Tag Archives: Gosford

Yackandandah Smackdown

You know you’ve had a good time when you wake up in a shopping trolley with an empty VB carton on your head and dried vomit on your shirt. It was Boxing Day, I was in the main street of Gosford with no idea how I got there, and from the looks on the faces of people passing me that bright Summer morning, I was a fucking mess – just the way I like it. I was trying to focus my bleary eyes on a young mother with big tits, when a very unusual man began strutting towards me. He had tight leather pants, a really cool jacket, and spiky hair. Bloody hell, it was my old mate Scotty!

They found me in the specials aisle at Aldi, between a three-pack of toilet seats and some weird Malaysian chocolates
This is also Scotty’s Tinder profile pic

“Hey arsehole, you look worse than sex slave I accidentally leave in car boot for one month,” Scotty sneared, before putting out his cigarette on an old lady’s arm.

“Bloody hell, Scotty, I thought you were in jail for drug dealing or murder or…”

“All of above. And kidnapping turtle.” Scotty plucked the hat off a passing child, spat a wad of bright green phlegm into it, and popped it back on the kiddy’s head. “No prison can contain me. I kill warden, steal he clothes, walk straight out front door. Then I go to warden’s house, fuck he wife, eat he dinner, take he son to football game. Turn out, I make great father.”

“Good to hear things are going alright for you Scotty, but I need to…”

“It lucky I see you, motherfucker,” Scotty interjected whilst scratching his balls. “You come with me to Victoria, I have job for you.”

“Mate, I’m kinda busy here with…”

“I no ask, I tell,” he snarled, waving around prison shiv. “Now get in car you fucking dickhead.”

With that, Scotty pushed me, my trolley and my empty box of Sovereign Point into his rape wagon, slammed the door, and the next thing I knew we were heading down the dusty Hume.

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Yackandandah: nicer than Wyong

I wanted to stop at the Big Merino and the Dog on the Tucker Box, but Scotty refused because he’s no longer legally allowed to visit any of Australia’s famous roadside attractions. I dunno, something about sucking off the Big Prawn or something. Anyway, due to the bushfires we had a slow journey the ugly and dying outback, and ended up pulling into the rural village of Yackandandah for the night. It’s a delightful spot, and an oasis of green in sizzling country being destroyed by drought. The Yackandandah Holiday Park is quiet, leafy, and ringed by a gorgeous little creek. More importantly, it’s close to a really good pub, where me and my mischievous Mandarin-mouthing mate proceeded to get hammered beyond belief.

Not a bad spot to pitch a tent
Not a bad place to smash beers till you shit your pants

I was minding my own business over an icy cold schooner of Carlton Draught and Scotty was knocking back Cocksucking Cowboys, when a big bloke with no neck and a face uglier and hairier than Magda Szubanski’s sauntered over.

“Are you two a couple of pooftahs or something?” he sneered, whilst rubbing his nipples through his Geelong Cats singlet. “Yeah, you look like a couple of real pooftahs! I bet you like kissing each other right on the mouth. You bloody pooftahs! Both lookin’ at me like you wanna eat me for dessert. Probably wanna take turns sucking my dick. You’d be good at it, too. Couple of bloody pooftahs. I should let you both suck me off, just to prove what a couple of bloody pooftahs you are. Then I’ll fuckin’ smash youse both. Bloody pooftahs.”

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He’s probably a nice bloke when he’s not trying to kill people

The giant inbred barely had time to pull down his fly before Scotty lept up and smashed a schooner glass in his neck, sending a torrent of blood flying into the crisp night air. The hillbilly clutched at his neck, barely understanding what was going on, then screamed with what was left of his vocal chords. Scotty, covered from head to toe in blood, smiled maniacally, then knocked the deviant arse-first into a pot plant with a right fist.

“Don’t you know I no make sucky with white guy?” he smirked, then did a small celebratory dance. I slapped him a high five, then a shadow fell over us. I looked towards the door to see six of the toughest, roughest dickheads standing there, looking like we’d just walked dogshit through their living room. They peered from their mate’s crumpled body to me and Scotty. I grabbed my glass as a weapon, but mainly just prepared myself to have my nuts kicked off, as the thugs moved in. Scotty took a pair of nunchucks out of leather pants and waved them around out of desperation. We were fucked.

