DAY 216: Mini GP go-karting

4 Apr

IN my flashback I’m seven years old, on the dodgem track. I’ve insisted on having a go because my brother is, but I’ve immediately driven into a bank of empty bumper cars and I’m stuck. I can’t reverse. My plaits flap around my head as I try to attract help without having to yell.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” chuckles photographer Leigh when I mention my lack of motor skills, “but a woman got killed here a few years ago.”

My mate Zo’s invited me along to a go-karting shoot for her magazine Veri Live, with handsome young tykes Dead Letter Circus. The Brisbane boys turn up pumped and ready for blood. With the exception of drummer Luke, who’s more worried the breathalyser will pick up the morning’s vodkas, each one of them is totally focused on the goal. I’m going to get flattened.

We’re warned that these aren’t dodgem cars (oh good), and that an amber or red light will flash if someone stacks it, depending on the severity of the case. When I see that these aren’t soapbox-style go-karts I have a minor hyperventilation in my helmet, but we’re pretty quickly strapped rigidly in and cranked up like so many deadly lawnmowers.

As we take off, I’ve got two bits of advice in mind – Zo’s ‘motorcycle rule’ of always looking ahead to where you want to go rather than at what’s going on in the periphery, and my mate Emmo’s general instruction to accelerate out of a corner, as soon as you find your equilibrium or something. These go-karts drive like washing machines around tight corners, though, shuddering like they’re on spin cycle.

I’m quickly overtaken by the entire band, Zo, and a journo – which leaves no one – but bear in mind the band are out to slay each other, Zo’s got a race car in real life, and the journo’s running on fear-spiked adrenalin. He gets a nudge a few laps in and limps out of the race, crying whiplash.

The more laps the rest of us do, the more competitive the band get. We reach speeds of 60kph and on one corner all five of them barge me within seconds of each other, one shooting me an apologetic, country-style wave over his shoulder. I might be driving like a nana, comparatively, but I reckon I’m the only person not to stack it into tyres. Zo even gets a nudge that sends her flying with all four wheels off the ground. She lands partially on bassist Stu’s kart and the pair hold hands for a mo across the track as they get a bollocking from the authorities. That’s nice.

I come in lucky last in the end, but I’m pleased enough that I didn’t touch the brake once and accelerated like a bastard coming out of those corners. Effort: fair.

You would, too.

Keeper? Yes! Thanks for the pics, LEIGH WILKINS.

DAY 215: Playing pool like a pro

3 Apr

THE problem with being a louche, snake-hipped debutante is it makes you innately rubbish at playing pool. It’s all about the stance, as Tino Fulgenzi, proprietor of the ultra-chilled Red Triangle in Fitzroy, explains with great patience.

STANCE

I’ve always kinda leaned on a pool table like I’m telling a good yarn, with the cue sawing around somewhere off to the right. This is incorrect.

I’m to imagine a line drawn from the ball through my body. My right foot (I’m right-handed) needs to sit at 45 degrees on that line. The left foot comes forward and sits parallel to the line.

“Lock your back leg and put your weight on it,” says Tino, trying to find a solution to my bendy back problem. (Hey – I’m great at backbends.) “Then bend your front knee, keep your hips facing forward, and you’ll find your body automatically aligns straight on with the cue.”

Like magic, I hit the ball and pot it in the far corner. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk: I pot the entire lot. Okay, I’m not hitting another ball en route, but trust me, this deadly aim is a vast improvement.

It takes me a while to get used to my new stance, so I’m Shakira-ing my hips around the table for a good half hour. It’s zumba time!

FOLLOW THROUGH

When it comes to cueing the ball, Tino offers the analogy of a karate chopper aiming beyond a stack of wood so that his hand is still accelerating when he makes contact. I follow through with the cue about four inches past the white ball’s original position. “You can tell the difference in the sound,” Tino says. “That sounds much nicer.”

CHALK

Tino bemoans the way most people chalk their cues, burrowing the tip into the bluey nook and swivelling it like they’re trying to start a fire. This both fails to chalk the sides of the cue tip, and starts creating holes in the chalk cube. Instead, you should hold the cube at an angle onto a tip, rotate the cue with one hand and dust the tip with a sharp downward movement. Stylish. You particularly need to chalk your cue when you’re hitting the ball anywhere but dead centre – if it’s up against a cushion, for example.

