A Prickly Scotsman's Youthful Adventures in Australia. (752 hits)
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Submitted by Mr Prickle (View user info) at 2004-01-19 04:02:31 EST
PART 1 FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE
Even as a youth I was cursed with cynicism. I sneered at friends who marched in protest rallies and wore badges, seeing only too clearly that their high ideals were just a passing fashion.
But one drunken evening many years ago, when I was but a wee lad of 22, I couldn't resist an invitation to a big protest against the logging of the Tantawangalo Forest on the beautiful south coast of New South Wales.
Milo and Angela had dropped in to our place in Queanbeyan on their way to the protest from Sydney. After beers and bongs in the lounge room, Wolverine, The Ramora and I decided we had nothing better to do so jumped into the back of Milo's '57 Holden station wagon with a case of beer and a big bag of purple buds.
Most of the trip was a blur. Angela told me later that we stopped at a small country town for supplies. I apparently went missing, and was discovered by Angela in a cheap café, holding court with the locals (whose livelihoods depended on the logging mill). I was lurching around in a rage because one of them had called me a greeny.
"I am NOT a fucking greeny. How dare you label me! Yes I'm going to the protest, yes I have long hair, yes my clothes are torn, yes I'm smoking a joint, but does that make me a greeny??? I HATE fucking greenies. I HATE THE CUNTS!! How would you like it if I said you were all inbred cousin-fuckers just because you cut down trees and wear flannel shirts?? That wouldn't be very nice would it? Tsk tsk. I bet lots of you are actually quite smart and interesting. Salts of the fucking earth I bet. Let's be friends!! Lets not be judgmental. You're not such bad cunts! We all drink beer! We're all Aussies! [obviously not true due to my Scottish accent] Who wants a toke on this etc etc" was the gist of it. Apparently the locals were amused, or at least bemused.
It was quite late when we arrived at the forest and I had regained my senses a bit. For some reason we were expected to pay to enter the protest campsite. To avoid this I hid under a blanket on the back seat while we passed through the checkpoint. It seemed odd that Ramora escaped payment by lying on the roof of the car singing and laughing and waving a beer bottle around.
We found a place to park in the big paddock and stumbled off into the darkness to check out the ferals and the hippies. Most of them were already asleep in their tents, or at least had been until we started barging around tripping over their tent ropes and shouting obscenities.
I soon became aware of another noise: thunder. I also noticed that the sky was full of huge black clouds. I had not prepared very well for an overnight camping trip. In fact, I had not prepared anything. As I was pondering this the skies opened and torrential rain began to bucket down.
I staggered back to the car. Milo and Angela had folded down the seats and through the rain bejewelled windows of the shiny machine they looked like a pair of hollywood stars lying at peace in an elvis presley inspired coffin. Clearly they would not welcome me joining them. There was no sign of the Ramora or Wolve.
In my dazed condition, the best I could manage was to flop down on a little grassy slope that seemed to offer some shelter from the wind and rain.
After a while the Wolverine appeared out of the darkness and flopped down next to me. I was so cold and wet I didn't mind when the cunt cuddled up to me. After a bit longer we both realised the shelter offered by a small grassy slope was inadequate in a raging storm. Like a pair of soldiers staggering across enemy lines, we weaved our way amongst the tents looking for refuge, finally spotting a huge marquee. Without hesitation we barged in and collapsed and cuddled up again. At some point in the night a human covered us with a blanket.
We awoke in the morning and were advised by a cunt with a ginger beard who smelt of patchouli that we were in the Chi tent. He told us Chi was a special kind of Chinese tea that was dispensed to the protesters from this special tent. He got a bit shirty when I told him Chi actually meant breath or energy in Chinese.
We left the Chi tent and were relieved the sun was shining onto the now muddy field.
Wolverine was in a strange mood. I think he felt very touched that I had so kindly let him cuddle up to me all night. The vibe from all the fucking hippies and ferals might also have been affecting him. He went off to the toilet facilities and when he rejoined me his mood was even stranger. He insisted on holding hands as we looked for Milo's car, and kept giggling and raving about personal freedom. It turned out the toilet facilities were a bit odd: one sit-down toilet was located in public view at the entrance to the enclosure. Some people used this as a urinal, but Wolverine needed a shit and apparently sat down and shamelessly dropped his stinking load in front of the various passer-by. He was euphoric about this achievement. Thinking about him wiping his arse gave me the incentive I needed to break off the hand holding immediately.
It turned out the Ramora had spent the night in the back of a van with three girls, the cunt.
During the day I got angrier and angrier, and drunker and drunker. The hippies and ferals and uni students were so up themselves and so hypocritical it made me sick. They just couldn't grasp that it was possible to oppose the logging of the forest AND be sympathetic to the local forest workers at the same time.
There were dreadful speeches and dreadful performances of folk music and performance art. And constant declarations of our noble and enlightened solidarity against the evil tree murdering loggers. For people who claimed to be on the side of love and peace, there was a lot of hatred. As the song goes, it was all about "us and them". And what's more, not one supposedly free love feral slut had agreed to suck my beautiful Scottish cock.
Finally we escaped the camp and drove to a nearby small town in the hopes of an evening snack and more drinks. While the gang ordered hamburgers at a café, I spotted a traditional looking old aussie pub across the road and decided it was time to get in touch with the locals again.
