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
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