A few years ago I went on an epic journey through China, Malaysia and Brunei. I almost fell off the Great Wall, got into a fight with violent Hong Kong kung-fuists and passed out under more palm trees than you’ve had hot dinners. When the proud people of these wonderful Oriental nations finally decided they’d had enough of me and sent me back to Australia, I got some bloke with a pencil to draw up a few comic strips about my wacky adventures. They appeared in wank rag The Picture and really captured what the Drunk and Jobless World Tour is all about. Enjoy my rice wine-soaked awesomeness in animated form. I’m like a fucking Marvel superhero, so go fuck yourself Chris Hemsworth!
After yesterday’s epic journey into the African savanna, complete with a near-death experience with a rampaging elephant, I woke up this morning with a hunger for more animals. So I headed to the shop to get a meat pie. But after that, I headed to one of Addo, South Africa’s, most popular hiking tracks – the 11km Doringkloof Walk, which promised all sorts of bizarre beasties. I was looking forward to climbing through trees with gibbons and swimming down a river with a black rhino. That didn’t quite eventuate, but I did see a mouse.
The walk itself was enough to fight off disappointment. Starting in the remote highland village of Zuurberg (population: 15 people and a very nervous-looking goat), the trail cascaded down the side of a rocky mountain decorated with kooky aloe bushes. It’s a steep trot down to the bottom of the valley, but the views out over the towering countryside are as kind to the eyes as an 18-year-old blonde in a bikini. A blonde woman, that is, not a man (unless you’re into that sorta thing).
The track plunges into thick scrub at the bottom and follows a stream, which was as dry as a nun’s nancy when I got to it. While it was still pleasant, the valley would look incredible with water bubbling along it. It’s a very nice and peaceful place, with a wide range of trees (and no exotic animals to eat careless hikers).
The trip back up the hill was bloody hard going and I was sweating like a Hebrew in a mosque, so I decided to strip off so I could cool down a bit. I even took some racy photos because my paragliding friend Mark (a flamboyant individual who has been suffering both physically and emotionally after botched gender reassignment surgery. I’m not sure whether he was going from male to female or female to male, but he wouldn’t pass as either) has been emphatic that I up ‘nude up’ more often for Drunk and Jobless. Hope I pleased you, Mark.
I was pulling my shorts back on when I noticed a long, tall black man leaning against a zombongi tree, drinking a long, tall bottle of Coke that wasn’t nearly as cool as he was. He took a big sip of his drink, gave me a wink, and said, “So it’s true what they say about white men!” I’m sure he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
This story starts the way all epic adventures do, in the midst of a four-day cask wine and prostitute bender. I was guzzling a schooner glass of Berri Estates’ finest and checking to make sure my PlayStation hadn’t been pinched when I received an email from none other than Prince Imotep Bobongi of Nigeria. I’m sure he’s in all the womens mags.
It turns out poor ol’ Imotep has been in a bit of trouble for rooting baboons, and needs to get out of Nigeria until things cool down a bit. For some convoluted reason that I could only vaguely understand whilst having a blood alcohol level of .4, he needs me to help him smuggle $100 million out of the country, and for my assistance he’s happy to give me 20 per cent. That’s $40 million!
I was going to email Imotep back with an emphatic YES, but then I had a sit and a think and decided that would be doing him a disservice. Imotep is placing a lot of faith in me, a stranger, to help him with his family’s fortune. I could do better than to simply email him back, so I decided on the spot to fly over to Nigeria and work out the details with Imotep in person. I jumped straight on the interwebs and booked the first flight I could to Africa. It’s not a big place, so I reckon I can just rock up and ask around for Imotep.
I’ve always wanted to visit Africa, anyway. I’ve long been fascinated by the local African people and their ancient customs and culture.
Anyone who’s met me knows I’m an animal lover, and Africa is home to some of the strangest critters to ever roam the planet. Monkeys, elephants, bears and chickens are just some of the bizarre beasts I’m hoping to see, and I’m excited that I’ll finally fulfil my dream of cuddling a hippopotamus.
As a lifeong admirer of beautiful architecture, Africa is the place to be, and offers countless examples of exquisite and inspired design. I’m looking forward to checking out some of the most beautifully and painstakingly-built structures on the planet – some of the structures are sure to put Rome’s Parthenon to shame.