I closed my eyes tightly and waited for the pain, but it didn’t come. I peeked through my fingers to see something very strange indeed – the gang was parting like the Red Sea. Then, from the shadows, stepped a dashingly handsome man. Fuck me dead if it wasn’t Round-Eye Scotty, back from the dead!

Never ask Scotty to give you head
You don’t wanna know what Round-Eye did to the other six dwarfs

I thought you got raped to death in prison,” I stammered, and Round-Eye just giggled.

“Rumours of my prison rape-inflicted death have been greatly exaggerated,” he purred, and the gaggle of tough guys laughed enthusiastically. Round-Eye quietly told the boys to go inside, and they followed his instructions without hesitation. “Far from dying of massive rectal hemorrhaging, I prospered in prison. Became a king to these men… and to the Asian thug you are travelling with.”

Suddenly, the night was eerily silent. In the distance a kookaburra cackled, then was cut short. Asian Scotty stared at Round-Eye Scotty. Round-Eye Scotty stared at Asian Scotty. It was like watching a couple of pitbulls sizing each other up. Then, Asian Scotty fell to his knees, took his round-eyed rival’s hand, and kissed it.

“My king,” he gasped. “I sorry, I no know he with you. Please, I cut my balls off to show how sorry I am.”

“There’s no need for that,” sniffed Round-Eye. “I merely need you to take me to the Mornington Peninsula.”

“We make kill some dickhead? Maybe is for major drug run? Sex slavery?”

“No, something much wilder than that,” responded Round-Eye. “We shall go paragliding.”

And I’m not sure what happened after that because I found half a bottle of metho and got fuckin’ hammered. The local cops must used to that sort of thing, ‘cos there wasn’t an investigation or anything. Just other night in rural Victoria, I guess. But come back for the next blog post, when we finally get to the Mornington Peninsula, because it’ll be even wilder than this one. Which is saying something, ‘cos this one had a fuckin’ beheading in it!

Closer to the Sun

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Paragliding is cooler than a dog on a skateboard, and I’ve been doing a lot of it lately. Most of my airtime has been spent at Crackneck, on the glorious Central Coast of New South Wales. It’s been more fun than a threesome with Siamese twins.

I took this video on the last day of daylight savings, as the sun died on a memorable summer. I couldn’t hope to capture the fucking awesomeness of flying above Crackneck, but I hope this gives you some idea of the beauty of paragliding. Peace and fucking, homies.

Girra-kool? No, Girra-wet!

The last time I tried to go on an overnight hike above the tiny riverside village of Wondabyne, I was somewhat less than successful. Alright, that’s an understatement – I had to call my mum to come and get me because I was at risk of being flooded out. So when I set out once again under grey, stormy skies, I was probably tempting fate.

The plan this time was to walk from Girrakool to Woy Woy, spending the night at the top of Mount Wondabyne. Yeah, that was the plan. Things started to skid towards the ditch when I was forced to spend an unexpected two hours bashing through the bush behind Kariong in a desperate attempt to find the track I was supposed to be journeying on. The trees were thicker than a diesel dyke’s pubes, and by the time I finally made it through, I was way behind schedule.

The walk across the ridges of Brisbane Waters National Park is spactacular, and bloody hard going. There are steep climbs, river crossings, and heaps of brilliant lookouts to stop at. I was starting to think that things were looking up, and that this would be a trip to remember for all the right reasons.

That’s when the storm rolled in. Thunder had been hanging around since I left home, but I thought it full of shit and didn’t bother about it. As I was passing Scopas Peak, the sky split open in front of me. I was blinded by the light from the lightning and deafened by the sound of it, and I could hear the world crackling around me. As the stench of sulfur overwhelmed me, the rain rolled in – big, fat drops that drenched me. It wasn’t just uncomfortable, it was bloody dangerous. It’s certainly the closest I’ve gone to being fried like a fat girl’s dinner.

I scarpered off the track and crawled into a cave, thanful for the scrap of shelter that the sandstone provided. I huddled in there, wet and cold, for an hour. The storm raged around me and then wandered off to bother someone else. When I was sure it was gone, I timidly climbed back out into the darkness.

With five tough kilometres of walking between me and my rest stop, I realised that I’d never make it in such  tough conditions. So, I did what any big, tough bushman would – I took a side track down to Wondabyne Station, jumped on a train, and was at home with a German stein of wine in my hand 45 minutes later! Instead of struggling through the bush and spending the night in a wet tent, I watched the acclaimed Sean Astin sports drama Rudy. It was shithouse.

