Hey man, now you're really living

THIS is my wig. Everything else is hush hush.

Keeper? Well… it’s the one and only rehearsal.

Separated at birth?

These young men demonstrate the correct way to safely enter a fray.

I’VE got fond memories of mosh pits and flying lemming-like from stages, particularly of having a salty pash with a young Glaswegian sporting a wilting green mohican at a Rollins Band show; in the eye of a storm of blurred elbows. I lost him when I had to find my mum outside.

Today, though, I’m braving a mosh pit stone cold sober. It’s not really by choice. My cohort, of Day Three, has already screamed at Chris Cheney of The Living End, abused the door chick and bounced off several walls, so when she heads off down front of the Reverend Horton Heat’s pit, I feel obliged to stand guard.

Within minutes of the gig starting, someone has launched a beer over my head that I’m convinced is meant for my enthusiastic friend. Oblivious, she loses herself in the melee of elderly bequiffed men and staunch Betty Pagers. It’s a fairly polite melee though. Nobody takes their shirt off, although there are a few blokes in sweat-soaked singlets around the edges who take advantage of a sudden surge to do their own peculiar body-contact dance.

A girl with a mohican and a dog collar grabs my young charge and starts jumping up and down with her, which marks the fourth mohican I’ve seen in two days. They’re perfect for eye-gouging in pits, HOWEVER, this girl has soaped her long hair up without having the regulation shaved sides. This is completely unacceptable, and I’m tempted to tap her on the shoulder and let her know. I would have rather DIED than do that at her age, and I’d have deserved it. Youth of today, grumble grumble…

Keeper? Down front IS more enjoyable than up back, yes. How did I forget this over the centuries? Next time will attempt a salty pash in a mosh pit stone cold sober.

Stuart is shifting soil from one pile to another.

THE first bloom of spring makes a city flush with short-lived friendliness, and I’m no exception. A good mood? Hellzapoppin’, let’s use this thing! Go go go!

It’s a fact that when one pulls on a fluoro vest, one effectively disappears. British photographer Stephen Gill created a series called ‘Invisible’ to bring to our attention the workmen and women under our noses who fade out of view. Stephen himself wears a fluoro jacket when taking pics, because that way nobody notices him angling his lens at them. Crims and stalkers, take note.

I reckon it’s time to give these heroes their moment in the sun, though. True, when I was younger our interaction would be limited to:

“Cheer up darling, it might never happen.”

“Fuck off.”

But that was in England, to be fair – the sun never shines there. So let’s let bygones be bygones.

Armed with my best “heyhowyagoin” and disarming smile, I approach Melbourne’s upkeepers of the Yakka – and god bless em, they all readily agree to pose without question.

Keeper? Yeah! Put me in a great mood, dunno about them. Note: try on PMT day?

Stan, doing the thing with the thing: "I'm KINDA working..."

Mick and Sam are cutting back a bit of lamp post that people keep tripping over. Mick booted Sam in the back: “She wants to take your picture."

Mark is protecting bystanders from flying concrete.

Peter the meter reader. "Do you want my phone number as well?" (x2)

“HERE we go … here we go … Swimming in my underwear” is the actual running commentary in my head as I breaststroke sedately forth at Freo’s South Beach. It’s a hot day, the water’s clear, and my brassiere is filling up with seawater.

I should point out here that I’ve come here alone… so that’s fairly daring, huh? Especially for an English – born into scratchy cardigans, eczema, adenoids and woollen tights. And I have no towel! How do you like them apples?

After I have pulled my dress back on, I bounce through Freo feeling liberated. The dress is way shorter than I would wear in Melbourne, but as it gets blown around the tops of my thighs and men grin at me, I start feeling like I’m the shit. I’d feel like this all the time if I lived in Perth, and I’d be able to wear pink lipstick and jewellery made out of shells, because I’d live by the sea. I’d feel like the shit and everyone would love it.

“Excuse me, but your dress is caught up at the back,” a nice lady with a pushchair whispers as I bend over in the markets. She sidles off apologetically. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

Keeper? No one shouted out: “Pardon me young lady, you do realise that’s your underwear?” so I think I got away with that bit.

There's one, on the left.

LOOK, obviously I have done this before, but not with a camera. This may seem like a lame, last-minute entry to you, but if you think about it, wandering around the security checks of Tullamarine (Perth Airport would have been hotter) with a loudly clicking iPhone is quite risky. 

Keeper? Duh. Yeah

Keep still, ya little bugga!

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