TAKING AIM

I’ve been holding my cue all wrong – Tino tells me to shorten my grip and widen my bridge. He means the ‘bridge’ that’s the distance between the pool tip and your hand, rather than the ‘bridge’ that’s your hand. Confusing.

“Lower your bridge,” says Tino, referring to the latter now – and I flatten my hand like a limbo dancer. This is to stop me hitting the ball too high and cease the seesawing motion. In theory.

“Hmm,” he says, circling me critically. “Something is not right. What is it? Aha! We’ve found the culprit. Your elbow drops dramatically. Why would it do that?”

I love the way Tino sees my mis-cues as an interesting, mathematical conundrum, rather than the actions of an uncoordinated idiot.

To stop me dropping my elbow when I quit aiming and actually take the shot, he tells me to lock my shoulder and elbow and only swivel my forearm. It works a bit, but all goes to hell as soon as he introduces a second ball. Time to call it a day.

“Walter Lindrum’s dad only let him use the white ball for a year,” Tino reveals with a misty expression.

Keeper? I’m keen to try some trick moves, but in the mean time, Tino offers to lend me a cue. “Go home and practise aiming into an empty, plastic milk bottle on the kitchen table,” he advises. “Without touching the sides.”

DAY 214: At two-up school

2 Apr

AFTER sundown, we huddle on hay bales set in a circle around the front yard of this 1850s miner’s cottage, as a fiddler scratches out some tunes and tots of whisky are passed around.

Local chap Brian McCormick is going to teach the ruddy-cheeked, sentimental throng the basics of two-up – a game that took hold in the Goldfields of Victoria back when religion and pugilism were enthusiastic bedfellows. My experience of it is limited to wide-eyed viewings of Wake In Fright and halfheartedly standing around backpacker games in Bondi.

  • The spinner places his money in the middle of the circle and bets heads. Someone from the circle matches his bet, by placing their money on top of his: tails. The spinner must always bet heads.
  • Around the circle, players yell out their preference: heads or tails, and how much. The amount must be matched by someone betting the opposite side of the coin, and the person betting tails always holds the cash.
  • The boxer – your compere for the evening – yells, “Come in, spinner.” The spinner takes a kip with two coins on it. The coins are always placed tails up, to avoid the spinner cheating with a double-headed forgery.
  • Everyone hoos “Fair go!” and the spinner twists the coins into the air. If a head and tail fall face up, the spinner spins again. If two heads are shown, those who bet on heads take the money from the tails punters. And vice versa.

The seriously spooky Tutes Cottage has been ‘cheered up’ through the centuries with wallpaper of varying degrees of horror.

The bloke next to me keeps betting his entire hand of fake shillings and pounds. Each time his eyes light up with a fervour and he gets a maniacal grin about his face. Someone’s going to be two-upping themselves into a 12-step program in no time at all.

After about an hour of feverish gambling, a real-life rozzer drops in and busts us. He’s come from the local cop shop but has dressed up in Ned Kelly-day uniform nicked from the local museum.

He fills us in a bit more on the legal side of things: two-up has always been against the law, and is only above board in the seven days leading up to Anzac Day (and Anzac Day itself) – and then only if it’s played in an RSL and if it’s honouring the diggers. He brandishes his baton for a few oohs and ahhs. “You’re only allowed to go for the soft bits,” he says. “Just give them a bit of a tap.”

Luckily I am out of baton–shot when I ride off without my helmet.

Keeper? Yes, I’m given my own kip and pennies to take away with me. The whole thing was bloody lovely, actually; I wanted them to adopt me.

DAY 213: Separating art from pretension

1 Apr

I’VE got a day of exhibitions and plays on the agenda, plucked from the bill of the Castlemaine State Festival (Castlemaine’s silly hat count has just increased tenfold) – which has got me musing furiously on the meaning of art.

Like, you know those placards you get next to a piece of artwork, explaining the concept behind it?

I’m skeptical.

When I see a work of art, I can’t help suspecting it took its current form partly because it’s aesthetically pleasing, partly because it’s a happy accident, and partly because it tapped into some primal impulse the artist themselves can’t really put their finger on. (Unless it’s an installation, in which case the chin stroking came first.)

