Tag Archives: Drunk

Even more Christmas parties end up with me passed out in the street

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.

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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.

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With my Big Man and my Token Asian

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.

Every Christmas party ends with me passed out in the street

In case you’ve had trouble reading the name of this blog, I like to drink. And there’s no better time to drink than Christmas, when the eggnog is flowing and free beers are being passed around, and there are happy people who need to be drowned out with an over-abundance of alcohol.

Not surprisingly, I have a few stories regarding getting a little over-festive during the festive season. When I was working in Sydney, I earned a reputation for getting shitfaced at work Christmas parties, to the point that I never once managed to sleep in the bed I was meant to after an end-of-year knees-up.

And no, it’s not because I ended up in the bed of some Christmas miracle, having my candy cane sucked. I usually ended up passed out in public, covered in my own bodily fluids. Let’s go…

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The calm before the Christmas party storm (and no, the midget wouldn’t fuck me)

I was working in Sydney for two years before I was able to head to my first Chrimbo party, and I certainly made up for lost time. It was held at the Civic Hotel and the beers were free, so I smashed as many as possible and talked to shit to anyone who would listen. I tried to crack onto women and, when that didn’t work, a pot plant. And when the pot plant knocked me back, too, I chundered into it.

The last train out of Sydney leaves at 1:45am, so I staggered out of the Civic half an hour before that, and weaved my way through traffic to he station. I made it, and poured myself into a seat, looking more like a half-drunk bag of goon than a man. I was on my way home… and then it all went wrong.

We stopped at Strathfield, and I caught a glimpse of the Whelans Hotel, an establishment I’ve frequented on occasions. I was thirsty, so I stumbled off the train and over to the pub – which had, much to my surprise, closed several hours earlier. I rolled back to the station, where I was amazed that the train hadn’t waited for me, and then spent the next 15 minutes trying (and failing) to read the timetable. For some reason it looked like the next train wasn’t for almost four hours… the reason being that it wouldn’t be along for four hours.

There was a fat little man cleaning things up, so I teetered over to him and tried to talk, only to vomit on myself. The fat little man shrieked and locked himself in a small room, which looked comfortable to me. I bashed on the door, asking if he could let me in to have a sleep, and a few minutes later a couple of very large security guards sauntered over and grabbed me. Once they determined that I was just drunk and tired, and didn’t want to rape and eat the fat little man, they let me sleep it off on a bench.

The train finally rocked up, I hopped on, and promptly slept through Gosford and woke up at Narara, meaning I had to walk an hour home with spew on my shirt and an obvious wee-stain on my crotch. All up, the journey took me around eight hours.

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Here I am explaining… no, fuck it, I’m not explaining anything, I’m just talking shit

The next year, I was determined to be more sensible, but it didn’t work out that way. The party was at Fox Studios, in a big shed used for filming movies. There was a cowboy theme, and I spent most of the night getting drunk and asking clearly-disinterested women if they wanted to ride me.

Bauer Media half-arses most things, including pay and employee rights, but they’ve always done parties well. There were piles of food, top international DJs (or so they said – they could’ve put a retard from the local sheltered workshop up there and I wouldn’t have known any better) and even a mechanical bull.

My lack of success with the cowgirls gave me plenty of opportunities to sink beer, and before I knew it, I’d missed the last train home. It was two in the morning and I had to be back in the office at nine, so I did the only sensible thing I could think of – I slept in a park.

I found a green, leafy space in the eastern suburbs of Sydney, and saw that there were a number of filthy hobos sleeping around the place, which was good enough for me. I was wearing a poncho, which worked well as a blanked, and I settled in underneath a tree for a surprisingly good night’s sleep.

One of the hobos must’ve shat in my mouth while I was asleep, because when I woke up the next morning there was a foul taste in my mouth. Some local skinheads must’ve used my head for a footy, too, because it was throbbing as I stood up and tried to get my bearings. And then something wonderful happened! A kind-looking woman trotted over to me with a plate loaded with eggs, bacon and toast, along with a tall glass of some kind of juice.

“God bless you,” she said with a smile. “No-one should have to sleep outside over Christmas.” I took the food and ate it while telling her about my life on the street, then swaggered off to my high-paying inner-city job and counted down the hours til I could head back to my exclusive beachside apartment (alright, I might’ve exaggerated for the sake of the joke).

