Keep Off The Grass

Keep Off The Grass
Read the following list and see how many names you can tick off the list as knowing. Sir Walter, Tall Fescue, Conquest Couch, Kikuyu and Grand Prix. If you answered yes to even one of these then you are part of the problem instead of the solution. If you don’t recognise any of the names on the list there is a good chance you are guilty by way of ignorance. Now before you get out your Dictionary or start Googling Sir Walter I will help you out. They are all types of your new enemy. Lawn, yes common every day, dare I say it, garden variety, lawn.
So why do we have lawns in the first place? Just what purpose does it serve? You create a patchwork quilt with your lawn and then leave your car parked out on the street so the local kids have something to graffiti on. You don’t need a lawn for the kids to play on either as all the kids these days never go outside due to the fact that they need to be surgically removed from their Playstations and Xbox’s or are poking the living daylights out of each other on Facebook.
People who have a lawn crafted to perfection never let you on it anyway. The type of people who would lay red carpet over their lawn so they don’t have to replace any divots.
So what you need to do is destroy your lawn. Not just cut it back but a total slash and burn. If you have dogs then let them loose as they will turn it into a dustbowl race track and eliminate that pesky grass for you. Whatever you do the grass must go.
Now before the “Save the Planet” sloganeering, bicycle riding, sandal wearing, green menaces start protesting on the land where my lawn use to be and lodging lawsuits against me for the alleged murder of Mother Nature. I am not a total Eco-terrorist and you bastards are trespassing anyway!
So now your backyard looks like an open cut mine it is time to ensure you never have lawn again.
Growing food is a lot more beneficial and productive than having the equivalent of the 18th hole at St Andrews at your back door. Plant spinach instead of Conquest Couch and you have something that looks nice, has larger green surface area to create greater photosynthesis and also good to eat. Unless your family bloodlines include Bovine then you might argue the point that grass is better. But if that is the case you probably have Mad Cow Disease and aren’t thinking straight anyway. Planting a whole vegetable garden has benefits too. Sure is takes some work to maintain but what would you rather do on your day off? Get out in your garden and admire your fresh food growing brilliance or go to the Supermarket to fight for a carpark, push a trolley with crooked wheels, have the urge to yell at other people’s children and queue up for hours only to find half your food isn’t fresh by the time you get home.
It also it eliminates the need to spend your day off mowing. People don’t get to work on a Monday morning and announce they can’t wait for Sunday to come round again so they can get out the ride on mower that now costs more than a Hummer to run and create crop circles in their yard to impress the neighbours who really couldn’t care less.

To finish up what we need less of is all these garden rescue and renovation shows on television. This only encourages people into attempting to achieve the ridiculous. They do not serve any purpose other than making you max out your credit card at the local hardware and nursery. You come home with enough wood to build Noah’s Ark in the hope of a creating a rear decking that the Rolling Stones could hold a concert on in the space where the lemon tree use to be. They convince you a pergola the size of the Colosseum is just what your yard needs as well. Then to top it off they want to decorate it better than any room in your entire house.
I know I have never look at my backyard and thought “Hmmm that’s it !, I need more cushions!”

S.W.M. - Seeks Peace and Quiet.

S.W.M. – Seeks Peace and Quiet.

When you come out of a relationship you usually turn to your friends for emotional and moral support. Whether it be someone to just sit and listen to you complain about the last so many days, months or years of your life or someone to hit the town with, get completely smashed and act in a manner that definitely would not attract a new partner. For the females someone to hold the hair out of your face, while you expel the contents of your stomach after a night of nachos and Tequila. During these tough and uncertain times we all seem to think we can determine who our real friends are. Those who will stick by you through thick and thin, will drag you out of the pits of despair, stop you from getting arrested and take a bullet for you. But you soon find out that all you want is for most of your friends to take a bullet and leave you in peace.

All your friends have utterly ridiculous ideas that they shove down your throat under the banner of “good intentions”. They all have a best friend, a relative, a friend at work or the neighbours mother’s sister in law’s step daughter’s cousin who they think would be a perfect match for you and that you should commence planning a wedding right away. What gives people the idea that the very first thing you want to do after ending a relationship is to immediately start another with someone who sounds too good to be true. Ever noticed that the most suitable people on the planet have never met the right person? That speaks volumes in itself. If they really are that good then why are they still single and why hasn’t your friend started dating them? I will tell you why. It is a sympathy set up. Find two people down on their luck and stick them together in an attempt to make two wrongs equal a right. What is wrong with being single for a while? Enjoy the freedom of being yourself. Doing what you want, when you want, how you want, with who you want. I will tell you what is wrong with it. Your friends hate it. It makes them cringe and lose sleep. This is why they will try and deprive you of it. They are jealous that you can do all the things they can’t. The can’t stay out all night then sleep in until noon, go two days without bathing and have banana and baked bean toasted sandwiches on the living room floor while watching re-runs of COPS on television. I will give you this tip for free; whoever can bottle “no responsibility” will make themselves a fortune.

When I came out of a long-term relationship last year I thought I would try and beat my friends to the punch and made a general address to the Nation. I said
“I want to be single for the next year. I am not on the market. I am not available. I do not wish to know about any perfect matches, be set up or to go on blind dates. I do not want to be sent links to internet dating sites nor have friends make a profile on one for me in my best interest. I want to go surfing. I want go out and have a good time with friends. I want to sit around in my boxer shorts, drinking beer and watching Clint Eastwood Westerns”

I thought this was pretty clear but it seems to have been interpreted as “I am desperate and single please tell all your friends and do your best to introduce me to them in the most difficult and uncomfortable circumstances.”

Often when you are conned into a blind date or you are invited along to make up the numbers the only thing you have in common with your new future partner is the fact you both think that your friends are ignorant imbeciles for believing this obvious set up would work in the first place. You get told the day after about how they saw you laughing and enjoying yourself with their friend they set you up with. It slays them when you tell them you were both laughing at the short comings and inadequacies of the very people who thought you would be a match.

Your friends always know what’s best for you. The only comfort you have is knowing that when they end up single you will be as painful as they have been. This will all be under the good intentions banner of “returning the favour”.
There is no escape from this behaviour. Your viewpoint and actions all depend on your current relationship status. You think you will be different when your time arrives to help, but you won’t. It is all part of our desire to help and the idea that we know exactly what other people want and that we know best.

There has to be something in all of this though. We seem to have longer lasting friendships than relationships no matter how much our friends push our sanity.

With friends like these who needs enemas?

Coffee - It's Not An Artform

Coffee – It’s not an art form.

I just want a coffee. A nice steaming, hot, comforting mug of black coffee is all I want. Is that too much to ask? We apparently so! Try ordering one next time you are in a café and see what happens. You will spend more time answering questions in relation to how different you would like your coffee from the way in which you have ordered it. It is easier to choose a program from 200 channels of cable television than it is to order a coffee. Does anyone really know what a Grande double shot non-fat extra caffeinated vanilla soy latte is anyway?


We need coffee to wake up in the morning. It is all part of the process, part of the way the earth keeps turning and part of the socially acceptable addiction we enjoy. So the last thing we need is to recite the equivalent of Pythagoras Theorem at 6am to someone who is one of those insanely happy “morning people”. But I am sure if you went into a cafe stated your order as “In a right angled triangle the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides” then the machine and it’s overly excitable operator would spring into life and they would whip up a caffeinated concoction, that even N.A.S.A. scientists would have a difficult time deciphering, then smilingly charge you five bucks for it. There is just too much choice which mean can only mean there is no longer a focus on the standard black coffee thus reducing its quality.


