UK & BEYOND - Part 1 - London or Bust

 

28.05.2022

After the soul crushing cancellation of 2020 and 2021 due to someone rooting a bat (maybe ate it, not sure), we finally got to embark on our trip to the UK.

 

After the mother of all glitches made it impossible to rebook our flights with Qantas (but not before we spent around 18 hours of frustration on the phone and two trips to the airport for the captain, trying to fix the issue and consequently giving me a facial tic), we gave Qantas the flick and re-booked with Singapore airlines. They’ve got a great reputation, right? Ah, cue the usual shenanigans that accompany the Newlands’ wherever we should roam.

 

First – Singapore Airlines couldn’t get our boarding pass to print at Tullamarine airport for the 2nd leg of the flight on to Heathrow. After waiting patiently while our service assistant consulted many other staff members, who all got the same result, it was established that we’d have to go to the Transit desk when we hit Singapore to request one. Eyeroll.

 

Within minutes of boarding, I knew this was going to be a shit flight. No screens on the back of the seat in front of me. We were booked on a Singapore Airlines Scoot flight - the ‘Tight-arse Tuesday’ bitch flight of the skyways. No inflight entertainment. Let me repeat that - NO INFLIGHT ENTER-FUCKING-TAINMENT!  Are you kidding me? For fuck’s sake - hours and hours of NOTHING but the back of a seat in front of me! Scream! I can’t sleep on planes so sweet F.A. to do for eight Goddamned hours. I look askance at The Captain with a mouth pursed like a cat’s arse, struggling to hide my ire. He volunteers, “Oh, maybe that’s why the flights were so cheap”. You think, sunshine?

 

A nanosecond after take-off the one and only food delivery is served – Mum’s Fried Rice (questionable). OK, I’m being bitchy, as it IS airline food we’re talking about, but I was already pissed off due to the lack of inflight entertainment. Mum’s fried rice my arse - tasted more like Uncle Joes seared left testicle, deep fried in plastic. There was a questionable substance that had a chewy foam texture that I couldn’t bring myself to swallow. I believe a lone, pale, unappetising spotty pork chipolata sausage was presented on top of the rice like a fat choad dick. Nope. Then I discovered that we had to pay for our drinks and snacks! A$35 for a couple of drinks. Get fucked, Singapore Airlines! What a stitch-up.

 

Halfway through the first leg (the shortest part of our trip), my ‘low battery’ red light came on my phone - I’d been listening to podcasts to entertain myself. Kill me! Four more hours of this shit!

 

I tried to sleep and did that dozing, lean forward jerk awake when you smack your face on the seat in front of you thing about 20 times before I gave up on sleep. I finally asked Captain Fantastic to get my backpack down from overhead storage and got the charging pod out to get my phone off ‘near death’ status and then started reading my manuscript.

29.05.2022

When we disembarked at Changi airport at some ungodly hour, we had a few hours to kill so we bought a Singapore noodle soup that was delicious and was super cheap. Cue the one drink we allowed ourselves and we were astounded that alcohol could cost so much for a glass of mediocrity.

 

The second leg of our trip departed four hours later and lasted 14.5 hours. I was practically punching the air to discover those little screens on the back of the seat in front. Drowsy as I was, I settled in for a viewing fest of the latest movies.

 

I poured a glass of water on my crotch at about 3am so I marinaded in that for around 7 hours. I attempted to leave my seat to attend the bathroom to clean myself up a bit but as I was trying to get out of my seat, a guy walked briskly past me popping fire-cracker farts that smelled like holy hell, so I sat back down gave it another hour or so to let the miasma of aerated death clear from the toilets.

 

After 3 movies or so, I tried to settle into my neckroll whilst sitting upright to catch a few Zs. I cannot sleep on a plane at the best of times, but this was especially difficult given that there was a screaming child in the row in front of us. The screaming escalated to ear-splitting as we descended; matched by a dead-set, lung-fest, screaming, vasectomy advertisement a few rows back. My shoulders were up around my ears for the entire decent. I could still hear her screaming at the baggage terminal and pitied the parents. By this stage, I felt like an octogenarian, I was so tired and withered.

 

After the time difference, we landed at Heathrow airport at 6am London time to a beautiful sunny morning. We caught the Piccadilly line (heading to Cockfosters… Ha-ha). It was late spring in London and the weather was mild (chilly by Melbourne standards at that rude hour, but sunny and pretty). As we travelled the Piccadilly line, we are rewarded with lush, green, and beautiful blooms. The line was high in places, and we got a peek inside the cottage backyards of the houses we passed. Some were overgrown but others offered a glimpse of gardens awash with well-tended blooms. This fed my excitement, and I couldn’t wait to start exploring. We disembarked the train at Hyde Park, which was located near our hotel.

Only the Newlands’ would walk the full length of Hyde Park loaded up like a couple of packhorses, dragging luggage, onboard bags & neckrolls.  People were jogging the tracks, others were walking their dogs and here we were, bedraggled and travel weary hauling arse through the massive expanse of Hyde Park. We walked up and down Bayswater Road hauling all our crap, looking for Queensborough Terrace without data or a map. Finally located, we dumped our luggage at our hotel to be left until we could access our room in the early afternoon, and we started our sightseeing adventure.

First order of business was to pop into a shop and get a SIM card that would give us data to use for our stay in the UK so we weren’t wandering aimlessly about London like lost sheep. I was dubious of the dodgy looking bastard behind the counter, but he turned out to be alright and I'm a judgmental piece of shit.

First up we visited Buckingham Palace, which was a bit of a fizzer because Tuesday would see the celebration of Her Majesty’s Platinum Jubilee kick off, so we couldn’t get a photo in front of the gates. There were tents and tarps everywhere and a gazillion people all wandering around in the sunshine like browns cows. The Bobbies were attempting to control the crowd and of course, we’d just missed the changing of the guards. Shit!