So here I am, 30,000ft in the air with a beer in my hand, on my way to the Dark Continent for two months of fun, sun, and military coups. I don’t know where I’m going to go or who what I’m going to do, but I won’t be alone because you’ll be along for the ride every step of the way. I’m sure I’ll see fascinating landscapes, encounter terrifying animals, meet intriguing people and have outrageous adventures. The plane’s going to land soon, and I can’t wait to explore the African savannah. Oh shit, I probably should’ve gotten an anti-AIDS vaccination before leaving…
Paragliding isn’t all about flying through exotic lands. Most of the time is spent bludging around waiting for the wind to pick up, or drinking Bintangs by the pool with your mates, or stripping off in public while the locals hoot and holler like rabid monkeys. This is the story of a night out with my mate Richard ‘The Hamster’ Ham, a man who struggles to remain fully frocked at the best of times, but who becomes a walking arrest warrant once beer is added.
After another long day of zipping around Candidasa at great heights and rehydrating with bulk Bintang on the beach afterwards, me, The Hamster and Jed headed out for a feed at Bali’s most exclusive restaurant, La Rouge, where the waiter even places a napkin over your lap. I was grateful for this, as I had wet my pants and needed something to mop up the mess. Anyway, the food was brilliant and, full of beer and Long Island Iced Tea, we tootled off to a local nightspot, where the trouble started.
The place was deserted bar for a group of volatile Germans in one corner and a bored-looking band packing up in the other. While the Hitler Youth were shouting about world domination “the fucking Jews”, the band were sombre , and refused to start playing for us. As we slumped dejectedly at the bar, a strange man man appeared from the shadows and presented us with the most hideous smile time has ever known. This character looked like he’d been kicked in the mouth by a horse and had a special needs child glue everything back together. He had about seven teeth, none of which pointed in the right direction, and were coated in a thick, brown goo.
Toothy’s negotiation skills were as good as his ability to play with his balls, and before long we came to a financial agreement that had the band picking up their instruments again. The deal was not, however, sealed with a handshake. As the band tumbled headfirst into a unique interpretation of Wonderwall, we celebrated by smashing beers and ignoring the deranged sexual advances of Toothy, who just couldn’t leave his fuckin’ balls alone.
I can honestly say that we kickstarted the band’s professional career that night, because I can’t imagine anyone else would’ve paid them to play. They were awful, with only a rudimentary understanding of the concept of music and a set list that consisted of Don’t Believe Me Just Watch! and a number of jams that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in a Nazi concentration camp.
The Hamster is a former drummer with legendary Pommy band The Jimmy Savile Experience (they might want to think about renaming themselves if they ever reform), and soon became enraged by the lackadaisical attitude of the drummer, who spent the majority of the performance looking at his imitation iPhone and yawning. He stormed the stage and threw the teenager to the ground before taking his place behind the drums, where he busted out some lightning beats that even had the Hitler Youth grooving around.
Jed and I took his lead and threw the other members off the band off the stage and took their place. We performed a rocking set of classic rock songs and stuff we came up with on the spot, and the masses poured in to dance and sing along and throw their panties at us. The Hamster became so caught up in the moment that he took off his clothes without missing a beat, which sent the ladies in the audience into raptures. Toothy, meanwhile, simply continued playing with his balls.
We finished off with a rousing rendition of Stairway to Heaven that was deemed by all in attendance to be better than the original and were carried out into the street by our adoring fans. They chanted our names as they carried us through the night, eventually dropping us off at the Indomart because we all wanted Cornettos. During the ride my fans had stolen my clothes, meaning that two of us were now naked, with only Jed remaining decent.
Tragically, while searching for a Cornetto that hadn’t been defrosted and re-frozen a dozen times, The Hamster tripped over a dog and knocked over a large rack of imitation sunglasses, sending it crashing to the ground. With only a handful of rupiahs on him and no way to pay for the damage, he was forced to take up a job working in the Indomart for a couple of cents an hour. After loading up on ice creams, Jed and I left Hammy to work off his debt. He was later arrested by corrupt Indonesian police and is looking forward to spend the next 20 years in a cockroach-infested jail cell with a Chinese drug runner/sexual predator named Rodney Yap. I trust they’ll be very happy together.