Once you have finally worked out the way your coffee is to be made the next bone of contention is what you will drink it out of. Firstly I think is it an absolute insult to charge you for a coffee then put it into a Styrofoam or cardboard cup. This is a crime against humanity the same way serving beer in plastic cups is. It should be an indictable offence with a minimum penalty of being savaged by wild dogs. You wouldn’t buy a crystal vase and package it in barbed wire so why make a quality coffee and treat it with such contempt. Now when I am having my coffee inside an establishment I want a mug with a handle. A big mug with a big handle. I don’t want my coffee in a glass that ends up hot enough to fuse my fingers to the side of it. I don’t want a cup that is about as deep as a saucer with a handle so small you can’t even put your smallest finger through it. Remember we are attempting to drink these while still half asleep so the required dexterity isn’t always quite with us.
While we are at it don’t get fooled into these so-called large coffees they sell these days. They charge you an extra buck or two and all they do is add more water. It is a “larger” coffee not a “stronger” one. So in effect you have just paid extra for a weaker coffee. Include robbed while asleep to the list of charges.


So let’s keep it simple when it comes to our coffee. Coffee doesn’t need to be confusing. Confusion is the very thing we create from consuming too much coffee.
So how do we solve all this hassle without becoming one of the boring, socially inept and often deluded tea consumers that try to convince you tea is good for you? Simply buy some good quality coffee, a big mug, a $60 percolator and make your own at home. Don’t be fooled into believing that making coffee is an art form.
Wake up and smell the coffee people! Or as in most cases, drink the coffee and wake up while smelling that sweet and powerful Arabica bean scent of victory!

WARNING: LOGIC AHEAD

WARNING: LOGIC AHEAD
Warning, Caution, Beware, Look Up, Look Down, Mind Your Step, Do Not Cross, Very Hot, Very Cold, Slippery When Wet, Danger, Slow Down, Stop.
Warning Signs, they are everywhere. I recommend we do away with the lot of them before the human race begins a descent into complacent stupidity. Replace the Warning Signs with a few standard signs like "Think" or "What is your common sense telling you right now Captain Obvious?"
Better yet have no signs at all
Our daily lives have been taken over with signs telling us what not to do and to be careful to the point of not doing anything. This is eroding our built in survival instinct. One of the very few things, besides opposable thumbs, that keep us at the top of the food chain.
Sure if there are no signs the stupid people of the world might injure, maim and kill themselves, but if they are daft enough to stick their head out of a moving train then I don’t think there's really much hope for them anyway. Say this out loud and tell me if you disagree. "I am happy to leave my small children in the care of someone who sticks their head out of a moving train" Ok, so we all agree, no big loss to the species.
One warning sign I did see was on a standard queens size bed electric blanket. The warning was about number seven in a list of ten things not to do with the blanket, including getting the blanket wet. If you still piss the bed you shouldn’t be lying on anything with the word "electric" in the title.
The instructions on how to use the blanket correctly were shorter than the list of warnings. The warning stated in bold font "DO NOT STICK PINS INTO BLANKET". Now I have slept in quite a few different beds of my own and in various places both here and overseas. From the expensive, hand folded down corners, with a mint chocolate on the pillow type of beds to the cheap as chips, is lucky if you don’t get scabies backpacker bunks. At no time I have ever come across a need to stick pins into the bed. So why is this warning required? It is required because some mental midget in a moment of what they thought was exceptional brilliance has stuck pins into the blanket and electrocuted himself or herself. The Company now has to place such a warning tag to prevent any further lawsuits against them. I think that person should have been grateful, as had they not been electrocuted they would have been stuck with pins during their sleep with no one to blame but themselves and more than likely pissed the bed as well.

Takeaway coffee is another one that has warnings that are just astounding to the average caffeine consumer. The lids now have either "CAUTION: HOT CONTENTS" or "CAUTION: CONTENTS MAY BE HOT" embossed on top. Now lets take a moment here. You have just stood in line at a crappy, little, trying to be oh so different café near your work because you were too lazy to make yourself a cup of coffee at home before you left. You have ordered a coffee so you would expect the contents to be hot. I will say repeat that just in case is was too simple a statement. You have ordered a coffee so you would expect the contents to be hot. You would be pissed off if it were cold. I fail to see the need for a warning. If you order a coffee and spill it on yourself resulting in scolds and burns then that will certainly serve as a reminder for next time, more so than any embossed warning message.


Another device with a warning tag that beggared belief was a Heat Gun I was using to strip paint off the side of a house. It is a hand held electric device that you plug into the 240volt socket and switch it on. (Numpties take note: there is that word "electric" again)
It heats up and blows excessively hot air in a measured flow. You hold this near the paint and as the paint bubbles you slide the paint scraper along and the paint comes off in one easy motion.
It has a warning tag "DO NOT USE AS A HAIR DRYER". This gadget melts bloody paint so why on earth would you stick it near you head? The person that did stick it in the direction of their cranium deserves the third degree burns and what small brains they had to be seeping out of their skull. They should maybe stick to collecting stamps and leave the house renovations to the Boy Scouts who probably have a patch advising that they are competent with said device.
So in summary we should remove all the Warning Signs and those of us who don’t have to buy a clue can get on with making this species great and those who can’t keep pace will fall by the wayside in a generation or two.
In 1859 Charles Darwin gave us his Theory of Natural Selection. Imagine how far ahead we could be if we didn’t stunt our growth with warning signs.

Saturday Sinning

Saturday Sinning
Most Saturday afternoons when I was a teenager meant having to make your own fun. Where I use to live there was two thirds of fuck all to do. There was a skate ramp/half pipe at the local oval but the council in their infinite wisdom soon moved that to an area that was pretty much inaccessible for people without cars. They may as well have just pulled the ramp down as none of us could get to it.
One Saturday afternoon a couple of mates that lived close by and myself decided to go and kick the footy at the park at the end of the street. We had done this many times before and used the park as a short cut to get to each other’s houses.
We were attempting to be football heroes as best we could when striding across the grass toward us came the Priest from the local church and school that back onto the park.
Now I thought Priests were supposed to be nice people. But after the waving of arms, finger pointing and crap about private property and trespassing I thought this guy was a total prick. It is not like there were any fences or signs.
So a game of cat and mouse ensued. We would walk off and he would walk in the opposite direction. Just as he almost at the church we would walk back on the grass, kick the footy, get chased off and so on.
I was pretty pissed off with this Priest and over the coming weeks we would skate through the Catholic school on our skateboards. With the money they had it was the smoothest concrete surface in the neighbourhood. It was actually more like a race than a cruisey skate. The slowest skater usually had to put up with the Fire and Brimstone lecture from the Priest while the rest of us laughed from a distance.
A friend of mine went to the school there and the Priest told his mother that he was one of the culprits. Upon hearing this, his mother grounded him. It would have been funnier if he actually did it. His mother wouldn’t believe all he did was skate past the school not through it. He wouldn’t skate through it. He was scared of the Priest.
Boredom and anger lead to thoughts of revenge.
A week later we were on our bikes circling the church and school with no apparent plot just a desire to stick it to the man. I don’t know where the idea came from but soon as I heard it I thought ‘shit yeah!"
Three of us broke away from the rest of the group and road into the school grounds. We saw our destiny before us. The side door to the church was open. I was the second through and was pumped on adrenalin and quite possibly a few swigs of Southern Comfort. We rode across the front aisle up onto the platform where the alter is. Then jumped the bikes off there and between the first row of pews and the altar. Turning down the main aisle my mate in front had to hit the brakes. This caused the gleaming red carpet to bunch up and the rest of us to slow down. The laughing and wolf howls began but stopped as quickly as they started. The Priest had come in through the other side door and he didn’t look like he was ready to "spread the good word". We took off as fast as our feet could peddle us towards the main entrance. I heard my mate close behind me yelling "Go, go, go" just as I was riding out the main door I heard him yell "Protestants one, Catholics nil!"
After a non stop power ride back to a safe house with the rest of the crew demanding to know what happened and what the rush to get out of there was. We collapsed in a puffing heap and told them of our close encounter with the Devil in God’s cloth.
We were on roll, we had to maintain the rage. Full of teen angst, bravado and more Southern Comfort we made a commando raid under the cover of darkness.
I wonder what went through the Priests mind that evening as he returned from his outing? His head lights came across the front yard as he pulled into his driveway to see three mysterious figures putting his three meter Cross in the ground…upside down!!
Thank God I am an atheist.

