Sunday 15 April 2018

Shit Happens at Big River


So our 2018 camping trip at Big River started okay but...


We left home at around lunchtime on the Thursday before Good Friday to collect Boy Wonder from school after his English SAC test.  The other family we usually camp with, the H’s, left very early that morning to gain a camping spot for us all.  We sat outside the school for 40 minutes in the 4WD with a bulging, packed trailer attached, looking like bored creeps.  An Uber Eats delivery bike pulled up, greeted by a ravenous girl who glanced at us like we were weird.  What about the fact that you ordered Uber Eats for lunch at school??  You're weird!   Boy wonder finally emerged and entered the car with his familiar teenage vernacular, chirping "waddup" at us.  We were off.  


The squeak of one of the trailer wheels was cringe worthy and hard to ignore, even over the music blaring through the earbuds in my ears.  I mentioned it to The Captain and he concurred it was squeaky, but shrugged it off.  I braced myself for the trip through the Black Spur, which usually leaves me a little green and delicate with travel sickness.  For a change, I was strangely unaffected.  Not long after we emerged from the Black Spur and drove into Buxton, we pulled over so The Captain could purchase some bait; ever the optimist for a lucky bite whilst fishing in a river that gives up little.  


Obviously feeling a little concerned about the squeaky wheel, he bent down to feel the hub and seared his finger.  The tip of his finger was white and looked for all intents and purposes like he had touched it to a hot plate or red hot element.  This did not spell good news for us.  We had to get the trailer wheel looked at because we couldn't continue with a wheel that is unsafe and a potential hazard.  Imagine if it broke when we were on our way down into the valley where we'd have no means of communication because shortly after turning off the main road to descend into the valley, we usually lose all internet and phone connection and are essentially, 'off the grid'.  Captain Fantastic pulled out a can of grease, which he handed to Boy Wonder, and some spare bearings, which I ended up with, and then set about finding someone to help.  

We found a garage and the attendant directed us to a car mechanic up the road.  As we pulled into a yard full of cars, a very large balding man, who Boy Wonder dubbed the ‘Fat Controller', emerged from his shed, reeking of grease and oil.  I placed the bearings in the trailer guard and took the grease can from Boy Wonder.  The Fat Controller advised that he had other cars before us and it could take a couple of hours, telling us to walk down to the pub.  The Captain asked for the can of grease but I had no idea where it went.  One minute I was holding it, allegedly (I don’t recall having it in my hand, but I also don't recall putting it down so I'm hanged if I know what happened to it).  The Captain asked if I threw it away?  What?  Of course not, stop being a dick.  I just don’t know what I did with it.  He was shaking his head in perplexity and barely able to contain his frustration with me because, where’s the fucking can of grease?  I was sure we’d find it at some point.

We left our trailer in the capable hands of the Fat Controller and wandered down to the pub. Now, Captain Fantastic is not shy about throwing back a cheeky beer but we were anxious to get to the valley and start setting up the Taj Mahal tent, which usually requires all hands on deck and a minimum of an hour of daylight to erect, and the afternoon was ticking by. 


An hour after finishing his beer and getting a little antsy, The Captain made his way back to check on the car.  He called a short time later to announce the trailer was fixed and he was just waiting for the Fat Controller to return, so we could pay him and be on our way.  It was very hard not to do my happy dance in the middle of that country pub but considering our very presence screamed 'Out of Towners' to all the locals, I managed to keep my shit together.  Boy Wonder and I walked back to the yard.   It turns out that wheel was fixed so hard by heat that it required an oxy-torch to remove and the Captains bearings were so old and rusted, they were useless.  The grease was probably too old too but "we'll never know" touts The Captain.  Yeah, whatever, I nearly lost an eyeball in an eye roll.  To this day I have no idea where that can of grease went.

When we finally arrived at the campsite, Mr & Mrs H were already set up, had been out and retrieved a large load of firewood from the forest, which was chopped and assembled and ready to go, and they were wondering where the hell we were.  We all pitched in and got our giant tent up in record time.  We even managed to cook a meal and wash up before darkness pitched us into the black.  Out here, the stars are bright on a clear night and the moon was full this night so we watched its lazy ascent into the sky.  As we sat around the campfire, we discussed the other campers surrounding us.  In our usual spot, which is a very large space, only one pissy tent stood wasting a stack of space.  However, there’s an unspoken rule that you don’t pitch your tent in someone else’s space.  We asked who was camping there, and it turns out some dorky guy, who had tickets on himself, spent most of his time with his shirt off.  Mrs H said she wished he’d put the bloody thing back on because…and then she shuddered.  I got an eyeful of that milky boyish body and decided Mrs H was correct.  He got called Vladimir Putin from then on, for obvious reasons.  


