Occasional Scribbles

A Fine Bunch

2011-04-03T15:06:00.000+10:00

Last night I did something unusual. I went to a party and didn't drink much. The reason why is that the party was way across Sydney, traverisng East to North and the best option was to fire up the Little White Therbette and drive. So I did. I took my best bottle of wine, a 2001 Eric's Blend from Brand Laira (Coonawarra), a big fuck off box of Belgian choccies and a couple of printed pages of Google Maps for the final two blocks of navigation. Didn't need the latter given my jammy ability to take a sharp right at exactly the right time.

The venue was a cousin's house, the reason was a get together of cousins from my dad's side of the family. There are thirteen of us, one now living in France, one in Scotland with the rest in Sydney and its surrounds, from the Mountains to the Central Coast. Thirteen there are of us and thirteen showed up with assorted husbands, wives, partners, whatever. Its the first time we've managed that roll up on these six monthly get togethers, in fact I can't remember when all of us have attended. It was fanfuckingtastic. One of the mob commented that when she was coming back in to the gathering from a wander around the one thing which struck her was the laughter. It reminded her of the times when our parents used to hold these huge family get togethers and we'd fall asleep to their peals of laughter. Yeah, we all remembered those times, but only briefly because someone cracked a joke about what sort of vintage was Bin Laden Merlot as he squeezed a last couple of drops out of Eric's Blend. The wistful look on his face as the last dropped fell cracked us up. And that's how the evening rolled.

So there are thirteen of us, and thirteen showed up. Not a dud amongst the lot.

Afterflood 7 - Beach Balls Deserve A Life Too

2011-03-23T02:32:00.348+11:00

You know how the security goons at a major cricket match get heckled and disparaged when they grab and deflate a beach ball which had been used by said crowd as entertainment during the boring bits? Well, not even necessarily during the boring bits but after the spectators downed their smuggled rum infused watermelons, frozen vodka-spiked oranges and in my case once, bottle of cheap scotch hidden in a fold up umbrella. All because the nazis decided that full strength beer was not good for the paying public but those in either the Members Stands or the Corporate Boxes are immune to the "No More Its The Law" and "Responsible Service of Alcohol" ineffectual bullshit. Yeah, you've seen it on the teev or at the ground; the plastic beer cup chains, Mexican Waves and frustrated punters screaming into the Channel Nine effects microphones. Well that's how Heather and I felt when the Rhino safed up his big fuck off cannon thing after crowing about his biceps. He saw our disappoinment, arched an eyebrow and advised us through a column of jaunty cigar smoke;
"Sorry folks, the fun park's closed. The moose out front should have told you."
Heather didn't miss a beat,
"We paid good money for this ride." She then shipped her rifle, adding,
" And that!", as she pointed to the unhooked Vulcan, "is part of it Mr Wally. This ain't our first killing."
The pachyderm man admired a particularly well self crafted smoke ring and gave us the facts in a movie style American drawl,
"You folks seem reasonable. Enough for government work anyway's. Let me cut you into the deal here. What you're entering is what we call a cross disciplinary, multi faceted, inter-nation work up of asset leveraging to defeat threats to our goals as outlayed in the mission statement and expressed by our defined corporate values. We're talking cross-silo optimisation of corporate assets here."
I caught bits of it and recognised some terms from crap, powdered coffee and stale cream biscuits training sessions. Heather just shrugged and kept her weapon shipped. Stalemate. It was up to me to penetrate the clouds of smoke.
"So, what's happenin' Rhino? Why the fuck are you here?"
Lame. I went back to what I knew best while tossing away my cigar,
" Want a drink?"
"No to the drink this time mate." he did a fair pass at Oz vernacular which is rare with a lot of North Americans. They're not always that good at going 'local' probably because they don't need to, unlike Kiwis who can sound authentic if there's a dollar to be had or local gestapo to be bluffed. Go anywhere in the world and you find that half the issues the locals have are with Kiwis pretending to be Aussies, Brits and Yanks. Hence the Aussies who go stupid at Pamplona. Oktoberfest and Calgary Stampede say they're Kiwis. Pay back for the Bledisloe and wrongly arrested diggers in Munchen and Rio. Anyway, he went on;
"Gotta go and scout out the south west approaches. Fact is I was at Richmond trouble shooting some air defence systems when the crap started. I could have gone back home but the job wasn't finished so I decided to stay. The Agency boys got me this truck, the Vulcan and some offsiders who I'm now going to round up. So if you folks don't mind I'll be on my way." He grinned, puffed another smoke ring and said,
"By the way, for the record it is good being the Stuck In Australia During End of Days Rhino."

He strapped his Vulcan to a frame on the big ute, puffed his cigar to a bright glow and blew Heather a smokey kiss before climbing into the truck and heading off to the south west. I was impressed.
I was also confused and said so to Heather who was busy stubbing out her own cigar.
"Huh? Oh yeah, the search thing. "
I noticed the other teams from our convoy working their ways back to our temporary "Stop, Revive, Survive" spot which was sans Lions Club refreshments but replete with twitchy punters and weary army and cop types.

I tapped her on the shoulder, pointing back where we came, saying;
"Okay Ripley, alien gone, we go thataway."
By fuck she looked gorgeous. Did I mention that earlier? Didn't say it to her this time. No point in stating the obvious, so I thought.
We watched the Rhino's drive to the south-west, mesmerised by what we'd seen of him. As we trudged back on our line, getting back to checking the ground, we briefly discussed the pachyderm man;
"I'd love to split some beers and whiskey with that bloke."
Heather looked back as I went on,
"He's got great cigars and probably some fucking ripping yarns."
Heather nodded and drove a spin off Python riff,
"Well, they certainly wouldn't be about Eric Olthwaite. No shovel embrasure probs there and I'm sure he wouldn't be told that he's a boring tit."
She said with a twistful touch which gave me a slight worry about my chances with this woman. Again. Fuck it, insecurity had held me back way too often and the middle of an apocalypse wasn't the time to go through such crap, like a mashed repeat of old crushes and busted up hope. I didn't need to mainline another scared bunch of emotional bullshit straight into the "future action" vein. I wasn't a desparate AFL gambler trying to recoup losses whilst effused by boutique drugs and fashion models. Although at second blush, chance would be a fine thing. No, time for wondering being over I asked.
"Okay Heather. Here it is. I'm really wanting to spend a lot of time with you. I don't know how to put this properly. but ...'
I looked at her straight in the eyes and felt scared. Really scared about how this would go, She looked back at me also straight in the eyes. It was a look of no bullshit, a demand to say what it is and don't be scared. By fuck she looked gorgeous but I only touched on it as I went on with my vent,
"erm, it's not only that you're way hot and that you're unaffected by it, no. Its also that you're handling all of this better than most." By this stage we were near the convoy. I dragged her back behind one of the buses, like some sort of desparate, kidnapping stalker of hotties. She didn't flinch and came with me. Hope. Well how much hope was there? She didn't know me. I thought I'd better give her all options for an escape. Hell, in the past that was what I always gone for. She noticed my hesitation and kept on looking into my eyes. This was scary.
"Okay. Truth or dare time I guess." I swallowed a hit of nerves,
"I really fancy you. I think you're a marvel." I hesitated and with her non-weapon hand she grabbed my shaky wrist and then enveloped my fingers. That did nothing for my nerves. I gulped and continued,
"There's a heap of shit you may need to know about me and what I've done." I swallowed remnants of spit, trying to brace for the Big Confession. Her gaze remain locked on target as I continued.
"Last night at Beecroft. Was a really, really crap night. I did some bad shit..." and I let her know about capping Scooby Doo and screwing Judith The Neighbour. I also backtracked to the first time we'd met and she'd come to my flat for jelly fish sting relief, how I'd noticed her various gentleman callers with a twinge of jealousy, how I'd called her name during the tryst with Judith. I rattled out all of this angsty confession waiting for her response. She unslung her rifle but before I could think about being stitched by a lead concerto she'd put the rifle down and came up and embraced me. Then kissed me long and hard. A cartoon Terry jumped up and down then did a a Curly back spin on the ground. The real Terry kissed her back with feeling. A lot of feeling. Heather drew back, still holding me and switched on her mega smile,
"Its okay Terry. Last night we weren't together. I must admit it wasn't the best thing you could have done but I'm sure Judith would have stopped you if she really wanted to. And yes, I think I do have feelings for you as well." We hugged again and I knew what we had wasn't going to be a brief fling. It had the hallmarks of Something Serious and I was no longer scared. I was happy and I told Heather as much.
"I am too." was her low throat murmured response which made me start thinking of bed. Such thoughts were doused by the ice bucket of a cop.
"Time to get moving," and he John Wayned a "we're burning daylight."
Heather and I had time for a quick kiss and hug before grabbing our weapons and going to our cars.

The convoy pulled up to a large gate which had been installed at the entrance of the college. The main buildings sported weapon pits and the roofs were festooned with a number of gun platforms. The gate was part of a ten metre high wire fence with ports for weapons. Scorch marks, torn earth and ugly stains told a tale of zed attacks. Inside the fences were hectares of pasture, market gardens, crop fields, storage sheds, and pens for chickens and ducks. There were small herds of cattle and sheep and a paddock populated by horses. In the distance I could see people on motorbikes and an occasional farm vehicle doing the farm thing. There were also small towers every hundred metres. Gotta keep an eye on zed. After being ushered through the gate the convoy drove up to the main building. Last time I'd been here was to see my brother play in a local soccer grand final. He managed to pull a penalty through some niggling of the opposition's right wing defender who threw a punch in a discussion inside the penalty area and immediately was red carded. That was my bro. I was looking forward to meeting up with him and his de facto, Diana. She was a Chilean food technologist who confirmed everyone's stereotype of a bounteous South American beauty. How Roger had managed to nab her was beyond all human sensibility given that his taste used to be stuck in the desparation of Picture Magazine's home girls.

A couple of orange vest people trafficked us into the parking area. We were then shepherded into a group meeting where we were told about room allocations, meals, work details, computer and phone arrangements and weapons wrangling. This was run by the college admin honcho and sounded a well tested recitation. Next up to the mic was an army guy. Had pips on his shoulders, a mess of medals and thinning grey hairline. He also got our attention by thundering,
"You're all dead!" A few children whimpered. Hell, even I almost whimpered and people started looking at each other with 'what the fuck' expressions. The major calmed down and went on to explain that us fragile beings had just entered a whole new world where free choice had taken a sickie and order and structure had taken its place. We were free to take our chances outside the fences at any time. He then outlined a list of der verboten behaviours which basically amounted to regular common law "don't hurt each other or let each be hurt by your own actions or the actions of others." He also said that current laws of the state were still in force on top of what he'd outlined. Then he finished and handed the mic back to our Admin M.C. to lay down some more beats. His final tune was to say we were to assemble in the theatre at 8.00 p.m. and to take our work forms along with us. Then we were instructed to check in at the college's reception in family groups, as couples or singles. We were to do this immediately and afterwards could retrieve whatever we'd stacked in our cars, trucks and buses. I noticed that the cops and army crews had split into different groups and were being approached by senior colleagues. Then Heather and I had time for a quick conference about being a couple or singles. I voted for the former which she didn't want. She wanted her own space to start with, to see how our relationship developed without the daily pressure of wet towels on the floor and dutch ovens. However, we'd still be able to arrange conjugal visits. Reluctantly I agreed but sent a silent prayer to the Flying Spaghetti Monster that our first night would be the opening episode of such visits.

My room had a mid size bed, wardrobe, ensuite, kitchenette, desk with ergo chair, bookshelves, two seater lounge and the stink of decades of skull sweat. Upon further inspection I noticed a small plaque which read, "Peter Toohey, 1974". Well strike me roan and purple I'd stumbled onto a former home of the man who was going to be the next Doug Walters. My brother had told me about his legendary status at HAC and here I was in the middle of cricketing greatness. In NSW cricket history young Peter had been a promising middle order batsman, playing for his state at a tender age and marked as a future Test player. Then in the midst of the panic when the World Series Cricket privaterrs stripped the offical Australian team of its top two tiers young Peter was tossed into the maw of the thundering West Indies pace attack on their home soil. A slaughter from which he never really recovered. During his brief stay in the Australian team he was regarded as the heir apparent to Doug Walters, the heroic figure of beer, phlegmatic card play and brilliant batting. Thus young Pete was afforded the affection of cricket fans across the country. I was impressed with being in his room, hoping some of his aura may seep in.
To break the revery I plugged in my computer and phone and checked the Cloud for messages. My siblings were secure, friends mostly so and Judith was due to go to Penrith, on the way helping to shepherd the final convoy from Parramatta. She wished Heather and myself well with a few x's and o's thrown in for good measure. That was nice of her and typical of her nature. After filing status reports to all and sundry and a quick sms to Heather I ventured out into the college proper.

I caught up with her outside the college cafeteria. Some wag had printed up a sign which read "Zed's Dead Cafe" above the serving counter. Heather and I chuckled at it, grabbed each others hand and went up to order a meal. As I read the quirky menu a familiar and familial voice opened up from behind,

"Don't order the Brainz, bro. Leave the Brainz alone."

AfterFlood - Got A Light?

2011-03-14T23:22:00.000+11:00

Afterflood6 - Got A Light?

Our convoy cut across to Pennant Hills Road until the turn off to Dural at Boundary Road. At the back end of Pennant Hills High School we saw abandoned cars, some smouldering piles of zed corpses and no sign of life except a swag of minah birds trying to scare off some crows and currawongs who’d been nosing around the zeds, hoping for an easy take away feed. The aircon in my car was open windows, the inbuilt unit having shat itself a few years back on a run to Louth races. I wound up the windows but not before some of the foul stench of burnt zeds hadn’t crept in to say hello. “Fuck off!” was my response to the visiting stink in the form of a Winnie Blue. A reasonably successful attempt to cover the reeking, burny zed smell. Tobacco Smoke 2 - Zedstink 1.

The trip out was through the Cherrybrook McMansion defile, then the semi-rural Dural, then Kellyville until we hit the road out to Windsor, Richmond and the college. Normally the drive out to HAC would have taken me an hour but in the convoy we were only hitting the bottom end of Kellyville after statual trip duration. We cut across on Annagrove Road to Windsor Road. We pulled up in the left lanes to generally chat while the senior cops and army blokes conferred over radios, maps, thermos coffee and cigarettes. I went and found Heather,

“How’s the Barina going? Still got the beep beep mojo? “

Heather shrugged. And what a lovely shrug it was. I had to get over this obsessive crush but I couldn’t help but be drawn to her beauty. Maybe it was an attraction sharpened by the whole disaster, run-for-your-lives scenario but it was there and it was real. Get a grip son.

“Beeping not so much but getting me there. That was a bad stink near Penno High. Always thought that school was a bit more cleanskin than that.”

“Yeah, middle class sensibility meets bush setting and McMansion Gen Y candidates. Wasn’t like that in my day of course. None of these over achiever types back then. Just a bunch of us wasters trying to grow dope in the bush, hassle the girls at lunchtime and generally pretend to be ultra cool inner city types. Massive fail of course but it was a fucking hoot at the time and kept us out Kings Cross junkiedom. For historical reference, we never stunk as bad as those burning zeds. “

Heather backed and filled on her own school days;

“Asquith was pretty much the same ‘çept for that whole all-girls school thing. There were some really fucked up bitches who grooved on hurty bully-chick behaviour. Luckily I didn’t cop it as much, they seemed to leave me alone.” I nodded a sage nod,

“Well, that’d be because you would have out hottied them. Not much they could do about that.”

“Thanks for the job reference but they did try. Luckily my dad used to teach me some hitting moves for when creeps might get a bit too touchy. They seemed to work against bitchy Britney wannabees just as well. Except the crotch kicking thing, didn’t bring that into play. Nevertheless it wasn’t a bad place to go. “

I retrieved my hip flask and offered her a hit,

“Well even Asquith chicks would have learned the benefits of hip flasks.”

She hesitated before taking a quick gulp and handed it back. I took a swig and capped it as I saw a cop approaching. I pocketed the flask, took out a Winnie and lit up. The cop went up to Heather,

“You own the Barina, right?”

“Yeah, what’s up? Rego’s fine and its got no defects.”

The cop frowned slightly,

“No, nothing like that. You seem to be getting a flat tyre.” With that he left us to it. I reckoned it had been an excuse for him to get a close up perv on Heather. Hell, I would have. Had, was doing, would do until her dad-taught hitting of creeps like me started. We both walked back to her car and found the near side rear tyre was lower than the rest. Heather fossicked around the boot and brought out a tyre pressure gauge. A quick check showed that the offending tyre had 12 psi. A minute later it was a tad below. It wouldn’t make it to HAC so we changed it. The spare measured 38 psi. Good girl. We deflated it down to 32. Just as we’d finished stowing the old tyre and tools the sirens whooped a few times indicating time to move out. Before we did the air was rent by a flight of four fighter jets heading towards Richmond air base. In the distance I saw a few choppers and to the east two transport planes, Hercules I guessed, which were heading to the air base as well. It was reassuring that the air base was close to HAC. Nothing like having some military might on tap to soothe the nerves.

We drove up Windsor Road and then at Mulgrave took a left. It was almost spitting distance now. All we had to do was follow Hawkesbury Valley Way, a couple of Golf Courses, the air base then left to HAC. On the home stretch now. As the convoy headed out there were other things lurking. With intent. Well not so much lurking but shambling along working their mouths, zed style, and I’m not talking about a post football match “played to our game plan” presser.

There was a gazillion of the fucks shambling around some sort of resort. The lead cop pulled the convoy to a halt and the army guys started unpacking weapons and ammunition. I got my shottie and hung back, waiting for Heather. She was sporting her assault rifle, looking every bit like one of those chicks in machine gun magazine photo shoots, scarily attractive. We joined the rest of the convoy passengers, shepherded by two of the soldiers and two of the cops into line behind two of the buses which were parked sideways across the road. The truck with the cannon was in front, the other buses angled to the sides. The soldiers advanced in line, scoping the terrain for best firing positions. Eventually they set up four machine guns and deployed in a firing rank. Behind them a squad of ten soldiers set up mortars. Another digger was on top of the lead bus with binoculars, radar and map. I went up to a soldier and offered to join the line but he declined the offer.

“If they get close enough feel free to join in.” He then moved off to the side of the road, taking up an observation point but facing the way we’d come. Another soldier was on the opposite side, also checking the rear. The cops called all us passengers together and explained that there was a zed horde in front. It was milling around but posed a threat both to the airbase further up the road and HAC itself. I asked the question,

“Why not just bomb the shit out of them? The airforce is up the road, they have bombs and stuff.”

The cop responded, wearily, like this had been an argument won and lost many a time.

“We need the infrastructure. Roads, buildings, power lines, pipes, that sort of stuff. If we can avoid blowing it all up we will. We don’t want to spend the next hundred years rebuilding this stuff. And no, not even a few choppers. They’re need up at Penrith.”

We all sat down behind the buses and waited. After about ten minutes I heard a whoomp, a whistling rushing and an explosion in the distance, then some more shouted orders and a few more whoomps. A few more explosions were quickly followed up by a rapid volley of more mortar work. A couple of minutes later it stopped. The smoke from the rounds was clouding above us soon joined by a few bursts of machine gun fire. I was keen to see the action but the cops were keeping us sheltered and low. The machine guns then opened up with nore rhythmic bursts. This was joined by some shots from two rifles, firing rapidly but not on automatic. They sounded more solid than the assault weapons I’d heard at Beecroft. I looked at the copper, raising my eyebrows. Heather answered my question,

“Heavy rifles, probably sniper gear. I’d say the guys using them are just doing it for shits and giggles. Dad used to say snipers are like that sometimes.” She checked and re-checked her own weapon. One of the soldiers came back behind the buses;

“Ökay, those of you with weapons and are keen can come up front now. If you haven’t killed any of these before the idea is to take out their brains. Aim for their heads. They won’t stop until the brain is knocked out. “ He was pointing at his own head, front, centre and side, indicating the best places to aim. “Come on, let’s go.”

Ten of us followed him to the front line The machine gunners had advanced and reset their weapons further apart. The other soldiers were lying prone in firing positions, taking pot shots at some remnant zeds. About a hundred metres up the road and to the side was a scene of zed devastation. Piles of them were grouped in hideous, stinky piles of zed deaddom. I cheered, whooping and yelling out,

“Excellent capping of zed boys, brilliant work!” I moved to the side, following Heather as one soldier retorted,

“ Äin’t over yet matey. There’s more coming.“ he then let off a burst from his weapon, two zeds falling as a result. They were still out of range of my shottie but Heather was working the bolt on her illegal AK knock off. She raised it, clamping down slightly and fired for two seconds. The barrel swung upwards before she caught the movement and pushed it back down.

“Fucking cheap, communist piece of crap!” she swore, “ Dunno why Dad liked this one. Silly old bastard.” Then she squeezed the trigger again, this timekeeping the barrel down and aimed head high at a cluster of shambling zeds, two of whom fell down. By now everyone else had joined the party and the remaining herd of about fifty zeds were dropped. The soldiers with rifles got up, spaced themselves and advanced We followed behind, wary of stray zeds. I made sure I had both barrels loaded and soon joined the line. It was a mixture of soldiers, try hards like me and Heather. Her proficiency at weapons, self defence and ability to stay cool was starting to scare me a tad.

We advanced twenty metres when one soldier spotted and dealt with two zeds at the side. Soon a few more in the line were taking pot shots at the stumbling filth. By fuck they stank. Heather was in her own world raising the rifle, firing, putting it down, reloading, firing. I noticed a group of three to my right and aimed at the centre one. The shottie boomed my displeasure at ol’ stinky zed and I was surprised when the top half of its head disappeared in a familiar shower of zed cappingness. I swung and aimed for the zed to its right and this time took out the left half of the skull. It collapsed. I quickly reloaded and raised the gun again, only to hear Heather scream a warning,

“Right, to the rear!” A group of a dozen zeds were shambling to the machine gunners, who couldn’t fire as we were in front of the barrels. Similarly we couldn’t shoot because we might hit the gunners. Now that was a whole piece of tactical crap in my book. Should. Not. Happen. Then I heard the solid sniper rifles start popping away. Then a few shotgun blasts as two cops appeared from behind the buses. Maybe not so bad, tactics=wise. Turned out the gunners were still in situ in case we had to make a running retreat. Once we had run back behind them they’d be free to deal, then we’d set up a firing line. That was the theory as explained later over some home brew.

The soldiers fanned out to the side, telling us to stay put and take out anything which came towards us. In the background, directly in front and further up towards Hawkesbury racetrack I noticed a couple of explosions, followed by three more. Big black clouds mushroomed up and a faint echo of really heavy machine-gun fire reported the presence of someone else dealing out misery to zed. The soldiers didn’t falter, kept on their sweep before returning. They then formed us in a line and we approached the piles of zed. Some were still trying to crawl out of the foul mess and we went around capping the lot. Off to the right we noticed a few buildings. Up the road was some sort of hotel resort, no doubt catering to golfers and fly boys. Back towards us on the same side was a weight loss and health resort. Must have been lean pickings for zed in that place, hence forcing him on a road trip. I cracked the joke with Heather who smiled indulgently before satisfying herself there weren’t any more zeds. I pointed out the black smoke in the distance. We both shrugged it off but the soldiers appeared interested. Very fucking interested indeed as they quickly herded us away from dead zeds and back to the convoy. The top soldiers and cops conferred again, there was more radio crackle and then they ordered us to get the convoy moving. This time the truck with the cannon led off, now carrying six extra soldiers stripped from the buses. The cops ushered us into line, two of their cars taking up the rear, each carrying two soldiers. The truck led us through, sometimes off road to avoid a pile of zed corpses, sometimes on the pavement. The thick smoke was billowing to the left if the racecourse, as we pulled up a couple of hundred metres to the side. Two soldiers from the truck dismounted and scoped out the scene. Others moved around the perimeter of the convoy, the machine gunners unloading their weapons and moving to a small rise. To the right and ahead we saw a couple of choppers land at the air base and could now make out a fortified perimeter, piled up against which seemed to be a few thousand zed. I couldn’t see much more out of my side window and windscreen. All passengers were signalled to stay inside their cars. One of the soldiers scoping the explosion site yelled out,

“Cover. Incoming!”

I threw myself out the door and lay down beside the car, not knowing what the fuck to do. Nothing happened, so I stood up and looked to the smoke. Then something did happen. To the right of the fire was a building, looked like a warehouse. Then it blew its top, literally. A massive gout of flame lifted the roof which was then persuaded to turn into micro bits of charred roof, quickly followed by the walls. Another explosion followed its friend on some sort of fiery quest and was quickly followed by its smaller tag along pal, the type that always follows the big kids when there’s a promise of fun and mayhem. To me it looked fan-fucking-tastic. Big rolling balls of fire, billowing smoke and a building being converted to charred pieces of its constituent parts, sort of like what happens when you toss a can of your sisters hairspray onto a campfire, only crunchy. Not that I’d ever consider doing anything of the sort.

The shock wave hit us and knocked me down. Luckily by that stage a lot of its energy had dissipated and there was no physical damage except a few bruises. In summary Your Honour the defence maintains that it was a standout occurrence, not likely to be repeated. I even yelled out a Homer Simpson “Woo hoo”. One of the soldiers, rushing past to check things out looked at me as if I were a loon. I did not care. I watched in awe as the fire rolled out and into itself and the smoke formed a small mushroom cloud. Everyone by now was out of their vehicles, the soldiers were checking themselves for blast injury and the radio chatter started up. A chopper raised itself off the airfield and headed towards the smoke. Maybe this whole thing had been planned and our timing was off. Perhaps something had just cooked off after power and gas had been left on. But at a racetrack? It had me all confused, as it did Heather. The Chinese rifle was starting to look a part of her. Fuck! My shottie! Once again I’d ventured outside without a weapon. Heather noticed my frown,

“Worried about the boom booms now?”

“No my lovely young rifle wielding jelly fish victim. More like a recurring ‘no pants’ dream.” I nodded at my shotgun lying on the front passenger seat and added,

“Happens too often that I’m leaving a friend behind when I venture out.”

“Hmm. You are a conflicted soul. Try reading some Gurdjieff. He’ll sort you out.”

“Fucking vegan, hippy shit. I’ll stick with my shottie thanks. And an ACDC soundtrack.”

Heather walked to my car, reached in and took my gun. She handed it to me.

“Here’s your penis extension, Angus. Make sure you don’t shoot too early.” I was beaten but had one lame thing to say,

“Don’t tell me to come, I’m already there.”

Our verbal tinkerings were interrupted by the soldiers and cops ushering us all to a meeting next to the truck. The chief cop addressed us,

“The airbase wants us to check this out. They don’t have spare people at the moment, seeing as how they’re dealing with a major stink in Penrith.” He sounded like a football coach who was trying to pep up his team during a half-time speech at Penriff Park. Go the flannies.

“ We need to walk in a cordon a hundred metres south then west. We’ll split into pairs. We’re looking for bits of metal, plastic, anything. Don’t touch it, just jab a flag next to it.” He then pointed to a pile of little flags on the ground. “Those needing armed help see me. We take off in five minutes.

We fanned out, twenty metres between each pair. The idea was we’d cover five metres then walk back like mowing a lawn. It was apparently standard search techniques. To me it was standard boredom techniques. Except that I was still in Heather’s company. Our sector took us next to a small shed, then across a single lane of road. We checked the shack and found nothing except an old bridle, a rusty stirrup and a yellowing copy of Sportsman. It had Vo Rogue as a lead subject . Ancient.

We went further on and heard an engine in the middle distance. I got my gum ready and Heather checked her rifle. The next two pairs were also looking in the direction of the noise and seemed unsure of how to react. Heather called out,

“We’ll handle this!” I looked at her,

“Yeah. Sounds like a fucking big V8. Noice move H baby. We’ll steal it and do a Gold Coast run.”

The car, no truck, no bastard son of big fuck off F100 came towards us. Heather was waving. As it approached I noticed it had but a driver. On the back was a big, ugly machine gun type thing. Looked like the Gattling Gun from “bBattle Wagon”, a western which taught the world never, ever let The Duke get pissed off within reaching distance of a proto machine gun. Thinking of John Wayne reminded me I had a couple of cigars in the box in my top pocket. Small ”Ämandas” , Willem II, but I felt the need and lit one up. Heather looked at me and I gave her the last one. The truck pulled up as we puffed out some smoke. Must have looked silly but I was enjoying the smoke and was very curious as to who was driving this bushpig kiler ute. The driver waited, seeming to fiddle around the dash. He didn’t appear to be dwarfed by the size of the vehicle. Heather went and checked out the back, making humming noises at the cannon thing. The driver opened the door. I eased my shottie into a relaxed yet ready position and stepped back a pace or two. His large frame unloaded, he looked at me, nodded and he went to the back of the truck. Heather stepped back as he approached and cocked her rifle. But she really only had eyes for the cannon. The big man clambered onto the rear tray, unlocked and unbolted some mounts and lay the huge gun on its side. Then he clambered down, not saying a word. I checked out the gun as well. Looked massive, really heavy, probably need a crane to unload it. The big man turned to us, pulled out a cigar from his shirt pocket, smelled it, smiled, clipped off the end and jammed it in his mouth. Being a gentleman I fired up my Bic lighter for his oversized smoke.

“Cuban. Romeo y Julieta if that means anything to you hillbilly love birds.” His American drawl seemed to echo for a brief moment, then he reached out a massive paw and I took it, giving the firm grip as good as I could manage. My right hand welcomed its release.

“Rhino’s the name, trouble’s the game. Solving it that is.”

He arched an eyebrow as he shook Heather’s hand and went to the back of the truck, sliding, then fucking hoisting the big bastard onto his shoulder , the huge gazillion ton cannon. It was a real life Arnie act except his biceps were bigger than the Guvernator’s. I offered to help him with it but he declined, looking at his right bicep, then at us, saying,

“No siree folks, you do not get these from petting kitty cats.”

Afterflood 5 - Guilt and Gish

2011-03-07T22:07:00.000+11:00

Afterflood 5 - Guilt and Gish

I felt Heather move against my back, wriggling out of bed. I was hungover, sort of tired but happy tired, sated with sex. I rolled towards her and remembered. This wasn’t Heather.

It was Judith, a newly minted widow. She was naked and her body evinced some severe sex recognition in my near consciousness. Despite my wretched guilt the deed replayed itself like some sort of looped youtube clip of real crime.. I hadn’t even asked, I’d just done. This was really bad shit.

I reached for her, grabbing her right hip. She turned around, lines of sorrow and despair reaching down her face to her mouth where they worked her words,

“What happened, it was , was…”

I interrupted her, needing something, focusing on the wrong and driven by a big kick of guilt,

“Rape . I raped you.” Shouldn’t admit it but there it was. The worst thing aside from murder you could render unto a woman. And she’d just lost her husband. The fact that she’d crawled into my bed added no justification.

“ There was no consent, no asking, I just forced the issue when you were in no condition to stop me.” I kept on but not for long, being completely arse at explaining all of this,

“ Fucking hell! This is totally fucked! “ I shuddered, turned away from her, grabbing the water bottle from the bedside table, thus grabbing a second’s worth of respite from the guilt apocalypse..

She turned fully to face me as I put the bottle back down, reaching over to grab it. Her nakedness was a killing reminder of what I’d done yet I couldn’t look away. She swigged down a couple of gulps then leaned back. She seemed composed. I felt like shit and must have looked it.

“What I was going to say was that what happened was wrong and probably mainly your fault. I did contribute by lying against you and when you had that nightmare I felt compelled, no , needed to try and bring you out of it. I just didn’t expect you to call me Heather and work me into well you know. I just , well , needed something, some sort of comfort. Sort of like you did.“ Past Indiscretions decided to jump up and down in front of my lens, just like kids on the boundary at the SCG when Ponting’s getting interviewed. I had the security apes shunt them away, bursting their balloons. Not now, please.

She looked at me, still with that sorrowful look and said,

“But I don’t reckon it was rape. I didn’t stop you. It was shameful for us both and we shouldn’t have. But we did, it’s done and its over. In any case we need to get moving.”

She then got up and walked out, draping herself in my beach towel. I felt like a right bastard as I watched her do it but immediately processed some sort of justification for what I’d done. It was heaps easier to deal with that way and I was always one for taking a cheap and easy option. I now had an inkling of what went through Warney’s mind each week. I got up, hunted down clean jocks and dressed in the Newtown Jets footy jumper I’d picked up for five bucks at Vinnies, cargo trousers with many pockets, Mac Uni footy socks and my fave steel capped Blunnies. Took five minutes but worth it. Then I realised I should have abluted first. This rape business had me totally out of synch. I declad myself to shorts and Pennant Hills soccer shirt which was getting smaller on me by the hour. It smelt as if I hadn’t washed or worn it for a year and felt a size or two smaller than I remembered. It was correct in its assessment of both my hygiene and girth. Fuck I hate clothes which tell you the truth in terms of incontrovertible scientific method. No matter how often I tried the fucker on, the evidence couldn’t be denied. Fuck science, give me blind faith and I’ll follow Flying Spaghetti Monster as long as he tells me I’m right and inconvenient evidence is evil. Speaking of evidence I encountered Judith in the hall near the kitchen. She still looked calm and now freshly showered.

“There’s still some hot water. You should use it.”

I turned back and watched her walk to the bedroom, my bedroom, wondering when the shit storm of retribution would start. I took the coward’s way out and checked out the hot water taps. My parents had installed a solar hot water system around about when I’d lost my first tooth. It had electric back-up which was flogged remorselessly through the family’s teenage years. I could still remember the first icky unclogging of the shower drain. It had been an element of my dad’s version of hard truth which stood me in good stead in my share house days. What stood us now in good stead was his forethought in getting solar backed up by mains electricity. I was really starting to miss my parents, getting a big hate on for this orphan bullshit. End result was that I climbed up into the roof, checked the solar tank and clambered back down. Then took a shower. A fucking hard beating, wide spraying mother of a shower. Someone with fancy words would have described it in a lot of big phrases about me trying to wash out guilt. Probably would throw in some Shakespeare, maybe even some Dante references but all I felt was that glorious beat down of hot water, pounding on my skin.

I dried, paddled out to my bedroom and reclothed myself. Then I went back to the laundry, clambered back into the ceiling and turned off the switches on the hot water tank. Now it was time to take care of business. I went down to the kitchen, filled the kettle, turned on the gas stove and didn’t shove my head in the oven. Just put on a kettle and a frying pan with some water in it. Still had four eggs and they were getting poached. I was amazed these things like gas and power were still working. Fuck the amazement, crack the damn eggs and get breakfast happening. Mr Toaster obliged himself and the UHT milk, tea bags and a couple of apples meant we had a breakfast under way. Fucking genius. The non genius aspect of my behaviour soon appeared in the form of Judith.

“We have to get the fuck out!” was her greeting to a plate of poached eggs and toast accompanied by a mug of English Breakfast. Her outburst didn’t stop us from eating, slurping down the tea and refilling water bottles. We washed up, stowed the plates and cutlery and went around the house turning off every power point. I switched off the power mains and removed the fuses, putting them in the telephone table drawer, leaving a note for Later Times. By fuck I was good at avoiding important personal shit. Keep busy, pretend the small gear is important even if it’s irrelevant. All the time under the urgent coaching of Judith. Then I remembered she hadn’t been back to her house, her marital home which she’d just enjoyed until yesterday with her champion husband Greg. I checked my old wardrobe one more time. Behind my musty graduation suit, an old hammock and a plywood home -made wave rider was my old hand spear. The rubber was still intact, the three accompanying spearheads were in good order, all thanks to my young nephew who’d stolen, used and refurbished the kit before having to hand it back due to his dad’s insistence that he work for and buy his own. Gotta love the Protestant Work Ethic, especially when you’re thinking ‘mmm …weapons’. Grabbed it, stowed it in the boot.

I walked back into the dining room where Judith was unplugging the chargers, phones, laptop and tapping her right foot against the table. Bail time. We reconned the front, me hefting the shottie and jerkily looking around while we moved into Judith and Greg’s house. Didn’t even check the capped zeds out front. Judith went around the house, picking things up, putting them down, moving from room to room. I followed for a minute or so but it wasn’t happening. I knew what she was doing and waited, keeping watch at the back window then moving to the front, trying to look soldierly proficient amidst a shit storm of angst and loss. Eventually she was finished. She had a suitcase, backpack and overnight bag stuffed full. I took them out to the car, stowed them and waited. Judith walked back out carrying two shopping bags of salvaged food. I wondered whether she’d rescued Greg’s stash of his fave tipple, Wild Turkey. It wasn’t my first choice but would do in a tight clinch cut with dry ginger ale, just as it had on a couple of occasions after I’d wandered in to their house, bereft and still numb after mum had died. Yeah, it was all about my fucking sorrow.

“That’s it. It’s all over, all gone. Get me out of here. “ Judith was dealing.

We drove up to the Beecroft Fire Station past three dead zeds, a couple of trashed Volvo sports wagons and a smashed up bicycle. All that was missing was a few crushed trays of espressos and soy lattes.

The fire station dudes had both of our Evac dockets. We were amongst the last of the stragglers. Aside from a score or so of fellow reffos all that were left of officaildom were three cops, five army guys who manned a fuck off monster special forces truck and ten orange vested SES people, mostly middle aged women with chocolate desire and contempt for blokes like me worn on their souls. They barely acknowledged the cops and soldiers as I sauntered through with my shottie, just looked at me with a knowing and condescending “this wanker won’t last” look. I didn’t notice that but Judith did. I was more interested in the army gear. That truck was the most awesomest machine I’d seen in real life context. It was the shiznettest, fitted with all terrain tyres, big machine guns and cannon type things, a snorkel and a ripping fucking decal of an angry koala which hefted a machine gun, wore killer sunnies and had a caption “Killer K.”

One of the orange ladies brought me back down.

“While you’ve been doing you’re military porn perv we’ve sussed out your evac spots. You’re okay in the final convoy to the west, HAC has you listed. Your companion isn’t as lucky. She’s listed for Lorne. Great Ocean Road, just past Bleak City.” She handed me two dockets. I turned around to Judith and gave her hers. This was it and my manning the fuckupingness was not in bulk supply. My memories of the previous night and Greg’s selflessness did pop in, just to zoo me out some more. Judith’s plan had been to go with Greg. His plan was to sort out his Illawarra clan and then head to Lorne in a kitted out Hi Lux he’d worked up. On his way back with that Hi Lux he was caught up in the zed storm at Holy Cross College Ryde, selling his life at the barricades. He was a fucking champion and I hated being reminded of my lesserness. Fuck it. I turned to the SES lady and told her,

“If Judith wants to go there, I’ll go with her. If she wants to come with me, I’ll take her. But I need to find Heather. Need that right now.” I gave her Heather’s evac details at Berowra. I looked guiltily at Judith as she checked her mobile. I’d forgotten that sort of shit, the ’cloud’ , tweetersville, FB, blogs, being all worried about my rape of Judith and being an orphan and all the rest of that crap. Your honour I submit that since I’d been evil I’d seen a mighty military truck and been questioned by knowing women. “ Oh yeah,” the judge said, “well fuck off and sort yourself out son or its hella time for you.”