The next leg of the Drunk and Jobless World Tour™ has begun! It’s a journey that will take me from the pristine beaches of southern Bali to the skies of Candidasa, across the mountains of South Korea and deep into the beating heart of Tokyo. It’s going to be a full-on seven weeks, so I’ve decided to start off in the most relaxing of places – Balangan, which is around 45 minutes drive from Kuta, but a world away from that concrete nightmare.
Balangan’s a really nice beach, with clean, white sand nestled up against volcanic cliffs and palm trees swaying all over the place. Ramshackle restaurants look out over the deep blue sea and surfers either glide through the water, or just sit on their boards because they don’t actually know how to ride but want to say they’ve surfed in Bali.
It’s not a great beach for swimming due to the reef extending to the sand, so I just bludged around drinking Bintang and perving on the good-looking sheilas who were wandering around. I saw one I really liked the look of – a topless blonde with a bad tattoo that suggested a low sense of self worth – and rolled over to say G’day.
“We might have to shut the beach down,” I said with a cheeky wink towards her perky boobies. “Because there are a couple of white pointers around.”
I was making my third honking sound when a shadow fell on me, and I turned around to see a very large, very angry man who was covered in tattoos that even Stevie Wonder would agree look shit. He politely suggested that it would not be in my best interests to remain on the beach (actually, it wasn’t all that polite – he screamed something about removing my head and defecating down the remains of my throat, which sounds like an odd thing to do), so I decided to run away in tears and go for a walk.
During my strut around town, I saw all the usual sights of Southeast Asia – overloaded motorbikes, blokes burning shit on the side of the street, and children urinating in public. I didn’t take any photos of the urinating children because I don’t want to end up on some sort of register, so I’ve put in a picture of an interested cow instead. I also found something that looks like a prison, with barbed wire and everything, and was chased away by guard dogs while the locals laughed at me.
I sought refuge at the top of a poorly-built wooden tower that seems to serve no other purpose than to give schoolkids a place to smoke bongs and trade porno mags they found in their fathers’ closets (sorry, Dad – I swear I’ll give you back that copy of Sixty Plus one day). I spent a minute or two gazing passionately at a flock of cows milling about far below, then hurried back down to safety because the whole thing felt like it would blow over with the faintest hint of wind.
It doesn’t take long to get sick of walking in Bali because it’s as humid as a ladyboy’s crotch, so I hailed a cab and headed back to my luxurious accommodation (the driver offered me a happy-ending massage and I said no, but I was disgusted with myself when I realised he probably meant that a pretty lady would do it, not him). With the beach off limits and not much else to do, I’ve just been sitting around with a beer in my hand and a grin pasted on my stupid face. You know, sometimes this strange dance we call life isn’t too bad at all.
After spending almost a week in Latvia, I think I’m in a position to say that this place is a bit weird. Wait, scratch that, it’s a bat-shit insane country that is incredible to experience for that very reason.
The locals are serious to a fault, which takes a bit of getting used to as an Australian. I’m used to saying G’day to strangers, maybe giving them a bit of a wave. In Latvia, the response to that is to look at me as if I’m either a sex fiend, or a retard – or a mixture of both. Even at shops, I haven’t received a single smile since I got here. And I usually get heaps of smiles, because I’m lovely.
The supermarkets here are fucking bonkers. I headed into a place called Rimi, which is a gigantic warehouse where all the actual food and groceries are hidden behind rows and rows of toys, camping equipment, makeup and other crazy stuff. I guess it makes sense – I’ve often wandered into a shop to buy a six-pack of pies and a box of condoms and thought, “I wish I could also update my wardrobe and purchase a new basketball hoop while I’m here.”
The supermarket also had a massive fish tank right next to the milk – in what bizarre world does that make sense. “Oh, I’ll just check out this massive fuck-off fish before I grab a couple of litres of goat milk and a six-pack of frozen dog paws.”
There’s a definite upside to Latvian supermarkets, though, because their alcohol selection is out of this world. It seems like a quarter of the joint was dedicated to booze, with rows and rows of cheap beer, cheap spirits, and reasonably cheap Aussie wine just waiting to be guzzled. They also sell beer in two-litre plastic bottles – bet the Latvian lovelies would be impressed by that when a fella drags one of those out during a romantic meal!