There was also a very large group celebrating some chick’s thirtieth (in the bush?  Bloody sedate 30th), a young family with two kids and a dog called Leila, a bunch of 30 something year old guys and a group of Russian women.  Wow, The H's had it all sussed it all out.  The boys drank their way through a stupid amount of beer and got themselves half pickled.  I retired long before The Captain stumbled in.


Day 2 dawned bright and clear.  Mrs H, rose early and had the fire burning beautifully for us all.  Our tent was on a slight rise and The Captain complained he was hanging off the bed most of the night.  I couldn't help that I rolled into him all night long.  You could roast a bloody pig next to my husband, he puts out so much body heat, and as it gets super cold down in the valley, I'd started off that night in socks, a tee, tracksuit pants and windcheater. Overheating next to my spooning human oven, I'd shed layers during the night and woke in just knickers and a tee.  Brrrrr!


As the day went on, we had a lovely cooked breakfast on the BBQ and the little kids from the young family made themselves known, zooming past on their bikes calling to their dog, "Laila...come on girl".  Very entertaining.  Every time the kids went past, Mr H called out “Leila” in a surprisingly high octave (like…elastic band around the testicles kinda high).  It was pretty funny. 


After lunch, things got a little more interesting.  Putin had zipped up his tent and disappeared early.  As I was making my way to my tent, one of the Russian chicks, whom I’ve never met, marched up to me with purpose, using ski poles to aid her stalk, and loudly barked in my face "if this guy comes back..." points a ski pole at Putin’s tent, "...tell him the Russians have gone fishing!"  Wait, what?  Then she marched off through our campsite.  What the fuck?  I'm nobody's messenger, bitch!  As she was leaving the site, she rounded on Mr H and abruptly demanded, "which way to the top?"  Mr H jerked back because...what the fuck?  He pointed to his right where the track winds around and leads up and out to the main road.  Babushka turned left and walked in the other direction.  Mr H looked at us with an astounded WTF expression and then yelled after her "if you're going to go that way, you'll need more than ski poles to get you up there". She didn't even look at him, she just shook her head and bellowed "nope, too high" and kept walking.  Channel Jim Carey "Aaaaaalrighty then."

About an hour later, two car loads of stupid youths with pickup trucks loaded with trail bikes turned up and start setting up camp in Putin's site.  We all looked at each other excitedly because this is going to get interesting when Putin returned.  Their doof-doof music was echoing at a thousand decibels, completely destroying the peace and tranquillity of the bush setting.  Some bloke in a cowboy hat started shuffling to the doof-doof music, mid-set up, beer in hand, marijuana joint dangling from his lips.  Jesus, what was our night going to be like?


After they finished setting up, they started drinking heavily.  They were loud, obnoxious and swearing like nobody was listening.  The more they drank, the louder they got.  Even their profanities were slurred.  The Captain decided to get more firewood.  Mr H refused to go with them because he was not cutting down wood for someone else.  This perplexed me until I found out later it was originally for the topless chicks down near the water.  I wonder how emasculated their boyfriends will feel when his nibs turns up with a load of firewood just to get a perve at the girls’ titties.  Please, the lengths a man will go to for a cheeky perve.  Monumental eye-roll from me.  They got none of it in the end, perhaps The Captain thought better of it, but Mr H was not impressed with their choice if wood.  They’re fussy bastards, men and their wood.  


Dickhead stupid youths were pissed to the point of stumbling now and started sawing down standing trees with a chainsaw for firewood.  Oh my Lord.  Mr H, who cannot tolerate stupidity and could not contain himself, wandered over to educate the fuckwits loose in the forest with a chainsaw.  He reminded them that it is illegal to saw down a standing tree, it could land them with a massive fine and it simply won't burn because it's green and unseasoned and will just smoke.  This had the equivalent effect of hitting one’s head on a brick wall to figure out a maths equation…Fuckwit youths continued to cut up said tree and ignore Mr H, who decided they were dickheads and walked away in disgust.  Correct, Mr H!  We were still waiting with baited breath for Putin to return to discover the invasion of his camping space.