Yesterdays Heroes

Yesterdays Heroes

Playing the drums has always been a passion of mine. I started playing when I was about twelve or thirteen years old. There were plenty of other kids at school into music so getting a band together should have been easy. In my case it was made easier by the fact that there was only myself and one other drummer in the entire school. The advantage I had over the other drummer was that I learnt to read drum scores. Of course every guitarist wanted to be the cock rockin lead guitarist in any band that would have them. Usually the least talented guitarist would be relegated to playing bass and no one had the guts to sing.
In the last year I was at high school the music class from each year level would perform a song at the end of year school concert. These songs were always fucking painful. Dire Straits, Robert Palmer, Cindy Lauper and other parent friendly crap my memory has graciously deleted.
The music teacher, Mr. C, was a pretty cool bloke. Better then most teachers I had come across. He treated you as an equal not as a subordinate. Coming near the end of the school year he got a group of individuals from different year levels together for a chat.
"Look guys" he said "these end of year concerts really need a lift. All you guys have talent and don’t listen to mainstream music. I want you to use the rehearsal room every lunch time and come up with a cover song to end the night with a bang"
So the pressure was on. What song to do? Who will sing? We made the choice of vocalist pretty easy. "We aren’t playing any song with fucking keyboards in it" stated Leon. "Alright, fuck it, I will sing" announced Angus realizing that with no keyboards he had no place in the band. Now that’s band democracy at work. It turns out Angus had a top notch voice when it comes to screaming ! We were told by Mr. C that songs with explicit language wouldn’t be acceptable. Considering 90% of this make shift band were punks and metal-heads this left us pretty stumped for choices.
Seven lunchtimes later and a shitload of noise we still hadn’t progressed anywhere. Then the song fell right into our laps while playing a few tapes. "Fuck yeah" was the general consensus. We ran the song by Mr. C for censorship approval. OK the punk ethic says fuck censorship but to us it also meant fuck wasting time on a song we won’t get to finish playing anyway. With a sly grin that made him look craftier than a shithouse rat with a gold tooth, Mr. C said "Perfect guys, practice the hell out of it, nail it and I will put you on last"
So practice we did. We lived and breathed that song. As the two guitarists couldn’t decided who was going to play the lead solo we made the solo twice as long so they could each play it once. Now that’s cock rock !
The night of the concert was upon us. We managed to keep what we were doing a secret. Mr. C didn’t tell the principal anymore than "A surprise finish" The school assembly hall was filled with Mr. and Mrs. Average who had come to watch Son and Daughter Average butcher songs like never before then give a rousing applause at the end as convention dictates. I believe they were clapping the fact that the pain and humiliation was over. I was watching the audience from back stage. So many parents with fingers in their ears. Finally the sensory deprivation Music Classes ended and the curtains closed.
As we started setting up you could hear the murmurs and mumbles get curiously louder as the Marshall Amps and distortion pedals were plugged in and switched on.
Ready ! The curtain flies up. The twin guitars crank out the intro riff, the bass and drums thump in together as to the wall of school musical heresy begins. The hall filled with the blasting noise that is Black Sabbaths "Paranoid".
Parents were holding there children in fear of their safety. Angus was up front belting out the lyrics with veins in his neck and head about to burst, pointing an angry fist at the most vulnerable adults in the audience. We had created chaos, nothing was stopping us. We drove that song like there was no tomorrow. The guitars squealed through the solo’s and set chunky rhythms during the versus. Ending with a huge crash and bash open "E" full noise roar backed up with drum rolls. Kids yelling their heads off and parents looking around for a higher being to save them.
At the end of the song the Principal was virtually speechless at the microphone center stage. Mr. C was standing up behind the mixing desk with that big crafty smile giving us the two thumbs up sign. He came up to us while parents were still trying to regain their senses and control of their children and said "It sounded great, they might hate you but you will be the most remembered band of the night"
I went home that night feeling on top of the word. We had fucked the system and that’s what playing music should be all about.

Midlife

Midlife

I have been thinking seriously about having a midlife crisis.
Now I am talking about a ‘crisis’ here not a ‘breakdown’. A crisis where attempt to recapture your youth in a bizarre display of purchasing items you can’t afford to impress people you don’t like and sticking a middle finger up at mainstream society. As opposed to a breakdown where you flip out and decide that a loaded firearm is just what you need to get your point across to those ignorant work colleagues on a Monday morning.
It seems that it is mainly married men who have a midlife crisis so that is one box I don’t get to tick on my application. Will it affect my chances of having a successful crisis? Only time will tell.
Married guys usually send out early signals that they are on their way to midlife ridicule. They stand there with a Cascade Premium Light beer in hand, keep a straight face and tell you why going up to their eyeballs in debt to buy a two door European sports convertible was a good idea. That fact they have a wife, three kids and a Golden Retriever to be ferried around all becomes null and void once they are cruising with the roof down feeling the wind in their ever-thinning hair.
So being single I shouldn’t have any problems with thing like an immediate family getting in the way of my intended rebellion. I don’t want to do the sports car thing as my crisis may be mistaken for me just turning into a pretentious wanker. I have thought about the Kombi Van and surfboard combination but the last thing the general beach going public needs is seeing my blubber squeezed into a rubber suit and rolling around in the shallows like a clubbed seal. I don’t see taking up golf as having a crisis either. That is more a statement that your life is completely over and you are just waiting to die. I believe the word "Golf’ is Latin for "Dead Man Walking". Taking up cycling has been mentioned to me as an option but once again it doesn’t scream "up yours world, I am out of here". Sure it is your thing if you like shaving your legs, squeezing your lolly bag into some Lycra shorts, hanging around a café and swapping chaffing stories with your other delusional friends. But that’s just being pathetic not having a crisis.
My crisis needs a motto like "Born to Lose and Still Lose". I need to quit my job, buy a Harley Davidson Fat Boy, grow a pony tail and get a girlfriend half my age. But just as I think my days of being a loose cannon are about to come rushing back I hit a few hurdles. If I quit my job I won’t be able to afford the repayments on the Harley and the important fact I can’t ride a motorbike really puts the brakes on that idea. I have shaved my head ever since I was 16 so I don’t think I will be getting a pony tail anytime soon and let’s face it guys with long hair are, well, quite frankly, a little fruity. As for the girlfriend half my age, well that’s just ten kinds of creepy.
So where to now? I can’t even pull off a midlife crisis so what hope is there for me. I may not be able to ride a motorbike but I am more than capable around all types of semi and fully automatic firearms. Perhaps I am more suited to a breakdown? Monday at work is looking better already!

1999 - The Year My Arse Broke

1999 - The Year My Arse Broke.