I spent this arvo exploring a forest on the outskirts of Riga with a lady friend of mine and her dog. The forests here are weirdly quiet and full of people aimlessly wandering around in long coats, looking as if they’d rather be anywhere else in the world. The forests have an eerie, lonely quality to them, even when located in or around populated areas. Abandoned houses stand rotting among the ghost-like trees, and empty beer cans lie everywhere.
We ended up at a small lake that was ringed by tall pine trees and a couple of menacing Soviet-era housing blocks that served as a reminder of Latvia’s troubled past. While Riga is cold and the terrain harsh, the locals don’t spend their Saturdays too diffrerently from Australians. A few beers over a BBQ with mates, or taking the kids to the park to let them have a run around. Maybe drink a litre or two of black balsam, head home to bash the missus, that sorta thing.
Oh well, that’s it for Riga (well, for now, at least) and it’s time to hop on a luxury bus to Tallinn, the mystical capital of Estonia, one country to the north of Latvia. If it’s even half as barmy as Latvia, I’ll have plenty of stories to share. Hell, even if it’s not wacky, I’ll just drink until something funny happens…
Beer of the day:
The cheapest beer in Latvia is some swill called Walter. Going by the taste, I’m assuming there’s some falt bloke called Walter who simply pisses in the cans before they get shipped off to the supermarket, but I’m giving it my beer of the day anyway. Just brush your teeth after downing one, or people will think you’ve been playing drinking games with Todd Carney.
Kebab of the day:
While my lady friend put the kybosh on my plans to have a kebab today, I decided to fight for my right to party have something resembling a kebab by making fajitas for dinner. They were delicious and if you reckon they don’t count as kebabs then you can go fuck yourself.
Alright, that title might be a bit of an exaggeration. While on the party island of Ibiza a couple of years ago I took as many drugs as a Jehovah’s Witness and I didn’t go to any of those parties where they play all the bippity-boppity robot music, but I still managed to rip it up in a way that only your Drunken Hero can.
Strap yourself in, you know it’s gonna be a helluva ride.
After a month or so criss-crossing western Europe, I was burnt out and needed a place to chill out, so I flew to the island of Ibiza, a rocky island in the middle of the Mediterranean with a reputation for being one of the best party spots on the planet. Superclubs light up the length and breadth of it, Ferraris and Lamborginis cruise the streets, and beautiful people strut up and down the beaches to the hippest music from the hottest DJs. My social life usually involves listening to punk music on my phone while wiping vomit off my shirt in the toilet of some dingy pub, so I was something of a squared peg in a round hole.
But enough about my sex life!
I decided to stay in a town on the south of the island called Platja d’en Bossa, which has the twin advantages of being close the airport, and largely free of British pissheads (the frequent the northern town of Sant Antoni – so if you want to finger a fat chick from Warrington, that’s the place to be). The surrounds are as dry as a lesbian’s fanny at a penis convention, which I became all too aware of during my hour-long walk from the spot where I (incorrectly) got off the bus to my hotel. When I got there, the place was crawling with Euro chicks who were almost wearing bikinis and tattooed dickheads who must’ve lost the directions to their shirts and decided to go without. After all that, I needed a drink.
And bloody hell, did I drink. While in Europe I fell in love with a bizarre beer called Desperado, which proudly calls itself the world’s first tequila-flavoured beer, has a higher alcohol percentage than Amy Winehouse’s liver, and comes in half-litre cans for maximum pissing-up-ability. It sounds rough, but is actually pretty awesome, so I took a bag of them down to the beach, where I sat and drank and talked to pretty girls and got pissed. When they were finished I went to a little bar on the beach and drank more beers and chatted up more pretty girls and talked shit as the sun went down and the bongo-bongo music in the background started sounding better.
I sat by the pool at my hotel and drank more, went to a cheap restaurant and drank more while eating Spanish sausages (the foot, ya dirty bastard – I wasn’t sitting there, beer in one hand, European penis in the other or anything like that), then drank more Desperados in my room while getting ready and dancing around in front of the mirror. I was ready for a big night out on the sauce, but the thing is, in Ibiza everyone goes to the superclubs – and I mean everyone.