Judith did one of those tap on the opposite shoulder and watch you react to a supposedly invisible prompt thing. I fell for it being all nerv jangly. I loved the smile of her reaction. She then said she wasn’t going to Lorne, nor was she blindly following me. I decided it was time for a chat. During the chat she explained to me that a few times over the past three years she’d wondered about the youngest son of her next door neighbour. Wondered about his sexuality, his relationships and basically all that crap which makes chicks lose sleep. Then that bloke had blundered into her house a couple of times when firstly his dad had died, (expected), then again when his mother had been ill in hospital (unexpected) and when his mum had unexpectedly died (total shock).

I remembered. First time I’d just stumbled in, embraced by both Greg and Judith and sobbed a minute of mortal realisation. The next time I’d been serious, trying not to garner sympathy. I fell into their arms and Greg’s supply of Johnny Walker and Wild Turkey. Apparently Judith had to tuck me into bed in their sunroom, me being untransportable, even for three metres. I was apparently clingy and gropey and she shrugged it off. The third time was the day after mum had died and Greg came in to the house, slung our family to his house and made us sit in their company with whiskey, beer, gin and wine. Before it went silly I went to the bottle shop and stocked up big time. Top shelf whiskey, gin, rum and beer. Ended up with an unofficial wake including mum’s local church minister, some cousins and neighbours. It was brilliant and summed up Greg and Juidth. Top. Fucking. People. After my siblings left that night Judith took care of me. Laughed off the clumsy groping and allotted one sloppy tongue kiss as fair sympathy comfort. Then another and a breast feel before disengaging. That was old news which I had glossed over. Until zed emergency perspective kicked in.

Judith read me. Chicks always either know or have a good fucking line to SportsBet odds on “Bloke Thought’s” chances. She nailed it,

“I love Greg, always will. What you and I did was what we did. I didn’t want it but somehow, I dunno, it seemed to work for me, to lose myself in trthe moment. I have to deal with that guilt. I think I can and I reckon Greg understands what went on. Those times we pashed and you groped, he laughed off after I told him. He knew there was no threat and it was sympathy comfort. I dunno, I reckon that’s what happened last night but on a grander scale. I don’t think it was rape.”

I looked up from the sausage sanger the orange vested woman had given me and uttered,

“Yeah, look, I have that whole guilt thing to deal with but I’m glad you’re not aiming to have me shot. It does matter to me, a lot. So what are you going to do now. You coming to HAC?”

She looked at me, looked at the women wearing the orange vests, the cops, army guys and the big fuck off army truck then said,

“You go find that girl, Heather. You called her name too much last night not to find out. Lorne’s a non starter for me now. As you are.” She then sniffed, trying to hold back, then fell into me. Well, it was me more falling into her. I shuffled danced her past the crew and sleazed us back into the station garage. Then I kissed her long, hard and thoroughly and she did the same back. I even got me some final groping. So did she. But that was it. No more. No, not again, was not going to happen. But it did. By jingies I’m an arsehole.

Finally we eased ourselves apart. I had only one thing to say and that was,

“Thank you. Thank you from the depths of my rotten heart,”

Judith dialled up the smile by a few giggawatts, saying,

“Now that was totally in order. Also the last time. A nice memory for both of us, of better times ços we’re about to enter the bad times. And I have an idea of how I’m jumping into those.” She then nodded to the orange vesters.

“You need that Heather girl. Go and find her. Go and find your life. “

We hugged and kissed then turned from each other.

I went out and checked my car for fluids and tyre pressure. Topped the tank from a jerry can, topped water, all the time keeping an eye out for Judith. She reappeared in orange vest, sporting a data pad, a machine gun and the look I’d seen just after she’d capped her first zed. The last ten evac cars were occupied by drivers and passengers waiting for a go signal. The senior orange vest gave it as one cop car led off and another waited to be tail end Charlie. The last I saw of Judith was a brief wave, a flick of hair and a smile. I mouthed another ‘thank you’ and drove off.

On the way to Berowra the convoy split. We stopped at the last local petrol station at Hornsby to restock fuel then I turned off to Heather’s place, just out of Hornsby Heights. I was now on my own unless I took the very final convoy option from Mt Kuring-gai tomorrow, heading west. All around similarly outskirted Sydney suburbs the same thing was happening. The city, its suburbs, its dark conflicted soul were going to be cleansed. I headed towards the Berowra Waters turn off and then saw a bunch of zeds. Must have been thirty or fourty of the evil fuckers. I was behind their stumbling march and they hadn’t heard me yet. I checked my ammo, still had a few hundred shells. I figured the zeds were heading down to Berowra Waters. A lot of old people heading that way until you hit the Hawkesbury. I watched them. They went down the main road, not down Heather’s. Three minutes later I pulled up outside her parent’s place. The first thing I noticed was a dozen or so zeds piled up against the neighbours’ fence. Go girl!

Out of the car, shottie in hand I stood a few metres away from her house. And yelled,

“Heather! You’re fucking gorgeous!”

A couple of flickers from front curtains, a slowly opened front door and there she was. She also had a shottie aimed right at me. Fuck, she must have somehow found about my doings with mum’s neighbour. She yelled out ‘Duck!’. I dropped, turning around at the same time, doing an impression of one of those straws which barkeeps falsely believe chicks like to see in crap cocktails.

Boom!

I ate dirt

Boom!

I spat out the dirt.

Then I twisted a look behind me. Two zeds. Once again I wondered where the fuck they’d come from. I needed to get a zed Tom-Tom. That was not my next thought as Heather rushed up, stinking of that smoke which shotties give off (oh yeah, acrid stench of cordite anyone? Bueller ?).

I launched into her, our shotties clashing in some sort of mating dance while I just hugged the living bejaysus out of her until she almost died. Oh yeah. That clingy stuff needed to be tempered. Then she launched into me. Took a minute, a long minute for us to disentangle. The shotties needed a bit more time to break away from their blind date passion.

After the mental cold showers we needed to check out old dead zed. I covered while she reloaded. How often do you get to say that sort of shit? Too fucking often as it turned out.

I looked at the zeds. I recognised both faces despite their zed-fucked visages. Alan fucking Jones and Tony fucking Abbott. Ultra right wing shock jock and fear mongering contender for Prime Ministership. In all of the crap we were facing apparently there were some bonuses. Then I noticed a pile of other capped zeds further down the road. All wearing remnants of expensive suits and all adorned with those lanyards worn by VIP’s. Confused was me thinking that cunts like this were gonna be tucked up nicely in secret lairs guarded by hundreds of special forces minions. That’s what was meant to happen wasn’t it? Gladly not.

Maybe not so gladly given that their resources were far greater than mine and they’d ended up being capped by a bikini babe who had a predeliction for getting the frighteners put on by jelly fish. Time for moving, time for action, it’s time for something anyway. Heather looked at me, one of those looks which wants to know the truth but hopes you’ll give a plausible explanation of past events. Well, that’s according to simplistic immature bloke thinking anyway. Basically all she wanted to know was,

“We still on for Hawkesbury?”

I grabbed and hugged her again. Sure it was needy but she was looking really fucking gorgeous.

“You are fucking gorgeous.” I had to remind her and explain my grabbiness. Probably really didn’t need to but did anyway.

“And yes, we’re getting the fuck out of here. Let’s pack it up.”

As we walked past Jones and Abbott I just had to do it. I rammed the butt of my shottie into their ugly zed skulls, making that ugly zed skull gishing sound which was becoming increasingly familiar.

Oh yeah, a lot of that zed skull splacking going on these days.

I followed Heather into her house and we went through each room, making it safe. Turned off the power, the mains, took out fuses and Heather grabbed the last of her cold food from the fridge. She’d already stacked the rest of her food into three cartons. Heather had also stacked a backpack and overnight bag near the front door. She put them in her Barina.

“Not coming in mine?” I asked.

“Two cars is better. Means we have a spare.” I helped her finish packing the car. Then she led me back into the house and gave me a last tour. We checked out the back yard, me taking in her childhood playground for the first time, she looking at it for what could be the last time. She had that wistful, sentimental look which people get when they’re about to leave a holiday house after a fortnight of escape and beachside fun. I got to her just as a couple of tears started leaking out. We clung to each other for a minute or so then checked the Cloud. Everything was as it should be in terms of family and friends. We logged our own updates then locked the house. I hoisted her last bag and took it to her car. It was loaded up. On the back seat I noticed one of those machine gun things which soldiers use, pointed to it and glanced a question at her.

“One of Dad’s. He had a few of them and didn’t hand them in during the gun buy back and amnesty gigs. It’s Chinese, An hour after using it you feel like using it again.”She then laughed at her own joke.

“Remind me to avoid feeding time. Right to go? “ She nodded. I went to my car, stepping around Abbott’s gished zed skull and noticed that Jonesy was still recognisable. I gished him again and got in my car. After reversing back and fronting the way out I waited for Heather’s Barina to line up in my rear vision. She drove straight over Jones. His skull popped as she backed and filled, a gishy zed skull. She gished him again as she followed me up the street. She sure hated shock jocks. The Hornsby Evac centre was at the high school. It had a score of cop cars, another monster army truck, a smaller army battle truck, two army transport trucks and at least fifty army people, thirty-odd cops and a few dozen of the orange vest volunteers. Several machine gun emplacements were up, each manned by a couple of soldiers. Council trucks were lined up in front of ten Hills buses. I noticed more soldiers walking the perimeter in groups of four.

Both of our cars were directed to the oval where we parked in line with dozens of others. Heather and I were then directed to the main building where the set was once again reminiscent of elections. It didn’t take us long to get processed into a small convoy heading to Hawkesbury. It consisted of our two cars, a bus, eight other cars, three cop cars and four trucks. The trucks were filled with tinned, dry and bottled supplies. The organisation of it all was way beyond me. We had ten minutes before our convoy left. I went up to one of the orange vested women and asked if she had contact with Beecroft. I gave her Judith’s name. She pulled out her data slate and tapped a few keys. A minute later she looked up and said,

“She;s still there. She’s volunteered to be amongst the last ones to clear out. They expect that to be in an hour or so. That’s the best we can do. Hawkesbury may be able to get in contact.” She scribbled some notes on a scrap of paper and handed it to me.

“Give that to the HAC team. They’ll do what they can. Now fuck off, we’re busy. Oh, and good luck.”

While this was happening I noticed Heather talking to a young bloke who was wearing bushfiure fighter gear. I walked over and she introduced me.

“This is Scotty, Scotty this is Terry.”

We shook hands. Apparently Scotty was an old family friend and was one of those blokes who had eager beaver written all over him. He also had a couple of fresh bruises and was carrying an automatic rifle, slung over a shoulder. That sort of eager beaverness would come in handy in his role of providing fire expertise. His job was to burn zeds and to that end he was part of a crew in charge of one truck full of flame throwers and another regular fire tender. He wasn’t full of gung ho, just an almost elderly sense of having been dealt a dirty hand and making the best of a shitpile of disaster and madness. His crew ere going with the main convoy to Penrith. Apparently the Penrith panthers complex was now a fortified bastion. Hawkesbury Agricultural College was going to be its food bowl. We said our goodbyes and took our place in the HAC convoy. The lead cop drove off, the second cop was in the middle and the third was at the end of the convoy. The buses were all half full and sported four soldiers and two cops each as security. All of them were armed and one of the trucks had been fitted with an evil looking machine gun. Thus was the convoy tooled up with weapons, zed, for the capping thereof. Oh yeah, a lot of that zed capping going on these days.

Rant And Rant Again

2011-02-26T00:30:00.001+11:00

I just got home having been conveyed in a taxi within which the driver cocooned himself with the radio station which calls itself The Power Station. It calls itself thus because its headline act is its breakfast announcer, Alan Jones. This man does some good things in supporting strugglers, young vocalists and aspirants to sporting success. A lot of this is unrecognised and he doesn't play it up. So that's good, isn't it? Well yeah, except...

Alan Jones is also a long term supporter of the Liberal Party, the conservative side of Australian politics. He's also a an uncritical promoter of their current national leader, Tony Abbott. Groucho Marx once sang a song back in the Thirties called "Whatever it is, I'm against it." This is Tony Abbott's sole ploy to force a premature election which he would expect to win. He has no policies, he's simply taking an approach to play on people's fears of change, people's doubts about anything new and an extant racist reflex which still exists in Australia. He is a man who lacks ideas and mines the worst aspects of human nature in an attempt to gain power.

A supposedly intelligent and compassionate man in the form of Alan Jones, backs Abbott in such grubby, negative and base tactics. Alan Jones' fan base is largely older people who are pissed off that things are not as simple as they should be and that old people in our culture are largely shunted off to institutions on their way to death. He also attracts a lot of simpletons who want someone to give easy explanations that their poor life choices are the fault of others' people on welfare, people fleeing dislocation, persecution and death in lands where we wage war, or basically people who don't think that Daryl Somers and Two and a Half Men are the pinnacles of comedic genius.

WARNING - A :LOT OF FOUL LANGUAGE ENSUES

This brings me back to the cab ride home. On the radio was a replay of Alan Jones attacking our Prime Minister in a blatant party political piece of diatribe which was passed off as an interview with the Prime Minister and once again designed to cement fear and loathing in the listeners. This was the cab driver's choice. Now, I'm pretty much sick of bogan political attitudes, simplistic attacks and a dumbed down approach to debate on the complex problems that we need to navigate. To me its a political parallel to anti-science, the rise of bullshit like Ïntelligent design", anti-immunisation idiocy, homeopathy and belief that Invisible Friend can fix everything. So I thought, "Fuck this crap! If I have to listen to simplistic right wing ranting drivel in a taxi I'll do some ranting of my own." So I launched. I called Alan Jones a number of things.
"Fucking mysoginist poofter cunt! This queen would suck Tony Abbots dick and gargle his cum to get that other fucking cunt elected and to get ratings. If he wants a fucking peoples' revolt I'll fucking start it in his fucking underpants with a fucking stanley knife."

By this stage I had to calm down and direct the driver down to my place. So I did, got in, grabbed a beer and blogged. It hasn't diminished the fucking contempt I feel for Alan Jones and Tony Abbott. They truly are cunts. I am not at all concerned about their prospects of continuing mortality. I am not wshing them dead but if they did pass, I would not shed a tear nor waste time in mourning the fact. They are cunts. I doubt whether I'll alter any of this when I next visit this blog. In fact, next time I cap some zeds they could well be celebrity guest cappees.

AfterFlood - Home Ain't Always That Sweet

2011-02-20T11:37:00.001+11:00

Afterflood 4 - Home Ain't Always That Sweet

I dozed off during the awesomeness of Punter’s lads ripping it up on the cricket fields. This was interrupted by some very loud knocking on the front door. The sort of knocking used by cops, bailiffs and debt collectors. Maybe even zeds. I looked around for my shotgun and remembered it was still in the car. Such lack of attention to detail had to change. I turned off the teev and went into the kitchen and found a rolling pin and a bread knife. Then I carefully went to the front door and opened it, stepping away very quickly and bringing the knife into an extended pose. At the door was a neighbour, Judith. She was looking very scared. I lowered the knife.

“Hi Judith, come in.” I peered over her shoulder looking for signs of trouble. Nothing. She looked at the knife, the rolling pin and said,

“Turn off the lights. It attracts the infected people.” That was her nature, calling the zeds people. I quickly did as I was told. I told her to wait, and then went to my car, retrieving shotgun, ammunition and cricket bat. When I returned I ushered her inside to the lounge room. It was weird sitting in the dark. I told her what I’d been up to, glossing over the zed battle, concentrating on what I was going to do next. She calmed down a bit, not accepting my offer of a stiff drink and told me how she was waiting for her husband to come back from Wollongong. He should have arrived by now but with the evacuation convoys controlling the roads she just wasn’t sure. His phone had run out of battery but last she heard he was stuck somewhere near the airport, probably held up by the stream of people flying out. In the meantime she’d been studying the net, brushing up on all of the latest advice on dealing with evacuation, getting food and water and dealing with the zeds. She was rushing her words, not quite hysterical but close to losing it. She was scared. Like me. I got up, felt my way into the kitchen and poured a couple of whiskeys with a splash of water each. I took them back into the lounge room and put them on the small coffee table next to Judith. I heard a noise in the backyard, stumbled to the dining room where I’d left a torch and looked out the back window. I heard Judith get up and then she was standing right behind me. I told her to get the shotgun and shells. Once I’d loaded the gun I risked a quick sweep of the backyard with the torch. Nothing there. I did it again. Same result. I told Judith to stay inside and eased out the back door. Still nothing. Then, crash! Down near the old gum tree. I raised the shotgun and walked down the stairs, my heart pounding. The panic was about to set in, I could tell. I switched on the flash aiming it at the tree. Something was there. I hit the on switch again and raised the shottie, panic being overtaken by an urgent need to pull a trigger and kill whatever the fuck was down there. In the weak light I made out an indefinable shape. Then the shape moved, like a crawling piece of horror from a late night popcorn flick. I aimed the shottie and fired off one blast. The thing kept on moving. Fuck! I moved a couple of metres closer, aimed and fired the second barrel. The crawling thing stopped. I reloaded, turned on the torch and went to find out what I’d shot.

The closer I got the more I was thinking it couldn’t be a zed, just didn’t look right. When I reached it I saw it was a dog. A big one, Great Dane, wearing a muzzle, a long chain and one of those kinky sex collars. It looked like Scooby had eaten his last snack. Shaggy was going to hate me. By the same token I wasn’t happy with myself either. I should have been more aware, willing to get closer and identify the target before shooting. No, I wasn’t pleased with myself at all, on several levels. I dragged the body closer to the house and left it for a burial in the morning. Judith was now at the bottom of the stairs, her body shaking with sobs. When I got near she clung to me, her body trembling. Mine wasn’t in much better shape control-wise so we clung together. I guided us both back into the house and into the lounge room, standing there in the dark. Judith’s trembling had calmed down but she clung to me again, resting her head on my shoulder. After a short while she drew away from me, nervously voicing her fear,

“I thought it may have been one of them. When you fired I didn’t know what to do, I was scared.” I totally knew what she meant and told her so. She went on,

“Do you mind if I stay here tonight? I don’t want to be by myself. It’s just that, well, Greg, you know? He’s out there somewhere and I don’t know if he’ll be back.” Then she collapsed, sobbing again. Her husband was in his forties, worked for a local solicitor doing minor claims, conveyancing and wills. She was in her late thirties and worked in the city for an insurance company as a team leader of a personal injury claims group. They hadn’t been able to have kids and had eschewed the adoption route. After an expensive few years trying IVF they’d decided that kids weren’t to be a part of their lives so they got involved in local community groups. Bush care, visiting nursing homes, working the local church fetes, that sort of thing. They’d also been wonderful to my mum and I was grateful for that. After a few minutes Judith disentangled herself.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get myself together, I’m just struggling a bit right now.” I hugged her one more time and drew away.

“I’ll fire up my laptop. See if we can find anything from Greg. The whisky’s in the kitchen if you want some more.” The computer took a minute or two, to get moving. I clicked on a few links to the social network sites and one on google. Facebook was a blank. Nothing happening at all. I felt a new fear start creeping up on me. Email sites were dead as well. The fear started rushing a bit more now that it had found its legs. Twitter was still up. Most tweets were spaced about twenty minutes apart. Nothing from Heather and that was a bummer. My sister and brother in law were safe as was my brother, now ensconced at Hawkesbury College, no doubt reliving old times. I hoped that Heather was safe in Berowra, and I made a mental note to maybe drive up there in the morning. Twitter recommended a couple of zed sites to follow so I clicked on them just as Judith returned with a couple of tall looking whiskeys. She’d wiped away tears and her face was looking more relaxed. She wasn’t surprised to learn about Crapbook and Shitemail, saying both had been really struggling for the past few hours. I opened up a new window and got Explorer again, and Judith logged into her own twitter account. There was a new tweet, fifteen minutes ago from @Gregtwits.

“Z1’s all round us. Army and cops here as well. At Holy Cross Ryde. Safe 4 now.” Judith tweeted back, “Keep safe. With Nick next door. Staying here. He’s going to HAC 2morrow. Love xxx.”

I thought for a few seconds about Holy Cross at Ryde. I’d played soccer there a few times and did a mental walk around the grounds. The school building itself would be defensible, the playing fields offering good fields of fire. What the fuck? Fields of fire? Where was I dragging that shit from? Next I’d be saying crap like ‘fire in the hole’ and ‘cover me’. I sent a tweet from my account asking for anyone near Holy Cross Ryde for updates. Three came in. They basically gave an unhappy account of a swarm of zeds flooding the place. One twit pic showed the rugby league fields covered in prone zeds, with ambulant ones approaching the school buildings. I could barely make out the windows and rooftops which seemed to have rifles aiming down at the zeds. Puffs of smoke were also captured in the picture and one zed in the process of falling, its head barely still attached. One tweet said another group of army and cops were approaching in convoy in a desperate race to relieve the school. Judith saw all of this and started crying,

“Greg! Oh no, Greg!” I stood up so she could get back to her own twitter stream. She did a pleading tweet for Greg to respond. We waited. I grabbed my phone and powered it up, sliding the menu to twitter. It was still working. I waited for it to update and saw a couple of new tweets. One was from @hcztwit saying that the zeds were at the windows and doors and that everyone was now on the first floor, having barricaded stairs and lifts. I told Judith and she nodded. Another tweeter came in with an update saying that the convoy was in a shit fight of its own near the school. Another tweet reported use of flamethrowers, grenades and some sort of artillery. The television was showing nothing except evac updates and advisories of what to do. What the hell could I do now?

Judith gasped. She had a couple of tweets from Greg. He was part of a group on the first floor, manning the barricades with Molotov cocktails and weapons which were going to need feeding quite soon. The last one read, “Z1’s cming up. L8r. Love xxxxxx” It was sent two minutes ago. On my phone I saw two new tweets giving the bad news. The army was breaking through but the zeds were in the school itself. I gulped down some whiskey and put my hand on Judith’s shoulder. We waited. A long wait during which we got the whiskey bottle and self medicated. The tweets which came up during that time added nothing new, just messages between unrelated groups. Twenty minutes later a tweet on my phone said it was all over at the school. The same tweeter rapidly added details in five more messages. I handed the phone to Judith. She read the tweets, her shoulders hunched, sobs breaking out and she dropped the phone onto the table, She stumbled into the lounge room and curled up into a foetal ball on the couch. I checked the tweets. The zeds had overcome the defences on the first floor but were stopped at the barricades on the second. The army was cleaning out any stray zeds, the search for survivors was on. I started crying as well. Greg was an honest, good man. He was one of those blokes always ready to volunteer for the dirty work at community events, offering his time, clear thinking and good humour where it was needed. He’d often done small jobs for my mum when none of us were available. What I’d call a champion bloke. I really hoped he’d be found but had a feeling that he’d used his life to protect others. I sat down next to Judith who was still curled up, heaving with sorrow. Our combined grief held us in a curled up, twisted mess for another twenty minutes. I eventually dragged myself up and went back to my computer and phone, checking out tweetsville.

The school had been cleaned out of zeds and the survivors were being convoyed out to Castle Hill showgrounds, another emergency refugee camp. The survivors were then given a few minutes each to send short, fifty character tweets on a variety of devices, everyone now following the main Holy Cross account. The tweets flooded in. Some early ones tried small greetings but eventually they just tweeted their names. Greg wasn’t one of them. Judith must have noticed what I was looking at and pulled herself out of her ball to come and see. I said nothing. Just waited for her to scroll through the tweets again and again for twenty minutes. Then I heard a car travelling down the road. I looked out the front door and saw a cop car pull up a few houses down. Three armed cops knocked on the door. I watched. Waited. No response. They then moved to the house opposite and noticed me. One of them walked over.

“We’re moving anyone left in Beecroft out. Get ready to move at sun up. There’s only four houses here with people still in them. You know next door? “ I nodded, saying “She’s in here. Her husband just got killed over at Holy Cross manning the barricades. She’s still in shock.” The cop shook his head, “A lot of that happening. Listen, the fire station is pretty well fortified if you want to stay there for the rest of the night. We have a lot of guns and ammo.” I declined the offer, thinking that a good night’s sleep was the best thing. The cop walked off after waving to his colleagues. They were speaking to the guy over the road, no doubt telling him the same thing. They then moved up a few houses from me and knocked at the door. The door opened and they went inside. The last house with people. They were all newcomers, I didn’t know any of them. I didn’t really care either at that stage. Judith’s predicament, the loss of Greg and lack of contact with Heather were enough hassles at this stage. I left Judith there and went around the house, locking windows and doors and blocking them with furniture. Good enough for keeping zeds out. The last door was the front one. I opened it up and walked outside, checking the car and seeing if anyone was around. Behind the car I noticed a branch, about a metre and a half long. I pulled it away. I ripped off the leafy smaller twigs and admired its sharp, pointy end where I’d stripped off a smaller twig.

While I was admiring my handiwork I sensed some movement to my left. It was someone walking towards me. Fuck, that was no walk, it was a zed shuffle. Where had it come from and why was I once again caught short with no weapon? The fucking thing was too close, I wouldn’t make it to the front door without going through it. I called out to Judith to bring the shottie and held the stick in front of me, prodding the zed. The thing stunk. It stunk of faeces, urine, vomit and all sorts of unholy corruption. I yelled out to Judith again and prodded the undead nightmare with the stick. The thing tried to grab the primitive weapon but was pretty crap in the agility stakes. More like Doug Bollinger than Ricky Ponting. I stepped back, brought the stick up and feinted at the things face. It slowly moved its head, its mouth doing that horrible slaver thing. I feinted with the stick once again, waited for it to move then rammed the stick into its mouth, thrustíng it upwards as hard as I could. A sickening gishing and cracking sound gave me a hint of my success. I pulled the stick out and the zed fell backwards. I rammed the stick into its right eye, pushing it as hard as I could. There was more sickening sounds and then I really went to work, taking out all my pent up grief, frustration and rage on the hideous thing. After a couple of minutes of constant jabbing, hitting, beating and smashing, the zed was a pasted mess on the front footpath. I walked back a few steps only to see another one stumbling up the road. I heard Judith call out from the front door and turned around to see her carrying the shotgun and ammo. I motioned her to me and held out my hand for the shotgun. She ignored me, stepped around the gished zed and walked to within ten metres of zed number two. She aimed the gun and fired both barrels. The thing’s head simply disappeared in a cloud of gore, bone and smoke. She looked up and down the road for more, then walked back to me, a hint of a smile beginning to show.

“That feels better.” she admitted. I followed her back inside. She was already tweeting about capping her first zed when I reached the dining room. I filled two glasses with whiskey then barricaded the front door. Safe for now. The adrenaline was still rushig as we observed our tweet streams. I finished off my whiskey and said I was going to bed. Before I did I put sheets onto the bed in my sister’s old room and plumped the pillows. I went back to the dining room and told Judith where she could sleep. She nodded absently, sipping at whiskey and watching Twitter. I went to bed and crashed out in pretty quick time.

I woke up what seemd a few hours later and found Judith lifting the top bed sheet and crawling in.

“I need to be held.” she murmured, lying against my side with an arm draped over my chest. I was embarrassed not to be wearing anything except boxer shorts, but she didn’t seem to mind. In a couple of minutes her soft snoring let me know she was asleep.

The nightmare must have kicked in pretty soon after I drifted off. I was standing on a hill, wearing a suit of armour in the style of Ned Kelly. In front of me the hillside and plain below was a shambling mess of zeds. I didn't have a hope, so I took off my helmet and yelled out "Stop!" and "No!" I yelled out a few more "No's" and then found myself being cradled by Heather. She stroked my forehead and my face, lightly kissing my jaw, then kissing me on the lips. She made 'shoosh' sounds and stroked my forehead again, calming me down, but I was still moaning at the zeds. She kissed me again on the lips and I grabbed her, running my hands up and down her back, meeting her lips with mine. She opened her mouth slightly and our tongues danced, a hungry yearning expressing itself. I ran my hands up her rib cage and to her breasts, cupping them. I brushed her nipples and a soft moan encoruaged me further. I lightly licked her breasts, my tongue darting at the nipples, then I lightly sucked at one, then the other. I rean my tongue down her stomach, pausing at her navel before exploring further down. With gentle pressure from my right hand and my tongue exploring her folds below more moans spoke of her pleasure. I licked, teased and used pressure until a surge of wetness and a deeper cry signalled her orgasm. I repeated my caresses and tongue dance for a second, then a third wave. I slid myself up and kissed her again, her willingness and desire a delightful discovery. She rolled out from underneath me and straddled me, easing herself down on my hardness. Then she started rising and plunging, working her muscles, drawing me in. I lay back in ecstacy, cupping her breasts, kneading her buttocks as she moved up and down and side to side until my need exploded, shuddering spasms of delight. I was exhausted. She moved off me and slid up against my side once again. I had just a brief thought that it was great being with Heather and another as to what the fuck I was going to do tomorrow. No doubt something would fuck up. A lot of that was going on these days.

AfterMud - Z Files 3. Head For The Hills.

2011-02-15T00:58:00.001+11:00

The SES lady at the Evac desk waited while I checked my googlemaphone for updates from friends and family. The OMG's had turned into a lot of 'fuck fuck fuck' but the key message was from my brother. He was heading to the old Hawkesbury Agricultural College, now a campus of the Uni of Western Sydney. Top idea. He'd studied food technology there amidst all the cow cockies doing agriculture. He'd won a beer guzzling record by holding a beer gun in his mouth while said weapon was on full tilt, for a College record of thirteen seconds. Not quite the measure of life but it did afford him some yobbo hero status amongst the country boys. Funny thing is that he never drank beer. Rum, cider and whiskey were his tipples. I messaged back accepting the invite and queried the beer gun. The response was not polite.. The college had its own farm, farm animals, laboratories and chemicals. Lovely stuff to cushion against the Z1 virus craziness.

"Hawkesbury College, near Ruchmond. Just down the road from the racetrack." I told the lady, adding, "But I'm stopping off at Beecroft overnight, to secure the old family home. It 's still on the market and I need to make it safe." She tapped at her laptop, murmured a couple of   'umms' and hit the enter key with relish. She then printed out an updated ED. As well as the old data it had a list of roads I was to follow all the way to the college via Beecroft. A combination of Google Maps and a shit hot police I.T. team had made it look simple. My new ED also had authority codes for fuel at Shell and Caltex, food authorisation for a single male and travel authorisation for twenty-four hours. I had to be at the college by then. Easy. I'd be at Beecroft in an hour from now, do the house thing and out of there first thing in the morning. Then an hour and a half to the college. Dead simple. Yeah, right. Everything's easy when you're an ignorant dickhead.

The SES woman wished me luck as the background weapons tune became louder. Wasn't quite the Zep or AccaDacca but earmuffs were going to be an OH&S Committee agenda item if it got much closer. I went over to the Brit backpackers to see how they were getting on. Turned out they had a choice of getting on one of a fleet of planes organised by the U.K. government or take their chances at a refugee camp being set up at Eastern Creek. Seeing as how theyy weren't Superbike jocks or V8 junkies they just wanted to go home. They were to drive out to Mascot and park the Falcon in a designated zone, then panic aboard to a Virgin jet. We hugged each other farewell and I was most surprised they didn't make a final chip about the Poms thrashing us in The Ashes. Thank fuck for that.

Now it was time to talk to Heather. She was putting her revised ED in her purse as I strode up. She looked up, that killer smile beaming, drilling into my heart. By fuck she was gorgeous.

"By fuck you're gorgeous." It came out. My spam filter had failed again. Before she could reply I quickly fired another salvo.
"I'm going to the family home in Beecroft, then out to Hawkesbury College to hook up with my brother, some science nerds and some students of GM crops, pig swill and heifer shagging.' I hesitated before adding,
" I'd really love it if you came along. The heifers ain't really all that cute." Heather's laugh pinged me once again.
"Listen Laundry Boy, I appreciate you asking and am tempted, believe me. The thing is I need to check on my own family and friends up at Berowra. Mum's not well and Dad is probably too ratarsed on rum by now to sort anything. I really have to check on them, make sure they are safe." She looked at her phone, cramped in her left hand. " My brother tweeted that he's still up in Rockhampton, holing up in a quarantine hotel. He says they're fine for food, beer and rum, not so fine for freedom of movement."
"Yeah, seems to be a lot of that these days." I wiped off my hang dog look and whipped out my phone and handed it to her.
"I want your number." She nodded, handing me her Nokia. After a bit of skull sweat I managed to put in my number, my bro's and a calendar reminder for exactly a week later instructing her to "Make love to Terry." I made sure it had reminder alerts, both noisy and vibrating with extra emphasis on the vibrate option. We swapped our phones back. I looked at mine. The most recent contact update was for 'Jellyfish Heart'. We laughed together, I'd listed myself on her phone as 'Sting Remover'.

We hugged. It was one of those ones where you put everything into it, as if you'll never see each other again. We kissed long and hard, soft and slow and kept the embrace going for longer than expected of people not in a realtionship. Eventually we pulled apart.  I wiped away a few tears from her face with a soft finger touch. It was shattering, a realisation of something just won and then immediately lost. Reminded me of the Ashes test when Binger almost brought us home to a brilliant win. Except this was real loss. I hugged her again then she turned away, walking to her car.  Her convoy was leaving in five minutes, mine in fifteen. I watched as she walked down to her Barina, drove out and joined a line of cars at the upper road block, bipping the horn on her way past. Beep beep Barina. I was still watching when her convoy drove off, up towards Birrell Street. She was gone. So was my heart, my head and any 'harden the fuckupness' which may have been hangin around, waiting for me to act.  I went and sat down under a tree, my back against it and my knees drawn up.  The background gunfire was now coming from a different direction and at an icnreased rate. It sounded like a battle and I wondered how many were getting the Chris treatment. Then more gunfire from closer to the school but to the west. A few cops ran past, carrying assault rifles.

The noise from the east died out but now the western front was becoming livelier. I stood up and saw a group of figures in army clobber running with purpose to the school. They stopped outside the park adjoining the school. Two of them set up a machine gun, another three lay prone, assuming a well drilled firing position.  The cops stood behind the small squad. Then I saw what the soldiers had been firing at. There must have been fifty of them, stumbling, shambling and heading for the school. I turned around to see one of the SES guys start marshalling people into the classrooms.  I trotted over and spoke,
"I have a shottie in my car. I'll be back in a minute." The SES guy hesitated, then nodded.
"Be real fucking quick." I ran off to my car and retrieved my hip flask, shotgun and the box of ammo Stuey had donated. I got back to the school and saw the soldiers firing into the shambling crowd. The cops and the SES guys were firing as well. So, this is what it comes to. I walked quickly up to them, next to a cop. He looked at me, the shotgun and nodded.
"Don't gawk at them, shoot the zed fucks!" I cracked open the shotgun and put a shell into each barrel, closed it again. Checked the safety. Raised the shotgun and aimed. Fuck! They were a bunch of old people. Where did they come from? Then I remembered the nursing homes up behind Macpherson Street, leading up to the Waverley shops.This wasn't going to be like shooting foxes, pigs and feral cats. Oh no. No big fat moggies in trees this hunting day. I hadn't fired a weapon for over twelve years, My arms shook. Then over the barrels I saw a couple of the zeds, their mouths working, their limbs shambling them along. Just like Chris. My first shot was too high. I took a breath. The second shot impacted the left side of the head of one of the wrinkly zeds. That side of the face erupted in a mass of gore and splintered bone. the rest of the head lolled crazily to one side, attached by withered muscle. It then slid down against the right shoulder, a gruesome reminder of a kid's mangled rag doll. Then the creature fell. My first zed kill.

"That's it mate. Keep it going." This was from the other cop who was slipping another magazine into his rifle. The first wave of zeds was down, but there two more following it. How many fucking nursing homes are in Waverley? Obviously enough to supply three waves of an army of zeds in a surreal mix of blue rinse and incontinent stumbling. I reloaded. The next shots decapitated two more of them. By now the combined firepower of our small group was decimating the horde. I fired off ten more rounds before the zeds were stopped. Some of them weren't dead, making jerky crawl movements and still slavering with their mainly gummy mouths. Two of the soldiers walked amongst them, doing the Dance of the Double Tap. The rest of us stood there, still surging with adrenaline.   Then I noticed that the soldiers looked really young, like mid to late teens. I spotted the Waverley College cadet insignia on their uniforms. Those kids had just been shooting at what could have been theio grandparents, even great grandparents. This was becoming more fucked up by the minute. We'd come to this, using school cadets to wage war against what were once our own loved ones. Too much angsty crap for my brain.  I pulled out my hip flask and took a swig before handing it to the nearest cop. It quickly did the rounds, the cops ignoring the underage drinking of the young soldiers. They'd earned a quick snort of the Mark. The two double tappers walked back, both of them looking to be in their later teens.  They sported winning grins wer. The taller one said,
"Some excellent tap dancing here boys. Fucking wrinklies are the shit, Represent the Double Yooo! Woooo!" Then he grabbed the flask, swigged down a gulp and handed it to his co-tapper who did much the same before passinmg it around again. After we'd had second gulps it was empty. So was my heart.

The taller, older cadet retained his cheeky grin. That and his young face and uniform reminded me of photos taken at Gallipolli of the sixteen year olds who bumped up their ages to join what they hoped would be a Great Adventure back in World War One. Their modern counterparts seemed quite pleased with themselves. The adrenaline was still running. I also intended to run.

The SES guys soon herded the rest of the evacuees out of the classrooms. At the same time we saw another group of cops, SES and soldiers approach from the east, where the other battle had been fought. When they reached us there were handshakes and congratulations all around. The cops conferred and one got on his radio,
"Tamarama and Bronte precincts clear between McPherson and Bondi Road. Waverley twenty-three and thirty two proceeding to Clovelly precinct with SES and army components. Request resupply of ammunition and water for fifteen. We''ll RV at the Cemetery." He must have been happy with the squawked response as he grunted with satisfaction.
"Okay, the primary school crew stays here until evac is completed. Then radio in for more tasks." He motioned to the cadets I'd fought alongside,
"You fellas tag along with us. Your major has arranged some treats for you." The kids whooped with joy. Obviously they'd been promised something special before they'd been sent out to fight. They all went and piled into a combination of cop cars and council trucks, lights flashing in some kind of victory dance. The remaining SES guys and cops resumed their traffic and evacuation marshalling, keen for us to leave. My group was now ten minutes overdue so there was no dawdling, we went to our cars and drove up to the roadblock. There was a delay which I used to refill my hipflask and check my ammo.  Six shells left. Gonna need resupply, so I walked up to the cop who was keeping us in queue.
"Got any spare shottie ammo? Twelve gauge? Any sort of load will do." The cop walked a couple of paces and opened up the boot of his car. He reached in and took out three boxes of ammo and as he handed them to me said,
"Use them wisely. Good luck and thanks for the help back there." I shook his hand and went back to my car, belted up and took a swig out of a water bottle and slipped The Reels into the CD player. Cued it to Bad Moon Rising, and drove off to Dave Mason's take on the Creedence classic. A lot ran through my mind as the convoy headed out. We went through Bondi Junction, then down to Edgecliff, before hitting Bayswater, William Street and then down to the Harbour Tunnel. All along the way we saw similar convoys, each headed by a car liveried with green masking tape and ribbon tied to aerials. We headed north west from the tunnel, down to the next one going through Lane Cove. By then I'd tired of Mr Mason and slipped on a Billy Connolly CD. I needed a laugh. All the way I was thinking of the loss of my home, friends, Heather and my non killing ways. The destruction of that first zed at my hands replayed itself, a horror show. Then it went. Billy was talking about willies and I started laughing.   I yelled out "Go Big Willy" in an hysterical release. Ironic really, given the fact that I'd thought all my actions thus far were pretty much those of a small balled man from Scaredistan.  At Beecroft Road I headed down Hannah Street, to the old family house. I pulled up into the drive, took my pack and went to the front door. A red tape was across it. I took it off and unlocked the door, noticing an ED on the floor. I picked that up and stowed it into my pack. I left a note on the telephone table explaining who I was and what i was doing, along with contact numbers for the rest of the family and myself.

