Tag Archives: Queensland

Byron Bay Blues

Byron Bay was once the land of hippies and burnouts, but these days it’s better known for multi-million-dollar properties and overpriced drinks. Despite this drastic change it remains a beautiful place, and the gang and I thought it would be the perfect place to party after a week spent in sleepy ol’ Rainbow, where everything closes before 8pm. Little did I know that our detour into the popular beachside village would lead to rivers of blood and unspeakable violence. And some people reckon that flying is the most dangerous part of a paragliding trip!

Dunno who the prick in the middle is

It was getting late by the time we rocked up, so Hamster, Phil, Asian Scotty, Round-Eye Scotty and I raced up to the Beach Hotel to glug back some uber-expensive beers while checking out the totty on offer. If you’re not wearing a three-piece suit there you’re underdressed, so we wobbled up to the nearby Rails Hotel, which was overflowing with backpackers, tradies, surfers and other troublemakers. My memory gets a bit fuzzy at this point, because we were throwing down Coopers Red as if our guts were on fire, but I think we went to the Great Northern Hotel, and ended up at Woodies Surf Shack, which is located in the Woolies carpark. Top place, Byron – where else could you get a good deal on Tim Tams and a lapdance off a 21-year-old Canadian in the same place?

Can you spot Hamster chundering in the corner?

I was waiting for a big-titted French maiden to return from the bar with my pina colada when I heard a commotion outside and, fearing the worst, raced out to the carpark.
“What’s going on?” I asked Phil.

“It’s Scotty,” he gasped. “He’s punching on with the bouncers.”

“Big deal. He’s a career criminal and one of the most violent people I know. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t having a fight.”

“No, not the Asian Scotty – I mean Round-Eye Scotty. Y’know, the bloke who’s spent the whole trip reading books on Spanish history and learning the moves to the Macarena. Apparently they caught him pissing in the corner of the club and he flipped out when the bouncers told him to stop. He started slapping their faces, so now they’re kicking the crap out of him. I think I just saw one of his eyeballs pop out of kiss skull.”

“They might I have to call him One-Eye Scotty from now on,” I smirked, and someone slapped me a high five.

Round-Eye Scotty (left) gets knocked the fuck out by an enraged bouncer (right) as Hamster (centre) looks on in horror

The bouncers eventually scraped what was left of Round-Eye Scotty off the concrete and handed him over to the police, who didn’t know whether to arrest him or bury him. As the broken shell of a man was taken away in the cop car, we all joined together for a hearty rendition of, ‘You’re going home in the back of a divvy van’ and then returned to the bar for more beers.

I swear I took this photo, and didn’t just download it off the internets

I woke up behind an Otto bin a few hours later, and when I finally made it back to the hostel the others were ready to leave. Hamster sheepishly told me that he’d pissed his last pair of clean shorts and would have to go home, so he gave me a soppy hug and started walking back to Perth. That just left me, Phil and Asian Scotty to continue on to Laurieton, with dreams of epic paragliding spinning around in our minds. But on the way, there was something big that we just couldn’t miss…

Look at all that potassium!

That’s right, the most a-PEEL-ing roadside attraction in the world, and one that promises a whole BUNCH of fun, the Big Fuckin’ Banana! Built in 1964 and longer than Mandingo’s meat rocket, the Banana is undoubtedly the most famous Big Thing around. More than one million fascinated tourists gape in awe at it every year, and I’m happy to say that the freakish fruit is looking better than ever (unlike the poor bloody Big Cow). There are new attractions there, such as a water park and a giant slippery dip, making it the perfect place for a fun day out.

He was asking for it

Our afternoon was set to become decidedly un-PG, however. Phil, Scotty and I were enjoying banana smoothies and banana jam sandwiches when a group of attractive blonde backpackers walked over to stare in wonder at the banana. In turn, I stared in wonder at the blonde backpackers. Scotty, however, took things a step too far.
“Hey lady, if you want big banana, I have one in my pant,” he crooned, whilst thrusting his groin at them. “OK, it no so big, but it yellow and taste funny, so why you no give it a try?” We left before there were any further arrests.

Being able to see where you’re flying is for pooftahs

We finally made it to Laurieton at dusk, and raced off to Southeast Bonnie Hills to see if we could get a fly in. The sun was down and it was getting dark quick, but the wind was good, so we set off. After a week of frustration, it was incredible to get back up in the air. In fact, it was so good that, after landing in the pitch dark and drinking ourselves stupid, we got back into it the next day. Beautly, it was even better when I could see where I was going! SE Bonnies was the first site I ever flew back when I was on my course, and it was ace to get another crack at it now that I’m (slightly) more experienced.

