Wasted in the Watagans

Watagansbeer

I love getting pissed. Give me a cask of cheap wine, a bag of chips and some good music, and I’m sorted. I could do it all the time – and I do, in fact. But sometimes I get sick of stumbling around the house by myself, crying over lost loves and passing out in the spa in a pool of my own sick, so I go other places to drink.

It also works as lawnmower petrol

Tonight, I’m hitting the turps in the beautiful Watagan Mountains, at a peaceful place called The Pines. As the name suggests, my campsite is within a large pine plantation, that is at once pretty and bizarre amongst the thick bush. Instead of trekking in, I drove the Del Sol all the way up the mountain, in conditions it was never designed for, but which it handled admirably.

I’m always looking for cute birds…

Despite my best efforts, I haven’t been able to locate the helicopter that crashed in the Watagans a few days ago, but I did find a wishing well, where I wished for an end to world hunger.

Something, something, world peace, something, something, Bill Shorten finally fucks off…

Nah, just kidding, I wished that I was drunk, and now it looks like that’s coming true. Moral of the story, wishing wells fucking work, as long as you don’t try to use them to feed hungry African kids.

The tent’s big enough for two, ladies…

And now, with the sun setting and birds calling, I’m listening to The Reverend Peyton’s Big Damn Band and getting quietly sloshed on [brand] wine (at $10 for five litres, I can ignore the fact it tastes like sweat wrung out of a hobo’s sock and burns the back of my throat as if I’ve been swallowing coals). I reckon it’s only a few more glasses until that possum over there starts to look pretty damn good. Ah, it’s a good life…

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