Home For Lunch

I knew that no good could come of this. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.

What to do on the weekend when you have a job that requires you to become intimately acquainted with an automobile for the purposes of reviewing it? Well I decided I should probably check in on the Motherload and il Papa, plus I could show off something that has lots of buttons to push and plenty of things that open and close.

So once again it was just me and my best buddy, the open road, screaming down the highway in search of a place less hectic than Melbourne. Along the way to the farm I decided to stop in Rushworth for coffee and a cigarette. First failure of the day, if you want coffee in a town that hasn’t much progressed from its gold-rush era days, be prepared for acidic tasting Nescafe.

Deciding against the coffee idea, I sat in the reserve in the middle of the main drag, watching locals dawdle past in beaten up old Hiluxes or trundling along with the assistance of a shopping jeep. Dear god, that country air must be good, some of those folks would be pushing at least 130 years old.

As I walked back to my strongly on-road focused SUV I caught the sneers of mothers with prams, loading their children into high-rise Land Cruisers and Patrols with hefty bullbars and 9,000 pound winches. More fool you bitches. I don’t need low-range to get up my driveway… try living in civilisation, huh?

A little further on the track and I arrived at the Parental Unit’s farm, to be greeted by no sign of life at the house. That’s not good. Up to the dairy I journeyed, still no one. A quick scout of the machinery sheds revealed all tractors in place and no missing motorbikes. Back to the house, where shock horror, both cars were out. So much for the element of surprise!

So I calls the Motherload, and I says: “Mother dear, loin of my fruits… Where the fuck are you?” To which the Motherload replies: “Oh, I’m in Moama darling. Are you at home? Why not pop up and have lunch?” Deal done then. Back into the car and on my merry way. Half an hour later, on top of the two hours I’d just drove, and I was in the charming little bowrder town of Moama, freezing my cherished items off, searching for my mother amongst a sea of slack-jawed market shoppers.

Eventually I located her, befriending some poor misfit who’d made the mistake of looking in her direction for more than five seconds. I rushed across, greeted my brightly clad fashion mentor and allowed the stranger their only possible chance for escape.

“Oh, you’re looking thin. Must be all that running? Show me your teeth, have you had them whitened yet? Are you getting taller or am I getting shorter? See these pants? I bought them from the mail order. Look over there at that Faustina girl from down the road, you know the one, you used to go to school with her cousin…” And on and on it went.
“So, lunch was it?” I chimed in during a momentary lapse in her recitation of all local events, bankruptcies and relationships occurring in the district during the last month.

With the stern warning that I wouldn’t stay long we went in search of something edible and coffee that could be described as at least passable. Instead we found fish and chips served by a very stern woman, and more instant coffee. So that’ll be a pass on the coffee then, and one piece of flake, two steamed dim sims, a battered sav, six calamari rings, two potato cakes and minimum of chips… What are you having Ma?

All too quickly it was time for me to hit the road, of course that’s not as easy as it sounds. After a solid hour of “Come and have a quick look at this” and “There’s Linda from my quilting group, she asks after you, come say hello” I finally managed to shake loose and dash madly toward Melbourne, leaving the bitter taste of instant coffee in my wake. Two and a half hours of white-line watching turns out to be just the thing you need to reset your cognitive functions to ‘sane’ again.

Or at least as sane as one can get coming from the kind of brilliant stock that would wear a bright red bob, pink specs and burnt orange puffer vest with no regard for the fact she’s approaching 70. Bless her.

The Wonder And Glory

There are things, so many incredible, wonderful, amazing things that I want to tell you , but I just can't. As I sat down this evening for a relaxing evening of blog-filled goodness I realised that I'm totally fucking hammered and I only got halfway though the backlog of incredibly important reading that I've missed out on.

I'm still running like there's a angry redneck on my tail and I'm getting better, I can now make it half a block further than when I started before falling into a stitch-riddled, gasping, sweaty heap. Yay fitness. *shakes pom-poms* Conveniently, that also explains why I'm so friggin' useless right now.

