The Second Coming-Back (with beer)

Welcome back to part 2 of the story of the first Kareoke Sunday at a bar I used to work at. By this point the story is less about karaoke (blessedly) and more about the after party. When we left off my car was hurtling from pub to party late on a Sunday night (when respectable people are getting a good night’s sleep before work on Monday morning). At this point my car contained (sung to the tune of “12 days of Christmas”):

-          7 (different) sets of directions,

-          6 pints of lager (Pablo grabbed a spare “for the road”)

-          5 drunken bar staff,

-          4 bottles of wine,

-          3 full cartons,

-          2 spirit bottles,

-          And not a hope of finding this place...

After taking about half an hour to drive to a house two suburbs away, we arrived at the chef’s house where the party was continuing as it had started. By this I mean that everyone was pouring as much alcohol down their throats as possible to the musical accompaniment of two or three piss wrecks on Singstar. What followed was pretty much standard for those days and that house. People jumped in the spa in their underwear, girls jumped in the shower and discussed the finer points of their boobs (with comparisons), wrestling became a completely reasonable social activity and our alcohol supply was starting to look like Batman’s parents (it was getting murdered too). I was relaxing in my boxers in the spa talking to one of my managers about the finer points of marketing strategy. This was made surprisingly difficult by strategy being a bastard of a word to understand when the speaker is slurring as badly as I was.

I’m sure there have been studies into this, I can imagine there’d be a bloody big queue to sign up to be part of a study like this, but apparently drinking in a spa gets you drunker, quicker than drinking not-in-a-spa (if that makes sense). It’s something about the bubbly, warm water and your body absorbing alcohol faster. Try it with champagne and a girl in a spa, you get the idea. Seriously though, that may be the best scientific experiment of all time. Can you imagine the funding request? “You need a dozen young women in bikini’s, a hot tub, and two kegs of beer? Are you sure this is for science young man?”

So I’ve wandered back inside to pour myself another whatever-the-hell-we-have-left and coke and discovered that our alcohol supply is looking lighter than that barmaid we fired because of her “eating disorder” (crack addiction is apparently an eating disorder). As I gazed across this sea of broken dreams, empty bottles and a tipsy looking housecat I decided that something needed to be done. I had a carton in the fridge at home, I could go get that! (brilliant logic, thank you alcohol impaired brain function).

So I’ve jumped in my car, reversed over the letter box, aimed for home and shot off to bring life and alcohol back to the party. I would be hailed a hero by the drunken masses, they’ll probably give me a medal or something. Yep, this is a great idea!

So I had been driving for about 30 seconds and now was completely lost in the back suburbs of bloody nowhere, vacant blocks on the right, housing estates on the left, cop car up ahead... wait, what?! Yeah, that’s a cop car. It’s about 3am on a Monday morning, I’m the only car on the road,  and my car looks like rolling probable cause most days anyway. I’m suddenly hoping for someone to get murdered nearby so the cops have something to keep them busy.

I stop at a set of lights, the cops stop on the other side of the intersection. Lights go green, I drive through, the cops turn right through the intersection. Ok, they didn’t do a u-turn. I’m ok... why are there headlights behind me? Oohhh... crap.

I take the next left into a housing estate hoping they’ll keep going straight, no luck. I take the next left, then another left and then pull into the first driveway I see. Lights off, engine off, I climb out of the car trying my best to look completely inconspicuous. The police car rolls down the street, they drive slowly past me and keep going. Have I got away with it? I’m not going to stand here and try and find out. Like Dr. Frankenstein discovering a way to hold his monster’s head on, I bolt it. Cops go one way, I make a run for the other, before they knew what was happening I was around the corner, down the street and across the road, where I found the park I had passed a few moments ago.

I could hear the cop car racing up behind me so without breaking stride I dived full tilt into some native bushes. I have no idea how I managed to land without breaking my neck but somehow I’ve ended up crouched behind these bushes watching the police car’s spotlight scanning the area.

*Ring ring*

Oh fuck.

*Ring –bash, bang, shtthfckup!*

Me: “Nyello?”

Jim (still at the party): “Mate, where are you?”

Me: “...Hiding from cops in the bushes?”

Jim: “... why?”

Me: “Because I’m not real keen on getting breathalysed right now?”

Jim: “You drove? Where the hell are you?”

Me: “I told you, in the bushes in some park somewhere. More details to follow from my arrest report unless you shut the hell up!”

Jim: “Again? Do I need to find a driver to come get you?”

Me (watching cop car race off down the road): “Nah, I’ll be ok. I’ll call a taxi. Promise I won’t drive again”

Jim: “Good. No Driving.”

Me: “yes Mum, see you later” -click-

So once the cops had definitely left the area, either looking for me or they found something more important to do, I jumped back in my car, immediately broke my promise, and proceeded to un-lose myself back to the party. Sadly without alcohol but with a good story anyway.