And if you think that’s bad, wait’ll you hear what happened the next year…

Lake St Clair Strikes Back

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I usually go camping alone, and end up with my pants off, dancing around a fire by myself. Occasionally I decide to be a bit more social and go camping people, which is exactly what I did this weekend, with a short jaunt to beautiful Lake St Clair. You might remember it from my near-death experience a few months ago.

In attendance were my brother ‘The Dagwood Daddy’ Ben, Wade, Mitchell, Dezza and Leon. Also in attendance was a heat wave that would melt the cock off a Greek statue, with temperatures hitting 43 before we even headed off. I haven’t been so warm since I decided to wear my doona to work.

Lake St Clair is home to some of the most magnificent scenery in Australia, with sheer, green mountains rising out of perfect blue waters. It’s remote and strange, quiet and perfect, and the camping ground is incredible. Not so incredible was the caretaker of the place, an obese slug with tattooed-on eyebrows and a serious problem with hording. She lives in a tiny caravan that smells of BO and dog shit, and I’m pretty sure if you looked closely you’d find bottles of urine stacked up in there.

The first night was just beautiful, as the sun slunk behind the horizon and the goon started flying. It’s an incredible part of the world, and it was lovely to watch the water turn orange and then purple and then black, as the day dribbled away. Music played and conversation flowed, and before I knew it, it was almost 5 in the morning, which was my signal to pass out under a tree with my trousers around my ankles. I guess it doesn’t matter who I go camping with or where I go, I always end up naked in public.

When I got up the next morning I was still drunk, so I did my best to polish off the rest of my cask before we all headed out in Wade’s boat. I’m not much of a fisherman (people who don’t eat land animals but eat fish annoy me, so I eat fish and not land animals, just to piss them off), so I went for a swim instead. The lake was dammed about 30 years ago, and the corpses of long-dead trees still poke out of the water, providing an eerie backdrop for a lovely splash. I even felt a slimy eel brush my leg, so now I know why none of my ex-girlfriends have enjoyed snuggling up with me in bed..

The weather turned and the wind picked up, so we beat a hasty retreat back to land, where I discovered my tent had collapsed like every boner in the room as soon as Penny Wong walks in. Actually, that’s putting it nicely, because the thing was fucked and there were poles pointing in every direction like a gang bang porno.

As I was trying to put the stupid thing back together, a fat, shirtless man wandered over to me with a confused look on his face. “Have you seen my wife?” he asked. “She was there when I left to go to the toilet, and now she’s gone. I think someone kidnapped her.”

He left before I could ask him what his wife looked like (if he was anything to go by, she probably hadn’t popped off to compete in the finals of the Miss Universe competition) and I went back to fixing my tent. Twenty minutes later, he was back, with a big grin on his face.

“You must’ve found your wife,” I said with a smile.

“Nah,” he replied. “I just realised she didn’t come camping with me.” And then he swaggered off into the sunset.

The second night was somewhat more reserved than the first, owing to everyone having hangovers. But we still polished off plenty of booze while the storm kept storming and my tent did its best to fly into the sky like some sort of oversized butterfly. My brother pulled out a box of frozen Dagwood Dogs and attempted to cook them on the BBQ, before finally deciding to eat the half-frozen and half-burnt. Finally, unable to polish off the last two of his eight Daggies, he threw them away, only for a couple of lucky possums to race over and tuck in.

The next day’s weather was as angry as a hungry stepmother, so we packed up early and got the fuck out of there. As we were leaving, the shirtless bloke stopped our car. “Fellas, can I just check your boot to see if my wife’s in there? I haven’t seen here all morning.” We floored it and got out of there.

The weekend ended with a much-appreciated bout of paramagliding at the beautiful Catherine Hill Bay. The conditions were poor and the ride was short (but enough about my sex life!), but after my flying troubles it was just great to get out there and fly through the heavens for a minute or two.

Just to float above shrubs, and dance in the air, and be away from troubles for a time. It really is wonderful. There were times when I thought I might not fly again, to have this short flight meant so much. And I didn’t end up with a barbed wire fence up my blurter, which is always a good thing.

Wasted in the Watagans

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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…

Big Trouble in Little Tonga

My journey to the tropical island of Vava’u was supposed to be a quiet, relaxing end to my trip through Tonga – a few days on the beach, some beers, that sort of thing. Instead it became a nightmarish fight for survival that pushed me past my limits and almost cost me my life.