Just as the sun started to drop behind the trees, Putin returned.  Boy Wonder and I sprinted to the side of our tent because we could not imagine what was about to go down and we were excited for a bit of argy bargy.  We could hear the mob of dickheads start to verbally shit themselves as they worried out loud about Putin’s reaction.  Annoyingly Putin, who realised he was outnumbered and was obviously missing his testicles, tucked his tail between his legs and shook hands with the dickhead youths and sat down to drink with them; effectively becoming their mate and practically rolling over to show them his belly.  The jittery laughter of stupid youths became guffaws as they started the ridiculous male behaviour of beating chests and scratching balls.  Boy Wonder could not suppress his disappointment at Putin's  underwhelming reaction and returned to the campfire, grumbling "well, that was anticlimactic."  Yes it was.  Putin, you're a little bitch.


If the 30th had taken off down below, we couldn't hear it over the doof-doof crap from the shuffling fuckwits.  These knobs were getting louder and more inebriated by the minute.  We had dinner and cleaned up and still they got drunker and louder and more annoying.  Then over the hum of our conversation and the noise belting out from the campsite across the way, voices grew more aggressive.  Great, now they were drunk and getting nasty.  It sounded like a fight was going to break out soon.  Boy Wonder and I bolted to the side of the tent again because we were up for some entertainment.  Putin had put himself and his pussy to bed but how he could sleep through the aggressive yelling was beyond me.  He was more than likely lying awake, quivering with fear in his sleeping bag as the drunken fuckwits failed to contain their testosterone around his fire.


The noise level rose and it became apparent that a drunken idiot was trying to get onto his trail bike to ride home.  One of his mates was not allowing him to get onto the bike, great mate right there, and the drunken dickhead and abusing him for his efforts.  Oh my fucking God!  As we peered around our tent, we could see the stupid idiot in full bike gear, complete with helmet and bike boots, trying to get onto his bike.  For fuck’s sake, this stupid git was either going to plow through someone’s campsite and do God knows what to God knows who, or hit a tree and kill himself.  Boy Wonder’s testosterone level kicked up a notch and he started pacing and threatening to punch the dickhead off his bike if he came our way or started anything.  Sit down and shut up, son, I don’t need you to add your furry nuts to the melee.  I started to worry about the young family and the group of girls celebrating, albeit very sedately, down below.  Worse than that, I thought of this stupid git’s mother.  Imagine if her son killed himself and I did nothing about it.  Fuck it, I had to try.


I walked over to the boys sitting around the fire and asked what the hell was going on.  Drunken dickhead in bike gear was getting very aggressive and slurring profane insults all over the place.  No way Putin was asleep, he had to be absolutely shitting himself inside his little tent.  The boys around the fire explained that their mate was trying to get on his bike and ride home.  I told them that could absolutely not happen because if he gets on that bike, he will die tonight.  One of the boys said “I know, that’s why my best mate is over there trying to talk some sense into him.  He’s had too much to drink.” You think?  No shit, Sherlock.  He was also a fuckwit but I kept that observation to myself.  The best mate threw up his arms and walked back to the others sitting down.  I told them I had to go talk him out of it and they started panicking, “No, please don’t go over there, he’s really drunk and raging.” I countered, “Well, I’m a Mum and I cannot stop being a Mum so I’m going to try to talk him out of it.”


I walked over to the dickhead, who could barely keep his bike upright let alone climb onto it.  I decided to go with a passive conversation because drunk dickhead had a face like thunder.  I said “Hi, how are you going?” He rounds on me and screams in my face “I don’t fucking know you, fuck off!” Jesus, ok, maybe I’ll play the guilt card on the fuckwit.  “Yes I know, hon, I’m from that campsite just there.  I just wanted to ask you to please not get on your bike tonight.  I’m a Mum and I can’t stop being a Mum and I’m a little worried about you.”  His expression morphed into hurt, “I just wanna go home and these c*nts won’t let me go.” Jesus mate, don’t tone the language down for my sake.  I ended up saying “hey, that’s because they’re your good mates and they want you to stay and go have a drink with them.  They just want you to stay and have some fun.” His eyes were darting all over the place in unfocussed inebriation, perhaps trying to work out which one of my three blurry heads he should talk to but I got through and he mumbled “ok” and made his way back to his mates.