We popped into Westminster Cathedral - oh my gawd it was lovely. So much history. Westminster Cathedral is the mother church of the Catholic Church in England and Wales & is the largest Catholic church in the UK, so we certainly picked a good one to start with. We also saw the London Eye, Big Ben (still couldn’t go up as the renovations are still ongoing and they are not expecting it to reopen until Spring 2023), we saw the River Thames from Westminster Bridge (the chocolate milk colour of which would rival the Yarra), walked through SoHo and Whitehall gardens and saw those teeny, tiny little squirrels in Hyde Park which elicited an excited squeak from me… and an eyeroll from The Captain. He’d already endured my squirrel obsession in New York in 2016, and he was not pleased to experience it again.

We’d overheated a little in the completely unexpected warm weather, so we called into The Clarence and had a warm beer and a bowl of hot chips. This was the first and only warm beer for me – if there is no condensation on my glass, that’s a ‘no’ from me. It’s just not right! I had to drink water to quench my thirst. What the heck?

After this alarming experience, we went to Trafalgar Square and took some photos by the water fountain. Then we moved on to the Italian Gardens in Hyde Park, saw Scotland Yard and walked the streets of the Monopoly board in real time. All streets and shops were decorated with paraphernalia for the Queen’s impending Platinum Jubilee celebration.

We dined at La Brasserie Italian for our first meal in the UK. By the time we got to bed, we’d been awake for 48 hours. No wonder we crashed and went into a coma.

30.05.2022

We started our morning early with what was to become the best toasted ham and cheese sandwich in our entire UK experience, and a delicious latte at the Granier Bakery across the road from our hotel. We had noticed a mammoth queue outside the bakery the day before and made a point of sampling the goods. We weren’t disappointed.

Despite walking over 20kms, we didn’t see as much as anticipated as Her Majesty’s jubilee preparations thwarted our efforts.

We paid our respects at Dianna, Princess of Wales memorial fountain, which was a poor man’s second to what I really wanted to see, the Lady Diana statue located in Kensington Palace. The bloody palace was closed just like Buckingham Palace. Insert angry face emoji. This was the second ‘must see’ that I couldn’t get to because of her Maj and her celebrations! Talk about selfish. I’d researched Kensington Palace before we arrived, and it was high on my list, but I guess she had to hunker down somewhere while all the shit was going on around her.

We walked through Kensington Gardens (past the closed palace... no, I WON’T let it go), saw the Albert Memorial with Royal Albert Hall in the background, visited Harrods - La de dah! (We traipsed through this fine establishment in exercise leggings/ shorts and a tee - ‘oh hey, the bogans have arrived!’ We bought a bottle of water so we could say we bought something there… tight-arses, ha!). We walked through The Wellington Arch, we passed the Horse Guard’s Parade, (maybe saw the horse guards??) and finally got to see the magnificence of Westminster Abby. Lordy, it was even lovelier than the cathedral. I couldn’t help but think of all the royals who tied the knot in Westminster Abby. The inside far excelled what my imagination could conjure. Whilst there we also saw the Little Cloister, Pyx Chamber, Britain’s oldest door (from the 1050s) & St Catherine’s Chapel Garden within Westminster Abby.

We’d bought heritage passes before we left Melbourne to save entry fees on the tourist attractions in the UK. Well all it was good for was wiping your arse on. The only ‘discount’ we got was at Westminster and that’s it. Rip off! Another stitch up!

We ducked into the Royal Albert Pub for a breather and a pint, then walked back though Hyde Park again, this time without the baggage. I reckon we traversed the entire expanse of Hyde Park twice over in just 2 days.

31st we would depart London for York.

*****

** Note: 09.09.2022 - We woke to the news of the Queen's passing this morning. We were privileged to be in London and the UK during the celebrations of her Majesty's Platinum Jubilee Celebrations and all humour was tongue in cheek and certainly not meant to offend.

 

The Twisticle Incident

Early afternoon, one Monday in August 2018, I was chowing into my sandwich at my work desk when I got an email from Boy Wonder. The email had arrived twenty minutes earlier, but I hadn’t seen it. The correspondence was limited in characters, to the point and alerting me that he was in a fair bit of pain. Eyebrows up, I was wondering where this was going. The email was followed by a text that his left nut was aching, and he was now in agony and the pain was making him nauseous. Well, that escalated quickly. I called the lad, and he was whispering and hissing down the phone to me, interspersed with groans, which was odd.

Me: “You all good, mate”

BW: Whispered, “No” (groan), “it’s really bad”

Me: “Why are you whispering?”

BW: “I’m, uh… hnngg, I’m in the library.”

Me: “What’s up?”

BW: My nuts are killing me.”

Me: “How is the pain level out of 10”

BW: Groan… “9.85”

Me: Oh shit! “That’s bad… I wonder if it’s a twisted testicle.”

BW: More groaning, “…a twisted what now?”

Me: Oops, I wasn’t aware I’d said that out loud. “Never mind, go straight to the office and sign out – I’m coming to get you. You don’t mess around with the boys.”