Anyway there are two important things you need to know:

1. I bit the bullet and joined facebook, I hate not being cool.

2. I've booked my fucking annual leave bitches.

What does this mean for you? Well it means that if you happen to live between Melbourne, Canberra and Sydney and will be around between August the 24th and September the 4th drop me a line because we are so catching up for a beer.

Phishez, Sparsely Kate, Muzbot, Monty, consider yourselves on high alert... Anyone else I've forgotten? You're going to get sucked in too.

So the plan is the motherfucking road trip to end all motherfucking road trips! There will be one mutant, one Calais, one CD tuner, one laptop, one wireless modem and one digital camera. Put 'em all together then bring on the open road baby.

If you have any idea where I should go, what I should see, or any places I should stop then clue me in because you guys are planning this vacation for me. I have no idea where I'm headed or how to get there but I want to go inland to Canberra, the capital of fireworks, porn and Australia, then onto Sydney where severe drinking will ensue then home via the coast.

If anyone knows how to put all that together then: details people, details. I look forward to seeing you on the road kiddo! YEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAA!

I Love It When You Say 'Crap-fest'

Okay, so for those who've seen Transformers 2: Revenge Of The Fallen you'll know exactly what this blog heading means. I hope.

After what seems like an eternity I finally got to see the new Transformers flick. I know, I know, the film itself has only been out for a few days, but I'm one of those sad cases who has been feathering my throttle for a sequel right from the point there the closing credits started to roll on the first film.

I'm not going to do the whole spoiler thing, but let me dot-point the fuck out of this shit in order to save you and I a lot of time:

• Robo-warfare doesn't get much better than this.
• The whole film is a HUGE showcase for GM (BC, that is 'Before Chapter 11').
• That may not sound positive but it is.
• Megan's Box and Shea LeDouche do look pretty hot on screen.
• Decepticons and Autobots look way hotter though.

Okay so in case you couldn't tell they were the positives, but unlike the first installment which was almost flawless this one deserves some harsh criticism:

• It takes half an hour too long for anything decent to happen.
• The love story does NOT need to be there, but I guess it keeps girlfriends interested.
• Why are the Chevrolet Beat and Trax so heavily featured and the Corvette Concept and Volt almost ignored?
• What is the deal with all the important plot points that make a mockery of the first film?
• Slapstick is great in a film like this when used sparingly, Michael Bay, take note: this was not sparing use of slapstick.
• What's the deal with the sudden drop in CGI quality for the ten minute period towards the end?

So, knowing these limitations you should have a grand old time. Melbourne it seems is gripped by Revenge Of The Fallen mayhem as very few cinemas had tickets available. The Coburg Drive-In however was the venue of choice and arriving an hour early meant only lining up for tickets for about 20 minutes... Score.

Now if you're going to see a car-based film at the drive in its best to go in either a car with awesome 5.1 channel sound, or something muscled up, hardcore and butch as fuck.

I went in a BF Falcon wagon. That is not a good start, to make it worse it was e-gas powered which takes any potential fury and replaces it with the smell of barbeque fuel. The stereo is not really what you'd call grand but at least the cargo bay is huge, or it would be if the spare wasn't mounted inside the car thanks to the gas tank living in the spare wheel well.

Never-to-mind though, I like my rides to come with excitement so when the cargo barrier decided to let go and crash awkwardly against the drivers seat you can bet your arse I was excited.

Anyway enough of that nonsense. I'd like to take a serious moment with y'all if I may. *Stands up* My name is The Mutton-chopped Mutant and I'm becoming a lard-arse.

...

...

...

Awww, you pack of cunts, that's the point where you're supposed to applaud my ability to confront my problems head on, haven't you ever been to an AA meeting? No? Oh, that'd just be me then.

Okay so these mornings when I get out of the shower I'm confronted by the reflection of a man with a hefty gut hanging off the front of him. I've looked around but I can't see anyone else in the bathroom with me so it must be me stacking on the poundage.

