Mixed Drinks
It was a Saturday night in Melbourne. Myself and a partner in crime (Lets call him N), decided to head into St Kilda for a serious snack attack after he finished work. At this stage he was an assistant manager of a pub. I would turn up about an hour before the end of his shift and get beers at mates rates (free).
So after about and hour and a half of free beer we headed to out culinary destination. Toppolinos Pizza was where our stomachs were drawn. Toppo’s was more than a Pizza shop. It is an institution. We stagger in and get a seat near the window so we can watch the passing parade of Yuppies, Clubbers, Junkies, Drunks, Bums and Prostitutes.
Our order was ‘ the largest pizza you’ve got with the lot and a bucket of red wine ‘. We proceeded to gorge our way through a pizza the size of a car tyre while watching a Junkie on the nod try and light a cigarette. She couldn’t quite coordinate the lighting of the flame and the inhaling. Oh well she has got bigger issues to deal with but is just to smashed to realise it.
The only way to get the big fuck off pizza down was to lubricate our throats with copious amounts of House Red Wine. You could run a car on this shit but it is cheap and effective.
By the end of the pizza we were well pissed. Practically rolling out onto the street we hooked a cab and headed home. Drunk and bloated I fell into bed.
About 1am I wake up drier than a dead dingo’s donger in the desert during a drought.
Confused and feeling like a car wreck I headed to the fridge. The half a litre of orange juice didn’t even touch the side as I chugged it down. Back to bed I go. Back to sleep. 2 am I am awake again, dry again. I head to the fridge once again. No juice left. In urgent need of liquid that is not alcoholic I drink half a carton of Milk. Back to bed and sleep again.
3am I awake. My guts are going to explode. The Milk and Juice has curdled. Also the special blend of Pizza, House Red and Beer want out.
I charge out the back door. Up it comes. I yell in pain. Howling at the moon. A piece of pineapple from the pizza goes up the back way and lodges in my nostril. I push down on the other nostril and blow. Like a bullet it hits the ground with a thud. The howling dies down. The flow of matter from my body slows. I catch my breath. Aggghhh another eventful night. The joys of sobering up.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Saturday, November 10, 2007
The Pallbearers
The Pallbearers.
When my grandmother died I wasn’t sure how to feel. She was always a little old lady to me. A great supporter of the English Monarchy which I never understood. At only 5 foot and about 7 stone dripping wet she wasn’t intimidating in any sense of the word. But many people proceeded with caution after a swift clobbering from her ever present umbrella.
The night before the funeral was a get together with all the relatives. Lots of old people I have never seen before constantly telling me how much I have grown. Well when you haven’t seen me since I was 10 I thought that would be pretty obvious. This was one instance where alcohol played a major factor. Well not at the beginning as there was two thirds of bugger all in the place. With Granny not being a drinker and in fact she had a hatred for the Devils Liquid and the people who sinned but consuming it.
A quick round up of the cousins and the Alcohol Relief Team was formed in a matter of seconds. Wallets opened and money exchanged. Two members of the ART slipped silently out the door, into the car and off to the drive through bottle shop. Myself and my other ART member slide open the curtain, went down the stairs and opened the back door. Finally the old fridge in the workshop has come in handy.
Twenty minutes later the ART mobile unit returned with enough beer to sink a battle ship. We open a few bottles and sit around the workshop drinking. The topic of interest turned to who was going to stand where when carrying the coffin. We went for the “dragster” format. The two short guys at the front and two taller guys at the back.
I awoke the next day with looking for the bastard who filled my head with cement and the camel that took a dump in my mouth. Too much and beer and a funeral to get through. Pretty standard for this family.
The service at the church is fairly routine for these matters. It is weird being in a church for me. Reading through the Hymns that are to be sung I manage to get my brother and cousin laughing as I have confused the word Prostrate with Prostate and tell them I think these songs are fucked up.
Anyway the time has come to carry the coffin The Coffin Carrying Crew, which is really just the Alcohol Relief Team, move into their unrehearsed positions. Looking out into the pews from the front is one morbid feeling. Dark, sad, not familiar. My brain races to find a humorous thought to get me through. No time, we have to lift the coffin.
