Gay Paris' Tour Diary Two: Goin' Out West

Greetings again, gentle reader. Once again, I, WH Monks will relate to you the exploits of Gay Paris. This week past, we travelled to Western Australia with our super famous pals, The Beards and The Snowdroppers (later to be renamed 'The Pantsdroppers'). We left as men of sophistication and rare decadence – we returned as sub-human vessels of equal parts shame and glory.

Wednesday 14 November

Upon our arrival in Fremantle, we noticed that The Snowdroppers have a very similar poster design to our own.

The phallic motif would be something that we became accustomed to over this leg of the tour, considering that I have never met a group of men so ready to run wild, hirsute and proud through the night.

In the spirit of covering my nakedness, a lovely fan presented me with a dashing new half-cape, perfect for travel – yet as the zeitgeist of the day demanded, I promptly forgot to cover up for the remainder of this sojourn in the Far West.

The next day, wandering Bunbury, we were recognised by some locals as we browsed the op-shops for hilarious shirts. Thinking this to be a grand thing, we were quickly confronted by the second motif of this stint of the tour – confusion. If one more person asks me to have my photo taken with them because of the mistaken impression that I am in The Beards, I may just shave. Well, I may shave my chest. For aerodynamic reasons. Still, I guess that when your touring party is as rampantly handsome as this one was, it is tough to tell this gathering of bear-like Adonises apart.

On Friday, we had the night off in Margaret River, so we killed time with nakedness and the third motif of our adventure – cruel and pointless stupidity. When Nathaniel Beard suggested that I would not be able to eat a kilo of cheese in an hour, my pride was wounded. Money was ponied up and the game was afoot.

Let this be known – by the very food I love the most, I was brought low. I have been shamed by cheese yet it remains a great passion of mine. Please, do not try this at home.

Luckily, even with a belly full of cheese, Johnny Wishbone still found me desirable enough to be my roomie.

Having drank all of the booze and most of the cheese, we high tailed it to Perth, stopping in at Scarborough Beach to gather our wits, beards and, of course, booze.

At this point, we realised that Nathaniel Beard was to leave us for some no-doubt beard related crisis, yet luckily amongst our ragtag group of ne'er do wells, we gathered enough handsome chaps to get the job done. With a revolving gang of bassists, drummers and backing vocalists, we not only eroticised Perth with our own enchanting cacophony, but also helped The Beards deliver their pogonophilic message. Meet Johnny Beardbone.

Our final night in WA was to be the most decadent of all and much of what occurred may not be disclosed without some kind of legal representation available for all parties involved. Having returned to Scarborough Beach, we had to both rock the show (and you know, dear reader, that we most certainly did so) and celebrate the birthday of our great and famous super pal, Facey McStubblington. Oh vile excess! Oh infamy and ignoble deeds, may they all remain hidden in the clouds of memory. And available on Instagram.

So until next time, dear reader, remember to keep all perversions public.

Much love to you all and Death To Spring,

WH.