Walkabout Chapter 2

John O’Brien’s Walkabout Files.
Chapter Two.
Chocolate-Leg Goes Down.



“Johnny O’Brien doesn’t pay for sex” (well at least not in the conventional sence)!  To which the young Phillipino countered, “I would do you for free but my boss needs to be payed”.  Scouring the tavern of sin for the stereotypical black dude, blinged to the eyeballs and brandishing a wanna-be-charlie (for the new-comers among ya, Charlie is my walking stick) seemed futile in the land of mini-men.  Should I have been looking for a samuri wielding ninja?


Rolling her hazel eyes towards the grotbags-with-a-tan lookalike behind her, she furthered her disclosure with a final sum half that of the original 600rm asking price.  My amazement was now detracted from her well proportioned mammaries, not by her mention of such generous discount, but by that of the vertically challenged witch taking stance behind the vernal pacific flower.  Could this distorted elderly figure really pose as a pimp? 


I would nearly have handed over the 300rm out of sheer pity for tolerating such a didly excuse for a hammerman/woman.  A fine young vixon that young islander may have been, and tempting to boot, but the chocolate-leg likes his sweeties where they are.  Dipping somewhere that may result in a melt or dropping off was/is not an option… 


Switching my attention back to the upperly expansive physique, I made my apologies and egressed from my final nights drunken lunacy in Kuala Lumpar.  


Dear Ladies and Gents, boys and girls,

As you may have ascertained from my preamble, the land out east is choc-a-bloc with ladies (and men for that matter) charmed only by that of an exchangeable tender.  There were offers aplenty from quite broad shouldered errr ‘ladies’ ranging from 60rm (Malaysian currency) to the obscene, to which I would rejoin, “I don’t do men”.  Thinking back, those creatures of the shady streets reminded me of one Mr Forshaw hehe.  I even had a rather ugly Mongolian lady offer her services for free, or ‘for kicks’ as she so eloquently expressed it.


Tolerating my fill of bargain-bucket proffers and tropical downpours, it was now time to board yet another flying machine.  I had educated enough bar-staff in the way of the wee-tea, and so there was no incentive to hang around any longer.  Flight MH123 was geared up for take-off, but this time I was not following the sunrise.  No sir, this jet was heading down south on the globe.


We were off to Oz with no sign of a yellow brick road, tin-man, or scarecrow (Mr McNicholl didn’t make it here for Chrimbo).  That fairy, Shane did remind me of Dorothy though, and I did see a lion at the zoo the other week, but only briefly as we loped from the keeper trying to lock Tarn and I in with the chimps.  But that’s another story for another time!


Now onboard, the lads wondered why the young hostess had handed me a bottle of champagne.  The oriental trolly-dolly then let slip that this day 21years ago this world was introduced to my sugary extremity (ok, ok, ok, it was 26years), and so the free birthday piss-up commenced.  This is one bar bouncers couldn’t kick us out of!!!


Landing in Sydney, the enormity of my undertaking was kicking in.  Yes, could I make it to Bronte Beach in a slightly inebriated state was enormous, but not quite the task I’m referring to.  Could I really miss a few years of old-boy depravity and ‘good-times’ now famed by ‘The Life and Times’?  Only time will tell.  Mr. Taxi Driver was called upon again for the short beach-bound ride.  The drive to which alerted me to the fact that the metered chauffeurs here are little more than dodgem operators.


Stopping right by the sea and thanking God for my life and that of the old lady the Cabby failed to notice, I wheeled my luggage into the Durham fold where young baby-face handed me a coopers before my ass could touch the couch.  The birthday bash it seemed had just begun.  Countless g&ts, wee-teas and whatever else tickled our fancy later and we were jigging unsteadily across the middle of the road in a silly attempt to flag down Mr. Taxi driver for our roller coaster home.


Not much would change over the subsequent weeks.  Matt, Jim (Matt’s Brother) and I would guzzle the city dry and then lead a merry dance down the street in order to inveigle the rent-a-loony’s in our direction.  On the odd occasion where we decided a fare was not required to put our lives in the not so capable hands of someone else, we were quite adept in jeopardizing our very existence on our own.  A rather peculiar excursion to Manly proving just that!


With the responsibility of driving the hobbit-wagon to it’s over-night parking spot, ensuring all onboard would arrive safely (their departure was completely in their own hands) falling to my good self, my proclamation stating “it’s one of them in the back or all of us” was quite apposite.  Mid-way through our speedy trip down the coast, mini-me reacted to my edict by flicking the eight-legged monster from the roof above the driver onto Jim’s head.  Not only did we now have to deal with Mr Durham freaking out on the back seat, but also the alarming fact that we were veering of the road as my fits of laughter detracted me from the job at hand (driving).


Arriving at the bar by the beach, Wadaway (Natalie in baby talk), much like a certain barmaid on old-boys, claimed that she could handle a night on my potent concoctions.  Two drams later and she was on the line to the man upstairs via the big white telephone.  A story that leads us nicely to my repartee with a young German Lady by the name of Verona!  She did not take too kindly to my observations towards such an identity equating to an Aussie Armatage-shanks.


Our night of iniquity in Manly was coming to a close, but our stocious escapades were far from over.  Casting a rather coiled line out to sea was next on the cards, but with the surf compromising my vertical bearing and the seaweed playing havoc with our tackle, our fishing under the influence off the beach was one of those great ideas that should have remained just that.


That one night raised many a tale to tell, to which I could spend all day covering.  However the purpose of these files is that of a highlighting process (extended as they may be) and therefore will endeavour to write with such intention.  And so moving away from the madness of the northern shores of Sydney, back to the eastern suburbs to where my next file shall kick off, I must bring this report to a swift conclusion.


For those with too much time on your hands that may find some jocular mirth in my narratives, you can rest assured that my third instalment is on draft and set for dispatch and will forward to one an all in due course.

Let da Good times Roll…



Sven’s words of wisdom:  “Halt” the man shouted as I pursued the horizon.  “Such a quest is futile”!  “You lie” I cried and continued the chase.