For those who don’t know, the superclubs are the reason most people head to Ibiza. They’re massive, multi-story discos that cater for thousands of people at a time and run all night. I definitely could’ve gone to one of them myself, but didn’t find the thought of spending $75 to be hugged by a drug-addled stranger appealing – I can just head up to Gosford station if I want that. So when I rolled up to the bars on the main street of Playa around 11pm, they were deserted. I found one that had five other people in it and ordered a drink, but then three of the people left, and then the other two, leaving me all alone in the bar with a drink in my hand and a sympathetic barman giving me a sad look.
I wandered up and down the strip, ducking into sparsely-populated bars and getting progressively pisseder (it’s a word), while talking shit to anyone who would listen. I’m not going to pretend to know what happened that night, but I woke up in a room I didn’t recognise, with an attractive brunette woman I didn’t recognise, wearing nothing but underpants that clearly weren’t designed with someone of my size in mind and a singlet that suggested I had drunk 10 shorts of something called a gallo rancia, which I later learnt is Spanish for ‘rancid cock’. No wonder I was so sick the next day.
To give you an idea of how pissed I was the next morning, I became convinced that I needed to call my father, and that the only way to do that was to walk four kilometres to the nearest Maccas. Fucking hell.
I was understandably rough for my next two days in Ibiza, so i spent most of my time lazing around on the beach, or watching beautiful sunsets over the ocean. The ancient city in Ibiza Town is glorious, and well worth exploring. All of the towns and villages are wonderful, with fountains and statues and cafes and restaurants. During the warmer months the whole island is alive with happy people, and it’s fun to simply walk around and enjoy the ambiance.
I even caught a bus to the other side of the island and checked out Sant Antoni. It’s a little slice of England in the middle of the Mediterranean, with fish and chips shops everywhere, along with a matching set of fat, tattooed, sunburnt Poms doing their best to guzzle their bodyweight in cheap booze. While that might not sound great, the sunset from this place most certainly is – I sat out on a pier with a can of beer in my hand, toasting the end of three wonderful days in Ibiza.
And then I went off to find that fat chick from Warrington – but that’s a story for another day.
Since I first broke the story a few weeks ago, Australians have fallen in love with Dean*, the brave 20-year-old who freely admits to having sex with animals. Sadly, this inspirational tale has taken a depressing turn.
But Dean’s debaucherous lifestyle has finally caught up with him, with the beastie bonker admitting that he’s come down with fleas after enjoying a number of wild sexual experiences with some local dogs.
“There are a few strays around my house and I’ve fucked them all,” Dean admit, after retrieving a tennis ball I had thrown. “I’ve always stayed away from dogs because rooting them’s a bit of a cliche, isn’t it? If someone decides to fuck an animal, they usually start with a dog, and I don’t want to be a part of the pack – I’m a trailblazer.”
But temptation got the better of Dean. “I was walking back from the beach one day and saw a couple of dogs sniffing each others’ arses and I’ve thought to myself, ‘I wouldn’t mind a piece of that.’ Next thing you know, I was just one of the bitches.”
Dean smiles as he remembers his time as part of the pack. It was more than a sexual relationship – together they urinated on trees, chased cars and barked at children. “I even bit a postman once,” laughs Dean. “You should’ve seen the cunt run!”
In a tragic turn of events reminiscent of Charlie Sheen’s recent declaration that he has the AIDS, Dean’s carefree lifestyle has come at a heavy price. “I woke up one morning and I was feeling a bit itchy, so I gave myself a good scratch and all these little bugs came out of my hair. I was barking mad, because the dogs had told me they were clean and it was obviously a load of shit.
“My name’s Dean, and I have fleas.”
After making the heartbreaking discovery, Dean first fell into denial. He partied heavier than ever before, binging on tins of Chum and engaging in depraved orgies, often with multiple species at the same time. “It was raining cats and dogs there for a while, but all the sex in the world can’t make the itching go away. I spread the fleas, but I couldn’t shed any of my pain, I was a wreck.”
It was after waking up in a cell at the pound at the end of a wild night that Dean knew something had to change. “They were going to put me down because I was covered in fleas and kept humping the other dogs. I was a mess but, luckily, I was picked up an Asian family who took me home with them. The Wangs sat me down and made me admit that I had a problem, and from there I started to treat the fleas. It’s going to be a long, rocky road, but I know I have the strength to win this war.”
With the love and support of his new family, the Wangs, Dean can see light at the end of the doggy door, and he’s determined to beat his affliction.