So when the accompanying bumf scrapes the barrels of philosophy, mythology, sociology and psychology; weaving in metaphors, totem animals, ancient symbolism, Latin phrases, conditions of the human psyche, pearls of wisdom from obscure intellectuals and other nonsensical guff; I always envisage the artist two days before opening night, sweating and riffling through reference books and print-outs with charcoaled, calloused fingers, desperately trying to embroider multiple layers of intellectualism into their handiwork – rather than “I did this.” In fact, I might indulge on a side-mission to find the ultimate placard of abstract art bunkum. A ‘Shit My Dad Says’ compendium for the art punter. Print it a cute size, display it by the bookshop till, and I’ll make a packet!

But no, look, artists are great, even those ultra-conceptual ones. In the olden days we’d dunk them in the river and make them wear a hurty hat, but we’re much more progressive in 2011.

The play in the evening is good. Held in the old Wattle Gully Mine near Fryerstown, Precipice combines the way bridges like the Westgate and the Tasman are stamped in the Australian consciousness, with a story of loss, loneliness and vertigo. The use of additional actors to portray the inner worlds of the main characters pushes my principles, but if today has taught me anything, it’s that observing with an abstract mind is a skill in itself.

The play was held here. Don't you just want to climb it?

Keeper? Will attempt to keep winching open that mind.

Day 212: Private post

31 Mar

Nothing to see here.

DAY 211: Get knotted

30 Mar

I’M in a shithouse mood today, so it’s a fitting time to learn now to tie murderous knots; like, not the kind of knots you learn in Brownies – unless Brown Owl’s got some explaining to do.

1. Slip knot
For: A gallows
Also: Knitting

Slip knot. I don’t have any actual rope – what kind of a freak do you think I am?


2. Honda knot
For: Lassoing
Also: That’s it, really

Honda knot.


3. Double constrictor knot
For: Tying hogs
Also: Improvised cable tie

Double constrictor. That remote's not going anywhere.

 

Keeper? I dunno. Found lots of ‘knot games’ websites for Scouts. Might leave them to it.

DAY 210: Inventing a phrase and getting it in the public vernacular

29 Mar

MATT Zurbo enjoys making up new vocab and dropping it insidiously into the kids’ books he writes (get ’em while they’re young). He suggests I have a whirl. “Stop trying to sell me a fart in a bottle,” he demonstrates.

We’re leaning towards the ocker end of the spectrum, because Matt laments the lost art of Aussie slang and detests Americanisms. He reserves particular ire for the use of “dude” over “cobber”, “gum” above “chewie”… “And if you’re going to root for me it better be something to do with sex,” he thunders.

With this in mind, I come up with:

yank-off (n) An Australian who insists on talking in Americanisms, i.e. “I know, riiiight?” instead of “Oath!” and “Who knew?” instead of “Fucked if I know.”
Usage: “Did you hear those yank-offs talking about Jersey Shore on the tram?”

bon scotts (n, pl) Weighty testicles visible through tight jeans.
Usage: “Shit, mate, put on some undies – your bon scotts are scaring the tackers.”

That sorted, I send them off to Urban Dictionary and add them to the Wikipedia entries for ‘Yankee’ and ‘Bon Scott’. Now it’s official.

Great slang-merchants in history

  • Linguist Anthony Burgess invented teenage language “nadsat” in his cult novel A Clockwork Orange, drawing from Russian, German, Cockney rhyming slang and the King James Bible. His “humble narrator”, Alex, detested “droogs”, thought ultraviolence was “horrorshow” and would ejaculate “yarbles!” or even “great bolshy yarblocks!” when provoked. I’ve regularly thieved bits throughout my writing career.
  • Chaucer’s a fag to read indeed, but as any school kid will tell you, you’ll come across quaint words like “cunt” in curriculum text Canterbury Tales, written in the 1300s. He was fond of bawdy, regional dialects, and liberally peppered sexual slang in among his olde English prose.
  • Roger’s Profanisaurus is a “compendium of profanity” courtesy of Viz character Roger Mellie, and boasts over 8000 inventive ways of saying “bum”, “fart”, “wank”, “vagina” and “fuck”.
  • Barry Humphries character, Barry “Bazza” McKenzie, made his debut in Private Eye and went on to be portrayed in films by singer Barry Crocker. The boorish Aussie-overseas coined phrases like “point Percy at the porcelain bus” and “technicolour yawn” – inspiring Men at Work’s ‘Down Under’. Quick! Someone take them to court!

