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DAY 198: Wrestling and manhandling

DING fucking ding! It’s The Perculator Vs. Legs McSqueal, throwing shit down, on the beach.

“The Perculator’s not so much about wrestling,” my mentor growls, hoiking up his shorts. “I like to think of him as a metaphor for people too dumb to think of good metaphors.”

With that, he spits on the ground, snarls, and grabs me around the neck. I bell clap his ears, rake his chest and knee him in the head. As he drops to his knees, I slide in for a flying dropkick to the guts. Such a crowd pleaser.

No crowing for too long, though – The Perculator’s just kicked sand in my face. Like, really. And he’s back up!

I remember my uncle’s love of the likes of boombas Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks, but today we’re apeing the more classical moves of World Heavyweight Champ Mario Milano, who started life as ‘Black Diablo’, and American legend Red Bastien, or ‘Texas Red’. Mario’s finishing move was the atomic drop, which does sound quite final. He still lives in Australia today, after coming here to wrestle in the 1960s.

The Perculator and I work through a sequence of Greek wrestling holds, submission holds, scissor kicks, Chinese racks, backbreakers, suprexes, and that one Daryl Hannah does with her thighs in Blade Runner. That’s good, that one. We take turns to be the heel. Perko’s the inventor of the proctologist’s elbow, so I respond with my own signature move, the loving fistful.

There follows leaping, reeling, grunting, red herrings, leaping over heads and outlandish cries of pain, to the alarm of perambulating old ladies and their yappy dogs.

Keeper? Yes. I will need some pretty good moves up my sleeve when The Perculator discovers Mr Thumpy has nibbled the corner of his 1967 World Championship Wrestling Holds souvenir.

Categories idiocy, sport

DAY 195: Baiting Miranda at Hanging Rock

14 Mar

HYPOTHETICALLY speaking, if one were to take a moonlit saunter into the Hanging Rock reserve – to retrace the steps of 1900s schoolgirl Miranda and her ethereal, doomed chums – one would have to first climb the fence, then tiptoe past slumbering rangers (or perhaps they’re playing cards, or learning Jack Johnson tunes), then hike up sheer slopes of thick bracken and thistles.

One would thus be a bit of a dolt to embark on this hypothetical mission with bare legs, slippery-slidey cowboy boots and a handbag. Ah, the wisdom of hindsight.

Picnic at Hanging Rock, set at these volcanic boulders some 70km northwest of Melbourne, is a novel and film “of haunting mystery and buried sexual hysteria”. Missing schoolgirls, corsets, undies and a suicide plummet – it’s got it all. In real life, though, this spot was an Aboriginal initiation ceremony site until the 1850s, for boys coming of age.

aaiiee!

I’m getting pretty spooked – not least by the low mutter of the bush pirate explaining the worst case scenario if we get caught. As we crash through the undergrowth, beating our way upwards into blackness for about 20 minutes (nope, can’t find the path), we hear kangaroos thudding loudly, weird birdcalls and furry things thrashing around in the trees.

“Wait!” The bush pirate hisses, freezing. My heart lurches. I prick my ears for eerie panpipes.

“What?”

“I think it’s a ring-tailed possum, look – up there.”

For fuck’s sake!

Once at the summit, we lie down for a bit and look up at the constellations of stars in the cloudless sky. The moon lights up the rock formations around us. It’s a wild and woolly romantic spot, when the tourists aren’t around. “Beats staying home and watching Entourage,” the bush pirate notes. “Is that your hand on my balls?”

While the bush pirate talks to Miranda, I take pictures – our spoils – and type stuff in my phone. It occurs to me that if we do get caught or go crashing to our deaths, I have all the evidence here to put us on Australia’s Dumbest Criminals.

After a spell, we follow wombat tracks back down the slope and then stage-tiptoe down a horribly crunchy gravel road to get back to the gate. The bush pirate starts doing Robert Crumb and James Dean-style tiptoes to calm my nerves.

Keeper? A real kick… but I’m not a gambling girl, and twice might be pushing my luck. A word of advice to anyone planning on scaling a wiry fence any time soon – don’t wear a loose-knit jumper. I hung, crucified, from the top, plucking bits off jumper off fence spikes for what seemed to be an age.