Being the pro-active individual I am, I've taken steps to counter-act this shit before I turn into a walking Big Mac Meal. Since Thursday evening I've been lacing up my runners and... wait for it... running.

Now I'd like to explain that I'm a smoker with an aversion to any physical activity outside the bedroom, this means I usually make it three doors down from my house before I'm grunting like a convulsing pig with sweat pouring from my every orifice. Attractive, wouldn't you say?

This has to be overcome though and drastic times call for drastic measures. My goal at the end of this is to look like the emaciated young tyke I was in high school, but to have also gained five kilograms, replacing my jiggling largeness with refined, powerful muscle.

Pretty ambitious huh? I've got this awesome running schedule all worked out and I'm throwing in 25 sit ups, 25 push ups and 25 girlie push ups (from the knees) as a starting regime which will be built up over time. To prove I'm fucking delirious I also walked from Carlton to Collingwood back to Carlton then rode my bike from Carlton to Abbotsford and around Princes Park.

I know, right? In, like, a matter of days I should have thighs like a hungarian shot-putter. So, who wants to join me for a jog some time? Any takers? At all? Argh, fuck the lot of you! 

The Workings Of The Warped

Please tell me I'm not the only filthy-minded little misfit out there. I know that to be polite you'll all nod your heads knowingly at what I'm about to say, then whisper behind your hands about what a deprived little freak I really am, but here goes anyway.

A couple of nights ago I was on the tram on my way home from work. Usually I view tram-time as a great opportunity to people watch. I'm a bit of a fantasist so I like to invent little scenarios to fill in the back story of people I know nothing about.

"That tall bird in the floral blouse, she lost her job two weeks ago and now just rides into the city each day to sit across from her old office to seethe with rage and plot implausible revenge scenarios. The goth kid in the stairwell with long hair and too many piercings, he aspired to be a high end male model until his dreams were dashed by the jock-brigade at high-school delivering him into the clutches of anti-conformity."

And so it goes for anyone who takes my eye, whatever the reason may be. Usually once I'm off the tram those people are forgotten about and life goes on for me and for them, even though it's not the life I plotted out for them in my mind.

The other day though, a guy got on the tram in the city and I started my usual scenario-planning. "Okay so he looks a little bit Forty Year Old Virginesque... I wonder if this guy really is a forty year old virgin?"

"Maybe he is, perhaps he's just dying to have a little action. He'd go alright too I reckon. Okay so he's not the height of fashion, but those black jeans and that navy T-shirt aren't totally out of place."

"He's tall and thin and naturally olive skinned. I wonder what he'd look like with those clothes off? Would he he be gentle and romantic or more of a rough assertive type."

"I bet he's got a hairy chest and despite his thin build he'd be pretty well hung."

On and on the internal monologue continued - then I changed gear from thinking filthy things about a total random stranger to worrying about his welfare.

"There's no wedding band on his finger, does he have someone waiting for him to get home? Is there a guy or girl at home cooking him dinner and watching the clock, counting down the minutes until he walks in the door?"

"Does he have kids, if so how many? Does he live with them or does he only get access to them every couple of weeks?"

"I wonder what he does for a living. Is he comfortably set up or struggling to make ends meet. Does he have any family anywhere? Is he away from home and does he miss it if he is?"

Before long I realised I was staring straight at this stranger on the tram. He wasn't looking in my direction so hadn't noticed me. I began to feel guilty that I'd thought such explicit things about him earlier.

I focused on the passing cars outside the tram window, but my mind kept wandering back to this man I knew nothing about. I wanted to know more but knew better of pursuing it.

My stop came up and I disembarked. The cold night air hit my face and crept in through my coat. I tilted my head into the breeze and began to stride home.

My tram ride was over, but this time the stranger on the tram was still puzzling me.

"Where was his stop? How far was his walk home? Who was waiting for him at the other end?"