We all bend at the knees. Prepare to lift, LIFT. Groans and grunts, knees crack. How does such a small woman weigh so much in death? Will we make it to the hearse without dropping her?
I am at the front with my brother. I say “ready to walk” his response was “by the feel of this she is taking all her gold with her”. Sunglasses down I face the front, look at the floor and walk. I can’t look anyone in the eye. Not from sadness, not because I will be an emotional wreck. Because I am holding in the laughter. Biting my tongue, biting the insides of my cheeks.
While this may have seemed in bad taste. Grandma wouldn’t have expected anything less from her Grandchildren.
When my grandmother died I wasn’t sure how to feel. She was always a little old lady to me. A great supporter of the English Monarchy which I never understood. At only 5 foot and about 7 stone dripping wet she wasn’t intimidating in any sense of the word. But many people proceeded with caution after a swift clobbering from her ever present umbrella.
The night before the funeral was a get together with all the relatives. Lots of old people I have never seen before constantly telling me how much I have grown. Well when you haven’t seen me since I was 10 I thought that would be pretty obvious. This was one instance where alcohol played a major factor. Well not at the beginning as there was two thirds of bugger all in the place. With Granny not being a drinker and in fact she had a hatred for the Devils Liquid and the people who sinned but consuming it.
A quick round up of the cousins and the Alcohol Relief Team was formed in a matter of seconds. Wallets opened and money exchanged. Two members of the ART slipped silently out the door, into the car and off to the drive through bottle shop. Myself and my other ART member slide open the curtain, went down the stairs and opened the back door. Finally the old fridge in the workshop has come in handy.
Twenty minutes later the ART mobile unit returned with enough beer to sink a battle ship. We open a few bottles and sit around the workshop drinking. The topic of interest turned to who was going to stand where when carrying the coffin. We went for the “dragster” format. The two short guys at the front and two taller guys at the back.
I awoke the next day with looking for the bastard who filled my head with cement and the camel that took a dump in my mouth. Too much and beer and a funeral to get through. Pretty standard for this family.
The service at the church is fairly routine for these matters. It is weird being in a church for me. Reading through the Hymns that are to be sung I manage to get my brother and cousin laughing as I have confused the word Prostrate with Prostate and tell them I think these songs are fucked up.
Anyway the time has come to carry the coffin The Coffin Carrying Crew, which is really just the Alcohol Relief Team, move into their unrehearsed positions. Looking out into the pews from the front is one morbid feeling. Dark, sad, not familiar. My brain races to find a humorous thought to get me through. No time, we have to lift the coffin.
We all bend at the knees. Prepare to lift, LIFT. Groans and grunts, knees crack. How does such a small woman weigh so much in death? Will we make it to the hearse without dropping her?
I am at the front with my brother. I say “ready to walk” his response was “by the feel of this she is taking all her gold with her”. Sunglasses down I face the front, look at the floor and walk. I can’t look anyone in the eye. Not from sadness, not because I will be an emotional wreck. Because I am holding in the laughter. Biting my tongue, biting the insides of my cheeks.
While this may have seemed in bad taste. Grandma wouldn’t have expected anything less from her Grandchildren.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Monday Bloody Monday
Monday Bloody Monday
No one likes Mondays. There have been many a work day missed, many a productive hour wasted and a plethora of swear words spoken in the small hours of this bastard of a day. Even songs have been written about how people go loco on Mondays. Boomtown Rats anyone?
The sound of Caribbean kettle drums filled my ears. Well the tinny digital imitation sound of Caribbean kettle drums emanated from my mobile phone alerting me to the painful fact it was 5.30am. Bloody Monday.
My rust coloured Rodhesian Ridgeback friend was poking his eyes over the edge of his oval shaped bed to see if I was actually going to get up. His tail started thumping slowly then increasing in tempo not unlike the “encouragement clap” fast bowlers get in One Day Cricket matches. Bloody Mondays.
I got up, threw some clothes on and headed to the back door flipping the switch on the electric jug as I passed. He was already there performing his two spins and sit, then repeat dance routine. I clicked open the latch and he launched himself into the backyard mid spin. Back in the kitchen the jug had boiled. I combined too much coffee with too much sugar with not enough hot water and attempted to even it all out with milk. Bloody Mondays.