A Night(mare) in Ourimbah

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I haven’t had much of a chance to update Drunk and Jobless lately, for a very good and extremely sad reason. My life has recently been hit by tragedy and disappointment, after learning news that will adversely affect everything about me in the future. My hopes and dreams have been shattered, and my goals will forever go unfulfilled, as I recently received the shocking news that I’ve been refused a spot in the Aldi Testers Club.

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Fuck you too, Aldi

Obviously distraught following this callous twist of events, I packed a bag and headed into the wild, wanting nothing more to do with this open wound of a society. Unsure of where to begin my new life, far away from the heartless guffaws of Aldi employees, I remembered a conversation I’d had with Scott, one of the local paragliding bad boys.

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Scott: rebel with a heart of gold

“Whenever the pigs are after me, I hide out in Ourimbah State Forest,” I recalled Scott telling me, while listing a stolen car radio on Gumtree. “Very beautiful, very remote, nobody find you there. If you need to bury body, you can do that, too. If you find my old business partner One Eyed Sanchez up there, you say hello to him for me – he can probably be found in shallow grave, tee hee!”

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A fish lives in this water

As Scott is currently serving a six-year sentence in jail for participating in the white slavery trade, I was forced to find the track myself, which proved to be quite simple. It’s at the end of Ourimbah Creek Road, and after parking my car I walked through a lovely valley full of very large dogs. Fortunately, they weren’t aggressive, and allowed me to wander into the dense jungle.

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Woof!

The walk from Ourimbah Creek Road up to the old archery fields at the top of the hill is pleasant if not spectacular. Over the course of 10 kilometres I crossed a few streams, climbed some pretty steep hills, picked up heaps of leaches, and finally made it up to the camp grounds just as the sun was setting and the mozzies were getting mad. There’s not much left of the archery range – the targets are gone, as are the sheds and tables once used by the club – but it’s a nice place to spend a night.

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My luxurious accommodation for the evening

I enjoyed a delicious hamburger for dinner and watched the footy on my stream, so while it feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere, it isn’t really. I even managed to match with a couple of good sorts on Tinder, and they were really impressed by my adventurous nature and cheeky smile. I hope to disappoint them in the near future.

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Hey ladies, if you want a mouthful of meat…

The trip home took me along the same road, but this time things were very different. I was nearing the end of the track when I saw something white lurking behind a bush about 100m in front of me. I stopped and realised it was a dude in a white shirt, who popped out as soon as he realised he’d been spotted. He looked around in embarrassment, then sauntered up to me with his hands in his heavily-stained shorts. When he got close he tried to strike up a conversation, but I brushed him and kept walking – I’ve already got enough perverted mates, so I don’t need another one. The man in the white shirt appeared crushed.

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Can you spot the pervert in this photo?

I assumed that was the last I’d see of him, but every time I looked back along the track I could see him hiding behind a tree and weeping. It was a pathetic sight, and I was happy to get back onto the road where there was less chance of him raping me. As I powerwalked back to my car, a filthy white van crept past me, and behind the wheel was the sicko in the white shirt. He stopped next to me and wound down the window, revealing a puffy red face streaked with tears.
“We could’ve been perfect,” he whispered, then drove off into the sunset.

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The incredible Egyptian hieroglyphs of Gosford

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I’ve always wanted to visit Egypt and see those big pointy pyramid things they have, but the locals have gone a bit mad and started killing each other, so I’ve reluctantly crossed it off my list of possible holiday destinations. Imagine my joy, then, when I found out that I don’t need to fly across the globe to get my fill of Egyptian history and culture – because there are a bunch of ONE HUNDRED PERCENT GENUINE Egyptian carvings only a few kilometres from my house. Yippee!

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Life ain’t easy for a dog faced boy

The Egyptian hieroglyphs were discovered in the 1980s in a secluded section of Brisbane Water National Park, near Kariong on the New South Wales Central Coast. For decades, experts have been unable to explain how they got there – some say that a group of Egyptians settled in the area thousands of years ago and left their mark on the mossy side of a massive rock, while others reckon some drunken dickheads did it for a joke.