 

I told the boss I where I was going, turned off the PC, got in the car, and drove as sensibly as I could within the speed limit. I pulled up in front of the school gates and found him on all fours, dry retching on the nature strip. He was pasty white, sweaty (also a teenager, so not such a biggie) but clearly in agony. We were only around ten minutes from our doctor, so I drove to the medical centre. All the way there he was writhing in pain beside me, and it was all I could do not to panic. He groaned that the pain had moved into his stomach now and was see-sawing from nuts to guts. On high alert with tyres squealing, I just about enter the medical centre on two wheels and Tokyo Drifted into the car space. I ran into reception asked for urgent help. Boy Wonder was outside delivering a pizza all over the petunias in the medical centre garden beds as the retching produced a bounty. One of the doctors, who happened to be free, came outside and encouraged Boy Wonder to come with him into the nurse’s station. I remained outside the room because it had been about twelve years since I’d seen his agates, and definitely not since they became nestled in a springy thatch of pubic glory. The doctor felt my boy up behind the closed door and asked him questions then came out to me and advised that he suspected it was a twisted testicle (I refrained from the fist pump at my own diagnosis - this was not the time or the place for victory dances) and advised that we needed to go to emergency post haste. He said it will be quicker for me to drive him to Box Hill Hospital than it would be to call an ambulance.

 

I led him, groaning and dry retching, back to the car and belted him in. Cursing the traffic and every red light we hit on the way, my grip on the steering wheel was dangerously close to leaving dents. During this stop / start mission to protect the jewels, Boy Wonder’s whole body started shaking violently, like he’d gone into shock or something. I was still driving as safely as I could whilst nudging the speedometer a couple of clicks over the speed limit because I was worried sick and trying not to show it. I somehow managed to keep my shit together.

I could not for the life of me find a car space because it’s Box Hill Hospital and parking is a fucking nightmare, so I dumped him and told him to wait while I drove off with tyres squealing, to find a car park, which was about half a Goddamn kilometre away. I then had to frantically dig around in my purse for shrapnel to feed the metre because the credit card option was ‘out of order’… it doesn’t rain, it pours! I clip-clop ran like a crazy goat in my tight skirt and high heels, back to the hospital, sucking on my asthma pump on the way to avoid requiring emergency attention myself. I found him still groaning, still shaking and still looking like someone painted his portrait in six shades of dried dog shit. I guided him inside the emergency entrance.

 

The Box Hill Hospital emergency department is a clusterfuck of bad shit - a child with a broken collar bone, a man with a hump on his back that could rival a camel, a baby who is unresponsive post fit... and my boy who looks like shit, but there’s nothing obvious about him that would ring alarm bells. Boy Wonder could not stand, so he shuffled to some unoccupied seats further back in the waiting room and lay on them, shallow breathing through his teeth, curled in the foetal position and cradling his aching jewels.

 

I joined the line to get past Nurse Ratched at the Triage station (she who decides the priority of the patients) and spent ten minutes executing a patience I did not feel, nervously looking at my son and clenching my butt cheeks in panic and frustration. Whilst in the queue, altering in shades of green myself, I put out a call to Captain Fantastic and told him where we were. He was on his way to an appointment but swiftly turned around and headed to the hospital. I messaged Miss Marvellous, who was working a shift at the bakery at the time, and she called her boss and told him she needed to go to the hospital for a family emergency and left to catch a train.

The pain was making my boy shake harder and I contemplated leaving my place in line and running to him, but I was next in the queue so decided I should just wait. The Captain arrived while I was still queued and ran straight for Boy Wonder, bringing a bin with him because Boy Wonder looked like he was ready to vomit again. An elderly couple mistook his shaking for a seizure and ran for emergency help. Thank fuck because shit happened very quickly from that point forward. Boy Wonder was whisked into a curtained examination cubicle and we were told to wait outside while they stripped him and fondled his aching boys.

 

The doctors in emergency threw a sheet over him and urgently called Urology to get down there. A doctor came down from Urology lickety-split and again, he was fondled (his nuts were getting more attention than a new groom) and then they came out to chat to us.

 

The Captain and I were nervously pacing outside. The Urology doc asked what time it had all started and I advised the time of the first message. We went into the room with our boy and were advised that they were almost certain he had testicular torsion (twisted testicle) and from the time the testicle twists, there is only a two-hour window in which to have corrective surgery, or the testicle dies from blood loss. It had been pretty close to that already and they were prepping surgery for an urgent operation, but we all had to come to terms with the fact that he was more than likely going to lose his left testicle. At this point, the boy was in so much pain that he couldn’t have cared if they hacked the bloody thing off with a butter knife. They gave Boy Wonder some pain killers and within a couple of minutes, the tightness around his mouth and eyes relaxed as the edge was taken off the pain. They closed the curtain and left us to discuss the future of our son and his left nut. Miss Marvellous bounced into the room in time to hear us discussing the loss of his lefty and she turned a few shades whiter.

So, after coming down from the ceiling, where I’m sure he’d left nail marks in the plaster, Boy Wonder looked at us all and mumbled "R.I.P my left nut." I stifled a nervous giggle, but the Captain barked “this is serious, mate!” Thanks, Captain Obvious! Insert eye-roll. Boy Wonder, who was now looking pretty chill, countered "I know dad, but it’s my nut, and it is what it is." The Captain takes this as permission to shit talk, so he says “OK, well we’ll call you 'one-nut' from now on then”. Too far, dude… too far.

 

The nurse and doctor re-entered the cubicle followed by an orderly, as we were advised that the surgery is ready, and they need to prep the patient. Boy Wonder gives us a thumbs-up as he is wheeled away, whisked off to surgery and we are left waiting; I said a silent farewell to his lefty. Meanwhile, The Captain goes out into the surrounding streets with two sets of keys and plays musical cars so neither of us cops a fine. We were all a little distressed as we waited, sipping hospital café coffee that was the epitome of mediocrity in a paper cup, but it was a distraction from what was happening a level above us.