I looked out the back window. As the caffeine began to jolt around and awaken my insides I saw my fur coated companion stop, squat and evacuate his bowels leaving a steaming hot number two on the dirt. There use to be grass but endless possum chasing saw an end to that. I slid my feet into a pair of slippers, Yeah slippers, cheap warm slippers similar to those worn by the Honorable Abe Simpson. I headed out to the back shed. With shovel in hand I commenced the daily ritual known as Poo Patrol. While scooping up the mornings deposits I attempted to balance it on the shovel. I turned to make my way towards the compost heap when my slipper slid. Yes, it slid…in shit. 5.45am, coffee not yet kicked in fully and already stepped in dog shit in my slippers. Bloody Mondays.
I scrapped off his organic gift and gave the slipper a wash. I headed back inside. What’s the last thing you want to hear do you think? That’s right. Your partner pissing herself laughing at you for stepping on a dog made landmine. For everyone’s benefit and wellbeing she ran to another room to continue laughing but not just in my face. Bloody Mondays.
To continue with my fine day I shit, showered but didn’t shave. After this mornings efforts I wasn’t putting a 70 cent disposable razor anywhere near my throat.
I grabbed my bag and made my way to work. A warm windy Spring morning ensured the pollen was flying about thick and fast. By the time I got to the warehouse my nose was blocked, then dripping then back to being blocked again. My eyes were watering and my throat felt like it had a permanent scratch down it. Welcome to Heyfever Country.
Bloody Mondays.
At my job I can’t avoid being outside. As long as their isn’t lightning hitting the ground within one mile I am out there. It still beats being stuck in front of a computer or on a production line all day long. I was stacking palletised stock as I unloaded it from the semi trailer. I spun the forklift around and was on my return to the truck. I had my mouth open as I couldn’t breathe through my nose. I had no line of defense as a fly entered my mouth on a kamikaze mission towards my stomach. I hit the brakes. I could feel the filthy little insect in my throat. The Truckie was staring wondering why I had stopped working. I kept my mouth open and with a half cough half dry wretch I sent the fly and a wad of bile and mucus on a rapid decent to the concrete. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, turned to the Truckie and said “Bastard Flys”, he replied “Yeah pricks of things aren’t they” and with a raise of the eyebrows we went back to work. Bloody Mondays.
At the end of work I punched out and drove home. As I came in the front door my girlfriends shadow was charging my way. Her shadow is a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and is all muscle and excitement. She rears up on her hind legs and whilst at the perfect height slams both her front paws into my balls sending me to to the floor in the fetal position. Bloody Mondays
I told my girlfriend about my day since her giggling at me when I was on Poo Patrol. She suggested we take it easy and grab a pizza for dinner. This was the best thing I had heard all day. As we began to eat she started laughing at me again. Not in the mood for any shit I glared at her and boomed “What??”. With a look of pity on her face she replied “Your nose is bleeding”. That was it. I was done, beaten, defeated. I didn’t have the energy to yell, laugh, cry or smash anything. I tore a piece of my paper napkin off, rolled it up and shoved it up my right nostril and continued eating my pizza. With laughter still coming from the other side of the table I simply waved the white flag of surrender. You just can’t beat Mondays. Bloody Mondays.
No one likes Mondays. There have been many a work day missed, many a productive hour wasted and a plethora of swear words spoken in the small hours of this bastard of a day. Even songs have been written about how people go loco on Mondays. Boomtown Rats anyone?
The sound of Caribbean kettle drums filled my ears. Well the tinny digital imitation sound of Caribbean kettle drums emanated from my mobile phone alerting me to the painful fact it was 5.30am. Bloody Monday.
My rust coloured Rodhesian Ridgeback friend was poking his eyes over the edge of his oval shaped bed to see if I was actually going to get up. His tail started thumping slowly then increasing in tempo not unlike the “encouragement clap” fast bowlers get in One Day Cricket matches. Bloody Mondays.
I got up, threw some clothes on and headed to the back door flipping the switch on the electric jug as I passed. He was already there performing his two spins and sit, then repeat dance routine. I clicked open the latch and he launched himself into the backyard mid spin. Back in the kitchen the jug had boiled. I combined too much coffee with too much sugar with not enough hot water and attempted to even it all out with milk. Bloody Mondays.
