It was a cold autumn day when I decided to become a writer. After wasting 25 minutes trying to decide whether numbers above ten should be written as words or numerals, I got out of my computer chair in a huff. No, the life of an editor was not for me. It was not without infinite sadness that I returned editor Norman Blume’s soul to him, and allowed him to resume his life, no more to be molested.
I quickly resolved never to publicly acknowledge the influence of various comic writers on my own style. This way it would be up to my audience to figure this out for themselves. A back of the envelope calculation informed me that the type of people who would read my work, or be forced to read it for some reason (act of God), are unlikely to have the wherewithal to extract these influences from my writings. Indeed, it could be said with some confidence that my writings are so impenetrable, anyone claiming to understand them is surely guilty of one of life’s most pleasurable sins, lying. It could also be said with confidence that I enjoy chewing aluminium, but surely one would see through the brazen façade to the harsh, unpalatable truth: aluminium can often be harsh and unpalatable.
After agreeing with myself on the suitableness of my new venture, I set out to put paper to pen. I realised that this was more than a bit gauche, in this age of electrical computing machines and world wide nets. I returned to my computer chair with my tail between my legs and sat on it - the chair, not my tail. I then concocted a tale so fantastical, so bizarre, that it’s imagery haunts me to this day. Incidentally, I am writing this on the same day that I wrote that tale. It would surely be a tease of aggravated assault-inducing magnitude to leave the reader in a state of ignorance as to the contents of that miraculous tale. I am therefore duty-bound to reveal it to you, as I am now revealing myself to my neighbours.
… Reginald and Fatima were on a high. They had just finished sculling (I am aware of the alternate spelling, “skoll”, and it can go and get nicked) a can of beer each, and were eager to continue their celebrations.
“Fat’, I'm overwhelmed with happiness and it makes me happy.”
“Reggie, you sure do get in a funny way when you drink. Sometimes I’m not sure whether I shouldn’t beat you to death with my TCP/ICP Networking book while you sleep. What do you say we go hit the town?”
“You read my mind. Got any dips left on your travelten?”
“I do. I’m quite sure of it.”
With that, they set off down the street. It wasn’t long before they got on the bus. Although they received a few stares from their fellow passengers, Reginald and Fatima couldn’t have cared less. The heady rush of a can of VB had worked its magic, and even the most deranged of stares couldn’t have yanked our protagonists from Cloud Nine.
“Reggie, have you ever noticed that whenever we decide to go out on the town, we always end up in the same bar?”
“What’s your point? The Malmsbury’s got style, it’s got pokies, and it’s got VB on tap. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
“Fuck you.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. It’s just that tonight I feel like doing something different. I have an idea.”
“Please, I gots to know.”
“Let’s do a pub crawl.”
“It’s too cold. The wind is blowing so hard, I fear I wouldn’t survive for long on the street.”
“A pub crawl… with a difference.”
The deranged look in Fatima’s eyes was this time enough to nudge Reginald perilously close to the edge of Cloud Nine. Somehow, in the deepest, darkest kernel of his soul, Reginald foresaw what was about to happen. He couldn’t articulate it, but he could feel it. And that was enough.
“Oh, no.”
“What do you mean, oh know?”
“I said ‘Oh no’, not ‘Oh know.’”
“Oh. Well anyway, I haven’t even told you what the difference is.”
Reginald was puzzled by his own behaviour. He wasn’t normally the one to hold back. In the sixth grade, when the teacher had bent over, exposing a generous butt crack, Reginald had not only inserted a pacer pencil, but clicked a full-length pacer lead all the way out, much to the delight of his erstwhile classmates. But this was different. For a start, there was no butt crack involved, and nary a pacer in sight.
“Here’s the difference. Instead of going from pub to pub, one drink at a time, we’ll stay in the same pub, going from table to table one drink at a time.”
“What a lame idea.”
“No it isn’t. Come one, it’ll be fun. There’s the crew from Mama’s Cleaning we normally say Hi to. We can have a bourbon with them. There’s that girl you’ve got the hots for.”
“I do not!”
