DAY 153: Getting my motherfuggin’ ute

Got mah ute.

I’M about as excited as you can possibly get when I bag this handsome ute on eBay. I can’t afford to get it roadworthy for at least three months, but hell – that’s not my drive it’s parked in.

Everyone in my country town has a ute. I’ve gone for regulation white, so I’ll have to fit it with some bumper stickers so that I can distinguish it from those of my brethren.

The owner wheezes the Falcon over from Williamstown, hands over the paperwork and runs. I ease myself onto the furry seat cover to start pulling and pushing things, most of which fall off. The glove compartment’s been fitted with a garden gate bolt, which is a nice touch, but in my opinion the selling point is the cabin – which magically transforms the ute into a shaggin’ wagon.

Overnight, Emerson – who’ll be getting it roadworthy – has turned into the harbinger of doom, forecasting bits that need replacing, fast ones the previous owner has pulled, and the long list of costs to come. I’m not implying he’s pissing on my parade, but I do feel a fine mist in the air when he surveys the handbrake.

I’ve got great plans to pimp the ute up with working tyres and wing mirrors, but in the meantime we give it a bit of a test spin.

“Don’t draw any attention to yourself,” Emmo warns, fatefully.

I start it up and am immediately rattled by the column shift, the operation of which sets off the windscreen wipers, which seems like a pretty major design fault. As we bounce and squeak off down the road, I’m coursing with sweat. The maiden voyage of one’s first vehicle is one of those moments in life you want to go really well, but I can tell this ute has zero respect for me right now; I’m driving it like a stammering apology, like Smeagol with an overbite. Unlike Ralph, the ute fails to learn who is boss.

Despite this less than auspicious start, the next morning there are no weird leaks under the ute, which is a good sign.

Keeper? Yeahargh! Can’t wait to go for a donut-run.