Dawn Over The Nullarbor (542 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Mike the Scottish (View user info) at 2004-09-26 12:06:59 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
Doug turned his bleary eyes skywards, letting them roll around the grey morning skies for a few seconds. Night was just lifting itself away from the scene, lighting dull tower blocks as it crawled away from the cityscape. Doug caught the usual views of council tenements, the local pub, kebab boxes and beer cans. He recalled little of the preceding evening. There had been the usual cans of wife-beater back at Craig's flat, the ritual half-cooked kebab at Tanj's takeaway, then an evening of drunken shenanigans at his local, the Nullarbor Tavern. Pulling himself up until he was sitting, he saw the pub in all its glory, painted breezeblocks and decaying wood signs, to a backdrop of unloved council tenements. Syringes and crisp bags for exterior decoration, shady back alley for a beer garden. Simple, depressed, but he loved it like a long-trusted friend. This was, he reasoned, the real city, and he thought himself a real citizen for remaining true to the beer and blood-soaked legacy of his forefathers. A simple life- sleeping and watching Trisha until his unemployment benefit came through, then an afternoon at Ibrox and a piss-up on Saturday.
"Yaweefuckheids, thraanmeoot..."
Doug didn't know if he'd really been thrown out, but it would fill in a lot of the blanks. He remembered playing pool with Craig and Duncan, getting lairy at some unfortunate who'd spilled a bit of his pint on him. He didn't think that Morag, the pub landlady, had noticed, but maybe she'd been a bit more on the ball last night. It didn't matter. For the time being, Doug's mind was having enough trouble focusing on the task in hand- navagating his way home with a raging hangover and a meagre daylight. He saw the pub as he staggered upright, imposing and bleak, as a fortress. His flat as a peasant's hut. Even in his most remote fantasies, he couldn't imagine a place he felt more secure, more at home.
"Whayagontae, lads...."
Doug had mates. Five of them, if he remembered correctly. Mostly like himself- except Craig and Fraser, who had jobs in the city. A few weeks ago, Doug had called in on Craig whilst he was working. it had been strange to see his reckless drinking buddy in a suit and tie, selling overpriced penthouses to yuppie twentysomethings. In a way, he felt ashamed that he was so far removed from Craig's world of letting agreements and tenancy charters, but in a way he was glad. He wanted a simple life, to be a servant to nobody. In his mind he was William Wallace, or a slightly flabbier Mel Gibson, taking shit from nobody and fighting the evil opressors with an iron fist. After a hard afternoon fighting the system, he'd retire as the glorious victor to the Nullarbor, where cheering crowds would follow his every move, and the tracksuited tarts from the estates worshipped him as a god. Doug had fantasies like this often. In one dream, he was at the University, getting his certificate from a stern-faced man in a flowing black cape. In another, emerging determined from the player's tunnel to meet the Ibrox faithful, he saw thousands of fans cheering his name as he put one, two, three goals past the hapless Celtic goalie. In both cases he came back, enriched, to the welcoming arms of the Nullarbor. But he didn't have the patience for education or the talent for football. It was in the past, anyhow. Doug squinted his eyes, realised the sun was rising up, casting grey shadows into the alley. Time to go home. He gazed hopefully for one last time at the 'closed' sign on the door of the Nullarbor and started lumbering homewards.
"Ah'm comin, Stell, dahlin... whirr's the fukin tape..."
Doug still had Fraser's Oasis tape in his flat. He'd meant to give it back to him last night, but he'd left it in the kitchen. The lyrics buzzed through him like last night's beer, exploding from his mouth like last night's vomit. Doug didn't get far before a dog started howling after him, snarling from its chain. A loud housewife's voice told him to shut up. Unperturbed, he continued waltzing down the alley, strumming his imaginary guitar, singing to his imaginary fans, silencing his imaginary critics. Tonight, he decided, he was going to change. Escape would be his. Dull reality would change to shining fantasy- the dawn over the Nullarbor would change the dawning of a new era.
Doug raised his fists in victory, saluting his crowds, before falling awkwardly into the gutter. Instantly, he fell asleep amongst the dead leaves, his eager face awaiting the virginal, husky voices that would tell him it was going be OK. That he could take what he deserved. That the city stood poised, awaiting his every move.
User Reviews
Submitted by thorpe (user info) at 2005-03-21 08:58:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wooo that place name's like that our place's name?
Submitted by mrwolf (user info) at 2005-03-21 08:46:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Oh god its me.
Submitted by youarsoghey (user info) at 2005-01-16 12:15:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
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