And the most difficult question of all: "Does anyone ponder these things about me?"

Dan Doesn't Live Here

So last night I was relaxing in my parlour with dinner gently simmering on the stove and the subtle sounds of elctro-euro-funk teasing my ears. I sighed a deep, relaxing sigh. After a glorious day of cruising around the rolling hills of central Victoria nothing could be better.

Then the doorbell rang. I looked at my watch for no other purpose then to confirm that a door-to-door salesman had indeed called upon me at dinner time. That’s usually how it goes.

I got up and answered the door expecting to deliver a curt ‘thanks, but why not fuck off and leave me in peace’. Instead I was greeted by a weedy looking nerdish chap with a hefty looking back pack slung over one shoulder and a plastic bag filled with takeaway food in his other hand.

“Uh, hi. Is Dan home?” he enquired.

“Sorry man, no Dan here” I replied, then pushed on “What number did Dan give you?”

“Number 36” He said.

“Uh huh” Said I “Well this is number 36, Is Dan a uni student?” I enquired.

“No man, Dan works full time” Came the response.

“Oh, my mistake, well then does Dan at least live in a share house?” I quizzed

“Yeah, that’s right” Replied the geek, desperate to get off my front porch.

“Dan isn’t a doctor is he?” I went on, the guy to my left is, you see.

“Nah” replied the increasingly nervous nerd.

“Oh, then I think you want that place there” I said, pointing to my right.

“Thanks, sorry about that” Trilled the nerd as he skipped off my front step and bolted for the house next door.

This is not the first time someone has come and knocked on my door looking for Dan, it would appear Dan doesn’t know his address. Often Dan’s guests arrive closer to midnight so I was thankful this one called at a more reasonable hour. I’m sure enough of Dan’s friends have been traumatised by having me answer the door in little more than my jocks.

I’ve spoken about Dan’s midnight visitors to friends of mine before. Their recommendation is that I tell the door-knockers that Dan is waiting for them, drag them inside, lure them into my bedroom, drop my drawers and introduce my ‘little Danny boy’. As tantalising as that sounds I can’t see it happening any time soon. Plus Dan’s friends are an all-sorts variety of seriously unattractive dufuses (or should that be dufii?).

Meanwhile I’m still waiting for a knock from the bear of my dreams offering to take me away from all this to his country estate in the rolling hills of central Victoria. Why haven’t you knocked yet?

It's Been A While

The other day I got to thinking about how it's been such a long time since I did the ol' self portraiture thing. Seeing as I'd just rugged myself up to fend off the rather offensive Melbourne winter I figured: No time like the present.

Now, as an aside - I know that within Australia, Melburnians are somewhat renowned for their fondness of black, but I'd just like to go on the record as confirming that I didn't grow up in Melbourne and, whilst black is nice, I figure it's better used sparingly.

I'm all for a splash of colour, although that said I am rather fond of grey - that could just be the pasty Irish boy inside who doesn't look good in sold black coming out though.

Of course in keeping with my new-found fondness of not smiling I couldn't help but look like scowly cantankerous prick that I really am deep down inside.

I also managed to find my old scarf from two winters ago that I thought was long gone. Gee I missed it. Wrapped one around my neck like this it's still long enough for both ends to clear the floor by about four inches, plus come summer it can be converted into a funky looking halter top. Needless to say, I don't wear it that way very often... At least not until I work my gut off.

I'm really trying to reach out to my readers lately - does it show?

Of course it aint easy trying to look good for the camera, at least not for me. To get five good photos I had to take about fifty. That really isn't much of a success rate. After all that posing and fame-whoring I just had to sit down. I was plain exhausted.

Now be a gem and go fetch your poor tired Mutant a beer would you? I can't keep up this hectic pace all night!

Anyway enough of that, maybe next time I'll show you what a bad hair day looks like. I haven't decided... I'm having one right now and damn is my trigger finger busy. grab my camera while you're up, huh?