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Categories idiocy, physical death risk, social death risk

DAY 193: Piggybacking an adventurer

12 Mar

AT Lavers Hill Roadhouse in the Otway Ranges, I meet Andy Cadigan, for whom the local copper is buying drinks. Which immediately piques my interest.

Andy set off on Boxing Day to walk around Australia to raise money for the The Cancer Council after losing his mate Simo.

He sold his house and car to fund this trip, and all he’s got with him is a pram with solar panels that charge his laptop so he can keep people updated with his blog, Oz On Foot.

Obviously Andy’s looking for donations – the monetary kind – but hearing him talk about bone marrow donations gets everyone in the pub thinking about that, too.

Andy will be walking till April next year, he reckons, so I help him on his way by piggybacking him off from the roadhouse.

Andy’s got a tent, a tiny cooker, water, clothes, mobile phone, laptop, sleeping-bag, wet wipes, Penguin classic… hey, that’s about it.

In Tasmania, Andy got so cold he chopped the sleeves off his jumper and turned them into mittens, held on by cable ties.

Keeper? We’re all knocked sideways by this bloke. Will definitely keep track of what he’s doing.

Addendum: In June 2012 Andrew Cadigan completed his epic journey of walking alone for 15,000km and raised $65,000 for charity. A month later, while recuperating in Thailand, he suffered severe head injuries in a motorcycle accident. He died in October 2012, aged 31.
.

Categories idiocy, philanthropy

DAY 192: Nudey night swimming in the sea

11 Mar

YES, I know you’ve done this loads of times, but I am an English and it is unthinkable.

“You’ve got to get a song in your head – it helps,” says the bush pirate as we get out of the car. “Ready?”

In the sea we’re surrounded by swarms of tiny brill, which I’m not told about till later, and we often can’t see the waves coming till they bowl us over. Double the excitement.

Sea mist or something.

Keeper? Squeals ahoy! But don’t fancy going on my own much.

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Categories idiocy, sport

DAY 179: Dancing under the stars

26 Feb

I HAVE to be asked twice to dance to ‘Crimson & Clover’ in the middle of the night, in the middle of a country road.

On night one I plead fatigue. On night two, I mentally run through excuses ranging from hysteria to a twisted ankle, then agree. We jump up onto the hood of the ute and dance in the moonlight – snickering possums and grumbling ute bonnets be blowed.

Keeper: Yes.

Categories idiocy

DAY 154: Playing bingo with Andrew WK

1 Feb

SPOOK magazine have put on a bingo lunch hour with Andrew WK in the city, so the workmates and I troop down for a turn. As the numbers are called out, Andrew entertains us with improv numbers on his keyboard, trotting out snippets of baroque, oompah and film tunes with huge aplomb and composing little ditties.

One winner, when offered a choice of T-shirts, instead quaveringly requests a hug.

“You’re very easy to please,” Andrew booms amiably at him. “Almost too easy. You’ve got to want more from life.”

Keeper? I do enjoy a spot of bingo, if anyone wants to start up a regular night?

Categories idiocy

DAY 150: Being silly at a tattoo convention

28 Jan

Dave pretending to study a bottle.

WHEN I ask people what the bird I’m getting inked on my arm should be holding between its feet, suggestions range from a chip, to a worm it has pecked to death, another bird’s head it won in a fight to the death, Nick Cave’s head dangled by its moustache, the same bird holding a smaller version of itself which is holding a smaller version of itself which is holding a smaller version of itself which is holding a smaller version of itself…

Thankfully, by the time I take my arm to Dave Undead, I’ve got it all sorted in my head. Custom king Dave beats off hoards of flapping fanboys with one arm to etch out a beautiful bird holding a compass that points north (since things are no longer heading south) with the other.

It’s a bit of a fiddly job, which leaves three hours to discuss how to tell just by looking who has blood that smells like cabbage, and whether or not there are any men who don’t have a problem with their girlfriends having tattoos, because an awful lot of them seem to whinge about it after a few sherries when seemingly they were cool about it.

We also talk about Hey Man, Now You’re Really Living, which is when he says I should do something epic on landmark days, and I say, well, this is Day 150, maybe you could etch a little 150 into a feather or something, and he says, well, I was thinking more like a speech bubble.

An aside: This suddenly reminds me that my friend Lindsay, on whom Dave has inked a mythical b-owl – half bat, half owl – warned me that I should watch closely if I don’t want my tattoo to end up with a little cock and balls.