“The vet says I’ve also got worms, but he reckons it’ll clear up as long as I stop eating my own shit.”
I joke around a lot here at Drunk and Jobless, but I’ve had my fair share of sad and fucked up events. One that stands out is the day I found out a pretty lady I was seeing fucked dudes for money… and was apparently very good at it.
The first time we talked was on a Friday afternoon, three or so years ago, when I was working through lunch interviewing girls for a classy magazine called 100% Home Girls. Her photos showed she was hot as hell, and when we talked on the phone she was funny and smart. In eight years of working for porn magazines, I only once got in touch with a girl after calling here, and this was that time.
I sent her a message on Facebook a day later, and she got back to me while I was getting epically drunk at some shit nightclub I don’t remember the name of. I ended up calling her at about 4am, we talked for a few hours, and agreed to meet up in Sydney the next night. I couldn’t believe my luck.
This girl was everything I wanted, physically – I like small girls with long dark hair, and it’s up for debate whether that’s a throwback to a girl I once promised to marry, or something to do with my mother, which is a possibility due to all the weird issues I have with women. She was as beautiful as anyone you would ever hope to meet in a lifetime, the sort of girl who could make your day by just walking by, and she was with me.
We only saw each other a few times, but I fell like a tonne of bricks. She was sometimes hard to get a hold of, but when I was able to spend time with her, I was fucking stoked. I thought it was weird that she always had two phones on her, took Xanax, didn’t really have a place to live.
One afternoon she told me she wanted to go to the zoo, so I organised it for the next day. I organised food and meeting times, went to bed early, even if it was a little hard to sleep. I woke up before me alarm hit, and headed down to Sydney, then fronted up outside her place. I rung the bell, and waited.
And waited, and waited. I called her phone, but nothing. I sat in the street with my little bag full of sandwiches and drinks, and after an hour or so, I went back to the train station and headed home. I ate my sandwich while the world passed by, and that was that.
I spent the afternoon at the pub, and after 10 or so beers, the girl sent me a message. She apologised for standing me up, and said she had something to tell me that might change the way I felt about her. I might be stupid, and completely naive when it comes to women, but I knew what she was going to say.
She told me she was a prostitute, and was working to pay for a methamphetamine habit. The night before we’d agreed to go to th zoo, she was fucking some dude all night, fucked off her head on drugs, unable to sleep because she had some married man’s mongrel inide her. She’d fallen asleep around the time I was rocking up at her place. I went out that night, got drunk enough that I passed out in a bush.
It was hard times after that. I was embarrassed, I felt fucking stupid for not noticing the obvious signs. A while ago I wrote a book called Red, White and Bruce that nobody bothered to read, and it was about a handsome journalist (who could possibly be the inspiration for that?) who fell in love girl with a girl who turned out to be a hooker. Read it, it’s good. And then this came along, with almost the same narrative.
I cut off contact immediately. I was so sad that this girl, who I saw as smart and talented and funny, only saw herself as a pussy that could make money. I was sad that old men fucked her and only saw someone who wasn’t their wife. I saw a lot in her and valued what she believed in, thought it was the best thing in the world that she wanted to spend time with me. I went on a website where dickheads review the prostitutes they’ve fucked and read stories about old men coming on her face. She cost $650 an hour. It was fucked.
Thankfully, I never fucked her, or I would have had to cut off my penis and throw it in a fire. So, basically, I was one of the few dudes who wasn’t banging the girl I was seeing. That makes me feel like a fucking man.
As some consolation, I was seeing a former gymnast at the same time, and she also rates as one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever been with. Sometimes, when I’m drunk, I look them both up on Facebook and reminisce on the time I was seeing two women so hot I almost had to wear gloves to hold them. And then I think about how they’re both living happy lives without me, so I go and play some PlayStation.
After two consecutive years of ending work Christmas parties in a pool of my own piss and puke, I’d earned a reputation for being a bit of a wildman at Bauer Media. Alright, maybe not a wildman, more like a pisshead, but it was a reputation I planned to uphold when 2012 finished and we all celebrated at the Beresford Hotel in the slovenly suburb of Surry Hills.
There was a gangster theme, so I got into the spirit of things by dressing as a Chinaman, because we all know most Chinamen are criminals. Well, at least I was dressed as a Chinaman, until a fat girl stole my hat and walked off with it on her meaty head. I was scared she’d eat me if I went after it, so I just pretended I was one of the very, very rare Chinamen who walk around hatless.
