Break Ya Neck

Ah, the glory of an early morning start. As much as I’d like to look like one of those Special K ads where vivacious young things spring out of bed with perfect hair and make up and bounce off to the gym, this just isn’t me.

Instead I’ll usually grumble my way out of the fart-sack, swear at my alarm clock on the way past, then plod down the hallway in my frumpy pajamas, scratching my arse and bumping into things because I haven’t woken up properly. I’ll stare at a bowl of cereal for at least half an hour until I work out I should eat it, then I’ll flick the radio on so I can keep track of time while I battle with keeping my shower to three minutes, and wrestle with getting my hair ‘just so’ to hide my numerous, expanding bald-spots.

This morning I was all class. Things just fell into place and I felt like some kind of movie montage. I felt sexy and energized and ready to jump head-long into the day ahead.

I’d just toweled myself off, splashed on some anti-perspirant and slid into a fitted T-shirt and a pair of briefs with amazing package-enhancing abilites when the morning rasio-jocks shut the hell up and the music began to roll. Cue Beyonce’s Sweet Dreams. I looked at my reflection in the full length mirror behind me, the steam had started to lift, my head was obscured, but my body was reflected in all its tightly-packed glory.



It started out innocently enough, with a little hip-swaying, but before long I was power-ballading with the best of them. Shaking my groove thang and hamming it up like the whole world was watching me. I don’t even like Beyonce, but I gave the performance of a lifetime, such was my effervescent mood. Of course, being unable to see my own head, but watching my co-ordinated shirt-n-trunks bump and grind was really starting to turn me on. I decided to focus and set about dressing, primping and preening until the desired effect was reached.

With hair looking like it had been expertly tousled by the hands of the gods I exited the bathroom, just as another snappy tune filled the room. I had no choice but to conduct a merry old jig down the hallway to the strains of Lily Allen’s Not Fair.



Of course just as it kicked into action I reached my bedroom, threw my PJs across the room, launched myself at my bed and pulled a few anguished faces before getting up and square dancing my way back to the kitchen to prepare my lunch and sing out the window to two very bemused looking cats.

Well, that was the good mood taken care of. But it didn’t end there, not by a long shot. Out the door and across to my car I managed to find an elusive break in traffic that meant I was able to dash across effortlessly without having to wait and get sprayed with the unburnt diesel from hundreds of heavy-haulage trucks. I looked around, I couldn’t see anyone filming a revised version of the Mary Tyler Moore opening credits, so I figured this was actually for real.

And just as I thought that things couldn’t possibly get any better – you guessed it – they sure did. This morning must have been some kind of national jogger’s meet. Now usually I’m not overly fond of jogging men, except when they fit a particular set of criteria. I swear, there must have been at least fifty men jogging around the outskirts of Melbourne’s CBD this morning, all with rather large arms, all with buzz-cut hair and goatees and all wearing sweat pants. Tick, tick aaaaaaand tick!

Sweat pants you say? Indeed, but better still, from what I could tell there were no undergarments to be found, so the jogging action resulted in what can only be described as two kittens wrestling behind a curtain. If there’s a better way to get to work in the morning I’m yet to find it. Of course the resulting neck strain is a totally different issue, but with happy thoughts running through my mind, I can’t see that being such a big deal.

Looks like I’m going to make it after all!

Open Roading

The complaints were getting too loud to ignore.

My guest - having travelled all the way from Denver, Colorado, via Christchurch, New Zealand - wanted to get out and see Australia.

Fair call really. I can't imagine sitting in my bedroom and waiting for the action to come to you is a whole lot of fun, so I relented and we hit the road for a good old fashioned grand adventure.

I pointed the car towards Daylesford, otherwise known as 'the town that gay saved', and decided to terrorise this sleepy little tourist town with J.D.

Daylesford, for any non-Victorians is the spa centre of Australia, thanks to all its natural springs and such. I tried out the water and I have to say, afterwards my mouth tasted like I'd French-kissed a crow-bar. If rusty water isn't your thing, I'd recommend staying well away from drinking the stuff, try the bath-house instead.

Also, just past Daylesford, on your way to Hepburn, you'll find the place where the willow used in genuine Australian cricket bats is grown. Personally I find cricket a monumental snooze-fest, although I'm getting a feel for the twenty-twenty stuff. Either way, we spotted a road-side tribute to 'Cricket Willow' which got Hoodie rather hot under the collar.