 

Finally, after hours of waiting, my mobile vibrated rudely on the table. It was the nurse’s station upstairs to advise that he was out of surgery and in recovery. They warned that only one person could go, which was me… it was always going to be me because Goddamn it, I am his mother!!! Also, the Captain couldn’t come up because he was back out there playing musical cars again in the surrounding streets, leaving him with nothing but pocket lint because the Whitehorse council are a bunch of selfish fucks who are making significant profit from the families of the sick and needy. Arseholes! I high-fived Miss Marvellous and practically run up to the next level. I was disappointed that the receptionist parked me in yet another waiting area. I waited a full ½ hr before I asked the receptionist when I can see my son. She looked over to another nurse and she said, “it won’t be much longer.” Bitch, it’s already been hours and I’m stressed to the max! Of course, I dutifully sat down to wait again. The Captain texted, Miss Marvellous texted… how is he? I have no frigging idea because I’m still parked outside the recovery area, perched on the edge of the seat with my handbag on my lap, holding the handle in a death-grip like a little old Italian Nona waiting for a bus!

 

Finally, someone in scrubs comes to see me. “Hello, great news! When we went in, his left testicle was blue, not black…” which is the death knell, apparently, “…and it pinked up beautifully!” This is possibly the only time my son’s left nut will be described as beautiful. We continued across the hall to recovery and the nurse continued to explain the operation, “So we unravelled it, as it had twisted upon itself one and a half times, and it went pink. I’m sorry it took so long for us to let you see him. There was a bit of a medical issue when he was coming out of the anaesthetic… he had a Laryngospasm” it sounded like he said 'Ranga' spasm and I looked at him like he just spoke Swahili, as my brain tried to figure out why he was telling me a Ranga had a spasm. He took in my confusion, “Oh, his larynx spasmed and he couldn’t breathe so we had to pop him back under and ventilate him until the spasms ceased.” Never a dull moment. “You can see him now in recovery if you’d like.” Holy Mother of Murgatroyd, I just need to see my boy.

 

I could hear him before I could see him… he was all giggly and looking around like a stunned mullet, behaving like he’d smoked a bunch of blunts in there. He called the male nurse ‘dude’ about six times, and the nurse in question was grinning… loves it. Boy Wonder said to no one in particular, “Duuuuuude, it feels like I’ve just been in a movie.” Hmmm, would the movie title be ‘My left nut?’. He spied me and yelled at a thousand decibels, “Oh heeey, I’m back,” throwing his hands in the air in victory. I frowned and shushed him, then delivered the good news about his lefty… but he turned his head to the side like a confused Labrador. I explained it again to him, very s-l-o-w-l-y and then the penny dropped. “Oh hey, yesssss!” He delivered a fist pump then tried to take a look and reunite himself with his traumatised testy, but I told him to chill… I still don’t want to see his manly boys.

 

The nurse further informed me that even though they had saved his left testicle, it might still curl up and die (it didn’t) due to blood & oxygen starvation, however, his right testicle will still perform at a normal level so there’s no reason he cannot produce offspring. Mate, he’s seventeen years old… settle down. They attached both testes to the wall of his nut-bag … fiiiine, we’ll call it a scrotum, to prevent a repeat occurrence in either jewel.

 

Getting him home was hilarious. He had stitches everywhere and very bruised balls. He was walking around the house like John Wayne in slow motion for days. The event will forever more be referred to as the 'Twisticle' incident he is 'Nearly One-Nut", ha!

When he was almost healed and the dissolvable stitches had all but gone, there was a little tightness and stinging in the last couple of stitches. When I asked where, he said “you know that small space between the playground and the sewer?” Form!

The Art of Being Clumsy

I am, it seems, a complete clutz. I haven’t taken a tumble in quite a while but when I do something, I don’t do it by halves.

I run most mornings; I get up at 5:45am, change into normal running clothes, pop the ear buds in my ears and off I go.  In summer I am in my element, running on the Anniversary Trail and feeling at one with nature.  During the winter months, however, I have to endure the dark and lonely streets… running only the well-lit main thoroughfares because evil walks amongst us, and with my music so low it is neither a distraction to me nor does it hinder my ability to hear.  This can sometimes make me appear quite paranoid and crazy.  The fossicking of birds as they go about their breakfasts and scuttering of possums returning to their nests or dreys cause me to tense in alarm and constantly look over my shoulder and behind me. 

Running in the dark of winter comes with a separate set of challenges.  Even the well-lit streets have dark patches where I can’t see the path clearly and depth perception is almost non-existent.  In these dark places, I slow to a jog or even a walk, lest I trip over or sprain an ankle, and I find I am quite anxious during my morning runs. Autumnal leaves also hide raised pavement, sticks and other detritus that can otherwise cause a fall and make me question the sanity of these early morning jaunts.  As Spring has recently taken hold, sunrise is arriving earlier however, it’s not quite light enough to run on the track just yet so I am still running the streets and looking forward to next month when I can resume my easy lope along the Anniversary trail. 

On this, the day of my last spill, it was 6.40am and I was running in full light, on my return trip back home.  I was running on a main arterial road and the traffic lights up ahead were red, so there was a sea of taillights in the long waiting line of traffic before me.  It was quite mild for this early in Spring, but it was really windy.  Despite the blustery conditions, I felt good.  My asthma was playing nice and my allergies were settled.  I felt like I was running easily so I decided to pick up the pace and sprint as fast as I could to the traffic lights at the corner to boost my heart rate and calorie burn; something I did often.  This would have been fine had Mother Nature not been bored shitless and decided to mix shit up a little.  Whilst I was sprinting, my breath puffing in front of me like vapour and leaves swirling behind me in my slipstream, a giant gust of wind blustered against me and blew a large branch from the front garden I was passing across my path.  The branch blew between my ankles mid stride and because I was sprinting, a nanosecond later I was airborne and swimming in air. Holy Mother of Murgatroyd!!!