I contained my victorious fist pump until I made it back to our campsite and told them I hoped that was that for tonight.  Things settled down pretty quickly after that and then the music stopped and they finally went to bed.  Thank fuck for that.  Putin could finally relax in his tent and let his balls descend, and we all got to go to sleep.

The next morning, one of the boys rocking Krusty the Clown hair do, wandered over to our campsite at 10am to apologise, beer in hand and sucking on a hand rolled ciggie (or a joint, I’m not sure which), already getting started.  It turns out this was the dickhead who wanted to ride his bike home.  He said he’d skulled half a bottle of Bombay gin and has no memory of what went down.  He said his mates dragged him by the feet into someone else’s campsite in his full bike kit and helmet, and left him there.  He said woke up beside someone else’s car in someone else’s camp site.  His relay of events was peppered with expletives and absolutely no fucks were given for the women standing in the group before him.  What a knob but we just thought that the silly bastards just got a little too pissed and messed up.  Mrs H pointed at me and called out “this was your Mum last night who talked you out of riding home.” He looked at me and said “Oh hey, thanks.  I hope I didn’t say anything too bad.”  He was genuinely appreciative of my efforts.  I told him he’d aggressively yelled at me that he didn’t know me and to fuck off and he was shocked when I told him that.  He really didn’t remember anything.  After he left, we all thought it was pretty decent of him to come over and apologise.  We thought they might have a chill night tonight and perhaps not be dickheads again.  We thought wrong.


A few minutes later, they all piled on their trail bikes and polluted the air with the loud and annoying revving that drowned out the birds and fractured the tranquillity.  Mr H, who was still grumbling about the standard of wood produced by The Captain and Boy Wonder, ushered them all back out to the woods to get some more firewood.  Mrs H & I took advantage of their absence and snuck in a little nanna nap before the dickhead youths roared back into the campsite and turned the doof-doof shit music right up and destroyed any chance of a snooze.


Later that night, the drunken dickheads were out of control.  A whole bunch of them all piled into one of the cars and hooned around the campsite.  They drove around and around the camp grounds on the tracks, hanging out of the car and shining torches into our eyes as they sped past.  Putin was nowhere to be seen – he wasn’t enduring a repeat of the night before so he was probably hunkered down with the Ruskies or celebrating the 30th.  Around and around these fuckwits zoomed.  Even though we were deep in the bush and there were no roads, only tracks around the campsites, these dead-set fuckwits kept indicating when they got to the cross road.  Boy Wonder and I were killing ourselves laughing every time they went past because we’d watch them stop and indicate before doing a burnout and starting the loop again.  We were just waiting for them to crash into a tree or worse, plow through someone’s site and injure people because they were so bloody drunk. There were still a few of them sitting around the camp fire and behaving like normal people and every time they went past they shook their heads at the fuckwitism on display.  One of the boys around the campfire cracked the shits after a while and just stood up and marched over to the bend in the track.  He belted the car as it went past.  When the car stopped, he screamed at the car load of dickheads “get out of the fucking car, you idiots!” and believe it or not, they did.  They all looked a little contrite as they joined the others and it all seemed to calm down. 


Something happened somewhere at some point because while it was all quiet and we could finally talk, one of the boys came tearing into our campsite and asked if we’d seen his mate because he was missing.  He’s probably taking a shit on someone’s car and finger painting with it.  This kid then launches into a scenario, said he was sitting around the campfire talking to some bloke from another campsite and then he just turned on him and king hit him for no reason.  I found that hard to believe because I wanted to punch the idiots myself and I’m non-confrontational by nature.  He jacked open is mouth and shoved it in my face and asked if his tooth was chipped.  I don’t know what he’d been drinking but it smelled like pure methylated spirits in there; my eyes watered.  For fuck’s sake, it was pitch black out there and I could barely find his face let alone look into his mouth.  I just pretended to look and said I couldn’t see anything.  He said he could feel it with his tongue.  Okay, whatever dude.  Then he ran off to his campsite again.  I felt like Alice and I’d fallen down the rabbit hole.  Curiouser and curiouser.  At some point during the night, after the idiots had fallen into a drunken slumber, Putin crept back into his tent like a little bitch. 

Mr H went to the other campsites the next morning to check on everyone and discovered that one of the drunken dickheads tried it on with one of the girls from another campsite and when she turned him down, he took a shit on her car and smeared it in.  Hmmmm, interesting.  I wonder if that was the missing bloke.  She was disgusted and decided to leave that morning.  I don’t blame her, filthy act by a filthy scut.