Any stupid suggestion like this is like a red rag to a bull, so on goes the speech bubble. It does break the cardinal rule of getting tattooed – Don’t Get Anything That Begs A Question – something that someone with four cover-ups should know by now, but when such an urge takes you, what can you do?

“I always say I was just being silly,” Dave offers of unwanted “why did you get that?” queries.

Keeper? Yes.

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Categories body bothering, idiocy

Day 134: Laughing solo

12 Jan

HAVING a good guffaw is supposed to release all sorts of endorphins and feel-good chemicals, lower blood pressure and boost immune function.

I can’t quite bring myself to do group laughter therapy just yet, so I try two minutes on my own this morning.

It sounds proper sinister, sniggering and wheezing alone, but eventually your stomach muscles sort of take over, in an involuntary spasm. The rabbit comes to investigate, as he always does when I make strange noises, which only adds to my discomfort… but by the time I’ve finished I feel kind of dizzy, which is good.

Amusing incidents from the back catalogue to draw upon:

The time I ran my driving instructor’s car off the road and he screamed like a girl.

The time Mum started howling at one of Dad’s dead-serious “it was the winter of my discontent” ruminations and couldn’t stop.

The time that guy in the pub introduced himself as Phil McGuinness.

Keeper? I like that you have to stand with your hands on your hips. I am going to stand with my hands on my hips next time I laugh at someone.

Comments 1 Comment
Categories idiocy, personality facelift

DAY 122: Leading the zombie parade to death and/or glory

31 Dec

MY FACE is caked with black, red and white pan stick, my wig is yanked on, I’m in full marching band regalia… and then there’s a sharp pang of horror.

My eyeballs aren’t disguised! The world will surely know me, as I lead the NYE zombie parade through the Falls Festival, and thus my resolve will sociophobically shrivel and my baton will wilt mid-twirl. We’re all fucked, sorry about that.

This is no reflection on my spirited sisters from the Red Brigade or the shuffling undead behind us – rather it’s based on data collected from previous performances in my back catalogue of ill-advised public ventures:

2004: Playing surf bass in grass skirt, a lei and grimly set jaw. Are there firing squads in Waikiki? If so, I am authentically recreating the death-in-paradise vibe.

1998: “Fall to your knees in your guitar solo,” the singer hisses before we crank out our single. As if. Stare morbidly at the drummer, more like.

1982: Mid-recorder recital in assembly I suddenly can’t remember a single note of Morning Has Broken, and am forced to play air recorder. Still – good save.

The Red Brigade are girly militia led by Brandy Alexander, Stacey Starbright and Dr Randy Beaverson. They’ve sportingly let me join them for one night only, and I’ve had around 50 minutes to learn various marching formations (bicycle wheel, circle, cross…) and a few dance routines.

As we gather for the real thing in the campgrounds of Falls, we’re quickly surrounded by our very own cheer squad of shirtless toolbags, drinking beer and heckling. We’re not actually going to set off for an hour yet, but that’s okay – they’ve got all the time in the world. I suppose it’s good for me to learn what heckling feels like though, just as it was good to find out how it feels to have your lyrics critiqued. Yeah… don’t like it.

Meanwhile, information filters through the ranks that last year the parade was bottled.

“I’m scared,” I hear someone say.

“Me too,” someone else chips in, reassuringly.

As I sit down for a sec to contemplate the fact that I’ll be in the frontline, a searing pain hits my leg. I look down and it’s crawling with bull ants. Brilliant! Maybe I’ll need to get it amputated and I’ll miss the parade.

No such luck – we’re off. I quickly get “in character” – avoiding eye contact, not smiling, staggering a bit – hey, just another night down the pub. Unlike the layabouts in the campsite, whose jeers still ring in our ears, those in the main arena are totally amenable to having the undead walk among them. Only one guy comes up for a bit of a go, but then when his girlfriend screams at him, “Why would you DO that?” he’s not sure.

As I lead the pack through the festival grounds at a bit of a sprint, we’re attacked only by paparazzi. Admittedly I shirk on the dancing front a fair bit, but we’re going down a treat.

Keeper? Was pretty pumped after – this must be how Bono feels. But I’ll leave it to the professionals.