The year was 1999 and Easter was approaching. Now Easter means two thirds of fuck all to me except getting a few public holidays and some paid time off work. I had some friends coming up to Sydney to visit from Melbourne. On the Monday before Good Friday I started feeling pretty crap in the guts and that night I enjoyed a profuse sweating and soaring fever. I enjoyed the same again Tuesday night with my guts hurting even more. By Wednesday I realized I hadn’t taken a shit for about 30 hours. Unusual for a guy who is pretty regular. "Bloody constipation" I thought. That’s what I wrote this episode off as even though I have never been constipated before I thought this is what it must feel like. So I took a few laxatives to get things moving again but to no avail. I blamed dodgey marketing for that.
Wednesday afternoon I rang the local Medical Clinic and said I want to see a Doctor pretty quick. I explained the pain I was in. I got in straight away as it was only 5 minutes down the road. I told the Doctor all the symptoms and where and how much it hurts. He scatched his head, takes my blood pressure, inserts a tongue depressor and made me say "UUAARRGGHH", Then he lay me down on the bed and pressed all over my guts while asking "does it hurt here?"
"YES",
"What about here?"
"YES"
"And here?"
"YES, YES, YES IT HURTS FUCKING ALL OVER THERE"
So his professional opinion was to give me some antibiotics and go home. All those years at Medical School and that’s the best he could do.
Wednesday night I had more fever, sweating and the occasional sharp stabbing pain in my guts. Thursday I left work early feeling destroyed. " I can’t get sick" I said to myself " I have a 4 day weekend ahead and friends coming up to get loaded" Thursday night involved being curled up in the fetal position in bed wishing I was dead and wondering when the fuck these antibiotics were going to start working and when I would shit again. I still put this down to guts being too sore to eat and constipation and the fact I didn’t want to be out of action for the Easter weekend.
Good Friday morning I got up at 6am. I took my antibiotics and more laxatives and got in the car to drive to Central Station to collect the crew who came up from Melbourne on the bus. I told them I was feeling like a science experiment gone wrong and they agreed I looked like one. Back at my place everyone crashed out after the over night bus trip and I went back to my bed and back into the fetal position. There were more sharp stabbing pains in the guts. "Fuck don’t tell me I’ve got an ulcer" I thought. That seemed like a better diagnosis than the Doctor’s
Good Friday afternoon saw everyone sitting around my living room drinking. I attempted a beer but can’t even finish it. Now I know I am sick!
Every time I was in extreme pain I would go upstairs to my room and curl up for a few minutes. I didn’t want people spoiling their weekends worrying about me.
Good Friday night I didn’t sleep. I groaned, moaned and writhed in pain. I sweated more than I ever had before, so much that you could see an outline of my body on the bed sheets.
Easter Saturday everyone is up early to go into the city. I said "Look guys I am going back to the Doctors. I will catch up with you in the City in a few hours." I called the Medical Clinic and tell them I need to see a Doctor straight away again. Three hours later I am lying there telling the Doctor, again, that it feels like I am being cut from within by a carving knife. He goes through his pointless routine of tortures, tongue depressors and prodding then contemplates my situation again and gives me 2 options.
Option 1: Change my antibiotics, go home and come and see him Monday…no wait Tuesday as the Clinic will be closed on Easter Monday.
Option 2: Send me to hospital overnight for a few tests.
"Well fuck it I thought" I have full private health cover through work and the antibiotics have been as productive as pissing into the wind. So he wrote me a referral to show the hospital when I get there. I drove home and packed a bag with a change of clothes and my toothbrush. I called my friends mobile phone and told them I won’t be meeting them in town as I am going into hospital overnight for a few tests .I let them know where they can find a key to let themselves in.
On Saturday afternoon I am in the car heading to the hospital. I can’t wear a seatbelt as my stomach can’t handle anything being pressed on it. I arrive at the hospital and can’t find any long term parking so I park at the Church next door. I figure that they will forgive me for parking there for so long and won’t tow my car.
Into casualty I walk feeling like the sword fight in my stomach is about to exit out of me. I show the nurse my referral. As she read it I tell her I feel like passing out. Next thing I know I am on a stretcher with nothing on but one of those highly attractive hospital gowns that shows your butt. A nurse says to me "Are you in any pain?"
" Well yeah I am in lots of it actually"
The nurse asks if I would like anything for the pain. "Hell yes" I replied
Now before she leaves to get me a pain killer she asks if I feel like vomiting. Now after being into hospitals before I know you can choke after eating if you go under anesthetic. So thinking I am being helpful I say "I could vomit."
She says "Ok" and walks off.
Now I know why I was asked that question. The nurse returns and asks me to roll over and face the other way.
"Rockin!!" I think. An injection. Super fast pain killer, bring it on.
Before I could even flinch she has parted my cheeks and shoved a suppository straight up my arse. It felt like a fucking golf ball had been belted up my rectum. "What the fuck…." Was all I managed to say before she said "Hey, if I told you what I was going to do you would have clenched up" Well no shit Sherlock. "I could have swallowed a tablet" I said.
"You said you could vomit" she replies. Shit she got me an a technicality.
Alright, round one to the nurse. Then this guy in a white coat comes to see me and introduces himself as Doctor Smart. "I fucking hope so" I thought. I asked if he was going to shove anything else up my poop shoot without warning. He laughs says he is a Surgeon and starts prodding all over my guts. "For fucks sake" I thought, I have been through this shit twice already and I still ain’t getting better. Within a few minutes he tells me that my appendix has burst and needed to be removed immediately. He also states that he doesn’t know what the problem is on the other side of my stomach so he is going to have a look. At least this Doctor seemed to know something.
Things get a little blurry from here but I remember being on the stretcher and getting wheeled into surgery. Why are these people always smiling and saying ‘Hello’? It isn’t a social call, meet and greet session. And before you know it someone has to ask the most stupid fucking question in the world. "How are you feeling?"
"Oh I feel a fucking million bucks that’s why I am here Einstein"
A mask then came down over my face. I turned my head and watch a needle go into my arm. "Oh yeaaaah now I am feeling good" I mumble through the mask.
"Count back from 10" the voice says.
I got to about 7…I think. Why do you have to count back? If you count forwards do you become more awake?
Easter Sunday I woke up numb all over. The pain inside my stomach was gone. There was pain on the outside though. In a morphine induced haze I try to work out just what these "tests" I was here for have done to me. I have a tube that goes up my nose and down my throat and into my stomach, a few tubes in my left hand and arm, all these little shiny silver things up my stomach and 2 bags hanging off my guts and a tube shoved down the eye of my dick.
My next conscious memory is when Doctor Smart was beside my bed telling me what happened. As they couldn’t work out why I had pain on the other side to my appendix they decided to open me up and go looking. They had opened me up from groin to sternum.
They found that my appendix had burst and got rid of the pointless organ straight away. No big deal there I didn’t eat grass anyway. After some searching they found a hole in the small part of my bowel. He said "When we opened you up you were septic". He stated I was being slowly poisoned from the inside and if I hadn’t made it in Easter Saturday I wouldn’t have made it until Easter Sunday. I made a mental note to ensure a life a misery for the Doctor at the clinic and his first year Med Student diagnosis.