The stupid idiots woke early and started with the doof-doof music at an offensive time of day, but they were packing up.   This could not come quick enough; I was tempted to go over there and help them throw their shit in the backs of the cars.  Putin had disappeared very early and did not return until dickhead central cleared out.  We were practically bouncing in our seats and we almost cheered as they finally drove out of the campsite and normalcy and tranquillity was restored.  Sigh.


The rest of the holiday was wonderfully undisturbed as the natural sounds of the bush lulled us into the relaxing atmosphere we had come to expect.  We took an extra day in the bush and packed up on the Tuesday, avoiding the returning crowds.  Unfortunately, the ascent out of the bush and the Black Spur had me feeling very queasy and out of sorts.  We returned to an excited kitty cat and days of washing ahead of me.  Another year done and dusted.


Doona   



Tuesday 27 February 2018

Shit Happens – On The Way To A Party

We were invited to an 18th for the daughter of my very close friend.  I offered to make something sweet to bring along.  From the list of offerings, my friend and her daughter chose rich chocolate brownies slathered in salted caramel sauce.
I made the product and salted caramel sauce on the day of the party, neatly plated and in a container with a carry handle for easy manoeuvrability as we were catching a train to the party (so we could all smash some alcohol).
After waiting an age for Miss Marvellous to finish her bloody make-up, we finally locked the house up and left for the station.  Of course, our train was pulling out of the station when we got there.  Then, as we’re standing on the platform waiting for the next train, which would arrive in about seven minutes, Captain Fantastic frowns at me and says “weren’t you supposed to bring something to eat?”
“Shit, shit, shit.  I left the brownies at home!” I exclaim in horror.  Boy Wonder decides to save the day, “I’ll go!”  He takes off at a sprint and I am sure he will not get there and back in time.  I look at Miss Marvellous and say “Jeez, I hope he carries the container horizontally so the brownies don’t end up sliding off the plate.”  Miss Marvellous decides to send Boy Wonder a text message which I find out later reads: Hey, don’t fuck up the cakes.   Communication between these two siblings is up there with the Bogans. I start to panic a little bit so I ring Boy Wonder and tell him not to worry if he misses the train as there is another one coming in 20 minutes.  I’m more worried about my brownies so I ask him to please try to carry the container horizontal.
After I hang up, I start stressing about everything so I’m jumping from foot to foot in anticipation when we hear the announcement that the train is approaching.  Holy Crap!  Now I’m pressed up against the fence looking for him when I see Boy Wonder round the corner.  He is running like the clappers and the fucking container is vertical!  Aaaarrrggghhh!  His arms a pumping back and forth with the container swinging vertically and I can just imagine what is happening to my brownies inside…are smashed brownies a thing?  I want to say something but the train has arrived and he’s running up the ramp and I actually want him to make it.  He runs into the carriage as the doors are closing and hands me the fucked up product, then drops into a seat; The Captain drops beside him.  Miss Marvellous and I move down the carriage to a couple of free seats.  I eye her and look at the container on my lap and she gives me a look that translates to “Shit!”
Sweat starts pouring off Boy Wonder and he looks pale.  He is seriously dripping sweat everywhere and his tee is stuck to him and he looks for all intents and purposes like he has been for a swim in his clothes.  The train pulls into a station and a family disembark, leaving a group of four seats free, so we call the boys over and we’re sitting as a family.  I tentatively open the container to retrieve some paper towel I had wrapped the jar of extra salted caramel sauce in, and start to dab at my poor son’s sweaty neck.  I now remember that I have also forgotten the birthday gift and silently berate myself for being such a forgetful git.  I announce my stupidity to the family.  Miss Marvellous rolls her eyes, The Captain shakes his head and Boy Wonder is silently, non-judgmentally sweating up a storm beside me.
