I may or may not recommend depending on which ad is shown: