Drugs, bikies and a breakup: The last days of nightclub king Darren Thornburgh
HE was the nightclub king with a diamond-studded smile who once compared his celebrity haunt to Studio 54. But drug binges, feuds with bikies and a bitter breakup left him a tragic figure.
Melbourne
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A PLATE of flathead tail, chips and salad sat in front of Darren Thornburgh. He downed it with a pint of beer — never a pot or a schooner. Despite checking out the menu each visit to the Barmah Hotel, that was his go-to dish.
Across the road at his farmhouse was a hint of his former flamboyant life.
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“Boys’ toys” — including a jetski, boat, golf buggy and even a motorhome — were stored at the property. Even swimwear and bikinis from fashion parades he hosted at his nightclub.
Inside the Barmah Hotel, on the Victorian and NSW border, the man known as “Razzle Dazzle” plotted how to reinvigorate the town of 187 residents.
“Build it and they will come,” he would say.
A coffee cart in the forest, a laundromat, a shower block, more shops. He also agitated the local council to improve the town’s shonky drainage and roads. “Just fix it,” he demanded.
“He wanted to put Barmah on the map but turning ideas into fruition was always a problem for him,” publican John Powell said.
He considered taking over the caravan park. But the tender process needed more than just “Hey, I’m Razzle just give it to me”.
Barmah is made up of mainly retirees, a world away from his Prahran nightclub Boutique, the place where ordinary folk partied with Hollywood names, chart-topping singers, sports stars and reality TV personalties.
Thornburgh split his time between a Malvern apartment and Barmah, with fly in, fly out trips constant. But he stayed in the country for longer periods in the more recent months.
“Everyone knew when Darren was in town. His music would just blast from his home. I didn’t know what it was but it wasn’t something you’d hear on Smooth FM,” Mr Powell said.
“He never brought himself to be liked, but did people dislike him? No they didn’t.”
Part of Boutique’s success was the dictatorship at the front door. A strict criteria had to be met: 60 per cent female, 40 per cent male, beautiful people. Even being an underworld figure or AFL footballer would not be enough to get you in.
“Footballers are like prunes. One or two are OK, but more than that they give you the shits,” Thornburgh would tell door staff.
Unapologetic door staff would select members from the line stretching along Greville St.
Behind the bar was a pseudo fashion parade.
“If he saw one and he didn’t like her body or didn’t think she was attractive, he would say ‘what’s she doing there’ — then she would be fired,” a former staffer said.
Many struggled to deal with Thornburgh. Staff could be berated for not having enough people on the dancefloor. Thornburgh would get angry at managers for paying staff when he was not happy with the takings. “If I don’t make money, nobody makes money,” he would say.
One manager commented: “He treated his staff like absolute crap.”
Erratic, narcissistic, cruel, manipulator and kingmaker were common adjectives.
On another occasion a doorman quit, angering his boss. A manager paid him for his weekend’s work — so Thornburgh docked it from the manager’s pay packet.
But he networked like no other. For the best part of a decade from when the doors opened in 2001, everyone who is anyone was entertained at the venue — many in the “Razzle Booth” which allowed a curtain to be drawn on the debauchery.
Paris Hilton, George Harrison, Kylie Minogue, Michael Schumacher, Natalie Imbruglia, Jennifer Hawkins, Delta Goodrem, Russell Crowe, Kim Kardashian, Ashton Kutcher, Tommy Lee ... just some of the names that trickled through the venue.
“Have you seen Studio 54? That’s what I am. I am Mike Myers and we are Studio 54,” he would tell people referring to the 1970s’ New York club where sex, open drug use, celebrities and disco tunes rained like the glitter falling from the roof.
“It was true,” a colleague said.
“He had the right venue at the right time. It was sought out by everyone.”
Former One Direction-er Niall Horan celebrated his birthday at Boutique. But the hostess designated to look after him was sacked after Thornburgh disapproved of her flirtatious ways with the boy band member.
“He had taken a liking to her and they were clearly flirting. That didn’t go too well,” an insider said.
Once the doors shut for everyday revellers, the celebrities continued to party. Bottles were popped as were disco pills.
A sober Schumacher was once given the keys to Thornburgh’s Bentley to get him back to Crown.
Thornburgh’s office, equipped with a stripper pole and a photo shrine of himself with celebrities, was also well used. It had a latch door that would allow drinks to be brought in. Office furniture was popular for lines of cocaine to be racked up.
“It was the hottest office in town,” one former manager said. “(It) was a cone of silence. What happened in there was never to leave the room.”
The pleasure-seeking celebrities and Thornburgh’s after-hours rules did not please everyone. Neighbours would complain of noise. This is when he would switch personalities. The middle-aged party boy with diamond tooth would sweet talk his way out. A holiday would be booked for the main nagger. She was also afforded a “generous” gift.
