The Ramble Man

Stinky As Fuck

Good morning.

My name is Self Composting Festival Toilet. But you can call me Stinky As Fuck.

I’m great for the environment because none of the shit inside me is pumped out into the ocean. I make festival organisers feel really great about themselves because they can tell their friends they are being what’s called ‘socially responsible’. I’m a bit sad though, because the festival organisers don’t often sit on me to do poos. I think they’re cheating on me with that perfumed bitch Portaloo. 

Anyway, at least I make the 16,000 paying campers feel great about their environmental contribution. At least they appreciate what I’m doing. They even pay upwards of $400 to spend 4 days with me! I’m such a lucky Self Composting Festival Toilet! But their dedication doesn’t end there! Oh no! They drive 5 hours down the Great Ocean Road in their rapidly deteriorating 1988 Toyota Corolla, they wait patiently for 3 hours to get in the gates and they even set up an eight man tent on a 35 degree angle and end up spooning with Davo. And they do all this just so they can wait in a giant line to rip off their pants and shit all over someone else’s shit. Oh the joy!

But their benevolence doesn’t end there. Oh no. When they’re inside me, making a large steaming contribution to the environment, they still have the energy to read about other responsible ways to behave. I would have thought that shitting on someone else shit (also known as ‘Double Dropping’) would be all the environmental responsibility one could handle – but no! They sit, shit and read about the saint-like repercussions of placing a brick in your cistern.

Well, that’s about enough outa me. Hope to see you next year!

All the best,

Stinky As Fuck

The Camera Club

I’ve had enough of the Camera Club. “What’s that?” I hear you ask. Stop pretending. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Chances are, you’re probably a member. No? Well, let me ask you this: do you own a digital camera?

Arharr! See? I knew it. 

Now, now, calm down. Just because you own a digital camera – doesn’t mean you’re part of the club. Not yet.

Do you use the buttons on your camera and change settings?

…

Your silence speaks volumes. Hmm. Things are not looking great.

What’s the first thing you did when you bought your new digital camera?

a) Took a photo

b) Got a friend to take photo of you

c) Systematically went through each option in the in-built menu just in case you uncovered a function not specifically referenced in the 350 page manual

Did you answer ‘c’? Yup, you’re in trouble.

Take a breath. Resist the natural urge to freak out. Not all is lost – there is still a slim chance you’re not part of the club. But, I’ll be honest; things are not looking good. Here’s the final test. Imagine this:

You’ve just bought a new digital camera. You spent the better part of a week researching specifications, warranties and reviews. You went in-store to see it. You picked it up, pointed it around the store and pretended you knew what you were doing. You even put it over your shoulder and did a lap of the counter – just to make sure the shoulder strap logo looked good when you carried it. You asked the store attendant questions. You asked them things like…

“Is this the best camera to get? Because, you know, I’ve had a few of these now, in fact, I was the first person in Australia to get the S2150 – was on the waiting list for months, but you know, I’ve got a mate who’s a rep for Cannon. Yeah, Cannon. Jimmy and I go way back, in fact, I kinda got him into digital. Anyway, Jimmy told me this is a great camera. What do you think?”

“Yes.”

But, to your credit, the hard work paid off – and you’re now sitting comfortably at home, a gleaming new camera the centrepiece of the living room. You’ve barely started playing with the buttons when there’s a knock at the door. Now, the question is: what is the first function of the camera to impart on your unassuming guest?

a) Do you ‘Wow’ them with the vast amount of megapixels your camera delivers?

b) Maybe you’d impress them with the speed of the motor drive? 

c) Or, why not give them a quick taste of the live-view?

If you’re answer was a) b) or c)… welcome to the Camera Club. You’re officially one of those people who spend so much time worrying about technical specs, you forget to take any bloody photos.

Now, if you’re sitting there – a wry smile plastered on face – don’t get so smug. The Camera Club far from unique. In fact, here’s a couple of other clubs you might be a member of:

Club name: The Mac Club

What they buy: Mac Book Pro’s

What they should be doing: Editing films, recording music and creating websites.

What they really do: Watch porn and Facebook stalk.