My memory plays the whole scenario back in slow motion; the thwack of the branch on my ankle, the realisation that I am falling, the windmilling of my arms and giant, leaping strides as I try to regain my footing and balance, followed by the inevitable landing, which caught in my own speed momentum, propelled me across the path.  I’m sure the people in their cars would have seen something quite different.  Their visual would have been a crazy woman running at pace with a face set in sheer determination, suddenly appear to fly… then actually try to fly with arms flapping and legs taking giant leaping strides, then bounce on the pavement, before sliding in a flurry of arms and legs like a fat sea lion tobogganing across ice, ending sprawled across the path.

My glasses flew off my face and bounced along the path and I felt the burn in my hands immediately but the biggest sensation warring with the physical pain was humiliation.  In one swift movement I leapt from sprawled across the pavement into a crouch, like a surfer on the crest of a wave.  I then hobbled and stumbled like a drunkard around the corner and down the street, away from the cars whose occupants were surely laughing so hard they eyes were leaking.  I retreated to the safety of a nearby park to quietly sit on a park bench for a moment to slow my breathing and calm my jangled nerves and shaking limbs. I looked at my hands and noted my left hand had two meaty, chunky pieces dangling that were full of dirt and the right hand had the skin grazed clean off.  My forearm was smarting and so was my thigh, so I hurried home like a broken lump because I can’t teleport.

In the privacy of my bathroom, I quietly removed my clothes to assess the damage.  Lordy, my right thigh was also bruised and scraped (from the bounce and slide) and my right shoulder was sending screaming messages all up my neck and down my back.  I filled a bath and climbed in against my better judgement, knowing that this was going to make my whole-body sear in pain.  Well roll me over and call me shorty, I got through those first moments without even yelping.  I did hiss my breath in through clenched teeth though; my hands throbbing and burning and my brain firing all manner of expletives at me.  I had to cut out the meaty chunks in my left palm because I couldn’t remove the dirt.  Just the thought of that should make your nether regions tingle.

Miss Marvellous ventured down the stairs and find me trying to dress for the day with fucked up hands and a very dead shoulder, looking for all intents and purposes like a nonagenarian.  It was all I could do not to sit on the ground and cry like a toddler. She bandaged my weeping hands, so they didn’t stick to everything at the office and weep blood everywhere, and I ventured into the office to explain my stupidity and the artful injury.  This is what happens when you turn 50, your usual routine throws stupid shit at you and one simple fall can result in all manner of ouches.  Imagine if I was actually 90?!?!?!!!  I would have required a hip replacement and possible organ replacement.

The last time I tried this trick was about 11 years ago and around the same time of year.  During that display of gifted calisthenics, I took a whole patch of skin off my stomach, off the V-dub bonnet (mons pubis??) and forearm and almost tore one of my nipples off so I guess I should be grateful that I contained the injuries to my extremities and not my undercarriage. Sigh!

What was that??

Boy Wonder and I were watching End Game, a 3hr Marvel movie, the last in The Avengers series. As usual, tiredness was tugging at the corners of my eyes (I’m always tired and usually in bed by 10pm because I get up early) and I was wondering how I was going to make it all the way through the movie without nodding off and majorly pissing my son off, who’s patience with my “old bag” behaviour was wearing very thin (this was our second attempt as the last time I was drooling in my collar within the first hour and only taking in snippets during that time.. it’s hard to watch a movie through closed eyelids). We were engrossed in a scene when we heard a loud thump, thump, thump. First, we looked to the roof for the usual nightly possum entertainment, but it wasn’t the possums. Each night we hear them scramble across the roof like a herd of elephants; thumping, falling, sliding, raking their claws trying to find purchase, bouncing, then rolling down the steep slope, only to fly with momentum off the end and over the gutter, into the nearby tree when they cling for a few moments to get their shit together after the nightly ride. The possums in Camberwell are either bat-shit crazy, because they repeat this behaviour nightly, or off their noggins on some kind of natural smack. Anyway, I digress.

The thumping sound was loud but oddly sonic in nature, like steps. It definitely sounded like something or someone on the roof. The movie is instantly paused, and I marvel at his dexterity in a crisis (I’d be groping and molesting the whole couch looking for the bloody remote, then peering at it myopically, trying to see the buttons in the dark). We both froze, hearts in our mouths, listening. Another softer noise sounds and my son teleports to the kitchen where he grabs the massive carving knife, and I note that he’s not waving it like a scared little boy, he’s holding it firmly by the handle in his fist, arm raised above his shoulder, ready to strike down and do some serious damage. Well shit a brick, this propels me into action, and I grab the next sized knife down in the block and follow him. All the lights are out, and I hiss at him, my whisper quavering because I’m shitting myself “don’t turn the lights on... they don’t know our house and it’s an advantage for us that we can navigate in the dark”. I can just see his eyes and I see them narrow, like he thinks I watch too many crime shows, but it makes sense to him.

First we tiptoe downstairs to the bottom level. We pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking through the windows at the backyard, which is pretty well lit by the moonlight. There lots of branch movement but no human shaped shadows. We tiptoe towards the cupboard, which is open and I’m wondering why. Then I remember I put some crap in there yesterday and obviously forgot to close the bloody door. I’m straining in the dark to see if the shapes match what should be in there. My eye balls are aching because I’ve got my eyes so wide open in an effort to see in the dark they’re positively protruding from my skull and I’m sure I look like a lemur, only not cute... probably more like Dobby, the House Elf.

Boy Wonder goes past me and springs into the dark bathroom. I hold my breath... waiting for a someone’s startled yelp at my son’s sudden appearance. My butt is clenching and unclenching so much I could chew a fucking Minty with it.