I looked out the back window. As the caffeine began to jolt around and awaken my insides I saw my fur coated companion stop, squat and evacuate his bowels leaving a steaming hot number two on the dirt. There use to be grass but endless possum chasing saw an end to that. I slid my feet into a pair of slippers, Yeah slippers, cheap warm slippers similar to those worn by the Honorable Abe Simpson. I headed out to the back shed. With shovel in hand I commenced the daily ritual known as Poo Patrol. While scooping up the mornings deposits I attempted to balance it on the shovel. I turned to make my way towards the compost heap when my slipper slid. Yes, it slid…in shit. 5.45am, coffee not yet kicked in fully and already stepped in dog shit in my slippers. Bloody Mondays.
I scrapped off his organic gift and gave the slipper a wash. I headed back inside. What’s the last thing you want to hear do you think? That’s right. Your partner pissing herself laughing at you for stepping on a dog made landmine. For everyone’s benefit and wellbeing she ran to another room to continue laughing but not just in my face. Bloody Mondays.
To continue with my fine day I shit, showered but didn’t shave. After this mornings efforts I wasn’t putting a 70 cent disposable razor anywhere near my throat.
I grabbed my bag and made my way to work. A warm windy Spring morning ensured the pollen was flying about thick and fast. By the time I got to the warehouse my nose was blocked, then dripping then back to being blocked again. My eyes were watering and my throat felt like it had a permanent scratch down it. Welcome to Heyfever Country.
Bloody Mondays.
At my job I can’t avoid being outside. As long as their isn’t lightning hitting the ground within one mile I am out there. It still beats being stuck in front of a computer or on a production line all day long. I was stacking palletised stock as I unloaded it from the semi trailer. I spun the forklift around and was on my return to the truck. I had my mouth open as I couldn’t breathe through my nose. I had no line of defense as a fly entered my mouth on a kamikaze mission towards my stomach. I hit the brakes. I could feel the filthy little insect in my throat. The Truckie was staring wondering why I had stopped working. I kept my mouth open and with a half cough half dry wretch I sent the fly and a wad of bile and mucus on a rapid decent to the concrete. I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, turned to the Truckie and said “Bastard Flys”, he replied “Yeah pricks of things aren’t they” and with a raise of the eyebrows we went back to work. Bloody Mondays.
At the end of work I punched out and drove home. As I came in the front door my girlfriends shadow was charging my way. Her shadow is a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and is all muscle and excitement. She rears up on her hind legs and whilst at the perfect height slams both her front paws into my balls sending me to to the floor in the fetal position. Bloody Mondays
I told my girlfriend about my day since her giggling at me when I was on Poo Patrol. She suggested we take it easy and grab a pizza for dinner. This was the best thing I had heard all day. As we began to eat she started laughing at me again. Not in the mood for any shit I glared at her and boomed “What??”. With a look of pity on her face she replied “Your nose is bleeding”. That was it. I was done, beaten, defeated. I didn’t have the energy to yell, laugh, cry or smash anything. I tore a piece of my paper napkin off, rolled it up and shoved it up my right nostril and continued eating my pizza. With laughter still coming from the other side of the table I simply waved the white flag of surrender. You just can’t beat Mondays. Bloody Mondays.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Shedding Skin
Shedding Skin
If you think that humans don’t shed skin think again. Well ok maybe we don’t shed skin in the same manner as snakes. Or maybe it is just me battering my body through what is called Life Experiences.
I had just started high school. I was at the stage where rivalry with older sibling was high. Abuse towards each other, fist fights it was all the usual bullshit.
I was sitting out the front of our house with a few friends. My older brother and a few of his friends rocked up. Now I can’t quite recall how push came to shove. Probably starting from the all too familiar shit stirring. Anyway being the cheeky little shits we were a thumping was going to come our way. But this time the thumping took a different form.
I was forced onto my knees with my hands held behind my back. A bicycle was bought into the equation. The back wheel of the bike was lifted of the ground. A hand rotated the pedals. The wheel spun faster and faster towards my face. I thought shit is they are trying to scare me it is working. I even declared that I give up. But knowing this was my brother no serious harm would be done.