“Fuck you. Just kidding. C’mon, it’s a friendly enough bar that most people will be happy for us to share a drink with them. And after finding that money in the apartment of that lady who passed on, we’ve got enough to actually buy people drinks. Who could refuse a classy couple like us?”
As it turned out, no one could. Well, almost no one. Wait, it was no one after all. Reginald and Fatima were having one of the greatest nights of their lives, and that’s saying something, considering they were each 65 years old. Reginald even bought his crush a drink. Fittingly enough, it was a triple vodka body shot. Reginald had stunning abdominals thanks to his 7 Minute Abs program, and offered them up to Gelsomina for her drink. The feeling of apprehension that swept over Reginald earlier in the bus was forgotten, like all his other post-1973 memories. Still, he would learn the hard way to trust his intuition…
“Reg, I don’t know about you, but I’m as sozzled as a fly in a vat of beer. And I don’t mean swimming on the top. I mean equidistant from the top, bottom and walls.”
“Fat’, people are getting drunk from the fumes coming off this oily rag I've positioned near my mouth.”
In a flash Fatima pulled a cattle prod from her handbag. Exhaling loudly, she kicked the empty schooner stack out of the barmans hands and delivered a cattle-leavening zap to his midriff before he could protest. Then she zapped the barlady after she protested. Reginald broke out in a cold sweat. He knew the day had come. The day he’d discussed with his stockbroker all those decades ago. Fatima spiralled out of control, zapping patrons, pokie machines, and the pile of Drum Medias by the door. After that she placed the cattle prod on the table and whispered in Reginald’s ear.
“Go to the till. Put this hunge in and get me change for the bus. Drivers abhor changeless passengers, or so I'm told.”
Reginald had by now somewhat calmed down. He knew that he needed to get a grip on himself, much as he had done during his teens. He changed Fatima’s money at the till while the bargoers, slack-jawed by nature or by cattle prod, looked on. He turned around to assess the situation. Fatima had seated herself on a couch in the corner. She emptied a bag of salt and vinegar chips on the table and filled the bag with beer, then started to sip at it.
“It reminds me of drinking wine from the bag, Reg’!”
“I know Fat’. Why don't you sit down for a while. I'm gonna go over here for a minute.”
He looked to Gelsomina, whose easy gaze and languid smile comforted him no end, until he realised she had two glass eyes, was wearing dark sunnies and was completely drunk. He turned to Fatima, who was reaching her hand into the recently fashioned beer vessel and splashing beer on her face, a la an early riser. Reginald figured that she was ready to stop her criminal rampage, and plotted his next move. Trying to win her over, he seized the cattle prod and applied it to the 8-ball on the pool table. It ricocheted off the cushion and landed safely in Fatima’s chip bag-cum-goon, sending a few drops of ale into the air. Fatima cursed. "By the trident of Neptune!" She stood up shakily and headed for the door.
Reginald knew that the worst was over, and smiled to himself. The next day they both had splitting headaches, but were able to laugh as they penetrated into their cavernous subterranean office.
“Mr Speaker, my question for the Member for Mackay is this. If the Government cares deeply about small business, as they claim they do Mr Speaker, why have they introduced such draconian legislation, Mr Speaker?"
Fatima gave a barely perceptible brown eye to Reginald, and rose to answer his question.
Nope, that's not it. But pretty cool, huh?
In lieu of a decent column about the NBA draft, might I make the following points:
I was brilliant enough to attend the artist's's party for the Sydney Biennale on Wednesday. It was quite a night, in less ways than ten. The party was held on Che Cockatoo Island, a glittering jewel in Sydney's otherwise shithouse harbour. We waited for what seemed like 20 minutes for the ferry to depart. From the top deck you could see the harbour bridge in the night sky and it was something else. The black steel, those girders, the lighting, the night sky, the gargantitude of it all. It was magical and it reminded me of the first Batman movie, my number one guy.
Anyone who's seen Terminator 2 will remember at least two things: John Connor plugging a keyboard into an ATM and Miles Dyson hyperventilating in a soon to be exploded building.