One of the first things I checked was the pantry, especially the bottom shelves. Good, there was till some gin and whisky I'd left there during the period of shock and cleaning up after mum had suddenly died. Before she'd left us I used to visit her once a week, share a meal and we'd catch up with each other. Occasionally I'd take her on excursions out into the country or up the coast to visit her one remaining school friend. I sure missed those times, her love and her common sense.  I paused before snappimg out of the maudlin thinking. i'd done enough of that after the funeral and it was an occasional habit with which I knew how to deal.

I looked in the fridge and found some cheese, unopened long life milk and wilted lettuce, along with anciuent condiments we'd yet to pitch out. I cleaned everything out, binning the old stuff and boxing up anything useful from the pantry. I checked all the rooms, but we'd left nothing valuable or useful before cleaning it out for market.
I did notice my old Gray Niccols cricket bat. I picked it up and shadowed a cover drive, almost dinging the wardrobe. I took it outside and put it in the boot. Could come in handy against a zed, just like in that Pommie zombie comedy. I retrieved my laptop, chargers and plugged them in, trying to get as much charge into the batteries. I'd forgotten to use the charger in the car. I turned on my HP abacus and scanned the latest feeds. MSN was still up, as was Google but the number of search results were limited to dozens, not hundreds. Twitter was also becoming sparse and blog entry updates weren't frequent at all. The Cloud was dissipating and soon would shrink down to a few sites. I left updates on Twitter, blog and Facebbook. Then I cooked up some pasta, dried out cheese and tomato paste.   I went back to the car and retrieved a bottle of cleanskin Merlot. Screwed off the cap, poured a big fuck-off glass and lit up a an old Amanda cigar. The teev was showing just a few channels of evac shit, some old movies and a hashed mash of CNN, Fox, Sky and ABC24 feeds. for an hur I caught up what had been happening during my bissful, drunken, beachside self indulgence. I'd ignored a lot of bad shit in my life but this was the largest pile of crap since the back-up of the Bondi outfalls.  I hadt a hint of how to deal but instead loaded up the DVD of the 2006/7 Ashes whitewash of the Poms. I really needed to see Punter's First Test brilliance, Warney's inspirational leadership to bring us to victory in Adelaide, Gilchrist's demolition of the Poms in Perth and Haydos and Symmo smashing them in Melbourne. Yeah, cricket perfection.. Thanks boys.

I retrieved a bottle of bourbon, hit 'play'and nursed whisky in one hand and the remote in the other. Bliss. If only tomorrow would be the same. Unfortunately Groundhog Day wasn't on the menu despite its existential demands. While I was watching a glorious replay of Punter's lads running amok, other elements of this new world were playing their own horrid games. I was going to need an even newer rule book.

Afterflood Zombie Files - Don't Vote For Reality, It's A Bastard

2011-02-12T02:49:00.000+11:00

My head was full of fear, the googling thing in my skull hadn't quite yet logged in. Looking back at Stuey's shooting of Chris I now know that deep down there'd been a realisation that what Stuey had done was necessary, but the shock, combined with the effects of the strong rum had pulled another level of fog over my mind.

I kept on walking up the hill on the north side of Bronte Beach. I walked past the millionaire mansion once owned by Heath Ledger and reached Hewlett Street. I took one more look down at the park and the beach, Chris' body now just a misdrawn stick figure on the clubhouse promenade with Stuey nowhere to be seen. I turned around just as a police car pulled up right near the steps I usually take up to Andrew Court. Two cops got out, one of them carrying a data slate, the kind carried by couriers, pizza delivery types and other functionaries of an online world. The other carried a look of exhausted worry. Worry beckoned to me,
"Address?"
There it was, no questions about shotgun blasts, decapitated shopkeepers or crazy old clubbies, just my address.
I told them,hysterically adding,
"But what about Chris and Stuey? Chris is down there, dead and Stuey's off his nut!" I pointed down at the clubhouse,
"Okay," the cop looked down at the beach, "we're dealing with that, a team is on its way and it will be okay". Just one thing about that,   was the victim infected? sort of stumbling, pale, mumbling or groaning?" If so, did he bite you?"
I shook my head, still in a fog, still not registering what was turning out to be something far more horrible than what I'd just seen. Alert, I wasn't, never really had been.

"Okay, go back to your place, pack up and go to your evacuation centre. Its on this docket."
Data Slate Cop printed out what looked like a receipt and handed it to me. It had my name, address and Bronte Public School on it, plus a series of numbers.

"The numbers are your receipt for your apartment, its contents and any outstanding financial obligations currently associated with it. When this is over, you'll need that receipt. Keep it safe. Now get the fuck out of here. Oh yeah, that guy you saw get shot? "
I nodded, at last an acknowledgement of what I'd seen. Also I'd forgotten I was carrying Stuey's weapon and two cops hadn't blinked an eye. Reality gave me a big fuck off slap to the head. The cop went on,
"If you see another one like him, use that shotgun. Head shots are the only way to stop them. Go on, get packed and get to evac."

The cops walked away and up to the house next to Heath's and knocked on the door. I watched. No answer. They waited, so did I. No answer. Data Slate cop punched his receipt printer, tore off the paper and slid it under the door. They then stuck a strip of green tape on the door. When they saw me they shooed me off. I walked away, with increased pace. When I got to my block I saw a few of the other residients piling their cars with prized possessions. I rushed up the stairs to my place, saw a red sticker on the door and went inside.  A cop receipt was on the floor, telling me that as there was no-one home the flat was now government property, due to the emergency. If I didn't contact the number provided or report to a police officer I would have no right to the flat, its contents but would still be liable for any financial liabilities. I laughed, put the shotgun down, tore up the note and took stock. I gathered a few family photos, a couple of books, a stack of cd's and DVD's including Zombieland and Planet Terror then all the food I had. Only amounted to two boxes worth of supplies. Then it hit me, Chris' shop was closed. all shops would be closed. I switched on the radio and tuned to ABC Local, the go to station for emergencies. I switched on the TV, it was still working. Flipping the channels showed me a series of news desks, explaining eveacuation details for The Emergency. Kochie was noticeably absent but Karl Stefanovic was there, running through hard facts and locations. The ABC had Virginia Trioli going through much the same. On radio they were doing it by postcode groupings. I listened for mine as I showered. I changed into jeans, steel capped boots, long sleeved drill shirt and packed socks'n'jocks for a week, two pairs of jeans, my board shorts, two other pairs of shorts and a few windcheaters and jumpers until the pack was amost full. I packed my toiletries and first aid kit in the front pocket and whatever touring maps I could find and strapped a pair of runners on one side and sandals on the other. Reminded me of my ratsacking days.

I then went through whatever I could find on the net as to what had happened while I was being an oblivious, self obsessed, dozey prick. I found that the H1N1 virus had jumped ship into some sort of brain fucker, maybe allied to an encepholytis thing but the science was beyond me. Boffins had released mosquitos into the east coast flood areas, mossies which carried bacteria designed to sterilise other mossies. It worked but not before the mutant virus had spread. By the Flying Spaghetti Monster had it spread. Cities and towns were being evacuated, right fucking now, and then they would be cleansed.  People who'd been infected by the mutant virus were being herded into makeshift camps. There were vids of some of them, aimlessly shambling and then occasionally taking a bite out of someone.  All accompanied with the OMG screams and a spooky mumbling from the biters. I found a couple of snuff vids from a group tagged as #zedkillnow. Those vids reminded me of what Stuey had done with Chris. That's why the cops were matter of fact about that little episode and weren't surprised by my possession of a shotgun. They were getting everyone, well, the uninfected, the hell out of town before the critical mass of infection would wipe us all out. Was that right? I didn't know, all I was worried about were family and friends but still I looked after myself and resumed packing.

I surveyed what I'd packed and in another box I stuffed detergent, toilet paper and the half dozen plastic bottles of water I kept in the fridge. Then my beer, and a bottle each of rum, bourbon, single malt, gin, vodka and Drambuie. All my booze. I carried everything down to my car and waved goodbye to Therese and Ian from downstairs as they were marshalled off in their Lancer by a bloke in an orange SES vest. I went back to my flat, did an idiot check then grabbed all the chargers and batteries I owned, including the car adaptors for laptop and phone. I checked the phone for signal and found that it did. I sent texts to all my contacts telling them I was heading to the local primary school and would update later. I checked my own inbox and found similar messages with a lot of hysterical OMG!!!'s included, like you'd expect from Big Brother contestants when they first realised they were actually in Da House. My twitter timeline was full of crap, but had some helpful links which I immediately hooked into, #dontpanic being one of the best. I tweeted what I was doing then flicked back to SMS mode. I sent one to my siblings saying I'd head up to the mountains to my brother's place, going via my sister's at Balmain. The messages got through, acknowledgements from all, with my sister saying to avoid Balmain, she was going to her son's place outside of Griffith. He was minding a farm for friends of the family. Perfect bug out place. Okay, so I hooked into my frends' replies. They were a mixture of sensible planning and panic. The sensible ones I wished good luck, the panicky ones I told to take ten deep breaths and do what the evacuation people were saying. I looked for my hip flask, the one with the Makers Mark logo and opened it up, sniffing the contents like a seventeenth century toff sniffing his perfumed hankerchief as he walked the streets of a stinky London. Smelled alright to me, nothing like London and the only peasant around here was myself. I took a quick swig, recapped the flask and did the final idiot check. I pulled out all electrical cords, turned off all switches, checked the fridge (for the tenth time) and turned off the water mains. both hot water and general purpose. That was me done. I looked around the flat, it seemed emptier but still as if someone lived there. Pictures on the walls, and, oh crap, better put the pot plants on the balcony with their rougher, óutside' mates. Right, that was it. Everyting locked, ship shape and as untidy as I dare, which was a truckload of untidy.

I walked out, final bags in hand and went downstairs to my car, dumping the bags on the back seat while others milled around, waiting for the direction to go. Fuck, check letterbox. Sure, I was goning to summon the real estate agent offering instant valuation and then follow up with a selection of home delivery Thai, Indian, Chinese, Turkish and pizza orders. I laughed at the futility of it but still put the flyers into the Blue, (Paper and Cardboard only) Recycling Bin. Gotta help the planet. My head was still spinning, a combination of fear, panic and wanting to run. Fight or flight, I'll do a runner every time. I checked the fluid levels for my Commodore, only needing to put in a bit of brake fluid and top up the wiper water tank. All packed, ready to go. Now what else was happening? There were still six of us waiting, two couples, myself and Heather from number nine. The two couples were backpackers on short term leases. Noisy fucks a week ago but they looked scared, making nervous jokes, trying to lift flat spirits and reassuring each other in some sort of cultural throw back to the Blitz. Heather just looked stunned. She also still looked stunning.

Okay, recap on Heather. My first encounter with Heather had been a few months ago, earlier on in the swimming season. It was a late Sunday morning and I'd just put a load of washing in the communal laundry and walked out onto the landing between floors. She was walking down from above wearing a very skimpy bikini, an angel from above. I did the smiley "hi" thing and she smiled back. I noticed a large red mark above her left breast, extending up to her shoulder. She noticed my gaze, rubbed the area and explained she'd encountered a jellyfish and it was still stinging. Hmmm, here comes Prince Valiant,
"Ï have something you could put on that." Geez, that came out wrong. I quickly added a postscript, Ï have some Sting Go, for bluebottles and such." Fuck, did I really say 'and such'? I was babbling.
"Really? Does it work?"
"Sort of. Its best with ice, some sort of alcohol rub, then you smear it on." I sounded more confdent now, having used the stuff before in exactly the same combination.
In my flat I got out the icetray and put some cubes on a saucer, then retrieved my reserve Stoli from the freezer.
She was checking out my flat, the untidiness of bachelordom combined with a coupe of prints of classic nudes on the walls, photos on the bookshef and the detritus of my slack lifestyle scattered around.

"Sorry about the mess." Traditional apology, I'd used it too often.
"Sókay. Youré a bachelor obviously." I gave her the ice cube dish, not offering to do the rubbing. She applied the ice while I went and got the anti-sting lotion. When I walked back into the kitchen dining nook she was rubbing Stoli onto her breast, underneath her bikini top. Now I needed the ice cubes. She looked up and took the lotion. I did some busy look away stuff, grabbing a couple of glasses and pulling some chilled water out of the fridge. I poured two glasses and ventured a gaze at Heather, just in time to see her readjust her bikini top and do one of those wiggles which makes blokes like me think of anything besides scivvies and waggling two fingers at a bunch of toddlers. She noticed my obvious interest,
"Ï have a boyfriend." she smiled. I grinned back,
"Let me know when that job becomes vacant. I'll lodge a resume."
Heather took a swig of Stoli then downed the glass of water before standing up and moving to the door.
"Thanks for the first aid, Laundry Boy. See ya 'round." She threw back a smile and a swish of dark brown hair as she walked out the door. I propped there watching her arse sway along the walkway. She turned around once she reached the stairs at the end and gave a wave which I reciprocated. Took me a full half hour to get my hear rate down to something which wouldn't alarm St Vincents Hospital. Then I retrieved my washing from its wet thrashing.
Since then I'd noticed her around and about and exchanged pleasantries, even going to the shops together once or twice when we found each other about to embark on identical missions, but from my point of view it was all very sadly platonic.

Six of us waiting, ready to decamp to the local primary school. Heather had her gear packed in her old Barina and the ratsackers were loaded up into a '96 Falcon wagon. We stood around looking at Stuey's shotgun, wondering what the fuck was going to happen next. A bloke wearing overalls, an orange SES vest and a rifle strapped across his shoulder walked up to us. He was holding a two way radio which was making walkie talkie noises. He listened, pressed the 'transmit'button and said,

"Ready for last of Andrew Place to go." He looked at us all and ground out the orders he'd uttered too many times,
"Okay you lot. Time to go. Park in Dixon Street near the school and go and get further evacuation advice. Don't forget your evac dockets. Those ED's are priceless."
After a quick conference re batting order of convoy, Heather led off with the Brits following her and me playing tail end Charlie. As we left I saw the SES bloke give us a wave. When I next looked in the side mirror he was finishing up taping across the driveway. Job done. I gave a mental wave goodbye to the block, my home of the last decade or so. Its care was now in the hands of the Bondi butterflies. Heather led us around to Hewlett Street and at the end of Dixon we found a cop waving us to the right. A hundred yards down there was enough space for our three cars. Further up the hill we saw roadblock barriers manned by another cop, this one wielding a very serious looking rifle, like one of those used by cops who surround hostage farmhouses outside of Adelaide. To our left was the school. Another SES guy was walking up and down keeping watch on all of the parked cars. Up the other end of the street we saw a small convoy of cars be waved through another road block. In the distance I heard what sound like a car backfiring. And again. I’d heard that sound before on soundtracks of movies featuring the cappingness of people called Eastwood or Willis. The six of us looked at each other, a lot of questions in a quick glance. Then the shooting of Chris decided to do an unrequested replay in my unforgiven mind, like some sort of crap initialisation fault in an iPhone app, written by aGen Y Jobs disciple in between tweeting about 'awsm pwning'. It was overlaid by the SES guy telling us to go up to the school, to the classrooms where we go to vote. This week I mainly be voting for ‘I want all of this crap to stop’. In both houses. Just write ‘1’ in the box for returning to normal. The SES bod told us to just take our ED’s. Oh yeah, Evac Dockets, not election porn from that cute Greens chick who always hangs out there on election day and never goes for the sausage sizzle.

The school grounds had around two hundred people milling around, waiting their turn to approach the classrooms. As we walked through the front gate a cop checked our dockets and waved us on into the grounds. A few more backfires popped off in the closing distance. Either the boy racers who frequent the precinct hadn’t spent a lot of time on tappets and timing or something a tad more sinister was on the hob. All I wanted was a few WRX hoons to go past and the world would be getting back in sync. Ended up there wasn’t a fully sick ride to be seen bro’, just some more popping and an increase in worry lines on the combined faces of the SES and cop establishment types. The SES guys all of a sudden were carrying rifles and shotguns. Some sort of apocalyptic magician’s trick. Prepared. There are times when you walk through the soft sand down at Bronte and it its hot, really scorching your soles, and its totally fucking hard to lift your feet despite the burniness. Seeing previously unarmed and peaceful volunteer blokes toting Arnie gear added a similar beachside angst. Painful, check. Necessary, in doubt. Scary, yes. Anthony Green called that one as a victory for the Get The Fuck Out Party after a simple, preliminary count of primary votes:
“No need to go to preferences in this seat Kerry, we can call it right now. We’re just waiting on the early results in the adjoining electorate where the Scared Shitless candidate is way ahead in the count of some key booths.”

We went to the tables which were signposted in alphabetical groupings., just like elections. The four backpackers were directed to an international table, just like absentee voters. I was in the ‘A-H’ group, Heather in the ‘P-Z’ afterthought. The background backfiring died away, as I suspect did a few souls. A few minutes later the SES official asked my name.

“Terry Barton.”

I handed her my ED and my driver’s licence. She asked me where I was planning on going. I looked at Heather waiting two back in her queue and thought of my siblings. Once again that nasty little fucker called ‘doubt and indecision’ órchestrated a coup and named itself as supreme leader of my mind. Nothing was definite except wanting to run. To where, I now had idea. Then what had been a little acorn grew into the mother of all oaks in my head, and in its unyielding, oakey language it yelled,

"Time to man the fuck up you useless prick. For fuck's sake, make a move!"

Those talking trees can be a real bastard, just like those tiresome fucking Tolkien Ents, especially when all you want is to hide under a bed and wake up when everything is all nice and easy again.  I realised something about that little fantasy. Not. Going. To. Happen. The road was waiting, and so were people I knew and loved. The background popping started again, closer this time. I thought of my family, my friends and Heather. Then I thought of Stewie's shotgun. Fuck it. It was now my shotgun and I suspected it was going to become one of my besties. Man up? It was going to take a shitload more than a shottie, a V6 Commodore and a crush on a neighbour. It was however a start. Time to hit the road.

Aftersludge - Z Files Floodfic Intro

2011-01-26T02:48:00.142+11:00

Okay, its taken a shit load of whisky and some minor revision but here it goes. The intro to a story of floods, hope, zombies and running scared. I only just realised that Birmo had used 'after' in his last title. Fuck it, my title sounds good to me anyway and that's really all that counts.

AFTERSLUDGE (A floodfic Zed tale)

I sit here and look around the cafe wondering how it all came about. Where did it start? Was it as that kid in Ipswich tweeted, “Prolly the scary man in the haunted house up the road started it.”? Who really knows? Sure the eggheads have their explanations about biological controls and mutant viruses but I’ll try and figure it out as I write this brief account of our experience. Figure it out for humans now that I have the time, feeling a hell of a lot safer in amongst a larger, well equipped and organised group. Baz reckons it’s the result of natural selection that we’re all together in one place. I put it down to a bit of luck in finding the right people, the right vehicles, the right weapons and having read and watched a lot of post-apocalypse scenarios. Especially ones with those zombie fucks.

By jingies I hate those shambolic representations of unlife. To me the definition of life is the elimination of them. Nothing else matters. To them I'm just a food source, a walking human DNA food court. I can understand that after the Eleven Floods, the risks of Ross River Fever, Dengue Fever and some bastard of an encephalitis strain needed to be controlled. The CSIRO boffin who developed bacteria which would render the mosquitoes infertile was on the right track. Just a shame it happened to coincide with the mutation of H1N1 away the fuck from its flu path and into the brain path. How the fuck it jumped like that we still don't know, only that all the mosquitoes subsequently infected as carriers are now dead, thanks to the boffins bacteria agent. A big fucking shame that all those mossies bit a huge chunk of the population and the Z1 flu was then transmitted via bodily fluids. Didn't take long to hit Asia and once it was there, Europe, the Americas and Africa didn't have a hope in hell'; there simply wasn't enough time for it to be analysed and quarantined. Fuck me, its a wonder any of us have survived. Now we have all these zeds gnawing on humans. All they need is a hit of DNA and they can keep going. The humans don't even have to be alive, just uninfected. That's a fuck load of bones lying out there for these monsters to gnaw on. Doc Strang tried to explain from his fortress in Dunedin but I can't grasp it. Maybe its because his accent has gotten Kiwified but shit I wish he'd speak straight. I could swear he once quipped
"Zuds in Unzud, eh?"
I hope he and his missus will come up with something better than suggesting,
"Get some L&;P bro! Failing that look at your dopey fucking DNA strands and see what bits the Shuffling Cunts most prefer. Get a grip, observe and find some answers. We're full bore on some messy fucking lab work here and its time you zed fodder helped out."
What a smart arse.  I much preferred it when he stuck to slagging off the likes of Michael Clarke, Manly Warringah and Charlie Sheen.

So Baz has quite a few of his own egghead mates working on just that. He calls it a critical mass of research capability, I see it as a most excellent opportunity to take the piss out of nerds. They really hate it when I ask them to analyse Warnie's zooter in terms of aerodynamics, mass, shape and his rooting ability. They just don't get it. They shoo me out of the lab or away from their Macs and ask me to look for more samples. I reckon they're a big reason why we lost the Ashes twice in a row with their reliance on computing power and muesli bars.  I wish we had McGyver or that bloke from Burn Notice. They'd know what to do. Mind you I'm glad we eventually teamed with our own A Team in the form of Wally and his tribe. But that was recently and I need to get back to the start of it all. Geez its hard trying to keep this shit together but I'll do my best.

The floods were a real bastard the way they hit the East Coast. The West suffered as well but Queensland, the NSW rivers and Victoria suffered big time, particularly Queensland. I remember going up there to help out a mate in Ipswich, shovelling that stinking mud, lifting white goods and sodden furniture and who knows what else. Brisbane was flooded with volunteers but Ipswich struggled at first until the tweet deluge sent hundreds of gumboot wearers to where they were needed. Tough, smelly and at times dangerous but really uplifting in the way everyone banded together. What I hated was when some arsehole would yell the State Of Origin Cry ""Queenslander!". As a True Blue New South Welshman it made my blood boil. Sure, it helped them get through but I wished they'd get a new catch cry those cane toad fuckers.

A month after the first effort I went back up to see what else was needed, knowing that the initial surge could do with some follow up. The immediate post flood adrenaline rush had left the locals a bit worn and the workload had taken its toll. That's when the boffins announced they'd been releasing mosquitoes with some sort of bacteria which would help wipe out all sorts of diseases and viruses by rendering the mossies infertile and in some cases neutralising the virus. Then the encephalitis and H1N1 mutations started. We weren't to know and the early cases were diagnosed as different flu's, so vaccines were administered to everyone. Vaccines which didn't beat Z1, which had already jumped ship and was happily swimming to all points of the globe like a kid splashing about in a tub of soft serve ice cream. What a nasty fucking virus that one turned out to be. It killed off brain cells affecting all memory, most verbal, and the more sophisticated motor skills. The patients would then be driven by a need to ingest human DNA. That's the only way they could survive.  In some of the early cases all had seemed lost so the docs turned off the beep beep machines, rendering the patients clinically dead. Oh yeah, sure they were. They simply lurched up, and started munching on whatever human they found nearby. I remember the first vision of this captured by hospital security CCTV being laughable, unbelievable, and we thought that it was some sort of YouTube/hoax, like when someone photoshops their girlfriend's naked and sex consuming body on Shakira's head. Really fucking funny.

One of the most shocking clips was taken by a proud dad, of his week old infant breast feeding. It was sneezing and then using its milk teeth to tear tiny pieces of flesh from its stunned mother. The vision of milk and blood weeping from her breast as she tried to both comfort and shun her child was a symbol for us all, a symbol for our species. The sound of her husband's cries suddenly cutting out as he discarded the camera echoed around the world from its source in Brazil. An echo of despair to be repeated millions of times, as crippling fear, panic and chronic depression had a group marriage with zed as the wedding crashers. I still hear those cries whenever I try and grab some sleep. I catch Z's in my sleep as well as when I'm awake. My hope is that the echo will stop once we've wiped them out. Its why I'm glad we all agreed on the cafe's name, it speaks of hope and reassurance. No-one argued with my suggestion of '"Zed's Dead." Just after suggesting it I watched Wally go roaring off on his enduro with shottie in the custom scabbard and a Steyr strapped to his back. Naturally he'd festooned himself with a long knife, grenades and an awesomely potent looking sledgehammer.  Ever the craftsman is Wally.

A few months after the floods recovery I was ruminating on how fucking jammy our cricket team had been in winning the cricket world cup and hoping that the Bulldogs would continue their arse whipping ways in the NRL and the Swans keep up their winning streak in the AFL. I also had a soft spot for the Chicago Cubs struggling with their screwed up roster and pleasantly surprised to see them running 3rd with one game back. I was watching the Bulldogs go sixteen ahead of Easts Rorters through the agency of another blockbusting run and try by the silly-haired-and-inked Jamal Idris. Channel Nine cut into the coverage with an Urgent News Bulletin just after Ennis kicked the conversion. They had vision of the so-called H1N1 variant flu causing another series of school, hospital and, well basically anything where concentrations of people gather. From there it just went on and they never went back to the football game. This was serious with the biggest fucking capital S I'd ever seen. More serious than Jack Black's Oscar nomination for that piece of 3D special effects crap and way scarier. Just.

I took stock of my bug out gear, logged into the Zombie Squad website for helpful hints on flu outbreaks, packed and walked down to the beach. Nothing like a body surf to clear the cobwebs of fear. The lifesavers weren't there, no flags denoting the safe swim zone and only a score of die hard Coast Walk puffers pounding the beach side as I walked onto the sand. I looked at the waves, judged that the rip was where it should be and splashed in where I reckoned the clubbies would have thought was safe. It was near high tide and some nice waves were rolling in on the north side about twenty metres out. Noice. There were three more swimmers out there and we had a chat about the flu outbreak. We all agreed it was a brief interlude and the boffins had it under control and meanwhile, these were some of the bestest waves for body surfing evvaahhh!

After we'd had enough we went back up near the clubhouse and found a lone bloke wearing his surf lifesaving gear, cap and all. It was old Stuey, one of the Bronte mainstays and a legend of the BBQ fundraisers and helping drunk euroratsackers out of a fight with the briny. The latter was a major fault, I had no time for those dumb fucks and had previously offered him a hundred bucks to hold their heads under water.
Stuey said he was staying, "It's pride son. this is my beach and I want to see it safe if only for today. If I were you blokes I'd be getting out and heading bush where you can find tucker and water. Things are turning to shit and it ain't gonna improve. Me, I know waht I'm up to and I know how to keep meself together. Besides, I don't want ter have ter be dragging your arses out of the shit every hour."

I looked at the other swimmers and I saw what I was feeling. Dead cold fear now that we'd left the ocean and its winter-chilly yet comforting waters. We'd left the womb and were looking for our first comfort, a swaddling blanket, a milky breast and soothing, cooing voices. What we saw was way the fuck from such fantasy. We saw Chris from the corner shop on Hewlett St stumble down the stairs which connect the top, northern part of Bronte Park to the beach. He was stumbling, looked drunk. He sneezed once and fell down, raised himself in a parody of a cheap mime (no, you ain't getting any cash from me you try hard fuck), and saw Stuey. As the four of us swimmers drew together in a sense of fearbonding we saw Stuey walk inside the clubhouse and come back out with a shotgun.
"Chris, the beach is closed. go back up home."
I called out,
"Stuey! It's Chris. Whaddaya doin' mate?"
Stuey swung the shottie around to us, shook his head and swung it back on Chris. I called to Chris to stop, that Stuey was mad but he kept on with this stumbling shuffle, his head turning to Stuey and his mouth starting to work a poor grumble. Stuey had the shottie cocked, finger on trigger and I was about to see one local icon blast the crap out of another.  I admit I'm not brave and I froze, the fear setting my feet in the biggest concrete slab of do-nothing since the Feburary Taliban peace talks and then I noticed my fellow body surfers edging backwards, looking backwards and eyeing off the surf, like they wanted some sort of re birthing experience. Chris was oblivious, seemingly drugged, sort of lobotomized ad focussed on Stuey. Oh dear.  Chris managed a slight slaver and didn't stop, still with an unintellible groan.  Death stared out of his eyes and I realised that something was wrong, very, very wrong. As my fellow swim buddies edged back to the womb,  all I had was a Primal Scream,
"Chris! No! Its Stuey and he'll shoot!"

Stuey glanced back at me, shook his head ever so slightly and watched Chris stumble on.

Its a really strange thing, having that portent of something bad about to happen but not acting. Cowardice, fear, all bound up in selfish-preservation. Sure I"ll own up to all of that and more but I still think I could have rushed Stuey, distracted him and prevented what happened. That's always the gnawing, soul-thumping and ultimately nightmare spawning, dagger of doubt.

Chris mumbled, groabed, I dunno, it was all way too scary weird to take in at the time.  Chris stumbled on. Stuey raised his shotgun ever so slightly and squeezed on the trigger. A roar! A deity-shaking, deafening noise. An explosion not only injuring and abusing but almost raping the wonderful, naturally soothing rhythm of the beach. A spurt of flame and a cloud, a quickly boiled then dissipating cloud of stinking death notice smoke, writing a sign of the future. The shotgun pellets tore into and through Çhris' head. It reminded me of a cicada I'd once stomped on as a kid and had guiltily buried in a matchbox. A bloody mess mixed with white and grey, pieces of skull and bone but never like that seen on a faux pirate flag.
Chris fell with the remnants of his skull hitting the pavement before the rest of his body. Apparently mine wasn't too far behind as the sheer unreality of what I'd seen overcame any interest in witnessing more horror. It was the first time, a landmark, a raging beacon for the GPS navigator of shock and despair.

"At the next shock take the foetal position and cry." demanded my internal Tom Tom.

I disobeyed. I didn't wait for the next shock, just did it right then as memories of Chris selling me bus tickets, smokes, ice-creams and overpriced groceries mingled with the reality of his bloody, almost headless corpse falling into unlife. It all ran through like some crap beta version of a Windows media player running on Acid Max. I didn't really know it was just the beginning. I certainly felt like taking the avoidance option, my natural instinct.

Oh how my subconscious yearned for that avoidance, to make it easy and safe, but that bastard called reality kicked in via the agency of a now shotgun less Stuey offering me a cup of tea. I took it, shakily slurping, almost crying as my shoulders sagged in disbelieving shock. Stuey then draped a blanket around me and handed me a hip flask. I took it, my hands still shaking. I sniffed the opening. Rum. Bundy. Some habits can be useful.
"Thanks mate. That OP is it Stuey?"
He grinned, the first one I could remember given the circumstances, and responded in his own, old school style.
"Natch. Whaddaya reckon, I'm a poof?"

I took a healthy pull. It was comforting, a memory of late nights in good times. I looked around and for the first time got out of my own centre and wondered where the three other swimmers were. Stuey saw this and explained,
"When they saw you drop they did runners bigger than the Yanks' relay team. They all took off in their crap Vaucluse Vans." He held a low opinion of Swedish and Malaysian all wheel drive soccer mum cars. I took another swig of the Bundy and he offered me a smoke. Winnie Blues. I took one as John Saffran's line about trusting him on the Winnie Blues bizarrely ran through my mind. I knew there was no cynical, smart arse Melbourne guerrilla comedy gonna get me away from this, away from Chris' now covered corpse, away from the gunpowder stink and away from the realisation that life was never going to be the same again. No, no enfant terrible to help out here.

Stuey was getting edgy and spoke as such,

"Sorry to brush you mate, but I need to get my shit together. Another two days and this will be kill zone in paradise. Get the fuck out of here and quickly. I'm sorry you had to see what happened to Chris, but there'll be more of that.'"
Stuey was staring to unravel, the whole gory, stinking mess was hitting him, yet he still kept some cool.
""Fuck! You'll need one of these. I got anotheree, yeah. Shotties for everyone!"
He gave a half maniacal giggle, his shooting of Chris was taking more effect.
He looked at his shotgun and handed it to me. Then he went back to the clubhouse and came back with a box of ammunition a few minutes later. I took the nterluded opportunity to I finish off the Bundy and fired up another Winnie Blue. Stuey smiled as he saw me set down the flask and take another drag. He then went all Captain Lifesaver serious, shoving the ammo into my hands. His voice resonated with fear and realisation of what may yet come.
"Use that gun and don't hesitate."
I croaked out almost a half sob,
"Thanks Stuey. I'll come back after I find my mob and once this blows over. I'm sure we'll be eating your burnt snags in September."   I clenched back a sob, my voice all wobbly as I walked off,
"See ya, mate."
Stuey stiffened his middle, strode quickly forward and gave me a hug, and in a rumbling, controlled voice, offered his parting words of advice,

"Now fuck off. There's no rainbow gold at the end of this victim storm."

Tweet Shmeet

2011-01-21T21:58:00.001+11:00

Got meself a new PPP phone. I can if I so desire get porn, get on the punt and check out the profanisaurus. All of these things are quite useful but rack up the phone bill. So after a 30 buck experiment I've figured it out. If you want porn, use the 'puter.
I'm also watching Oz v Poms while I blog this and I haven't yet figured out the multi application window thing where you get ya tweets, ya blog, ya porn, ya profanisaurus and a live feed to Beyonce's arse. Also I'm drogging whilst blinking. Í got some Uncle Teds which helped me soothe the Friday after work frenzy. Then I cooked up some kangaroo kebabs. By jingies they were good. I'm tops at cooking a bit of roo. I've also got a bourbon or two options plus Lagavulin for cigar time.
So I set up a twunter account a while back and never used it. I've just recently lobbed something in there and now am exploring how to hook in.
Tait is now bowling to the tail of the poms batting list. He took a good catch a bit earlier and I really love his fear factor. Its the aggro we need.
Where was I? That's right, PPP phone, PC (also new) and fkn twitzifying.
Tait's limping now, the useless prick. Done his 'nads. Fucking South Australians. Sack him.
The Australian selectors have all sorts of eggs on their face for not selecting son of Twampy Mart (that's how one commentator used to pronounce Geoff Marsh's appelation of Swampy Marsh). Young ún Marsh scored a well made, natch winning and heroic ton. Brilliant, just showing the idiocy of persisting with Clarke and Smith. This bloke has a good technique and some backbone as opposed to photo shoot ops in Hello!. And bring in Kegsgrove, for the sake of the common cricketer and for common sense.
That's it, got 'roo to digest, Uncle Teds to ingest and a fucking cockroach just scuttled by.
Got him.
And Dougie Billinger just got the 9th pom out. Good lad, after helping Marsh rescue Australia in what will end up being a match winning partnership. Andrew hilditcjh, you are a fucking tool for leaving Marsh out of the World cup equation.
YD, if you pop in, good luck to the Bears on Sunday. I'll need some Superbowl menu tips. Its on Monday morning our time, around 8.30. Bit early for hot dogs but I'll get a couple of Yank suds, 'prolly a Miller or Bud, but the mainstay will be Oz product.
That's me, the poms just got done by our lads and its time to see what this tweet shite is about.

In Awe

2011-01-14T08:49:00.000+11:00

Just a quick note on the flood devastation. The amazing thing about it has been how quickly the government, its agencies and charities have moved. The information blitz has been incredible, led by the Premier of Queensland Anna Bligh. She has shown true leadership as have the mayors of the cities and towns affected by the oceans of water which have swamped their locales.
Our thoughts are with everyone affected by the devastation.

Best wishes to them all.

Hurrah! A New Post!

2011-01-02T20:31:00.000+11:00

Yesterday I had only a minor hangover and cured it by a swim down at the beach. On the way down there I walked past a campervan. It was one of those cheap jobs favoured by backpackers who then park them in the nearby streets for easy access to the beach and to save on accommodation costs. Its become something of an issue for some people but it doesn't bother me all that much.
This particular campervan had its side door open so as I walked past with my hangover straining at the leash I peeked inside. Lying on the mattress was a young lady who was naked from the waist up. Obviously the occupants had opened the door to let in the sea breeze on a hot night and sometime during the post NYE activities the sheet had slipped off. So I guess this is what some of the Waverley Council residents don't like; half naked girls sleeping in campervans.

The beach was surprsingly uncrowded but the tide was on the low side which didn't make for any awesome surf type action. The water temperature has risen above that of the bitingly cold stuff of a month ago but it was still slightly brisk which to me is the ducks guts for the first stage of killing a hangover. The second stage is the hot walk back up the hill, a shower and breakfast fry up accompanied by a big pot of tea. I needed that because I caught up with some friends in the afternoon for New Years Day drinks. That went on for longer than is recommended by medicos but we had a good time. I ended up crashing at around 2.30 this morning so repeated the hanggover cure again. This time the campervan with its half naked mistress wasn't there. The water was a good start and this time for breakfast I stuck with muesli and tea and toast with home made jam i'd been given at Christmas. Tomorrow I fix a flat car battery and start looking for a Mazda 3. I'm targetting something only 2-3 nyears old with less than 40,000 kms on the clock. Specifically io'd like an SP23. They go well and have really, really cool dashboards which is important given that you look at them quite a bit.

But more importantly Australia takes on England in an effort to square the series and win back some sort of self respect. We have a bloke called Beer in the team and that has to be inspirational. On the down side is having that uselss twat Michael Clarke as Captain of the team. People are being sporting and congratulating England on their performance in Melbourne. I say fuck that for a game of soldiers, don't befriend them, just get out there and smash them.

Also this year I've upped the ante in tech gear so will be posting more frequently. Whether that's good or bad remains to be seen. Its now bourbon time.

Dog Shit Killers - Coda

2010-12-28T19:40:00.000+11:00

The Chamberlain Hotel was unusually crowded for a late Saturday afternoon. The bar staff had been augmented, a couple of extra kegs ordered and all the reserve glasses stacked in wire trays behind the main bar. The licensee, Mark McCartney was standing at the side of the bar, ready for action as either barman, bouncer or wrangler of the stage. Most likely all he'd probably do was down a few schooners of Reschs but give him his due, he was diligent with the beer pouring when it was needed and wasn't averse to using his knuckles to sort out trouble makers. The fact that he'd never decked Max Jackson spoke volumes for the man's patience.

The "No Smoking Within a Metre Of The Bar" sign served Max Jackson well as an improvised ash tray while he surveyed the back part of the bar where the Dog Shit Killers were about to perform in public for the first time. He kind of thought it would be the last time as well. Rehearsing, trying to learn enough songs to play a couple of sets and booking rehearsal space was a lot of farnarkelling around, especially when there were races to bet on, girls to molest and drinks to be had. The band consisted of himself and Wayne "Sniper" Blake on guitars and vocals, Kerry James on occasional back-up vocals, her boyfriend Ian Reep on bass and Senior Junior on skins. Senior Junior was a ringer, a young bloke studying the art of bashing drums in some sort of rhymical fashion under the tutelage of one of Jacko's work colleagues, Senior. No-one knew Senior Junior's real name and they couldn't really give a stuff given that he was only a drummer. Reep and Kerryn were checking mic leads and twiddling with a small sound desk, Junior was sitting on his drum seat looking through a vintage copy of Viz Magazine, the issue with the Spice Girls Wank Hat.