How wrong I was. The spinning bike tire came into contact with me nose. Hot, burning sensations, extreme pain. The rubber trey had removed the skin from my nose. The blood curdling scream came from my guts and out my mouth. The looks on the faces of the people who did this was shock. I don’t think they even knew what the end result was going to be. I had the injury but they had the nightmares. Time leap to about 7 years later. 19 years old and on a surfing trip down the coast. Camping at the same spot we did every long weekend / holiday. The wind has picked up and the waves are nothing great so we leave the boards behind and go in for a body bash.
We all swim out past the breakers to shake out the cobwebs. Everyone is in good spirits as we are all heading to the pub tonight for the traditional New Years Eve drink-a-thon.
The waves start to come through in sets and body surfing takes our focus. After a few waves I swim a little further out. Here is my wave. I am getting this. Nothing else matters. I swim for it. The wave picks me up. I have it. I am on it. I throw my arms out wide and bring them around like a swan dive.
Shit, what’s that?!?! That wasn’t there when I took off and had some control. A friend of mine is swimming out right in front of me. I yell, he yells. He duck dives under me but it is too late. The wave takes control sending me skimming over the top of him.
My nose comes into contact with his wetsuit zipper. I feel pain, even with all the water around I feel my eyes water.
After I stop tumbling I stand up. My eyes catch something hanging off my face. As an instinctive reaction I grab it and pull.
FUCK….there goes all the skin of my nose.
I am not an attractive sight at the pub that night. I drink myself into oblivion and repeat the story over and over again for other people’s amusement.
I wake up with my face stuck to my pillow. Peel it off. Grab my board and go surfing again.
The skin always grows back and the stories always get a laugh.
If you think that humans don’t shed skin think again. Well ok maybe we don’t shed skin in the same manner as snakes. Or maybe it is just me battering my body through what is called Life Experiences.
I had just started high school. I was at the stage where rivalry with older sibling was high. Abuse towards each other, fist fights it was all the usual bullshit.
I was sitting out the front of our house with a few friends. My older brother and a few of his friends rocked up. Now I can’t quite recall how push came to shove. Probably starting from the all too familiar shit stirring. Anyway being the cheeky little shits we were a thumping was going to come our way. But this time the thumping took a different form.
I was forced onto my knees with my hands held behind my back. A bicycle was bought into the equation. The back wheel of the bike was lifted of the ground. A hand rotated the pedals. The wheel spun faster and faster towards my face. I thought shit is they are trying to scare me it is working. I even declared that I give up. But knowing this was my brother no serious harm would be done.
How wrong I was. The spinning bike tire came into contact with me nose. Hot, burning sensations, extreme pain. The rubber trey had removed the skin from my nose. The blood curdling scream came from my guts and out my mouth. The looks on the faces of the people who did this was shock. I don’t think they even knew what the end result was going to be. I had the injury but they had the nightmares. Time leap to about 7 years later. 19 years old and on a surfing trip down the coast. Camping at the same spot we did every long weekend / holiday. The wind has picked up and the waves are nothing great so we leave the boards behind and go in for a body bash.
We all swim out past the breakers to shake out the cobwebs. Everyone is in good spirits as we are all heading to the pub tonight for the traditional New Years Eve drink-a-thon.
The waves start to come through in sets and body surfing takes our focus. After a few waves I swim a little further out. Here is my wave. I am getting this. Nothing else matters. I swim for it. The wave picks me up. I have it. I am on it. I throw my arms out wide and bring them around like a swan dive.
Shit, what’s that?!?! That wasn’t there when I took off and had some control. A friend of mine is swimming out right in front of me. I yell, he yells. He duck dives under me but it is too late. The wave takes control sending me skimming over the top of him.
My nose comes into contact with his wetsuit zipper. I feel pain, even with all the water around I feel my eyes water.
After I stop tumbling I stand up. My eyes catch something hanging off my face. As an instinctive reaction I grab it and pull.
FUCK….there goes all the skin of my nose.
I am not an attractive sight at the pub that night. I drink myself into oblivion and repeat the story over and over again for other people’s amusement.
I wake up with my face stuck to my pillow. Peel it off. Grab my board and go surfing again.
The skin always grows back and the stories always get a laugh.
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