I've seen a thousand years of pain
I've got a huindred pounds of trouble running round in my brain
Its a feeling hard to explain
Its getting so bad I think I'm going insane
Hangover gorillas, hangover clowns
They fuck you up, then they fuck you down
Hangover monkeys, hangover chimps
Stand over pain, they're alcohol's pimps
Them fuckin' apes are killing my head
They took all my money and they shat in my bed
They beat me up and cut my skin
They pissed in my mouth, reeking of gin
Furry mouth needs a number one blade
Headache like Kabul in a Taliban raid
The answer is always the same
A hair of the dog, get back in the game
first verse reprise
Dog Shit Killers - "Hangover Gorillas"
Sniper Blake flicked the wah peddle with his foot and strummed an "a minor" on his Ibanez Strat rip off. Jacko shook his head, nursing his genuine Rickenbacker which he'd inherited off a muso friend who'd topped himself six months ago. The use of a dead man's guitar didn't faze him at all, even if the muso had been a friend from high school days back in Newcastle. He shook his head again, looking at Blake.
"I tell you the first chord is 'f' you fucking tardo."
"That's arse talk. Its definitely 'A' minor. Dylan did a lot of that." Blake retorted with his legendary scowl; "Fuck it anyway. Let's just work on "Hangover Gorilla" a bit more. I'm sick of "Watchtower".
"Only because you keep on fucking up the fingering on the chorus". Jacko was a hyper critic, blind to his own faults and was good odds to be clinically diagnosed as suffering from narcissism. Blake never conceded a point when duelling with Jacko, never wanting to set up a verbal slog sweep over mid wicket.
"Yeah, right. You can't even get the three chord opening progression going without arsing up the tempo you fucktard. anyway, lets knock off a few more songs, we're almost there."
The two would-be guitarists went through several of their fave tunes, getting their timings right, chord progressions smooth and the leadf licks sorted out. They finsished off with "Hangover Gorillas". They'd played it, re-written it, and were sick of it, but now they realised they'd completed its composition. They went through it another three times and finally were able to boast that they'd done it; written a song, edited and bashed the shit out of it like it was a Gitmo detainee and they were Jack Nicholson andnow had it nailed.. The result was that it sounded the goods. The real deal. They looked at each other, switched off amps and put guitars in cases. Blake jumped up, laughing fit to burst, doing a poor impression of a Revivalist preacher;
"I Believe! I have the Power! Hallefuckenlujah!" he laughed again and thumped Jacko on the back. Jacko grinned and yelled out;
"I genius! I smarts and bright. I be fucking thirsty!"
" Beer time!" Blake proclaimed.
"Chambo?" was Jacko's suggestion, noticing Blake's excitement and feeling overjoyed himself.
They swarmed out of Jacko's flat like footballers on Mad Monday, All they were missing was Lara Bingle. They landed on Parramatta Road, Leichhardt, on a hot March Saturday afternoon. They were quickly enbussed on a 440, getting off in George Street near the Capitol Theatre, a block away from the Chamberlain Hotel. It was their pub of choice.
Blake checked out the latest Fox Sports news for cricket and F.A. Cup results.
"Fucking Liverpool. Fucking retarded Scousers!" was his angry comment on what he'd seen, as Jacko returned from the bar with schooners in hand. Jacko looked up, looked at Blake, cursing;
"Another fucking year. Should never have taken up with that mob. Craig fucking Johnston has a lot to answer for."
Blake took the opportunity to remind his companion of his roots,
"What do you expect of the little tosser? He's from Newcastle, innit? Has to be tardo. DADS. Dumb as dog shit."
Jacko winced and ground out,
"At least he's not a Balmain wannabe, whining of cold latte and writing letters to the Sydney Morning Herald about Howard's cricket autism. Yeah, I know, you're no longer wanting to move to Balmain but that doesn't stop you sipping on overprcied milk fucking coffee and pontificating on the likelihood of Shoaib Akhtar bowling a bouncer straight at the Prime Minister's temple in an attempt to save the world from any more of Howard's post-Nazi romance with the White Australia Policy. Anyway there's also that drug addled Bosnich we can blame." Blake raised his eyebrows, drained some more beer form his glass, licked his lips and smiled;
"That's all well and good but the point here is that Johnston was the first and that Novocastrians are DADS. You admitted it yourself when banging on about that mate of yours in the cricket team, Scot. You said he was 'a good example of why Newcastle is the DADS capital of Australia, probably the world'. My desire for someone to scone Howard out of existence is born of patriotism and a recognition of our place in the pantheon of human endeavour. Howard does nothing for either except to make the rest of the human race think we're small minded relics of the 1950's, pro-British, rah rah colonial milieu. Fuck him. He's a cunt."