Miss Marvellous says something to me and suddenly Boy Wonder has Tourette’s and is glaring at us angrily because we have the audacity to speak.  I ask if he is ok and he barks at me with all the hostility of a raging bull, “I feel sick, I’m all sweaty and gross and I just want to get off at the next station and go home.”  I gently say that he can’t really do that as we’re expected at this party and he just rounds on me and rages “Look at me!  My shirt is stuck to me and I’m disgusting and I’m going to stink!!”  Jesus, where is this coming from?  The Captain is scrolling through pictures on his phone, not giving a single gram of fuck; he randomly shows Miss Marvellous some pictures from his cache.  Miss Marvellous gives her father a moment of her attention but she is having none of her brother’s rage and she tells him to calm down but he turns on her too and says “I just ran all the way home and got those things!” nodding at the container in my hand.  Miss Marvellous tells him that we told him not to stress because there is another train.  If looks could kill, Miss Marvellous’ head would have exploded all over the train.  Boy Wonder feels unappreciated and misunderstood.   Nobody voices the fact that he volunteered because the rage has been unleashed and he’s a man-child now.  Miss Marvellous glares back at him and chooses to stay quiet because he is outrageously angry and marinating in his own testosterone.  Boy Wonder is still raging beside me “I am not going inside until someone brings me a freaking towel and some deodorant.  I mean it, I am NOT going in!”  I soothingly tell him I will go in and get those things and it will be ok.  I try to lighten the mood by laughing about the messy product within the container and to my horror; Boy Wonder gives me a death stare and an expletive.  Still raging, “I did this to myself to help you!”  I’m horrified into speechlessness because he has never been rude like that before.  I’m still blinking at the back of his head when the anger just leaves him and he looks at me sheepishly and starts cracking jokes. 
The Captain shows Miss Marvellous another picture and says “here’s a pic of you with your sister.”  Miss Marvellous guffaws because he has shown her a picture of Boy Wonder with long hair.  Boy Wonder thinks it’s funny and gives his father some skin.  I’m still reeling from the insult.
We pull into the station and as I stand to leave, the lid comes off the container and brownies go everywhere.  I catch most of them (and the attention of most of the train as I yelp and rattle around with the brownie container) but about 10 fall all over the floor.  Miss Marvellous takes the container from me because she thinks I’m a clumsy dolt and doesn’t trust me to get what is left of the smashed brownies and goo to the party without flinging them everywhere like a monkey flinging shit.  We collect about 5 of the fallen brownies before Miss Marvellous barks at us to get off the God damned train and leave the others on the floor for some lucky bastard to discover.  We deposit the collected brownies in the bin make our way out of the station. The text message arrives from Miss Marvellous to Boy Wonder about the brownies.  They both laugh because it’s hilarious that it came through 40 minutes after the fact.  I’m not laughing – my brownies are fucked.
We finally make it to the party and I go in and ask for male deodorant but Boy Wonder is telling me it is no longer necessary.  I think to myself, “It bloody is, mate, because if you start to stink you might lose your shit again and I can’t take anymore teenage rage.”
Everyone calms down and we enjoy the party.  I tell them we will drop the gift by the next day and everything is ok.  Miss Marvellous consumes a decent quantity of alcohol and finds herself dancing with a bunch of 40+ year olds to music from the 80s.  Some drunk chick keeps asking Miss Marvellous, repeatedly, like every few seconds, about passwords. I am in my element, a little tipsy and dancing like nobody is watching…but Boy Wonder is watching.  He is embarrassed by my dancing.  He tells me this many times in the train all the way home.  I tell him I don’t care, I dance how I dance and he can get stuffed (I’m still a little stung by his expletive insult on the way in).  We discuss the antics of the drunk people at the party, one of which is a 6ft 7 giant who was dirty dancing with his wife.  Apparently this bloke, all hunched over like a dog taking a shit, arms flailing everywhere and dancing like a knob was ok, because it was funny.  Mine was just shit dancing with a very high level of embarrassment.  He mentions crumping…I did not crump.  I don’t crump because the last time I did so in the kitchen (completely sober, mind you), I put my back out.  I’m too old for that shit.  

Sigh, so much shit happening.

Sunday 7 January 2018

Shit Happens: How I Broke My Butt

There are times in life when one must admit that they are not cut out for certain activities.  It could be a case of being too old, we do get past it, or being so ridiculously spastic and uncoordinated that we fuck up even the most basic of activities.  We may have attempted these activities in the past and failed, but years later, after witnessing a small child succeed in such activities, common sense does not prevail and one thinks, "I might give that another go, maybe I can do it this time."  Fuckwitism at its most prominent.

One such idiotic moment occurred on our 2017-2018 stay in Bright over the Christmas break.  This is an annual family holiday, broken in 2016-2017 by our trip to the USA.  We had missed the tranquil setting of our cabin in the Riverview Caravan Park, through which the Buckland river flows, and we missed the river itself.