The result of it all was they had removed one foot in length of my bowel and cut another hole in my stomach a few inches across from the naval and brought the bowel out there and slapped a colostomy bag over it. The other bag was a drain. The shiny silver things were the 37 staples they used to sew me back up.
The drips in my arm were feeding me fluids and giving me doses of morphine. The tube up my nose and down my throat I never worked out but it fucking hurt, especially when they pull it out through your nose and you feel it slide all they way from your stomach. The tube in my dick was a catheter so I could piss in a bag.
My first question was "Is this colostomy bag permanent?"
"No, you will have it for a few months then we will cut you open again and put your bowel back together" Doctor Smart informed me.
That made it a little easier to deal with. I have a friend who I have know since the age of 8 who has had his entire large intestine removed and after seeing what he has been through I didn’t know if I could handle that.
All I was permitted to eat for the next seven days was crushed ice. Plain crushed ice. Not even any flavouring allowed. I had the morphine connected to this little button and anytime I was in pain I pushed the button and off with the pixies I went. I had people come to visit but I was asleep most of the day and awake most nights. I thank the nurse who would come in on her break and watch the soccer with me instead of telling me to turn the T.V. off. The Ward Nurse’s were wonderful. They do a great job with very little credit and even less pay.
On day 8 a few of the tubes were removed. On day nine the staples were removed with little popping sounds and after 11 days I was on my way home.
Now dealing with a disposable colostomy bag isn’t so bad once you get use to it. They don’t smell. The charcoal filters take care of that. I got to the stage where I only needed to change it once every 24 hours.
Once I was able to travel my parents drove me 1000 kilometers back to Melbourne to be around family and friends. Of course my friends were full of smart arse comments as their way of saying "we care" They say that laughter is the best medicine.
"Now you have the bag all you need is the matching shoes.
"Now you can go to the football and never have to get up to go to the toilet."
"I always said you were a sack of shit Mick"
But having a bag can bring you some interesting times. My mother had come over and driven me to the shops so I could do some banking as I was unable to drive for a few months after surgery.
As we were waiting to cross the road I started to laugh.
"What’s so funny she asks?"
"Nothing" I replied "Just having a dump!"
The next few months consisted of doing not a hell of a lot besides sleeping and learning what foods not to eat with a colostomy bag. Mexican is bad news all round. I thought the bag wasn’t going to be big enough for that pay load. Peanuts just plain hurt on the way out.
Melbourne became boring after a while. I wanted my own big queen size bed, not the tiny little single size excuse I was using. I wanted to be around my music, my sofa, my computer, my TV.
A number of weeks had passed and I decided to head back to Sydney.
There was more lying around doing nothing but at least I had my records and other material possessions.
I used to get my colostomy bags home delivered. Now that’s service! I even became a member of the Colostomy Association of New South Wales.
About 2 weeks before the 4 months since my first operation was up I went to see Dr Smart. It was x-ray time again. I had to prepare for these x-rays. I went home with a kit containing Epsom Salts and Barium Drinks, Enemas and an instruction booklet.
The x-rays were to be at 10:00am on the next Wednesday. But I had to stop eating at 5:00pm Monday afternoon. All I was allowed was what was in the Kit and water. Nothing else. Now I like my food so this was a test. I soon worked out that the purpose of the contents in the kit where to flush me clean so nothing would block the x-rays. The problem I had here was I was going through bags like there was no tomorrow. I decided to have a shower. This is usually the best time to change the bag. So I was in the shower and everything I have put into my body starts to kick in. Now having no sphincter because my arse exits through my abdomen means I have no control over stopping what comes out and how fast it moves. Well I felt the pressure build up and before I knew it I resembled a Police Water Cannon. Looking down and seeing water fly out from your belly just has to be one of life’s amazing wonders and highly entertaining. The more I laughed, the more pressure was on my stomach, the more water squirted out. Once I was sure there was nothing left in me a slapped on a large bag and fell into bed.
I was sure I was delerious from not eating.
It was x-ray day. Now I was pretty damn hungry by this stage and my sense of humour hadn’t clocked in that morning. I was concerned that they would find something wrong and the bag wouldn’t be removed. Once again I was stripped down and put in one of those fashion conscious butt showing gowns. I lay down on a steel table. A really fucking cold steel table. Now they had to fill me up with a blue dye so everything would show up on the x-rays, so that meant one tube up my butt and the other into my temporary butt in my abdomen . Let me tell you this for free. When you have part of your bowel removed they also take your dignity. And don’t think you get it back anytime soon.
So the tubes are slid into place and they began to fill me up with blue dye. I groaned in pain. The nurse said "is it a little uncomfortable? "
"Have you ever had tubes stuck up your bum" I reply. It looks like her sense of humour had a day off also.
Anyway the news was good. Everything had healed well and another stay in hospital was booked in for Dr Smart and Crew to cut me open again and sew my arse back together.
I checked in and was wheeled off to surgery.
When I woke up it was pretty much the same deal. A few less bags but another 37 staples and self administering Pethadiene instead of Morphine
I have been asked one question a few times after coming that close to dying. "Did I find God?" The answer once and for all is NO!! Religion has never played a big part in my life and if I did find God I would have swung an almighty left hook into him and called him a prick for letting this happen to me in the first place. I did find the animated version of Alice in Wonderland while on Morphine fucking frightening though!
Is coming that close to dying scary? Absolutely, but you don’t know it at the time. I knew I was ill but didn’t know I was dying. The human brain has an incredible coping mechanism I believe that almost puts you on autopilot. I only found out how close to death I was when told me after the operation. What happened was no fault of my own. It wasn’t caused by me being stupid or reckless. Which I admit surprised me. It was just one of those things. A possible cause could have been some thing I ate by accident like a small chicken bone. But going through this you do realize you are not here forever and that you can check out at anytime.
So I did reassess my life in a few of the following ways.
Spend less time working and do a job I enjoy, or at least less time at a job I hate. Spend more time living for today and doing the things I want.
I laugh about it a lot these days and have a great thick scar from my groin to my sternum to show at parties. One thing I did notice about this whole saga is when talking about it to people is their reaction to the words "colostomy bag". Tell people you have one or have had one and the look of horror and disgust in their eyes never ceases to amazes me. It is about this time I lift my shirt and show them the scars. "This is where my arse was for 4 months" I tell them as I point to the second large scar next to be belly button. I may as well have the bubonic plague.
Within 4 months of the second operation I was back doing everything I use to do and anything I wanted. Life goes on.
Message to everyone who reads this. Always get a second opinion
It is scary that Doctors call what they do…. Practice!

