Avant garde, no?

We were somewhere around Holbrook, in country New South Wales, when the drugs began to take hold.

I remember saying something like, "Why the fuck is there a submarine in a small land-locked hamlet like Holbrook."

But I'm getting way ahead of myself.

Guess what... it turns out that the DRIVE from WARRAGUL to SYDNEY is not short.

It is, in fact, long. Quite long. How long?

1032 kilometres, to be precise!

Having worked hard to make a living all Friday, and then attending some radio thing at Gippsland FM until 9ish, I eventually got in between my warm, welcoming sheets at around 1030pm... I felt the soft hand of Nod caress my temples... and I was gone.

---- Don't you... forget about me. ----

"You must be awfully hot in that clown costume, Dr. Cam," Molly Ringwald whispered into my ear, "Why don't you take it off?"

"But I don't want to ruin the magic for all the little children!" I gasped, partly out of shock, and partly because Ally Sheedy had just done a thing with her foot and a banana that was, if not pleasant, then invigorating.

"Is this the right room?" asked Paul Gleason, bursting into the library with a bottle of expensive champagne and the oft-promised handcuffs.

Thankfully, this is when my various alarms went off. It was 2:30. For those playing at home with no calculators, I have now had FOUR whole hours of sleep.

It was time to drive up to Sydney.

We eventually got out of Warragul at around 4am, the rear of the car packed with beer and cheese (a roaring 40's roquefort and a Camembear - "Camem-BERT! The S is silent, you cunt!")

The drive was basically uneventful... we shared the driving, thanks to my putting Veg and SteveSteve on my insurance...

RACV Dude: Okay, there's going to be an increase in your premium, because they've been in accidents.
Me: How much?
RACV Dude: How curious...
Me: What's curious?
RACV Dude: Um... we owe you fifty dollars now.

Quite.

Eventually, though, we arrived in Caringbah, got changed out of our tattered clothes, and into our strictly enforced R.S.L. approved dresscode of collared shirts.

Unfortunately, we hadn't counted on an old nemesis of ours making an appearance: Time. We had, in fact, mere minutes to get from where we were staying to the trainstation. We would need to hustle.

Unfortunatley, not even Champion Hustlers would have been able to make this train... it was a train with places to be, goddamnit.

So, ala Stuart McBeth of the Patriotik Yoof League, we missed our train.

Arriving at Caringbah Station, we were shocked to find the train had left for greener pastures, and we would have to wait 20 minutes for the next one.

It was at around this point that I came to the conclusion that perhaps I hadn't really had enough sleep.

There were a number of reasons for this conclusion-reaching... the most pressing one was the guy that walked into me.

And then out the other side. Ah... hallucinations... I wonder what chemical we can blame THOSE on?

Anyway, when confronted with such things, one must do the sensible thing and get some much-needed rest. Or, alternatively, they can take the MAXIMUM DAILY DOSAGE of stay-awake pills over a five minute period.

Can you guess which option I took?

So, zipping off my nut, we made a financial transaction with the train-station machine, and got on our train...

SteveSteve tried to tell me about this guy he knew called Andy, an anarchist (in that he doesn't pay for public transport - well, as long as he won't get caught, at least, and makes annoying phone calls to the Water Company, explaining how he shouldn't have to pay his water bill because he NEEDS water to make his bucket bong effective, but they don't need his precious money) with a beard (ala Ned Kelly - my contribution to the discussion) who sounds like someone off a television show, but he wasn't sure which one.

I then proceeded to annoy him with suggestions as to which television show it might be:

The Brady Bunch? Okay, guys, we've all had a lot of fun dissolving society today, but let's get serious for a minute. What have we learnt here?

Batman? Holy Gadzooks, Batman, it's The Pigs!

And so on. This resulted in me having a five minute ban on my talking... Technically, I'm SteveSteve's superior (we're talking eugenics now) but I felt I should placate him by doing as I was told... this would make it even more surpising when I put my fist through his face later.

"But Cam! I thought we had an understanding!"
"Understand my powerful, yet silky smooth, forearms, bitch!"

So many commas.

Anyway, we eventually arrived at the thing... the City, got a little lost, found our old friend Adam in Dirty Mick's, or whatever the name of that garish (Mia-ow!) Irish pub was, and made our way across the road to the R.S.L.

I'm not really sure exactly what order the following things happened in, a brilliant side effect of mixing a downer (alcohol) with a whole bunch of uppers (semi-legal stay-awake pillz). Or maybe it was just all the booze, the point is, at some point, the following things happened:

I was the first person to refer to some young homosexual american as a "bloody seppo." He was well-impressed at this random showing of anti-american fervour.

I picked songs on the Video Jukebox with my new right wing friend Leigh in a well-planned retaliatory strike against the sexy crooning of Peter Andre... Little did I know that Leigh would put Evanescense on! What are you, a fag? Jesus Christ.

So shocked was I at Leigh's gayass taste in music, that I introduced him to the manly Tim Lambert, so he could be set straight. There was a lot of hand-waving after that, but I was distracted by a buxom young wench, who informed me that I was required elsewhere.

"These young ladies want to talk to you," she told me, pointing to two young womens who looked the spitting image of Molly Ringwald and Ally Sheedy (circa 1985)... who was I to resist the will of the gods?

---- Viva La Che-eseburger? -----

According to them, that is, the people who had requested that I speak to them, those two people being: Misha (http://llachar.blogspot.com) and Bourbonbird (whose blog is located at the internet location of http://bourbonbird.blogspot.com but I can't get my link to it to work properly for some reason... I swear I didn't use Smart Quotes or anything!)

Things went along swimmingly - they explained their position on calling me over: Apparently I was "intriguing," though presumably not in the good way, and they wanted to know what the "score" was. Okay, the word "Score" may not have actually been used.

Still, I felt the ice was not broken properly, so I referred to them friendlyily as communists. Proponenents of Trotsky's Theory Of Permananent Revolution, to be quite precise.

Apparently, this was the wrong thing to say, and prompted the drafting of...

"Misha's Communist Manifesto

7/5/2005

I AM NOT A FUCKING COMMIE.

If I am a communist, you are a transexual motherfucker.

Thank you, asshat.

M.V.

co-signed X Bourbonbird.

Don't ever call us commies or I'll burn down your house. BB"

For the record, their handwriting was fucking equisite.

Oh, and John (a hippy if there ever was one: http://the-open-mind.blogspot.com) amended their violent Socialist message with: "And be excellent to one another."

Anyway, I also shocked a number of people with my youth... apparently people were under the impression that I was like, 30, or something... and possibly found myself with some sort of Society Matron attached to my right arm... Help me out here, people, I'm not sure if that actually happened. All I can recall is Darp accussing me of "pucking up a chuck."

Finally, the nazis didn't make an appearance at all! There was one young suspicious looking chap with little hair and a trenchcoat with a cameraphone, but he had a girl with him, so that struck him off the paranoia list.

And that's that... apologies to those whom I offended with accusations of leftist leanings... Anyone who got offended by anything else can fuck off, ya wanker.

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