Posted on July 26, 2018
There’s two kinds of douchebags in life: the ones who know they’re dicks and just own it, and the ones who think they’re great people and don’t realise they’re actually massive assholes. Both kinds attend Sydney’s most pretentious bar/club: The Ivy. I say most pretentious, but I’m pretty sure it’s an honour it doesn’t deserve; it’s just the most affordable stuck-up place I’ve ever been to. Only once, I swore, when I walked out after my first visit. I ended up going three times, not because I actually wanted to, but because peer pressure is annoying and effective.
The Ivy is known for its massive rooftop pool bar. Located in the CBD, businesspeople, investment bankers, and trophy spouses gather round the pool after work to drink expensive shit and judge other people. Thursdays however, the crowd becomes more diverse as backpackers swarm the place; ‘free entry before 10pm’ really says it all. The first time I went, was exactly on that occasion, and it was a very average experience. Two girls alone – one gorgeous Brazilian babe, one European looking like she’s going to punch you in the throat – is not exactly the recipe for a great night amongst the drunk and douchebaggy. The whole point of going there on a Thursday – or any night for that matter – is to get shitfaced and get laid. Was I going to go home with one of the backpackers? Fuck no. Was I going to go home with one of the investment bankers? Depends, is he rich? Just kidding, also fuck no. Was I going to go home? Fuck yes.
I told everyone I was never going to set foot in a place like that again. I didn’t like the people, didn’t like the vibe, didn’t like the $10 entry fee. However, when the time came we had to say goodbye to a considerable number of friends of our group, we found ourselves heading to The Ivy once more. I actually had quite a great time, until it was time to go home. Maybe I judged too soon, I told myself. Maybe if you’re with loads of friends, this place isn’t too bad, I told myself. Maybe you’re very right after all, the incident at the pool bar confirmed.
We were planning to leave when the boys asked if they could go for a quick swim before heading off. We all went up to the roof and the guys started taking off their shirts. Along comes this long haired, fake boobed, skimpily clad girl, waving her bright, pointy manicure at my friend, telling him that “if she were him, she would keep that shirt on.” We all pretended nothing had happened, that no one had heard what she’d said, but if we hadn’t gone with that strategy, I would have cut a bitch then and there. In retrospect, I really should have gone after her and said something, but at the time, I just didn’t want my friend to get hurt. I mean, who the fuck did she think she was? Motherfucking Beyoncé? Not even close, bitch, Beyoncé would never do that to a person. Do you get why I said I never wanted to set foot in there again? The fucking pool is deeper than most people there.
However, again, I went back a third time. Over a year had passed since the last time I’d been there, but the general dread was still the same. My friend and I had finished our road trip in Sydney, and as it was her 21stbirthday, she wanted to go on a proper night out. I was suggesting a few bars but didn’t know where to go clubbing when she said the worst words I could have possibly imagined: “My friend says The Ivy is really great, we should go there!” If only a sinkhole had appeared that very moment to swallow me whole, but I’m never that lucky.
When that Saturday night rolled around, I pulled out my dirtiest sneakers, put on my big coat and massive scarf, and accessorised with my second-hand beanie. Was I hoping the ivory tower was going to deny me access? You know me so well. Unfortunately, access was granted, and I found myself taking pictures of my beautifully dressed and perfectly coiffed friend. More of her beautifully dressed and perfectly coiffed friends rocked up, and I started to feel a swift exit was in the cards. I was done drinking soda & limes, pretending they were vodka sodas, and was sweating my ass off in my ugly winter outfit. Tommy Shelby, Ben, ànd Jerry were all waiting for me at home, so why was I still there?
I was formulating and rehearsing my ‘it’s getting late’ speech in my head, when all of a sudden, a guy starts talking to me. Well, a second one, if you count Tiny Let’s Get Out Of Here Man. I mean, sure, I wanted to leave, but you know, alone. More homicidal looking than usual, I have to say I was quite surprised people still approached me. (Actually, the very first time I went to The Ivy, someone asked me if I was a bouncer, because I looked so angry. I said obviously I wasn’t doing a good enough job, because he was still there annoying me.) This guy was funny, and kind, but not very smart, because he still asked me out. I told him he should avoid dating girls that go to clubs in winter coats and beanies, they’re generally not that great. He insisted on getting my number, and along with a fake name, I sent him on his way. I was as aloof and uninteresting/uninterested as I could possibly manage when he texted me, and he still wanted to go on a date. Bless the ones full of hope, ignorance really is bliss.