Sniper Blake was busy trying to tell the bar manager, Margie that their rider included a keg's worth of beer and a bottle of Bundy O.P Rum. Margie didn't blink but informed Blake that the only rider they had was a clip behind the ear and a long pole up the back passage if they gave her any more cheek. Blake grabbed a tray of assorted drinks and brought them back to the band members. He looked at Reep and called out,
"Hey Reepy, don't bother with that crap. Just make sure its all plugged in and the volumes are right up. Do one of those sound check things."
Reepy glanced over and replied,
"Check two poofs. Check check. Jacko and Sniper. Poofs. Poofs. Check."
As he said that he noticed the curvy form of Jacko's girlfriend, Gayle sneak up behind the guitarist and run her hand down Jacko's spine
"About time to fire up, Max. Good luck." She kissed him and stepped back to let Blake's girlfriend, Tina squeeze past.
"Wayne, you sure you know all the songs?" she asked,
"Fucken oath mate. Its all sweet. If I get in strife I'll just do some growling and thrash a few bar chords. Piece of piss." Blake downed his beer and went over to the stage area. He tapped Max on the shoulder,
"Hey Jacko. Didja get those extra plectrums? I've only got one left."
Jacko shook his head,
"Nah, forgot 'em, but I've still got two." He then looked at Junior who was chuckling at the Fat Slags episode in his Viz mag.
" The Wank Hat issue? Its a fucking classic!" Junior nodded as Jacko went on "Fuck, we should have learnt a Spice Girls song. Margie hates 'Wannabe'. Would have been a pearler."

Ian Reep strapped on his bass and ran a walking blues shuffle up and down the fret board as a warm up Blake played along, making sure his Ibanez was in tune. Jackson's Rickenbacker looked the goods in Max's hands as he joined in the tune up twiddle by picking out a few bar chords and running the intro riff to "Day Tripper" over the top. He fiddled with the machine head and played another couple of chords, satisfied with the tuning. "Come on Kez. We're on." Kerryn stepped up and moved to the left of Blake, ready to share his mic. Blake looked around trying to count heads.  A lot of their work colleagues, footy and cricket team mates and other friends had come along for the party, mixing in with the usual crowd of drunks, bar flies and lost tourists. The place was crowded, stretching around the front bar, along the front and snaking down the side. The stuffed dingo perched above the centre bar had glass eyes, remarkably like those sported by the lead guitarists. The crowd was big and that was a relief after all the promises they'd made to McCartney, the pub landlord. He smiled and waved at the overweight and happy figure of his boss hanging at the bar, talking to Margie. His boss was a few years older and had cut Sniper a few breaks during the first months of their work relationship. He'd even introduced Sniper to the charms of the pub and had spent a few after work sessions splitting beers and occasionally giving helpful advice. From these sessions and owing to his boss' range of contacts Sniper had met the likes of Jacko and Ian Reep. Sniper was glad his boss, Eric Barton was there to enjoy the festivities.

Sniper nodded to Junior to count them in to the introductory piece, a ninety second punk piss take of the "Playschool" theme which they called "There's A Fucking Bear In There and Its Rooting Goldilocks." There was a round of cheering and applause with a few enthusiastic whistles, mainly from their friends and workmates, but it was a promising start. Jacko looked at Blake, asking,
"Well my sniping friend, what do you think happened to me last night?"
"Dunno Max. You got pissed I reckon."
"Fuck yeah. And this morning I realised I'd had a visit."
"And who were these mysterious visitors Jacko?"
"Well, young Sniper, from the amount of crap in my room and the way I felt I reckon they must have been Hangover Gorillas." With that Blake launched into the opening riff of the Dog Shit Killers first ever song, "Hangover Gorillas."

Seated at the bar amongst the regular drunks and ne-er do wells was Alan "Owly" Blake and one of his army mates, Benny Hanley, Owly's radio operator. They'd come to the pub dressed as regular pub pissheads still sporting the beards they'd grown for Afghanistan and using devices such as shoulder pads, glasses and coloured contact lenses to stave off initial recognition. Owly had a plan.

For their next songs DSK covered the Sunny Boys "Alone With You Tonight" and a couple of Beatles numbers, "Day Tripper" and "Birthday". Luckily for Blake and Jackson the drummer was good and Reepo proved to be a usuable bass player. This covered a number of missed chords and muted picking, but eventually the two guitarists started to find some form. They'd been a bit slow and nervous early on in the innings with ball beating the outside edge and occasionally hitting the pads. They weathered the early overs and began to hit a few runs. They warmed into the gig, covering Nirvana and hitting the bullseye with the Stones' classic ""Honky Tonk Women". Sniper then called for a break as he looked at a broken string which needed replacing. He also fancied a cold beer and a smoke.

Owly Blake was getting bored with wearing his disguise as was his SAS mate Benny who asked his sergeant,
"So when are we gonna do this? There's sheilas and beer on tap and I'm fucked if I'll keep this crap on for much longer."
Owly nodded and replied,
"Yeah, let's do it now. You go out the side door and I'll go around from the back bar. When I pull the plug, do a runner and we"ll meet at the back of the car park, ditch our disguises and come back."
Benny got up from his stool and went out the side door as Owly lurched up and edged his way around to the back bar. From there he had access to the back of the small stage through a short hallway which led back to the front bar. He waited for a largish bloke to make his way through the same door. Then he realised he'd met him before during a night at this same pub with his brother. It was his brother's boss. Fuck! Would he recognise Owly?
Barton turned around as he made his way from the back bar toilet through to the front bar. There was something familiar about the bearded, ragged looking bloke he'd just edged past. He'd met him before. Was he one of his Department's many unemployed, desperate customers? He sure looked it. Oh well, he thought, may as well do a bit of PR.
"G'day mate. Haven't seen you for a while. How ya going? Still on the government's tit?"
Blake blanched. He'd been fucking tumbled despite the subterfuge. Oh well, the plan to unplug the band was now off. he pulled out his phone and dialled Benny's number. After three rings Benny answered and Blake curtly told him,
"Ït's off mate. Back to the bar." He then look at Barton, saying,
"Good to see you again mate." and shook Barton's hand before taking off the shabby coat, glasses and carefully removing his prosthetic nose.
Barton was shocked at first then confused as Blake removed his disguises. Then he looked carefully at Blake and recognised him,
"Fuck me! Its you. Geez mate, that's a bit weird all that gear you had on. Love the beard though. I thought you were one of our punters from Darlinghurst that I'd recognised."
Blake then realised he hadn't been tumbled at all but mistaken for some welfare recipient. Barton went on,
"Sniper never said you were coming today."
Benny walked into the back bar, saw what was happening and took off his grubby overalls, cap and glasses and walked over to Owly.
"Thank fuck for that Owly. Now we can enjoy ourselves." he then nodded a "g'day mate" to Barton and headed for the bar.
To assuage Barton's confusion Blake explained how he was going to unplug the band as a joke and then reveal himself to his brother later on. Barton frowned for half a minute and then said,
"Top idea mate. First song into the next set we'll do it. Dead easy. I'll suss out the switch cupboard from Mark and let him know so he doesn't blow a gasket. Margie will love it. She hates Jacko. Grab a beer and wait here out the back." Barton then headed through the doorway into the front bar and found the publican. After five minutes he was in the back bar again with a fresh beer and clinking glasses with Owly and Benny.
He raised his glass and said to the two soldiers "Welcome "home boys. Good to see you back safe."
As he did, the Dogshit Killers banged out a few chords and Sniper Blake spoke to the crowd,

Jacko?"
"I reckon its time for some animal sex Sniper. Animal sex."
"That would be with the neighbour's alsation wouldn't it mate." He then launched into the opening chords of"their latest collaboration "Ï Really Love My Neighbour's Alsation". It was an improbable tale of giving a guard dog hand relief to calm it down so one could then access the next door neighbour's virgin sixteen year old daughter.  As the song seemed to be heading to both of its climaxes Barton led Owly to the power cupboard. Benny stood guard. As the final drum beats crashed through, Owly flipped the circuit switch for the stage area.
Silence.
Then shouting.
Benny, Owly and Barton slipped into the back bar.
On stage Jacko hit a few strings. Nothing through the amps.
"Fuckety fuck fuck fuck!"
Sniper looked at Junior then at Kerryn, then at Reep. Then back at Jacko, saying,
"Remember Dog Shit Machine?"
Jacko nodded, then turned around looking at their uselss equipment. He saw Sniper's Martin acoustic knock-off and pointed to it.
"Tune it up Sniper. We're gpoing soft."
Sniper nodded then turned to the crowd,
"The pub didn't pay its bills so we've been cut off. But that won't stop us folks."
A few desultory cheers came from the crowd who were now more suddenly interested in getting drinks while the problem was sorted out. Jacko passed the acoustic guitar to Sniper who fingered a few tuning runs and then nodded his satisfaction. After a quick conference with Kerryn and Jacko he did an introductory shuff;le of "Fairytale of New York." It wasn't best suited to just a single acoustic guitar but Kerrtyn's voice was strong and Jacko's drunken warblings passed muster for the Pogues'classic number. Their voices were just enough to slowly grab the crowd's attention.

In the back bar the two soldiers were laughing fit to burst and Sniper's boss wasn't far behind. Barton fetched another round of beers, chatting to the barmaid longer than was normal for such a transaction. He brought the beers back explaining,
""We're to switch it back on in ten minutes. Mark wants to keep the punters here a while longer yet. Geez that's a fucking ripper you guys thought up. can't wait to see their faces when they find out."
He then heard the fainter sounds of an acoustic guitar and Kerryn's voice launch into the tale of drunken love, broken dreams and new hope. Owly looked at both of his beer buddies, smiling,
Ï love this song. Let's go and listen." they went out the rear door and around the side of the pub, around to the front, finding a spot in the crowd behind some taller football friends of Ian Reep's.
As Kerrtyn and Max finished the song the three saboteurs were the loudest with their applause and cheering.
While the crowd's acclamation continued Owly went around the side again and walked into the small hallway to the electrical cupboard. He flipped the circuit switch back on and heard some horrible feedback which was quickly killed by a desparate Reep. Jacko was divided, both basking in the crowd's acclaim and pissed off by the shenanigans with the power. Eventually displeasure won out and he stormed off the stage,
"Fuck this Sniper. I'm having a rum!"
Blake put his acoustic guitar back into its case and picked up his Fender rip off. It reminded him of the days when he and his brothers used to thrash away in the garage, trying to mimic his brother Alan's favourites of the punk-postpunk era.  bands like The Jam and The Clash. He looked at Reep, Junior and Kerryn and hit the opening chords of The Jam's "Going Undergound".

Owly saw Jacko's dummy-spit, the Rickenbacker lying plugged in on the stage and watched to see how his brother would react. When Sniper started in on The Jam, Owly pushed his way onto stage, winked at his brother and strapped on Jacko's guitar. He started fingering the familiar chords, watching his brother, getting the timing. The Rickenbacker felt good, the best he'd ever played and he wondered how Jacko had ever acquired such a marvel. When he was into the rhythm of the song he nodded to to his younger brother and started playing with venom.

when the fast band plays my feet start to pound, going underground.

Jacko nursed his double Bundy OP rum as he watched the interloper make his guitar sing. When the band started in on The Clash's "Lost in a Supermarket" he ordered another large rum and went and put his arm around his girlfriend. Gayle wrinkled her nose at the rum and removed his arm,
"Don't be such a fucking sook Max. Get back up there before this bloke completely shows you up."
Jacko threw down his double rum and lurched towards the stage. Sniper finished the song and winked to Owly. As Jacko stepped up to the stage he shook Owly's hand, remembering a wild night he'd spent with Owly and his SAS mates over twelve months ago.
"Thanks mate. I'll take it from here."
As Jacko strapped on his Rickenbacker again Kerryn left the stage to get some drinks for herself and Ian.
Jacko yelled into the mic,
"Well if its Eighties you want its Eighties you'll fucking get." then he hit the crowd with US Forces, giving a jaunty salute to Owly and Benny who had sequestered Margie between them, giving her an army squeeze.
As Sniper looked over the crowd as they performed a reprise of Hangover Gorillas for an encore he saw his brother in the middle of the crowd doing a pogo dance in line with Benny, Barton, Gayle, Tina, Kerryn, Mark and Margie. The Dog Shit Killers repeated the first verse and chorus to keep the vibe going. jacko yelled out
"Thank you Sydney! We've been the Dog Shit Killers and you've been great. Farewell!."

Junior's van was packed with borrowed speakers, amps and the Dog Shit Killers gear thanks to some help from Owly and Benny. Junior was due at a gig at the Caribbean Soul restaurant, filling in for his mentor who had been slammed with a periodic detention order for being an accomplice to petty larceny. Junior drove off wondering how the fuck he copped such shit gigs. At least they'd given him a hundred bucks in cash.
Back in the pub Sniper was pummelling his brother with shoulder punches while Benny was making time with Margie. Jacko noticed that Barton was still there, talking to Tina and Kerryn and buying drinks. Gayle poked him in the back,
"Thought it would go well. You shouldn't have stalked off stage like that. Don't do it next time."
Jacko laughed,
"There's no next time. We're skipping the Difficult Second Album and solo projects that fuck up all bands and we're chucking it in. Face it, we're crap. We have three or four songs, only one of which just meets the basics and we're not that gifted. No, that's it." He then raised his voice to Sniper,
"Hey Sniper poof. That's it for DSK, yes?"
Blake responded,
"Fuck yeah. We have ten parts of fuck all. It's all too hard. Better off being crap at sport and going broke on the punt."
Kerryn heard this, adding
"Ëven my high school crap band was better. But we did have our moments today. Thanks to Alan."
The older Blake looked up from his bar stool,
"Yeah, youse were fucked except for Kerryn. That Pogues song ripped.".

At Jacko's flat people sprawled on an assortment of chairs, lounges and carpet. Beers, rum, bourbon, champagne and gin were flowing and Jacko put on one of his party mix CD's. Ian Reep led Tina to the spare bedroom. They needed to talk about their impending move to Tasmania and attempt to conceive during her ovulation cycle. Benny succeeded in his attempt to win the attention of Margie and they discretely exited, noticed only by Owly Blake who gave Benny a surreptitious thumbs up as he closed the door. Barton poured himself a tall bourbon while explaining to Sniper the benefits of travel allowance and interstate junkets. Jacko manfully attacked a bottle of O.P. rum while Gayle tended a warming tray of party pies.
Kerryn and Sniper huddled over glasses of champagne and Bourbon talking about Ian and Tina's obvious long term commitment, dancing around their own desires for the future.

Owly Blake looked at the group of friends. They easily could have been hapless loners with only the prospect of booze and crap TV to occupy their time. But through the power of individual and shared circumstances and needs, their own intelligence and characters they'd formed what were obviously long term bonds. He then thought of the Taliban fighters he'd last seen in Afghanistan and who were destroyed by modern precision munitions under Blake's direction. One thing he knew for certain and it was a gold medal certainty; thank fuck he'd had the good sense to be born in a country where war making was the preserve of the few, not the majority. If it meant putting up with crap one-off bands such as the Dog Shit Killers then so be it. Of most importance was the arrival the following morning of his wife and children. That was something worth fighting for.

Wayne Blake crossed Pitt Street heading to the front door of The Chamberlain Hotel. as he stepped onto the footpath he saw a dried up dogs turd sitting adjacent to the wall of the pub. It had that white powdery look which was likely to explode when run over by a lawn mower. Its appearance reminded him of the night he and his friends had seen Flange Gasket and come up with the idea of the Dog Shit Killers. It brought a smile to his face as he kicked it into dust and stepped into the pub.
"What are you smiling at Wayne?" was the greeting he faced from his girlfriend Kerryn.
"Track one my, dear heart. Track fucking one."

Dogshit Killers - Interlude

2010-12-06T18:33:00.000+11:00

In a paragraph or so you'll see the next instalment of the Dogshit Killers debacle. In the meantime I'll explain that we had a Chaz Day in Sydney last Thursday. We ate steak (cooked by ourselves, drank beer and did a mini walking tour (pub crawl) of The Rocks. Friday was hangover day innit.

To set this DSK chapter I had to take it offshore so that I could put in an explosion. I needed an explosion seeing as how FKN Havsy has been pretty fucking lame on that score with his fanfic gear and as usual, if it needs to be done do it yourself. The main character is based on a real SAS bloke who I had beers with once and will be catching up with in March. I just hope that the bugger doesn't read this. The details of his service are accurate and he actually did come up with the trick of following the small groups of herdsmen as described below.

Dog Shit Killers – Interlude

Alan “Owly” Blake motioned to his signals operator to come further around the rock which was hiding his patrol from a group of goat herders. The herdsmen were two hundred metres to the north of Blake’s hidden forward observation post, heading east across one of the many hills in this area of the Pakistan/Afghan border. As part of Operation Mountain Lion, Alan Blake’s SAS patrol was a key component, engaging in Special Reconnaissance tasks and often coming into contact with enemy forces. One of Blake’s specialties was sorting out which targets were worth following. Quite often a smaller group of “herdsmen” would split off from a larger group, like a bad boy crew wagging from a school excursion. Owly would leave the bigger group to the U.S. Special Forces teams and follow up on the smaller band, a tactic which was often rewarded. In previous missions his team had successfully called in and directed air strikes as well as the insertion of Coalition forces, resulting in the capture of large supplies of weapons and ammunition and the elimination of enemy fighters and leaders. He knew he’d probably never get to put a bead on Bin Laden but his sense of professional pride was constantly rewarded. His men had come through their tour unscathed and his regiment had once again earned the respect of its NATO counterparts.

His radio operator moved up beside him and Owly said,

“Once those blokes get up the hill call in their co-ordinates. I confirm twelve of them and I reckon they’re off to go and have a cuppa with their boss. We’ll stay on site.”

The radio man went back to his post and started working his set, checking the aerial and frequency before dialling up the operating base. Owly kept peering at the herdsmen until they slipped behind an outcrop, most likely into a cave.

His radio operator sidled up,

“The Yanks have two 18’s with JDAMS and 500 pounders on board, and another two set up for ground attack support. That’s all they had immediately available. The cunts asked for credit card details before confirming delivery of the order.”

“Smart arse Seppos. Didja ask for garlic bread and coke?" Blake looked at the rest of his team,

"Dopey cunts. Fucking JDAMS are a bit over the top for this one aren’t they?”. Owly hitched his pack,

“ Ah well, who gives a fuck eh Sparks? Hope they don’t want us to count all the bits and pieces afterwards. It’d be like doing over the Kiwis batting averages. Best off getting downtown a bit and start pointing the bone.”

‘Pointing the bone’ was Blake’s description of activating laser designators on a target, ensuring that air dropped munitions would arrive accurately and provide the most efficacy to his ongoing problems with bearded nutjobs. He named his two “bone-pointers” Kurdaitche One and Kurdaitche Two, (K1 and K2), after the traditional Australian Aboriginal “witch doctors” who used human bones in their rituals to sing sickness and death to miscreants.

Blake slowly and carefully withdrew his team two hundred metres further along the valley and waited for the U,S. Navy FA 18’s. Fifteen minutes later they arrived, two flying cover and two strikers. From his vantage point Blake observed, felt and heard the blasts. His team stuck fingers in their ears to compensate for overpressure from the munitions, a combination of 500 lb bombs and JDAMS. The JDAMS landed, penetrating the north side of the outcrop dislodging tonnes of earth and rocks as they bored through the subsurface strata of the rock formation. Once they had penetrated twenty metres the warheads ignited, causing immense eruptions of earth, rock, body parts and mangled jihadi caveman artefacts. Plumes of smoke and dust and a virtual hail storm of rocks cascaded with drumbeat thuds onto the injured land. The secondary pattern of 500lb munitions worked the tortured piece of earth into an even more catastrophic state. It never failed to impress Blake just how destructive people could be if they really applied themselves to the task.

After a couple of minutes of scoping out the results Blake sighed,

“Fuck me, there’s nothing left. OBL could be there and we’d never know it. He’d be like that strawberry jam K1 keeps on nicking from the mess tent.” Blake then asked Sparks to call up the operating base and grabbed the headset.

K2 turned to his fellow bone pointer,

“How about that K1? Fancy going over and grabbing some Talijam?” K1 gave a rueful smile,

“ Why the fuck JDAMS as well as 500’s ? Yank navy been to a clearance sale?” K1 shook his head again and rifled through his pack for zip lock plastic bags, waving them at K2.

“Got some baggies here bro’. Maybe they left some hash behind."

Owly removed the radio headset after completing a preliminary report. His bone pointer had a smile on his face, asking on the results of the bombing runs,

“Hey boss, you fix him?”

Blake didn’t let him down replying in his best Marrickville Greek Aussie,

“I fix him fuckee bastard the Taliban bloody!” Owly then retreated into normal speech mode,

“The Yanks’ll be sending in a couple of their own crews for clean up and to tally the results. We’re to move in fifty metres and keep an eye out for jaywalkers. Lets take it slowly, quietly and by the book. K1, you can field at deep fine leg. K2, you take lead, Sparks stay up my arse.”

Noiselessly and constantly alert the four troopers worked their way around the valley, keeping an eye out for curious onlookers and Taliban bench players. One hundred metres away from the blast zone K2 took up a position behind some boulders. Blake crawled his way forward, bringing out his glasses to get a closer look at the wounded earth. His radioman followed behind him with K1 taking a few more minutes to join the patrol.

What Blake saw was a series of rents in the earth with burnt scrub, debris and what looked like a cave-in on the side of the facing hill. Nothing moved and there was no sign of life. What possibly were red smears on the rubble were the only possible clue that anyone had been in the area. He shook his head. He looked at “Sparks” and asked him to call up his headquarters. Once they were connected the radio operator handed the headset to Blake. His C.O. was already talking.

Blake reported that all that was left was “rubble, dust and stains” and that there was no enemy movement. His boss told him to wait for the American patrols then return to the Forward Operating Base for the mission debrief. Fifteen minutes later a squadron of Blackhawks supported by Cobra gunships advertised the arrival of the U.S. Ranger group. A quick exchange of radio chatter released the Australians to head home.

“Okay boys, time to go catch a cab. The Yanks can clean up.”

K2 took another look at the devastated hillside and seemed about to say something. He turned his head once then checked his weapon and the team moved out, heading to their vehicle secreted in camouflage a four hour hike away.

Eight hours later Blake and his team were relaxing at their base after debriefing, showering and cleaning their equipment. The debrief included an update from the U.S. Ranger teams which had searched the bombed hillside. They’d estimated twenty four dead and collected DNA samples. They’d also found the remains of enough destroyed weaponry to conclude that the bombs had wiped out a major staging point. Blake found the whole idea of a reliable count improbable given the destruction he’d witnessed but was willing to go along with it. From his experience the numbers lay in the “maybe possible” column and he couldn’t be bothered arguing the toss. If the Yanks wanted to beef up body count numbers, that was up to them. To him it didn't really matter as long as there were more fighters to replace the dead.

Blake’s team were slurping away at some Miller Draught which K1 had obtained.

Sparks was appreciative of the illegal beer bounty and looked the model of a contented radioman. He watched his sergeant open up a letter, and asked who it was from.

“My brother, Wayne.”

K2 looked up, laughing, “You mean Sniper? He’s a funny sort of bloke. That night we had beers with him and his mate was a real fucking hoot. What’s he up to?” Blake looked up from the letter,

“Yeah, it was wasn’t it? Him and his feral mate Jacko have apparently put some sort of band together. They call themselves ‘The Dogshit Killers’. Wayne reckons it won’t last but they’re planning on doing a gig. By fuck I’d love to be there to boo the dopey cunts off the stage.”

A shadow appeared at the doorway rapidly followed by a voice,

“Well Sergeant, your wish just might be coming true.” Captain Morrow, Blake’s immediate boss was standing with a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Seems as though you blokes are needed elsewhere. You’re training on the RIBS means you’ll be getting to play water sports again on Sydney Harbour. Here’s the G.O.”

Morrow sat down and explained how the need for an additional counter-terrorist unit covering Sydney’s maritime gateway was severely itching the Defence Force Chief's skin and Blake’s team was going to be the salve. Blake thought back to the preparations for the Sydney Olympics and tearing around Sydney Harbour in the rigid inflatables, rehearsing tactics for anti-terrorist activities on the water. His team had enjoyed the whole experience. More importantly he thought of his wife and two children. He’d actually be seeing them again very soon and that was a major plus.

Aside from Afghanistan his army service had seen him in both Gulf Wars, chasing Kopassus around the East Timor/West Timor border, serving as bodyguard to Xanana Gusmao in the immediate aftermath of East Timor’s independence and a posting as a trainer with the U.S. Marines. His current deployment was almost three months old and even though he’d enjoyed success against the Taliban he wouldn’t miss their attention. He’d be reunited once again with his family and that lit up a whole wave of smiley face icons in his mind. It also meant he’d find some time to annoy the bejesus out of his brothers, particularly that wannabe musician piece of crap, Sniper. Fucking Dogshit Killers eh? Oh yeah, he sorely wanted to see what sort of bullshit that was all about.

He's Gotta Go - No Love For Pup

2010-11-04T21:03:00.000+11:00

Go now, get outta here. Yes you, the grimacing twat just below. Before you leave, introduce yourself.

"Hi. I'm Pup. I like being a crap captain, losing, fashion, crap tattoos, hair product and not sticking up for my team mates. But most of all I really enjoy spitting dummies and being a shallow prima donna with an overblown sense of self importance. I don't like Simon Katich because he picks on me. Now piss off, I have an appointment with my ear wax sculptor."

Michael Clark aka "Pup". 'Nuff said really. For those who don't know who he is just think of a cricketer who's basing his life on David Beckham but with none of the talent, Spice Girls or galactic scale paychecks. I also think Alan Jones likes him which for me is the clincher.

He might like Michael Clarke

His depth of character is measured in microns. As a leader he's useless, as a tactician he's worse than DADS Ponting and as a team mate he gets his head smacked against the change room wall. Funny thing is though that before he started his fashion shoots and stopped hanging out with Warnie he was made a project by Cricket Australia to be the heir apparent to Ponting's captaincy and by jingies that's starting to look like a "Let's Invade Russia" decision. I reckon the sooner he becomes a crack whore in a trailer park outside of Dubbo the better. I spent half of last night ranting at the plasma screens down at The Office pub and the other half drinking to forget that Clarke's in the team and is in charge a lot of the time. This morning I had the Thousand Yard Stare. Well that's bollocks really, it was just a fuck-off hangover and I blame Clarke. He's the arse sitting on top of the biggest arse mountain in the Arse Mountain Range on Planet Arse, in the Arse Galaxy of the Arse Universe. Someone please tell him to go to Lichtenstein and sell stamps for the rest of his life. But enough about him.

If you don't wanna read about something pretty fucking icky involving a man and a dog then hit the escape key right now.

You're still looking. Oh well, here you go.

Now for the second bit of "pup" love. For those who didn't know, a Rugby League player has been caught out having his dog, um, how do I put this? (blunt is good Therbs), provide some oral relief on the footy player's cock. Joel Monaghan is the chap's name, Canberra Raiders is the team he plays for and I'd suggest he's in the biggest world of shame right now. Probably bigger than Michael Clarke's Arse Mountain. Thing is I just hope he doesn't opt out in a permanent way 'cos that would just add to the hurt already there.

And I'm not going to pimp the photo either. Its 'orrible. More gut churning than the other two I've put in here. So for "Pup" Clarke and Joel Monaghan, and what the hell, for Alan Jones too, this had to be the one. Ladies and gennulmen, live here in Therbs Bar, the one and only Mr Paul Anka. Good night and enjoy your evenings and remember, it may have been a dog of a day but for someone else it was a real bitch. Take it away Paul!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3lwmOEFSZBo

Pomcopaylpso Blues

2010-10-25T19:28:00.000+11:00

Here in the eastern bit of Sydney and more specifrically around Bondi we've started to experience the oncoming tide of the seasonal Irish/Brit ratsacker infestation. "Hit 'em high, hit 'em low, hit with the old elbow" doesn't quell what is a tidal force. Its gonna be bad this season because of The Ashes. The Barmy fucking Army are coming back and they are a right fucking bunch of pommy tourist bastards. Any national group on tour is best avoided, just look at what happens when a Contiki bus rumbles through Rome. The Caribineri lock and load and wield their machine guns with suitable menace when they that bus full of aussies and Kiwis rock into town. The Barmy Army is if anything, slightly more organised and more mature but more loud and obnoxious 'cos they know its the last hurrah of youth. After an Ashes tour its settle down with kids time so its no bends, straight on it and stay on it. The silly fuckers drink VB. Just shows you how fucked they really are. Now the problem is we don't have gun-toting crazy wogs in uniform like the Caribineri to scare the poms. The only gun toting wogs we have are too busy shooting up houses in the south western suburbs of Sydney or playing at being hitmen in places like Rushcutters Bay and Hornsby. Well, not really Hornsby, just sort of threw it in because I like that name. Horsnby. Sounds trustworthy, sort of solid. Anyways our lot are either doing those things or are already serving time for drug and weapons related offences. And the only uniforms they wear are taken straight off the shelf of Athletes Foot. So what to do about summer? Go to the beach in non peak hour periods, get used to stereo battles and make sure I'm well stocked in beer and whiskey. And maybe play a couple of away games. I just hope that Michael Clark gets adopted by England and they take him home with them. The dozey tosser.
Okay, fuck the spell check, straight to publish.

Sweet Whisky

2010-10-07T19:14:00.000+11:00

Okay, this starts with whisky and ends with whisky. Last night after boozing up in grand style I decided to do a taste test to decide which is best, Jamesons or Bushmills. For the life of me I can't really remember which of the liquids came up trumps but I'll take a wild stab at this and go Jamesons. It was the last one I had and by jingies I'm still drooling 15 hours after the fact.

Backtrack a bit to a couple of week-ends ago when the old family home went up for auction. We smashed the reserve and did really fucking well so my bro and my sisters were very fucking pleased and I was so chuffed I went and bought a bottle of an old fave, Makers Mark. Its since disappeared. Lovely stuff. So last week-end was a public holiday week-end in Sydney and we ordered a big fuck-off rubbish skip for the old house and did some major trashing of the old contents. It was hard at times as my sis, my bro, my bro-in-law and I went through everything we hadn't previously dispersed. I'd grown up there and was still going there once a week until the furniture was taken by the Salvos, bless their Red Shield hearts. I found all sorts of crap under the house. My bro had this big sledge hammer and by fuck it was fun smnashing shit up. Really taking big hard swings and releasing all this balled up emotional angst. It was a hard day both physically and emotionally so on the way back to my shoebox I stopped off and bought a bottle of McKenna bourbon. Most of that has since disappeared. This fucking bourbon I buy doesn't last the fight.

So on my way home tonight I'm fixing to buy another bottle to go with beers to go with the Bathurst 1000. Fuck yeah! This year as always I'll be supporting Holden. What does Ford stand for? Found On Rubbish Dump. Backwards it means Driver Returning On Foot. Unfortunately for the blue boys they're running out of half decent pilots ever since Craig Lowndes and his homies went back to Holden. Fuck Ford anyway, go Holden!
Before I forget, props to Dr Yobbo for wanting to tease out the best testicle jokes, given that he's doing a Lance Armstrong over the next couple of days. Best wishes Doc, recover well! And we'll definitely crack on about it next time you're in town, down at The Rocks,
Did everyone know that Spy Nat has taken up Scientology? She's a funny one that chick.
Now its time to go and replenish the bourbon. Gotta love shopping. Hooroo!

Burgering in Sydney

2010-09-20T18:48:00.001+10:00

Remember that old Readers Digest stuff, I am Joe's Adenoid, I am Joe's Skeletal Disfigurement, I Am Joe's Hypothalamus, I am Joe's Squashed Testicles? You can't? Well, here's the etsts I put to my brain cells and liver.
Wednesday. You Am I played at the Oxford Art Factory with the gig being "Exile On Main Street" played from beginning to end. Featured guests were Venetta Fields (sang backing vocals on the original album), Tex Perkins, Nic Cetser (Jet), Adalita and others including some bloke who looked like Rob Schneider. Timmy Rogers rocked! The whole gig was a slammin' affair from beginning to end with Tex Perkins adding his Rock God act to the whole thing. Spotted in the audience was a Wiggle which begged the question were The Cockroaches gonna get up for a surprise special guest appearance? Nup. The beers flowed swiftly and we left the venue well satisfied. On the way home I had to stop in at the side bar of the Teagardens hotel for a quick bourbon settler.
Thursday. This was the day of the Russian Spy Invasion so I arranged to meet young Natski at the Metropolitan Hotel around 6.00. I arrived early hoping to catch up with the publican and his wife but they weren't in. I was hungover like a bastard, and a couple of boney schooeys later I received a call from the Russian Spy She was somewhere near Jersey Boys or something so I gave her further directions. She ended up down The Rocks almost at the Harbour Bridge and called again. After redirecting her I walked down to perform a rescue mission. Next call was from Natski and she was on teh roof bar of the pub and I was walking along George St looking for spies. As I walked back I saw her leaning over the railing of the Roof Bar, waving. We met up and had some drinks, catching up, shooting the breeze and marvelling at the wonders of electronic gaming. The smoking deck was in the poker machine area. Nifty huh? And no, I didn't gamble. Nat was jet lagged and I was topping up the fuel tanks from the night before and slowed right down. Yep, I admit I was probably struggling a bit.
On the way home I dropped in to the side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Friday. I was feeling fuzzy after a couple of days on the sauce but still up for another night. This time we met up at the Edinburgh Castle Hotel. I walked in to find Nat and Abe Frellman at the bar getting a round of drinks. Great timing, so we set in for a few settlers awaiting the arrival of Doc Yobbo. Unfortunately Mr Lermontov was unable to join us due to changed travel arrangements. We sat at an outside table for a while debating his likely arrival as he'd been off to Newtown the night before to have beers with some old friends. Abe went on a mission to do some internet/email/twitter searching to no avail. We had a final drink and headed off to Diethnes restaurant for some Greek chow. Just outside we ran into our fave Doc and ventured inside. The meal was fine, my roast lamb was suitably tender and mouth watering, the others had lamb stew (that right Abe?), a mixed platter for the Doc and Nat went for the Haloumi. We tried some god awful Greek beer before settling into a more local and palatable brew. We saw The.Best.Combover.Evahh! Man, it was classy in its ambition and FKN funny in its effect. The second funny bit was that at one stage they had the bloke's dunnies blocked by a chair and some bloke acting like a bouncer. There'd been some unpleasantness inside, unpleasantness on a large scale it seems, but the antics of the staff gave us some comedy gold.
Our resident Smallgoods Providore, the Hon. Abe Frellman took carte of the bill. What a man. Many thanks for that Abe, much appreciated. (Remember to email me the address to send that shirt.).
Then we went wandered off to a pub. It was Friday night, they had some loud music, beers poured in plastic cups and an unwelcoming atmosphere, as did the pub across the street which didn't want to let me in. We turfed that and cabbed it down to the Lord Nelson hotel which brews its own beers. Ahhh, yes. Nice choice Abe!
The Lord Nelson closed its doors and we scattered. On the way home I dropped into teh side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Saturday. A free day, no work, no commitments, sleep in. Yep, did that, some chores then got a beer call.
Some blokes get booty calls, I get beer calls. I answered this one, watched football on TV, shot the shit and on the way home stopped in at the side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Sunday. Had to make Avalon beach for lunch at the Starfish. Beers, bubbly, wine, beers and a walk around teh northend of Avalon to fling flowers in the ocean to remember my dad. Its where his ashes had been cast a few years ago. Noice.
On the way home I didn't stop in at the side bar of the Teagardens hotel for a quick bourbon settler.
Monday. Went to work and am now on my wayyfor a birthday drink, a steak and some red wine, most likely a shiraz. The beat goes on.
Tuesday will be nothing. Zilch, zero, blot. Wednesday we have a bar voucher to work through from a previous pub trivia win. Oh well, I should be fine by then
One more thing, I'm getting fucking pissed off with this persistent cold weather, Usually by now we'd have some warm days and mild nights but noooooo. Someone do a fucking sun dance please and get rid that crap Tasmanian weather which insists on hanging around, sort of like a stinking ratsacker who's camped on your lounge and doesn't like the concept of deodorant.
Fuck the spell check, this is going out live.
Nat, Abe, Doc Y, - it was really FKN tops meeting you and hopefully it won't be too long before it happens again. Burger get togethers FTW!

This Week In Sydee

2010-09-13T12:43:00.000+10:00

Two posts inside a week? I'm just down at a kwikee-mart with internet gear to ask those coming in later this week to pop in and confirm that we'll be going to a pub which serves food, for those wanting to eat. I have a couple of venues in mind - The Edinburgh Castle and The Metropolitan. The big thing for me being drinkiness and both pubs fit the bill, the Metro probably has the better steaks, the EC has beer in jugs if you're that way inclined and for Doc Y they have Uncle Ted on tap.

Nat - I'll let you know the Thursday venue tomorrow.

Wednesday night I'm going to You Am I's recreation of Exile On Main Street at the Oxford Art Factory starring guests such as Nic Cester (Jet), Tex Perkins and others. Should be tops as long as the tickets came through.

That's all for now, cop yez later.

Slackness and Being

2010-09-10T18:50:00.001+10:00

Well folks, I know I'm slack. Basically I'm fracked for getting into some blogs, commenting on others and doing fun stuff but that's all down to work computers. Its also because I'm a neglectful and lazy fucker whose motivation centres on having a laugh, a drink and farnarkelling around.

So what's happening? Doc Yobbo, Abe Frellman and maybe the Lermontovity will be catching up in my hometown of Sydee next week. We'll have a couple of beers, maybe even with each other and then see who's best at tweeting the results. Rules me out 'cos I don't be tweetin'.

Now that I've rediscovered this blog stuff I may even post something a tad more substantial. And ya gotta know that the motivation for this reanimation of Therbs on line is due to the aforementioned pissup. Hats off to Doc Y and Abe Frellman.

And Nat if you're lurking, hope you got my email.

Now if anyone wants to stir up Hav leave him be I just sent him an email, part of which took the piss out of his cricketingness and wonky deck.

Shouts out to those mentioned above and also to Yankee Dog whose page I visit but can't lodge comments, similarly with Moko, Nat Spy, Doc Y, Mr Barnes, Bangar, GBob, NBob, Jennicki, Big Bad Al, and a heap of others. If yez are in Sydney next Fridee come and have a beer with us. Should be fuckin' tops, ay!

That's it, I'm off to the boozer to practice for next week.