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High fuckin’ art right here

The carvings aren’t that hard to find, and this site does a pretty good job of pointing out how to get to them (as well as providing a bit of backstory that I can’t even be bothered cutting and pasting). After bush bashing for a while and then crawling under and over a bunch of boulders, I found myself in a hidden alleyway decorated with dozens of symbols. Dog-headed dudes, eyeballs, suns, waves and other fun stuff spread out before me. It really is a weird thing to see in the Aussie bush, and I half expected a reincarnated mummy to come out from behind a tree and try to eat me.

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Historian/hunk

Honestly, they look like they were cut into the rock by some bludger on his second bottle of metho, because the 80 or so symbols are mainly stick figures and other crude doodles, but then again I highly doubt the Egyptians of thousands of years ago were the most advanced artists of all time. So I’m going to say that they definitely are ridgy didge and really are thousands of years old – and the so-called experts can go fuck themselves as far as I’m concerned.

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Suuuuuuuurfin’ biiiiiiiiiiird!

There’s not much else to see out there, so I soon headed home to ponder my bizarre experience. Feeling high on history and culture, I had a pizza and a couple of dim sims for dinner, so you can cross Italy and China off the list of countries I need to visit, too.

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If you see these rocks, you’re heading in the right direction – the glyphs are right behind ’em
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Ancient Egyptian instructions for packing a bong
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He’s having a wank!
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More symbols than a marching band
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That is definitely a penis

Bush bashing

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The Central Coast has so many brilliant places to go hiking, and I’m doing my best to strut down every bushwalking track in the area! Today I headed out to Strickland State Forest, near Narara, and hiked to an abandoned arboretum (for those who don’t have their dictionary in their hand, it’s basically a botanical garden with all sorts of trees planted for scientific study. Bring that word up in conversation with the next pretty lady you talk to!).

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The tracks are easy to get to, relaxing to walk along, and provide an absolutely wonderful experience in pristine nature. The valley is full of ancient gum trees that tower above the forest floor, with some being 60 or 70 metres tall. Entire ecosystems exist among the branches of these proud giants, as birds flutter through the leaves and massive vines hang from the canopy.

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The arboretum itself is also pretty cool, with all sorts of pines and ferns and other plants that you wouldn’t expect to see in the Aussie the bush. The first trees were planted there around 120 years ago and some of them are enormous now. It’s a peaceful place where the only sounds are the gentle wind in the trees and the sweet songs of the birds. There truly is nothing like the Australian bush.

And I managed to keep my trousers on the whole time, so maybe I’m finally growing up.

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A journey of a thousand beers starts with a single can…

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The adventure is finally underway and I’m happy to say that I haven’t been bashed, stabbed, shot at or blown up yet. Of course, that’s not saying much seeing as so far I’ve travelled only 50km from Gosford to Sydney Airport, but it’s a start.

The trip down was very exotic – I sat between an Asian bloke who dropped his noodles in his lap and then slurped them up anyway, and a homeless bloke who was doing his best to slurp his noodle, but was unsuccessful. I’m gonna miss this place!

Security at Sydney Airport has been ramped up, with all sorts of X-ray machines that look like something out of Total Recall but don’t, sadly, allow one to see through the clothes of pretty girls (trust me, I checked it out). Despite the increase in security, and no matter how shady I acted, I didn’t manage to convince the big, fat, hairy dude really sexy and pretty security sheila to give me an internal examination. Oh well, there’s always hope when I get to the other side of the world.

Speaking of which, by the next time you hear from me, I will have travelled slightly further – another 15,000km, all the way to the ancient city of Riga, Latvia. That’s where the Drunk and Jobless 2016 World Tour of Europe: The Search for Beers, Kebabs and the Greatest Love the World has Ever Known will truly kick off. As the title suggests, I’ll bee stumbling through Europe with a can in one hand, a salmonella-encrusted wrap in the other, checking out thousands of years of history, while keeping an eye out for the girl who will become the love of my life.

It will take me from Lativia, to Estonia, Lithuania, Poland, Slovakia, Hungary, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia… I’m struggling to remember them all here, but I know I’ll be finishing up with an epic week of so on the Greek Islands. It’s going to be like Acropolis Now, only with less Effy and more effing (I hope).

I’ll be reporting every day on the weird shit that’s happened to me, the freaks I’ve met, the wonderful things I’ve seen and other crap that will hopefully make you laugh. There’ll be photos (some where I’ll even be wearing pants!) and the best writing you’ve ever se read (that’s probably a lie). I’m gone for more than two months, so stick around because I might get lonely…

Awesome, they’ve just called my flight – one can of your shittest beer, please, Qantas!