Boutique was a money magnet. Most weekends $100,000 was ringing through the tills. Good coin considering he was paying only $2500 a week rent at a venue with highly sought-after liquor licence.
So it is no surprise that bikie gang the Comancheros deployed standover tactics in a bid to take the club. To them it was the perfect business: easy to launder money and flush with cocaine and other drugs.
Some nights the toilet line was so big with snorters occupying cubicles, bar staff would be forced to go outside and find a quiet corner to relieve themselves.
One barman recalls a night at the back bar where an ugly brawl between bikies and another group broke out.
“It was a blood fight. Bottles were pulled off the shelf and used as weapons,” he said. But to avoid scrutiny the heavies were ushered down a back entrance void of any CCTV. On another occasion, a bikie enforcer bashed Thornburgh inside his office. His bouncer prevented an even more banged-up face after intervening and kicking his boss’s attacker out. But the bikie would soon return with back-up and Thornburgh was once again beaten before managing to run away and hide in a cupboard. He used a walkie-talkie to radio in help.
The intimidation continued and intensified. As recently as last year, five shots were fired into the luxury Port Melbourne home of his former wife, Denise Foster, during an early morning drive by shooting, while she and the couple’s youngest daughter were asleep.
Days earlier, a man armed with a shotgun blasted the nightclub at least three times.
“He resisted their (Comancheros) constant attempts to hand over the club. He would never stand down from a fight. Somehow he managed to win that battle,” a close friend said.
But Thornburgh was becoming increasingly paranoid. Ice had become part of his drug cocktail. He moved into a serviced apartment at Crown. He liked the 24/7 security. Three to five-day drug binges became the norm.
“He has been a shell of a man living in terror and fear,” a former promoter said.
He monitored the club from his apartment via a live feed from security cameras.
The later in the night it got, the more demanding his micro-managing became. Slurring words, abusing his managers.
“One night he was just going off. I put my phone down on the bar and he was just speaking to himself for 45 minutes,” one promoter said.
And Boutique was no longer the club it used to be. His popular Friday nights had become fizzers. In 2015 the doors closed for renovations.
And even that was not enough to draw back the elite.
Thornburgh was negotiating a renewed lease for Boutique for more than a year, but sources say he was evicted in October after the landlord had enough.
Others point to Thornburgh wanting out of the lifestyle he led for 30 years but did not know how to exit.
“He no longer wanted to be the King of the Clubs,” the friend said.
His breakdown started in 2008 after the collapse of Thornburgh’s marriage. But it was not the divorce that troubled him — it was the ongoing fight between him and Denise. Despite their two children, there was no love lost between them.
“They were your typical cashed-up bogans,” a mutual friend said. “They are as bad as one another.”
Thornburgh suspected his wife had been dating a bikie.
Those who know the couple said he often didn’t pay child support.
“When they are with me they are treated to a life of luxury,” he would say.
There was a noticeable change in Thornburgh from about July.
A Facebook post on the Boutique page of his life in emoticons raised concerns. It showed Razzle’s life in keyboard characters — music, dance, pretty girls, alcohol, drugs and potentially sleeping tablets. He started to distance himself from his closest allies. Only pet poodle, Reggie, remained a constant companion.
“I kind of felt his mindset changed,” a friend said.
Friends’ worst fears were realised when news broke that he was found dead at his Barmah farm house on November 14.
He had spent the last five weeks in the quiet hamlet riding his golf buggy around. Days before his death, Mr Powell recalled Thornburgh being the most level-headed he had been in months.
He complimented he and his wife on the renos to the former Post Office which has now become a cafe. Thornburgh was considering selling the pub freehold to the Powells.
“Bugger me — there was a quantum leap from the man we sat with just a couple of days earlier to hearing he had died,” he said.
A policeman coming to tie up loose ends on a speeding fine found him with a gunshot wound on the front porch. Police knew of his colourful background and associates — the good and the bad — which all formed part of the investigation. Anything sinister was quickly ruled out. He had died by his own hand.
“Even successful people are unhappy,” Inspector Joy Arbuthnot said.
Even in death his life remains chaotic. Thornburgh is yet to be buried — almost a month later. His farewell had to be pushed back after his daughters and ex-wife were caught up in Bali’s ash cloud and could not return home.
The guessing game about his death continues. Some say he was too vain to end his life. Money troubles are another theory. Constant fear of the Comancheros also lingered in the back of his mind. Many pointed to being evicted from the club as the tipping point.
“He just couldn’t get over the fact that he wasn’t important anymore,’’ a friend said.
“Once he lost the club he had nothing to live for, as sad as that sounds.”
Another person who worked closely with him went further: “That psychologically murdered him.”
There were two Darrens. There was the sober, drug-free one, eating the same fish meal at the bush pub each time.
And the irrational, unpredictable, nasty person he would morph into when high on cocaine and ice. In the end, Darren got bigger than even he could handle.
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