Catch Up, World Cup, Tax, Bicycles and Booze

2010-07-12T19:34:00.000+10:00

I'llget the booze and catch upstuff over with first. Booze mainly because at JB'sgig in Sydney last Tuesday we started off at the 3 Weeds in Paddo, across the road from Ariel Books where the book gig played out. There was beer at the book gig! Fucking tops. Then we had beer with plates of grilled bits of meat at The Balkan. Then more beer at The Beauchamp Hotel back down the road. I finished with a large straight up Makers Mark and that was me done. It was a fine evening where I caught up with other Cheeseburger Gothic followers, namely Savo, AgeingGamer, Darkman and BondiBoy. I'd met Darkman once but not the others. Its funny how we managed to click at least at that superficial "hail fellow and well met" level. I've previously split beers with Lermontov, Nautilus, Chaz (and Mrs Chaz), JB, Unicorn (where the fuck has he gone?) and Bedes. It all ends up pretty well. On Tuesday it was also good to see the merge of Burgers and Tweeters. By the time JB puts out another book I don't think it will be groups of less than fifty coming along. Wouldn't surprise me if his gigs become unmanageable in terms of doing the smaller scale feed'n'pub happenings. That's what happens when someone's popularity starts hitting that next level.
Oh yeah, back at The Beauchamp Hotel I was when I realised it was the same pub in which David Ireland wrote "The Glass Canoe", his Miles Franklin Award winner about a bloke who drinks at a pub. I read it years ago and found it again back at my mum's place when we weredoing some cleaning out. Its a good read, giving what are now echoes of a late 60's-70's life in a semi-industrial suburb of a big city in Oz. Its mainly a series of vignettes but warms up to some good narrative. And a lot of it happens in a pub which to my mind is sheer fucking genius. Mind you The Beachamp these days is not really a pub having been well and truly renovated to cope with the pink dollar then more recently the boom of the Noughties.

World Cup. Fuck it was a poor one. Vuvufuckenzelas are The. Worst. Things. Evvaahh! Santo Sam and Ed however were pure gold. I seriously want the DVD to come out. Les and Foz were fucked. They stink, big time. They are so fucking insular it ain't funny. I watched five minutes of the arseclowns before giving up on them.

Bicycles. Tour de France. Fuck it annoys me. Its that thing of yeah, I'll watch a half hour and then go to bed. Fucking bullshit. End up watching a couple of hours and getting in a nice warm fug in front of the heater with a glass of something tasty by my right arm and daydreams of sick leave running through my mind. So Cadel has the yellow guernsey today and this is his Big Chance. It could be Cadel's Year.
Those fucking cobblestone bits early on were a laugh. Well, I laughed anyways, especially when a large part of the Peloton went arse over tit. You just gotta laugh at cyclists falling over and then wanting to go the biff. Must be roid rage.

Tax. Did it in record time. Took me one hour to download it, fill it out on line and send it back via the interwbez to Mr Tax Refund Man. Did it just now as a matter of fact in this interwebz cafe. If Mr Tax doesn't argue with my reasonable deductions then its whoopee time! Cigars and single malt plus a new bit of sound gear for the car. And maybe some new shoes. Really, just threw that in for any chicks who may drop in. Its really about the whisky and cigars and maybe DVDs of the Cricket World Cups back in Seth Efrika (2003 when Punter went ballistic) and the West Indies (2007 when Haydos went crazy and Bob Woolmer tragically died of a heart attack in his hotel room). Maybe. But its really about the whisky and cigars, hopefully in time to celebrate Cadel getting the winner'scheque in Paris.
Speaking of drinks, I'll be on me way now.

Ariel Gig

2010-07-01T16:38:00.001+10:00

If anyone's going to JB's Ariel gig on Tuesday next week the plan is to meet at the 3 Weeds (Rose Shamrock and Thistle - the Paddo one, not the Balmain one). I'll be there around 6.00, depending on bus times from the CBD most likely watching whatever sport they have on the plasma. I'll be the one booing either Manly, Collingwood or Germany, depending on what's showing. Ariel Bookshop is just across the road from The Weeds and JB's gig goes from 7.00 until 8.00. No need to book a seat, just show up. We will however need to book The Balkan for the post gig feed and I'll need numbers asap. The Balkan is this Croatian grill restaurant where you get chunks of meat, cooked Balkan style. They also do a seafood grill which is very tasty. My advice is to skip lunch that day.

And remember that its Dry July so no drinkees 'nkay? Yeah, right. Poor joke I know but if you do get all self righteous about giving up the sauce for no other reason than some c-list git is trying to get numbers for their wanking attempt to expand their fading celebritiness then you can buy me drinks. Lots of them 'cos I'm the best fucking charity ever conceived.

Doc Yobbo has done a good job on this nonsense here.

Cheers!

Tahu's List

2010-06-16T19:02:00.000+10:00

Just a quick observation on tonight's SOO. I just noticed that going up against the State of Origin tonight is Schindler's List on Channel Seven. Anyone see what I see here? Okay then, on one channel we have the story of Herr Schindler who made good on his conscience by rescuing a number of Jews from the Nazi murder machine, the most extreme exponent of killing based on race hate.. On the other channel we have a premier Rugby League match set against the backdrop of racism espoused by Andrew Johns, the (now ex) New South Wales assistant coach. Apparently he'd been calling players "black cunt", "coon", "nigger" for a while now and Tahu said "Enough!" and walked out of the team in protest. Timmy didn't wait to be rescued from the well of bigotry by someone else, he clambered out of it himself. He wasn't doing it because Johns slurred him, he did it to back other players of various backgrounds whose skin colour afforded the ignorant and bigotted Johns the opportunity on a number of occasions to bring out his nasty racist streak. And Tahu named those who had been targetted by Johns. Basically he'd had enough of it and drew a huge fuck-off line in the sand by withdrawing himself from the NSW team for tonight's match. Johns subsequently resigned from the coaching role and has also been sacked from club coaching roles and his media gigs with News Ltd. Channel Nine, you there? Something going here which you may need to address in one big fuckingg hurry or are you too caught up in the blokey atmosphere of the Footy Show coterie?
Will this change anything? Most likely the NRL will implement an education program along similar lines to that which tries to teach footballers how to deal with women as human beings and won't that be a long drawn out process, trying to teach 18 year old blockheads some values and morals which their parents thought weren't necessary.

For those who don't know what NRL or State of Origin is, here we go. The NRL is the current body which runs the highest level of Rugby League in Australia, similar to the NFL. State of Origin is a yearly three-match series played between the two Rugby League states, New South Wales and Queensland. It came about because in previous years the New South Wales team consisted of the best players from the Sydney rugby league competition (the big money league) regardless of from where they originall hailed. It used to burn the Queenslanders something fierce that their players would be a part of the inevitable whitewash of Queensland. So the Queenslanders got their wish and now select players who first played rugby league in Queensland. The spirit of the Queenslanders embodies a typical Australian attitude of "we been done wrong", an attitude which never diminisihes, becuase if it did, so would the driving force of Queensland State of Origin Rugby League and most likely the series would fade away.

So tonight its gonna be a traditional footy night. Meat pies, beer and whatever other booze I have lying around. Unfortunatley Roy and HG don't do the commentary anymore since they switched to thebig bucks of commerical radio so I have to put up with people who take their sommentary seriously, and that's a big shame.

Popping Back In

2010-06-15T18:39:00.000+10:00

Well, its been a while since I wrote here, over a month. I've been sorting out the mum stuff and its been hard. We're all in it and I'm glad of the family. Its a strong and close group of siblings and it makes a difference. I also seem to have run out of blogsteam. Aside from jumping in at JB's blog and his BT blogs I've basically become a lurker. Ain't that fucking creepy? Now that I'm actually bashing these keys here I'll be popping in and leaving a pile of doos at some other places.

While I'm here I'd like to have a small rant about the whole World Cup brouhaha. Hi everyone, I'm Therbs and I played soccer as a young 'un. I also gave Rugby League and, surprise surprise, Aussie Rules a go. My fave to play was League. It incorporated most of the skills and more anticipation than soccer and had the added bonus of affording me the opportunity of going in hard. Aussie Rules seemed softer, they really hated full on tackling. Soccer was soccer, basically a kicking and running game with a ball which would generally travel in a predictable way. That's my opinion and you won't change it, but feel free to flame.

The World Cup is basically politics writ large. It was expanded to 32 teams as a tip of the cap to "3rd World" soccer nations (e.g. Asia, the U.S., Africa and Oz) and a realisation that politicking for the right to host the World Cup was reaching an Olympic standard. More countries who feel involved, the better chance of being able to manipulate the votes. Politics is what counts in world soccer with the money a recognised constant.

So back to the games. I watched the U.S. - England and Oz-Germany matches and will probably watch the Kiwis tonight unless I really want to see what Gibbs is up to in NCIS. After that I'll be sticking to watching the Oz matches, maybe the semi-finals and final and occasionally a match starting at 9.00 p.m. But I'm not really into it this time around, didn't go into a tipping comp nor did I buy the SBS guide. Its partly due to an aging cynical outlook but also a realisation that the best quality soccer matches are generally found in the EUFA competitions. National teams rarely provide the concentration of talent seen in Man Utd, Milan, Barcelona, Chelsea etc. So basically I'll be keeping an eye on Straya and cherry picking a few other games. Hell, I may not even bother with the final if Brazil don't make it. When's the cricket start again?

Hey Schultz, There's No Strudel On The Eastern Front

2010-05-04T18:15:00.000+10:00

Hiya folks, back in 2006 I did a comment article over at the Bulldogs Debate Page about the Warriors getting sanctioned over salary cap indescretions in the National Rugby League. Below is the rejigged article bringing it up to date. The italics are the major additions to the original.

In 2002 the Bulldogs were investigated for serious breaches of the NRL salary cap. After being found guilty they suffered a significant monetary fine and the loss of all of the competition points they had amassed that season (37). This killed them off for 2002; drove sponsors away and the drama fed the electronic and print media for months. This all was spurred on by a ‘dob-in’. The Bulldogs had previously been cleared after an audit of their salary cap expenditure by the NRL auditor.

In 2006 the NZ Warriors were investigated for serious breaches of the salary cap. They were found guilty and suffered a significant monetary fine and the loss of four competition points. This affected their Final 8 chances as they missed out by 4 points on reaching the mark. They would have slipped in on a better for and against point’s record ahead of Parramatta. They may have possibly won the Premiership; not likely but they were still a chance. Media interest was very light in this case over which none of the hungry scribblers of 2002 raised a smidgin of blotted sweat. This case was spurred on by the executives of the Warriors notifying the NRL that something was awry in the Warriors handling of their Salary Cap. It is speculation to suggest this was the result of a ‘tip off’ but it certainly wasn’t the result of some great sleuthing by the Salary Cap Auditor, Ian Schubert.

In 2010 the Melbourne Storm were found to have systematically rorted the salary cap over a five year period. Their penalty was to be stripped of two NRL Premierships, 3 Minor Premierships, 8 competition points, the possibility of gaining competition points in 2010, a fine of $500,000 and being forced to repay $1.1 million dollars in prize money.

There is a large disparity between the ‘crimes’ committed and the sanctions imposed. A 33 point disparity may seem too large. Fans will dispute the severity or otherwise of each club’s penalties and this will go on for years. A more reasonable penalty for the Warriors would have been 10 competition points which would allow the Warriors to avoid the wooden spoon and all but rule them out of Finals contention. Allowing them the chance (however unlikely) to win the competition after being found guilty just didn’t gel with some people. Also what doesn’t gel with Melbourne Storm's penalty is the farcical nature of teams having to compete against a team made up of players receiving illegal payments. Common thinking is that they should have been told to become immediately compliant under the salary cap taking whatever measures were necessary, lose the points accumulated up to the point they do become compliant and then be able to compete for competition points. The severity of the penalties will be a constant source of debate and will use up a lot of newsprint for the remainder of the NRL season.

In the wash up of the Warriors’ case another club was accused by one of its ex players of behaviour similar to that which led to the Warriors being penalised; offering post-retirement sinecures. Was that club investigated? Given its wealth of representative players were there any post – retirement deals made with any of its stars to circumvent the salary cap? Did Sergeant Schubert know? Not bloody likely, but that is a debatable point.

What isn’t in dispute however is that all three major breaches were not detected by the salary cap auditor, Ian Schubert.

Here I will use the comparison with Sergeant Schultz in Hogan’s Heroes who needs to be vigorously shaken by a prisoner and often prodded with his own rifle before waking up to the likes of Lebeau or Carter demanding his attention. The offer of strudel always wins him over. What he fears most is a transfer to the Russian Front. Whilst I really like Schultz, the manifestation of his incompetence in real life makes me shudder.

Who’s to know how many tunnels have been dug by the wily Hogan under the sleepy eyes of Sergeant Schultz. How many supply trains have been blown up and how many bombs dropped on that ball bearing plant conveniently located just outside of Hammelburg and within striking distance of Stalag 13? How many nice German motor vehicles have been appropriated from the motor pool? Does Sergeant Schultz know? Ask him and see what he says. You remember his catch phrase. Shout it out loud and strong and within earshot of any NRL fan.

So here we have three very serious salary cap breaches and another alleged breach not uncovered by the auditor. So what purpose does this bloke serve? Sorry, it’s a rhetorical question so I won’t accept any nasty swearing in response. Schubert has to go. As does Gallop. While we’re at it lets clean out News Ltd from any management or executive roles within the NRL. They've screwed up NRL TV deals, are incapabl;e of managing a football code and should stick to "man bites dog" stories and taking photos of celebrity breasts. In the words of Havock, cap the fkn muppets!

Kinch, get on the radio to HQ and tell them Goldilocks has a plan.

Dog Shit Killers Breakfast Club

2010-04-30T16:26:00.000+10:00

Kerryn James softly cursed as she saw her boyfriend's phone vibrate with a low thrum, bouncing ever so slightly on the table on the opposite side of her bed. A lot less slightly in fact than the two of them had been bouncing earlier. Ian Reep groaned, having almost drifted to sleep after a heavy session of post dinner bedroom gymnastics. He winced as he looked at the caller i.d. on his phone, noting the time as 10.00. It was one of those fucking private numbers which meant anything from a call centre in India offering hot new deals on jam tin phone plans, a call from one of his drunk mates (red hot fave, ten bucks on the nose thanks), or a wrong number (hope and pray, like Beckham from the spot in a World Cup shoot-out). He grabbed the vibrating Nokia and hit the green button; "Hello. Reep." his voice was a bad croak.
"Reepy!" An excited voice blared, "Its Jacko."
"Fuck off Max! What the fuck do you want?" Reep turned over, cradling the phone, trying to protect Kerryn from Jacko's idiocy.
"I'm down at Central lock-up. Two hundred bucks bail until Monday. Any chance of a hand? I tried Sniper but his phone's not working. Sorry mate, I know its fucked but I'm stuck."
Reep shook his head and cleared his throat while doing mental checks of his blood alcohol reading and bank balance.
"I'll be there in twenty. Stay cool."
"Thanks mate. That's a gold medal effort."
"See ya", then Reep hit the red button. By this stage Kerryn was all inquisitive as well as being annoyed so Reep turned around and answered her arched eyebrows.
"Its Jacko. He needs bailing out down at Central. Wanna come?"
Kerryn rolled back over, pondering the incongruity of having hooked up with a decent man who lead a normal life but was bedevilled by a couple of drunken gambling friends who frequently dragged him off on misadventures. Maybe not so much since she'd fallen for him, distracting him with coupledom but the potential was always there, lingering like one of those cartoon devils camped on Fred Flinstone's shoulder offering all sorts of nasty advice. Still, they were funny bastards and meant well. It would also be something to write about in her "Creative Writing" class. The instructor was always looking for some grit; well here be a pile of the stuff ready for sifting.
"Yep. Its only one-thirty. May as well go and save the idiot. Did he say why he's in gaol?"
She watched as Reep climbed into his jeans and threw on his crumpled "NSW Blues" t-shirt. He still had a tight body, the memory of its intertwined with hers bringing a happy smile to her face.
"No. Have to be some pissed idiot antic though.   Hey, you coming half naked. I'm sure the dykes on bikes will love that." As he slid on his sandals he took in the sight of her curves again. Kerryn flicked back a smile and she padded out to the bathroom.  A few minutes later she was back. She grabbed her green dress from a clothes rack and drew it over her well proportioned body. Reep made a silent prayer, blessing his cotton socks (not currently being worn) that he'd fallen in with such a girl.

Central Police was just down the road from the railway station and a good two shot navigation to the pin known as the Chamberlain Hotel, outside which Reep parked his Lancer coupe. The pub happened to be open so he went inside and found the bar manager, Shaun serving a few of the crew from the latest musical being staged at The Capitol Theatre twenty metres down the road.
"When are you closing up, Shaun?"
"Prob'ly late. The crew's thirsty and we're doing good tonight. Mark told me to keep it going as long as it was humming. You want a beer?" then he noticed Kerryn in the doorway and smiled in a leery sort of way, arched eyebrows, the works.
"Hi Kez." he said in a singsong voice,
Reepo decided to put some direction to unfolding events,
"No, just going over to the cop shop to bail out Jacko. Don't ask 'cos I don't know. We'll be back in shortly."
With that the couple exited the Chambo and walked across the parking lot, then Belmore Park, skipping across Eddy Avenue to the police station. As they entered they saw a couple of detective types exit, leaving a clear path to the desk. They fronted up,
"We're here to bail out Max Jackson."
The desk sergeant nodded, handing some forms to Reep while checking out Kerryn's figure. She smiled, flicking her hair slightly as she looked over Reep's shoulder. The cop explained the procedure then picked up his phone, punching in a number.
"Get Prisoner Jackson out here. He's got bail."
As Reep filled out the forms Kerryn smiled at the sergeant.
"Busy tonight? Many drunk idiots causing strife?" The sergeant shook his head.
"Not really. Your mate's only the third and his wasn't a big deal.Plenty on over at Newtown though." As he spoke a junior constable escorted a cuffed Jacko to near the access door to freedom. Reep handed over the completed forms to the sergeant along with four fifty dollar notes. The sergeant took the forms and the cash and then explained Jacko's responsibilities in terms of fronting up to the court and the range of penalties a no-show would trigger. In spite of his situation Jacko didn't appear too ruffled. He held up his hands for the cop to unlock the cuffs and then he signed the forms. The constable opened the "freedom" door and Jacko exited. The desk sergeant handed him back a receipt, a copy of the bail papers and a bag of possessions from which Jacko promptly extracted his wallet. It was stuffed with fifty and hundred dollar notes. He slipped the wallet into his front pocket, nodded to the two police officers and said;
"Thanks boys. Sorry about the hassle tonight but I'll sort it out. I'll let yez know how it goes. Oh yeah, remember that trotter's name too. Probably run on Wednesday night in Brisbane. Felton Mully."
The young cop laughed,
"Okay mate, just don't let us see you here again in handcuffs. Good luck."
The three friends walked out of the police station and headed across the park. Jacko looked at Kerryn,
"By Jeez you're looking decidedly shagworthy tonight. Surprised to see you come out after eight but I'm glad you made the effort." he then looked at Reep,
"Thanks poof. I'll settle with you in the car." He then noticed the Chambo had its lights on and doors open.
"Fuck that, I'll settle up in the pub and tell you a tale. I could murder a beer!"

They walked into the Chamberlain Hotel a few minutes later. Jacko went straight up to Margie, the red headed barmaid,
"Three thanks Margaret. Got any sangers left over from the roasts?"
Margie shook her head,
"No but we've got some pies still going. Beef or chicken?"
"Beef thanks."
He handed over a twenty dollar note, carrying the beers over to the bemused couple. He went back to the bar, collected his change, his pie on a plate plus a squeeze bottle of tomato sauce.
"Duck me fed I need this!" With that he downed half of his beer then guped down a huge bite of the meat pie. The others stared at him, their eyes drilling into his, demanding answers.
"Okay, here's the story." He then explained how he'd spent the previous morning breakfasting at Gayle's place after a night of passion. At this Kerryn interrupted,
"A full-blown item now, you and Gayle?"
"S'pose so, but that's not the point." he quickly changed the subject not wanting to turn the story into a romantic comedy. "I left her place and went and caught the bus over to Leichhardt." Jacko then explained how he'd stopped at his local pub and started putting a few bets on the races in Melbourne.
He managed to get a few wins, then lost most it chasing the big punt. He ended up putting fifty each way on a 12-1 shot, Tina's Joy, which took an outside run on the home straight and bolted in by half a length over the favourite. He then backed in a few favourites with hundred dollar bets and followed up with some greyhound wins, scattered amongst a series of losses.
"So I end up two grand in front and start celebrating. Gayle's off at her sister's place preparing some family gig and Sniper's gone missing so I'm on my own, with you two doing your Ikea thing or whatever the fuck gayness it was..three more thanks Margie...so I headed up to Newtown, to the Sandringham to see who was playing." Jacko walked over to the bar and grabbed the three fresh beers. Then he remembered they were meant to be driving.
"You wanna put your car in the car park? This may take some drinking, this tale of mine." Ian nodded,
"Best idea ever. We'll cab it home eh Kez?" Kez agreed, fascintaed where this was leading and determined to turn it into a story for her next class assigment. Reep walked out to his car, got in and drove it across to the car park, then handed over the ten dollar flat fee to the attendant. While he was gone Kerryn pressed Jacko on how he was going with Gayle;
"Well Kerryn, she's good. She makes me laugh a lot and we got on well in bed. Taking it easy at the moment but its going along nicely." he took a long pull on his beer, " What the fuck did you expect me to say anyway? That she's a raving case and into bat blood? I know about her ex, her exploits and all that shite but all it means to me is that she's lived a bit more than some and a bit less than others. God knows I couldn't go pointing any fingers in that direction." Kerryn arched her brows, inviting an explanation which wasn't coming.  Not coming yet anyway, it was still at the domestic terminal waiting for a standby to get on the next flight. She knew Jacko had lived fast and loose with the usual rules of engagement but hadn't heard all the stories. Ian was letting them out on a slow trickle feed and she couldn't get near the tap to increase the flow rate. All it needed was patience and beer and she'd be able to tap the well. She made a mental note to quiz Gayle the next day.
"So Gayle's at her family's place tonight? Poor old lonely Jacko. Desparate, lonely Jacko."
"Fuck yeah, that's right. You don't feel like a proper shag I s'pose?"
"Reepo does me well thanks. You should get some tips from him. Speaking of whom..."
Ian Reep walked back into the pub and grabbed his beer,
"Thirsty work indeed. Now what are you two up to? Did we get to the crime scene yet?"

Jacko smiled and continued to relate the evening's events. After going to Newtown, flush with his gambling wins he walked into the Sandringham to check out who was playing. Unfortunately for him he recognised one of the bouncers from the night he and Sniper had killed Dog Shit Machine (deusexmachina or some such shite). The bouncer didn't quite recognise him but neither did he like the cut of Max's jib and promptly bounced him out of the pub. Cursing, Jacko bounced back up ready to shape up in a drunken act of bravado but the sudden appearance of two more monstrous Maori bouncers settled the issue so he turned tail and strolled off. He cut down to Enmore Road and wandered up to the RSL club. After signing in he wandered into the main lounge area and noticed another ghost from the past, the lead guitarist from Dog Shit Machine. He was in company with a sleazy looking manager type and another guy who looked like the keyboard player from Flange Gasket. Smelling something afoot in the world of indie rock he went and ordered a beer from the bar and took up an obesrvational position close to the DSM guitarist's coterie of ill-met friends. Jacko overhead snippets of conversation as he kept an eye on the TAB monitors in the adjacent bar. It was mainly about studios, rights, "advance earns" and recording albums. He went and placed a bet on "Rex Retlub" in Cannington and resumed his seat. Rex Retlub came in as favourite, paying a buck-fifty which meant that the hunnert he'd put on gave Jacko a fiddy buck profit. He was happy with that and decided to leave. On the way out he also decided to leave his mark behind. As he got up he leaned over to the DSM guitarist and said,
"Saw your crap band Dog Shit Machine at the Sando a while back. Remember how you lost your worse-than-shite sound? Deusexmachine? Fuckin' Dog Shit Machine!"
As his tirade went on Marty buried his head in his hands, remembering the night at The Annandale Hotel when the Gasket had applauded Jacko's efforts. The DSM guitarist didn't know what to do. His sense of artistic integrity was mixed with a full-blooded Melbournish feeling of 'Sydney done us wrong again'.
He got up and promptly swung a slow looping right at Jacko's beer-infused face. Jacko was anticipating this and backed away, laughing. The follow up left was not anticipated that well by the drunk punter and he only managed to bow his head, copping the blow on the top of his skull. In his effort to over hit the guitarist slipped over his chair and fell to the ground and that's what the bouncers saw. They looked at Jacko, grabbed him and frogmarched him to the foyer, followed by the angry guitarist who insisted on laying assault charges. Jacko's response was,
"Blow it out your arse ya big poof."

"So that's how I ended up in the clink. Newtown cop shop was full so they had to bring me here. The cops got statements from the bouncers and the guitarist but that bloke from Gasket and the manager guy apparently saw nothing. So its basically a 'he-said, he-said' case. The bouncers didn't see that dickhead throw a punch but they're going to get the security footage on Monday. I rest my case."

Kerryn and Ian shook their heads, laughing.
Reepo asked,
"So what's with you and Sniper's band. My bass is ready, got a drummer?"
"Senior's organising a Junior from his drum classes. We've got rehearsal time next Wednesday arvo at five in Surry Hills. Kerryn, are you keen on adding some vocals?"
Kerryn thought back to her own high school days of singing at school dances in front of a band doing Cheryl Crowe, Blondie and Madonna covers.
"As long as its just once or twice I'll do it. Have you got any songs?"
"We've written four and been practicing the guitar bits of a heap of covers. Pogues, Gurus, Oils, Nirvana, spiderbait, even some Beatles, Stones, Who and Easybeats. I reckon we'll end up being able to last two hours. Sniper's done well with his guitar work. Never picked him for a muso but he's picked it up okay for a retarded peddo."

Kerryn cocked her head, "Pogues, eh?" then she started singing part of their Christmas song;
'You're a bum, you're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip on that bed
You scumbag, you maggott
You cheap lousy faggott
Happy Christmas your arse
I hope its our last
The boys of NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay,
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas Day'
(The Pogues - "Fairytale of New York)

Jacko looked at her in disbelief. Sniper would love it. Her voice was strong and true and that was exactly the sort of song he wanted to include in a set. He said "again", but this time he sang the bloke's parts. Reepo did a polite 'golf clap' and winked at Kerryn explaining,
"She's got that album. Sings to it quite often." Kerryn tilted her head, looking at Max,
"Okay, I'll sit in for a couple of tunes as long as you get us another drink."
Jacko complied and went to the bar.

Wayne Blake looked at his phone and noticed a couple of messages were waiting demanding attention. Sitting in the driver's seat of the welfare department's fleet car was one of their property projects staff, Scott Booth. Both men were glad that their shift had presented no problems. The fitout work at the department's Darlinghurst office was ahead of schedule and the first stage of the public contact area refit would now be finished by midday Sunday, allowing the office staff to prep the area for opening time on Monday morning. Blake had been seconded to the project after being onvolved in a committee to redeisgn part of the Area Office in Pitt Street, adjacent to Belmore Park. He didn't know it but the Property Manager had been impressed with his input and ability to get staff on side. He also got on well the Property Team blokes and seemed a likely recruit for an upcoming vacancy. Booth had been briefed to observe how Blake handled the pressure and had been please with Sniper's performance so far. He mused on this as he drove. He turned left from Goulburn Street into Pitt and as they approached Campbell St Blake noticed that the Chamberlain Hotel was open. He looked at Scott Booth and asked,
"Feel like a beer Scotty?"
"No mate, I want to get home. The missus is expecting me to be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow. Gotta finish off that cubby house. By Christ that's been a nightmare project. Worse than that fucking Darlo fitout anyway."  He pulled the car over to the kerb, adding,
"Get a skinful mate, you've earned it. That was a good effort today. I'll catch up with you on Monday when we debrief the boss on site."
"Cheers Scotty." with that he waved at Booth as the "Z car" moved off, heading south.
Bake walked into the festive pub atmosphere and as he did he heard the end of Kerryn's singing and stood back, unnoticed by his friends. He saw Jacko walk to the bar then decided to announce his presence by yelling out,
"And another one you rancid poof!"
Jacko turned around, shook his head, calling out,
"Fuck off and get your own. What the fuck have you been up to anyway?"
"Working. Got that overtime gig working with the Property blokes on that fitout of your manky workplace. Built you a new dunny and everything." Blake walked over to help his friend carry the drinks.
"A long day, I need this." Blake then swallowed a third of the schooner in one long draught.
Jackson said, "Ohh mate, you haven't heard the best of it."
After swapping their stories Blake fetched a final round of drinks. They conferred on their next movements with Jackson insisting they go back to his "palace" in Leichhardt and carry on the party.

Kerryn nudged Ian awake at around ten thirty in the morning. He looked a mess, just like she felt. Fuck! They had to go back to the car park and get his car. They'd still be well over the limit for driving. Shit! Oh well, they'd sort that shit out later. She scrabbled at Reep's hair as his eyes slowly opened. His voice was a poor croak of its usual self,
"Thank Christ that was you and not Sniper or Jacko. I'm busting. I need a snakes'." He got up and staggered into the bathroom from where his ablution noises were loud and strong. Then he started singing,
"I like to go swimming with bow legged women and swim between their legs." to drown out the splashing noises.
From the kitchen Kerryn heard Jackson talking to someone. She got up, putting on her dress to stop Max getting an eyeful and walked into the kitchen. Jackson continued his conversation,
"Kezza's here now. Want a word?"
He then whispered to Kerryn, "Its the blond prossie looking for some HLA". Kerryn snatched the phone and spoke into it,
"Hiya darling! How was the family gig?" she smiled into the phone as Jackson grabbed a steaming mug from the counter and handed it to Kerryn. He then grabbed a half-full coffee pot and poured himself a mug and headed out to the lounge room. On one side Blake was fast asleep on a foam mattress. The lounge was still folded out in its service as emergency kip spot for Reep and Kerryn. There were three guitars lying on the floor in the dining area but he noticed that the amps had been turned off. As he did, Reepo exited the bathroom and walked into the lounge.
"Feel like a cuppa? I'll make a pot of tea."
Jacko shook his head, pointing out the coffee pot in the kitchen, so Reep went and poured a cup. Kerryn hit the red button on Jacko's phone and walked over, handing it back to him.
"Gayle's going to pick up the car. I told her the keys are behind the bar. Better ring Mark and make sure of that." Reep pulled out his own phone and called the Chamberlain and confirmed that his keys were n fact there.
"Sweet. That's nice of Gayle. Don't know what she sees in a hopeless prick like you Jackson, she needs to wake up to herself." Jacko's only response was that "All chicks dig me."
Noticing the recumbent Blake, Kerryn shuffled over and started to flick her hair into his face, triggering a fly swat response from the Dog Shit Killer guitarist. She repeated this a few times before Reep and Jacko got into the act, eventually rough housing him awake. He growled himself awake, took his turn in the bathroom, then grabbed a coffee from the nearly empty pot after rummaging through Jacko's fridge. Looking around the busily messy flat he addressed his friends,
"Ladies and Gentleman, good morning and welcome to the Dog Shit Killers Breakfast Club. I'm proud to announce that in his fridge Max has stashed a truckload of bacon and a carton of eggs which are about to become breakfast. If someone would kindly ring our press agent and let them know, I'd hate to miss out on a photo op of Jacko's apparent turn to domesticity."
Kerryn chuckled, "And he's got a multi roll pack of toilet paper in the bathroom plus a pot plant in there."
She reaised her coffee cup, toasting her friend Gayle,
"Here's to Gayle, taming a new frontier."
As she did she noticed Jacko, stretched back on a lounge chair taking an unhealthy slurp from a large glass full of coke. Then she noticed the nearly depleted Jim Beam bottle at his side and "tsked" at him.
Jacko swivelled his head in her direction, bloodshot eyes beaming out his own truth in stereoscope. Noticing the nearly empty bourbon bottle Blake swiftly stepped over and opened it, smelled it and then tilted the bottle to his mouth, commenting,
"By fuck ya gotta be quick around here. He'd almost finished that off without even offering any around. The prick."
After taking another swig from his glass Jacko summed up his true feelings, belching, then asking,
"Did someone mention bacon? I could murder a feed."

Facing Up

2010-04-29T19:12:00.000+10:00

Seems like a long time, a life time you could say since I wrote here. I went to Hobart, like I said in my last post and wetted a baby's head. To a typically extreme extent but it was a blast. Damn! Missed the Lark distillery. That leaves me with an excuse to revisit the city later this year.

I was back at work for a week when slam, the following Saturday morning I got one of those horrible phone calls telling me my mum had just had a bad fall. Wrong info. Short version is she died and it wasn't a fall. The aorta crapped out down in her abdomen. One of those nasty aneurisms which an 86 year old is unlikely to survive.

So I'm working through this and all of the subsequent crap which is to come but by jingies we gave her a damn fine send off. A nice sunny day, crematorium, church then wake. We kicked it big time amongst a fine gathering of family and friends. Makes me proud of the rest of the clan, they're a fine mob. For once my drinkingness came into its own and by fuck there was some laughter amongst the tears. More laughter and it keeps us going above the bad stuff below.

Sorry that this is not the most uplifting of posts but I needed to share. I've yet to complete that Canadian/American trip and there's another Dog Shit Killers episode sitting ready to go.

I must ask what the fuck is David Gallop doing? That bloke needs to go and fuck something else up. Why can't he go and sort out the Greek accountants and leave football alone the silly fucker. Or plug that volcano over in Iceland with his big fat head. He definitely shits me no end the little turd. To paraphrase General Havock, the muppet needs cappin'.

Oh yeah, reminds me of a post I did somewhere comparing the NRL salary cap auditor with Sergeant Schultz. I might find it, update it and post it again.

Anyways, I'm off to Bedes' place and see how the footy tips are going.

Getting Wet

2010-04-01T18:47:00.001+11:00

I'll be off to Hobart in a coupla days to indulge in wetting a baby's head and catching up with old friends (the ones with the new bub). I know I've been slack on this blogging front having stalled myself in the travel thing at the U.S. border. I'll finish that travel tale when I get back. I've drafted another Dogshit Killers instalment, in fact its probably a bit long so I'll break it up and turn it into two. I figured out the end bit but getting there is taking a while. I always seem to set a lot of the scenes in the pub. In fact its really fucking hard dragging me away from the place, I half expect a bouncer muse to come along and heave me out onto the street. I might even edit it before publishing so that it reads a bit better than usual. But that takes effort and if you haven't noticed it written in fourty foot high sparkly neon letters, I am a lazy bugger.

One of the things to do in Hobart is go to the distillery and indulge in their tasting platter. This has to be one of the best concepts since free beers at the Tuborg and Carlsberg breweries, which I did in one day. Shit yeah! For those who don't know anything about Tasmania its sort of like New Zealand except it doesn't have boiling mud or truncated vowels. Its cricket team is also better than the Kiwis having given birth to the current Australian captain and the immortal David Boon (52 cans), the International Drinking Man of Cricket. Boonie is known for setting the record for the most beers downed on a flight between Australia and the UK. He took the record off another cricket legend, Rod Marsh (45 cans) who set the record after failing in his attempt several years earlier when that other legend, Doug Walters set the 44 can record.

Boonie signing a beer coaster before doing the "Boon Walk"

Rod Marsh looking thirsty

Doug Walters - fkn legend

Marsh and Boonie hit the turps - top shot!

So that's it. Once again what was meant to be a minor update turned out to be beer talk. I guess that's what this interweb stuff is mainly about, for me anyway. And Doc if you're still out there, the Dogs are gonna eat your mangy Wabbits. Here's a song you can sing when they go down.

Dogs love to eat dem Bunnies

Bunnies great to eat

Bite their floppy ears off

Chew their bunny feet.

Time to stop talking about beer and go and enjoy some. Have great Easters!

Toronto - Eastern Provinces.

2010-03-16T18:29:00.000+11:00

We blew out of Toronto once again by train, this time to Montreal. I loved Montreal because it was this really cool neo-French city sitting on a continent best known for Big Macs and calling French people “cheese-eating surrender monkeys.” Everything about Montreal seemed cool. The brasseries, cafes, boulangeries and hell, it even had a French style Metro system. The youth hostel was cool, the pool was cool, even the baseball players were cool when they’d belly up to the bar and order beers in French.

Jerry and I spent an afternoon wandering around, adapting to this mini-France and found a brasserie which did really good and cheap “dinner and drink” bargains. You got a decent feed with a vin de jour or a beer for something like two-fiddy.. Step up to the podium and receive your medal Mr Brasserie. We used that bar a lot over the next few days. The first time we walked in we found it to be a cross between an American style bar, a French café and a pub. It had pool tables, sport on TV and a French menu. Okay Mr Brasserie, make that gold, silver and bronze. That night we found that we didn’t even have to break into the hostel because they didn’t give a toss what time we turned up. Shwivilzed.

The morning after we found a café which did both Euro and Canadian breakfasts. Being messy, hungover pissheads we opted for the full strength Canadian option involving a mountain of pancakes, a gallon of maple syrup and more bacon than was produced during the counter revolution on Animal Farm. After that we headed off to the old part of town to the Fine Arts Museum which was exhibiting a truckload of gear by Joan Miro, a Spanish dauber of the (surprise! surprise!) surreal variety. It seems that anyone in Spain who wielded a paintbrush or slung a chisel was tagged Surrealist. Must have been one of Franco’s pet projects. He would have had the Guardia Civil (blokes who wore Devo hats and toted machine guns) scouring the pueblos and cities looking for people with paint stains on their clothes, then whoosh!, off to Surrealist Camp for you!

On the way down there we were talking about how old school European the place looked when in the distance we saw the golden arches. A few seconds later we heard a non-golden mid-western drawl ask a mid-western set of ears ring out the immortal phrase;

“Do ya wanna go to McDonald’s?”. This became a signature reference for us for the future, for those times we heard;

a) something really obvious,

b) something really dumb,

c) something really, really annoying.

The exhibition was fine as far as art goes and I recognised the style from a few pieces I’d seen in Europe. I did notice however how a lot of his sculptures had holes in the middle, and were called things like “man with hole”, or “dog with hole and, oh, I guess another hole”. If you like Kandinsky, give Miro a try. If you don’t like either of them, don’t sweat it, its no big deal. Right, that’s enough of the art stuff, back to basics.
Another feature of Montreal were some really cool bars, themed up in all the (1986) latest fads from post-punk angst to electro-bop Euro disco, jazz fusion (a great catch all for anything which remotely sniffs of jazz) to hard core rock. After an afternoon kip, a swim and a cheap meal at the brasserie we hit the bars. A lot of them had outside seating and it was good, sitting outside on a balmy night downing a few sharpies before hitting on the local wildlife. I must have had a good time because my journal of the time is very hazy, as is my memory. Its basically a blur of bars, dancing, girls, more bars, groping in the dark, cab rides and a late finish. I do remember a Goth bar and being very, very amused and horrified at the same time. There’s only so much of “The Forest”, “M” and “Boys Don’t Cry” which a bloke can stand while mascara runs down sweaty goth faces, thence forming a black, tar-like pool , ready to trap any careless gothosaurs in its unyielding, morbid embrace. Fuck that for a joke, I was outta there!

