I made peace a long time ago with the fact that I don’t have the look. It’s always been my friends that get stopped for photos, my friends that strangers naturally gravitate towards and strike up a conversation with. I normally get pushed to the side and end up holding their handbag, or manbag, as they pose for another glossy magazine. But that was then. That was before I found my missing element. It was so simple. A blue bikini.

At first I wore it because, well, that’s the kind of shit I do. There was also the promise of free alcohol as an incentive. It doesn’t take much… I convinced a newly made friend to join me. We changed in the sparse bushes behind the bar, neither of us realising that there was a change room ten metres away. The bikini bottom was a struggle to get into. There were complaints about the amount of scrotum on view.

We did a lap of the beach bar and then went for a swim. The crowd roared their approval. They were laughing with us! Free alcohol was awarded. Everyone was happy.

Shortly after our parade we both went to change back into more respectable clothes. But of course, our clothes were running away with someone else. Knowing that with my bad knees I could never catch them I resigned myself to spending the afternoon in a bikini, which, it should be said that the most and probably only flattering thing about it was that it matched my eyes. Luckily my other friend gave chase in his bikini and returned triumphantly with our clothes, although minus his underwear. To compensate he used the bikini bottom as replacement underwear. A choice he badly regretted after the first eye watering wedgie.

It was a warm afternoon, so instead of changing into my t-shirt I kept the bikini top on.


There are a bunch of photos on other peoples cameras of me in the full bikini. I am sure that at some point in my future these will come back to haunt me.

I was suddenly a celebrity. Heads turned as I walked by, smiles of appreciation beaming. My hands got sore from the continuous high fives demanded of by the crowds and I had more photos taken of me than all of the headline bands at Positivus combined.


It felt good, and then they started throwing food at me. It was a few hrs later while having some dinner that I finally found the intolerant crowd. I surprised myself with my tolerance of their intolerance. Shortly afterwards the temperature had dropped enough that I put my t-shirt back on, it had stopped being fun anyway.


One of the chill out areas between the beach and the main festival area.

My ticket to the Positivus festival was a gift from a few English guys I met two nights before. One of their mates had pulled out. I spent the day before the festival shopping for a camping tent, sleeping bag and other accessories. When I got to the camp site on Friday I couldn’t find the English guys and in my search ended up chatting with a group of Latvians. Chatting turned into drinks,


Best vodka I've ever had. I purchased this in Krakow and was intending to bring it back home. I think everyone at the camp site was glad I changed my mind.

which turned into me joining their campsite.


Letting things just happen, saying YES, taking risks and living outside your comfort zone is so rewarding. Chance had introduced me to some amazing people who welcomed me into their group and helped ensure that I had an amazing few days.

On Saturday the rain came

and the entire festival and camp sites turned into a sodden mud pit.

My tent also proved to be less than waterproof. The sky cleared momentarily while we watched Damien Rice. Listening to him perform Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah then moving into The Blower’s Daughter and finishing off with a bit of Radiohead was an unforgettable treat for the ears.

Then a strange thing happened while watching the Manic Street Preachers. I’m glad the sun had set and I’m glad it was raining, because suddenly I was crying uncontrollably. Surrounded by my new friends, within a crowd of thousands, I felt, alone. I was lonely. The more I tried to dance it off the more tears I shed. We moved to the front of the stage, joined hands and partied in the mud. I cried harder. Like, totally embarrassing!

After the main bands had finished and when the rain started coming down hard again we all made our way back to our camping area. We chatted and drank until the weather made it difficult. My body was aching all over and I was exhausted, so I took this as a good opportunity to call it a night. The morning brought clear blue skies. The camp site was a war zone. People stumbled through the muddy trenches, empty beer cans in hand, their eyes glazed over, their bodies plastered head to toe with mud and often poorly constructed bandages. One man was wearing a nappy. The latrines looked like a bomb had gone off in them and the smell was hideous, one look inside them and I clenched every muscle in my lower body to ensure I would be able to hold out until I got back to town. Donating all my recently purchased camping gear to my Latvian friends I said my goodbyes and caught the bus back to Riga.