We aslo stopped in at the Wombat Park Botanical Gardens in Daylesford, which are rather lovely, plus they have a way cool observation tower there, and me being the little monkey-boy I am, I had to climb it.

Towards the top I was ready to die - yes that is a cigarette in my hand, which probably explains a hell of a lot really, also when you look back down it all comes into sharp focus.

104 steps may not seem like much, but when they're steep, wet and slippery and you decide it'd be fun to see how long it takes to to sprint from the bottom to the top, things tend to get a little dangerous.

If it wasn't for the shitty, damp, drizzly weather the view from the top would be awesome. I was just happy with the fact the ground was a long way down.

Look at them tiny people, they look like ants! Oh, wait there are no people there. I really wanted to take a leak from the top of the tower, because my puerile mind gets a real kick out of that, but J.D. decided we should act like grown-ups, hence why I was taking pictures of the two of us doing unsavory things in a public toilet, see:

Try explaining that to the local constabulary. Anyway, we moved on. J.D. mentioned how much he liked the look of sleepy old Daylesford, so we decided to check out the local property scene and see if there was anything that took out fancy. The house below was described as a 'charming two-bedroom workers cottage, with plenty of natural light and an open, airy feel. A real renovators delight.' No fucking kidding. After putting a rusty nail through my foot on my way out to see the courtyard we decided to leave that idea behind. Shame really because with the cash I had in my pocket I could've bought it.

As night closed in we made out way back to Melbourne after a grand day out. Sadly the weather was pretty nasty so we didn't get to meet any new faces. We did get to enjoy some Australian native highway cuisine on the way home.

With a diet like that, I have no idea how Hoodie manages to keep such a slim figure.

One Side To Too Many Stories

I’ve been rather self analytical of late. Everything I do, everything I say, every action, every consequence has come under scrutiny. There’s been a lot of blame, a lot of guilt and basically a lot of wallowing in my own self pity.

Why is it that I’ll spit a vitriolic tirade at someone who I actually get along with? Do I hope to get a laugh, am I trying to do some damage?

Why can’t I ever seem to stand on my own two feet? Am I going to need to be helped through my entire life, is the ultimate solution co-dependency?

Before you start gesticulating wildly in the direction of a probable cause, let me stop you right now. I’m very much fucking aware of why I’m feeling this way. I took a heart and tore it in two. I didn’t put much thought into what I was doing – I cared more about getting my end in than I did about any long term implications. I’m not the smartest peanut in the turd. I’ll admit that.

So how’s this for poetic justice. My husbear is taking an extended overseas vacation. I knew he was, he’s been talking about it for months. I let him go, figuring he’d be off to Italy to see his family. Turns out he’d set aside two weeks towards the end in Hong Kong, designed to line up with my own vacation time. Sucks to be me: I have no passport and already planned my own trip to Sydney, like a fool, missing all the dropped hints thrown in my lap. How’s that for karmic-equality?

Tonight is probably the last chance I’ll get to see him before he ships off to Europe and Asia for what sounds like an awesome vacation. There’ll be no romantic ‘just the two of us’ tonight, he can’t stand to be alone with me right now, so instead it’ll be he and I and twenty of his rowdy mates. He won’t tell me he loves me, he won’t say that he’s going to miss me. In fact his new trick this week is calling me “Mate” and “Buddy”.

There’s two ways this holiday will work. Either he really will miss me like crazy when he returns, or he’ll be smart enough to work out he’s better off without me. I’ll take bets too if you’re interested in pulling some cash. FYI, odds are currently at fifty-to-one he’ll hang around, you want in?

So, here we are – after big-noting myself as your typical weekend warrior for the last eighteen months I have a confession to make. I hadn’t had a drink since March 2008. Eventually I decided no harm could come of it, the husbear thought it’d be nice if I started drinking again, socially of course. So I did. See where it got me? Last Friday and the previous Sunday are prime example of why this is not a good idea.

I’ll repeat the performance tonight for kicks then it’ll be back on the wagon until I’m a grown up. Believe that and you’ll believe anything I suppose.

This is a post that shouldn’t go up. It’s likely to be the first post that doesn’t stay up. Basically I wanted to share with you all my big bag of woe. There is a prequel to this story actually. Remind me to share it with you some day. It has photos and everything. For now though, I’m just going to go and live with myself for a while.

No Happy Ending

Quite possibly the best thing about driving other people's cars for a living is that you get to be seen in them. Now this is an amazing feeling when you pull up at the beach in a Lamborghini convertible, not so shit-hot when you have to spend a week in a Proton Savvy.