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Dam!

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When I was a young bloke growing up on the Central Coast of New South Wales, I was spoilt for choice when it came to awesome places to explore. Me and my mates spent every weekend checking out caves and climbing trees, following creeks and scrambling up mountains. At some point women and booze got in the way, but for a few years there every Saturday and Sunday were full of wonder.

Me and my mates would throw whatever we could into our backpacks and just walk out into the scrub, with no mobile phones or any of that crap. It seems amazing that my mother was fine with with the 15-year-old version of me swaggering out into the bush, but almost lays an egg if the 32-year-old version goes away and doesn’t get in contact with her every 24 hours.

We only camped at Narara’s Old Railway Dams once, but it’s an experience that has always stood out when I look back upon my teenage years. Brett, Charlie and me hiked into abandoned dams and pitched our tents by the water, spending the afternoon jumping into the dam’s sparkling water and spending a great night under the stars. In the morning, we woke up with drug addicts throwing rocks at us from the hills above.

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I copped one in the head, but it didn’t knock me down. The others were hit, too, as we frantically packed up our tents while dodging the missiles. When we had all our stuff in our bags, we disappeared into the bushes while the druggos hurled insults and projectiles. They thought we were gone. They were wrong.

We circled around them, our fashionable-at-the-time (no they weren’t) camo clothes making sure were weren’t seen. After half an hour we were behind where they were sitting, smoking bongs and wanking each other off (that might be an exaggeration, but it’s my story). And that’s when the counter-attack begun.

We hurls rocks at them from the bushes, cleaning the bastards up as they desperately tried to grab their bongs and get out of there. I’m as good at throwing rocks as Rosie O’Donnell is at giving men stiffies, but I sconed one dickhead between the eyes, knocking him backwards. Yes, the olden days were good, back when an enjoyable afternoon included maiming drug abusers.

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Today, I went back there for the first time in nearly two decades. Like me, the dams have changed. I picked up my brother Bubblin’ Beno and we headed out to revisit history. The original dam was built way back in 1901 to supply water to Gosford Railway Station, with a second dam constructed in 1925 to provide additional storage. After the train line was electrified in 1960, the dams didn’t have a lot of use, except as waterholes for hot and sweaty Gosfordians who were too poor to afford backyard pools.

When I visited as a kid, the dams were easy to find, but they’ve since fallen into disrepair. There’s a track off Reeves Rd, Somersby, that leads to them – just follow the pink ribbons that some kind soul has tied to the trees on the way, and try not to fall down any cliffs. Me and Ben struggled along the overgrown track for 10 minutes or so, before stumbling upon the upper dam. There are still signs of life – rope swings and ladders nailed to trees – but it’s obvious that not many people go there anymore.

After stopping to admire the impressive concrete dam wall (shit, I just read that sentence back to myself and I can’t believe I wrote it – I am getting old) we headed downstream to find the lower dam. Again, the track was as overgrown as a feminist’s armpits, but we managed to reach our destination. The lower dam was always the best for swimming back in the day, so it was sad to see that half of it was choking with some sort of reeds (no, not Lou) and the other side was basically cut off due to the impenetrable bush (no, not George W.). Still, I managed to strip off and have a dip in murky water that 50% mud, 40% tadpoles, and 10% H2O.

With Ben chomping at the bit for a Dagwood Dog and a good, long sit in his spa, we headed back to the car, leaving the abandoned railway dams to the insects and the frogs. Bloody hell, it’s a much nicer place to be when you don’t have scabby junkies trying to take your head off!

I explored an abandoned rollerskating rink – and you won’t believe what I found!

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As a kid, I spent a lot of happy days at Frogys, the roller-skating rink in the main street of Gosford, NSW. Every second kid had their birthday party there, and I loved rolling around to the high-octane beats of the Grease Megamix.

It was closed in the late 90s to make way for a major redevelopment, which never came, and so has sat abandoned for close to two decades. As the exterior of the place has deteriorated, I’ve often wondered what the inside looked like. Well, now I know.

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After drinking heavily for Australia, me, The Boiler, and Grandmaster D headed across town to a house party. As we were wandering down the main street of Gossie, I noticed that the front door of Froggys was wide open, so we all went inside to check it out.

What we found was incredible.