it’s been a really good few days. I opened myself up to possibilities and the world delivered. I was given free tickets to an awesome festival and I met an amazing group of people. It’s also been a strangely emotional few days, ranging from laugh out loud happy to bawling emotion wreck, from being nervous, timid and shy to transforming into a gregarious, outgoing, centre of attention bikini scrotum man. It was with my English friends that I wore the bikini, surprisingly the next morning my Latvian friends asked if I was the bikini man that they’d been hearing about. On the second day I also saw another bikini man wandering around. Although he was more modest and had the bikini bottoms on the outside of his shorts. It’s said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery and without a doubt it’s true that the original is always better. So I hope that at the very least he got a free beer out of it.


Last seen – Positivus.

A young teenager spends his days busking on the main tourist street in Vilnius. He is dedicated and persistent. He is also awful. For the three days I was in Vilnius I only ever heard him play one song, very badly. Auld Lang Syne dribbled out of his recorder at various tempos, none at which it was ever meant to be played. The old adage that practice makes perfect was definitely not on display here.

On my first day in Vilnius I wandered through the Basilian gates and was quickly intercepted by a man. Before he even spoke I new instantly that he wanted money, which is something I’ve never been instantly good at giving. He cycled through a few languages before it became clear that english was the only one that worked. Dabbing his dry eyes with a tissue he pleaded with me to pay for his hospital bills. Confused and defensive I instantly refused. He then lifted up his pants and revealed his right leg. It was very swollen and completely bandaged from knee to ankle. Next he started pulling the bandages off. Underneath was a rotting and grotesque piece of human flesh. It was pitted with open seeping wounds. Shocked and completely uncomfotable I again refused and quickly walked away. As I turned my back he told me to go and fuck myself. I had only been in Vilnius a few hours.

Back at my hostel I asked about this unsettling encounter. In my mind and through my experience I couldn’t believe that the injury was real. Lithuania was not a third world country with an inadequte health care system. But if the injury turned out to be genuine and he was unable to get it treated then I was honestly thinking about taking him to the hospital and paying the cost. A cost which if he was to be believed was less than $100. As it turns out the injury was real, but his motive for money was false. The hostel employee rolled her eyes as soon as I mentioned the man. He has lived in the town for many years and has had the injury for a long time. All the locals know him. But instead of getting his injury fixed he uses it to fleece tourists of money. The hostel lady alleged that this money is then used for drugs. I was also informed that not only is begging illegal but giving money to a beggar is also illegal and would result in a fine if I was caught. His con was very well practiced, if only he’d spent his time using a recorder instead.

My sympathy and empathy levels are pretty low at the moment. Completely non-existent for people who exploit their injuries as this guy did. It was shortly after this encounter that I named the two newly independent bodies floating around in my knees. I’ve had a few weeks to get to know them now. Ninja HI! lives in my left knee and attacks with speed and precision. Ninja HI! attacks me when I least expect it and leaves me stumbling and panting for breath. Ploddy lives in my right knee and politely always gives me a moments notice before he wedges himself between my joints. Ploddy is stubborn and will stay in my joint for long periods of time. I have gotten used to the uncomfortable pressure he exerts when plodding through my joint. If Ploddy causes too much pain I am able to shake him out. But Ploddy being Ploddy he always finds his way back pretty soon. Combined, Ninja HI! and Ploddy are making traveling for a month more difficult than I would have hoped. Planes, trains, buses, lack of sleep, to much partying and not enough rehabilitate exercise has also meant that my damaged nerve is playing up badly. I am a picture of health.

Today I’m heading off to a two day music festival. I will be camping and it’s pretty wet. Due to my health problems I almost didn’t go. But like Ploddy I’m a stubborn bastard.

Riga is having a summer music festival in the city at the moment. When I get back here in a few days I intend to buy a recorder and try my luck.