Jacko took the opportunity to drain his beer and motion Blake to get a new round. On Blake's return, Jacko launched again;
"No, you've got it arse about. Sure, Howard's a cunt and needs to be recycled as shark poo but the DADSist nature of Newcastle is a result of the self obsession of Sydney. Its anti-Sydney writ large and stems from the colonial days when the first trains needed coal and they carted off all the DADS miners north to dig out the black stuff. Who were these clowns? The rejects of society. Not even smart enough to commit crimes, they willingly came over to get treated like shite again and again and were thankful to receive a lump of black carbon for their tea. Its all down to you lot here in Sydney drinking milk coffee and wanting to be rid of those smelly people who use picks and shovels every day. Realising this the Novocastrians have cast themselves as being what Sydney isn't; honest, hard working and not interested in fripperies and doing make overs of the balcony pot plants every six months." Blake glanced up at the cricket report on Fox Sports before turning back to Jacko;
"Sure, Sydney can be obsessed with the finer things but that happens with world class cities. People want the best and are willing to ask for them. Like in all other major cities people will whinge about commute times, train delays, street crime, pollution, garbage, parking costs and the passing of favourite haunts. The big thing is that the DADS quotient is lower in Sydney than in Newcastle. " Realising that this argument was becoming too circular Blake turned to another theme;
" What I'm most concerned about is how we get Howard lined up to face an express bowler like Shoaib or Brett Lee. It'd be a fucking pearler if we could make it happen."
Jacko thought for a few seconds;
"Tee up a celebrity cricket match as a Liberal Party fund raiser. He's a cricket nut and would love to be seen dressed in the whites, being all matey with the likes of Punter, Warney and McGrath. We just tell him that the quick bowlers won't bowl at pace and they'll be bowling wides anyway. He'll think he's safe then we get young Binga to launch one into Howard's skull. I'll get done up in the same gear as a team medico and rush onto the pitch, you bring the stretcher and we'll make sure he doesn't breathe again. In the immediate post-Howard confusion we'll drop our disguises and head back here to establish our alibis. Better wear wigs, sunnies, zinc cream and pad out our torsos."
Blake smiled, nodded and contributed to the plan;
"We needn't even bother with all that disguise shit. We just impregnate his batting gloves and the cricket ball with fast acting toxins, say from a box jelly fish. Have so much of it that he won't last the time it takes for an ambo to get him to hospital. Fuck yeah, Howard's Demise. We should write a song about it."
"Fair enough. Kill him off quick. Speaking of songs, we have Rasta lining up a drummer, one of his students, and some rehearsal time in a studio. Reckon Reepo's still on for playing bass?"
"Rasta" was a colleague of Jacko's who also played drums in a jazz fusion-reggae band. His family was from India, of Tamil blood, but that didn't stop him from wanting to be West Indian. He even supporeted their now-ailing cricket team. He also earned extra dollars by tutoring wannabe drummers.
"Yeah, Reepo's still got his old bass from high school garage band days. Reckons he knows how to use it. We'd better ace it up ourselves and get our playing in order. I'd hate to think this band thing is just piss and wind."
Both men looked up at the TV screen as the bar manager changed channels to the live cricket telecast of South Africa versus Australia. Ponting out LBW to Kallis for the best part of fuck all.
Blake swore, muttering,
"Fucking Yaapies! I hate that Kallis prick. Better get Binga to sort him out as well."
Jacko looked at Blake, nodding.
"Box Jelly Fish poison. 'Nuff said."
Blake's response was a defining one, that is if fantasy can ever define anything,
"That's single number two, right there. "Jelly Death". It will be a cautionary tale about the dangers of being a dickhead 50's retro Prime Minister or a cunting Yaapie all-rounder,"
Jacko looked at Margie, the angry red-headed barmaid and added,
"Better include surly ranga bar wenches in that." then went and ordered some fresh beers.
"Two thanks Margie. On the house, we're gonna be rock stars." he grabbed a pen off the bar and signed a beer coaster, handing it to the frowning Margie,
"There ya go Margie. A genuine autograph from a Dog Shit Killer, It'll be worth millions in ten years."
Margie shook her head,
"Well its worth bugger all now Jacko so save it for next decade. In the meantime that'll be six-eighty."
Jacko handed over the cash and returned to the table, to find that the latest experiment by Australia's cricket selector's, Shane Watson, had just skied a miss hit pull shot to Ntini ten metres in from the boundary at mid wicket.
"Tardo fucking Watson. Waste of space. They should just dump him and forget him, he'll never amount to much." was Blake's comment. Jacko agreed,
"They're obsessed with trying to find a Flintoff. It smacks of single-minded desparation. He can't play at this level, they may as well select six batsmen and four specialist bowlers. Its worked well so far."
Blake peered out the window across to Belmore Park, then back to the TV. He looked at Jacko and stated with a clear voice loaded with conviction,
"Just like a band. Drummers are drummers and that's all they'll ever be. Wouldn't do to have them getting all uppity. Certainly won't happen with the DSK's."
As he said this Jacko let out a curse.
"Who the fuck is this Hussey character anyway? Meant to be a gun bat. Looks more like a retarded fruit bat."
Blake smiled, drained his beer and went to the bar.
"Two more thanks Margie. Two more."