Atta girl.

A Frenzied Fan Of Ferguson

So, whoda thunk slopping around in the mud all weekend would be wicked fun – but it was.

My long weekend back in the country was a total hoot. It rained all weekend and was cold as charity but by fuck did I have fun! I know I promised photographs, but thanks to the shit weather most of them came out as nothing more than grey smudgy nothingness… stupid digital camera. I got one photo all weekend that actually worked and it wasn’t even my bloody tractor. Next time, Gadget. Next time.

Anyway, its been a couple of years since I’ve been along to the Echuca Steam, Horse and Vintage Rally, held at Rotary Park on the banks of the Campaspe River. I used to go every year but since I moved away that got harder to achieve. It was so awesome to turn up this year though and see so many of the same old faces. People who are madly passionate about their vintage machinery and always keen for a yarn. Having not seen them for a number of years only makes then twice as keen to catch up for a chinwag.

As usual there was old John Deers, McCormick Farmalls, Howards, Cases, Internationals, Fordsons, Minneapolis Molines, Massey Harrises and David Browns along with a shitload of other old tractors. There was cars, horses, stationary steam engines, massive steam powered traction engines as well as displays from farriers, blacksmiths and country cooking too good to ignore with damper and scones with jam and cream being my firm favourites.

I got me an awesome new belt buckle too. I’ll be wearing it everywhere so if you see me ask me to show you. It’s a big heavy brass buckle from my tractor club with a grey Fergie tractor in the middle of it and the club name around the outside. It is seven kinds of awesome and I love it to bits! Also my old man was awarded life membership to the club, after over fifteen years of organising the rally site for the club as well as countless other bits and pieces he’s done I believe it was well deserved and couldn’t be prouder!

Anyway – I promised there would be photos but I can deliver only one. That there ute and trailer are the preferred modes of transport for the family tractors, the tractor loaded up there ready to roll belongs to my oldest brother, it’s a Ferguson FE 35, these were a Ferguson tractor built with the assistance of Massey Harris. The rear axle and gearbox housings have MHF (for Massey Harris Ferguson) as part of the castings. Most people are probably more familiar with the red and grey MF 35 which is essentially the same tractor but built under the new Massey Ferguson name which is still around today.




Next time I get home I’ll snap off some pics of my girl, the Ferguson TE-A 20, plus I’ll try to get Dad’s Ford Ferguson 9N included as well for good measure!

Anyway after a weekend of plodding around in the mud, of hazy steam in heavy mist, of chugging steam engines and popping old petrols, and crazed vintage enthusiasts I’m exhausted… Can’t wait for next year!

This Is What Happens When It Doesn't Happen

So, I was going to post a post about, well fuck knows what actually. I was planning in the ol’ ‘sit in front of a compter, slam my head against the keyboard a few times and see if the resulting concussion causes anything interesting to run out of my ears’ approach. However there are a couple of things that mean that won’t be happening.

For starters it’s too bloody cold. I’m sitting a big, early twentieth century shed which is open at both ends with the wind howling through in bitter gusts. My fingers refuse to move the way I want them too, so rather than backspacing my way through a whole post I’m ready to give up and sit on my hands until the feeling and colour returns.

Secondly, some people have no tact. My morning buzz was totally killed by a combination of mentally unbalanced customers and conclusion jumping co-workers. Okay I’m not going to pretend I’m without blame here. Shit went down and I started in motion the series of events that just escalated. Long story short, I broke my own rule about crying at work. Okay, so it wasn’t for a sympathy vote, I actually had the good sense to switch on my voicemail hide in my office and have a private blubber, but still – mood killer much?

Thirdly, actually I don’t have a third reason really – maybe the time ting is my third ‘not posting’ excuse. See right now I’m supposed to be washing my car, then I’m supposed to be packing my bags, then I’m going to drive 200 kilometres in a northward-ish direction to Echuca (on the Victoria/New South Wales border) for a vintage machinery rally. Sounds thrilling, no?