Mr Handsome 😍

That night, we were enjoying some well-earned beers while watching the sunset, when we received the news that Round-Eye Scotty had been brutally raped in prison and had died of extensive rectal haemorhaging. Asian Scotty started pissing himself; “He no even the one who was pissing in nightclub!” he guffawed. “It was me, but I blame him so that bouncer bash him. My plan work so well, I so smart. Please hand me party pie.” But in more important news, I beat Phil in a game of Jenga! All in all, it was a fantastic week, and my condolences go out to Round-Eye Scotty’s family.

I had a WHALE of a time in Hervey Bay!

Our first day in Rainbow Beach provided paragliding perfection, but after that things went downhill fast. With a cyclone swirling off the coast, the winds picked up and the rain came through and our wings remained tucked away in their rucksacks. Instead of flying, our little group of pilots fell into a cesspool of heavy drinking, overeating and debauchery. Before long, cabin fever was setting in and things were looking pretty grim.

Hamster would disappear for hours at a time to drink a supply of paint he’d discovered under the house. Scott seemed to be running an illegal sweatshop out of his bedroom. Some Pommy bloke named Dave, who nobody seemed to know, had started sleeping in our kitchen. Round-Eye Scott, by contrast, spent most of his time locked away in the toilet, practising his lines for his upcoming role as Samuel in a production of The Pirates of Penzance at Laycock Street Theatre. I knew I had to get the gang out of the house before we all lost our minds, so I organised a nice, long walk along the beach.

Unfortunately, there’d been some sort of natural disaster down there and the sand was littered with dead marine animals. As soon as we got back to the house, Hamster headed for his paint supplies to drown his misery, so I bundled him and the rest of the nincompoops into the car and drove them out of there. I was racking my mind to think of somewhere to take them that would cheer them up, and then an idea struck me harder than an enraged stepmother. There was still a few Big Things to check out, so I started rolling out to find them.

Maryborough might be 2000km from the Victorian town of Glenrowan, but that didn’t stop them building an eight-metre-tall tribute to legendary bushranger Ned Kelly. I dunno, maybe he took a holiday up this way or something. Ned’s in good condition, even if he does look a bit gangly and had a bird’s nest between his legs. He’s also one of the most fearsome Big Things around, because he looks like he wants to blow your head off with his shotty and then steal your PlayStation. He kept Hamster amused for a few minutes, but the statue’s right next to a petrol bowser and The Ham was looking thirsty, so I chucked him back in the car and headed off again.

Hervey Bay’s a popular backpacker destination and I was expecting it to be a quaint seaside village, but it’s actually a sprawling city. I knew they’d knocked up a Big Whale in the last few years and figured it wouldn’t be hard to find – apart from the fact there are whale statues all over the place. Honestly, I haven’t seen that much blubber since I porked Rebel Wilson’s sister. We finally found the real deal, and it is fucking massive. The big bastard is definitely one of the most impressive Big Things I’ve seen, but Hamster wasn’t impressed.

“It’s not really a Big Thing, is it,” he said, whilst leaning against a lightpost in an attempt to look cool.
“What do you mean? It’s bloody huge!” I replied.
“Yeah, but Big Things are supposed to be a bit shit, aren’t they? Peeling paint, badly proportioned, and a bit stupid looking. I mean, that pelican looked bloody goofy, and the cow looked like it had been built by a team of one-armed mongs who had only vaguest idea what a cow actually is. But this thing is really well done. It’s artistic and beautiful and not at all cringeworthy. So as far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t fit the criteria for being a Big Thing. Get some bloke to concrete over it and paint it pink and then we’ll talk.” I guess he has a point.

There’s plenty to see and do in Hervey Bay, with most of it revolving around water-based activities such as kitesurfing or whale watching. Unfortunately the weather was a bit shithouse and the thought of popping into the ocean for a dip was as inviting as dropping the soap in front of Bob Brown. Instead, we took a long walk on an even longer jetty, which offers pleasant views back on Hervey Bay’s waterfront. It is a very lovely town and it’s easy to see why so many people stop off there (I was hoping to bump into some Norwegian backpackers with their tits out, but the conditions weren’t condusive to that).