Tonight, however, I was in luck. Whilst I can't name names I was in quite possibly the worlds most pointless SUV, which I think is sublime piece of design and not for the faint of heart to be seen in. Better still, there's  a twin-turbo V8 lurking beneath the bonnet that barks like a hell-hound every time you poke the throttle, and massive 20 inch rims at each corner.

So, onto the main event. Tonight as I was leaving work I was driving the previously mentioned car. I had the windows down so as not to miss a moment of that guttural V8, but when idling at the lights I'd crank up the premium sound system and escape into some tunes.

I have no idea what CD I had on, something an ex of mine mixed for me years and years ago, which encompasses neither of our musical tastes. Anyway I was sitting at an intersection near home with some grungey, hard-core, euro thrash-metal music pumping into the street. Small children were hiding behind their mothers legs, while the elderly scampered back into their homes for refuge.

Attention? What do you mean centre of attention? For added effect I'd stab the throttle from time-to-time just to add to the crescendo of noise. It was all quite primal really. Then out of nowhere this tight little jogger arrived on my side of the street, the kind of man I'd throw myself at the mercy of in an instant. Buzz-cut hair, arms like tree trunks, thick well-trimmed beard, solid legs, a hairy chest and for the icing on the cake, running shorts that were almost tight enough to reveal every follicle on his - no doubt - furry, tightly packed arse.

He looked over at me. I was waiting for the 'wanker' eyes, but instead he looked my car up and down slowly, then started nodding his head to the music. Score! If I play this juuuuust right, who knows what could happen. I decided to go for full effect and blipped the throttle. The sound ripped though the cold night air and I could see the hair on his neck (and shoulders) stand on end.

It was really working for me, then - of course - it all went pear-shaped. The Azerbaijani death metal finished and next track on the CD cued up. To prove what a short attention span that particular ex had, what do you suppose the next track was? We'll if you guessed 'techno remix of Shake your Booty by Scooter' then well done, you're tonight's winner.

I desperately smacked the dash, trying in vain to shut the damn thing up, but my aim wasn't good enough. That's it. My dreams of hot, bearish bliss turned into a disco-scented puddle and run through the cobble-stone streets.

Or so I though until I looked at the hot sweaty daddy-bear and saw him tapping his foot to the music. We locked eyes and he let out a "woof" that although inaudible from my vantage point would have been deep, low and well, pure sex really. I gave my best smoldering eyes, then the lights turned green so I buried the accelerator into the carpet and tore off towards the horizon, leaving a wake of thunderous V8 bellow and candy-apple disco behind me.

As I pulled up around the next corner I felt spurred on to hit my fitness routine hard. I dived into the house, threw on my tracksuit, pulled a few quick warm-ups and hit the street. As usual it didn't take to long before I was marinating in my own sweat, red-faced, puffing and grunting, clutching my hefty sides as they jiggled themselves into a stitch.

And of course, who should come gliding effortlessly around the corner looking all super-fit, fresh and perky? Yeah, daddy-big-guns, of course. With nowhere to go I was forced to head straight for him. He saw me coming an cracked a smile, then noticed my pastel pink velour tracksuit, the pained expression on my face and my generally disheveled look, and his look quickly turned into one of: 'Oh, you though you could play with the big boys, huh?'

He dashed past me, all effortless and gazelle-like as I swore silently an my pure unathleticism. Of course there was no better time to stop to catch my breath and watch his tight-as-a-drum arse bounce off into the fading light.

Needless to say, (I'll be getting rid of that tracksuit immediately, and...) I've found my inspiration. He'd just want to hope I don't catch him anytime soon.

Blink And You'll Miss It

A three-day weekend you say? Yes please, I'd love one. I'm only scheduled one of those a month, and thanks to staff shortages I usually work the Saturday meaning I get a two-day weekend once a month and a single day the other three weeks.

You can only imagine how much I was looking forward to this. The only problem is, I stilll have to fit my part-time job in around that too, that usually takes place on Saturday and Sunday, but the hours are fairly flexible, and besides I still had Monday to spend in my pajamas. Well, that was the idea anyway.

To celebrate I accosted one of the boys from work and suggested that we should go out and get severely written off on Friday night. He umm-ed and aah-ed and tried to make excuses about plans for the next morning, but I was having none of it. I bundled him into my car, stopped in at a bottle shop, grabbed more beer than was ultimately safe and set he and I up on his couch, necking stubbies and allowing the hardships of a working week to melt away.