There’ll be stationary engines, tractors, blacksmiths, cars, motorbikes, horses and wood-fire baked scones. The air will be heavy with steam and smoke and something about the cold and the oldness and revival of yesteryear is just magical. I’ll let you in on a dirty little secret too: I own a piece of machinery that’ll be on display there. A 1948 Ferguson TE-A 20. No shit! I’ll be sure to grab a few photos over the weekend and tell you all about it.

Oh yeah, and it’s a long weekend here, with Monday off for the Queen’s birthday. Thanks Liz! So, what are you all up to this weekend? Whatever you do, make sure you do it well enough to go down in infamy should you get caught! Have fun – be safe – say no to drugs, and on that note, I’ll be off kids!

$20k Challengers

Righto kids, a couple of weeks ago I set out with the grand idea of getting you suckers to come up with a new Mutantmobile for under twenty large.

Of course those that follow the comments will know that the response was overwhelming, except only two of those comments actually bothered to mention a car I could buy. True to my word I’ve decided to revisit those suggestions to either praise em up or shoot em down.

I also came up with a winner, the perfect fit for me and my busy lifestyle, or some wank like that.

First of all Jen suggested I should get something red, but Freddy countered that be recommending something green. Victor though I’d look good in a tram, Tom put forth the idea of something with enough room in the back for, um, vigorous pursuits. Kate loves her Mazdas and though I’d look hot in a Mazda3 like hers.

Andy has way too much time on his hands and hasn’t made the decision making process any easier by throwing a few more cars my way to take into consideration, First on Andy’s list is the unltimate rice-racer-fully-sik-boyz R33 Skyline GTS-T running a GTR V-spec engine.

I have the utmost respect for Skylines, the fucking things are giant killers. Essentially a reasonably low-weight coupe packed to the gills with an almost indestructible engine and able to handle insane amounts of boost through the engine and driveline. However, they have a certain stereotype that buys them, if you’ve seen The Fast And The Furious then you’ll know what I mean, plus I lack the patience to put up with the headfuck that is trying to obtain parts for a car which was never officially sold in this country.

Obviously Andy is something of a Nissan fetishist as next on the list is an 03 V35 skyline. Looking at the equipment list it certainly ticks most of the boxes, leather trim, climate control, Bose audio, DVD/TV tuner with sat nav and a 3.5 litre V6.

Not so handy however is the attached CVT transmission which would infuriate the fuck out of me, plus the fact the DVD player and sat nav would most likely be useless in Australia due to the region and mapping differences between Australia and Japan. Read the above imported vehicle diatribe for further details. Although it does come in a choice of sedan or coupe.

Of course if Andy figures I’ve got a shred of class he’d suggest something a bit more prestigious, like the BMW 735iL on his list. This is more my style, it’s a big fat limo, the cream of the BMW crop and perfect compensation for my tiny dick.

Inside there’s electric everything and leather galore. Of course the other side of the coin is that parts for the fuckers cost a bomb, that’s okay though because I’ve got plenty of aftermarket contacts. Sadly in Australia the terrain is just a little too harsh for the autobahn-spoilt Beemers, which means it won’t take long before costly brake, suspension and electrical components have rattle to pieces or wilted in the heat.

Still with the prestige Euros though and the Mercedes Benz C200K coupe was mentioned. Yes it’s a Merc, yes its rear wheel drive. The end. Andy, seriously what were you thinking? For starters I’m not a fucking hair-dresser, secondly have you ever seen one of these? I mean really?

It looks like a lizard that’s dropped its bloody tail and as a result the handling is up to shit thanks to a weight balance that is all front no rear. On the other hand the quality thing is pretty well sorted. Mercs only ever shit out expensive stuff, but I’m sure you’ll put your hand up for the $5000 every couple of years to keep it running, right Andy?