Everyone was thirsty and keen to get on the piss again, but as we got ready to leave we realised that Phil was nowhere to be seen. Me and Hamster spent a good hour-and-a-half looking for him in the pub, but to no avail. We finally found Phil, who’s usually a very level-headed and rational bloke, having an animated conversation with a statue.
“You’re the only one who really understands me,” he told the statue, before nodding his head as he listened to the reply. “Yes, I think it is time for us to run away from these people before they start acting even weirder. What’s that? You should kill them? It’d be doing the world a favour but, to be honest, I can’t be bothered.”

I realised I had to get everyone out of Hervey Bay, out of the path of the cyclone, and back into the air before they went bananas and started eating each other. It was time for a hero to stand up and make the tough decisions. There was only one place we could go to save the holiday, and I decided we’d all head there in the morning – after another epic night on the piss, of course.

Somewhere Over The Rainbow

After being amazed by the Sunshine Coast’s plethora of giant roadside attractions, it was always going to be a big ask for Rainbow Beach to wow me. Really, what’s the point of looking for wonderment when you’ve already been spoiled by a pelican the size of a VW Beetle? Rainbow Beach was more than up to the task, however, by providing an astonishing paragliding experience that ranks right up there with the very best I’ve ever had.

I really like corn chips

Hamster was almost sober by the time I rolled him out of the car near launch, and before long we were standing atop the formidable sand dunes that rise high above the sparkling beach. A few locals were dancing through the skies and enjoying the five kilometres of flyable coastline, so Hamster and I slapped each other a high-five and started unpacking our gliders. That’s when I heard a familiar, if not entirely welcome, voice coming through the sand.

Here’s a potential Tinder profile pic

“Hello you guy, it me, Scott!” I looked back to see a heavily-tattooed Asian with a flowing black mullet stumbling down the sand dunes. I was shocked to see Scott because the last I’d heard, he was embroiled in the Hollywood sexual misconduct scandal and had gone underground. Hamster pulled out a knife but I told him to relax – Scott has killed men for looking at him the wrong the way, and if Hamster wound up dead I’d probably have to pay his share of the rental car.

Scott strikes his iconic pose

“This my friend, he also name Scott,” Scott said, gesturing towards a handsome, charismatic gentleman standing next to him. “But he no Asian, so we call he Round-Eye Scott. We meet in prison – he there to teach us about God, me there for attempted genocide. Now we best friend, whether he like it or not. I will kill Round-Eye Scott if he ever leave me.” Scott, Round-Eye Scott, Hamster, Mel and Phil ‘Don’t Call Me Dean’ Wheen and I unpacked our gliders, strapped them on, and headed out for a life-affirming airborne adventure.

Bye bye, sun

Rainbow Beach has a glowing reputation within the paragliding community, and there’s a reason that it’s a place of pilgrimage for many pilots. The tropical scenery is stunning, and the gently curving dunes allow for plenty of height and kilometres to explore. We launched late, as the sun was already sinking towards the horizon, but we made sure to get the most out of the unreal conditions. We flew until we couldn’t see anymore, before landing out the front of the surf club and ducking in for a few well-earned beers.

Our home away from home

And then we had some well-earned beers back at our beach bungalow we were staying at, and a few more at the local pub, before ending up in a backpackers’ hostel watching sunburnt Poms squabble about their rapidly diminishing supplies of goon. They’d purchased 13 five-litre casks for their impending three-day trip to Fraser Island and were getting stuck into their supplies early, which was causing all sorts of trouble. When a deadbeat northern lass with a face tattoo accidentally knocked over half a plastic cup of Berri’s finest, I thought World War III was about to start.

The Hamster in his natural environment: a state of drunkwn stupor

“Fuckin’ hell, if I wanted to listen to this shit I would’ve stayed at home in ‘uddersfield,” lamented Hamster, before skolling another beer and pissing himself. Scott let me know that he’d had enough by kicking a hole in the hostel’s wall and threatening to murder everybody, so I bundled the reprobates I call my mates out into the night and called the only person I could think of to pick us up – Round-Eye Scott, who doesn’t drink, smoke, take drugs or even listen to music with swear words in it. As I dragged a drunken Hamster and a psychotic Scott into the car and looked back at the hostel, which was being torn apart by the penny-pinching Poms, I couldn’t help but think how nice Round-Eye was by comparison. Unfortunately, I was about to find out that every rose has a thorn, and that Round-Eye Scott has a very dark secret.