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Happy memories flooded back as I walked into a place I’d been so many times, but there’s noit a whole lot that’s recognisable. The roof has entirely rotted away, leaving the building open to the elements. Much of what used to be the skating rink is flooded. There’s graffiti everywhere, and a few mattresses where hobos have slept.

The last time I was in Frogys, I was a teenager and it was the site of an under-age dance party, complete with fat chicks dancing to Barbie Girl. The highlight was fingering some chick from Lisarow, and the lowlight came about three minutes later when her heavyset, cross-eyed brother threatened to punch the shit of me. Good times.

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There’s still talk of the site being redeveloped one day, but with the, uh, difficulties facing developers in Gosford, it’s more likely that it’ll still be rotting away in another 20 years.

And as for that girl I fingered, I’m still waiting for a call!

Barnstorming through Bouddi

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I’ve had as many long walks as Stephen Hawking lately, and I’ve been missing the hiking, so today I strapped on my walking boots and hiked from Killcare, NSW to Little Beach… erm, which is also in NSW. I didn’t walk interstate or anything, because I had to be back in time to watch the cricket.

It’s a delightful 15km round-trip through Bouddi National Park on the Central Coast, and is an enjoyable journey for anyone looking to see the sights and have the delights of this awesome part of the world. Just watch out for the long-haired weirdos who hang around there…

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Killcare Beach… right next to Kill Bill Beach

After traipsing north along the wide, open Killcare Beach, the path took me along some countryside as rugged as farmer’s wife pubic region. Steep cliffs dropped down to wild oceans as the path weedled its way along the coast.

There’s a lovely boardwalk that hangs out over the cliffs, making for both an easy and spectacular walk. A lot of effort has been put into this place, and I was oohing and ahhing like a woman on her wedding night as I made my way through heaven, under an endless blue sky.

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I missed out on seeing Tasmania’s tessellated pavement a few months ago (my brother was having Dagwood Dog withdrawals and was threatening to drive to the nearest fast food van without me), so I was astounded and delighted to see a similar set-up right here on the Central Coast. I’d like to have a similar design for my bathroom, but I don’t have 10,000 years to wait for it.

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It is, indeed, hip to be square

The second beach on my epic journey was Bullimah, which is a little bit small and a little bit rough, which is also an adequate way of describing a number of women I’ve been with over the years. The last time I was at this beach, I was on a nude photo shoot with an 18-year-old blonde girl. Things weren’t quite as exciting this time, because all I did was sit down and stuff my face with cheese and bacon balls – which, to be fair, is pretty much what the 18-year-old blonde girl did.

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More cheese on my face than a Bangkok hooker

The journey continued through thick bush and steep climbs, never venturing too far from the ocean and offering some astounding views out over Maitland Bay. It’s a well-made and preserved track that’s easy to walk and the equal of many more famous tracks around the world. It’s peaceful and challenging, wild and wonderful, and takes in some of the best views you’ll ever see.

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This is where dreams live

After sweating in the sun for an hour or so, I was happy to hit Maitland Bay, which is my favourite place on the planet and one of the most gorgeous beaches you could ever hope to visit. I’ll do a full entry (ooh!) on it at some point, covering the colourful history of this place, so for now I’ll just say I had a grouse time clowning around in the delightful water. In underpants, too, so have a good look, ladies!

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I’m too sexy for my board shorts, too sexy for my board shorts…

I would’ve liked to stay all day, but I had a legendary journey to finish, so I pushed on north towards Little Beach. This section of track is up and down like a wino’s moods, taking in the remote Caves Bay before cresting a steep hill on the way to Little Beach. It was bloody hot and I saw sweating like a vegetable in a wok (that’s my second disabled person joke for this blog!) as I swaggered along, but the remarkable visuals made it all worthwhile. Just as remarkable was the fact I kept my trousers on the whole time!

Sorry, Nobby.

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Little Beach…Possibly named after Kevin Rudd’s penis

Finally, with my legs weary and my supply of ice-cold beer a distant memory, I stumbled upon Little Beach. The moniker suits it, because it is quite little, so thumbs up to whoever spent all of 30 seconds naming it. There’s a really nice camp ground right next to the beach, but no big-titted bisexual Swedish girls invited me into their tents, so I took the track back to the main road.

The 7.5km back was a slog but, like returning to your work desk to find someone has left a fun-sized Mars bar there while you were having a wee, there was something brilliant to break up the monotony. Hi, God, it’s me, Row-Row. Thanks for the sunset!

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