Two more nights we spent in Montreal before we lit out to Quebec City. This was sort of cool, particularly down in the old city with its rampart walls a legacy of the Frog-Pom wars of the 18th Century. Those ramparts were bugger-all use to keep us ratsackers out so we had a fine old time exploring the bars, cafes and brasseries. The hostel was a bit weird; it was all at once a dictatorship and an anarcho-syndicalist collective. We lasted two nights before ceding victory to the Napoleonists and ventured on to Ottawa, the capital of Canadia Land. Yeah, it was okay but mainly because we lucked into some guy’s 40th birthday and this mob was well cashed up. Beers and whisky all night long and we had to fend off the advances of older, cougarish women. We didn’t want their Mountie-type husbands pummelling the bejaysus out of us so we repelled their drunken advances (well, sort of). The next day we toured the city, checked out the parliament and other buildings of national import then did a night run north east, doubling back on our tracks and ending up in Edmunston.

Edmunston had nothing to go for it. The pub was crap, the town was crap, the chicken for dinner was crap and there was fuck all to do. We got a cheap motel room, ate our chicken, drank a six pack and watched crap TV on a crap TV set before crashing out for a crap night’s sleep. What a waste of time that place was and would definitely be a front runner entry for “Let’s Go Home – The Finalists”.

Next day saw hit a 7.30 bus for Fredericton. We checked out the town, talked a girl from Prince Edward Island, went for a pizza dinner (recurring them, I know) and then hit a couple of bars before getting an early night, around 11.30.

From Fredericton we bussed into St John, the launch pad for Prince Edward Island. (PEI). St John is a port town which had a reasonably clean YMCA where we stayed, making use of the gym and the pool. Naturally this had the desired effect of m aking us thirsty so it was off to the waterfront and a local pizza joint and then into the bars.

After a bacon based breakfast we took the bus to PEI, part of the trip being on a ferry, given that PEI is an island. This place is mainly famous for some kiddies’ book called “Anne of Green Gables”. The Toronto crew had recommended PEI as a great place to potato out, and called it Potato Island. What it did have was a couple of good bars, a cheap hire car place and some nice beaches. We booked into an overcrowded hostel where I had to sleep on a couch. That was okay ‘cos it wasn’t in the dorm room which was full of, I dunno who they were but I’m glad I didn’t have to share sleeping quarters that night. I think they must have been fans of that kiddies’ novel. I also didn’t mind because we’d been well fed and watered at the Dublin Pub and a bar called Avenues until about two in the morning. For breakfast there was no Fruhstuck Express so we hit a local café for the pancake stack and then went and rented a car. It was some sort of Dodge two-door coupe but it went fine along the country roads. It got us to the beach, a few bars on the way back and then into town again for another night at the pubs and bars. Sure, I drove under the influence but I figured that if I was driving on the wrong side of the road, alcohol could only improve my driving. So it did. We checked out the next day, returned the car and then hitched a lift to the ferry. The ferry took us to the mainland where we hitched another ride down to Halifax. This city was an important port during WW2 for convoys going to the UK. A lot of maritime history was on display so we spent some time down at the waterfront, checking it out. We stayed at the local YMCA and ate at a nearby pizza joint. The YMCA had its own gym which we made use of, feeling a bit turgid after not enough physical activity over the past week. Obviously this also built up our thirsts so it was bar hopping time again.

We found one great pub down near the water and played at being drunken ratsacker yobbos with funny accents. The local lasses were a bit wary, not succumbing to my manly wiles. Ah yes, that’s right. I was a gibbering mess after experimenting with shots of Canadian club. Didn’t help by asking if it was the same club which was used to whomp down on fur seals. Poor joke which got the appropriate response. After beating a churlish retreat we figured our invasion of America. We decided to slip in on its north eastern flank and pillage forth from there. But that was a day or so away, we had to get to Yarmouth first for a ferry to Maine..

We hit the hitching trail, bumming rides. We got a ride in the back of a small car filled with fishing gear to some highway junction where we were let off and waited for the next. And waited. There was not a lot of interest in two soapy looking backpackers with their thumbs hanging out trying to bludge a ride. Eventually some preacher guy pulled up and took us in tow, to his manse in Caledonia. He was a single guy in his forties, an honest to God, Holy Rolling preacherman. One of his flock was at his house cooking up a feed of which we were invited to partake. All good and bountiful and we ended up laying Trivial Pursuit (Canadian version) with a few of the Rev’s extended family. We promptly got whupped in the game but as we were also offered lodgings for the night we enjoyed a couple of post prandial libations and things were going well. All in all a good, homey evening. I was fine, I had a nice comfy bed, clean sheets and a wonderful breakfast in the morning. I even made a ten buck donation to the church to show my thanks and as I did so I looked up and said “Thanks Big Fella.” The Rev then gave us a lift to the nearest main highway at Digby and waved us a cheery good-bye. While we were hitchhiking again I remarked that it had been a brilliant piece of hitchhiking, what with being housed, fed and watered ‘n all but Jerry begged to differ. Apparently the preacher guy went into Jerry’s room in the small hours of the morning, sat on the end of his bed and asked if he would like some company. Yon Jerry politely rejected the preacher guy’s advances and spent the next hour or so expecting a more forceful visit, which didn’t eventuate. He asked me if I’d received a similar advance,

“Nup. But then I don’t look like a poof.”

Whilst we were waiting for our next ride we went through the lyrics of PIL’s “Rise”.

Anger is an energy was a theme for Jerry as I continued my remorseless attack on his lack of grace in rejecting the advances of the pastor the previous evening.

This theme was broken when our next ride pulled up. It took a couple of more rides before our final one to Yarmouth swooped us up. It was a sheriff of the court going to St John to serve some legal documents on some miscreant. He was an interesting fella, had a badge, a gun and everything but he was no Boss Hog. He dropped us off at the ferry wharf for the boat to Bar Harbor, Maine, USA. At 4.00 p.m. it took us on, promising a six hour trip to Bar Harbour.

Fuck, did I have any of Uncle Sam’s currency on me? A lonely looking twenty but that’d be enough for a beer in Bar Harbor any town which has a name starting with Bar was always going to be an odds on favourite in my book. And so it turned out to be.

Dog Shit Killers (2nd verse)

2010-03-12T20:42:00.000+11:00

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

chorus

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

chorus

first verse reprise

chorus

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.

"Yep!"

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."

Jacko nodded;

"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."

Holiday!

2010-03-11T19:55:00.000+11:00

From nine till five I have to spend my time at work
The job is very boring, I'm an office clerk
The only thing that helps pass the time away
Is knowing I'll be back at Echo Beach some day

Martha and the Muffins "Echo Beach".

I took a couple of weeks off and went here for a part of it. My sister's place was full up with other family members for a birthday party bash thing which extended over a couple of nights. So Flynn's Beach, Port Macquaire, mid North Coast NSW was my Echo Beach for 5 days. I've stayed in a couple of places around Flynn's before (including my sister's various bits of real estate) and it ranks highly in the Therbs stakes for Top Beaches. My routine is to wake up reasonably early and walk down to the beach and do some body surfing before breakfast. Given my bulk the waves have to be pretty fucking good to cart me around and a lot of the time they are. Then I head back and shower, have breakfast and consider what time to head back to the beach. I like the beach, me, and that's why I live close to one. But a beach out of town has that magical allure of being at an away game and devoid of the usual responsibilities which flap around us every day, squaking for attention like those one-legged seagulls you see down at Bondi Beach scrapping with Brit ratsackers over some end bits of fish ' n chips. I dunno what's worse, the gulls or the ratsackers but each time I see "Bondi Rescue" I feel like firing off letters of complaint about the lifeguards' behaviour. Imagine saving those soapy, VB-fuelled Brits. Be a lot better off just holding their heads under water for a few minutes.

Port Mac was good even though I'd had to spend a goodly part of a months' wages bringing the VS Commodore up to registration scratch and insure the damn thing. But geeze that V6 engine is a fucking little ripper, heaps sprightly and likes a road trip. When I arrived I did some shopping, part of which was for beer. I chose one of my fave's, James Boags Premium Lager.

What I didn't count on was after placing all the beers in the fridge that the shelf in the door would dollapse when I closed said fridge causing three of the beers to fall to the floor and slightly dislodge the bottle tops, causing opnly minor leakage of beer but major leakage of the magical beer gas, meaning the beer would become flat and lifeless in short order. So I took the only sensible option. The first went down pretty quickly given I'd just driven half the day and was still on road trip pace. The second took slightly longer as I flipped on the teev and watched some t-20 highlights od Oz beating down on NZ. The 3rd had me in a suitably relaxed state as my brother and his partner arrived. Holdiay, foricng down a nice chilled beer and t-20 cricket on the tube with five days of sun 'n fun to look forward to. Absolutely fucking brilliant!

One highlight of my stay was having a feed of fish down near the water in the main part of Port. As the sun hung up its boots for the day there was a swarm of flying foxes flying from the south to the north east. There were two streams of them clouding the sky for about twenty minutes. Millions of the mad little buggers but by jingies it looked spectacular.

The party went well, the whole family was there and we ripped it up in good style. I had a fine, fine time.

Now I'm back at work but only for a couple of weeks. I'm going to Hobart at Easter to check up on a newborn and wet its head. That will also be a fine time 'cos I love Tassie, me. (insert map ' o Tassie joke here). It'llbe another four days of living it large, albeit in a cold climate. But that's what warm clothes, walking, hot food and pubs are designed for, innit.

I'll be doing another instalment of my 80's travel thing within the next few days.

Winnipeg - Soo - Toronto

2010-02-21T15:11:00.000+11:00

Once again I've been slack about this blog stuff but that's teh way I am. Anyways, thanks for popping in and I hope you enjoy the last few episodes of my travels in North America. Last time we were together I'd just finished playing cricket in Winnipeg and was heading off on the Greyhound heading east.

I'd spent my last night in Winni over a few beers and a game of German Bacgammon. Can't remember really how it went but at one stage I had to give Schultz a strudel so he wouldn't do anything about Newkirk dressing up as a General and me using Klink's car for a trip to the Hammelburg Beerfest with young Hilda in tow. Next morning I was off again with my green mate Gumby perched on the window and the promiuse of Ontario in the wind. But it was still a way off so I stopped at St Sault Marie (Soo), near the edge of those big bits of water which straddle Canada and Yankeedogland I had a sore foot again and needed to rest up for a couple of days. The area is pretty much a winter tourist place but while I was tehre I went on a boat trip around the Sault locks which link a couple of the aforersaid big bits of water (Lake Superior being one of them). It was impressive enough and kept me off my sore foot for half a day. The youth hostel inlcuded a small library where I swapped books, I was going through them at a great rate on the long bus trips. I left behind a Heinlein and a Kerouac and took on board Micheners' "The Drifters", a rollicking tale of ratsackers in Europe in the late 60's. Hmmm, been there, done that.

In Soo I was down at the shops getting some tucker when a bloke from Bankstwon (south-west Sydney) heard my accent and introduced himself. He was a Canterbury Bulldogs supporter and to celebrate we held an impromptu meeting of The Bulldogs Overseas Supporters Squad at the first bar we came across. This lasted most of the night and Dave and I were in fine form as we attempted top paint the town blue and white. I remember getting rejected twice, slapped once and developing a tsate for Canadian Club (not the one used for hitting seals). I must have developed a few other things because next morning I was feeling pretty rancid. Those Hangover Gorillas had struck again with vengeance. I put off continuing my bus trip and stayed another day in Soo, looking at the water, looking at the sky and wishing to fuck that I hadn't met Dave. Dave by the way had somehow insinuated himself into the arms of a local dress shop worker and it was mid afternoon before I saw him again. I congratulated him on his success and wished him all the best for his trip over to Vancouver. The late afternoon saw me at a local museum checking out the artifacts (indigenous, historical and lake type stuff) and felt like a refreshing beverage to steer me through the evening. As with all good museums there was a pub nearby, so lickety-split to the Victoria Inn. Cold beer, a good steak dinner and another beer lifted my spirits considerably and I started chatting to a few people watching a baseball game. There were two girls and a guy so I my thinking was that I could even up the odds a bit. Then I noticed the damned wedding rings on all of them. Still, we sat around and talked and drank and were joined by another two of their friends. I started putting in some spade work on one of the new girls, Katie. I also made sure she wasn't going to get thirsty in a hurry. The evening was great, the Canadians were fine party company and Katie became the most beautiful girl in the world, so I told her that.
By jingies, it worked! We did all that cute holding of hands and sly frotting stuff before I discretely asked her if she'd ever seen the Soo submarine races. So we went off to see them.

When I woke up at around 7.00 refreshed and pumped I didn't know where the hell I was but Katie soon let me know. Should I stay or should I go? Well, faint heart and all that and Katie was keen so I delayed my departure for half an hour to take care of business. We went to a cafe near her place for breakfast and she gave me a lift back to the hostel. She even waited while I packed my gear and then gave me a quick tour around town before dropping me off at the greyhound terminal. I don't know what Katie Did Next but I'm sure she did it with style and generosity. Thanks K!

The 12.15 took me to Sudbury, within spitting distance of Toronto. I stayed at Sudbury overnight wondering why I'd left such a find as Katie in my wake. Wasn't the first time, probably not the last either but it did make me think a bit about such quick liaisons. The bus journey was made more tedious by these unbidden ponderances on the emotional life of a traveller. Fuck it, time to get sorted. In Sudbury it was shitfight from the Greyhound depot to the hostel where I sat watching the Copmmonwealth Games and cheering for Oz, Canada and even the Kiwis ( I was eyeing off a lass from Christchurch seated at the same table). Thehostel manager didn't agree with my thinking that drinking was okay in thehostel common room. Something about kids being present. Must have been worried that they'd nick my beer. Our tabel left to pursue our alcoholic needs outside, but it was a poor substitute for a comfy room and TV sport. sudbury sucked, so it was with great joy that I left the prison the next morning and soon after midday was on board a Greyhound, destination Toronto. I wondered if Doug had received my letters and postcards but then I'd already booked a hostel bed in case he'd suddenly developed common sense and put me on the unwated list.
So it was late afternoon when I phoned Doug from the hostel in downtown Toronto and an hour later he walked in grinning his grin and howling with laughter at Gumby, perched half out of my pack, waving his tiny green arm.

We spent the night boozing it up with Doug's room mates. He and a couple of other blokes (Yug and Rob),were buying a house in one of the traditional working suburbs and it was their home. Three young blokes sharing a house. It was known bythe rest of their crew as The Clubhouse. The reunion with Doug was a blast. We laughed at some of our antics in Europe and I pretty much eased into this circle of young Torontonians. The second day we went to The Beaches, hung in a couple of bars and the guys showed me around Toronto. The next week pretty much blends into a blur of parties, pubs and sightseeing. I also met up with Phil, an acquaintance from Sydney who'd worked in teh same governemnt department as me. I'd met him once during a weekly Squash tournament a few other colleagues and I indulged in. I liked the game because it was a balance to soccer training and was a good mid-week muscle stretcher and thirst builder. Phil was married to a Torontonian and we were due to hook up with Jerry. Jerry was one of the blokes who missed a rendezvous in Basel which led to my meeting up with Doug 'n Dave with whom I launched into some amusing adventures in Europe. So a couple of years later and we'd finally get our shit together, this time in Canada. Jerry was living in London on a 2 year break from Oz, working in a hotel frequented by B list celebrities. He was due in Toronto at the end of my first week there.

A day later Doug took me to a home game of his baseball team. He was the captain and seemed pretty serious about it to me, especially when I offered to bat clean up. His team mates were mostly from where he worked so it was good for company morale that Doug led them to a good victory without my help. We ended up at The Unicorn, an English style pub, drinking Blue and mucnhing on ribs 'n wings. We organised to get to a Blue Jays game at some stage. The following day I went to Phil's place and met up with Jerry. The silly bugger actually made it! Phile and Adele supplied a splendid dinner and I supplied wine and beer
Jerry and I reviewed our plans, thinking that NYC and places south would be good. Doug resuced me from sensible talk by coming around and picking me up then driving me back to the clubhouse where I rooled up some hash I'd procured. The deal had been that I'd meet this guy, lined up by one of Doug's friends in a bar a mile or so away from Doug's place. We didn't know each other so to put a stop to any confusion and mystery I simpl wore an Australia t shirt. Took about ten minutes, thirty bucks and a beer. Easy. Back at Dougs we launched into the hash, a few beers and laughed uproariously at Letterman.

The following day Phil, Adele, Jerry and I ended up in Centre Isle where we rode bicycles (anything to build up a thirst) and then went to Harbourfront for a few beers. Back at Doug's the boys had a bbq parrty lined up so I went and bought some more Labbatts Blue and a bottle of Jack. Then we cooked burgers and dogs, drank Labbatts, smoked hash and I attempted to talk to a few of the girls. I had no hope. They'd been told all sorts of bad things and didn't want to know. All I did notice was Doug and the boys laughing uproariously whenever I received the cold shoulder. Nothing elese to do but join the dance and party on!

The next day I cooked up the breakfast and in the afternoon ws taken to Chick'N' deli for beers, wings and a blues band. I was reeally enjoying Toronto but eventually you have to do something so Jerry and I hit the road the following day. This time it was on the train and we went to Niagara to see what all the fuss was about and to see if any of the honeymooning brides needed help. The Falls were spectacular, The Maid of the Mist tour was okay and near the youth hostel we found a cheap bar which was showing a Blue Jays game live, all in all, an excellent. The return to Toronto was filled with discussion about where to go next. We decided on Quebec, Montreal, P.E.I. and whatever else we found on the way then Boston and New York. Back in Toronto it was time for another bbq party at the Clubhouse on a Saturday night. Sweet.
It was a major blow out with beers, Jack, hash, burgers, dogs and even more bullshit than last time. at least the girls didn't freeze me out totally this time as my natural charm and manly attraction started to impose themselves. Okay, so it was the booze, but at least I was dancing with them and getting hints of future action. Thaty action would have to wait a while becasue the next day we went with phil and Adele to Ontario Place and then back to their place for dinner. I even celebrated the final night in Toronto by taking along a dozen Carlbergs. It must have been imporessive because I wrote it in my journal. Doug popped around to say bye-bye and help us demolish the beers. He tried to get Phil and Adele to adopt Rob's cat but they wouldn't be in it. He even said the cat would die if it wasn't adopted. They thought he was kidding but I wasn't sure so I told them he was most likely serious. Luckily that was the lsat night I was with Phil and Adele, they weren't impressed with the thought of a cat being euthanased. Its okay though folks, the cat was fine last time I saw it. But all this meant that I was going to have another hungover departure for the next morning we were heading to Montreal. On a train.

Winnipeg and Cricket

2010-02-05T19:17:00.000+11:00

Just a reminder that a post ago I asked for slanderous, abusive and amusing team names for pub trivia nights. Yez can tack them on here if you like.
Point no. two is I'm working up another Dog Shit Killers piece which will appear in the next week or so. When I say, working up , what I mean is that I'm occasionally thinking of how it will pan out. I reckon a plane crashh at the end would be tops but the Molloy Boys ruined that one with their Boytown fillum. Now, back to the Greyhound bus where last time I think I'd left busted-arse Brandon for points East.

I got out at Winnipeg after another long night, patchy sleep, arse-numbing Greyhound haul. At 5.30 in the morningthere was fuck all to do except grab a breakfast, and finish off the dregs of my Jackie Dee. After that I shlept over to the local hostel, grabbed a bunk and napped for a couple of hours, before getting hosed out of the joint at 9.00. I hitched up my daypack and went to the parklands where there was a zoo and plenty of sunny spots ideal for idleness. The zoo was out because I had a really fucking sore foot. I never figured out what it was but it lasted all day. After limping around the grounds for a while I grabbed some bread, cheese and cold cuts and found a spot to have a picnic. Oh yeah, I also grabbed a six pack of my new best friend, Labbats Blue. What I found was several adjoining sports fields upon which some blokes were playing cricket. I found some shade, sat back against a tree and picnicked and drank an LB while watching the local Indian community toil under the hot Canadian sun. After another beer I felt a bit more chirpy and yelled out an SCG favourite "Avagoyamug!. Two cricket teams, their friends and a couple of umpires looked in my direction so I waved back at them. Didn't take long for the bloke fielding at Deep Mid Wicket to trot over and suss me out. A quick chat evinced the fact that this was their local A-grade comp which in the past had provided Canada with a national rep player. The standard wasn't too bad. I'd seen a lot worse in local association comps in Sydney. Aftter a few more overs a couple of the batting side walked around, obviously having been worded up that an Aussie yobbo was in their midst. They asked me if I played and I admitted that I had played a couple of seasons in z grade as a fill in when my mate's team was short. I was more of a beach man when hungover and didn't really fancy spending Saturday afternoons fielding at Deep Long Forget About Ya with the hangover gorillas still running around my head in 40 degree heat. I did however play a bit of social cricket where it was more about the beer and having a dip than taking anything seriously. Nevertheless I did know the basics of batting, bowling medium fast and bowling wrist spin. Didn't do it any of them with great skill but didn't make an arse of myself either. All this was leading to the fact that the bowling team was short a couple of players and they'd bend the rules a bit to let me play if I was interested. I had to beg off due to a) a sore foot, b) I still had three beers left and c) I didn't have any kit. They then said they'd be here tomorrow for the second and final day if I felt like playing. Interesting. After another hour or so I limped away and found a bus to take me back to the hostel. I dumped my day pack (with 1 LB left) and lurched into a nearby sports bar where baseball was being shown and beer was being sold and complimentary mini burgers were being dished out. Nice. After a couple of preliminaries and sorting out that the Cubs weren't playing the Blue Jays I settled in for a couple of hours, quickly being wrapped in the warmth of sportsbarness found the world over. So what diod I learn of Winnipeg? Not a lot because there's ten parts of fuck all there.

The following day my foot was pretty much okay so I went to the zoo to see if I could find any primates upon which to inflict revenge for the Hangover Gorilla attack I was suffering. A pancake breakfast at a noshery near the zoo helped me out and I explored the thing. It even had a few kangaroos, obviously it wasn't culling season in Winnipeg. They looked tempting though with their dopey ears and tardo hopping and that stupid scratching they do on their ribs. Just asking for a clean shot from a .243 and a quick sear on the bbq grill. The rest of the zoo was pretty much what you'd expect with growly lions, shittimg bears, a couple of tired looking zebras in amongst the inmates. Oh yeah, there wuz chimps. Good enough for me. Fuckin' hangover monkeys got an earful (when no-one else was around) and at one stage I was almost going to cup a crap and hurl it at them but I just couldn't do it.

Upon exiting the zoo I wandered around the park and fouynd myself back at the cricdket fields. I wandered up to the short team who were now batting and asked how they were doing. Not well. Five down for sixty chasing one-eighty odd. Did I feel like havingf a hit? Okey doke, I was in. I was wearing pale grey shorts, a mainly white t-shirt, runners and footy socks. Very much the Oz yob gear for social cricket. One of them handed me a Molsen and said I was batting after the next two wickets dropped. this took about half an hour for the addition of around twenty runs and there I was, putting on the pads, slipping in a box and strapping on a thigh pad. I put on the gloves and selected a Grey Nicholls from the kit. GN was my preferred weapon of choice and this one reminded me of my own back at home.

Strolling out to the wicket was weird. Here I was in Canada, playing for and against some Indian blokes and hadn't even asked them about the bowling or the pitch conditions. I soon asked the standing batsman all about it and he said the ball was seaming around a bit and I should play on the front foot. Shit! My strengths were the pull, hook and cut shots. I played and missed the first couple of balls, luckily not getting an edge. The next couple of overs saw us develop a partnership of sorts. I was there for a good time and after playing a couple of drives from the front foot got cocky. Molsen does that to you. Sanjay at the other end was getting cocky as well and slog sweeped the oppositions spinner down mid wicket's throat. Nice shot but didn't quite middle it. His departing advice was;
"Try and stay in Greg."
Greg? As in Chappell? That was a compliment!
Yeah, right. Our next batsman walked in looking nervous and asked me about the bowling.
"Dead easy mate. Just smack 'em like Hookesy".
He survived the over by playiong straight against slow bowling which wasn't showing any signs of spin at all. I really wanted to get amongst those donkey drops but had to face the seamer first. I tried a couple of lusty hoicks over cover but only managed to sky one oput of the rach of 3rd man. Didn't even make the boundary but I got 3. Next over I was facing the non-spinning run giver. I played the first and I was right. Doing nothing. The next one I was bale to get hold of over mid on. Not quite 6 but a boundary was nice. Next ball was wide and the one after that I directed way over cover. A nice hit if I'd middled it but long off trotted around, pouched it and that was it for me. Oh well, death or glory ended up being death. At least I'd made double figures. When I was taking off the pads one of the team said;
"Bad luck, Greg."
I replied "Greg Chappell? Thanks mate, but not really."
He laughed and said,
"Not Greg Chappell. You like Greg Ritchie."
Fucker. Greg Ritchie was a portly Queensland and Australian Test batsman who was good at thumping the ball but not running very quickly due to his girth. His nickname was Fat Cat. Sure, I carry a few extra pounds but Greg Ritchie? He's a fucking Queenslander for fuck's sake! Fuck off! I preferred to be thought of more as a Gary Gilmour type.
The players were good about me not getting a century, saying it didn't matter because any runs I made were a bonus anyway. Thanks guys. The rest of the innings brought us another twenty-odd runs and we ended up losing. It was fun, no-one seemed that worried about the result, more about how they'd gone about things and in my mind they'd done it properly because there was a bloody big beer chiller full of Molsen and LB sitting invitingly near the kit bags. Winsome young thing it were with "come to me" eyes and a full body.
The skipper asked
" Would I like a beer? " The fools. We sat around for a couple of hours talking cricket shit. They felt bad about Australia's lowly position in world cricket at the time (this was '86) and I just told them we'd come good soon enough, no worries, because that's what I always thought about any of our sports team. After we'd crapped on about Sunil Gavaskar, Greg Chappell, Dennis Lillee, Alan Border and Bradman it was time to pull up stumps and head off.
"Bye Greg!"
"Fuck off, Bishan!"
Time for an early night before hitting the Greyhound trail again, ever closing in on Toronto.

Next time I'll take you through Sault St Marie and into Toronto.

Games and Names

2010-02-04T19:54:00.001+11:00

No travel tales this time but they will continue in the next post. First up a tiip of the Tooheys Extra Dry cap to Dr Yobbo who has part one of a hangover tale going on over at his place As usual its well worth a read. Do it now before the bugger starts publishing for money and we have to actually fork over bags of cash to read his gear. Money which can be spent on other things. Like Uncle Teds or Boags Premium. And live sport of course.

Speaking of sport I watched NSW limp in against the FKN Cane Toads the other night in a Ford Fucked Gearbox and Leaky Sump Cup 50 over match, largely due to Phil Jaques finding form, batting through the innings and scoring over 170 not out off just over 130 balls. Now that was awesomeness in the flesh. A pity the bowling brigade (under 19's except for Bracken) couldn't maintain the pressure and force a drubbing on the Fourex suckers. Oh well, a win is a win and we like those here in NSW when most of the team is either injured or on duty with the Australian squad. Hang on, 'twas only last night. Fuck, I need a drink. We were watching the game while attempting to answer trivia questions at the Edinburgh Castle, the scene of my fight with Nautilus' Green Frog of Awesomeness. That's my fist you see shaping up to GF and the pic above is a beer tableau enjoyed by Naut and myself.
In the trivia last night we bolted to the lead only to be beaten by a bunch of googlers who aced the 2nd and 3rd rounds thanks to Steve Jobs and his i-Phone. In theory they're banned but ... The hostess realised this and spotted us an extra voucher to go on top of the 40 buck bar tab we got for coming 2nd. Three jugs of Carlton later we didn't give a flying fuck about googlers and were looking to see if Johnny Iwank had any runners in the Perth Greyhounds. Our team name for the evening was "The Ball Sucking Pakis". Usually most teams will stick with the same name each week. We reckon that's boring so we pick on something topical and try and twist it. "Ball Sucking Pakis" was tops because it roped together racism and homophobia in one hit. Previous team names have included;
"It won't suck itself"
"I sucked off my neighbour's alsation"
"John Howard is a cunt" - always a good stand-by if we were struggling for ideas.

Generally the idea is to abuse someone famous who has just passed away or has been in the headlines recently. Something like "xxxxx is a paedophile" generally doesn't get read out by the trivia host(ess), but something like "Malcolm Turnbull's noxious arse emission" will get through, unlike emissions trading legislation in the Senate.

So here's a busted arse challenge for anyone who'd like to contribute to our winningness. Come up with a team name. Keep in mind it has to be embarrassing for the trivia goon to read out and cause anguish, revulsion and/or embarrassment to at least one group of people. For example, I heard that Matthew Stokes, a Geelong AFL player was busted for dealing cocaine. What first comes to mind is something like;
"Matthew Stokes is the victim of a snow job" or "Stokes Coke joke blows" or "Mathew Stokes possessions stats - two kilos" or "Matthew Stokes and his Geelong snow dome" or "Matthew Stokes wins the Winter Olympics snow jump". They're a bit lame but you get the general idea. The person with the best suggestion/s gets some sort of lame prize from the Therbs Lame Prize Cupboard sent to them by post or courier, depending on what I can wrangle at the time and depending on what the prize actually is. And that's if I can be arsed actually doing it, because I am a lazy cunt after all. Now its time for a drink. Cheers.

Calgary, Then East

2010-01-27T19:17:00.000+11:00

Well folks, thanks for sticking in. After the nauseating Straya Day flag thumping down at the beach yesterday I need to get back to another land and Calgary is good enough for the task. Also please excuse spelling mistakes. I can't be arsed with spellcheck. Not that your not worthy of it, I'm just really fucking lazy.

Kel's beer batter pancakes were a marvellous way of breaking a hungover fast. To make me feel welcome he put on a Bushwackers album. Now I've never been a big fan of bush music, thinking it a bit twee, but I did go to Redgum gigs back in the day and I knew a couple of the Bushwacker tunes, "Ryebuck Shearer" being one of them. I was taken aback that a bloke from Calgary would have heard of the Bushwackers then stumped up cash to buy one of their albums. Turned out that good 'ole Kel was a fan of things Australian. I ransacked my pack for trinkets and came up with a silver chain with a kangaroo on it (thanks to Marie at QANTAS), a coaster form the Occidental Hotel in Sydney and a Hood Gurus t-shirt. I also had a five dollar note, so it allbecame Kelly's. He was rapt and to celebrate went and grabbed a Blue (Labbatts) from the fridge. I was impressed. His attitude was definitely Antipodean.

We were a happy bunch when we went a caught a train into the fair grounds. A native village had been recreated alongside a frontier town. In amongst this we witnessed pig races. There was a casino where I lost ten bucks, decided to double up and came out out even. In the fronitier village we noticed a crowd building up. We moseyed on up and saw the beginnings of some trouble. Some bloke dressed in wild west attire was standing outside the fake saloon calling out for Luke. The gunlsinger looked mean so a few of us yelled out to Luke to stay inside. Silly bloody Luke didn't listen but came out guns blazing. He winged the gunman but was cut down in spectacular style, doing a front somersault with death roll from the verandah, over a trough and onto the dead, dusty earth. One of the crowd reminded Luke that he he should have listened to us. This was thirsty work so we hitched our gunbelts, tilted our hats and ambled back to our own saloon. On the way back we grabbed vids, pizza and beer before settlin' in at the ranch.

A belated breakfast at 10.00 saw us eager for some action. So we went to the local sports park, had a hit of tennis and then a game of slow pitch baseball. I was playing with Gary and Kel's wprk team against one of their other workplaces. Labbatts Blue goes well with baseball and it certainly inspired me to smacka couple of homers and snaffle an RBI. All in all a fun afternoon and I was happy that I didn't let the Oz sporting spirit down. We went to a restaurant called Denny Andrews, part of a chain of feed places which combined the ambience of a steakhouse with a pub. The steak was good and we sat around cracking jokes about Newfies (Newfoundland people) and figuring out whioh shooters were best. It must havebeen about three in the morning when I rolled myself into bed.

A painful birth into the next morning saw a repeat of the beer pancakes yet very little activity. All of us were pretty much shot birds. All we could manage was a pizza dinner and videos. Then out came the Grand Marnier and the rum. Oh yeah, that;s right it was my last night in Calgary and they were celebrating my departure. I remember hoisting a Molson in a round of cheers and thanks before being handed a glass of Jamaican rum punch, then another, then I can't remember. Surprisingly the next morning I didn't feel too bad. I went for a long walk around town to use up energy as I knew I had some long haul bus riding ahead of me. Kelly and I went for pints before heading off to his and Gary's workplace. They were activity directors for handicapped kids and they introduced me to a group of them. So I did some kangaroo hops, threw some balls around and tried to explain rugby league and Aussie Rules to them. Eventually it was time to leave and gary and Kelly drove me down to the Greyhound station. We said our goodbyes and I went and claimed my seat on the bus.

The all night ride finsihed for me at 7.00 a.m. the next morning. There was this joke about Saskatchewan about how boring the landscape is. One guy sees a tree and says "Told you there was something to see."
It summed up that province pretty well. I got off at Regina and walked around. I found a youth hostel, checked it out and got a bunk for the night. The hostel manager was intrigued by my Australianness and asked if I had any Oz money. I pulled out a ten buck note and he swapped me with a Canadian tenner. he was a currency buff so I got out before he had a chance to put corns on my ears. Regina had a museum, which was nice, a park which was nice and where I got involved in a chat with a couple of the local girls. They were nice. It was a nice town. After a burger for dinner I went to a bar and was sipping on my beer when the two young lasses walked in. I waved a beery hello to Christina and Judy and they took my bait. The fools. I plied them with beer, wine, spirits and we talked about the wonders of Saskatchewan, Expo '86 in Vancouver and I told them how Regina reminded me of Paris. Must have been the romantic atmosphere. On the pretext of me needing some fresh air and to stretch my legs after months of bus travel we went for a walk in the park. I positioned myself between them and did the arms over the shoulder drape thing. I kissed Judy, then Chris and then put my arms around their waists. They giggled in a girlish fashion and kissed me back and I started to get evil ideas. There was one question starting to form itself, there in the background, something important. As I kissed Chris again and she giggled girlishly again the question started a thumping at the door. It was very insistent so I went and opened it. The question said to my conscience,
"Age of consent in Canada. Angry fathers with guns. Police. Do these things mean anything?"
Hmmm. Do they? I mean these girls had been served drinks in a bar. Well, not much of an argument there I s'pose. Nothing for it but to work my around to the subject and be sharpish about it.
"Hey Judy, Chrissie. Are you two girls still at school?"
A chorus of giggles was the response. 'Nuff said. I kissed them both again, patted them on their cute little rumps and took them back to the bar. I slammed down a double Jack while the girls visited the bathroom. When they rejoined me it was to kiss me goodnight. Must have been past curfew time. 10.00 was pretty late for a couple of young'uns to be out in the wilds of Regina. Funny place.
I had a dream that night. Well, more of a nightmare really which I'll turm into a really short story.

"You don't know how to deal with a drunken, girl-chasing, goddam Australian sonofabitch until one gets after your daughter." This was what the local Ford dealer told the homicide detective as he tearfully handed over the Colt '45, the one his granpappy had given him back in 1955 and which could be traced back to 1886.

After walking around town the next mroning I caught the midday bus heading east. Another long haul got me to Brandon. I split a few beers with a hippy down at the bus terminal, walked around and decided this was not a place to stay in overnight. I needed a meal so I hit a cafe and had their steak special, washed down with a Blue. After that I noticed the hippy again and we sat around talking about hippy shit. Actually it wasn't hippy shit. This bloke had spent a couple of years hitching and bussing around Central America as well as the U.S., Canada and Europe. We shared a couple of hash joints before another bus came and waltzed me away to Winnipeg. The beat goes on.

Vancouver to Calgary

2010-01-21T19:31:00.000+11:00

I fetched up at the Vancouver Greyhound terminal around 8.30 in the morning, July 9th, 1986. It was a typical Greyhound station with grainy travellers retching on godawful coffee and an attendant pack of scavengers waiting outside. They always seemed to be attached to Greyhound terminals like those manora fish which glom onto sharks in the hope of a free feed. I split a cab with an Aussie couple who were also heading to the youth hostel. When I arrived I checked in and saw a Kiwi bloke who'd been in a pub at Portland were I'd slaked some thirst. Kiwi blokes always seemed to be called Tim or Ian. This one was a Tim, and like a lot of Kiwis of the time was pro Greenpeace. this was because the Frogs had sunk a Greenpeace ship, the Rainbow Warrior, in Auckland Harbour in July the previous year, The two DGSE agents were put away for a ten year sentence on several charges including manslaughter, and got out after a couple of years in the can. A photographer died in the bombing and the whole affair cost the French Defence Minister his job. The wash up at the time was that a lot of Kiwis grew a hard on for a grab bag of Greenpeace, anti-nukes and anti-France. So there was Tim with a pamphlet in hand for Expo '86. I had a shower and changed into walking gear and off we went to the Expo grounds. It was basically a seriies of pavillions where countries would display their best. We checked out the Kiwi, Brit, U.S. and German turn outs and they were all suitably impressive. We ventured over to the Australian pavillion and discovered a huge snaking queue of people wanting to get in, at least a half hour wait. We'd also noticed that the Irish hall had a pub. Lickety split over there and soon we were sitting with a couple of pints of Guiness to steady our nerves. We had to have another one and then went back to the german pavillion which sported a beer hall. A couple of steins later and I was ready to flake. It was only early aftertnoon but the previous night's Greyhound trip didn't afford me much slumber. The next park area we found I crashed out and got up a good buzz saw rhythm. A few hours later I woke up with that dozey feeling you get when sleep's been jumbled and put back together like a two year old's attempt at a rubik's cube. That was the Expo '86 experience for me. Tim was keen on getting back to the hostel in time to shower and change to meet up with some Vancouverian connection that night. I tagged along.

We started off at a bar down town and really can't remember its name. My notes from the time are vague but from what I can decipher of my hungover scrawl we ended up near the expo site at a couple of bars and strip joints with a bloke named Frank. he also insisted on showing us another couple of strip joints on the island, whatever the fuck that was. My recollections include some girl called Lisa having a shower on stage and some lithe lass sitting on my lap making proper suggestions. I really don't know whether that was on the island or in one of the other bars. Somehow Tim and I managed to find Frank who gave us a drunken drive around Vancouver on our way home. I do recall attempting to convince Frank that the left hand side of the road was the best place to drive.

The next morning we discovered that the hangover gorillas had attacked in great force. You know those apes you see at the zoo throwing faeces around? Imagine a few thousand of those critters running amok and once again there's further evidence of proof for Doug's Gorilla Hangover Theory. Tim couldn't recollect much of the previous night's happenings and it bothered us that neither of us had evidence of bad behaviour. Usually after such nights a couple of blokes can piece things together after recalling parts of the evening but this one was a lost cause. It must have been good because I'd blown about two weeks worth of travel budget in one night. It was the night when Labbatts became my new best friend. A big Canadian breakfast with gallons of coffee and juice helped us get somewhat mobile so we checked out the city and then the local neighbourhood. Tim was really happy when we stumbled across a Greenpeace shop/office thing so he engaged the local greenies on all things anti-Frog. They were chuffed to have a keen Kiwi and warm enough to have an indifferent and hungover Therbs in their shop. After about twenty minutes I begged off and hung in a coffee shop, working out the next stage to Calgary. When we were back at the hostel we went through the Railway pamphlets and immediately booked onto one the following night. It looked great, an overnight from Vancouver with a promise of a morning rattling through the Rockies. Yep, sounded great.
Tim went off to a Bruce Cockburn concert. Cockburn was a popular Canadian folk/jazz singer songwriter who sung against the system. Fair enough, but I was feeling the effetcs of the previous night and stayed at the hostel talking to all sorts of Expo visitors and discussing travel stuff. I did manage a bit of bourbon during all this, just to give my liver a chance to defrag some more alcohol. It was a midnight crashing for me and I slept a solid eight and a half hours.