—-

Club name: The Road Bike Club

What they buy: Expensive road bikes

What they should be doing: Riding to work, getting fit and sweating.

What they really do: Go to cafés in Lycra, yell ‘Passing!’, and swear at cars.

—-

Club name: The Car Club

What they buy: Cars that make lots of noise.

What they should be doing: Racing around a track, polishing the bodywork, and driving down the Great Ocean Road.

What they really do: Drop revs at traffic lights, cut people off, swear at ethnic people.

Welcome to the Club!

Starbucks

Has anyone seen the amount of coffee they fit in a cup at Starbucks? You could drown in one of these mugs. Coffee size aside, Starbuck is actually an interesting place. I’ve only been here five minutes and already four clear groups have materialised from the crowd.

My first point of call: the Business People. These black suited CBD warriors are sitting directly in front of me. They’ve yet to speak a single word to each other. The fatter one has spent the entire time talking lazily into his iPhone, and the other is sitting erect in his chair, one arm strewn purposefully over the adjacent seat; he looks steadily into the side window, admiring his reflection. I wonder what’s crawling over his brain? I’d like to think it’s something exciting – maybe what sort of car he’ll buy next week. But, in all likelihood, he is quite simply wishing he never decided to ‘grab a coffee’ with such a cockhead. It’s been 15 minutes now - both coffees have been finished, their napkins scrunched – and this unfortunate work colleague has spent his entire coffee break listening to someone else’s phone conversation. Fuck that.

What do Business People drink? Grande Flat-White.

The next group on my list is a pair of young trendy Go-Getters. These kids have picked a corner table and have done their best to transform their double table into a makeshift work centre. I find it hard to believe their comically skinny frames could actually support the amount of Arline pens and sketchbooks that adorn the table. The one with earrings is doing most of the talking. Every thirty seconds or so, his counterpart makes an intelligent nod and then draws a huge picture. I actually don’t think they have any idea what’s going on. I heard the following:

“Yeah, so that’s when we can start doing all the marketing!”

[Intelligent nod, small scribble.]

“And, like, we’ll use social networking and get some business cards printed up!”

[Vigorous nodding followed by a quarter page sketch.]

“It’ll be, like, so great. Because, like, no-one has really even used FaceBook for this kind of thing. We’ll be huge!”

[Intense neck breaking nod and double fist pump followed by 10 minutes of extreme drawing and shading]

What do Go-Getters drink? Small latte.

The next group is the Guy. The Guy sauntered in 10 minutes ago. When he was literally 40cms through the door, he stopped, removed his Raybans, ran a hand smoothly through his hair and gave the store a slow, sweeping gaze. I think it’s physically impossible for the Guy to frown. The wind definitely changed when he was thinking of a mildly amusing joke. As such, it looks like he is constantly watching an average Seinfeld episode; not funny enough to laugh out loud, but teetering on the edge of a chuckle. When ordering his coffee, he first took his phone and wallet out of his pocket and placed them next to the register, he then laid an elbow on the bar and started up a conversation with the Starbucks attendant.

“Can I take your order Sir?”

“You most certainly can (looks at name tag, pauses) … Rachel. But first, how are you today?”

“Fine thanks Sir, what can I get you?”

“Long black.”

“Sugar?” I swear, at this point I can literally see him calculate the chances of using the line: ‘No sugar, but I’ll take something sweet - like you.’ Thankfully, the Guy thinks better of it.

That’s right, the Guy drinks a Long-Black.

The forth group is a dickhead sitting in the seat next to a power adapter tapping madly into his laptop.

What do I drink? Nothing. I just sit here and use the free Wi-fi.

DJ884

‘Monday morning.’ Now, that’s a predictable first line. In fact, it’s so bloody obvious; you’ve probably guessed the second.

‘Another week.’ If you’re switched on, you should probably prepare yourself for a volley of self absorbed winging.

‘My life means nothing’ or ‘I hate my life’ or ‘I never thought I’d be the rat in this race…’.

But fear no more. I’ll not subject you to the fictional murmurings of Johnny the Sad faced Business Man.

Instead, I give you reality. I deliver truth. The following is a conversation I witnessed on Virgin Blue flight DJ884. And yes, it all took place on a Monday morning.