The most ace selection if the list though was an Alfa Romeo 156. Specifically mentioned was the manual as the selespeed robotized manuals have a habit or shredding clutches and destroying selector pumps every 6000 kilometres or 7 months, whichever comes first. They say to be a true car nut you have to have owned an Italian car. I say bullshit. That just makes you truly nuts.

An Italian car lures you in with seductive looks and styling to make you weak at the knees, by the end of it though you’ll be a poor man, lacking in sanity and most of your hair as problem after problem springs up with the electrics, oil leaks sprout from places never deemed possible and trim bits fade and crumble right before your eyes. They are damn sexy though.

Finally we have the Forester XT – by means of full disclosure Andy owns one of these which means to maintain out friendship I’ll heed my mother’s advice about saying nothing when you have nothing nice to say.

The hands down winner though was Celesticles who came up with this:

And said: Hey Kez, I think this car would be perfect for you! Its small enough to fit into those annoyingly 'too small' parks right out the front of the shops. Its white paint makes it classy and stylish, and its retro as hell, which I know presses your buttons. Modifications, well, you could really do anything with it, its so versatile, but im thinking some low profiles, new coat of paint, new engine, anything really. Your best bet would be to save the money in case something goes terribly wrong.... But, if you do get this car, you certainly will be turning heads... but maybe only because you have broken down in busy intersection...

Celeste, you get the gold star darling because you’ve combined my love of Eastern Bloc remnants with a desire to learn creative engineering solutions (thanks to a regular scheduled breakdowns) AND with enough money in the budget to go nuts with a full array of mods like fluffy dice, illuminated washer jets and maybe even a subwoofer! AWESOME!

Loose Yourself

I would like to know that I’m not the only one. I need to feel a little common love. Surely my bewilderment is not mine alone, or is it? Christ, I’m fucked if it is.

Y’see the problem I have is that I have the navigational ability of a mars bar. I’m so easily lost. I can traipse from work to home on a daily basis but that’s about it. If I need to visit you I’ll have to be glued to a street directory most of the way there, even if you tell me you live just one street over from the main road of a popular suburb I won’t find you without assistance.



I’m easily disoriented too. Put me into a shopping centre, turn me around twice and I’ll struggle to find my way out. It’s not fun. Take yesterday for example I wandered into the city to collect a few items on a whim. Normally if I hit the CBD I stick to about three our four streets that I’m reasonably familiar with to ensure that I can always back-track out again.

Yesterday I thought I was going alright. I’d braved Swanston Street on which my tram runneth and ventured down Bourke Street without too much drama. Then I got too clever for my own good. I decided that if I cut through Myer I could make up some time and avoid getting rained on. Yeah, stroke of genius that one.



Of course I got distracted by something shiny, then decided to leave the ground floor, then walked a few laps trying to work out where I’d come from, then I needed to take a piss so decided to find the leak-house, then suddenly had no fucking idea where I’d come from or where I should be headed. After about half an hour of walking into wall mounted mirrors and finding dead ends I finally came to an exit except it wasn’t on Bourke Street. Bugger.

Thankfully I was able to take the cheaters way out and I followed the outside of the building around in what I hoped was the direction of Swanston Street. Turns out it was. Thank Christ.

I’m the same in airports – friggen hopeless. Needless to say my days of traveling between Sydney and Melbourne for work were usually filled with mad sprints to catch a plane because I’d managed to loose myself somehow, regardless of the fact I was only headed to the same departure lounge I’d been to fifteen times before.



Don’t even get me started on finding my car in a carpark. Unless my bay is clearly next to a very obvious landmark, like say the Eiffel tower, I won’t have a chance of finding my car without a good forty minutes of leg-work first. The degree of difficulty is of course of multiplied by each additional level in the car park.

Err, now where was I? Fucked if I know really – navigating through a conversation often proves to be as difficult as navigating through the burbs. I loose sight of where I was headed and forget where I’ve already been. And who says being simple is no fun? You learn something new everyday, even if it is the same thing you learnt yesterday.