Round-Eye Scott is sweeter than the ripest pineapple

Big in Queensland

After a month spent fending off sleet and snow in the depths of Siberia, I was paler than Beetlejuice’s arsehole and in desperate need of some Vitamin D, so I headed to the Sunshine Coast for a paragliding trip with my mates. As soon as I stepped off the plane at Maroochydore, I was met by glorious rays of sunshine that felt like a drug to me. I was also greeted to a scene that will remain with me until my final days; my mate Hamster was being pushed through the terminal in a wheelchair, with a can of beer in his hand and chunky vomit on his shirt. His pants were around his ankles and he had obviously soiled himself on the long flight from Perth to Queensland.

The airport staffer dumped him outside the front doors, and I somehow managed to drag Hamster to his feet. “Hey brother, how the fuck did I get here?” he asked in his distinctive northern English accent, before taking another slurp of his beer. “The last thing I remember, I was enjoying a few quiet drinkies while waiting for my flight. Mind you, I did get to the airport 15 hours early, so maybe it was more than a few. Come on, gimme a kiss and let’s go flying.”

Hamster was in no state to walk down the street, let alone pilot an aircraft (a point he emphasised by attempting to urinate on a street sign, only to collapse into his own bubbling pool of piss), so I loaded him into the hire car and tried to think of something to keep him occupied until he sobered up. Southeast Queensland is home to more Big Things (giant roadside attractions, like The Big Golden GuitarThe Big Axe and The Big Koala) than any other region on the planet, and I figured they’d amuse a simple mind like his for a few hours. “Hey Hamster,” I said, “how would you like to see the biggest pineapple around?” “How big is it?” “Big enough to live in!” “Sure matey, as long as I can get a beer, I couldn’t care if we went to Julia Gillard’s undie drawer. Lead the way!”

With Hamster singing 5,6,7,8 by Steps the whole way, we somehow survived the 20 minute drive out to The Big Pineapple at Nambour. Its 16 metres tall, so it’s a fair bit larger than any pineapples you’d find at Coles, and I was mightily impressed as we pulled into the carpark. As Hamster poured himself out of the car and crawled towards the fiberglass fruit, I had flashbacks to my visit to South Africa’s own Big Pineapple just a few months earlier.

I’m a proud Aussie and reckon we have the beautest roadside attractions on the planet, but I’ve gotta say that the Saffas have trumped us on this one. The Queensland version is a lot smaller than the one I visited in Bathurst, Eastern Cape – it’s shorter and thinner than the competition, like Kevin Rudd’s penis. The South African version has also never been used as a toilet by Hamster, so it’s got that going for it.

Hamster wasn’t close to sober yet, so I drove him up the road to The Big Cow. A major tourist attraction for decades, the behemoth bovine has been left abandoned for years, and these days is looking a bit sad. I guess you could say the rest of the world has moo-ved on, but you’d be milking it. The site the cow sits on has been converted into some sort of halfway house for druggos and drunks, who were loitering around, arguing with each other and exposing their privates. Hamster thought it looked like a great time, so I had to chuck him back in the car and get him out of there. Unfortunately, he managed to slam his penis in the car door, and rushed off to a bush to make sure it was alright.

I thought that would sober him up, but it didn’t, so I climbed behind the wheel again and drove us up to the quaint seaside village of Noosa. The town is renowned for its lovely restaurants and laid-back vibe, but I had my sites on something a bit grander – The Big Pelican! Known to locals as Percy, he was originally built as a parade float back in the 70s, and has lived a colourful life ever since. He’s lived in various locations, and even spent a spell at the bottom of the sea after falling off a pontoon. The locals still trot him out during street parades, and his wings and beak are able to flap – he’s quite a suave chap!

“I was hopin’ there’d be some good-lookin’ birds up here,” Hamster slurred, before sneaking up behind poor old Percy and trying to hump him from behind. I dragged him away before a group of angry fishermen could bash his brains in for molesting the treasured symbol of their district. I was running out of options to keep Hamster entertained, but there was still one very large, very famous attraction that we could visit.

Matilda the Kangaroo melted our hearts at the opening ceremony of the 1982 Commonwealth Games in Brisbane, when she was wheeled out in front of a capacity crowd and circled the stadium winking at awe-struck sports fans. But that was just the start of her love affair with the people of Queensland, because after the Games she found a permanent home at the Wet ‘n’ Wild water park, where she remained until behind pulled down in the early 2000s. The big, beautiful woman was forgotten about until 2009, when she was relocated to the Matilda service station at Kybong in 2009.