When something "Tastes Like Chicken"...

Just what kinda of chicken is it being compared too?
Is it a live wild chicken?
A grain fed barn chicken?
A steriod filled factory chicken?

Or is it referring to the way cooked chickens taste?

If so how was it cooked?
Poached, deep fried, BBQ, charcol slow cook, steamed, grilled?

Does it have 11 heabs and spices to be compared to?
Tandoori chicken prehaps?
Chicken Masala?
Moroccan Chicken?
Cajun Chicken?

So many unanswered questions could be the reason why everything 'tastes like chicken'!!!!

The Next President...

Why does the media feel the need to say "who could be America's first Black President" in relation in Obama in every news bulliten?Shouldn't they just be stating "who could be America's next President"?Whilst it may be historical in terms of race, skin colour etc, shouldn't that all really be irrelevant in this day and age?I am not trying to be overtly PC but you don't here John McCain being referred to as he "who could be the 44th White American President" do you?

The Kiwi

The Kiwi
Sometimes you meet people who you are sure are put on this earth just to test you. Now I believe I am a pretty easy going kind of person and make acquaintances fairly easily. But then you meet someone who just becomes so annoying that the only solution is strangulation.
When I was backpacking in Indonesia I came across a person who fits perfectly into the mold of a person that annoys me. It started one night when myself and a group of other backpackers were sitting around the bungalows we were staying at swapping travel stories, talking about where we were from and of course who scored the beast purchase through the crazy barter system they have in Indonesia. A guy from New Zealand, I will call him Kiwi, joined the group. Now Kiwi talked so slow it was like a Zen Buddist chant. On top of that almost every sentence ended in the word “Ay”. Pronounced like “Hay” without the ‘H’. He started telling his story of bartering with an Indonesian Carver for a hand carved chess board and pieces. I can tell you these sets are pretty impressive. So after a piece by piece description he got to the all import barter section of the story. He slowly retold the events along the lines of.
“And he told me his price ay. But I thought that was too high ay. So I offered him a lower price ay”
To make a long story short I asked “So how much did you pay?”
“Well ay” he replies “He told me another price, higher than I what I offered so I increased my price a little ay”
“Yeah, so how much did you end up paying?” I tried again.
“He didn’t like my offer but he reduced his price slightly ay”
Ok as far as I was concerned this story was taking far too long and no one around the table needed to be explained how bartering works. Especially in increments of Rupiah. The Indonesian currency. The Swiss Couple were just staring at him like he was mentally disturbed.
After about thirty minutes he finally got to the part where he and the Carver reached an agreement on price. Hoping to get a result on the story I said
“So that’s what you paid huh?”
“No” he says” I didn’t buy it because I don’t play chess”
Well there were moans and groans all round and I am sure more than half the people sitting at the surrounding tables heard me loudly sigh “Oh, for fuck’s sake”. I have to avoid this guy I thought. Either he will shit me to tears or I will kill him.
The next day I leave the bungalows as I am leaving Lombok to stay a few days on a small Island to the North West called Trawangan. I enter one of the many places offering transport to the port. I buy my ticket and the lady informs me that the bus will be about half an hour and to come and sit down out the front. She offers me a ‘complimentary’ Coca Cola which ‘costs’ me 1,000 Rupiah?!
The bus trip was relatively uneventful and I arrive at the port. I go to the hut that was the booking office for boats across to the small islands. There are a few options they tell me and offer me two.
1. Find three other people and pay 16,000 Rupiah each and charter a boat immediately. Or
2. Pay 1,000 Rupiah, put your name down on a list for the public boat.
I took option 2.
Now the public boat requires 20 people to sign on before it will depart. I spy a bar and decide I will wait in there. As I walk to the bar entertaining the thought of an ice cold beer I hear.
“You catching the public boat too ay?”
You fucking kidding me I thought. Shit, there in the flesh was Kiwi with that shit eating grin on his face waiting for the same boat to depart. Thankfully it wasn’t too long until they had twenty names so I downed the beer and headed to the boat. The boat was a long, high sided canoe kind of thing with a home made motor. I sat on my pack to get comfortable as I could. This made it difficult because the boat is supposed to carry twenty people and two crew. In fact it carried twenty back packers, two crew and eighteen locals. Then Kiwi started droning on about the different ticket prices for boats.
“You can pay 16,000 or 1,000 or I think even 10,000 Rupiah ay” he started. “You can charter a boat, go for a day trip. But I didn’t want as day trip I am staying longer ay, I wonder if you can get a boat on your own ay, I wonder how much that is ay”
I said “You got the cheapest possible ticket what is your issue?”
“It’s just amazing ay”
“Yeah fucking mind blowing” I sighed.
I noticed on the boat that there were only four lifejackets and they were secured to a beam with thick wire that would require bolt cutters to remove them. I asked the crewman why was this so and he dutifully informed “So they don’t get stolen”. Fair enough I thought. I turned to Kiwi with a sly grin and asked.
“Can you swim?”
“Nar, not too good ay” was the reply.
He looked at me confusingly and I couldn’t help but laugh.
The Island called Trawangan is only three kilometers square and almost pancake flat except for a hill at one end. One morning a group of us decided to walk around the island before it got too hot. Kiwi came bouncing along like a puppy off its leash. On the far side of the island you could think you were the only people on Earth. Uninhabited, peaceful, silent. Then Kiwi starts up with his “Chess Board” story as he has a new audience. It crossed my mind that I could drown him here and the chances of being caught were minimal. It would be a mercy killing anyway. Over the next few days he managed to annoy the living shit out of everyone who came into direct contact with him. Most of us were heading off the island the next day and he asked the group what time boat had we decided to catch in the morning.
There was a slight silent pause.
I jumped in and said “The 9:00am boat” A few people went to correct me but then wised up real quick. The next morning everyone but Kiwi was on the 7:00am boat to peace and quiet.
I traveled for the next two weeks without crossing paths with Kiwi. It was getting near the end of my stay so I headed back to Bali for my last few days. On my last day I was heading to a little place that does the best fried noodles with veggies on Bali to have one last feast before going home. I was about to walk in and heard “Hey ! I slept in and missed the boat ay. Didn’t manage to catch up”
“Gee shit that’s bad luck we thought you left before us” I said. Before he could talk I pointed to another food place and said “Hey there is a bunch of us about to have a feed around the corner at Poppy’s. I just have to change some money so I will be there in a few minutes “. He wandered off in the direction of Poppy’s looking for people who weren’t there.
I collected my pack and caught a bus to the airport to get my plane home.
As it drifted down the runway I thought “I bet he will haunt houses when he dies”