Finding downstairs safe, we stealthily make our way back upstairs to the main level and go room by room. I’m expecting Boy Wonder to drop into a commando roll across the carpet, but he keeps his ‘this is serious shit’ hat on. He is curiously angry... I’m trying not to shallow pant myself into a faint. We see nothing. Then I remember the Miss Marvellous doesn’t lock her door to the outside deck and if someone is on the roof, they’re going to get in through her room. I whisper this to my son and his face sets in a hard line. I think in his head he thinks “Oh you better bring your end game, arsehole!” I swallow hard and follow in his wake.

Oh, Lordy I’m getting scared as we tiptoe our way up the stairs. On the landing, we peer onto the bathroom and find it empty. He goes into his room while I stand in the door way of my daughters room, trying to see in the dark and knowing it resembles a tip and there will be shit everywhere and if there’s ever going to be a moment when we stand on something small and sharp and makes us yelp and scream expletives, it will be in this room. I peer through the open door to the glass French doors that lead to her deck... I can’t see anyone outside, but I wait for my boy because I’m shit scared. I look into his room and frown as I see him crouching like a Kungfu Master, knife in his fist and raised above his shoulder; scowling into his room. Dude! What the fuck... your room is empty, get your arse over here.  We tentatively tip toe into the messy space that is Miss Marvellous' room and shuffle rather than step so we can clear a path and avoid stepping on something sharp.  As I sweep my foot, a pin inserts itself in the pad of my big toe and it is all I can do not to squeal like a stuck pig.  I lower myself at the pace of a sloth and remove the offending stick impaled in my toe and continue to scope the room.  The deck is clear, the roof is clear, and her room is clear, so we back out of the room and gently make our way back down the stairs at the main level again.

We stand at the bottom of the stairs and listen hard.  The house creaks as it expands and contracts with the contrasting temperatures inside and outside.  Then suddenly something glass like is knocked over and rolls across the hardwood floor in the main living space.  JFC! Someone is in the house. At this point, my butt would have sucked that Minty in and swallowed it whole. My heart thuds so hard it rocks me in place and the roar of my blood rushing through my veins is loud in my ears.  I am so terrified at this moment and although you may think you know how you’d react, when it actually happens, any bravado just leaves you.  Terror and adrenalin make you so alert, you think you’re positively glowing with it in the dark.  Boy Wonder’s manly ‘protector’ instinct kicks in and grabs my arm and pulls me behind him. Part of me is willing to hide behind him but I’m at war with my motherly instinct to protect my young and acutely aware that it’s a fine line between being a lioness and emasculating my son. I chose to remain behind him. The house creaks loudly and I fight the urge to crawl to safety in his arse crack. My butt is now contracting at an alarming rate and I hope it doesn’t consume my pants.

We carefully tiptoe into the main room, which is dark, and we’re holding our breath. We soundlessly take in the kitchen, dining area, living spaces and see them empty.  Then I spy the cat in the corner looking to the side of the couch and in my head,  I’m whispering “OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod”  We creep forward and around the couch, the fight instinct outweighing the flight instinct because my boy looks like he could gut a mountain lion.  Then I look at the cat in the corner again and see that she looks guilty. WTF?  I squat down low and see a glass on its side and the contents all over the floor and spattered on the wall, but no one hiding behind the couch.  I stand up suddenly and announce to my son that the stupid cat knocked over the glass and there’s no one here.  We both near collapse with relief and deflate on the couch.  There’s no longer a question of 'if' I’ll stay awake for the movie, there’s now a question of if I’ll be able to fall asleep at any point during the night.

We discuss the whole thing for a good 15 minutes then resume the movie but we’re all antsy now.  Every time the house creeks we jump and pause the movie.  The cat decides to get her crazy on and zooms up and down all the stairs and through the house, keeping us on edge.  Boy Wonder utters that he hates this house and our cat.  At that moment I share his opinion because I'm all flighty and nervous.

Half an hour later there’s a distinctive noise outside, the sensor light comes on and the trees shake.  Boy Wonder is having NONE OF IT!  He grabs the knife again and tears outside, running through the yard with murder in his eyes while I watch through the picture window upstairs.  I see him running around the perimeter of the house like a madman and then I watch the fat arsed possum jump from tree to tree, snapping branches and activating the sensor light; shaking the trees as it ambles across the branches while my son loses his fucking mind outside.

The Party

Ah, the celebration of emergence from awkward, pimply teen to legal adulthood with just enough knowledge and legality to be dangerous.  Old enough to drink and get completely fucked up, but not old enough to have any idea how you got there so fast, how you actually lived to tell the tale or how to get rid this pulsing, all-consuming hangover that’s threatening to blow your head clean off your shoulders.

Boy Wonder turned 18 in May this year and required a party to tell the world of his arrival at this magnificent stage of life and to get his friends out of their tree in group celebration.  As we planned the party, it became obvious that most of his friends would still be 17 so we couldn’t have it at a venue as they wouldn’t be able to get pissed... “it has to be home, Mum”. Shit! Do I really want a bunch of youths yelling and yahooing around my house and yard to blaring music while they drink themselves into oblivion? Nope, I don’t want that shit. I want to run far, far away from that shit! But what I want isn’t relevant here because Captain Fantastic has agreed with Boy Wonder. Insert major anxiety and remove slumber for the next month… there was much trepidation on my part.  The Captain thinks I worry too much.

The event preparation started with 60-odd invitees. Over half said they were coming so I started shitting tacks from the get-go. I decided to hire security... I can’t have the possibility of a Corey Worthington party so this decision restored a little sleep.