The water hole is a daily activity, usually in the morning when it is quiet and peaceful and quite often, ours alone to enjoy with the happy sounds of birds and the calming flow of water.  The first toe dipped into the water effects a stifled scream as the icy temperature, straight from the mountains, makes the nipples pop and the balls retreat, irrespective of the 30•C temperature outside.  Within minutes though, you're up to your thighs and gathering the intestinal fortitude to dip the nether regions and get the shock over with.  Not so Boy Wonder; bolstered by the bravery of youth, he climbs the rocks and leaps off into the icy depths, emerging like a bullet from a smoking gun, gasping and grinning with the crazy only a teen can produce.

The same water hole in the afternoon can be a seething mass of loud and obnoxious teenagers, leaping off the rocks doing bombs, laughing loudly and showing off with backward somersaults to impress the fairer sex and make all mum's in the region dig their nails into their palms and clench in fear; we're born worriers, irrespective of who owns the kid.  The fathers are busy sucking in their beer guts and openly admiring the tight arses and firm titties of the girls, whistfully missing their lost youth.  Get your hand off it, tossers!

As this same river flows through our Caravan Park, most people use the water hole as a launching point to ride the river rapids.  I did attempt this river run many years ago, after torrential rain had the river swollen and flowing at great speed; hiding the rocks and other dangers from the inexperienced and the stupid...yes, me.  As a rookie, I relied on the advice of the experienced; The Captain (who calls himself the coach but leapt into the river and left me to my own defences...nice coaching) and my children.  I was advised at the time by Boy Wonder and Miss Marvellous to dodge the giant boulder, the biggest threat in the water, but since I'd never attempted this activity, I didn't know what to dodge or where this giant obstruction lurked and the fast pace and swell of the river hid such dangers.  I hit said bolder with my knees at great speed, launching into the air comically, to the delight of the Captain.  Re-entry had been difficult given my accident, which put a dent in my confidence, but I made it back alive.  Amazingly, I attempted this run two more times, each one eventuating in some mishap (one of which was completely my fault as I'd launched into the water on a blow up lilo-mattress with a separate pillow that belted me half to death about the head and nearly smacked my glasses off, then rammed the nose pieces into my eyes. Who does this shit?) All attempts left me battered and bruised and lacking in any confidence whatsoever.  "Nope, never again", I said.  Never turned out to be only a few short years away.

So this year, I watched little children leap onto blow-up mats  with abandon and float away with confidence and I thought "the river is calm, I can see the rocks...how hard can it be?"  Enter inappropriate bravado of middle aged, unskilled, spastic, uncoordinated and awkward idiot.  I proposed this ridiculous idea to Boy Wonder and he pollitely asked if I was sure.  His tone did not hide the wariness borne out of experience with me attempting this activity in the past.  Of course I am sure, I can do this!   No I can't.

I mounted the blow up mat in the shallows so I wouldn't embarrass myself bouncing off the thing and landing on my arse.  Bear in mind, this river bed is all rocks and the rapid water flow is directed between boulders.  My son gave me directions, before we set out, to follow his lead and stay calm.  These directions went in one ear and straight out the other as I came off on the first rapid as the mat flipped.  Boy Wonder patiently helped me back into the raft and I celebrated making it through the second rapid and dodging the giant boulder.  He was shocked and surprised when I came off on the benign third rapid and watched as I floundered and guzzled copious amounts of river water.  I didn't hurt myself (other than to dent my pride) and was very pleased when we made it to the slow pace after the rapids and lazily drifted into the Caravan Park.

Imagine his surprise when I said I wanted another go.  His face was incredulous because, come on, my track record to this point was absolutely shit!  I thought that now I knew the dangers (and if made it past that fucking boulder once...), surely I can get it right this time.  The look of incredulous disbelief was only momentary, but warranted.  I fucked up badly.