Before too long we'd both of us drank ourselves past sober and were on our way getting legless. Then the suggestion was made that we should hit the town, surprisingly I was the largest objector as I was still in my work uniform, but it didn't take too much to convince me.

So there I was, swaying like a palm tree in a tropical storm, dressed like an office worker, with giddy fags prancing merrily around me and a straight mechanic with his arm around me for moral support. I know it sounds delightful, but it was not to stay that way.

Accompanying us was the light of my life, my darling husbear. At some point I had a hissy fit about something I couldn't find: Keys, bag, phone, whatever. So he took me back to his car and helped me locate them. Somehow this turned into an indescribably long sob-fest with me pouring my heart out about how I'd slept with someone else earlier that week.

I stood there, in the middle of Commercial Road, swaying and lurching in the breeze, trying to focus on my gorgeous boyfriend's face, so I could look deep into his eyes. Of course, to prove how perfect he is, he laughed the whole thing off, assured me that I was only human and told me he knew it wasn't likely to happen again.

Back at the bar I was thirsty... So very thirsty, so I kept pouring beer, rum and whatever else I could get down my neck. Stirring up the hornets nest within. A group of friends had gathered to watch the spectacle that I was fast becoming. Usually I'm the sober one, the designated driver or the one who has to leave early. Not this time.

My phone chimed with an SMS, someone requesting my location. I informed them and continued drinking. All too late it struck me who it was I'd just told to come and meet me out. The other man. That thought really only struck me as he walked in the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He walked over to where me and my boyfriend were standing along with a couple of my friends, and stood there, grinning. Rational thought gripped me and I jumped into action mode: "Uh, S this is the man I cheated on you with. D, this is the boyfriend you didn't know I had" followed by the rapid skulling of a fresh rum and coke.

And of course everything went merrily downhill from there, didn't it. Two men in that bar wanted to kill me, and of course because I was off my chops I decided the whole thing was hilarious and: Continued. To. Drink. Foolish boy.

Not five minutes later the keys and bag I was so worried about were thrust at me, and as I gathered myself I saw my other half storming out the door. I had a very upset one-night stand making gooey eyes at me from the other side of the bar and I could not seem to pull myself away from the beer tap, which may as well have been an IV drip by now.

Thankfully the lights came on and it was time to go home. I decided now was as good a time as any to reveal to my co-worker that he is a very sexy guy and he should take his pick from the drooling masses eyeing him off, go home and have the night of his life. He declined, put his arm around me and steered me through those same salivating vultures, to the safety of the street. God bless his pure, loving soul - for that alone I think I need to buy him something. Maybe a box of beer?

Of course Saturday morning would have been a glorious occasion to sleep in, except for the customer who thought I'd be at work, so called my mobile instead of the work line. As soon as he realised he'd woken me he apologised profusely. I simply told him to fuck off and ring work. Then the guilt set in and I rang work back and told them that, if that customer needed a delivery I could run it out to him.

Needless to say, half an hour later I was on my way to the middle of nowhere, fighting the mother of all hangovers and gasping along the way as shreds of the night before returned to me. The rest of Saturday didn't go particularly well either, as I had a shattered boyfriend to mend things with. The good new is, he's still around. The bad news is, every time he looks at me all I can see is the betrayal I inflicted, bleeding from deep within him. This isn't going to mend itself quickly.

Of course amongst all that I had to fit in my part-time job, same again on Sunday too, so you can only imagine how much I was looking forward to today with my grand plans to head to the Victorian snowfields for a day trip.

Of course this morning started at 8:00 am, much earlier than expected with a phone call from Saturday's customer. Again I told him to kindly take the largest spanner he could find and insert it sideways into whatever orifice was currently pointed south. I think he got the message. I decided I may as well get up, and lo-and-behold, not five minutes later the part-time job called and asked if I could fill in.

Always hungry for cash I stupidly said yes, meaning my trip to the snow would have to wait until I was finished. I finished at 3:00 pm, and embarked on the three hour drive, only to turn around after two hours thanks to the fading light. Sigh.

I was taking someone with me too, you see. J.D. Hoodie, the traveller from America - I promise I'll make it up to him though. If you haven't added him on facebook, do so now, it's the best way to keep up with his worldwide journey.

As for me, I'm ready for bed. It's been quite a weekend and I really feel like I could do with a day off tomorrow.

