Walkabout Chapter 3

John O’Brien’s Walkabout Files.
Chapter Three.
Vanity Is A Thing Called Oz.

Dear Walkabout-File recipients,

Upon glancing over this edition of what’s hot and what’s not in the world down under, you may have observed an aberrant lack of content (I didn’t even bother with a foreword).  Well at least that is my intention at this early stage of the composition.  I have an engagement with a curvaceous glass, four rocks, wedge of lime, and a double splash of the clear stuff in about half an hour, so my creative faculties need to direct my typing fingers without delay.  I have however been awake for three hours now!  In which time I have already whacked up and dispatched one account of my trot around the globe (by the time you receive this, it will probably have been a few days/weeks since I sent the last one out though), so my fillip of ‘loquacious inspiration’ from last night/this morning is now wearing thin.  With most if not all of my whimsical mumblings thought up under less than sober circumstances (90% of which I can never recall when I arise to a new moon – yes I said moon, and will clarify such in a sec), time is most definitely of the essence.  A few drops of Gordon’s superior kin (Tanquerary) should see me back to my garrulous best but until then you and I will have to make do with the vestiges of such stimulus.

My dear friends, it is a bright and sun-drenched afternoon.  No different than any other summer’s day in the east of the planet you may think!  Top marks for those who may assume so, but there is one peculiarity about this fine day.  I am ‘awake’ to absorb the UVA (not forgetting the B) rays!  You see, as the song goes, “We only come out at night”!  “We only come out at niiiight.  The day is much to bri-ii-ight, we only come out at night”.  My apologies!  I got a little carried away with Billy Corgan’s lyrics there (this may not finish up such a concise communiqué after all).  Yup, Baby-Face, his brother, and I have wasted much of our days in a state of convalescence in prep for yet another night of idiocy, thus hampering those cancerous waves from shading my skin (I am as white now as I was when I set off from my Native terra-firma).  I would take a pew on the beach for my much-loved snooze, but I fear a repeat of my incident in Daytona.  No sir!  That is one burn I never want a repeat of.  My rather comfortable resting place does boast a fan blowing from my head to toes and not an inch further (waste not, want not) and a bed that shouts, “don’t go” (abide thy shall), so with such embellishments to the horizontal form, one can say “screw the sun!  Nocturnal existence is the life I have chosen, and to the dark skies I shall remain…

Along the meanderings under the starry firmament, many a story does arise.  There would be countless trips to ‘Da Cross’ (Kingscross area), Coogee, Manly, The City and Bondi, with a site to behold in each.  Our Wednesday night trips to the Beach Road Inn among the finest.  There are many a ‘cougar’ (thanks for the word-upon that one Mr Malone) to turn the head, many a young ‘Panther’ to halt the conversation and many a ‘puma’ to cry out “Take it eazzzzy” at.  This is if you can put up with the 5/1 ratios of men to women of course.  Such disproportion is not really restricted to the confines of that one tavern though.  The gender found grooming, powdering their nose, and even practising their dance moves in front of the restroom mirrors outnumber the ladies in just about every bar in town.  I am interminably amused at the number of men that use of the public facilities simply to fix their Rod Stewart doo, tuck in their pink shirt (it’s not pink, it’s salmon) or touch up the lipstick.  What is just as entertaining, are the wanna-be McCreas holding the traffic for twenty seconds to vroom down 30 yards of George Street in their imported WRXs or zooped-up Astras.  I have never seen so many boy-racers throw some tinfoil on the wheels of daddy’s car and pollute the southern skies on a Saturday night (haven’t they heard of a pub?).

As vain (and often indecorous) as the Sydney-siders may be, there are the odd minority who are of a more phlegmatic yet congenial variety.  Those more focused of having a ‘good tiiime’ than how their hair is sitting (some which have no choice in such matters – mentioning no names, Mr Stinson and Reid hehe), have contributed to innumerable episodes of fun-filled madness.  The gentleman we call Stino has been more than willing to add to a few social mingles, from cleaning up a nasty mess in his bathroom to introducing us to his rather fine looking sister (YES GS crew, Dave’s sister is HOT).  The other shiny top named after a puddle on a hill has also served up more than his fair share of hilarious mischief.  Tarn (aka the hobbit) is most certainly a man larger than life but smaller than just about everything else (with an exception to his better half – Sarah).  With many a chuckle-trick up his short sleeves, he had us in tears when he pebble-dashed the pine floor of the Fox and Hound following the Faithless gig.  His excuse!  He thought he was drinking a wee-tea when he downed his black sambuca.  When quizzed if he could stomach any drink of my choice given prior warning, mini-me answered sanguinely.  And so returning from the bar with ‘the usual’ the wee man sank a wee-tea with my good self.  With the blood draining from his extremities (obviously in an act of shock) we initiated the countdown. Three – Two… And he was off!  With a scurry, Tarn just about made it outside to laugh at the ground once more.

With the ‘you are what you eat’ (in my case, drink) reasoning, the fools in my company have branded me after my finest creation and the poison of Tarn’s disgust.  Meeting Daimo (Maori dude) upon his return from London via Tahiti earlier in the month would make sure of that.  With Jim making the introductions, the young Kiwi claimed he has heard of the wee-tea during his stint mixing it in the town of my former habitation.  My time in the fine taverns of London it seems has not gone un-noticed (the world may never remember Johnny O Brien, but they will never forget the Wee-Tea hehe).

And so with a yet another nickname to the portfolio I must leave you once more.  Looking back over this report I have detected two things.  1.  My opening line is now irrelevant and 2.  I have just spent 1,208 words blabbering over a pile of gibberish, but fear not, my Christmas and New-Year accounts are close at hand.  I hope all is well with each and every one of you and look forward to hearing from ya all soon.

Take it eazzzy, and let da good times roll…


Sven’s Words of Wisdom:  Where there’s a will, There’s a… Wee-Tea!