Standing 13-metres tall, Matilda is still an impressive sight, and is in remarkably good shape for such an old lass. Hamster, however, was not impressed. “That fuckin’ kangaroo’s lookin’ at me,” he bellowed, before walking up to Matilda’s mammoth left foot. “You want some, cunt? I’ll fuckin’ smash ya!” With that, Hamster started punching and kicking Tilly, who didn’t bat an eyelid (possibly because the mechanism in her head that causes her to wink has long since worn out). After 30 seconds, Hamster collapsed to the ground, his knuckles torn to the bone. He sobbed for a minute or two, obviously wondering where it all went wrong, then something came over him and he looked at me with remarkably clear eyes.

“Right, I think I’ve bled out all the alcohol,” he chirped, climbing to his feet. “Let’s go for a fly, or do you want to stand here all day, staring at this big idiot?” And that, my friends, is how Hamster and I made our way to the remote paragliding site of Rainbow Beach – and one of the best days of flying anybody could ever ask for.

Dildo Warfare: A tale of strippers, sickos and unwanted hand shandies


A few years ago I headed up to the Gold Coast for two weeks on the piss with a good mate of mine called Dion. Alright, that’s not really his name; I’ve changed it for reasons that will soon become clear, and have gone with a name that suggests I have a big, black, bald-headed friend.

After an all-day drinking session that ended with us having watermelons thrown at us by angry locals, me and Dion staggered up to Orchid Avenue and rolled into a scummy nightclub called The Sugar Shack. It was ladies’ night, so there was wall-to-wall poontang. Unfortunately, there was also a massive Maori gentleman dancing around on stage with most of his gear off, and when he de-pantsed and started waving his sizable wang around, I felt very uncomfortable. Still, there was something familiar about him… about his face, I mean, not his wang.

Luckily, the dark-skinned sicko left the stage and me and Dion were able to get on with the important task of failing to pick up women. I was, for some inexplicable reason, wearing a sailor hat, which probably didn’t help my cause. Well, it didn’t help me get the women, but it was like a red rag to a bull for champion homos, because while I was sipping my beer a door opened and I saw the Maori stripper standing buck-naked in a change room, a huge smile on his face and his doodle as hard as an ex-wife’s heart. He gave me a wink, pulled his dick a bit, and beckoned me inside. I looked around, sure he was after one of the lovely ladies that were paying me no attention, but he was certainly after me.

And then it hit me. No, not his dick, I mean it hit me where I recognised him from. He was on a dating show called Playing it Straight, where one chick has to decide which of 12 bozos she wants to make bang-bang with – with the twist being that half of them were gaybos. Anyway, this stripper, Chad, was a finalist, and the show only had a week left to run. He was a famous telly start and he wanted me. Me! Unfortunately, I’d be shitting into a bag for the rest of my life if he caught me, so me and Dion hid in a dark corner while Chad gyrated around the place, looking for us.

I’ve gotta say, though, it hurt my feelings that he didn’t look harder for me. I was wearing a fucking sailor hat, after all, and he was big and buff enough that if he’d really wanted me he could’ve picked me up and carried me out of there like a sack of potatoes. Funnily enough, a few days later, Chad won Playing it Straight – and revealed himself to be heterosexual. Just goes to show that you can’t trust reality TV… or gay dancing Maoris.

While hiding from Chad, I started chatting to this attractive blonde chick with a cracking set of watermelons, named Casey. I can’t remember what bullshit I was telling her, but it must’ve worked because we started pashing under a fake palm tree. She had three friends with her – another attractive blonde, a fat chick who just sat there eating meat pies and farting, her fat rolls drooling onto the floor like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and some nonce of a bloke who appeared to be wearing a picnic blanket for a shirt. Dion homed in on the blonde and did his best to ignore the two freaks, and I did my best to feel my chick’s tits. Romance certainly ain’t dead.

Turned out the bloke in the picnic blanket was called Nathan, and wasn’t a huge fan of having sex with women. I managed to con an invitation back to Casey’s place, but she said she couldn’t leave until Nathan had found a fella to spend the night with. I’m a problem solver, so I pointed at Dion and said, “He’s gay. He’ll fuck Nathan.” Twenty seconds later we were out the door, with Dion none the wiser that he had been targeted for spermination by a very horny Nathan, who kept licking his lips in anticipation. He soon got an idea, though, because the pervert kept rubbing his leg and winking at him. I dunno, maybe Dion thought Nathan just had cerebral palsy or something.

We got back to their house and it was a dump. Not only was there rubbish and broken furniture all over the place, but they had a dog that liked to shit in the house, and instead of cleaning up after it they just chucked some newspaper down over it. It was as disgusting as seeing Iain Hewitson naked. Anyway, I was young, dumb and full of cum (my own, not Chad’s) so I headed off to a bedroom with this Casey bird. Much to Dion’s disappointed, the attractive friend pissed off, leaving him alone in the living room while I got on with the task of disappointing Casey.