AWOL with JD

Melbournians, rejoice. For this week is AWOL week. Yeah, yeah we all know the military’s use of the acronym; however for those in the underground gay subculture of hyper masculinity you should probably acquaint yourself with A Week Of Leather at the Laird Hotel in Abbotsford.


I decided to last night, so before I ventured out into the cold winter night I donned my leather pants, leather jacket, studded belt, steel toed boots, leather cuffs, leather armband and leather jacket. Yeah I don’t do this shit by halves. Needless to say the Laird, as always, did not disappoint when it came to hot, hot men with huge arms, buzz-cuts and questionable facial hair. I’m determined to be a bear one day. No one knows how to party like those boys.

Particularly the two guys I was sent to rendezvous with: Carlos and Toby, visiting from New Zealand. These two guys are friends of Freddy’s and two more woof-alicious men you will not find anywhere. As an added bonus they guys had bought JD Hoodie with them, the traveling hoody which has made its way out of the USA, over to New Zeland and is now in my possession so that I can show it the sights, sounds, smells and men of Melbourne.

If you check out that handover photo, you can see why I was so enamoured with the kiwi lads, you can also see that I was rather stoked to get my hands on JD. Of course JD isn’t exactly the most pure of lads and it wasn’t long before he found himself a tall, muscular bear to drape himself across. Lucky bastard.

If only I could remember this guys name, but he was dark and brooding and hot as the sun. Plus he’s a former mechanic so he knew his shit when it came to cars. Needless to say I was both weak at the knees and maybe a little bit hard. When he asked if he could try JD on, what else was I to do but oblige?

Anyway I blame JD, Toby and Carlos in equal measure for a debaucherous night which saw me drink and swinging off a variety of heavy-set bear-type men. Worse still, my inner trash-bag took over and I made it home at 5:00am Monday morning, which gave me just enough time to powernap for an hour before getting up for work.

To say that I feel like death warmed up right now would be the understatement of the understatement of the century, but at least I didn’t go home alone… I had JD to keep me company.

So, if you haven’t added JD Hoodie as a friend on facebook yet, I strongly suggest you do so, that way you can keep up on all of his global adventures. Freddy will keep you up to date too and while JD is hanging with me, I’ll bring you all the inside goss on what the lad gets up to!

Don't Forget The Little People

Last night the other half called me excitedly from his car to tell me all about the hot twink that had just served him at the drive-through window.

“You should have seen him” He gushed, “He had reddish auburn hair like that wig of yours, and tattoos all up his arms, but he was probably only 17 so he’d have to go on lay-by for a while.”

I sighed. “Well, if he’s got tatts then he has to be 18 at least.”

“Really?” I could hear the gears in the husbear’s mind racing to process the good news. “Are you sure? He sounded as gay as the hills.”

“I can only imagine the flirtation flying between the two of you. Why don’t you go back and pretend there was something wrong with your order, find out what time he knocks off and offer to give him a ride home?” For those who are struggling with the concept, that was laced with sarcasm.

“But he’s not your type” Came the dejected reply.

“Of course he’s not. Clearly he’s no bear, but he sounds like he’s right up your alley. I have no involvement, you go back there and have the time of your life, I’d hate for you to miss out” I shot back.

“You know somewhere out there there’ll be a bearded midget, and when I see him I’ll bring him home for you and I to share.” He soothed. Aww, bless his furry little heart. He really was paying attention all those times I dropped hints about my midget fetish and my penchant for facial scruffage.

So what should happen, not 20 hours later? Two of my co-workers approached me, having just returned from a road-test. “We just saw the perfect man for you.” They claimed.

“Do tell” I replied, dubiously.

“Well, he was this tall” and they both indicated a spot somewhere around the four-feet-from-the-floor mark. “And… he had a scruffy little beard.”

“You’re fucking with me aren’t you?” I accused.

“Nah, we’re not. I would’ve taken a photo, but I was driving. He was just on Chapel Street if you’d like to go and find him” One of them suggested.

I toyed with the idea but decided to let it go, then I relayed the story of last night’s events, which had them in stitches, both declaring that they’re in a lot of trouble, if they turn up looking clean shaven and boyish when my other half is around, they’ll end up attracting his attention, whereas should they go for a scruffy look they’ll have me to contend with.

I eyeballed them from top to toe and sneered. “Nah, doesn’t matter what you do lads – you aint going to raise my pulse in a hurry!” I quipped.

“It’s not your pulse I’m concerned about raising” came the reply.

Touché, but enough outta me… I’ve got a fuzzy-midget to find.

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!