Impressions of Poland

It would be a lie if I said that the opportunity to try every polish vodka I could was not a driving reason behind my trip to Poland. Currently I am lugging around three Polish vodkas in my bag. So so cheap, but more importantly so delicious!

While in Poland I spent most of my time in Krakow, a city which doesn’t seem to sleep. Every night was a party, during which I managed to achieve a few firsts. First police fine for public drinking.


First time dancing on multiple bar tops within a single night.20120717-170313.jpg
First tram party – and hopefully not the last.

The hostel manager was impressed by my ability to play tourist all day and then party the night away. When I fell asleep during a tour of the Jewish quarter it became pretty clear that I’d reached my limit and then strangled it to death.

Another first, here is a photo of the best pork ribs I’ve ever tasted.
Krakow is a beautiful city. A beautiful city that during the day you explore above ground and during the night below.

The street is seven metres higher than its original level. This has enabled a labyrinth network of pubs and clubs to flourish underneath your feet. Entering what looks like a small pub via a steep set of stairs will most likely turn into a multi room, cavernous and jam packed club.

While in Krakow I did the obligatory day tour to Auschwitz and Birkenau. Not only was I satisfactorily depressed and disgusted at humanity, I was also freezing cold and rather wet in my t-shirt and shorts.


Krakow even has a bridge of love. When your start a new relationship and want it to last, you come and put a padlock on the bridge and then throw the key into the river. Six months later you come back with bolt cutters.

I left Krakow hungover and tired. I know I dribbled in the over-full train and I’m pretty sure I snored and possibly farted.

Arriving in Warsaw I was surprised by how much I like the city. The rivalry between Krakow and Warsaw is so vocal that I was expecting to hate the capital. Instead I found it’s rebuilt old city rather charming.


In Warsaw I was lucky enough to meet a local who took me on a personalized tour of the city, both on foot and in his swish Alfa Romeo. After an exhausting few days it was great to see Warsaw via a more relaxed and often satisfyingly speedy means.

There is a positivity and energy in Poland that a lot of other countries seem to be lacking. It’s clear that the good times have arrived and that the country is making great strides in its
socioeconomic development and importance on the world stage. Unfortunately this also means that every corner either has an H&M, Starbucks or TK Maxx.


Earlier today while wondering through central London I visited a specialty liquor store and purchased a beautiful bottle of honey vodka. As of yet I’ve been unable to find it in Australia. The proprietor wrapped it nicely and then handed it to me in a plastic bag. The intention was to bring it back to Sydney with me, although secretly I doubted it would survive that long.

Within 2hrs the bottle was empty. A large portion of it is now spread between Selfridges in Tottenham court rd and Green park tube station. As I left Selfridges my bag brushed gently against the door. I am still dumbfounded that this could have broken the bottle, but nothing else of consequence happened.

It was while waiting for a train that I noticed a puddle forming beside me. This discovery and my subsequent confused and jerky arm waving led to my feet and hands being covered in vodka. My jumper, which had been with the bag is now crawling around on the floor with no pants and slurring its words.

I am ashamed to say that my first desperate thought was how to save the remaining golden liquid that was still sloshing around in the bottom of the defective dipping plastic bag. After a quick vote and subsequent tally of the results my mouth was selected as the most viable replacement receptacle.

I did start to lift the bag in preparation, but whether it was the judgement I feared from the occupants of the crowded tube station or the niggling feeling that shards of glass didn’t feature in the food pyramid, I somehow resisted the impulse beaten into me since my uni days – ‘GOON, SHERRY OR PASSION POP, THOU SHALT NOT WASTE A DROP!’.

Defeated, I sought out a tube employee and enquired as to where the closest bin was. She informed me that there wasn’t one and then kindly pointed out that my bag was dripping.

Taking stock – living with injury

The pain was excruciating. I collapsed to the ground as the soccer game came to an abrupt and confused halt around me. An ambulance was called. Unable to bear my own weight I was lifted onto a stretcher and rolled into the vehicle. Due to bad advice, a lack of information and a deficient public health care system my recovery was slow. As a result, within a few months I found myself on a surgeon’s table. At fifteen I had my first knee operation. The surgeon decided to perform a lateral release while he was poking around in there. A lateral release is now considered by many surgeons as an outdated and barbaric form of torture.