Keeper? Yes. If you can think of other ways I can infiltrate the public psyche with my ripper new phrases, please let me know.

DAY 209: Watering down footballers

28 Mar

The mountain's called 'Arthur'.

“YOU’RE not putting lipstick on, are you?” Old Dog growls.

“Only a little bit. Why not?”

We’re in Lilydale, a Tasmanian mountain town, and Old Dog’s arranged for me to be watergirl for the home team reserves in their first game of the season. They’re playing Old Scotch, who have a nasty habit of kicking arse.

I’d pictured bush footy as being a bit of a jolly boot around in a paddock – having not actually given it much thought – whereas in fact the whole town’s turned out to scream community-spirited abuse, likely between mutters of “who’s this sheila fannying around the oval in her jeans and lipstick?”

I go and sit down away from the thumping commotion and musclebound nudity of the clubhouse changing room. Bucket comes over and sits by me. Thank you, Bucket.

Bucket looks how I feel.

It’s safe to say everyone here knows the etiquette of Aussie Rules but me. I’ve lived in Australia for five years, but I’ve never barracked for anybody, and whenever I’ve gone to a match I’ve wound up glassy-eyed, thinking about sex. Not because of the aesthetics of the players; just because those are my default thoughts when I’m bored stupid.

Old Dog takes me on the oval and runs through the rules – no being in the semi-circle when the bloke’s holding up a flag; no being in the square when they’re throwing the ball in the air.

“I take it I’m only offering water to our team?” Yep.

A young lad is also acting as water carrier, so I take the opposite end and decide to just mirror what he’s doing. And we’re off!

“Water?” I apologise to sweating footballers with thousand yard stares. They grunt like buffalo, barge each other and ignore me. I feel like a crazed spaniel that’s run onto the pitch in a panic.

“Oi waterboy!” one of the crowd hoys, to laughter. I ignore him.

“Are you a scotchy?” some bloke from the opposition’s interchange box asks incredulously as I reload. I’ve no idea what he’s on about, but I suspect the answer is 50:50 yes or no.

“Yes.”  I run onto the pitch.

An old dude runs after me, takes the water bottles off me, and furnishes me with two from my own team’s supply.

No.

By halftime, our team’s down 88 to 1 or something, and there’s a fair bit of spewing, spitting and gasping going on as the coach bawls them out. Old Scotch have won the last four premierships and have not lost a game in over two years. Our boys, meanwhile, have been thrown together this week. Old Dog points out that their half-forwards are pushing down to half-back and making enough numbers around the contest to run the ball forward and over our loose men with handball. (Actually, that’s a direct quote – make of it what you will.) His coach’s answer to this observation, however, is to keep it simple:

“They’re college boys. Hurt them.”

It seems to work. With half a game of playing alongside each other under their belts, the locals go the man a bit, and match Old Scotch in the second half – regaining a bit of idiot pride and, while not close, making the scoreboard far more respectable.

The seniors are up next, so I get to experience life in the crowd – with all its inventive violent abuse. Whenever someone bellows out something particularly murderous and foul, everyone laughs like they’re at the panto. I’m introduced to Porto, who has hands like rusty shovels, and he and Old Dog discuss a bullyboy on the other team.

“Thinks he’s up here,” Porto says, raising his hand high, “when he’s down here.” He mimics fucking someone rigorously from behind.

The seniors win their match and we all crowd into the clubhouse to hear them sing their song – I might be ambivalent towards footy, but I’m not averse to soaking up a bit of glory. Lilydale wear the same colours as the Melbourne Football Club, so the song’s the same.

“It’s a grand old flag, it’s a high flying flag, it’s the emblem for me and for yoooou…” they yell, and I nearly shed a tear.

Nusty, Old Dog’s partner-in-crime with a physique made sturdy from drinking, has played as hard as he can with no pre-season. He’s exhausted and has been chucking up ever since the reserves game ended.

He reels outside for one last spew.

“Bloody oath. Can’t be good with blood in the cunt,” quoth he, regarding his mess in sorrow.

Keeper? Not sure how useful I am on the pitch, so I’ll be angling for a physio role next time.

