Tuesday 27th November

Eurgh, I got white girl wasted last night. I woke up with a throbbing head, furry teeth and inexplicably filthy hands. Details are fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure I did cartwheels down the street when I escaped Fliz, having legged it when she went to collect her hideous rubber shoes after bowling. One thing I can say with certainty is I drunk so much gold-leaf vodka that my morning poo looked like a Ferrero Rocher.

I also vaguely remember staggering into hostel reception and seeing a sign saying, ‘Male Models Required For Hairdressing Students’. Having been sporting a fusion of bed-head and lesbian-mullet since I arrived (I call the style ‘The Sleepy Dyke’), I put my name down on the two lists that were there in order to make sure I got a spot. Not only would my barnet get some much needed attention, there would be the added bonus of being able to say “I did some modelling in Australia” when I got home.

Despite only four hours sleep, I dragged myself up in time to meet the trainee, fully expecting some gum-chewing hairdresser wannabe called Sharon (or the Aussie equivalent, Sheila). Instead, I was totally thrown to be met by the dreamy Dario, a stunner of possibly Māori-descent, with deep-chocolate eyes, flawless caramel skin, fashionably-messy hair and lips that I would happily have used as pillows.

“So, ya gonna let me fondle ya locks then?” he grinned, flashing a set of perfect teeth and dimples.

I stared wide-eyed for a long moment, mumbled “scuse me”, then scurried back downstairs to brush my teeth and swamp myself in aftershave.

Dario led me to Victoria University, which I was surprised to find out had been next-door this whole time. I stumbled after him, distracted, having discovered at that moment that I’m an arse man. An awkward lift journey took us to the tenth floor and he sat me down on an adjustable chair in a classroom done up like a salon. He struggled to run his fingers through my greasy locks and I cursed myself for not washing it beforehand.

“Anything you’re after particularly?”

“Whatever you want to give me, I will take it.”

There were no obvious signs, but his chosen career suggested he could play on my team, or at least dabble in my sport. A stereotype for sure, but stereotypes exist for a reason. Under normal circumstances, I’d never get one on one time with a fitty like him, but today, as he had me bent over a basin, I had him over a barrel. He had no choice but to spend an hour or so in my company. I was doing him a favour just by being there, so maybe, just maybe, if I concentrated really hard not to make a tit of myself, he might feel sorry for me and agree to go for a drink after or something. There was just one tiny thing holding me back. He was so stunning I couldn’t even bring myself to make eye-contact much less speak.

Five long minutes later, tilted backwards with eyes squeezed tightly shut as he shampooed my hair, the silence had become so painful that saying something, anything, would be a huge relief to both of us. It helped that I couldn’t see him, so I cleared my throat and said the first thing that entered my brain.

“Did you watch the rugby the other day?”

THAT was my opening line? To a potential-Gay potential-hairdresser? Rugby? But it turns out he had, and for the first time in my life I found myself having a conversation about sport that I could actually follow. The conversation then moved on to the local bars we’d drunk in, then the women within them, and the chances of him being a fellow homo reduced with every passing comment. We’d covered Sports, Drinking and ‘Birds’, three of the five well-established ‘Safe Subjects for Straight Male Strangers’. All that was left was TV and Cars. I’d been fooled by the Curse of the Metrosexual once more. It did mean the pressure of trying to make a good impression evaporated, however, and my self-consciousness faded to the usual level of anxiety I feel when forced to sit in front of a giant mirror staring at myself.

He asked me what sort of girl ‘got my juices going’, which was awkward, but I didn’t ‘out’ myself because I was enjoying being one of the lads for a change. The poor bloke would have felt mighty uncomfortable snipping away with his bits pressed against my shoulder if I’d replied, “Actually, I love a good cock”, so technically I was doing him a favour. Instead, I just described my ideal man and added a fanny. Then tried not to vomit in my mouth.

“Geez fella. Betcha pick up some real show ponies with that voice a yours,” he said as he leaned in close to do something artistic with a pair of clippers.

My heart did a little jump as I felt his breath on my neck, and it took me a moment to translate what he meant. Yes, I eventually nodded in agreement. Beautiful women do indeed love me and my British accent, and they want me to take them home and do sex stuff with them.

“Betcha get a lot of action, ay.”

Bloody Aussie accent. I couldn’t tell if that was a question or a statement.

“Whatcha tell ‘em to git their legs open?”

I sprayed my complimentary tea all over the mirror.

This was the longest conversation I’d yet to have with an Aussie about my age, and it was clear they don’t have the same boundaries as us Brits. Less respect for privacy. Less hang-ups. Less… British, I suppose. I blushed and mumbled like a Hugh Grant cliché, and in the end was grateful when he finished. Dario brushed me down and waved a mirror around the back of my head, and I nodded and smiled like you’re supposed to. He’s done a good job, actually. My new do actually makes me feel vaguely attractive, all funky up top with shaved bits down the sides, and it even makes the piercing sit better on my face. Dario has an excellent future as a hairdresser, but he could do with toning down the lingo just a bit, especially when he’s cutting the hair of the British. It’s a real shame he doesn’t play on my team as otherwise I would have totally misinterpreted his offer to ‘take me up the Gatehouse Road’ later. I checked and it wasn’t a euphemism, the straight guy had asked me to join him for a drink. I said I’d think about it and gave him a clumsy handshake goodbye, feeling secretly and shamefully smug that I was still able to pass for straight in the first place.