It was a swanky party. The food was delicious, the alcohol did its job and the women were almost wearing expensive designer dresses. We rocked and rolled, and I even told a former Australian Idol finalist to get fucked (I’m sure I broke his heart).
We pub crawled for a few hours until the lovely Tongan gentlemen who guard the doors of Sydney’s pubs stopped letting us in, and I remember getting lost in a dead-end street on my way back to my ritzy hotel.. I must’ve sat at the end of it for half an hour, crying drunkenly to myself as I tried to work out how to get out of this street, before realising that I could simply walk back the way I’d come from.
I eventually made it back to my glamorous accommodation, a rat-infested backpackers lodge in the centre of Sydney called, quite appropriately, The Maze. This place had corridors heading every which way and was set over a number of floors and half-floors, and when I bumbled inside I immediately realised I wouldn’t be able to find my way to my room. I found some sort of lounge room, and lay down on a couch that was surely stained with the semen of a million filthy Pommy backpackers, and passed out (after pissing my pants, of course).
There was a deep, rhythmic throbbing in my head when I opened my bleary eyes the next morning, but it wasn’t just the hangover. There was a skinny, hairy man with a happy face and no shirt, setting a metre from my head and playing a Jack Johnson song on a big set of bongo drums. When he saw I was a wake, he gave me a big smile and played the bongos louder. Ever tap of his stupid hands sent shockwaves through my battered brain.
“I bring to you the music of a new dawn,” the filthy hippie chirped, and started wiggling his head around merrily. I wasn’t feeling too merry, so I waited till the room stopped spinning and got to my feet. I shuffled uneasily over to him and snatched the bongos out of his hand, but the idiot kept looking up at me.
“Please, play me some music from your soul,” he yodelled. What came out of my mouth wasn’t from my soul, it was from my guts, because I flipped the hippie’s bongos over and chundered all inside them, filling the drums to the brim. Then I handed them back to old mate, who looked at me as if I’d just kicked his dog, and sashayed out the door.
I obviously didn’t learn my lesson, because the next year I booked into The Maze again.It’s the cheapest accommodation in Sydney, and my desire to save a few bucks beat my desire to have a bedroom I’d actually be able to find and sleep in. The day started early, with my big, burly, ex-bikie boss pouring goon down the gullet of everyone in the office, and the boozing just got harder from then on. After six hours on the piss, I was smashed by the time we actually got to Darling Harbour, and started double-fisting women wines as soon as I stepped inside. I was a fucking grog monster, cracking onto sheilas and telling the higher-ups at the company how to run the place, so it shouldn’t have come as any surprise when I got booted before 8pm for being too ratshit.
I was surprised, though, because I told a few people to go fuck themselves as two Maori gentlemen with heads like bedpans dragged me off into the night and threw me in a puddle. I don’t really know what happened after that, because the next four hours are a complete blank. I’d like to think I had a whirlwind relationship with an attractive French tourist, but it’s more likely that I sat in a gutter and cried to myself. Such is life.
The next thing I knew, I was stripped down to my undies and sobbing in a hallway at The Maze, because I’d somehow left my room and couldn’t find it again. As far as I can tell, I’d gone back to pass out, woken up for a piss (my brother doesn’t have this problem, because he always takes a piss bottle with him when he stays in such establishments. He’s all class), gone to the toilet, and walked back the wrong way. In my confused state I’d been unable to retrace my steps, and so opted to have a sook in public like a child.
Luckily, an Italian man with a large nose and a mop of hair found me, and was kind enough to lead me back to my room. When we got there, I was so happy that I gave him a cuddle, and the Italian held me just a little too tightly.
“You want Antonio to tuck you in?” he said with a wink, and I wiped away a tear and shook my head.
“Antonio say tuck you in, what he mean is make love to you in way only Italian man can.” I floundered to my feet and kicked the door closed, then pushed a cupboard against it so the deranged lothario couldn’t get inside and fuck me in my sleep.
I felt like a half-digested prawn cocktail when I left my room the next day, and embarrassed to see Antonia sitting near the front desk as I checked out. He just gave me a sad, hurt expression as I passed, and then I walked out of his life forever.