In the week prior to the Soirée, a few dropped out, so the number was getting better and more manageable from my perspective. Of course, I catered for the whole 60 odd because let’s face it, when you come to my house and eat, if you don’t have to pop the top button when you’re done, then I have failed my ethnic heritage.

The week prior was a blur of hyped activity as June in Australia is winter so there were tarps and marquees to set up in case Mother Nature had a hissy fit, outdoor heaters were hired, enough alcohol to drown a herd of cattle was purchased, the bar was arranged (Miss Marvellous and her beau were our bar tenders), the DJ (a close mate came to the rescue) ... ready, set, go.

I had organised a couple of my friends to attend so the Captain made a nice crackling fire in the formal living room, where the ladies relaxed. His nibs and I were intermittently in that room between running hot food up and down stairs, checking on supplies and greeting pissed teens and showing them the way to the throbbing cacophony of pissed teen yelling and doof, doof music.

Only a handful turned up at the beginning and Boy Wonder was not impressed but at 9-ish, a whole bunch turned up and the party got started in earnest. Almost all the attendees had Pre’s (mostly straight vodka) somewhere before arriving and judging by the red eyes, a few smoked some weed too.

We only had around 30 people in the end, but they were a great group and they had so much fun. They went through a truck load of snacks plus 60 home-made sausage rolls, 60 party pies, 60 mini spring rolls, some pastitsies, two bowls of lollies and then a bit of cake. Oh, and a shit-ton of grog.

Every time someone rocked up, a massive group ‘man-scream’ went off downstairs as the new arrival was welcomed.  Teens were getting smashed everywhere and Miss Marvellous had absolutely no problem being savage Bar Bitch with the drunks, refusing alcohol until water was consumed.  She also took possession of the vodka jelly shots because there were jelly shot pigs in the mix and they needed to be contained.  She could be a prison warden, although I’d take exception to anyone calling her vinegar tits (Prisoner… 1980s).  Everyone got smashed, except me (someone must be the parent).  Turns out alcohol removes all filters.  Explicit language became the norm and eventually, I stopped cringing and blocked it out.

On one of the trips outside to check on supplies and deliver more hot food, Boy Wonder ran up and screamed at me “this party is fucking LIT!” Then the DJ put an 80s song on, and he grabs me firmly by the upper arms and says “You’re gonna dance!”  Fuck me, I don’t want to bloody dance… I’M NOT EVEN TIPSY!  He grabs my hand and yanks me hard after him, oblivious little shit, but there was a giant pot plant in a concrete planter between me and the dance floor.  Boy Wonder gives no fucks as he pulls me after him and absolutely cripples me as my right knee collides with the planter and the impact zone is the worst possible place, right in the corner of my knee at the juncture of knee cap, tendons, muscle, bone, nerves and whatever else is in that area.  My leg buckles and I almost land on the ground but Boy Wonder yanks harder and pulls me into the room and I stumble in his wake.  Nobody gives a flying fuck that Mother is down.  Miss Marvellous is in the process of taking pictures of pissed youth and runs to my aid to help me limp up the stairs.  I retreat to the living room and quietly wait for the throbbing pain to abate.  Boy Wonder hasn’t even noticed I’m not dancing with him.  Rude!

The cake nearly didn’t happen because I didn’t want to ruin the vibe of the party. I went down and spoke to Miss Marvellous, her Beau & our DJ (who was sober at the time) and asked if we should leave the cake and not worry about it.  The consensus was ‘everyone is having so much fun... it will spell the end of the night’ so we canned it.

I took the bowls of lollies out and the people were pleased. During this deliverance of jellied joy, Boy Wonder came up and hugged me so hard the air left my lungs with an “oof!” my back cracked. He said in front of all his mates “Donna, I fucking love you! If I die, I wanna come and do it all again because you’re a fucking LEGEND!” Yeah cool, Geez. Then he gave me another bone crushing hug and leaned so far forward in his drunken love that I nearly fell onto his friends, who were nestled around the heaters.  My knee was still throbbing from earlier when he smashed me into the pot planter.  This kid needs hazard lights on him.

At this stage, 1/2 the party was shooting hoops in the pitch black of the cobbled ‘right of way’ lane behind our house.  Boy Wonder was very drunk, and the gate was padlocked but this little bastard lifted it clean out of the latch then went running through the party yelling “I lifted the gate outta the latch! I am Yoda! I’M FUCKING YODA, FUCKERS!!! YAAASSSSS! CALL ME YODA, BITCHES!” Oh Lordy.  Our neighbours were getting an earful.

By now, The Captain, aka Peter Pan, was downstairs smashing beers with the boys (thanks for your support, jock strap!) and was already thick tongued and slurring.  Our DJ, who had been mainly sober up until now, started sculling Vodka Cruisers, of all things!  It was at this point that a lot of the boys approached the bar, awkwardly asking if they could ‘try’ a Vodka cruiser because they really should try one at some point in their lives… elbowing each other in masculine jocularity “Hey, let’s be girls together, LOL!”  Miss Marvellous almost lost an eye in her eye roll (she doesn’t tolerate stupid testosterone bravado) “For fuck’s sake, settle down, son. You want a nice tasting drink?  Just ask, mate.  You don’t have to swap the drink for one of your testicles.  I promise you’ll still be a man afterwards.”  This was when the boys started to get really shit faced.

Then at around midnight, Boy Wonder comes running (literally) into the warm room with a crackling fire,” Mum! We haven’t had the cake! People are asking where the cake is!!!” Um, ok, so I carried the cake downstairs.