I’d flown out to the Pacific Islands two weeks earlier to escape another broken relationship and the depressing emptiness of my studio apartment. Hopping from Samoa to Fiji to Tonga, I’d slept on beaches, climbed trees and been attacked by wild dogs, but nothing could prepare me for what was to come.

I took a taxi through the blistering Nuku’alofa heat to a cottage made of sticks that the locals call the airport, and the heavy-set girl behind the counter gave me a smile and told me that I was too late for my flight. My watch didn’t agree with her – it said I was an hour early.

As I argued the point, her story kept changing. The flight was overbooked, I had the wrong day – I’m surprised they didn’t try blaming space aliens. My ranting and raving continued until, in the distance, I heard the whomping of a propeller starting up. My three days in Vava’u had become two.

Perfect ambiance, with just a hint of cockroach turds and urine

The same taxi I’d taken to the airport took me back through the handful of faded cottages that make up Nuku’alofa and dumped me in a scabby guest house with rat droppings decorating the floor. The smell of Dettol almost covered the stink of urine.

“Well, I’m going to get drunk,” I muttered, before storming out in a foul mood. I was hungry and thirsty and pissed off, and Nuku’alofa was as quiet as a tongueless monk in a library. Turns out it was a public holiday, and almost everything was closed.

Some of the friendlier locals

I finally tracked down a rickety wooden pub that might’ve been nice once and the first bottle of Popao barely touched the sides, so I knocked back another, determined to drink away my anger. Happy Hour rolled around, and the drinks went down quicker. Sleazy 80s disco songs blared from speakers as the sun went down and neon lights flickered to life around me. As seven o’clock crept up I was wobbling around like a jellyfish at a rave party, and started chatting to a huge Tongan bloke called Terry. He told me he was a high-ranking cop and into cage fighting, and looked like he could snap me in half. He seemed nice enough and we shared a few beers, until I noticed he was creeping closer and kept making comments about what a good-looking bloke I was and how the girls must love me. I don’t hear that a lot, so it made me uncomfortable.

Then Terry introduced me to his mates, a couple of freaky-looking transvestites who were giggling away in the corner. Terry put an arm the size of a tree trunk around my shoulder, crushing me like a boa constrictor, and when I tried to move away he just pulled me in closer. His body odour made my stomach churn and I was no longer simply uncomfortable, I was scared.

“You’ll come back with us tonight,” he said. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

The toilet provided brief sanctuary, but when I returned Terry had another beer for me. It tasted sour as I downed it, and the big man told me about his work with the police, especially how he can track anyone down – including me. Things were turning bad. I was in big trouble in a foreign country, and very much alone.

I’ve met a lot of freaks over the years, but this was the first time I’ve genuinely felt in real danger, and I had to do something about it. Something brave and masculine and – forget about that, I just ran away like a little girl. Terry was blocking the door, but when he turned to talk to one of his friends I raced past his hulking frame and into the muggy night, then down the street to another bar. I slugged down a beer to settle my nerves, then the door slammed open and Terry was standing there with bad intentions written all over his face. I dived behind a fake palm tree, pulling the fronds closer as the monster looked around, then let out a sigh of relief when he trudged back outside. As soon as he was gone I darted outside and ran in the opposite direction, ending up in a deserted Chinese restaurant, being blasted by the freezing breeze of the air conditioner.

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Post almost-raped blues

I’m not too proud to admit that I almost broke down when I made it to safety and the enormity of the situation hit me. As my sweet and sour pork was served I had to hold back tears as I did my best to slow down my racing heart. I distracted myself by eating and drinking and chatting up the pretty waitresses, and my memory from that point is a bit hazy. The girls led me to a rundown bar, where I got as drunk as a politician and danced like an octopus at a Wiggles concert. I must’ve had a good time, because I spent all my pa’anga.

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Doing Australia proud

The next thing someone was kicking me in the ribs and saying, “Get up, get up, why you on the floor?”

I wiped a rancid rivulet of regurgitated rice from my mouth and sat up. I was on the floor of my room and my answer, for some reason, was “I’m an Australian,” as if we all regularly sleep on piles of cockroach turds.

With my head pounding and my vision blurred, I somehow made it back out to the airport, where I was told once again that I wouldn’t be flying. With enough alcohol in my system to keep Matthew Newton going for a month, I wasn’t going to take that and caused a scene – which obviously worked because they eventually let me get on.