Hindsight and experience have made me extremely bitter about my first knee operation. A scared and confused young kid just needed good advice and physiotherapy to fully recover. The operation was completely unnecessary.

The pass was fast and accurate. I snatched the ball from the air, landed, pivoted and prepared to shoot. An explosion of pain radiated out from my left knee. My opposing team member had failed to stop in time. The angle of impact was such that his weight forced my knee to dislocate. As I stumbled in pain to the side of the court I promised my team that everything would be ok and I’d be back on in a few minutes. A few minutes later it was clear that I was full of shit.

That evening, while massaging my sore and swollen knee I felt solid floating pieces flicking out and moving around under the pressure of my fingers. I had shattered something in my knee. The follow day I had a snowboarding trip booked with my housemate. Fully aware that I’d already need a knee operation I decided against all common sense to still go. My good friend had an articulated metal knee brace that I borrowed. An oft-prescribed medical treatment for new injuries is R-I-C-E (Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation). I figured I had these four elements pretty much covered. I rested my leg on the 3hrs drive there and back as well as on the chair lifts. I was surrounded by ice – like all day! I had a heavy duty knee brace that offered good compression. And the elevation was a bit of a no brainer, being up a mountain and all. A lot of painkillers helped as well. I survived the day intact.

My operation was booked with a Canberra surgeon. We had set the date two weeks before I was to go on a trip through South East Asia. My surgeon assured me how simple the operation would be and that I’d be fine for my holiday. I would be walking unassisted out of the hospital… Not quite… I woke up in a full leg brace. When the surgeon eventually visited me he stood as far from my bed as he could. There had been a complication. While day dreaming about his golf game later in the day (I am not kidding about the golf game) he slipped and cut something that was not meant to be cut. My meniscus then needed to be sown back up. After the surgeon had dropped his bombshell and hurriedly left (his caddy in toe) I broke down, crying uncontrollably. The following morning, the nurse leaving me naked and helpless in the hospital bathroom is, well, is an embarrassing story for another time.

Five weeks in a full leg brace with no weight loading on my leg and over a year in rehab to build my leg muscle back up was the result of my surgeons simple slip. Suffice to say I never made my holiday, a holiday I had paid for in full. No refund was given, although after I expressed my anger very vocally at my surgeon he was kind enough to lower his fee.

Two years later my right knee finally got sick of having to do all the heavy lifting and gave in. This time I did a lot of research on surgeons and found a fantastic one in Sydney. I treated it like a project to manage. I took emotion out of the equation. The surgeon was impressed by the damage I had done. I had shattered the underneath of my kneecap. He removed over twenty floating pieces. I limped out of the hospital. I was driving my car the next day. I was back at work within a week. And, in the recovery process I completely forgot how to run.

Because the damage was under my knee cap and a lot of the cartilage shock absorber had been removed this meant that running was very painful. My brain’s natural protection mode was to disengage my quad muscle to prevent the pain, resulting in my leg buckling everytime I tried to run. Eventually I went to see a physio who trained me how to run again. Running is something that most people take for granted. The concept of having to re-teach my body to run again was a very strange experience.

Two years later I hurt my right knee again. This time from standing up from a chair. A frayed piece of cartilage was sheared off. This piece would get stuck in the joint when I walked, causing horrible sharp pain. After my last knee operation my surgeon had warned me that I may need a clean up operation in a few years due to the extensive damage I had done. I was in London at the time and quickly discovered how deficient the English health care system could be. It would be at least four to six months to get an appointment with a surgeon and at least six months after that for surgery. I had an upcoming trip home to Australia for a wedding. I rang my previous surgeon in Sydney and booked in my operation during the week I was visiting the east coast. Upon arriving in Australia I visited a GP to get the necessary referral for an operation I had already organised.