Our train was due to take off at 3.30 p.m. so we headed down to the station around midday with another bloke called Mark in tow. He was an Aussie on his way to Banff, which was also Tim's stop off. I was headed to Calgary to meet up with Canaussie (Gary) from my European ramblings (London and Oktoberfest a couple of years previously). I was just hoping he'd received my letter announcing my intentions. We hung in a cafe for an hour or so after checking out the local area, then it was time to hop on board. After securing our seats and deciding that the suburbs of Vancouver were like any other suburbs we hit the bar car for a couple of settlers, then explored the train. We found the panorama seats which were going to be best for the views of the Rockies in the morning. Skimping on meals, we had a picnic dinner consisting of cold cuts, bread, salad, cheese and fruit. After eating healthily the only thing left for us was to visit the bar car again. We sat a table with a group of Canadians and Americans, a half dozen of us in all. Pretty soon we'd swapped enough bullshit and drunk enough Labbatts to get a poker game started. This was in the days before the Hold 'Em fad. We played straight five card draw. You get five cards, discard, then get replacements and start betting and raising. It was nickle-dime stuff but a few of the pots got a bit willing. Early on I lost a five dollar note on a three of a kind getting beaten by a straight. A few hands later I managed to win it back plus a little bit more and that's how it went for a few hours. No-one lost that many hands and the pot seemed to go back and forth quite well. At one stage we did the cigar smoking bit, trying to look coolly mean. Must have looked fucking silly but we had a good time. The barman at one stage said what we were doing was illegal, then he came around with a six pack of Labbatss on the house. He reckoned it was one of the funniest nights he'd worked. Not only were we playing cards but we were taking ten types of shit out of each other at the same time, doing bad attempts at each other's accents, slagging off at each other's countries and generally being arseholes to each other, It was a fucking hoot. Eventually we'd had enough (at about two in the morning) and let the barman close up shop, leaving him the final pot as an extra tip. Only abouut ten bucks in it but he didn't expect it after getting tips all night and didn't realise we'd organised the final hand that way.

The next morning I didn't even feel slightly hungover. Part of the reason was the scenery. We were slap bang in the Rockies as dawn broke and it was senfuckingsational. I'd crashed out across a couple of the seats in the panorama deck and was gob smacked. Those around me were equally impressed and we sat there for a fuil half hour before the needs of body and breakfast tore me away. I quickly abluted, grabbed a breakfast tray and like my eggs, scrambled my way back to my seat, still in awe of those mountains. The breadth and scope of them impressed me in a similar way as had the Swiss Alps around Lauterbrunned a couple of years previously. The Rockies however were more vast. The forests, firm and brave in the valleys grew sparser and more timidly stunted and bent in the higher reaches until they gave way to boulders, scree and snow. Occasionally a river would sing past, glad that its snow had found the right stream, and like any other traveller it seemed happy in its trip to the seaside. We were still contentedly watching these elements of nature's mastery when we aproached Banff. I said goodbye to Tim and Mark and sat reflective as the train brought me closer to Calgary and its Stampede.

I was in a buoyant mood later in the afternoon as Gumby and I decamped at Calgary and went and found the hostel. I reserved a bed in case Gary was either not around or wanted to avoid me and my drunken ways.
Fortunately for me I was sitting in the common room when Gary walked in at around six. We hooted and laughed and slapped each others' backs before Gary drove me to his house where I dropped off my pack and we collected a couple of his friends and hit one of the pubs for some Stampede action. I walked into a barn like pub with a large hall broken up by several smaller rooms. What surprised and please me was the abundance of jugs of beer. What seemed to be happening was that anyone going to the bar would buy a few jugs and then put them on the table so that anyone else could refresh their glasses. I went up to the bar, ordered three jugs and was questioned about my nationality. I explained my Aussieness and was ordered by the bargirl not to pay for the jugs. I immediately fell in love with her and asked her for her hand in marriage at once. She laughed! Fancy that, a genuine proposal of wedded bliss and the tart laughs at me. Poor old Therbs. I explained my heart rending experience when I slapped the three jugs on the table and instead of extending sympathy and support the others laughed as well. So what does a heart broken bloke do under such circumstances? Find solace in drink and the company of fine women. Well, that was the idea anyway. What ended up happening was a big party broke out. They had country style dancing, what we call bush dancing and everyone joined in, dancing around like, well, like danicng fools I s'pose. I joined in and started up a chat with a couple of the local lasses, inviting them back to our table for refreshments. They declined as they flashed wedding rings at me. Bugger, I'd missed the obvious 'tells'. I spent a lot of the night catching up with Gary, retelling old tales of the Oktoberfest and London hijinks, and basking in renewed friendship. Another point to make was that those jugs of beer weren't drinking themsleves and they seemed to be breeding. Oh well, more dancing, more beer and more attempt at chat with the local ladies. I hooked up with a couple of singles very briefly for a traditional "pash, flash and dash" but nothing much really eventuated. Nevertheless it was a very content Therbs who crashed out at about two in the morning.

In the morning I found Gary's flatmate, Kelly. cooking up a feed. He was cooking beer pancakes. What a genius concept. He saw me stumble in, freshly showered and a little hungover.He raised his eyebrow as he raised a Labbatts,
"The batter needs fresh beer so get one out of the fridge and help me out here."
I did as asked, opened the beer and handed it to him. Kelly allowed a few drops of the liquid to go into the batter before handing it back, saying,
"Thanks. These pancakes are gonna be soooo much better now. You may as well finish off that beer, we can;'t have it spoiling."
I laughed a brief "Thanks" and toasted the chef.

I definitely was going to enjoy Calgary.

Eel River to Vancouver (cameo by young Naut)

2009-12-22T19:08:00.001+11:00

Okey doke, time to wish everyone a Merrry Christmas and Happy New Year, deep from behind enemy lines down Bondi way. Too many ratsackers to drown, not enough time. Doc Y - I may be following up on that Dog Shit Killers thing. Got an idea or two. Depends whether I can give it enough legs or not.

I ended up in Eel River youth hostel after a party ride up from San Francisco. The hostel was part of a holdiay resort run by an Aussie couple, Bruce and Jan McKinney. They'd bought the place after travelling the world and rather fancied a lifestyle set by a pretty fine looking river. The youth hostel was pretty new, the bar was nice and friendly and I settled in for a few beers. Bruce helped me check in, showed me the basics and then helped me with beer. Jan was preparing for the July 4th celebrations the next day. There were a few groups of campers and people who had rented out cabins but not many of them hung in the bar for long. Jan played some cool tunes on the steroe and I was well chilled by the time I hit the rack.

I slept in until about 10.00 then wandered off to the nearest shop, about a mile away to get some food. When I came back I cooked up a whole heap of bacon, eggs, nushrooms and tomatoes. Enough to help feed a couple of other of the hostel stayers. They in turn donated Millers Draught. Good people, well done.
I took a good walk around the site. It was Fourth of July and there were family groups all around, partaking in holiday type activities. There were people playing horsehoes, others throwing footballs, another marked out a rough diamond and started up= a game of slow pitch. While I watched, they asked if I'd like to join in.
So I took up a position in left field and waited for someone to hit the ball to me. After about half an hour their inning was ended and I'd fielded one mis hit drive on the half volley. I was then put in batting at number five. We needed eight runs to win. Luckily by the time I got up to bat we only needed two more runs and were only one out. I jagged an RBI, hitting a double beyond right field's grasp and was batted in by the next bloke up who hit a home run. Woo hoo! After that it was beers all around and a lot of questions. I was used to this and had developed standard responses to probes about why I was there and what I was doing.
After a couple of beers I left them to their family fun and went back to the hostel area where we fired up a barbecue. The standard American fare of hot dogs and burgers were on display and tasted might fine as the afternoon wore on. The river was very brisk, ran fast and I didn't risk a big swim, just sticking close to the bank, in the shallows. Even then it took me 50 metres downstream without a lot of effort. I tried swimming back upstream but gave up. It was stronger than the rip you get down at Tamarama, the one you can ride out for a while before cutting across and in to Bronte. If you can be bothered.

A bunch of canoeists paddled past, (more jetted past really) as the sun started sinking. The whole atmosphere was very laid back so I went to the bar where Bruce was just starting to open for business. I traded him a few of my warm Miller Draught for cold ones and sat back in a group of people who were happily celebrating their country's independence. There wasn't the overt patriotism which outsiders often expect, just a "yeah, ain't it grand" sort of vibe. I had been expecting a lot of over the top exuberance but it simply wasn't there. The picture of a Latino family playing a game of horseshoes whilst sipping on Buds or Coke and "whoo"-ing each time someone hit the spike sort of summed it up for me.

I walked around again and was invited to a couple of different tables where I asked the people about what July 4 meant. One guy summed it up by explaining how it represented throwing off an oppressor to give the American people the right to impose their own brand of government, be it good or bad. It might be bad at times but it was their right to make it bad and then fix it if need be. The rest of the night I alternated between the bar and the hostel crew. When I kipped out that night I was satisfied that I'd seen a glimpse of a real part of America, and it made me happy.

When I awoke the next morning it was to the smell of sizzling bacon. I'll swear to the end of days that this smell is stamped in the synapse of every human brain. Its way better than an alarm clock and will rouse even the drunkest sod. Its all to do with the promise of bacon goodness. Nothing can revive a person any faster than that. Funnily enough it was the remains of my bacon stash which were being cooked. Yeah, I remember now. Help yourselves was my offer. Idiot. I quickly got up and went into the kitchen where I was met by the sight of a hungover couple busily manipulating three pans, cooking up bacon, eggs and pancakes. I had a quick shower and came back to see a table laden with breakfasty goodness and a group of hungry hostelliers trwoelling it down. They'd set aside a place, a plate and cutlery so I joined them. It was fucking delicious. They had real butter and maple syrup for the pancakes and the bacon was cooked just right. They'd even done a damn fine job with the scrambled eggs, using cream instead of milk. Turns out they'd done a stint as cooks at a campus kitchen in San Diego. I congratulated them on their efforts, packed my gear and headed out. On the way out I stopped in to say goodbye to Bruce and Jan. They were top hosts and proved their worth even more through Jan handing me a couple of cold Miller for the trip. The road was calling, I needed to hit Calgary before the Stampede closed and there were a lot of miles to be covered before then.

The greyhound picked me up "a hunnert yards or so" from the hostel. My rough plan was to go to Newport and stand outside the yacht club demanding free beer on behalf of all Australia, following the triumph of Australia Two a couple of years previously in the America's Cup. even though it was the N.Y. yacht club who'd lsot the thing (I think) I reckoned that as Newport was the Cup's spiritual home, a few beers would be in order for a conquering hero such as myself. Well, scuttle that plan, I was diverted to Portland instead through a combination of fucking up with timetables and impatience. I was in a strange sort of fogged up consciousness as the bus pulled onto the main highway. I looked down at a "family truckster". It was a typical rental driven by families doing a holiday trip. As it slowly slid past I saw a kid in the back holding a model of a green frog, pointing up at me and explaining something to the frog. The frog looked angry. On the back of the car was a small sign announcing "Nautilus Family Vacation". I slipped out of the fog, blinked my eyes and the car was gone. Obviously this never really happened but nautilus and I figured that we were in the same part of the U.S. that year, so I reckon it was entirely possible that at some stage one of my Greyhounds had been passed by his family's rental car.

When I hit Portlland I was once again suffering "bus lag". I checked into the hostel and chekced out the city. Bought myself a pair of Levis and decided to get a travelling companion. I couldn't resist a Gumby. I didn't buy his little plastic pony pal, Pokey but I was happy to have Gumby along for the ride.

Gumby

So it was that for the rest of my travels Gumby was along for the ride.

At night I hit a local pub and fell in amongst a crew from England and New Zealand. Needless to say it was messy. I'm sure the Kiwi blokes were called Tim. All of them are and they're either tow truck drivers, electrical technicians or all-rounders who are good at everything so they'll say. This lot weren't too bad. They even showed some nouse of breaking into hostels after curfew, which for once made me feel relieved. I wasn't the one having to somehow get us back inside. In the morning it was a quick shower, pack up and off. I decdied to go to Fort Columbia. Dunno why, it just seemed like a good thing at the time. I had to hitch across to it after the bus dropped me off near the seaside. When I got there I found it wasn't much at all. I should have hit the main town and splurged on a B&B or something. I walked around, the setting being scenic 'n all but it was pretty much spoiled an hour or so later as I was cooking up some pasta for Gumby and me. Cyclists. Fucking full on, born again cyclists. One of the worst hostel nights of my life. Next morning I got up early but not as early as these nutjobs. Fuck they were annoying. I hitched a ride across the bridge in a pick up truck and explained to owner about the cyclists. He just muttered something about how he has to scrape them off the underneath the drive train every couple of days.

So it was back to Portland where I got myself a Swiss army knife, a six pack of Miller, a bag of cashews and a flask of Beam. Then I hit the Greyhound terminal to grab a long haul to Vancouver. Remember, I needed to make Calgary before the end of the Stampede and I also wanted to spend a couple of days in Vancouver. There was an Expo on and I heard it had a couple of beer halls. Well, a bloke has to have some sort of goals don't he? Especially when he's far from home in a strange land and his only company is an unanimated green man called Gumby.

FROM FRISCO TO PARRAMATTA (SORT OF)

2009-12-15T19:24:00.001+11:00

G'day folks and welcome back. First up, well done to the Brisbane birgers for finally getting your dozey fucking acts together and having a feed and a drink with Birmo. Secondly, apologies for anyone expecting a more prolific output but shit happens, ya know? Lastly, thanks for hanging in.

I believe I was in 'Frisco last time we met so that's where I'll pick it up. Ignore the spelling errors, I couldn't be arsed with spell check.

I had some much needed breakfast being slightly tired and hungover from the previous day's winery tour and evening drinking. As I finished my feed I looked up and saw a really weird looking bloke wearing army camouflage clothes and a pair of those really thick 'nerd' glasses. He immediately started talking about how he was going to the amazon and rely on his hard won survival skills to see him through. Right. His clothes looked brand new and he was pale, very pale for someone who led an outdoors life. He then started telling us how he had ripped out the beating hearts of a gang leader in a back alley in New York City, "just like they do in the Green Berets".
This was becoming ludicorus yet somewhat amusing. After a few minutes we begged off and headed out. I still had a rented Colt to return to Rent a Wreck and didn't want to cop any extra charges. Marion was with me, kindly keeping me company. She did seem a bit on edge but I put it down to the neurotic army wannabe. Just before the main entrance we saw Captain America's pack. He had the largest army pack he could have bought and it was festooned with brand new mess kit, water bottles, ground sheet, poncho and all sorts of army surplus bits and pieces. He even had a lamp hanging off the fucking thing. This bloke had a very serious Walter Mitty complex. I reckon in later years he'd be the sort to walk around his high school with a semi automatic rifle and make a bloody sorry name for himself. As we walked past a couple of others had a giggle as well, one of them saying,
"That figures. What a fruit loop."
I just laughed and walked on. Luckily I had Marion with me to remember where I'd slid the Colt the previous night. Then I remembered that I was driving once again in America. Keep to the Right. Got that?
Sure thing Therbs, let's go. Surprisingly, given hangover and uncertainty of directions I managed to smartly take us to Rent a Wreck, at one stage even gunning the Colt to see what it would do. Ended up revving the crap out of the engine and hitting about 70 (mph). Poor car. Problem was after I handed it back to the Rent a Wreck crew we had to make our way back somehow. Cab? Nup, too expensive. Maybe we need to think about this and where best to think about things but in a bar. So that was us for the next hour necking down a couple of Miller Draught and killing a hangover. Marion explained that she had a boyfriend she'd met a month or so ago and he lived in Denver and that was where she was heading next. That's it Therbs, draw a line through this one and move on. I explained my mission to be in Calgary before the end of the Stampede. That gave me about ten days to get there. We discussed the usual travel shit and asked the locals about buses, how to get back to the hostel. They then engaged us in conversation about where we were from and before I knew it I was once again in the grip of the Curious Drinker. The bar we'd chosen wasn't a glam place, it was a regular, working bar, the kind I was usually attracted to. Mainly due to price.
Nevertheless we were bought some drinks, I shouted a round back at them and was settling in for a promising afternoon cum evening of hoisting some suds jars but Marion had other ideas. Sensible ideas. Like we had to check out of the hostel and I was booked onto a Greyhound that night heading north. Oh yeah, that's right. I'd decided to go to Eel River for some reason. Maybe because the term Eel River in the original language of the first Australians was said to be Parramatta. Now I realised that Eel River would be nothing like Parramatta, mainly because they'd probably have a good Rugby League team unlike those slimy bastards who don the blue and yellow each year down Parramatta way. Fucking flanno wearing westie wankers.

Sorry, where was I? Sorry about the Parra rant. But they are a bunch of dickheads. ANyways we said bye-bye to the barflies and headed back to the hostel. I was all packed up ready to go and hung around outside talking to various people, including a bloke on his way home to Sydney after a few months ratsacking around the U.S. and Canada. He was from Eastlakes. He gave me a few tips and highly recommended the train trip between Vancouver and Clagary so I locked that one in, thanks Ed. This fine little discussion was interrupted by Marion. She was unhappy. Unhappy enough to be in tears. She was out of money and couldn't cash in her return bus ticket to Denver. Her boyfirend wasn't home either to help out with some Western Union magic. Salvation almost arribed in the form of someone heading sort of East and in the general direction of Denver and after enwuiries were made it was decided she could grab a ride. The same Salvation then did the biggest fucking runner since that Greek bloke who died after running the first marathon. Not only did it run out but was yelping like ascolded dog as it streaked away. This was because we spotted what was loaded in the back of the car. Captain America's army surplus store. Then he appeared in full camo regalia. I looked at Marion, she looked at me and I was shaking my head in a most definite manner. Surely we could figure out a solution. Captain America hopped in the front passenger seat and demanded to know,
"Are you coming or not?! This was said in a loud, whiny, nasallly nerdy, very unsoldierly voice.
Marion shook her head, mouthing "No!."
I just simply said,
"Good luck in the Amazon, mate. Don't rip out too many hearts."
We waved bye-bye to Salvation and bye-bye to a fate worse than death. Still, Marion was upset. We hung around, shooting the shit, thinking of options for Marion. Greg from Eastlake broke out a bottle of wine which made the afternoon more pleasant. Greg finally made a decision.
"Go and get changed into your best frock. I'm taking you out for a slap up feed."
I turned to him,
"Mate, I didn't bring my best frock. Will a blouse and skirt do?"
"Fuck off, dickhead, you have a bus to catch."
Marion went off to get changed and I asked Greg what he was up to. He explained he only had a few more nights in the U.S., was four grand in front of his budget (thanks, rich father of Greg) and he'd most likely be able to help her out somehow, even if he couldn't sleep with her. Well, ain't that grand. What did I have to look forward to? A night trip in a Greyhound.
Marion came back a half hour later looking quite tasty, all done up to the nines, make-up, hair freshly brushed and no tears. Greg had gone and put on some trousers, a fresh shirt and a jacket. What a fucking handsome couple they made, the fuckers. They even escorted me to the bus which took me to the Greyhound depot. I never found out what happened to them both but I imagine that Greg, who wasn't a bad sort of bloke, probably took young Marion under his wing for a couple of days and helped her sort herself out.
The Greyhound depot was a fantastic place to leave. I grabbed as eat towards the back of the coach and had an alcohol-inspired nap. When I woke up a couple of hours later I was groggy and in need of a pick me up.
"Hey Buddy, you were snoring pretty well. You awake now?"
It was a surfie bloke in the seat across the aisle, one row up. He held up a bottle and enquired if I was thirsty.
"Thanks mate." I hopped across the asile to the seat behind him and grabbed the offered bottle. tequila. Not my fave drink but I was in no position to argue. We sat there, knocking the stuff back and he pulled out a joint. Highly illegal in a Greyahound but supposedly masked by a cigar he offered me. We lit up both smokes and I engulfed the surrounding seats in a fog of cheap carcinogens. We smoked the joint, finsihing just as the bus pulled up to a shopping centre. The surfie bloke said
"Follow me." so I did. Straight into a liquor store. This bloke certainly knew how to travel. We grabbed six packs and I went for uncle Jack again with some Coke to cut him back a bit. Old Surfie Mate went for more tequila. We jumped back on board and it was a very cruisy party ride from then on. A bit of smoke, some beers, Jack Daniels and tequila and by the time I hit Eel River I was feeling nicely buzzed. Very nicely buzzed, So buzzed I had to ask the driver where I was and where the hostel was. He pointed behind me,
"Eel River hostel's back there a hunnert yards or so. Good luck." I waved goodbye to Old Surfie Mate, the Driver and the bemused passengers. Why bemused? Well, it was in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, no lights and nothing happening. Must be Eel River 'cos it was just like Parramatta. I hitched my pack, wandered up the road and saw the small youth hostel sign and an arrow. That's where I went. After a "hunnert yards or so" I reached the place. It was a cmaping ground with cabins, spaces for tents, a bar and a youth hostel. I plonked my pack in thehostel and hit the bar. I asked the barman about checking in at the hostel.
"Sure thing mate. Ian's the name, I run the place. You look a bit thirsty for a young bloke. Fancy a beer first?"

You little ripper. A holiday site run by an Aussie beer drinker. Thank you Destiny, I'm back!

Dog Shit Killers - Playing a Dr Yobbo riff.

2009-12-03T20:16:00.032+11:00

First up - sorry if you were expecting a travellers' tale. Its coming but I promised one time to do a sort of fan fic/crossover type thing of "In The Worst Possible Taste." This doesn't hit the clever observation level of the Good Doctor but I couldn't help myself. Hope you enjoy it,

Secondly, I had the pleasure of the company of Nautilus on Saturday. We perched ourselves at the Edinburgh Castle Hotel in Sydney and spent a pleasant few hours drinking Carlton Draught. Jugs of the stuff. Very pleasant it was. As Naut made his way back to his hotel and I headed to the station we noticed scientologists collaring people as they walked past. I was tempted and Naut suggested it'd make good blog fodder. I declined and went down to the station and noticed I had a 20 minute wait. That was me done, back to the Scientologists. I started baiting them, asking them about aliens hiding in volcanos. They said "No aliens, no volcanos." Before I could get another jab in some Christian guy jumped in and started accusing the Scientologists of fraud. He went right at them too, calling them fakes, their rleigion a con and they were really adherents to science fiction.  I kept my trap shut expecting the Scientologists to respond in kind. But no, they ignored him. As did I. I had a train to catch and a dinner date to be blown from. But that was then, here's another tale.

Dog Shit Killers

The Chamberlain was a hive of activity as Sniper Blake hosted his farewell drinks. They weren't actually farewell drinks as such but Sniper was the type of man who liked to make up reasons for a major piss-up and one of his all time favourite drinking excuses was "Farewell Drinks". He'd do this once or twice a year, generally following a large win at Randwick Races during the Autumn or Spring Carnivals. So it was that after the end of the Spring Carnival he'd managed to convert two hundred dollars of his "cunning kick" into close enough to seven thousand dollars. His job in the public service paid a reasonable wage but he was never going to be rich. His long suffering wife had been unaware of his "cunning kick" for the four years of their marriage. It was a separate account he'd established to run footy tipping competitions, social club events and cover his secret stash of gambling money. He'd rigged the account with two other colleagues so that they were all signatories and any withdrawals required two of them to sign the form. They were fully aware that the account also held his own private funds and they kept records of the legit cash in separate books so that they could keep tabs on how much they could blow on social club happy hours or the footy tipping weekly cash jackpots. He maintained it out of habit even though he was now divorced and had been so for over two years.

Blake's seven thousand dollar windfall caused one of his friends to officially label him a "jammy cunt of the first order." That particular friend was Jacko, a scruffy gentleman who manned one of the department's worst front line offices in Darlinghurst, just up the road from the Hard Rock Cafe, housed in a building which had been expensively renovated for some advertising company which pulled out of the deal before the building was gutted. The Department's property team had been looking for a new site for its Darlinghurst operation and wrangled a tight deal with a long lease. A shiny new office however, didn't mean shiny new people. The public toilets soon became injecting rooms and were eventually locked. The staff weren't all that shiny either, Jacko being the least sparkling. He kept his job due to a sharp mind, a clever tongue and a considerably large quotient of rat bastard cunning.

Blake waved a couple of C notes at Margie behind the bar and told her to give the regulars drinks until the cash ran out and then he'd stump up some more. Margie liked Blake but didn't like Jacko largely because he could be a really obnoxious prick at times, especially to red heads who pulled beers for a living and she'd observed the ruin of several young girls whom Jacko managed to entangle in his life of drinking, gambling and strife. At Blakes table also were Reepo and Big Bill. Reepo worked for the Juvenile courts and Big Bill was in his tenth year as a second grade accounts clerk. Big Bill sprouted a lot of controversial bullshit simply to start people arguing with each other. He'd throw a grenade and wait for the explosion. He was over six feet tall, overweight and had another habit. A really fucked up habit it was too. After a long afternoon on the sauce he'd wander downstairs to the blokes' dunnies to take a crap. Then fall asleep. It usually fell to one of Blake's friends to throw glasses of water over top of the stall to wake the sleeping, stinky beast. Occasionally there'd need to be three of them helping Big Bill up the stairs, a thankless god awful task which everyone dreaded and really should have been left to crane drivers or fork lift operators wearing Hazchem suits.

The more pleasant additions to Blake's table were the girls, Tina, Gayle and Kerryn. Reepo and Kerryn were a well established couple but Gayle and Tina were there for the hunt and Jacko had his spotlight on and bullshit primed for action. Gayle's blondness and prominence of chest drew Jacko's attention almost immediately so he started in on one of his fave pub gambits, a card trick. He did it well, shuffling, palming and confusing the gals enough to make them think he was sort of okay for a yobbo. Blake engaged Tina in work related conversation before announcing to the crew that he was going to The Annadale Hotel the following evening to catch a couple of up and coming bands, The Monarchs and Flange Gasket. Tina looked keen,

"I heard that Flange Gasket song on the Jays. They're from Brisbane or something aren't they?"

Sniper had seen them once before when he was chasing a part-time music scribe who wrote fluff pieces for a street rag. He'd even gone so far as to stalk her down at The Roundhouse at UNSW, but not before sozzling up at The Doncaster a block away.

"They're a north coast band. Saw them at the uni during an "o" week gig. They were a bit rough but had some good songs. The lead guitarist was a bit of a tosser."

Jacko knew the tale and jumped in, guns blazing;

"What a crock of shit! You chased that writer chick and got blown away by some hillbilly muso. You're a fucking joke. She gonna be there tomorrow?"

Sniper winced, tried to hide it but his face confirmed her expected presence.

"You fucking idot, Sniper! You have no chance with that tart and from what you say she's a fucking snotty nosed strumpet anyway. Give it up." Then he grinned,

"Right, that's all of us at The Annandale tomorrow night. This is gonna be a fucking hoot watching Sniper get shot down again. You're worse than Tin Legs Bader, Sniper."

Blake couldn't let that pass without a few blasts of his own,

"Fuck you Jackson. I'm not gonna be hunting her, I actually want to see these two bands. The Monarchs have been getting airplay with their 'Spitfire' single and Flange Gasket are apparently featuring at Homebake this season. This is a warm up gig for both bands before the silly season sets in. At least I won't be crying poor and staying in dodgy pubs next week. This should be pretty good tomorrow night. Haven't seen The Monarchs yet but they sound pretty fair."

The Monarchs' "Spitfire" was a hot single with the guitars mimicking Spitfires, firstly with the throaty thrumming of a Rolls Royce engine then screaming into dives and pull ups with a staccato machine gun style guitar thumping away, just like during The Blitz. It swooped, soared and was catchy.
Big Bill decided to throw in a grenade,

"They're all fucking poofs I tell ya. Dirtbox divers. That Flange Gasket song about Harold Holt is totally gay. I betcha they dance the chocolate cha-cha back in Byron Bay or wherever it is they come from."

No-one took the bait, the crew had seem Bill in action too many times. Jacko put a stop to it when Bill was drawing breath,
"For fuck's sake Bill, go and have a crap before your arse totally takes over. And don't fall asleep this time. My forklift broke down and we won't be able to fish you out." then turning to Gayle and Tina,
"Whaddaya reckon girls? Could be a good 'un tomorrow. Gasket go pretty well, I saw them up in Newie earlier this year. They can be funny bastards at times."
The girls agreed. Kerryn looked up after having spent the last ten minutes playing with her phone. She loved her phone. Jacko reckoned it was a romace based on the vibrating alert feature. The only reason she dragged her attention away from her Nokia was because Reepo walked in. He took one look at Bill's mournful face so he decided to open up his innings right from the off,

"Hey Bill. How's the dunnies mate? Been getting some good kip?" he then walked over and grabbed a freshly poured round of beers from the bar and brought them back.
"Sniper, Jacko, ladies. Then he grabbed Kerryn and gave her a passionate kiss, bending her over Holywood style. Upon releasing her he quizzed,

"How ya goin' there Honey? This mob looking after you?" Kerryn shook her head, clipped Reepo behind the ear, responding,
"We're going to The Annandale tomorrow night. Flange Gasket and The Monarchs are doing a warm-up gig. Sniper's organising it." Reepo turned to Blake,

"Didn't that journo sheila you were after have something to do with Flange Gasket? I seem to remember a killer piece in Drum Media and it wasn't you receiving hot, sticky plaudits."

Blake turned his broadside,
"For fuck's sake this has nothing to do with unrequited love, feelings of lonely despair nor does it remotely come close to a follow up bout of stalking. In any case she turned out to be a needy little girl who probably still hasn't resolved her feelings for that guitarist. In fact it could be kinda fun watching her interract with the rest of the band members. Could be some Yoko Ono action on offer."

Kerryn narrowed her eyes,
"So basically you want to see her suffer. Nice one."
"Look, its not about suffering. Nor is it about revenge.  I really want to see these two bands. I have no feelings for Lena at all. None. Tina's heaps better than her."

This time it was Gayle's turn to rise up and be counted,
"So Tina, what's this all about then? You and Sniper?"

Tina blushed. She did like Blake and was hoping he'd ask her out. He had, sort of, tonight but Gayle had to open her big trap and force the issue. Blake saw her distress and turned to Gayle,

"Well Gaylzey, yeah, I was going to invite her to the Art Gallery on Sunday. There's an exhibition based on dopey blonde prostitutes who drink VB and then fuck anything that moves." Jacko could see where this was going, it was straight out of his own playbook. He'd gotten her drunk once on Victoria Bitter and then taken her home and talked her into having sex. He wasn't the only one who'd done such a thing with Gayle but she was trying to mend her ways.

"Don't worry Gayle. Sniper's never won the heart of a truly loving woman, especially one as lovely as yourself. Ignore him, I'll look after you."

A smile formed on Bill's face, a flashing neon sign that told the world he was going to say something ratty. Instead of allowing it Kerryn announced that she was hungry and this started up a food discussion. The options were the seafood place a few doors up or a Spanish restaurant/pizza across the road. They settled on pizza.

Blake phoned up Encasa. It was one of their favourites and did great pizza. Only being a one minute walk up the road from The Chamberlain made it even more attractive. Bill left himself out of the order and made a beeline for the Campbell Street exit. It was a long way on the train to Ingleburn and he didn't want to miss the "Best of Red Faces" being screened later that night. He was that sort of bloke.

Jacko collected the pizzas and after everyone had eaten Reepo escorted Kerryn across Belmore Park to Central Station. Blake and Jacko settled in with Gayle and Tina, both of whom didn't realise the kind of nonsense they'd go through if they continued giving either man a sniff of a chance. They went to the Ladies together to figure out their plans. The strategy ended up being to leave now and see what happened at the gig. Blake had expected this given that sobriety had long since raised the white flag. It had done so with a similar degree of alacrity as you'd expect of a mayor of a French village confronted by a clapped out Kombi.

The conversation turned back to the Annandale gig. Sniper donned a look of concern as he quizzed Jacko,

"Listen mate, you're not going to pull that stunt like at the Sandringham during the Dog Shit gig are ya?"

He referred to the last gig Jacko saw, at The Sandringham Hotel. Blake had talked him into seeing a Melbourne band on the basis that if they were crap they wouldn't have come all the way to Sydney. He was wrong. The band was "deusexmachina" and they turned out to be a pretentious group of wankers whose sense of self importance was overstated in the extreme and in inverse proportion to their ability to play music. In order to numb themselves from the pain Sniper and Jacko had started hitting the Bundy OP rum. This in turn further fuelled Jacko's hatred of the band so he snuck around the back of the Sandringham's piddling stage and pulled a couple of plugs which in turn pulled the band's sound. After sprinting down the road and into a cab he ended up back at The Chamberlain, ostensibly to establish an alibi but in reality to get stuck into more of the Bundy.  He had been joined an hour later by Sniper. They looked at each other and burst out laughing,

"Oh mate, you should have seen the faces on those Mexican tossers. It was a fucking pearler! There are times when you can be a real cunt, but this time, this time,it was one for the ages."

Jacko laughed,
"I was a bit worried that a bouncer might get me but they didn't seem all that fussed about giving chase. Who the fuck was that band anyway? deusexmachina? What's that all about? They sounded more like dog shit machine than anything else."

"It means something about God in the machine. Its a total fucking wank, typical of a Melbourne band.  I reckon Dog Shit Machine is now their official name. Or just Dog Shit."
Jacko nodded, smiling,

" Yeah, fuck 'em. Dog Shit it is. May they grow old and white and crumble on the footpath."

Blake raised  his glass, toasting,
"To the decay of Dog Shit! Cheers!" The rest of that night was spent contriving ways to get Margie give them free drinks. They'd no chance of that but had still felt emminently pleased about killing Dog Shit.

Jacko dragged himself back to the present, ordered two more OP rums and intoned the historic toast from the Night We Killed Dog Shit,

"To the death of Dog Shit and the future of music!"
Jacko raised his glass,

"To the death of Crap!"

Jacko woke up to the hum of traffic on Parramatta Road. He turned over to check if he'd copnvinced any women to joiun him the previous night and was not surprised to find the other half of his bed vacant. He stumbled into the lounge room of the flat where a snoring Sniper was sprawled on the couch. There were two long necks of Melbourne Bitter lying empty on the floor as well as a half bottle of ouzo and an empty Grants Scotch. Two ash trays overflowed on the coffee table and the TV was showing snow. Jacko turned it off and headed to the bathroom. Pinned on the door was a note,

"Dog Shit died here!"

He warily opened the door and held his breath. He inched his way inside and was surprised to see no mess. There was no vomit, the toilet was in good order and there was nothing amiss. Then he remembered Sniper's insistence in cleaning up after himself the previous night.  The theory was that it was better to do it when you're totalled than face a god awful hazchem mess in the morning. A fine theory but difficult to put into practice. Jacko was impressed.

After abluting Jacko started frying some bacon. The smell tore itself through Blake's brain, reviving him,

"Two eggs, toast and tea thanks. Poof." his voice croaked through a freshly lit Winnie Blue as his arm reached for one of the beer bottles. He was devastated that it was empty.

"Got anything to drink?"

Jacko tossed him a fresh Tooheys Extra Dry,
"There ya go, Mr Hemasex. Put Channel Nine on, they're showing a one-dayer between us and Tassie."

After reconnecting the antenna cable Blake tuned in the cricket broadcast, sat back and prided himself on how good he was. Jacko served up their breakfast and over beers and grease they started to feel better.
They lasted two more beers before Jacko was back in his bed and Blake was unsconscious, once again sprawled on the couch. By the time the cricket was finished they'd slept off their hangovers. Freshly showered and dressed in different sets of Jacko's best gig wear the two drunks made their way to The Empire hotel on their way to The Annandale.

"By fuck I'm cool and handsome" was Jacko's comment as Blake walked to their table in the front bar.

"Why thank you Clyde Frog" he added when Blake handed him a schooner.

"You look like the inside of a Salvation Army bin which has had a fight with a student loans officer and lost. And I'm not much better given that these are your minging fucking rags."

Jacko shook his head, muttering
"You fucking ungrateful poof." he paused, then added,
"Listen, what time are we meeting the others?"
Blake turned, looking out the window,
"Round about now I'd suggest."

Reepo and Kerryn provided a partial answer as they walked in with Gayle and Tina not too far behind. Blake asked Reepo about Bill,

"He's poofing it. I swear that bloke lives for "Hey Hey Its Saturday."
Blake responded,

"Daryl fucking talentless Summers. He's not funny, he fucks up skits, is crap at interviewing and embarasses himself whenever he speaks to anyone slightly famous. Unfuckingbelievable."

Jacko got up to go to the bar and sniggered,
"You fucking love him. What were you doing last Saturday night? I rang you and I heard Blackman's voice-over in the background."

"Yeah, I flick through it a bit if there's nothing on. But geez he's a talentless fuck."

Tina and Gayle however were not looking talentless. They had made an effort to catch the eyes of Blake and Jacko, which was rather wasted on two men who looked like unmade beds. Jacko returned with a tray of drinks,

"We'll make these sharpies. We should get down there in half an hour or so."

The discussion moved to Flange Gasket and The Monarchs and once again about the crapulence of deusexmachina. Once they finsished their drinks the group moved out and headed down Parramatta Road to The Annandale Hotel. They paid a ten dollar cover charge and walked into the main bar. Blake and Tina went up and ordered a fresh round of drinks while Jacko scoped the crowd for the music critic, Lena. The crowd was a healthy one and had that pre-gig feel of anticipation and hope. The Monarchs made ajustments to their amps, guitar tunings and whatever is that drummers do before the gig starts. Probably reading Enid Blyton books.

Blake and Tina returned with the drinks and found that Gayle had slotted herself in next to Jacko. Blake thought that it felt all very coupledom and started to get nervous. He had visions of a few years down the track with the girls swapping pregnancy stories and the blokes giving each other advice on motor mowers, whipper snippers and the joys of having a big enough 4WD to pack in bulk supplies of Huggies. He shook it off, took a healthy swallow of Tooheys New and smiled at Jacko just as a thumping bass line riff introduced The Monarchs to the crowd at The Annandale. The drummer tossed aside his Famous Five book and took up the cudgels on behalf of skinmen around the world. The opening song was "Blinding Fury" which told a tale of night time driving at high speed, being blinded by the headlights of a truck and ending up in court, punching on with the truck driver's lawyer. They played a solid half hour set with their encore being "Spitfire" leaving the beer soaked crowd wanting more action.

While The Monarchs packed up Blake caught the eye of Lena who had insinuated herself at stage left with Flange Gasket's lead guitarist and main singer, "Uncle Sam" McCarthy. The other guitarist, "Angus" Young, was rifling an esky for a Tooheys Extra Dry. He came up trumps, handing one to McCarthy.

"There ya go Uncle Sam. Ready to fly?"

