Not a G'Day for a Roofie
You were the shaved-headed Qantas flight attendant at the corner of the bar at the Tin Lizzie on Saturday, June 8. I was the tall, bearded ex-rugger in jeans, boots and a green work shirt. I was there while four separate men tried to convince you to go with them—and when one of them tried to dragoon me into a two-top three-way, with you as the bottom. You were obviously not into it, and that's fine. I wasn't either; I don't hook up. You went out for a douchebag-free smoke and didn't see one of the guys slip something into your drink. I saw it, though, and I knocked the poisoned drink into the bar mat and bought you a new one. I should have forced that jackass to drink the shot he spiked. I should have called the police. I don't know why my brain stopped working; I'm normally a man of much more decisive action. I stopped the attempted rape, but I should have stopped the rapist. Next time, I will. But you, my Aussie friend, have to be more careful. I'm not going to tell you to stop drinking because that's not realistic. But you have to train yourself to never walk away from your drink. You've got to practice it until it's second nature. Don't go for a piss or a smoke until you finish your drink. You have to do this for yourself because, I can almost guarantee you, I won't be around the next time to stop it from happening. The Tin Lizzie is our place to feel safe, and while it's definitely a meat market on the weekends, nobody wins if it's dangerous.
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