These are images from my right knee arthroscopy in 2010. The soft fibrous parts in these photos are signs of degenerative damage. These areas are meant to be smooth. Unfortunately this is not repairable.

My recovery from this operation was strange. Each day I was waking up in more pain. My calf muscle was in agony and seemed to be getting worse. Walking was getting harder. I contacted my surgeon and he demanded that I immediately have scans to check for a blood clot. What I was describing was an emergency situation. If it was a blood clot it could easily travel to my brain.

A lot of money and stress later it turned out that my calf muscle had been torn in surgery. This was supposedly not an uncommon occurrence. Although how this happened I am sure has more to do with the doctor and nurses bending my legs over my head and taking photos of me in compromising positions while I was unconscious…

Within a week I was on a plane to China. Injections of Clexane (a blood thinner) and wearing sexy circulation socks were required to ensure that I didn’t actually develop a clot during the flight. I wasn’t allowed to sleep either. It was a terrible journey. When I arrived in Hong Kong my lower calf and foot were swollen and bruised black. Keeping calm took all my mental capacity.

A week into my China trip I visited a famous Chinese doctor who sucked the bad blood out of my leg. This was an excruciating experience in which she hammered hundreds of holes into the bruised area and then used bamboo cups to suck the blood out. I cried a little bit. I’m still doubtful that this was beneficial at all.

Over the next few days the simple joy of hiring a bicycle and riding around Yangshou, then later climbing to the top of Emei mountain and walking one of the harder stretches of the great wall of China within weeks of my operation was liberating. Probably also slightly stupid… Conversely the most humiliating and horrible experiences in China revolved around squat toilets. Never for an instant did this factor into my planning, but it became one of the biggest challenges of my trip as I was unable to squat at all. Overnight trains were the worst due to the movement and lack of cleanliness. In some instances sitting directly on top of the crude hole was my only option. Thank god for hand sanitizer.

Since my last operation in 2010 I have regular scares with my knees and sometime have severe pain that can last weeks. I’m highly restricted in what I can do and always have problems with my right knee. The energetic dance moves of my early twenties are a distant memory and quietly I am resigned to the fact that eventually I will damage one of my knees enough again that I’ll require another operation. It’s a depressing mental state, but a reality that I live with. A goal of 2011 was to be able to run again. I missed my target by two months but I am now able to jog short distances. I also still snowboard as often as I can.

Fast forward to March 2012 and I find myself struggling with a completely different but equally debilitating injury. After moving back to Australia in mid 2011 I quickly found myself fulltime employed and working 50-60 hr weeks in a stressful environment. A combination of severely bad ergonomics, long hours, static position and poor posture culminated in an injury I am struggling to deal with. Each time I have damaged my knee its been a clear case of having an operation followed by physio, exercise and a easily trackable graph of recovery.

It started with my wrists becoming very painful while working. Over the years I’ve had wrist problems from repetitive strain injuries but never both at the same time and never both acting up so badly. I’ve also managed my wrist pain pretty well over the years. But then the pain moved into a localised area in my left forearm muscle. Initially I ignored this and continued working through it. In my weekends it would get better and I’d be fine for work again the following week. My wrists started to settle down but my forearm muscle pain got worse. Then it hit a threshold and my left arm became virtually unusable. This was accompanied by strange nerve sensations down my left arm. By this stage I was seeing a doctor, a specialist, a physio and a chiro. It became a work cover issue within a month of onset. By the end of December I was getting shooting electric shocks down both arms and was struggling to work. I was still on probation at my new job and was highly stressed about this fact. Soon I was reduced to only 5hrs a day of work. Even this proved difficult.

As time progressed I was getting more and more muscle problems with my right forearm as well, although the nerve sensations were mostly limited to my left arm. This injury affected every aspect of my life. Simple daily tasks became harder. Shopping baskets hurt to carry so I used trolleys and carried home everything in a backpack. Using my laptop at home became painful. Doing a lot of other normal activities now seemed like too much hard work or would aggravate the problem. Drinking more alcohol and sitting on the couch watching TV became default. I was more withdrawn and less social. I found acknowledging the injury at work hard, especially as I was still on probation. I needed my job but through my job I had sustained this injury and by continuing at my job I was ensuring that it would take longer to heal.