When we arrived, teenagers were everywhere at the water hole, a harbinger of doom as I hastily launched myself after Boy Wonder, who was eager to get this over with.  Badly positioned on the air mat to start with, I barely made it through the first rapid when the second rapid launched me half up and I failed to rebalance, flipping upside down.  This was bad, I was suddenly bereft of glasses (which I somehow managed to grasp in the turmoil), and as it was deep, I was still trying to cling to the raft as it belted me on the head and held me under water.  Trying not to panic as it threw me around in the middle of the rapid, I tenaciously clawed my way up and inhaled in a huge lungful of water, then half killed myself trying to get my head above the water level, gasping and making goat noises whenever I managed to surface and suck in air.  I was thrown hard against a pointy boulder and bounced solidly on my coccyx, belting my shin on the fucking boulder I was trying to avoid.  Floundering, gasping and burping water bubbles, my head broke free to hear Boy Wonder screaming "Stay Calm, just bloody stay calm".  I had the wherewithal to belch "I am calm" at him, but with my voice altered by water intake and lack of oxygen, I sounded like Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon.

"Come over here!" he yelled (Danny Glover?  Still caught in Lethal Weapon).  I refrained from telling him to fuck off, concentrating instead on breathing, climbing to safety and gathering my shattered wits.

As I was still gasping and trying to climb back onto the raft, executing the vertical splits as I righted myself, some bloke floating behind us yells out "hey, where do you get off this thing?"  Mate, I can barely fucking breath, can you piss off?  Boy Wonder glared at the guy, like he could make his head explode with his laser vision...not now, dude!  I yelled back "this ends in a Caravan Park, but you can get off under the bridge!"  He exclaimed, "SHIT!" and then we ignored his arse because my air mat had turned around and I was going backwards and we were approaching the third rapid.  Boy Wonder was yelling at me to turn around and I was splashing, frantically paddling, trying to turn my mat before...ah for fuck's sake, not again!  The last thing I saw was the quizzical expression of the guy in the tube before getting tossed off the mat again at the benign and most uncomplicated and unchallenging of all the rapids, which had my son shaking his head in disbelief.  His opinion of my ability to function at a normal level of competency had plummeted to rock bottom and although he didn't say so, his expression screamed it at a thousand decibels.  I just wanted everything and everyone to fuck off so I could flop like a flaccid dick across this air mat and catch my breath.

 As we drifted into the slow lazy pace, I told Boy Wonder that I'd seriously hurt myself in the butt and he advised that I should not attempt this again and perhaps I should join him from now on under the bridge and after the rapids.  This is the point I became unhinged and started laughing hysterically.  My nose was still burning from the water shooting through it but hey, my sinuses were clear.  My tailbone was throbbing and my spine was tingling from the jarring encounter with the rock that arse-fucked me when I was at my most vulnerable.

I asked why he was screaming at me stay calm, which he flat out denied had happened.   I suspect at the time he was trying to contain his terror as he watched his mother bounce around and drown audibly.  I should learn to die quietly.  He said that everything happens for a reason and baby Jesus doesn't want me to ride the rapids.

We returned to the cabin to be greeted by a grinning Captain Fantastic, who had seen the whole thing from the road above.  Jesus!  I asked if he'd heard Boy Wonder shouting at me to stay calm and he said "yes, that's how I knew you were there."  Boy Wonder is still shaking his head in denial - he needs to calm the fuck down in a crisis but the poor kid held it together surprisingly well considering the fuckwit thrashing about in the water with him.

The following day I found it was painful to walk and I wondered if I'd actually cracked my tail bone or smacked the fucker right off.  Grimacing and groaning, getting up from a sitting position or sitting down made me cry out (my pain threshold having all but disappeared) and I was beginning to sound like the giant bulls in the paddock adjacent to the caravan park.  Any form of walking was agony; inclines and declines the most painful of all.  We wondered aloud at the fate of that bloke behind us.  "Poor guy," said Boy Wonder, "I hope he got out alright".  Nah, fuck him, I thought as I struggled to get off my chair without bovine bellowing, he saw me fuck-up on the unfuck-upable rapid - we can never see that guy again...if we do, we have to kill him.

Boy Wonder was chivalrous and helpful, holding out his hand to help me get up or sit...or just walk.  He thought it was an insight into my future as he joked that I'm like a 90 year old, like he's assisting a stroke victim.  He certainly felt like he was watching me pitch some sort of fit in the river that day. He gleefully tells me over lunch today that I'm retarded and he's never heard of anyone coming off on the third rapid, and that he can't wait to tell Miss Marvellous (who didn't join us on holidays this year) so they can laugh about it.  His dad chimed in and said it's actually impossible to come off on the third.  "No it's not", I rejoined defensively, "because I came off!" and he counters "Jeez, it's a wonder you can put one foot in front of the other".  Fuck off, Captain, you're a shit coach.