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Little did I know, my insurance was voided the moment I stepped onto this shitheap

The plane was tiny, old and held together by bits of tape, but I was so drunk that it didn’t bother me. My brain could barely register that I was off the ground and zooming over tiny tropical islands that looked like teardrops below me. Despite the rattling of the wings, I managed to pass out, and when I woke up we were landing on the delightful island of Vava’u.

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Tonga is stunning from the air… even with a hangover!

I was still blotto as I picked up my bag and stumbled into a banged-up taxi with a cute sheila from Norway. I did alright with her, too, despite looking and smelling like I’d just crawled out of a toilet. By that I mean she didn’t run off screaming.

The driver dropped her off in town (alright, Neiafu is more like a whisper of a village), but my place was a few kilometres out. And he’d never heard of it, which wasn’t a good sign in a place that has maybe a dozen guest houses. The driver dumped me in the middle of nowhere. It was scorchingly hot and I was dripping with sweat, and I staggered blindly down a dirt road through the jungle, with an old bloke who had a massive machete trundling behind me. Things were getting bad.

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I was pretty much ready to die at this point

After a few kilometres, the tracked ended. My phone had no reception, the locals didn’t speak English, and I was dangerously dehydrated. The steady hum of insects in the thick bush was maddening. I had no option but to walk back along the track, through the sweltering bush, with my heavy pack on my back. Nightmare creatures lurked at the edge of my vision, and weird thoughts crawled through my brain. I felt as if my body was shutting down, but I had no option but to keep walking – if I stopped, I wouldn’t get back up, and there was nobody to help me out.

As I was stumbling along, I heard a rumble behind me. It was a truck, and I flagged it down and begged to get in the back. A smiling Tongan pulled me into the tray and I sat on a big pile of bananas, then guzzled greedily from a bottle of water, slowly feeling life return to my body.

Bangin’ round on a banana truck

My saviours dropped me off in downtown Neiafu, and I checked into the first place I saw – a rundown backpackers overlooking the water. Hungover, dehydrated, hot, tired, pissed off, stuffed around and shaking, I collapsed onto a thin mattress and contemplated crying myself to sleep. It had all been too much.

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Stunning Neiafu

When I awoke, the sun was threatening to call it a day, so I grabbed my towel and headed out amongst the palm trees, not really sure of what I’d find. It took me a minute of two to reach the outskirts of Neiafu, which is a beautiful and peaceful village that clings to the cliffs above a sparkling harbour. I found an abandoned resort, climbed a fence into it, and found myself on the edge of the water. I lay out my towel and relaxed, enjoying the sunshine and happy to be alive.

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Sometimes I’m happy just to be alive

I like living on the edge, but this was stupid. In 24 hours I’d gone close to being raped, almost drunk myself to death, and come far too close to dying by the side of a lonely road in the middle of a remote island. So much for a few days bludging by the water.

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Going, Goa, Gone

I’m sitting here on the sand, watching the waves roll in under the moonlight, sipping on my last beer before heading back to Australia tomorrow morning. I’ve spent six weeks in Indonesia, Myanmar and India, six weeks that have felt like a lifetime and as if they would never end, but which are now just hours from burning out.

I’ve become a fixture here at Patnam. There’s an icy cold longie of Kingfisher ready for me when I get to the Om Shanti bar at five, they bring me my menu on my third beer, and they get the prawns and cheese naan ready ready. It’s such a relaxing place, and I will miss it. In a couple of weeks the monsoons will start tearing in and this whole area will be deserted, so it’s probably time I get out of here, though.

I've been to shittier places... like Huddersfield
I’ve been to shittier places… like Huddersfield

I spent my last full night in India at what is quite possibly the world’s worst nightclub, which was an interesting experience. For starters, there were only two girls there and 50 or 60 horny, salivating Indians gyrating around them. When Indian fellas dance in clubs, they don’t just shuffle around like Aussie dudes do, they go full-on Bollywood, miming to the songs, waving their arms around and shaking their arses.

There was a fat man with his top off, and homeless who was mine-sweeping beers when he wasn’t breaking hearts on the floor. He looked like he’d just fallen out of the wrong end of a dog and smelled even worse. I called him Nigel, for reasons any Kevin Bloody Wilson fan will understand.

