This year marked the tenth annual ‘No Pants Train Ride’ – a flash mob event, originating from the US, where participants take off their pants and go riding on trains. The local chapter encouraged attendance, but warned that “participants are subject to the laws of ‘Offensive Conduct’ enforced by NSW Police and ‘Offensive Behaviour’ enforced by Transit Police”.
Having attended last year sans-pants, I thought, this year, I would go in my trousers and my ‘professional capacity’. And as the pants-free train riders circled Sydney on trains, I spoke to people on platforms to find out whether the proverbial man (or woman) on the proverbial Clapham Omnibus (or Sydney train) would think travelling without pants is offensive.
“Excuse me,” I said producing my card to two guys photographing the signs at Museum station. “I’m a lawyer and I have a client who’s been charged with offensive conduct. I’m collecting evidence about what people think is offensive.”
“We really wouldn’t know,” said the elder of the two. “We’re not from Sydney.”
“We’re from Coffs Harbour!” volunteered the other guy with a grin.
“Surely things can get offensive back there,” I said as a train pulled up behind them and disgorged a score of people wearing no pants.
“Sorry,” said the first guy pulling his friend away. “We just want to see the big city!”
“Turn around,” I called out. “You’ll see so much more than you ever imagined!”
But they were off, and up the stairs. And as the no pants people took up positions around the platform, I approached a family who had just sat down on a bench.
“I’m a lawyer,” I said holding out my card. “I’m surveying attitudes about offensive conduct.”
“No, sorry,” said the father. “Not interested.”
“I just want some examples of what you think is offensive.”
“We have nothing for you.”
“You can’t think of anything offensive?”
“You! Talking to us,” he said. “That’s offensive!”
Okay. So I’d learned that talking to people in a train station is more offensive than standing around with no pants, but this really wasn’t really going to plan. I decided to adopt a less confrontational approach and, with the no pants people, jumped aboard the next train.
At the next station, I alighted with the pranksters and plopped down on a bench next to a portly woman and man. The underwear troop circled in silence.
“What’s this?” said the woman to the man.
“Yeah what’s going on?” I said, making my presence known.
“How strange,” said the man.
“Offensive?” I asked him.
“Well…” started the man.
“Very!” said the woman. “But at least they’re game.”
They were. So game in fact that after a few laps around the city, they walked all the way up Oxford Street still wearing no pants. I followed them up the street and into the empty nightclub where they were holding their after-party. I sought out their leader.
“Any issues with allegations of offensive conduct today?”
“No, but last year we had a creepy guy following us around all day.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yes, quite the voyeur,” he said. “And the year before that, one of our guys got in trouble with train staff – for photographing girls’ bums.”
“And what do you do with your photos?”
“We put them on the internet.”
A journalist from the Daily Telegraph appeared, also seeking an interview. I asked her whether she thought the event was offensive.
“No I think it’s amazing,” she said. “Such a simple thing like people taking off a few clothes in concert: it really disrupts the conformity and compliance of public space.”
“Wow, is that what you’ll write?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll do ‘colour and movement’.”
And there was plenty. Pretty young things danced to YMCA in pastel panties. Others leaned over pool tables to display the best bits of their briefs to an audience that sat giggling and beckoning for company in their booth. I felt slightly over-aged, certainly overdressed, but by no means offended. Finding my resolve, in just one stiff drink, I kept my pants on, and went home.