I was a few minutes into a performance that would make a fur seal ashamed when I heard a scream from the living room, followed by crashing sounds. I pulled on my novelty boxer shorts and raced out to see a very angry Dion throwing anything that wasn’t nailed down at a terrified Nathan. “He tried to wank me off in my sleep!” screeched Dion, then threw a dying pot plant at his molester.

Nathan picked up a handful of dog turds and threw them back at Dion, who dodged them before they splattered all over the wall. If anything, it added to the ambiance of the place. I stood back, enjoying the bizarre spectacle, until Nathan took aim at me with a broken toaster. I ducked the deadly appliance and fired back with the leg of a chair. We were tearing the place apart and backing Nathan into a corner, when I spied a bag full of sex toys under a dirty table. I reach down and picked up a huge purple dildo and hurled it at Nathan, conking him on the head. Dion pulled out a butt plug and chucked it, and Nathan must’ve liked that because he tried to catch it in his mouth but ended up sprawled on the floor in a puddle of dog urine instead.

Dion plucked out a set of anal beads, and the last thing I saw before returning to bed (well, it wasn’t really a bed, it was more like a pile of towels in the corner of a room) with Casey was Dion choking out Nathan with the beads. Three minutes later I was finished, the bird was unsatisfied and I was dreaming the dreams of kings.

I woke up a few hours later and snuck out of the room, and went to find Dion. He wasn’t in the living room, or the brasco, so I rang his phone. I heard it blaring away in one of the rooms, and when I opened the door, there he was, completely naked and porking the fat bird from behind while she munched on a sausage roll. It looked like an ant on a scoop of ice cream, and her fat rolls were hypnotic as they jiggled back and forth in time with Dion’s thrusts. I left him to it, and a few minutes later he swaggered out the door, proud as punch, and we got the fuck out of that hell hole. I had to step over an unconscious Nathan on my way out.

It was a long walk home, so we picked up a case of beer and got back into it. When I got back to our unit, I poured Dettol all over my old fella. You can never be too careful.

A few nights later, we saw the big bird pull up in her rustbucket car outside of the Sugar Shack and get out with Casey. I told Dion to shove a banana up her tailpipe. “Why not?” he chuckled. “I’ve already done it once!”

Tales From Pornland: The World Tour of Toowoomba

Hey, who invited the sex pest?

Journalism is the sort of career that takes you places. America, China, the Middle East – there are stories all over the world, and they all need someone to write about them. Of course, in the first seven or so years of my career the furthest I got was Cronulla, but I assume I’m the exception that proves the rule.

So when the opportunity came up to fly to Toowoomba for the opening of the city’s first strip club, The Vault on Ruthven, I was all over it. Of course, I didn’t realise that Toowoomba is sort of in the middle of nowhere, and that there’s no airport, but I didn’t let that stop me. It was a chance to get out of the office, so I booked my flights and headed to Queensland.

It took two trains, a plane and two buses to reach the Garden City, and after six or seven hours of traveling, I was thirsty. Thankfully, I was met at the bus stop by The Vault’s owner, Thor (no, he didn’t have a huge hammer, or a beard), and he was just as thirsty as me. He took me up to the club, where he poured me a beer and told me I wouldn’t be paying for a thing all night. Shit a brick, nothing tastes as good as free beer!

I’m not gunna lie, I made the most of Thor’s hospitality, and enjoyed a bucketload of beautiful beers as he took me on a tour of the city’s best pubs. I’ve never been treated like a celebrity before, so it was brilliant, and Toowoomba really is a nice place. It’s definitely a step back in time, with a church on every corner, but the place has a great vibe to it and really is nicely presented. But I wasn’t there to admire the architecture, I was there to get monstrously drunk and perv on nude sheilas, and I succeeded at both.

I wouldn’t mind going a few rounds with her!

After checking into my hotel (and being mistaken for a stripper by the lady at the front desk – there might be a career in it for me), I wobbled back to the club and was surprised to see a decent line forming out the front. I felt like a golden god as I swaggered up to the hefty bloke on the door and made my way inside while the other chumps waited. Shit, I could get used to this celebrity stuff.

It was choc-a-bloc inside, with hundreds of horny dudes drooling over the many spunks in attendance. Everywhere I looked, there were tits and fannies, so I grabbed another beer and settled in at the VIP table, next to a rapper named K-Nob and some sort of extreme sport yo bro dude called Gravy. K-Nob’s name was certainly appropriate, and the only thing extreme about Gravy was how extremely stupid his name was. But I wouldn’t have cared if I was seated between Hitler and Hotdogs from Big Brother, because all I cared about were the ladies on stage. And the beer, of which I consumed enough to drown a fish.