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Nigeeeeeeeeeeel…. fuckin’ legend!

A fight broke out between two drunk dudes who both wanted to dance with a girl who obviously didn’t want to dance with either of them, and there was a white chick who was getting onto as many Indian perverts as she could, and then took three of them back to her room. Bloody hell, and I complain that my arsehole is burning after having Indian…

Fat Dude shakes his bootie next to the slut and one of her many Hindu hunks
Fat Dude shakes his bootie next to the slut and one of her many Hindu hunks

I’ve seen the beauty of Bali, the frightening ruggedness of Lombok, and the banality of Jakarta. I’ve been surprised by Yangon and amazed by the temples of Bagan. In India I’ve been overcome by the intensity of Delhi, disgusted by the soul-crushing horribleness of Jaipur, and rejuvinated by the calm beaches of Goa. But it’s time to go home, and you know what? That’s fine.

In the past, my trips overseas have been an escape from normal life, and returning from holidays sucked because I didn’t feel there was much to go back to. But not this time, because now the adventure continues at home. I’m going back because I want to, not because I have to. I have a fucking paraglider waiting for me in my bedroom back home, come on!

To travel is to give a part of yourself to the country you are visiting, and to take a part of it with you, and that’s why it changes us. Most of what I gave India was made in regular deposits into the toilet, but the point stands. This journey and the struggles have changed me in ways I don’t yet understand, but I look forward to using the wisdom I have gained by getting through this as I stumble drunkenly through life.

It’s been a tough trip in some ways. Not just because of the frustration of organising anything in Asia, but because of the lack of opportunities I’ve had to meet people over the last few weeks. There were very few tourists in India, probably because of how dangerous it is becoming to travel there, and Goa was nearly empty because it was the end of the season. It’s tough being alone and cut off, but I’ve still met lots of interesting characters and more than a few decorative women, so the good outweighs the bad. It was definitely better than the time I got my cock caught in a mouse trap.

You can't go wrong with Kingies on the beach
You can’t go wrong with Kingies on the beach

I truly thank everyone who has followed my adventures through Asia, and hope you will join me for more drunken, unemployed adventures through Australia, and wherever the fuck I go next. Maybe this blog will turn into photos of me eating meat pies in my undies and watching back-to-back episodes of Bob’s Burgers, but I guess there’s a market for that, too.

A special thanks also has to go to my thongs, which have carried me through hundreds of kilometres of cow shit and other crap. I had an expensive pair of Denali sandals that packed it in after a week or so, and my $5 Coles thongs picked up the slack. They’ve been with me for longer than most girlfriends.

Shit, an attractive blonde just sat down at the next table. Oh well, I guess I’ve got time for one more beer…

See ya in Australia, fuckers
See ya in Australia, fuckers

Note: This article was published two days after being written, due to technical difficulties, aka both my phone and my computer totally shat themselves. Right now I’m actually at home, drinking wine and wondering when someone’s gunna bring me a seafood curry.

It’s pants-on-head time again!

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I woke up under a tree in the dirt, surrounded by Germans eating their breakfast. I had one thong on, my phone was thrown carelessly in the grass a few metres away, and my hair was full of sand. I had no idea how I got there, or why I’d decided to sleep on the ground about 40 metres from my bungalow. All I knew was that I got really, really pissed the night before.

Oh, and I tried to pick up another lesbian. Seriously, what’s the go there? I reckon I’d have no problem turning a girl from straight to lesbo, but what chick in her right mind is going to give up a steady diet of fish tacos for my beef burrito?

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There we go. That’s my tree.

Back on topic, Gili Air is fantastic, even if I did spend the majority of my time there nursing a hangover that could kill a small army. The island is certainly more developed than Meno – instead of quiet dirt tracks through the bush, the circumference is dotted with restaurants and bungalows, but they are beautiful just the same. In parts, the intricate bamboo cottages set amongst the trees look like something out of a fantasy movie. Just taking a stroll around the island is to escape to another world.

Air is lacking the overdevelopment and drunken Aussie culture (ahem) that has ruined Kuta, and is a great place to just sit on your arse and… well, do fuck all else.

In saying that, it’s a bit of a one trick pony, and a couple of nights is all one needs here. Sure, there are good restaurants and bars, but that’s all there really is to it. Once you’re done with that, you’ve seen all this place has to offer.

