There are fewer greater pleasures than pissing the night away. Club, no sleep, bus, another club, next place, etc, etc. We scurry into the evenings, plans make it out of the group chat — find a dance floor, make new friends, find a lover under the disco ball, if only for an evening.
Of course, for most of us, pissing the night away is a metaphorical experience. We don’t literally get pissed on. But for one Sydney man, this metaphor became a reality. I’m talking about Trough Man. And his legend must be told now, more than ever.
Trough Man, the alter ego of Barry Charles, frequented the haunts of gay Sydney hotspots from the late 70s to the early noughties. Following an eye-opening stint in New York City in 1978, where our boy Bazza learnt of the joys of ‘watersports’, he returned to our Emerald City. Upon entering a leather bar in Kings Cross, he descended to the urinal, and so started his unique queer legacy: as a man who liberated our sleepy beach city with his particular proclivity for taking the piss (sue me).
Charles was one of the original 78ers, the term for the queers who led the first LGBTQ+ rights marches in Sydney in 1978, which has evolved into the Mardi Gras celebration we know today.
So how does a watersports enthusiast get tied up with the legacy for queer rights in Australia? I suppose, right time and right place. If the piss hits?
“I didn’t do it to be famous, it wasn’t planned,” he told the ABC in 2017.
“The two things came together, my newly discovered sexual proclivity and my whole political involvement. Somehow they became enmeshed.”
If you have a distaste for the vulgarity of getting pissed on by a stranger on a night out, then Trough Man might not be your idea of a local hero.
Sure, we’ve got Kylie, we’ve got Troye Sivan, but Trough Man was perhaps the original Sydney-specific icon, our first queer influencer (we need less of these now). He was a unique institution and one that was not palatable for the straights — maybe the swingers community, but I’ve heard enough from them.
Our perfectly messy queer was a vivid symbol of sexual liberation that I’m not sure could exist anymore. Would our baby girl fit into the more, let’s say, hyperbranded Mardi Gras of today? Would KPMG endorse Trough Man? Unlikely.
Heteronormative institutions increasingly rely on the pink dollar. Straight people love to be allies and take up space in our parades. Trough Man exemplifies an idiosyncratic, brazen, slutty queer identity that is not palatable to corporates — and this is why we must celebrate him.
At a time when queers are being unfairly censored for being the life of the online party, could he be booked for the Mardi Gras After Party sponsored by a big four bank? The face on a bus stop? If I squint, I could see him in a “Just Do It” campaign with nothing on but a pair of Nikes in the basement urinal of The Beresford.
That would require a bold creative director (and gay people love to call themselves creative directors). Perhaps a YouTube channel where he interviews people while they piss on him? Like Hot Ones, but Hot Piss? A future Clover Moore election campaign? (I contacted Clover’s office to ask if she ever pissed on Trough Man, and she declined to comment. However, she did mention that after a few 80s disco biscuits, she couldn’t be entirely sure it wasn’t Alan Jones. For legal reasons, this is a joke.)
Straight people have colonised The Imperial’s dancefloor. They can have it. But they can’t have Trough Man. Trough Man is ours. Trough Man embodies messy, radical queerness. His continued practice during the AIDS epidemic in the 80s and beyond is a strong message of community building and resilience — a testament to showing up and then, well, getting down amongst it all.
Fetish communities have long existed on the fringes, yet have contributed to the broader conversation about queer identity through sexual politics. Trough Man is a refusal to be made vanilla.
After the devastation of the lockout laws, queer Sydney is rallying, and we can draw inspiration from our pissy forebear. It might shock you to hear, but Sydney is a party-girl city. She’s back.
Some of my best friends are gutter sluts, drama queens and all manner of creatures of the night. Don’t complain that the parties used to be better, make better parties. There are people making magic every night of the week, find them and support them.
Show up at rallies. March for trans rights. I might even implore you to buy a ticket to an event more than three hours before it begins. You can piss on my parade if you fucking pay for it!
In Australia right now, despite our decades of progress, we seem to have missed the shifting in the sand. We seem to be reverting to parochial prejudice and exclusion. QLD has just announced a blanket ban on gender-affirming care followed by a lengthy and expensive inquiry into something that we know works. Sounds a little like a plebiscite to me.
Trump is banning drag. Perhaps we can look in the right direction and show up for our community, instead of just arguing in comment sections over line-ups for parties that cost $250. If we can take one lesson from our main man Baz, it’s time to turn up and turn up for all members of our community.
It’s Mardi Gras season, my little piss pigs. So don all that’s glitter and gold and head to the party. Because we must dance. But don’t forget we must also protest.
I’ll leave you on this, take a punt on an event that’s not sponsored by a corporation, go to the indie queer play in the basement on Parramatta Rroad, or make out with me! Literally, whatever. This season’s hottest accessory isn’t a mesh singlet. It’s showing up.
Stay hydrated.
This story is part of our Mardi Gras digital issue, celebrating the LGBTQIA+ culture makers and game changers. Read more here.
The post Don’t Piss On My Pride Parade: Why Trough Man Is The Queer Icon We Deserve appeared first on PEDESTRIAN.TV .