I opened the door of the pub, bracing myself for a room of surly drunken loggers who would assume I was one of the greenies.
Instead I saw a scene straight out of the uni bar - long haired hippies and punky safety pin babies in bovver boots mummy paid for milling around pool tables striking bohemian poses. Not a logger in sight. I couldn't believe it. The cunts had completely taken over the town.
I returned to the café. "THAT'S IT. I'VE HAD ENOUGH. I'M GETTING OUT OF HERE" I announced and stormed out.
The Ramora followed me out into the night, remonstrating. "Where are you going Mr Prickle? Look at the sky Mr Prickle. Another storm is coming Mr Prickle. A big big storm Mr Prickle. You will get all wet and cold again Mr Prickle. Be reasonable Mr Prickle. There is no traffic Mr Prickle. No one will give you a lift Mr Prickle. You will never get to Queanbeyan Mr Prickle" etc etc. He even offered me a spot in the van with the three girls that night.
But I would not be deterred from my righteous anger. Eventually he gave up and left me standing alone in the deserted street that the highway ran through, fuming.
It was clear another storm was coming and there didn't seem to be any traffic. It looked like the cold concrete of a shop doorway would be my shelter for the night. There was a bit of an overhang, maybe I wouldn't get completely soaked.
After about twenty minutes a lone care approached. I put my thumb out and was amazed when the car pulled over. The driver opened her window and asked where I was going. Breathing alcohol fumes all over her I said Queanbeyan. She told me they could only drop me about twenty miles down the road, at the turnoff. That would leave me about two hundred miles from home. It would also leave me in the middle of nowhere with no shelter as the massive storm approached. And virtually no prospect of being picked up at that time of night.
I said OK and jumped in the back.
As we drove off they asked me what my story was. They appeared to be a middle-aged hippy couple. Despite this, I could not bottle up my disgust with the nasty attitude of the protesters and gave them the full drunken spiel, half expecting them to toss me out before we even reached the turn-off.
Instead, it turned out we were in complete agreement. They were hippies who opposed the logging of the forest. But they lived locally and were friends with many people and families who worked for the timber mill. They seemed to admire my principles, and even said I was brave!
By the time we reached the turnoff we were getting along very well. "There's a big storm coming, would you like to come and spend the night at our place?" she asked.
Their house, which was right in the middle of the forest, comprised a beautiful hexagonal main building of mud brick and timber and several pavilion style bedrooms connected by walkways. After hot chocolate and home made biscuits in front of the fire I was shown to their daughter's bedroom. She was away - fortune wasn't quite that kind to me - but as I lay in the lovely warm clean bed, surrounded by nice smelling girlie things, listening to the storm raging and howling outside, I thought of those so-called hippie cunts stuck in their tents in that muddy quagmire and smiled. I had been rescued by the real hippies.
The next morning I was given bowl of muesli. Normally I dislike muesli, but this stuff was amazing. It was wholesome but also delicious and had some kind of magical inner goodness to it - the sort of thing Elves would prepare to give strength to weary Hobbits.
Beneath sunny blue Australian skies they drove me back down to the turnoff. The woman handed me a paper bag containing chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches made with thick slices of home-made bread, then they drove away.
I stood by the road. An eagle appeared overhead and circled slowly above me. I only had ten cents in my pocket and was still a long way from home. I had no idea how long it would take to get back. I felt damn fine.
After less than three minutes a vintage Holden station wagon zoomed straight past the turnoff and kept heading south. I watched it disappear, but then saw the brake lights go on. It turned around and pulled up beside me. Milo, Angela, The Wolverine and the Ramora were all grinning at me. They had missed the turnoff, but Angela had spotted me otherwise they would have been on their way to Melbourne.
This final lucky break confirmed, in my mind at least, that higher forces were helping me as a reward for my heroism. Maybe fortune really does favour the brave.
A few hours later we were back in the lounge room watching cricket and drinking beer.
User Reviews
Submitted by Timmah (user info) at 2004-10-15 20:30:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome. cool hippies rule
Submitted by Wiggles (user info) at 2004-10-15 20:06:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2004-09-03 05:41:12 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I think this is my favourite shandy post.
Submitted by Scotsman (user info) at 2004-09-03 05:24:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Yay for a Scotsman in Oz!
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2004-05-15 13:54:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
How have I not rated this?
Engaging. Witty. Beautifully descriptive.
True Genius.
Submitted by Insanethemind (user info) at 2004-04-12 20:17:27 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I meant that to be a 2
Submitted by Insanethemind (user info) at 2004-04-12 20:17:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I wouldn't like to inflate your ego or anything , but fucking good storytelling here!
Submitted by gatorman98 (user info) at 2004-01-19 14:47:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
a very interesting piece indeed...
i cant wait to hear about your trip to thailand...
Submitted by Despiadado (user info) at 2004-01-19 10:07:34 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Tents? What sort of upper-class, rich boy hippies and ferrals are you talking about? The ferrals I know live in trees, and those are the lucky ones. Some are degraded to sleeping in the dirt near the bottoms of trees, some not even that. But they all have mobile phones. Funny that. I wonder where they send the bills.
Submitted by Trout (user info) at 2004-01-19 06:05:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Good work.
Submitted by Hairsphincter (user info) at 2004-01-19 04:15:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I hate those patchouli stinkin' protesters sooooo much.
Poo.