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It’s also not a ‘real’ place. As incredible as Gili Air is, it’s a tourist attraction. Staying there isn’t about becoming immersed in a different culture, it’s about being in a lovely place. That’s fine, but I find myself wanting more – to see culture and history. In that way, Air works better as a halfway-point between more authentic destinations.

There was also an annoying rooster out the back of my joint. I don’t know what the deal with chooks is here, but they don’t crow like the ones back home – every time they make a noise, it sounds like a pensioner with haemorrhoids trying to squeeze out a turd. It’s painful and annoying, and I had a grin on my face every time I bit into a chicken dinner, knowing I was eating a family member of that motherfucker.

I can also sympathise with my ex-girlfriends, who also suffered from a lack of sleep due to an annoying cock.

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You’ve come a long way, baby

December 3, 2014 was the greatest day of my life. No, I didn’t get a blowjob, and I didn’t find out that Josh Thomas had been run over by a cement truck. That morning I found out that my workplace wanted to pay me a large chunk of money to fuck off and never come back. It was like winning the lottery, except I didn’t have a sexy TV presenter fondling my balls beforehand.

My job was not one likely to fill a person with a sense of grand achievement. I worked for a porn mag (or gentleman’s wristing pamphlet, as it was sometimes known), and spent five days a week calling up strippers and asking whether they took it up the bunghole and if they’d ever rooted a dog (in eight years, only one admitted to getting kinky with a canine). And, of course, there was the odd time when I had to dress up like this:

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I also ran the risk of being physically assaulted by any stray porn stars who wandered into the office. I spent three weeks in hospital after Jesse Jane hit me with a baseball bat, and another six weeks with the clap:

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It’s the sort of job that earned me high-fives when I was 23, and pitying looks when I was 31. I would’ve done better telling women I cleaned toilets for a living or worked for the Australian Labor Party.
The company I worked for were a pack of Nazis. And when I say Nazis, I don’t mean they treated me like shit, as in, “My boss told me to put pants on today – he’s such a fucking Nazi!” I mean that Bauer Media published magazines like this:

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But spending five years at university so that I could write 100-word stories on prostitutes and Chinese cows with slightly more legs than they should have, and having to cut back on anything that could be considered funny or intelligent (and any word that had more than two syllables) was a bucket of shit. So when I was called into the office on that warm December morning and handed a piece of paper with a dollar figure on it, I was so happy a bit of wee came out. Sure, now that I’m short of a job I might have to suck a few cocks to pay the bills in the future, but at least I’ll be sucking cocks to the beat of my own drum.

And so, there I was, single and unemployed. I didn’t know what to do with myself the first morning after being handed my redundancy. Usually the first couple of hours of the day were occupied with fighting back the urge to blow my fucking brains out, so I had to find other stuff to get up to. Stuff like drinking on public transport, playing video games while wearing a wrestling mask, and masturbating while dressed as a Mexican.

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Oh, and I also learnt how to paraglide. The week and a half I spent running off the cliffs of Laurieton, NSW, remains one of the best times of my life, and I somehow managed to avoid splatting myself against the side of a mountain or spontaneously falling to the ground from 1000m. I’ve already bought myself a glider (correction: Bauer bought me a glider. Thanks, guys! I’ll try not to piss on youse next time I fly over) and look forward to spend my days not-so-gracefully floating through the air.

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But once that was out of the way, I decided to get out of the country for a while. Y’know, sit on beaches, soak in different cultures, and work out what the hell I’m going to do with the rest of my life. I just wanted to get away from Australia and Australians and go somewhere exotic and different and off the tourist trail. So, naturally, I bought a ticket to Bali. Alright, come on, hear me out, I’m also going to Myanmar, Bangladesh, India, Nepal, Sri Lanka and Mt Druitt. Alright, maybe not the last one – I’m not that fucking brave.

On past trips I’ve been attacked by a rabies-infected gibbon in Cambodia, chased by farmers in the middle of the night in the south of France and gone close to being raped by a 140kg Tongan in a Nuku’alofa pub, so unless I’ve grown up and become responsible, there’ll be more of that. And seeing as I’ve spent the last week building a fort in my living room, there’s little chance of that.

So sit back, loosen your pants, crack open a beer and join me on the ride that is the Drunk and Jobless World Tour – proudly funded by Bauer Media! I’ve just landed in Denpasar. It’s hot and I’m thirsty – let the adventure begin!