I started lighting the candles and then Boy Wonder went screaming down the lane telling everyone we were doing cake.  A very drunk mate yells “it’s time for Happy Birthday! Sing happy Birthday”. Then outside and inside, boys are scream-singing Happy Birthday at a thousand decibels, getting louder with every verse! Boy Wonder comes tearing into the room like a rocket sled on rails and runs/slides up to the cake and blows the candles out. What the fuck? Everyone cheers, cake is over.   No fucking photos except the blurry one Miss Marvellous managed during his “risky business” slide to blow the candles out. Grrrrrr!

Boy Wonder then delivers a smashed speech, said “hey y’all” about 20 times. He also said he ‘fucking loves” everyone repeatedly. Then the Captain gave the second slurred drunk speech of the night. We got some family photos, but Boy Wonder was falling all over the shop in his inebriated state, so we were all on the tilt in them. Drunk bastards!

At around 1am, there was a mass exodus.  Everybody pretty much left all at once.  The music went off, last drinks (travellers) were obtained and Boy Wonder and a couple of mates went for a Macca’s run via tram.  Our smashed DJ didn’t want to go so they took off. Then the DJ stumbles upstairs; he could hardly stand upright, and says ‘where is he? I need to say goodbye.’ He got completely messed up on cruisers and Moscato (women’s drinks they called them… obviously too strong for men).  His Mum (one of my friends who joined me in the living room) was absolutely shocked because it happened in the space of 1/2 hour. He was fine ... then he was smashed. He left all his DJ equipment on (had no more fucks to give at this stage). I turned it all off and walked them out... DJ stumbles his way to the car, and they were gone.

We went downstairs and cleaned up all the empties, put the grog away, locked everything up and then I put my Jim jams on and sat by the fire to read a couple of pages before climbing into bed.  It was almost 2am by this stage.

Ten minutes later, Miss Marvellous, who had joined me and is lounging drunkenly by the crackling fire, gets a distress call from Mate 1.  Mate 1 says Boy Wonder is in a bad way, he hurt himself and could barely walk (because he was smashed), please help. We could hear Boy Wonder saying, “Aw man, my ear hurts and I need to throw up.” Then we can hear Mate 1 yelling “No, mate, don’t run on the road. Oi!  Stay here, man” Shit! I went in to chat to The Captain, who had put his drunk self to bed and was trying to entice me to join him to ‘ride the wild pony’. No mate, there’s been a call and I’ve got to go get Boy Wonder. He’s not in a good way. The Captain, all care and responsibility, says “Tell him to get on a fucking tram”. Nice. The kid couldn’t even walk and was trying to spastic-run up Warrigal road.  He’s not getting on a tram.  That’s ok, I’ll be the parent.  You just get yourself to sleep.

I got a bucket and towels for the potential Vomitron and went to fetch the boys, dragging the smashed Miss Marvellous with me.  The streets were empty at that stupid hour (except for drunk teens running amuck) so we got there pretty fast.  I parked down a side street then we made our way to the bus stop to fetch Little Boy Pissed.  Boy Wonder was indeed a mess and when he saw us, he shot his arms in the air and screamed “Heeeyyy! What up, Niggers!” Oh, holy God, get him in the bloody car before someone shoots us all in the street. Turns out, these drunk dickheads thought it would be a great idea for Boy Wonder to climb into a shopping trolley and Mate 2, who was very pissed and stoned, was running around pushing him.  Apparently Mate 2 was so far gone that the trolley was on two wheels for most of the adventure, so it was only a matter of time before mishap occurred.  And occur it did – he hit a kerb at high speed and the trolley smashed into a power pole with Boy Wonder in between.  Stupid arses!  He has hurt his face, shoulder, ear and neck (all have grazed abrasions - not good, although to the untrained eye, they could be mistaken for hickies… but Boy Wonder wasn’t that lucky).  The worst injury was his elbow, which got a little crushed. His arm was bad on Sunday. Stupid drunk youth.

Mate 2 had buggered off so Mate 1 rode gunshot, but it was too awkward to move the seat, so he looked all bent up like a giant grasshopper for the trip home.  I had the insane urge to giggle but wasn’t sure I’d be able to reign it in, so I bit my tongue and kept myself nice.  Miss Marvellous sat in the back with her drunk brother, belted him in and held his head in case he needed to vomit.  He said he was going to throw up a few times, so we were pleased that we made the trip without the stench of vomit in the car. When we got home, he couldn’t even walk so Miss Marvellous and I had to carry his dead weight up the bloody stairs... it was like carrying a Shetland Pony. Jesus H Christ on a popsicle stick. 2/3 the way up, he jerks awake and becomes alert and sprints up the last few steps and speed smashes into his bed, moaning that he wants a couple more frothies.  Yeah, nah mate... GO THE FUCK TO SLEEP, SUNSHINE!

I undressed him, surrounded him with towels and the bucket and put him to bed.  Mate 1 went to bed in the 4th bedroom and I finally locked up and went to bed myself at 3:30am.  In his drunken state, the ‘wild pony’ had star fished in the middle of the bed on his back… so I slept precariously close to the edge, next to a snoring, farting Shrek all night, almost getting drunk myself on the vapours rising from him. 

I was up at 7:30am for clean up. They all, every single one of them, had a hangover on Sunday morning so I had to make a mercy dash for bacon, eggs and Panadol.  The Pony was in bed by 7:30pm on Sunday night.  Miss Marvellous went out with a bunch of girlfriends for round 2, a true seasoned Newlands.

Footage emerged the next day of one of the drunk boys trying to make his way home.  Holy crap, he was walking like something straight out of the Zombie apocalypse.  Shuffling along, using only one of his legs and dragging the other one… his eyes closed, and he looked for all intents and purposes to be asleep.  The video ended with this kid laying in a toddler position on the nature strip.

Teenagers, who’d have ‘em?

Sigh.

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 30^th), 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 30^th.  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