DAY 208: Dancing like Jackie Wilson

27 Mar

OLD Dog has thrown a For No Good Reason party (guests: two), complete with streamers, lights and grub. My mission, should I choose to accept it, is to learn to dance like Jackie Wilson; and it would definitely be churlish not to.

Mr Excitement, as Jackie was known, was roundly pilfered by James Brown, Michael Jackson and Prince, thanks to his portfolio of smooth moves. We study intently his firecracking performance on the never-aired Jerry Lee Lewis Show. Although by now deep into middle age, he whups the arse of ‘Higher and Higher’ in a red leather jumpsuit. Ow!

Jackie’s signature moves.

* The glide. Skating backwards across the floor, this preceded Jacko’s moonwalking.

* Tight spins. Led by a pointing finger, this was later picked up by James Brown and the Jackson Five.

* Feinting and jabbing. A former street thug, Jackie became a keen boxer while in juvie.

* Weaving. By all accounts, Jackie was often bladdered on stage.

* Double thigh tremble. Delivered while holding out arms in supplication.

* Dropping to knees. Like James Brown without the theatrics.

* Splits. Jackie could somersault backwards and land in the splits. While attempting the same in 1975 on stage, he cracked his head and fell into a nine-year coma. That’s an advanced move, though.

Rolling back the rug, we slide around in our socks, attempting all the above. One move in particular confounds us: Jackie drops to his knees, then slides back up, perfectly symmetrically, using his feet – bloody impossible unless you’re a short, stocky fella with powerful thighs.

Keeper? Yes. Aired the moves again in the bush the next night, to a bit of Bo Diddley. If in doubt, just resort to some hand claps.

DAY 207: Rock paper scissoring a route around Tasmania

26 Mar

Bucket in Coles Bay.

I DON’T believe in Destiny, yet today her winged imp Rock Paper Scissors leads us willingly by the balls.

Old Dog suggests we jump in the ute, drive down the mountain he lives on and rock paper scissor our way around Tasmania for 24 hours: whenever we reach a crossroads we’ll hand it over to chance.

I reckon it could be a ploy for him to avoid taking me to tourist trap Wine Glass Bay – now renamed Whine Glass Bay on account of the amount of driving I have to endure to get to the region – but that’s okay.

Having rock paper scissored our way to St Helens, we seek out Cuddle Cove for the night (as recommended by a sentimental soul in the petrol station), dodging as we go a wombat, hawk, owls, pademelons, baby kangaroos, possums, wallabies and one Tasmanian devil. (The wombat was a particularly impressive dodge, considering I yanked Old Dog’s arm away from the wheel and instinctively thrust a pillow over his eyes.) Cuddle Cove’s not signposted, though, so we wind up deep in the bush – with Old Dog playing “just one more corner” for aeons. We tire ourselves out dancing to the car stereo in the dark and watching Bullitt car chases on the laptop.

In the morning it’s toasty warm and we hit the track to find the sea. Rock paper scissors has other ideas, winding us up endless mountain roads until we reach Pioneer and Gladstone – battered towns with few amenities; not so much as a pub. I hadn’t held out much hope that a town called Pioneer would be a relaxing beauty spot, though.

After a stop off at Little Blue Lake – a highly toxic old tin mine some tourists are swimming in – we follow a car with a boat in tow, hoping it’ll lead us to the coast. When we stop at another glassy lake, rendered brown by recent floods washing tea tree into the water, the boat bloke recommends we head towards Tomahawk or Musselroe Bay, so it’s back to a hand of rock paper scissors to thrash it out.

At Mussellroe Bay we see a sign for tomatoes and spinach outside a house and buy some to add to the bread, cheese and pickles we bought earlier. The old woman loans us a knife, and then comes trotting out to the ute. “I thought you were moving on, or I would have given you my chopping board and good knife,” she frets. “I feel so embarrassed!”

The terrain starts to change, turning thicker, wilder, woollier. On an information board we see a picture of a nameless bay surrounded by mountains and beautiful rocks, and Old Dog’s heart is won – but there’s no indication of which way to turn. An hour of rock paper scissors deposits us right on its shores, just in time for sunset and gratuitous nudity.

Strong contender for Toilet Block with the Best View.

Keeper? Tempting to apply rock paper scissors to every decision in life, Dice Man-style, but I’ll definitely use it again on exploratory adventures.

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