Now five months into having a damaged nerve it’s clear that getting better is a long way off. Consistently I am having more ‘better’ days, but for every good day I still have a lot of bad ones. In the past few months I have spent more time seeing and being treated by specialists and professional in relevant fields than at any other time in my life. The worst part has been the mental strain and depression. I am rethinking my entire career. I’m trying to comprehend how at 31 I am meant to spend the next 30 to 40 years of my life working in this industry if I am having these problems at such a young age. The growing realisation that I sustained this injury while doing something I no longer feel any connection with, nor have passion or love for is sobering – and it’s been hard to sober me up lately. I am now stuck in a position where leaving my current job would be pure stupidity as I am being supported very well by my work and also by the government’s work injury scheme. Yet at the same time it is only when I am working in that environment that my symptoms and pain significantly flare up. And it is only when I am away from that environment and work that my symptoms dissipate. Each and every doctor, specialist and treating physician I have seen have all quietly informed me on the side that at the least I should be entertaining the possibility of a new job if not an entire career change. What has been startling about this is that it hasn’t been just an isolated medical professional advising me this, but every single damn one of them.

My list of alignments and injuries seems to grow exponentially. In 2009 I was involved in a car crash where a car went straight through a red light and collected me. I was rushed to hospital, my own car was written off. The point of impact on my body was my hip. The phone in my pocket was crushed between my hipbone and my car door. My groin and hip area still get sore every once in a while and I’m now a prime candidate for early onset osteoporosis in that area. The list continues, but seems pointless to reiterate all of them here. I have a good friend who goes to the doctor once every few years, he continually struggles with his weight, but apart from that is basically never sick or injured. He is baffled by my fragility while I am equally baffled by his seeming imperviousness. At least I can eat cheesecake to my hearts content!

I was kept in hospital for a few hours after the car accident. They did every scan possible while I was there. The female driver of the other car was in a hospital bed beside me, appologising profusely. That is until her chest started swelling uncontrollably, she started moaning in agony and suddenly all the curtains were drawn, nurses and doctors ran to her aid and then she was rushed to an emergency surgery theatre...

The worst aspect of all this is that I have become resigned to injury. Resigned to the regularity of seeing doctors and specialist and resigned to a constant cycle of injury, treatment and rehabilitation. The perverse flip side to this is my need to then push my limits, to prove to myself that an injury does not define me or restrict me. This recent period has been harder than previous ones to look at the positives and work towards them. It’s been harder not to succumb to the destructive and darker thoughts that ravage your motivation, stunt personal growth and damage your sense of self worth. Things have not been going to plan since returning to Australia. I have some tough choices ahead.

An ode to love

I wore excruciatingly tight plastic snake skin pants to the wedding. I was invited via sms a few days before due to someone falling ill and being unable to make it. It was a themed wedding, and the theme, was ‘rock and roll’. Lacking any clear direction on which era I should dress for I went for the loudest and most impractical choice. Now, I have no intention of fathering children at any point in the near future, but my keen sense of fashion and my willingness to endure discomfort for the sake of said fashion may have ensured that the actual fathering of the children is no longer a viable choice. To top it all off I discovered that the ‘official’ invite was quite specific on the theme – fifties rock and roll. I was ahead of my time, by about thirty years. I was the pink plastic elephant in a room full of well-dressed mice.

The groom, years ago when single, purchased a plane ticket and set his plans in motion to move overseas to London. Time for a change and time for a new adventure. Most inconvenient and not long before he was meant to leave he met his bride to be, and, most unexpectedly and amazingly he fell in love. They both did. I know this part of the story well, because almost the exact same thing happened to me. But from then our stories diverged. They fought for their love and their gamble paid off. Whereas I didn’t realise what I had found nor did I think I deserved it. I didn’t plan a future in which I was happily in love. I actively planned and promoted a future in which my ‘love’ found another partner because I was overseas and unavailable. My plan worked.