Traffic

Traffic
When I was younger I had a pretty good ability to crash, smash and damage my bicycle. I did this so well that the guy who owned the Bike Shop was going to open a Panel beating Business when I got my licence. Getting your licence in Australia when I did was great. You had to be at least eighteen years old to be eligible. Eighteen is also the legal drinking age. So if you are like me and you get your license on you eighteenth birthday you can legally drive yourself to the pub and drink yourself legally legless. Now that’s becoming a responsible adult for you !
Early one morning I was driving down the coast with my surfboard on the roof looking for waves. In and out of beach carparks I drove getting more and more disappointed and coming to the conclusion that all the surf beaches had turned to lakes over night. Not even a ripple.
The rain started to fall lightly. Light but consistent. It was that annoying rain that if you have you wipers on intermittent it is not enough to clear the windscreen. Of you have the wipers on the first setting it is too much and you get the wonderful rubber on glass screech. When will some one invent a wiper that is syncronised to rain drops? Anyway the rain caused more problems. It hadn’t rained for three or four weeks so plenty of oil and road gunk was floating on the surface.
So after turning back from yet another beach resembling a pond and with the rain falling I was about to call it quits and go home. I was taking it nice and easy putting along at about 30 kilometers per hour listening to Motorhead which is a feat in itself to listen to Lemmy scream out “The Ace OF Spades” and drive slowly. As I started around a bend I felt the car lose traction. I turned the wheel but the car kept moving straight ahead. It was like the front wheels were imitating the wind screen wipers, moving but doing nothing. I knocked the gear shift into neutral and stabbed the brakes. Still not good. Across the road was a paddock. I thought “If I just maintain what little control I have and slow down I can drift onto the grass.” Then out of nowhere another car comes the opposite way around the bend. My forward momentum came to a sudden crashing halt. My windscreen popped out and the bonnet of the car buckled. The piercing sound of shattering glass accompanied it. “What the fuck…shit fuck shit fuck” was the extent of my vocabulary. “Where the fucking hell did he come from??” He was damn close to being over the center line!!
I pushed my door opened and then had a clearer view of what happened. I had ploughed into the side of this brand new car. The driver wasn’t moving too much. I ran over and managed to force his door open. The driver was a guy in his 60’s. His first comment was “What the bloody hell do you think your doing”
“Sorry mate you came outta nowhere” I said. “Are you ok?? Are you hurt” I questioned.
He started to lean back. I wasn’t sure if he was putting his seat belt on or taking it off. His face was bright red and he started clutching his chest and panting.
“What’s wrong? Did you hit the steering wheel? Where are you hurt?”
“No” he groaned”
“Stay still I will call an ambulance said
He kept clutching his chest. “Where are you hurt? did you hit something?”
“No I had a heart by pass six weeks ago!” he groaned.
Well shit just my luck I am gonna kill this guy i thought. I got that feeling that shoots through you. The one where time stands still and you think you are going to pass out. I pulled his shirt open and lay him back in his seat. One thing going for me was the accident was just across the road from the Panel Beaters and before I knew it there was a guy from a Panel Beating shop running across the road. ”Hey you need a Tow Truck?” Well 10 points to the fucking Optometrist!! “Yeah ya think? And just maybe an ambulance!!” I yelled. He ran back and called the ambulance and then I heard the roar of the Tow Truck. This big yellow beast of a Ford F250 V8 Tow Truck came semi sideways out of the Panel Beaters. I waited for a second to see if some one was playing the theme music from Dukes of Hazard.
The old fella was starting to calm down a little but I still wasn’t too comfortable with the situation. “Is he ok?” Ask the Tow Truck Driver. “Well he had a heart bypass not long ago” I stated. “Shit” he says. “Yeah I was sot of thinking a bit more than shit” I yelled.
The ambulance was there in no time. They got the old guy on a stretcher and were loading him in the back when the Police rolled up. I was hoping the old guy lives. Cars I don’t give a shit about but I didn’t want to be responsible for killing some one. Even if it was an accident.
The cars where moved off the road and I went and sat with my wreck. I was straight up with the Cops and told them what happened including that I thought he was over the center line coming around the bend. They measured skid marks and tested the road surface. The road surface test was an example of technical ingenuity. One of them rubbed his shoes along the road and stated “Yeah it is greasy and slippery”. I mean how the fuck does that stand up as evidence?Then the ‘scientific’ Cop says to me. “Have you been drinking?”
“It’s 8.30am what do you take me for”
“Standard question” he says
“Do you ever get anyone say yes at this time of the morning” I ask?
“This gives us the answer and he instructs me to blow into the breathalyzer.
My Blood / Alcohol was 0.
I gathered these Cops had a nice warm station to get back to and wanted to get out of the rain like everyone else
“It looks like a 50/50 accident to us so looks like you can just pay for your own cars” they tell me.
“What about the old guy?” I enquired.
“Yeah he can pay for his”
Fuck these guys won’t make Detective I thought but then again they are just stupid enough to do it.
“Well that’s if he makes it” I said.
“Oh here is our card, call us later and we will let you know how he is. We are heading to the hospital now”
They depart.
My car is towed to the Panel Beaters. My Brother makes a 140km round trip to pick me up as I won’t get my car for another week.
I ring the Cops later expecting to be charged with Culpable Driving or Manslaughter or fuck I don’t know what, maybe dealing with stupidity. They say “Nar you are ok Son. He is just a bit shaken up but he is fine”
I hung up and puffed a huge sigh of relief. Now I don’t have to become a fugitive and live in a cave eating nothing but baked beans.
Eight Weeks later I receive a letter from the old guys Solicitor. Enclosed is a Letter of Intent to Sue for about $10000. All that shit about a 50/50 accident the Cops had told me was a load of monkey’s arses. I called them again and they said ‘oh no it was your fault”. And that’s the information the old guy got and the accident reports stated. I would have liked to have seen an accident report!. Well I finally got my insurance company to pay up after nearly telling them and all they stand for to go fuck themselves. They are all friendly when taking your money, but shit. Try finding a nice person who hands the money out.
It is weird how things pan out. A simple surfing trip after a week in a shitty job nearly lands me in jail and debt. This is called Rest and Recreation?

Learning To Fly

Learning To Fly
Heights have never bothered me. I don’t suffer from vertigo or any kind of fear like that and have jumped from many fixed objects. From the garage roof into the swimming pool. The pool was only 4ft deep. How I am not in a wheelchair I don’t know. The top of the light pole at the end of the pier at the local beach, the partly sunken HMAS Cerberus, 10 meter towers at public swimming pools. From 30 thousand ft from an aeroplane but I was strapped to another guy with a parachute. I use to go to the local heath land with a friend and we would see if we could get from one side to the other without touching the ground. In other words we would climb, jump and swing from tree to tree. And yes the conservationists would have our nuts on a platter if we had been caught.
But there was one jump that put an end to my jumping days for a considerable amount of time. There had been tree lopping going on at our place. A nice stack of tea tree branches were piled up in the back yard. With these being soft branches it made a great landing pad. I could run along the garage roof and leap over the end of the pool and land in the tree cuttings. I had done this for a few days and had two friends over one day after school. Only one of them jumped as well while the other made some excuse about not feeling well.
I lined myself up for the leap the century. I ran across the roof, launched myself into the air. I was Icarus flying to close to the sun. I landed. My ankle gave way with a CRACK. I felt the sickly feeling of pain sweep over my body.
How I stood up I don’t know. I was yelling my guts out like a stuck pig. Yelling at my friends to go and get my mother to take me to the hospital. Mum came out with a serious look on her face wanting to know what all the yelling was about. Next thing I know my two friends have laid me on the back seat of the car. Then I saw why I was in so much pain. When my leg was straight I could see the bottom of my foot. That’s when consciousness became an effort.
Mum drove me to the local public hospital. Once again wondering why she had to have a loose cannon for a son. Soon the pain became unbearable. It was hard to remain awake and alert. Mum parked the car and ran into the hospital. A couple of orderlies and a Doctor rushed out to the car and slapped me on a stretcher. I don’t remember much. I was given pain killers and drifted in and out of reality.
I was asked if I had eaten. About an hour ago I said. Well this put a spanner in the works. They would not administer an anaesthetic as I may vomit while under and choke to death. I thought if that happened I was in good hands but obviously not. So from 5pm til 10.30pm I lay on a bed with my twisted foot taped in a pillow. I recall two Doctors making comments like “tyring to fly were you” and “gee you did a good job there”. If I wasn’t doped up to the eyeballs I would have responded in some kind of way such as “Shut up and fix it you bastards”.
I was laid out on the operating table, had the needle placed into my arm and was asked to count backwards from 10. 10. 9, 8, 7……………………
The room was bright when I woke up. I went to roll over and couldn’t. My leg felt like it weighed a tonne. I panicked and tore off the bed sheets. “Shit….shit shit shit and double shit” was my first thought and my second and third. I had plaster from the tip of my toes to my hip. I didn’t know what to do. I was the only person in a ten bed ward. So I pressed my “Instant Nurse” button repeatedly until a nurse appeared saying” Oh you are awake how are you feeling” After lots of questions from me and the same amount of reassurance form the nurse the outcome was I had broken my ankle in three places.
After about 5 days of being alone in this huge ward the nurse gave me a wheelchair and said I can push myself next door into the other 10 bed ward and chat to the people in there. So I push myself along with the skill of a rank amateur. The first bed I roll up to has the guy lying there with the top bed sheet raised up by some kind of platform. He asked what happened and I told him. “I could never fly either” he said. I asked why he was in hospital. “Oh, I dropped an electric circular saw onto my thigh”
On hearing this I came close to spraying the contents of my stomach all over the floor. I replied with a line from The School Blatantly Obvious. “That must have hurt” and wheeled myself back to my bed, crawled in and decided I didn’t want to talk to other patients.
So my jumping days came to an end. My leg was in full plaster for nine weeks. I was on crutches for thirteen weeks and I limped for about a year before i could walk properly again. I will still jump from great heights but only if I have a parachute attached or there is water below…and plenty of it. Leave flying for the birds.