Back at the hostel, I discovered the other list I signed wasn’t for one of Dario’s fellow students.

“Where’ve you been?” a frazzled man in reception asked. “They all went over half an hour ago. Hurry up and get in ya harness. Think of those kiddies with tumours!”

Confused but not wanting to appear rude, I took the strappy device he was waving in my face and allowed myself to be led back next-door to the university. Only this time I noticed the over-excitable humans bouncing down the walls.

This was how I found out about my abseil.

At nearly twenty storeys tall, the University is perfectly proportioned for amateur thrill-seekers to drop down the side of it for charity, and as I was escorted through the building someone official in a blue bib thanked me for the generous donation I’d given them last night. I nodded and smiled and tried to remember doing it. I sat numbly through some kind of demonstration as my brain shut down in shock, I stood blankly as a lift took me up to the roof, and my attention only snapped briefly into focus when someone clipped a rope to my crotch and threw a helmet onto my lovely new barnet. Before I could say, “Oi, watch me bush,” I was being pushed towards the edge of the roof and helped to climb over the railing, at which point my focus decided to fuck off again. I wasn’t feeling scared, I just couldn’t get my head around what was happening. Not surprising, really. Five minutes earlier I’d been getting a rub down from a sexy student, and now I was holding the wrong side of a safety rail with the back of my feet hanging over a drop that could kill me ten times over.

“Ok, son, you’re all set.”

I smiled vacantly at a grizzled instructor. “Hmm?”

“I need you to lean backwards now, out over the side of the building.”

“Righto.” I didn’t move.

“Just feed that little teeny-tiny rope through your fingers, let it take all your weight.”

“Um…” I was suddenly alert. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake?” My voice seemed higher than normal. It must’ve been the altitude. Turns out putting your life in someone else’s hands is quite scary. Who’d’ve thought it.

“You want me to let go of this railing and almost certainly die?”

The instructor rolled his eyes.

“Are you kidding?” I tried to laugh but it turned into a choke. “Do you really think this helmet is going to save me if I fall?”

I clung to the rail as strong winds billowed under my clothes and pulled at me and I had to make a conscious effort to keep my wee in. There were so many things that could go wrong. Plus I could DIE! How would I explain that to Mum?

The instructor waited patiently for a moment, waited impatiently for a moment more, and then… “Couldya tighten your chinstrap a bit? It does looks a bit loose.”

I fumbled desperately with the strap, releasing my death-grip on the railing for just a second, and as I did so he fed through the tiniest bit of rope and I fell backwards over the edge. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a small girl scream.

“Whoops,” he said. “My bad.”

Heart racing, ears roaring and legs shaking, I found myself still staring down at my shoes but the world had shifted ninety degrees. I was sitting on the University wall, toes towards the sky. I swallowed bile, gripped the rope tightly to my chest and watched my knuckles turn white.

You’re NOT falling.

I forced myself to breathe. I pressed my shoes to the brickwork and stood up, the rope stretching out and gravity pulling down as I did so.

Don’t look down!

I looked down.

The shock of the tiny cars far below me made my legs buckle and give way, but as I was already standing at right-angles it would’ve just looked like I’d squatted on the wall. Like an overweight Spiderman taking a shit.

“Hey, son? Cheese!”

I looked up to see the instructor holding a camera at my face. Automatically, I stood back up and slapped a grin on my face even as I imagined the BBC using this picture to report on the fall that killed me. The instructor took a photo, checked it, said hold on, pressed a few buttons, took another one with a flash, checked it again, gave me a thumbs up, and then told me to get a wriggle on as people were waiting. All I could think of doing was get to the ground before anything had a chance to snap, so I pulled myself together, counted to ten and got on with it. After a few uncontrolled downward spurts, I got the knack and soon I was bouncing down the building like a porky ninja.

About halfway down, I paused for breath and realised that I was looking through the window of the hairdresser studio I’d just left a few kilos of my hair in. Dario was in there. I was about to knock and wave when I saw him showing a new client into the room. They hugged enthusiastically, then Dario gave him a quick peck on the cheek and a bum-slap. It took a moment for my brain to register what I was seeing and when it did I dropped about 4 foot in shock. I started reprocessing all our earlier conversations as I continued my descent. Had Dario been an undercover Gay too? Had he talked about girls for my benefit? Was he was digging for clues because his Gaydar was going off? Now I was thinking about it, a head message is fairly standard during a professional hair wash, but the shoulder massage that followed was a bit more unusual and the foot rub even more so.

By the time I’d arrived at the pavement sideways and to a round of applause, I’d had two life-changing revelations. First, that I was capable of doing absolutely anything I put my mind to, and second – more importantly – that a really fit guy had asked me out for a drink and I’d said no.

As the charity whipped the harness back off me, they presented me with my mid-abseil photo as a thank you and I was shocked to see that I am smiling like a cocky son of a bitch, looking confident and in control. Not even a hint I was terrified. Despite what was happening internally, it seems my externals can fool anyone without even trying. And do you know what this means? It means tonight I’m going to a sodding gay bar. Maybe I can take Dario ‘up the Gatehouse Road’ after all. It is my last night in in Melbourne after all, so I might as well try to go out with a bang.

6am

‘Out with a bang,’ I said. How ironic. I hadn’t expected that bang to result in so much blood loss. Or an ambulance ride. The doc said I’m not going to make it and I can’t write any more for tears.

I think that’s me done.