The girls on stage were very talented, and by that I mean they all had great jugs. Most of them were amateurs competing for the title of Miss Vault, with a handful of Oz’s best clothes-removers along for the ride. Actually, they were much more than a handful!

Would, would, would, would, would, would, would, would…

As I slipped further into the warm embrace of blackout drunkenness, I must’ve become very charming because, despite having spew all down my shirt, a very pretty young lady too a keen interest in me. Now, I’m a smart guy, but despite being at a special guest at a strip club, and there being no girls other than strippers in attendance, and barely being able to talk, and having a small amount of sick on my shirt, all I could think was, “Wow, I’ve pulled!”

It’s not the first time I’ve been convinced a stripper actually liked me and it won’t be the last, but the chick was fuckin’ smokin’, so I rolled with it. I mean, it was all free and it was nice to get some attention from someone other than the fat, bearded chick who lives next door to me (hi, Glenda!), so I ended up having a sweet night. I partied like a maniac, made a fuckwit of myself, lost my female companion in the crowd (on reflection, she probably finished her shift), danced in a cage and even managed to wobble on stage for a photo, then promptly fell off stage and into the crowd.

I don’t remember what happened after that, but let’s just say that it was wild, and that I may have touched some boobs at one point. They basically had to pour me out the door at the end of it.

I ended up staggering back to the hotel alone, and was confused and angered when my key wouldn’t open my door. I banged on the door and yelled out like an idiot, and a few minutes later – as if by magic – it opened. It was opened by magic, though, it was opened by the little old lady who was staying in there, and she then went on to point out that I was on the wrong floor. She also kneed me in the nuts which, on reflection, probably wasn’t unreasonable behaviour.

When I woke up on the floor the next morning, it felt like skinheads had been tapdancing on me in the night. After spewing up a few litres of warm beer, I set out on the seven-hour trip home. As I did my best not to shit myself on public transport, I was able to reflect on an odd and wonderful 24 hours, where I was treated like a kind and acted like homeless drunk, spent time with beautiful women and was assaulted by a grannie. A month later, I no longer worked at The Picture, and my story on The Vault was pulled for reasons I’ll never understand. I like to think of it as my last hurrah in the world of porn, a final wild story that came when work was not an enjoyable place for me. I’d like to take the opportunity to thank Thor for his hospitality, and recommend that if you’re in the area, drop into The Vault.

Because, really, who needs exotic locations and a respectable job when you’ve got tits?

Getting pissed at work

I knew there was something weird about Anaconda Adventure Store as soon as I arrived at the orientation day. They handed me an embarrassing vest to wear and made me march around the room chanting the bizarre anthem of the shop, which went something like, “Anaconda is the place/saviour of the human race/mountain high and river deep/Anaconda’s prices are quite cheap.” I came up with my own verse that went, “If you need gear for camping or stunts/don’t go to Anaconda ’cos they’re a bunch of…” but was cut off before I could finish it.

Anaconda Ashmore – rarely did I see this place while sober

We were all there to set up and open the shop, so we had a few days of learning about Anaconda before going off on a two day camp. That’s where Darryl came into his own. Darryl was a 35-year-old drug addict who smelled like poo and had somehow scored himself a job as the store’s greeter, because everyone wants to get molested by a wheezing smackhead when they pop in to pick up a sleeping back and a pair of thermal underpants.

Most people went to bed pretty early on this camping trip, but me and Darryl and a few others sat up to get on the piss. I hit it hard, Darryl hit it harder, and by 11pm he was stumbling all over the place like Stephen Hawking wearing roller blades. After vomiting on the fire, he thrust a thumb into the darkness and slurred, “Is that the fuckin’ boss’s tent?”

Indeed it was. Well, to be accurate, it wasn’t just the boss of the shop, it was the dude who owned the whole company and was in town to oversea the set-up of a multi-million dollar store. So Darryl stumbled over to the tent, pulled his floppy cock out and pissed all over the roof of it. Poor ol’ Darryl didn’t have the brains or sobriety to urinate and remain upright at the same time, so mid-stream he lost his balance and tumbled onto the tent, tearing it in half (that’s Anaconda quality for ya!) and leaving the boss flapping around in a web of piss-soaked material.

This poor quality photo is the only one I have from my time at Anaconda. Can you spot the Row Show?