I never understood how people could fall in and out of love so easily. Egotistically I liked to believe that I was more emotionally mature and stable than my love-sick and love-addicted friends. My superior brain chemistry prevented these wild and passionate swings of emotional co-dependency. At the ripe old age of thirty-one I’ve only been ‘in love’ twice. The first time was a love grown painstakingly over time out of familiarity and friendship. It wasn’t passionate and it wasn’t sustainable; at the end of the day love shouldn’t be based predominantly on familiarity. The second time I fell in love it hit my like a speeding train. Finally I understood what all my friends had been experiencing. It was amazing, amazing and scary. I was twenty-eight. I moved overseas not really understanding what I was leaving behind. I didn’t fight for it because I didn’t think I deserved it and I didn’t think I was worthy of someone who within such a short period of time had made such a profound impact on me and my happiness. I invented, promoted and desperately clung to reasons as to why it couldn’t work.

By the end of the wedding speeches I was incredibly sad and at the same time incredibly moved, and, also, a little bit drunk. They had spirits over the bar at the wedding! Amazing! Seriously! A wedding with spirits on the bar! In sheer excitement I wet myself just a little bit, which, considering I was wearing plastic pants was a very bad idea.

Age changes perspective. As I age my focus on a career, or owning a house, or being a normal respectable part of whatever society deems is currently normal and respectable continues to pale in comparison to finding someone to share my life with. Wearing fake snake skin pants while getting drunk and slowly loosing feeling in my testicles at my friends wedding has made it clearer than ever that love is worth fighting for, and that love, more than anything else, is what will sustain you through this life.

Drunk and Disorderly

Supposedly my drunken impersonation of a sober cat was spectacular.  Supposedly my drunken question asking all my friends why they had gotten so fat was also spectacular, but for entirely different reasons.  Supposedly it’s considered impolite to ask someone you’ve just met at a dinner party what its like being reduced to only one testicle after testicular cancer and completely inappropriate to then inquire as to whether his lone solider has made up for the dip in volume production.  And supposedly my continued ability to ‘examine’ women’s breasts without them slapping me in the face is an extremely coveted and completely non-transferable skill.  At times my behaviour even has me shaking my head in disbelief.

Of my 40 hrs in Canberra I spent over half of them intoxicated and the other half recovering and overeating.  Also, my recollection is that she spilt the champagne over me and therefore no apology was needed.  Actually, if I’m being entirely honest, my recollection only extends to remembering that at one time on Friday evening my left side was dry and then an uncertain time later my left side was wet.

Saturday morning started very well and surprisingly hangover free.  At the time I was convinced that the greasy chips and gravy shared on the way home from clubbing had helped out with that.  Unfortunately within an hour of waking and after studiously cleaning the chicken poo covered pavers outside in preparation for an impending BBQ my absent hangover came crashing in.  I was given alcohol and painkillers to deal with the situation.  The prescribed cure worked wonders.  The friend who I stayed with has turned an entire room in his house into a brewery in an attempt to help curb his alcoholism.  I should elaborate, to curb the expense related to his alcoholism.  Fifty cents a beer is a bargain.  I must admit that his amazing ginger beer made me weak at the knees and I can’t wait for my next trip down when I get to try his apple cider.

Friends from the Friday night drink fest failed to turn up to the Saturday lunch BBQ binge.  I rang to find out where they were and was exhaustedly informed by one friend that he was busy cleaning up the contents of his stomach from his lounge room carpet.  My few remaining sober brain cells made the logical conclusion that this meant he wouldn’t be making lunch.  It was an excessive weekend.

Feeling a little sad on the trip back to Sydney I realised how much I’ve missed some of my good mates and our warm and fuzzy and comfortingly familiar relationships.  I have no intention of moving back to Canberra, but I’m already planning my next trip down.  I’ll just need a few weeks to recover.