Keep Ya Shirt On !

Keep Ya Shirts On !

“Victorian Cabs Need Air-conditioning!!!”
“Victorian Pensioners Are Lost And Need Help Dressing Themselves.!!!”

Yes these are the headlines that have screamed at me over the last few weeks. But they won’t be found in any newspaper or on any T.V. news program. “Why?, What, Oh the humanity?” I hear you scream.
These are the headlines that have imbedded in my head due to a message being lost through actions.
A Melbourne taxi driver is stabbed and left for dead by a passenger. Taxi drivers want increase safety measures to protect them. Pensioners feel that they have been overlooked in the budget and want an increase in pension payments. So what do both groups do? They protest! Which I believe is a fantastic way to get your message across and bring attention and support to your cause.
However in recent times protesting has lost its way. They very purpose of the protest is buried beneath actions bordering on the stupid side of reasoning.
A portion of the protesting cab drivers decided to remove their shirts and display a variety of “man-boobs” and “he-hooters”. Sorry, this was a protest for increased safety measures wasn’t it? So how does taking your shirt off help? Sure it will attract the media as any type of nudity is newsworthy to our tabloid dominated prime time media. Seeing the footage I totally forgot about the real issue. (hence my reason for thinking they were all very hot needed better air-conditioning). Think back to everyone you spoke to around the time of this protest. Did anyone talk about the safety concerns of cab drivers? No, we all pissed ourselves laughing at the fat angry man with a sagging chest waving his t-shirt around looking like he was reading to howl at the moon. The point was lost.
Now onto the Blue Rinse Brigade. They decided a protest on the steps of Flinders St Station was just the thing to do to get attention for their cause. It worked for the cabbies (so they thought) so why not give it a whirl. But why did they have to follow the lead of the angry cabbies and get their kit off? The news footage I saw was a whole stack of old folk in various stages of dress standing in the middle of the road. “Lost and unable to dress themselves” I thought. Sad, true, is it possible for that many people suffering dementia all to appear at once in the same place? Once again all the talk was about over 55’s in their undies. The point was lost.

We are extremely lucky to live in a country where we have the right and ability to protest. So don’t botch it up by getting your gear off and distracting all and sundry from your purpose otherwise you have done nothing more and created a pointless spectacle.

Cycling is the new Golf

Cycling is the new Golf

Years ago to get away from his crappy job and the family that hates him a fat balding middle aged man would put on tartan pants, a pink polo shirt, one glove and walk around a golf course for half a day.The positive here is we didn't have to look at them. They had their own little enclosure fenced in with a little boys club house to drink beer and tell make believe stories to their fat balding middle aged mates.Now where are they?I will tell you!They are squeezing into tight lycra shorts and shirts, even the occasional lycra body suit. Riding 5 abreast and blocking the roads. The golf club house has emptied out into our Cafes.Our cafes have turned into bicycle sheds for latte sipping middle aged deadshits who look like jelly wrapped in cling film. It's offensive!How many of them actually ride anywhere? They go home and tell "the missus" about the big ride....yet the spent 4 hours sucking down coffee and bacon and cheese Panini's.Please leave our Cafes and return to your Golf clubs....out of site and stop putting the rest of us off our breakfast.

The Democratic Process

The Federal Election has been called in Australia. In a few weeks we will go to the polling booths to vote which result in one of two people becoming the Prime Minister of Australia. One of them is currently in the job. Australia is one of the only (if not the only) Western Democracies where it is compulsory to vote. If you are over 18 you are suppose to register to vote. If you fail to vote a fine will be imposed. If the fine is not paid further legal action can be taken. So basically there is a penalty for exercising your democratic right to choose. If you choose not to vote then you are penalised. They way around it is not to register to vote but eventually through various data bases and you will be tracked down. You can always register to vote, turn up on the day, get your name ticked off and walk out.
Why did I mention this? Well punks have been yelling about politics and politicians since day dot. But has anyone else noticed the watering down of lyrics when it comes to politicians? Well mentioning anyone specifically doesn’t seem to happen much these days. There are generic lyrics on more records than I care to mention. That mysterious "They" that seems to oppress and piss people off the world over seems like an easy scapegoat on many a lyric sheet. I understand stating names in songs can date the song but doesn’t that just give it more of a point? Not being specific seems like a pretty safe cop out to me. There can’t have been that many lawsuits or defamation cases over the years to scare people off saying what they really mean. Or has fear caused lyric writing become complacent.
Take note of the lyrics "Memories of Menzies" by Civil Dissident, "Dead Rock & Rollers" by Detention and The Stains/M.D.C. "John Wayne Was A Nazi". No mythological boogie man there that keeps you down and makes you eat out of bins is there? While you’re at it get the Extortion Lp for blazing songs about actual serial killers.

Who Does It For You?

Who Does It For You?
For various reasons I go to a lot less shows than I use to. Time, funds and other commitments seem to do their best to get in the way. It sucks having to pick and choose which shows to go to when in days gone by I would spend all weekend seeing bands. In some cases driving a few hundred kilometers in a day to see four bands play. Why? Cos I could.
Having to be a little selective has got me to thinking about what bands really give me that rush when I see them. Those bands that leave you stunned and wondering what the fuck just happened. When you lose track of time and forget about the shitty week at work you just had. Those bands that from the first chord can cause chaos and everyone in the near vicinity of them goes completely ape shit.
My earliest memory of this was when I was 16 and I went and saw Death Sentence. I already had their 7" and I couldn’t believe my ears, they were the fastest Australia band I have ever heard. Intense, fast and frantic…fucking killer stuff. The first time I saw them was just insane. When they started the room just exploded for the 40 seconds or so to finish the first song. That was enough to unhinge all your senses and make you shake from adrenalin. But most of all, I was scared shitless. These guys were full on, crazed, unstable. It was like at anytime everything could turn to shit but it just held together enough to make it.
When the finished I was shell shocked and was pretty sure I just witnessed something amazing. Anything else I saw that night would be a let down and it was.
Ok to save this column from B.I.T.D. syndrome (Back In The Day syndrome) lets have a look at recent times. We all go and see bands, nod our heads and perform the obligatory golf clap at the end of each song. We watch the first few songs and then head to the bar to talk about Poison Idea or sit outside plotting the revolution that we will never be bothered to even throw a rock in.
But what bands have totally ripped you a new one the first time you saw them? Now I would be stupid to assume we would all agree on the same band but let’s face it there aren’t too many who have achieved this is there?
When Draft Dodger headed to Melbourne to play a few shows we were lucky enough to be playing a show at the Pink Palace (R.I.P.). I was pretty buzzed about this as there was a shitload of bands, many of which I had heard a lot about but never seen live before. The band that tore me a new one and then some that night was Straight Jacket Nation. Their set would have been no more than fifteen minutes but like I mentioned earlier. I lost track of time. Nothing mattered, it was like a smash in the face, repeatedly. A continuous pounding with a few seconds break between each song which didn’t allow you time to think of Poison Idea or Revolutionary tactics. For that time span everyone went ape shit. Totally nuts. When they had finished I stood there stunned and thinking fuck any revolution lets just throw rocks and smash shit anyway. Nothing else came close to that again for me that night.
This is just one example of one current band. There are a few more but that can be for another rant.
There are people who have a dig at you for being obsessed with bands from 20 odd years ago. Stating that there are local hardcore and punk bands that are tearing shit up right now. But how many are ripping your face off? Unfortunately not enough for me. But what keeps me going back to shows to the anticipation I might see another Death Sentence, another Straight Jacket Nation or another bunch of assorted weirdoes from Western Australia playing skin melting crazy tunes.