Apparently most of the party had heard the details of that phone conversation so by the time I came back there was a (small) collection being passed around for bail money and a (large) pool going on my odds of making it back alive. A few people tried to talk me in to turning myself in until they were told that it didn't count and they still lost the bet. Cheerful bastards...

The story must have gotten around, because by the time I turned up to work the next day the section on the notice board marked “Things to Remember” read something like:

-          Beer of the month is Millers, $5/stb

-          We’ve run out of the venison

-          Wine of the month is somethingorother

-          Parkland bushes are a great place to hide from the cops.

Important things to know in life

-Worst Guy Ever

Holiday From Responsibility

This is the tale of an idea. They say an idea can change the world. Apparently ‘they’ didn’t mention that the idea had to be on a Boeing 757 as it smacked into one of a matching pair of sky scrapers (it’s been 10 years, we can joke about this now). This idea hasn’t changed the world yet, but I think it could. This is the story of the greatest holiday known to man.

I awoke one bright summer morning at the crack of 11am. Having once again failed in my goal of “get up in time for Maccas breakfast” I decided to find out where I was. As it turns out I was at a friend’s house and it was the gentle screaming of his clapped out lawnmower that had interrupted my slumber. So I shortly found myself with coffee in hand providing supervision to my friend as he had a fair old crack at shoving a rusted, asthmatic lawnmower through grass so feral it probably received Centrelink payments.

After a few minutes of “you missed a spot” and getting branches thrown at me I came to realise I was missing something. There was something unmistakably wrong with my day. It was like dancing with Heather Mills, something wasn’t quite right.

I wanted a drink.

There was a need deep in my soul that could be quenched with bugger all but a nice, cold, rum and coke. I knew I wanted it, but I also knew I had to be a productive human being at some point during the day. I had only just gotten out of bed and a whole day full of crap I didn’t want to do ahead of me. That and being a uni student, I was pretty damn broke. I had enough money left in my bank to put a little fuel in my car or buy some food for the week ahead (not both). I had study I should be doing, money I should be saving, and no doubt a whole bunch of other things I really should have given a crap about.

But no. Something inside me climbed a metaphorical mountain and declared to the world “No! I will not!” in what was no doubt a heroic pose and a bold statement of defiance. The fact this statement was immediately follow by “Fuck it, I’m getting drunk!” probably tarnishes that a little, but I stand by my alcoholic convictions, and that’s exactly what I did. I marched right inside, found myself a bottle of rum, some ice, the biggest glass I could find (note: may have been a vase, this may also explain why I keep finding floral arrangements in my drinking cup...) and mixed myself one hell of a drink.

A few minutes later I was sitting in the back yard basking in the radiance of my excellent decision. Also the sun, but mostly my decision. I was suddenly feeling better, it was like my life had found something it was missing, and then poured it over ice and added a slice of lime. It is truly a wonderful feeling to know what you want in life, to go after it and achieve it. Especially before midday and with a minimum of effort.

My compadre gave up on the lawn and joined my in a glass of righteousness, soon realising the wisdom of my ways. A newfound look of respect appeared in his eyes when he realised what I had discovered. The Idea had come to me, I was merely a conduit for a greater power that had seen that tasks of men; the toil and labours, the drudgery and hard work. This power looked at the great tasks of men and spoke thusly:

“Eh, Fuck it.”

It was on this momentous day that I declared the first Holiday From Responsibility. I faced the world and decided that nothing I did today was going to be my fault. I was on holiday from having to take responsibility for my own actions, from study, from work, from commitments, hell, even from pants.

15 minutes later my car returned to my friend’s front lawn. Sideways. At speed. With me hanging out the window waving my beer.

That small amount of money in my bank account? Turns out it was just about enough for a carton. Fuel? not my problem. Food? not my problem. I was on holiday from having to be responsible for any of that junk. So my friend and pulled up a couch on the front porch and proceeded to ensure we were well and truly drunk by 2pm. We accomplished precisely stuff all that day, it felt pretty damn good. We called friends to see how there day at work was going and tell them about our idea, several bailed early to honour this new holiday (with a fresh carton). We invented new drinking games, we cheered on joggers and school kids passing the house, and we made the best possible use of a warm summer’s day in Australia; we got f**k-eyed.

A little later another friend of mine, let’s call her Chesty, came by to see what all the fuss was about. This quickly turned into her driving me on a snack run to the local shops. Chesty later described, with some horror, chasing me down the dairy aisle of a supermarket while I cackled madly and skulled a litre of chocolate milk shouting “If I yak this up later, it’s not my responsibility! And it’s going to be chunky as hell! AHAHAHAH”.

This was the first of many Holidays From Responsibility. Since that fateful day the call has gone forth many times. Call in sick to work, ditch the missus, stop what you’re doing and head to the liquor store because no-one wants anything to do with responsibility today. It’s time to feel good about doing nothing again.

That’s right, NOTHING is your responsibility, it’s your day off.

It’s your Holiday From Responsibility.

-Worst Guy Ever