Darryl got away with that, but he left Anaconda of his own accord a few month’s later when he moved on from smoking bongs and sniffing glue to injecting heroin into his eyeballs. I’d put money on him being dead by now.

The set-up of the shop wasn’t all smooth sailing. The biggest stuff up had to do with the thousands of flyers that were sent out to the good people of the Gold Coast to advertise the opening of the shop. It was all good except for the website printed in large letters all over it. It should’ve read http://www.anaconda.com.au. Instead, it read http://www.anaconda.com. That missing .au was important, because people who followed the printed address found not budget-priced tents and deals on kayaks that barely float, but high-quality photographs of black men with their large, snake-like penises doing irreparable damage to the vaginas of young, misguided white women.

An example of the sort of ‘ebony thugs’ found at http://www.anaconda.com

But this is meant to be about me getting fired from yet another retail job, so let’s get back on track. I was porking this chick I worked with, and she was a bit of a goer. I think one or two other team members may have shoved their hiking poles into her dirty trench, which is fine. In fact, there were two blokes called Gary there, and the rumour was she got tag teamed by them in the loading dock (that could either be an actual area in the shop, or a euphemism for her pussy, so go with whichever one works best for you), and something like that just has to be true. I mean, you couldn’t back up an encounter with the Row Show with just one Gary, right?

So this chick invited me and a bunch of other people from work to her birthday party, and because her family was rich it was on a boat. I got fuckin’ smashed and almost fell into the choppy water off Stradbroke Island, and after that we all went to a nightclub, where I got even drunker and stammered like a retarded person at women who didn’t appreciate the attention. Stuck up bitches.

There was a fat girl at work who possessed an arse like the back of a truck, and she obviously thought I was drunk enough to not puke at the sight of her, so she started grabbing me on the dick and saying she wanted to make bang-bang and all that. I did vomit, but that was probably just because of the alcohol. Anyway, after she tweaked my donk for the 17th time, I’d had enough, and told her to, “Fuck off you fat, pizza-guzzling slab of shit,” and then promptly fell into a bin.

That’s fine, I’ve done worse. The only problem was that this fat, pizza-guzzling slab of shit was promoted to manager a few days later, and she took something of a dislike to me. Suddenly I found myself throwing sawdust on vomit and lifting really heavy things (although nothing as heavy as this chick, so I can’t complain). She tried to make my life hell, but I was drunk most of the time, so I didn’t give a shit, which infuriated her even more.

Shit like this happened every day, so it’s a wonder I didn’t fucking murder myself

Finally, after a year, it came time for me to leave the Gold Coast and head back home to go to uni, so I put in my resignation at Anaconda. It was the right thing to do, even though my instincts told me to tell them toshove their shitty job and their shitty vest up their collective blurters. I had one day left, which should’ve been a fun day to say goodbye to people, but as I was getting dressed and ready to go, the fat bitch called me up and told me not to come in. Apparently I’d suddenly developed a bad attitude (in fact, I’d had it since the day I got there because it was a fucking retail job, and anyone who doesn’t have a bad attitude about working retail is a fucking idiot), but it was obvious that she just wanted to get revenge by cutting my final shift. I gave her some choice words, then she told me to bring my vest back and hung up. Red rag to a bull, bitch.

It was only 9am, but I got on the turps to celebrate my recent retirement, and after a few bottles of wine I came up with an idea for that bloody vest. I spread it out over the toilet and ‘did a Darryl’ all over it, soaking the fucking thing with my zesty urine. Once it was soaked I took it out onto the balcony to dry it off while I hit the wines again. A few hours later I chucked the piss-encrusted outfit in a plastic bag and hitched a ride out to the shop.

The fat bitch was waiting for me with a smirk on her face, and as soon as I got there she held out her hand and I took the vest out of the bag and gave it to her. “You’re fuckin’ banned from this shop,” she blabbered, while her tits smacked at her knees and her six chins wobbled in the spring breeze. “Teach you to be a fuckin’ prick to a decent woman like me. Now take your little dick and fuck off!”

With that she swung my vest around her mammoth shoulders and slipped it on, obviously as some sort of symbolic gesture of her victory. I could almost see the stink of piss coming off it, but she didn’t seem to notice, even though the customers walking past her were turning green and collapsing around her. A dog even started barking at her, and all the girls on the registers started laughing and slapping each other high fives when they realised what had happened. Finally the fat bitch tore off the vest and threw it away before kicking over a big stand of water bottles, all while I swaggered off into the sunset.