McCarthy was riding the enrgy wave left over from The Monarchs,
"Yeah, we have to pull something out of our flanged arses tonight. The Monarchs were pretty tight, I liked their destructive attitude."

They watched Angus' brother, Jeff set up the guitars as the drummer, Phil and keyboard player Marty hooked up their kit.

McCarthy had a playful smile,
"We need to fuck with their heads. Let's fucking give it to them Razorslash style, just like that time at the uni."

Both guitarusts went and strapped on their axes, twiddled with the amps to the extent that they were twiddled up to their highest and as McCarthy nodded to Angus they hit the first of many thrashed death metal notes. It was a blistering beginning with McCarthy and Young taking it in turns to devil growl out thrash words with Phil bashing skin as badly as any other thrash drummer. Marty just played staccato bass chords. The whole thing lasted about ninety seconds but certainly caught the attention of a crowd used to pub rock mixed with punk elelments. Thrash was not the main menu of The Annadale Hotel.

In the audience a few rows back from the front Blake turned to Reepo, almost yelling,
"What the fuck is that about? Have they gone primal or something?"

No sooner had they asked than the the rhythm guitarist/vocalist, "Angus" Young, introduced himself,
"We're not Razorslash and they're not us, are they Uncle Sam?"

McCarthy growled out,
"That's right young fella, because you know who I am but who do you want to be?"
and with that the Gasket launched into "I Wanna Be Angus Young".

The antsy crowd heaved their collective relief and the Gasket took off, weaving hook line after hook line. After playing for fourty minutesd they took a break, signalling a stampede to the overworked bars. The Gasket team stood around their oversized Esky and Phil handed around some Uncle Teds. After about ten minutes Lena sidled over and grabbed one for herself and turned to Uncle Sam,

"I reckon I spotted a bloke in the crowd who tried to come onto me back at uni."

"Another one? Where is he?"
Lena pointed out Blake and McCarthy looked at him, frowning. Lena waved him over much to McCarfthy's disgust.

"What the fuck are you doing? I'm not gonna play games with this prick."

Lena went up to Blake as he drew closer,
"Hi Wayne. I see you're with your girlfriend? This is Sam, the ringmaster and chief growler of Flange Gasket."

"Hey Lena, g'day Sam. Didn't think you'd remember me from the uni. Congrats on the writing gig, seems to be a regular thing."

"Well, it is sort of journalism and I'm getting paid for it, so I'm happy. Besides, I get to see bands like this. Especially like this." Lena sparkled at McCarthy, who sparked up,

"Well my lovely, we need to be getting up so that these drunks can get down. Good to meet you Wayne."

Blake nodded,
"That was a good set Sam. Hey Lena, remember that band Dog Shit Machine, or deusexmachina? They had a gig at The Sandringham?"
Lena nodded, "Yep. They weren't that good. They had an amp malfunction or something. Did everyone a favour."

Blake smiled back,
" Do you know who pulled their plug? That bloke over there. His name's Jacko and we've renamed them dickheads "Dog Shit Machine", or "Dog Shit" for short or just plain Turd or Crap for even shorter,"

Lena laughed and the Gasket crew pricked up their ears, with Angus very interested,
"So your mate silenced them and then basically renamed them "Turd". That is fucking tops!"

McCarthy added,
"We played support to them a couple of times. Couldn't stand the pricks. Your mate should get a medal. A Flange gasket medal. " McCarthy leaned over to the esky.
"Here, grab some Uncle Teds" and with that handed a chilled six pack of the precious drop to Blake.

"So your friend's name is Jacko?" Blake nodded and Sam went on,
"We'll give him a shout out during this final set. He's a dead set genius. "
McCarthy turned to Angus.
"
Ready Angus?" Angus nodded, adding
"Dog Shit Machine eh? Not bad. He's not a country boy by any chance this Jacko of yours?"
Blake nodded,
"Newcastle."
"Right. After you Mr McCarthy."

Blake went back to his friends and told Jacko to be ready for a surprise to which Jacko retorted,
"You're coming out of the closet? You now love John Howard? Tardo poof."

Flange Gasket answered back by launching into their second set. Three songs in and Angus turned to Sam,
"You know what Sam? You remember a band a little while ago called deusexmachina?"

"Why yes, I do as a matter of fact. Apparently they had some trouble at The Sandringham." and Sam played a descending d minor,

"Their power was pulled."

"Dear oh dear Sam. What a shame. What do we say to crap bands who lose their power?"

"What, aside from telling them to join the Democrats? I don't know Angus, what do we say to a crap band like Dog Shit Machine?"

"Thank God for Jacko from Newcastle and thank God he knew to pull their plug. He christened them Dog Shit Machine."

McCarthy responded,
"And thanks to Wayne for telling us about Jacko's brave mission."
Angus clapped his hands over his head and the booze and drug addled crowd cheered. Angus continued,

"Cheers boys, this one's for you, written down at Coogee baths when I was down here on holidays as a littl'un. I was forced tp learn to swim."
McCarthy quizzed,
" With who Angus?" More cheers while Angus chipped back,
"That'd be Harold Holt, Sam"

With that McCarthy hit the opening chords to their once underground, now mainstream single.
After another fourty minutes Flange Gasket had beaten the crowd, giving them something to think about with the summer music festivals lurking. As they retreated the band gave Blake and Jacko one more wave and Lena came over to the two drunks,
"That was pretty cool eh, guys? I'm gonna do a quirky piece about Dog Shit Dying. I won't name you directly but I may use some pseudonyms."

Blake said,
"Sniper will do for me. Maj is okay for Jacko. Reepo is the bloke with big shnoz over to my right. The girls are Kerryn, Gayle and this is Tina."
With that he draped his arm across Tina's shoulders, drawing her closer.

"Nice to meet you all. Keep an eye out on Drum Media. We'll be putting something up about the exploits of a certain Melbourne Band by the name of The Turd and how they get sabotaged."

Blake nodded,
"Thanks Lena. Nice to see you again." Blake shook her hand, clearing his thoughts of any possible hook ups with the writer. The rest of his friends echoed Blake's good byes.

As they finished their drinks, Jacko was draping himself around Gayle and Reepo and Kerryn smiled at both freshly minted couples.

Blake looked at the knowing, womanly smile of Kerryn's and noted,
"Its not every day one of your best mates gets an officially sanctioned Flange Gasket award based on an act of vandalism and dextrous avoidance of bouncers."

Kerryn grinned back,,
"And its not everyday your boyfriends' mates actually behave half sensibly for a change."

Jacko responded,
"Fucking maudlin nonsense. Who's up for a beer at The Empire? Might even get a late bet on. Let's hit the toe."

They piled out of the Annandale Hotel and headed back up to The Empire Hotel. As they went past the side lane next to The Annandale they saw the Flange Gasket boys climb into their band car. Jacko yelled out
"Thanks Flange Gasket. We've been the Dog Shit Killers. Good night!"
Marty yelled out of the rear passenger window,

"And we've been a ripped Gasket. Good night!"

The van took off onto Parramatta Road, looking for a way to Maroubra. Blake and his friends headed in the opposite direction, up to The Empire, looking for a last round of drinks, a game of pool and maybe a few bets on the Greyhounds in Perth. Those Greyhounds which would shit in their stalls but in Jacko's mind still leave a better product than Dog Shit Machine.

He even admitted a slight feeling of warmth to Flange Gasket,
"You know what? I might even make it to Homebake this season. As long as there's no Dog Shit Machine it coukd be okay."

Blake looked at Jacko, his face displaying a rare look of cogitation.

"You know what? Both of us learnt guitar. Maybe we should start a band and call it Dog Shit Killers."

Jacko looked back,
"You know what Sniper? That is one of the most fucked ideas I've ever heard. Its fucking ridiculous. Its ludicrous. We can't play, we can't sing, we can't write songs."

Jack paused for a few seconds while he thought it through. He could play a little bit and Blake was okay with strumming a few chords in something approaching correct rhythm. Then he thought of all the rock chicks they could attract.

"Hang on, it now makes sense. Its fucking brilliant! Let's do it!"

As they entered the Empire Blake noticed a nearly shapeless white lump near the wall of the pub. A crumbling piece of dog faeces. He stamped on it, grinding it into dust.

"Track one." he said to himself, "Track fucking one."

Golden Gate, Golden Slumbers. Dozey Navvie.

2009-11-19T20:19:00.000+11:00

Dunno why I threw in a Beatles song title, just seemed to fit. Anyways apologies to those who've been ignored by myself. Sorry folks, things get a bit fractured at times but I do still enjoy reading your blogs. Enough of the soppy crap, back to the U.S.

On the L.A. - Frisco Greyhound I was sat veside some salesman guy. I quote here from a journal I was keeping at the time. Remember we're back in 1986, there's no intermaweb, no mobile telephony and the closest you get to a PS3 is a game of Space Invaders in a pinball parlour. From the journal:
"The first bus, LA to SF and I had the misfortune to sit next to a salesman who was forever resorting to cocaine. The shiftless myopia of his character was adorned by his sojourn in the bus toilet where he relieved his stomach of its dreadful junkfood contents. Throughout the night I was given an account of his recent adventures in Mexico where he managed to make fourteen dollars on a double-handed currency exchange."
Makes me kind of glad I took notes during my travels. Was I being harsh on this bloke? Nup. No way. I trusts me first impressions and original account. Okay so I entered the world of Greyhound which I was to frequently dip into over the next few months. I figured out later that the salesman guy was really doing crack. It must have made him very ill 'cos he was forever hitting the bus dunny (toilet, loo, crapper). I managed to saw some logs during the night and as the sun came up I noticed we were passing a wind farm. There were acres of these wind turbines, a bounceback effect from a globally warmed future.
"Further north the welcome sight of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay drew closer and it was with feelings of relief that I left the coach." Thanks Mr Journal.
I had a few nights pre-booked at the Holdiay Inn so that's where I went, via taxi. I checked in just in time for breakfast. I didn't really feel very hungry so I ordered the smallest meal item, scrambled eggs with bacon. Once again the portions were generous to a fault. Back in my room I unpacked, sat Jack next to the TV so I could keep an eye on him and tried to think of what to do next. My head cold was barely alive so I threw down a tablet and a slug of Jack as a farewell gift for it. Then I zoned out and sawed logs for a couple of hours. When I awoke it was mid morning and time for a shower. After that I wandered around and jumped on a cable car. This was going to be a fun city. I checked out the financial district before cable carring back up and then around and down to Fisherman's Wharf. The Bay area reminded me in some ways of Sydney Harbour. I sort of felt home. Frisco had a different vibe to L.A. Its like comparing a decent beer to Coors, or a nasty box wine to a fair Merlot, say a 2006 from the Barossa Valley. Frisco was mighty fine.
The rest of the day I spent tooling around the city, just drinking it in. I found myself a cheap pizza joint as a dinner option and on the way back to my hotel visited a liquor shop to get some reinforecements for Jack who'd been looking pretty much used up. That night I zooed out in front of the teev, nursing the newly replenished Jack, but made an early night of it. I was knackered.

The morning saw me full of beans, no hangover, head cold or other illnesses so I burst downtown again and sent off letters to a couple of Candian frineds, warning them of my intention to invade their Canuck strongholds and take on Messrs Molsen and Labbatts. I cheked out the Amex letter drop service to no avail and went on one of those city bus tours again. The Bay was magnificent this day, a really sparkling sun drenched body languidly resting itself against a contented city in a marriage for the ages. I ended up downtown in a ribs joint, feasting on flesh and talking to a group of Dutch and Germans. We talked the usual travellers' talk, swapping notes, places we've been, hints and suggestions and an analysis of beers. We pretty much agreed that the mainstream American beer like Bud or miller were drinkable, went down easily but they didn't have much kick. So we adjusted, as any traveller should. No use dissin' the local brew, just live with it. Onve again I felt tired and headed back to my hotel, getting an early kip. I figured out that a combination of jet lag, head cold and my subsequent medications had taken a slight toll on my stamina.

My stamina felt fine when I woke up so I bored into the breakfast buffet and feasted. American breakfasts can be the best in the world and these buffet jobs were well set out. I had one night left at the Holiday Inn, my last ever proper hotel before I ventured once again into the world of youth hostels. Once again I jumped cable cars, buses, walked and spent my time checking the place out. The gardens with their crazy zig-zag road looked very appealing. If only I had a car. I rested up in thehotel for an hour or so before hitting the night. Pizza again then I went bar hopping, or so I thought. A couple of blocks away from thehotel was a string of bars. As I looked at one of them something started ringing in my head. As I approached it a vision of Oxford Street Sydney sprung into mind. I'd found the gay bar sector of Frisco. I asked thebouncer at the first one where the gay strip ended and the straight bars could be found. all this maongst a swirl of pretty boys dressed with gay abandon, frills, make-up and the usual badges of gaydom. Thebouncer was cool, pointed me in the direction of an English style pub a couple of blocks away. So that's where I went for a few pints. It was okay as far as faux-English pubs are concerned and I struck up a conversation with a couple of Melbournians. They were married and were on the back end of a U.S. holdiay. Four weeks in a hire car and they'd had a blast. They'd bridged things up a bit, staying in a mix of good hotels and cheap motels. They'd spent more in four weeks than my budget was for four months. I'm glad they ahd cash because they wouldn't let me pat for a drink. Thanks Jo, thanks Mick. I hit a couple of more bars on my way back to thehotel but didn't quite get the zoom feeling I was after in a nightspot. I walked into the hotel, grabbed my room key and wlaked past a hallway with bars on either side. The first one was dead, the one down the end was slightly more alive so I sat my sorry arse down and ordered a double Jack with a dash of Coke. I noticed there were a few couples dotted around the place, some were slow dancing to cool vibes, others just keeping each other entertained. There were also a few singles scattered around but I didn't expect to be cutting up fine in this joint. I sat back watching a ball game, munching on some pretzels and ordered another Jack, having a casual chat with the barman who quizzed me about Oz.
"I might like one of those". I turned around to see a curvy, comfortably overweight (not yet in the gross range) African American lassie looking with hopeful eyes at my JD. What to do? Was she a hooker or a player? Oh well, one way to find out.
"Another of those thanks mate" to the barman and
"Allow me" to the girl as I pulled a stool out for her to perch on and make goo goo eyes at me.
Well, she didn't make goo goo eyes but did enjoy the JD and coke. By the time we'd finished another I'd learned she was divorced, had just moved to Frisco and was a teacher, landing a job in the Fall term, whatever that meant. Well, what it did mean is that she had plenty of spare time and did some part time work helping organise seminars and doing some minor presenting jobs at places like the Holiday Inn. A few of that day's participants were at the bar and had invited her for drinks. At one stage she'd heard an odd accent and decided to find out more about it. This it was that we were sufficiently introduced and fuelled to start thetouchy stuff. I rested a hand on a knee (not mine) and felt some fingers lightly dance across my inner thigh. Ah yes, the call of the wild.
"How about we continue our drinks in a place where I can show you my collection of Drop Bear claws."
"You invitin' me up to your room cowboy?" she caught on quick
"No, we're going down to Selinas and see Mental As Anything." whoosh, straight over her head
"You talk crazy. Let's go to see this mentalist or whatever it is."
Well, we went upstairs where my bar stocks came into their own. Diane felt like a beer, which was fine. I had my Millers chilled and ready. We semi undressed and lay on the bed, draping around each other, slurping on beer, groping to a background of motown classics on the radio and Letterman on the TV. Hell, I even found some salty snacks which we nibbled off each other. This gal was fun, especially nekkid. We romped, played chasings, laughed, sang along to the music, did some slow dancing, and now and then simply screwed. Bythe time we crashed out we'd gone through a couple of beers each, a half bottle of Jack and a months worth of sex.

In the morning when we woke I used the bathroom and had a shower. Ended up Diane wanted a shower at the same time. We made ourselves clean and dirty at the same time. Back in bed we collapsed again, grinning at each other. Then I remembered I had to check out that morning. When? I was laready past ten o'clock check out. I called up the desk and booked in for another night.
"That's the last of your voucher entitlement sir, enjoy the rest of your stay." Woo hoo! I'd miscalculated my voucher. I wouldn't have to pay for the extra night. You bloody little ripper! I excalimed my delight and rolled on top of Diane to celebrate my good fortune. We eventually were interrupted by room service who wanted to clear our mess. Win on top of win. I could steer Diane out for a while and come back to a clean room with fresh sheets.
After we got our clothes on we walked outside. We went to a nearby cafe and sat down to talk. She was going to Sausalito later that day for a few days with some relatives, so we only had a few more hours together, if I felt like the company. I thought back to the previous night and the fun we'd had, especially the laughter so I told her yes, company would be a fine thing.
She left close to dinner time so I mournfully made my way to a local pizza place and had a quick bite before hitting the same bart again. I wlaked in and the barm,an asked me how I'd gotten on so I told him "until about an hour ago". I loaded up with a JD, had a beer chaser and checked out tonight's attractions. All of a sudden it seemed sleazy and dull. There was no laughter, just a few people looking around, waitying for something to happen. I downed my beer, feeling tired, cheap and in need of a good sleep. back in my room Diane's scent still lingered. Jack still sat next to the teev, inviting me to have one more. Okey dokey, slurp, ice , more slurp and a dash of coke. And a baseball game! Win. Watched a few innings then crashed, smiling.

Okay, time to demolish breakfast, pack up , check out and head to the hostel. I really tried to out eat my fellow diners but by jingies they were good on the fang. I was outclassed even though I though I was a good eater. These people would get a large stack of panckaes, have french toast, bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and hash browns. I dipped me lid after a more chaste serving of, short stack, eggs and bacon and ojay. i was stuffed. Then it was a cab out to the hostel overlooking the Bay and reserve a room. Did all that then saw a notice on the board asking for people to share a hire car and go on a tour of the Napa Valley winereies the next day. That was me straight in. What a brilliant idea. I check out the names on the list - Marion (Melbourne) and Caroline (U.K.). Yep, could be interesting. But that was the next day so I wenty down to Fishermand Wharf and chilled out in the sun. I was really getting a groove on for Frisco, it was like a lost relative who suddenly crops up and they end up being an immediate hit with all of their cousins, part of the family crew and an automatic invitee to the family gigs.

In the early evening I ventured out of the hostel and to a pub called the Rose and Thistle. I encountered a bloke from Cronulla who was in the final days of his three month backpacking jaunt around North America so Idecided to help him celebrate his survival. We talked the usual crap and I updated him on how the Cronulla Sharks were crap and The Canterbury Bankstoiwn Bulldogs were aces. We didn't come to blows but we quickly had to find common ground so that was the generakky crap nature of the Australian cricket team. It was a fine old night but we had to get back so as not to break curfew and I hadn't done any research on how to crack the place open after hours.

After breakfast our intrepid crew which now included Alan (Irish but living in SF) ventured to Rent A Wreck to get a Dodge Colt. My thinking was that Caroline, the organiser was going to be the driver. Nup, not old enough. Neither was Marion and Alan simply dodged the issue. Fucking dozey navvie. This was to be the first time I ever drove in North America. On. The. Wrong. Side. Of. The. Road. After signing the forms which absolved wrent a wreck of any guilt in my murderous attempt to drive a left had drive car on the right hand side of the road in the midst of a big fucking city like Frisco. I took a couple of deep breaths, thought longingly of my bottle of Jack sitting hiddne at the hostel, lit up a Winston and jumped in the car. Then got out and went around to the driver's seat. this was frightening. But hell, its just a car, has a steering wheel , brakes, accerator, auto shift, radio and two fine looking girls to impress (plus one dozey fucking navvie).
I started her up, drove out the car lot and onto the rright hadn side of the road;
"See, no worries ladies. Smooth as silk." At the next corner I had to turn right. Yikes! Into the right hand side you buffoon!
"Just foolin' yez! No danger. Someone look up the map, we need to head over the Golden Gate and you'll need to direct me onto the correct exit." Always delegate tasks, makes you look as if you know what you;re doing. In the meantime I was simply sticking behind other cars with minimal lane swapping. We made it over the Golden Gate and I got the right exit for heading to the Napa Valley. Fuck I needed a drink and as we passed through some really picturesque countryside we were abuzz. Except for the dozey fucking navvie. We did a tour of half a dozen vineyards, me tasting as much as I could to make the drive back as painless as possible. Sure, it might get a bit swervy but my nerves would be fine. It was a grand day and the girls were great company. Alan, the fucking navvie, was a total waste of space. No spark, just dullard demeanour and dozey attitude.

On the way back we stopped in at Mini Wood which had the vestiges of the original Red Wood forest including one of those big fuck-off trees, the sort you could live in if you felt so inclined. Should have left Alan in one of them. We toured back through Sausilito, a pretty little fishing village which was at the time housing one Diane. I drove around trying to catch a glimpse but it was a forlorn hope. The girls were interested in what I was up to and thought it quite romantic. Good, I'd have to play on that later. We got back to Frisco and I drove down the gardens on that crazy zig zag street. Fuck it was fun, trying to gun a Colt down a zig zag track. We then headed around to Fishermans Wharf and had beer and pizza. By this stage I had early hangover symptoms and was feeling the stress of my first day driving on the wrong side. My bad side came out and snapped at Alan. Called him a couple of things like being a dozey, needy navvie.
He got upset, the girls got upset and I piled them all into the car and drove Alan home. He didn't even invite us in for a coffee or a beer. Dozey fucking navvie. I drove thegirls back to the hostel where I accosted them in the lounge room over illict JD in coffee mugs. Uncivilised I know. They both gave me a hug and a kiss, with Caroline starting to warm things up before pushing away, looking at me and asking about the girl in Sausilito. Duck me fed, things get complimicated at times don't they? We walked outside and did a bit of canoodling but that's all that happened. She felt a bit unnerved by the whole thing. I jsut reckon it was all the fault of The Dozey Fucking Navvie! If he'd driven I could have made some moves. Dozey. Fucking. Navvie.

Next time we venture further north, via Eel River. See yez round like a rissole!

LA Cockleroaches and Cheap Dives

2009-11-05T20:49:00.001+11:00

L.A. is a great big freeway.
Put a hundred down and buy a car.
In a week, maybe two, they'll make you a star
Weeks turn into years. How quck they pass
And all the stars that never were
Are parking cars and pumping gas

Thanks Dionne, how true.

I packed up my gear and vacated the Holiday Inn and caught a bus to the inner east of L.A. The area was cheap, well suited to my budget. The hotels were even cheaper. The first one I scoped out of a budget guide to the U.S. was, from a faded and failing memory, about ten bucks a night. I went up to the guy at the desk and asked to see a room. He handed me a key so off I trudged. The hotel may have been something good at some stage of its life but it was a busted up slut of a place when I visited. The room I checked out was mainly clean, had an ensuite bathroom, TV and fridge. Sounds great dunnit? Well folks I walked into the bathroom, the toilet was clean as was the shower recess. But. The. Wall. There'd been a pretty fucked up paint job over some bloodsatins. Nasty fuckin' drippy, pooly, splatty things which probably once spelled out Redrum. Cool you say? Yeah, very cool as were the three Balmain Butterflies playing with each other in the corner They were having a fantastic time measuring me up for sustenance. They weren't as big as the roaches you get in Sydney but they looked nastier. They looked like the sort of insects which carry switchblades and know blokes called Guido Garotte and Sammy Sawnoff. I thought it would be great to look back on having stayed there, fantastic recollections of my time in sleazeville but I wasn't really into making grunge memories a happenin' thang. Not at that stage anyway. I went back and handed the desk drummer the key with a "No thanks" thrown in. He asked me why so I told him about the three freeloaders in the bathroom not paying any rent and the botched up paint job. Or was it just art? Nup, it was a dodgy fix in a dodgy hotel and it weren't my style of dodgy thanks very much.

The next on the list was a few blocks away and was listed as having a supermarket attached. Sounded okay so I walked in. This time the clerk was pretty cool, took me to a room and pointed out the basics. It looked clean, no roaches and had the requisite bathroom, TV, fridge and a fair bed. A hunnert for the the week. I looked around, the supermarket had closed down a few months before due to being squeezed out of business. The lobby was respectable, there was a dining room but no bar. I handed over an Amex Travellers cheque for the ton, grabbed my key and said hello to my new home for the week. Uncle Jack was still half full so he sat on the sideboard next to a good sized tumbler. I unpacked, set myself up, threw down a few cold tablets, the sort which had pseudo-ephidrine and washed them down with a good slug of Jack. Zingedy zing-zing, we're back in town! Next item on the menu was food. I went out for a brisk stroll, feeling the medication zap me well and good. A block away I found a market, grabbed some food things, a six-pack of Miller, some Coke, salty snacks, ojay, and a pack of Camel filters. Lickety split back to divedom where I unloaded my shopping, took another slug of Jack and a cold tab and headed out looking for a feed place. Not too far away was a Greasy Joe's which advertised steak dinner for four bucks. I ordered and was pleasantly surprised by how it hadn't been badly cooked. The fries were generous and the salad stuff fresh. Not bad. I made a mental note to give Joe's brewakfast a go the next morning. For there to be a morning after there has to be a night before so I went looking for a watering hole. The first one I walked into was full of Latino guys looking macho and watching a soccer game broadcast on a Spanish speaking channel. A lot of surly looks in my direction led me to pretend that the door was a revolving one. A block or so further up was a cheaper than Cheers type place and when I walked in I only got a couple of dirty looks. Well, that was good enough for me so I parked my self at the bar and ordered a draught, asking to run a tab, putting a ten buck note down in front of me. The bar guy nodded sagely with the hint of a smile as he pushed the glass onto a beer mat and slipped a piece of paper on the counter below serving level, where he made the first of many marks.

There was a lot of curiosity about how the fuck an Aussie tourist was sitting in a cheap bar in East L.A. watching soccer on TV and sprouting all sorts of crap. The silly barman had asked where I was from, thinking I was a Limey. He'd then started asking me about the Wide Brown Land and a few of the other bar flies chipped in with their own inquisitions. Tweren't long before I was teaching them our native lingo, Strine, and checking out their wimmin folk. I had to slip into my faux American accent a few times to be understood and found that it was becoming easier to speak like that the more I heard them talk. The TV was tuned into a baseball game before too long and the barman brought out some bar snacks. Happy Hour kicked in and my head was soon kicking off. Too many cold tablets. I was drinking Miller so I wasn't getting hammered at all. Their regular strength beer seemed about half the strength of Aussie brews so it was smooth sailing. The bar crew I'd joined up with was Eddy, Steve, Felipe, Jean, Roberta, and Alissa. The singles were Alissa, Steve, Eddy and myself. The odds were two to one against but I started pitching anyway. To straighten out my noggin I switched to Jack, me old mate. Cheers boys and gals! After a couple of those free pour style I'd settled into a nice little fugue. Well, Brain had anyway, I was still pitching at Alissa. Despite my best drunken Aussie efforts she left on her own. Jean gave me a tip,
"Be here on Friday night, handsome." The guys shook their heads and laughed in that rueful way practiced by blokes who recognise hit and miss tactics when they see them. Through the enveloping mist of L.A. bar life I realised that I hadn't tipped since the first round. I asked the bar bloke to add up my tab and pulled a couple more twenties to show I meant business.
"Fifteen bucks." I looked amazed which he took the wrong way, frowning. I quickly interjected,
"Thought it'd be more like fifty." I'd been wrongly thinking that drinking in cheap places in the U.S. would still cost plenty. I was wrong, very, delightfully, wrong.
I laid a twenty on the bar covering the tab and the tip and told him I'd see him again real soon. Eddy and Felipe came outside with me, making sure there no undesirables around. To me, that was for show, but I appreciated it. These people were the real deal. Working stiffs who enjoyed a boisterous drink, a ball game and salty snacks. They didn't bullshit too much and had given me some good tips about their country. Particularly about bars. If people are mainly drinking bottled beer, stear clear of the draught. If there's a lot of good bar snacks on offer then tip extra. Don't use overly crap lines on chicks in bars, in fact with my accent, they'll probably be the start up pitchers anyway. Thanks guys, see ya on Friday. Now where the fuck did I leave my hotel room? Must be back at the hotel. But where the fuck was that? L.A. Thanks Therbs, nice answers but stop being a fucking smart arse and sort yourself out. I looked up the road and then down the road, only to see Steve having a chuckle at my expense.
"You lost, buddy?"
"No mate, but my hotel is. The fucker was here a moment ago and now its fucked off. Bastard of a thing!"
"I wouldn't walk back there guy, a cab'll cost you five bucks at most with tip. Don't give the fucker any more than that."
"Cheers Steve, thanks mate. I'll buy you a beer on Friday."
"See ya, buddy. Sleep well."
I hailed the next cab, showed him the key tag with the hotel name and pointed straight ahead. Which meant that we then did a u-turn and within a short drive I was in front of cheapsville USA. I handed the cabbie a fiver and waved bye-bye. He said thanks and drove off. Back in my room I turned on the TV and found Letterman. He was crash testing appliances off the top of a building. This was back in his early years when he was younger, rougher, took more risks and had fewer interns to Clintonise. Jack was looking at me from the sideboard, teasing me, challenging me in that playful way I knew so well.
"You're a real fucking charmer aren't you Jack? Well there's gonna be less of you now."
I poured a healthy slug into the tumbler on top of some chunks of ice. Then added another slurp. Topped it off with some Coke and tasted it. Yes. Perfection. I got into my shorts and t-shirt and slouched on the bed, watching Letterman go through his paces. It was the first time I'd seen him and was impressed. I then started thinking about where I was and what I should really be doing. Sightseeing. Yeah, sure. I'll do some tomorrow, starting off with the greasy Joe's breakfast, followed maybe by a visit to Rodeo Drive or Hollywood. That was enough thinky shit for that night. I went to sleep well pleased with myself. I was boozed up, had met some decent folk and maybe had a chance at one of the local beauties on Friday night.

Greasy Joe's breakfast special was a small stack (butter and maple syrup) with a side order of bacon, toast, ojay and coffee for three-fiddy. Once again the small stack required the hire of a scaffolding gang to hold the thing up so I fed well, stacking it on to save on lunch. My cold symptoms were prettyuu much reduced to an occasional sneeze. I like to thank the likes of Jack Daniels or Bundaberg Rum for my epic cold cures. I was proven right again. Its a case of attacking the thing with generous amounts of good spirit and maybe some ojay. Another ingredient is greasy food. You also need to make sure you drink enough water to let your innards clean out the bad stuff. After breakfast I caught a bus downtown and lobbed onto a sightseeing bus. L.A. in a day seemed good enough to me. It was one of those voucher jobs where you jump on and off as you please, the voucher lasting the day. It gave me a good opportunity to see all the main things like, Hollywood, Rodeo Drive, Sepulveda, the studios, the Hollywood sign, the walk of fame with all the dabs of the stars set in concrete and all that sort of shite. Glad I saw it but wasn't going to explore it too much. I did eventually go back to Rodeo Drive and do some people watching but Hollywood was a bust. Was not impressed. I did like "The Ol' Chinne Thee-ate-er" as one old gent called it. The Red Carpet wasn't out so I was going home. I spent a few days like this, getting on buses and checking shit out but just never quite got into the L.A. vibe. Another visit out to the beach was fun but it still seemed unreal, fake. Before I left L.A. I had one Friday night back at the bar.

After having sold my soul to a few different bars around L.A. I went back to the first and in my mind the best. The others were mix'n'match, sterile sorts of places for businessmen having a sharpie on the way home.
The Bell Bar seemed like home away from home. Steve, Felipe, Jean, Eddy. Alissa and Roberta were there on Friday night when I walked in freshly showered with clean (and pressed) clothes. They cheered me all the way to the bar where I set up a tab. The barman, Jeff, pulled out a cold Corona for me. First time for everything so I downed half of it, held up the bottle and sang,
"Mah mah mah mah mah mah My Corona!"
Just call me cheap and cheesy 'cos that what I was. I got a few laughs but I knew not to push it too much. I asked Jeff about the Corona and he told me that he got it cheap from some guys he knew. Fair ebloodynough. He was charging the same as a mug of draught for it and it was heaps better. It also seemed to have a familiar kick to it, like the beer I'd been brought up on. Good. I now knew what I was dealing with and it was tasty. It was a grand night. We played darts, watched some baseball, danced to some old kickin' rock classics and I even twirled Alissa around the floor to "L.A. Woman." Not really relevant except in the title. Alissa wasn't alone and she didn't have the blues. I s'pose I wasn't "Mr Mojo Risin'" either.
I was still being quizzed a lot about Australia and then about Europe so I told them about some of the things which happened when I'd been ratsacking around in previous overseas sorties. They were disappointed in how Americans were viewed by other people and I went into how us Aussies as tourists aren't necessarily the best ambassadors for our country either. Some of the crap dished up by my fellow countrymen to various cities around the world is best left hidden under the carpet if at all possible. At the last, just deny all knowledge. Say it was most likely a bunch of Kiwis or Seth Efrikens. This bit of ratting on drunken bogans didn't seem like treason at all to me. I thought it may feel like it but, nup. An idiot is an idiot no matter the language they speak or the accent they drape it in. At this stage I was draping mine in a big boxing kangaroo. There was one important point as well to this laying bare of the national soul. It got Alissa hooked in. By the time I'd settled my tab (thirty bucks including tip) she was hooked onto my arm. I said my goodbyes to the gang with a promise to see them the next day before heading north. North to San Francisco and beyond. Via Greyhound. That was going to be fun. Not.

So I asked Alissa if she wanted to come and stay the night at chateau de sleaze. She agreed. We cabbed it there and by the time we ended up in my room our clothes were flying in all directions. It was like some sort of sexual washing machine action. After a little while we settled down and stopped acting like excited teenagers. I poured a couple of tumblers of my ice, Jack ' coke throat soother, lit up Winstons for two and we stretched back on the bed, still slightly clothed but comfortably bound together by intertwined limbs. It was a mighty fine evening.

We slept in till about ten, well sort of slept anyway. I took her to Joe's for the day's breakfast special - a big plate of ham and eggs with french toast on the side. Outside of Joe's we said a passionate but temporary goodbye. I had to pack, reserve a seat on Greyhound and hit the Bell Bar one last time. I did all that. The farewells were fine and fond, but Alissa's was a bittersweet moment. I'd had these before and knew what was coming so I braced myself with a pre-poured double slug of Jack. Before long I was a little misty eyed as a cab took me from the bar to the Greyhound depot. It was getting dark as the driver pulled up and as I settled the fare plus tip he advised,
"Don't stop, don't walk slow just move quickly into the main terminal. Holy shit! Look at these whackos will ya? Jesus!"
That sounded really encouraging and as I stepped out and hitched my pack I noticed what he meant. Outside the Greyhound terminal was a pack of scurvy looking sharks waiting for some fresh meat. I strode purposefully forward, not looking askance, and ignoring any pleas for money, smokes, change, food, whatever. I got inside with twenty minutes before drive-off, checked in, got a seat assignment and waited. I had to get used to this 'cos I there were a few more months of it to go. But first, San Francisco here we come!

Disneyland - La La Town

2009-10-27T19:17:00.000+11:00

I looked around the room a second time, rolled out of bed and did those post-drinking, post-long haul flight checks; breathing, dizziness, headache, fogged up feeling, aches and pains. I felt pretty much ready to rock with a slight headache and a gentle listlessness. I showered, dressed and went lookiong for food. The Holiday Inn Feedlot wasn't for me, I wanted to sample a genuine greasyspoon Americcan breakfast. Took me a couple of blocks of walking in the Anaheim sun but I found one. I ordered eggs (over easy), bacon, grilled tomatoes, mushrroms and hash browns on the side. The orange juice was served in a large glass (unlike the recession thimbles they used in England) and the coffee was very ordinary; no espresso or capiccino, just the pot they keep on the warmer. The food was okay in quality but generous in quantity. A plate full of bacon, another with the tomatoes and mushies and another with the hash browns. So that was me sorted for at least another six hours.

I went back to the hotel after stopping at a minimart to stock up on basics - coke, juice, a loaf of bread, some cold cuts, cheese and a bag of pistachios. I snookered that in the fridge along withg a six pack of Miller and then caught the shuttle to Disneyland.

Disneyland is fucjing big. I know that's like saying the universe is big but Disneyland is still fucking big. Not only in size but in concept. It was the first of its kind and a great example of the scope of American imagination. I validated my day pass and walked straight up Main Street. I don't have a lot of notes on this part of my trip so details are sketchy but here we go anyway. I walked around a lot, getting my bearings and trying to score dope off goofy. He just diodn't want to play along. Minnie seemed to have her own set of goons whose sole purpose was to thwart my attempts to goose her. The goons succeded. In amongst the walking I queued up for some rides. The first one was a gold miners mountain ride which was okay, but then I hit the jungle cruise and the Pirates of the Caribbean. The robots were passable and the rides themselves quite enjoyable, especially the water ones. I rode the paddle steamer, the submarine (we avoided the giant squid - phew!) and capped it all off at Space Mountain. That was one hell of a roller coaster ride and worth the cost of the day ticket.

One thing about Disneyland is its wholesomeness. I went round behind some buildings to see if there were any desperate types finagling joints or blow but there was nothing. I guessed the cameras would soon pick up on anything barred by Unlce Walt, manned as they no doubt were by a battalion of Disney Goons. The food on offer was pretty much the standard of what you get at a football match or a baseball game. Very fucking ordinary. After a soldi day of hassling goofy, taking the rides and getting cold shouldered by Minnie it was time for me to head home, Holiday Inn home that is. I was feeling hungry so after getting cleaned up in my room I did another look around and found a small hole in the wall eatery. Got myself a four buck steak with fries, coleslaw and potato salad, all of which seemed surprisingly fresh. What I next needed was a beer so it was back to the H.I. for a sharpie or two. After a couple of draughts I suddenly felt all funny, like tired and washed out. Ahh, sweet jet lag, carry me home. I managed a quick shot of JD in my room before crashing out. Next day I was off to L.A. proper to check out the real La La Land.

I woke up feeling very chipper and went and sampled the Holiday Inn feedbag's breakfast. I went easy, settling on the short stack with maple syrup and butter plus a big ojay. They woukdn't sell me an espresso either, something I'd have to get used to, so it was pot coffee again. With the meal they threw in a couple of hash browns which were the size of the local A-K phone book. I guess they thought mini mountain of pancakes wasn't enough. It was surprisingly good food, surprising because I had this preconception that American food would be pretty much homogenous goop as exampled by McDonalds. Not that I thought Maccas was a true representation of American cuisine (there was also the Colonel and Pizza Hut) its just that I reckoned it would be okay but not really noteworthy. Their breakfasts were starting to win me over.

I packed up my gear and grabeed the shuttle into LA. I had a two night pass for the Holiday Inn and spent most of that cowed over by the flu. It struck as soon as I hit Lala Land. On the second day I hit Venice Beach and was amused by it. It was sort of like Bondi on steroids but brighter and funnier. Lots of street stuff, beach posing and scam merchants all up and down the main strip. I decded a swim was in order and it felty good, hitting the Pacifric from its other side. Didn't help with my flu so I went back to my hotel and sought comfort from Uncle JD and some flu tabs. Before these took effect I checked my guide book for cheap dives, circled a couple for future reference and then zoned out, dreaming of cockroach hotels and starlets. Not really, I actually didn't dream a thing, I was just pissed off that I wasted my good hotel nights on being unwell.