The Boeing 727 rumbled on, and so did the business babble.

“Have you ever dealt with Tony?”

“Yeah. Absolute hard-arse.”

“Hmm, I’ve heard that” he adjusted a mammoth wristwatch and adjusted his coat. Beads of yellow sweat we’re pushing down the side of his shirt. “I always try to put myself in their shoes – always try to see what they want – but this Terry bloke… I just don’t know how to approach him.”

“Grow a pair, Macca. Just play a bit of hard-ball” she glanced down at her chest, adjusted the low-cut top; her floppy cleavage was pocked with marks and the signs of age. Her skin was overly tanned; as if the cigarette stains on her fingers had grown the length of her body. A quick adjustment, and she rebalanced her sags – hiding the garish bra that had crept into view.

I felt sick.

“So, how’s that guy of yours? Daniel, right?”

“Mmm. Nah – gave him the flick. Just pissed me off, you know?” the pack-a-day husk replied.

“Do tell” his expression already beginning to glaze over. Without so much as a smoker’s cough, she launched into her reasons. I imagine this speech was rehearsed in the mirror each Saturday night.

“He just couldn’t handle me. I don’t want a winger. I’m a strong, independent woman.” she gave an authoritative flick of her platinum blonde hair to ram this point home. Sitting silent in the isle seat, I instinctively snorted with laughter. She threw me a venomous glance before continuing on her self-obsessed spiel. “He just didn’t understand me – didn’t get me – and he didn’t earn enough.”

“But, don’t you earn enough?”

“Yeah, but $350k just goes so quick these days. And if we had a kid, then school fees, a nanny, the car…”

“You wouldn’t be able to have kids anymore though. Right?”

Dead silence.

The plane droned on. Even she didn’t deserve that.

Ever so slightly, I angled my gaze towards her. Her shoulders slowly turned down, her ambitious gleam now dead. She looked to her folded hands, the expensive jewellery reflecting sprinkles of light over her ageing face.

After 45 minutes of constant business talk, the abrupt silence was now very noticeable. Even Macca realised he might have said something a little off.

“Ah,” he shifted uncomfortably. “That came out… wrong.” A murmur, a tiny flicker of noise. He leaned closer.

“Sorry?”

Her bright necklace dimmed – her earrings now looked cheap. I noticed a chip in one of her bright red nails. Slowly lifting gaze from her wrinkled hands – she looked Macca in the face.

PUNCH.

The Diving Board

Jack shivered. The rashie clung to his small frame and ignored Jack’s feeble attempts to break the suction. His goggles were tight, and pulling them down over his eyes left two tender red ovals on his forehead.

Gingerly, he looked at the awaiting ladder. The metal steps were cold – doubt already clouding his mind. A line had formed behind him and some were growing impatient. A larger boy with deep black hair jumped up and down impatiently,

‘Come on you little baby, hurry up!’ he said with a wicked grin. Jack felt completely lost, too afraid to clamber up the hard silver staircase, but also intimidated by the group of older boys now crowding behind him. He picked the lesser of two evils and placed a tiny hand on the metal handrail. Looking nowhere but down, he kept his eyes directly on his naked feet. As if by remote control, he watched as a tiny left foot found its way to the first step. A spark of adrenalin – he now had both feet on the ladder.

‘Not so bad.’

Five steps, six steps, seven steps; Jack was almost there. The breeze picked up the higher he went and the wind’s icy fingers now ruffled his hair.  Jack’s eyes were still blinkered straight down.

‘I’m actually going to make it!’ Jack thought. His newfound confidence forced him to take stock of his surrounds. Bad idea. It didn’t look too high from the line, but up here things were different. Jack froze. It was a long way down….

To be continued…

Any other way.

It’s a cruel life – but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But, you know, I’ve grown to live with it. I guess it means he cares.

Every day, normally before lunch he finds me - and that’s when the abuse begins. Not just once, either – a steady barrage of blows. He doesn’t let up for much.

Sometimes, the phone will ring – and he’ll answer, completely out of breath. I often make the mistake of thinking he might forget about me, but as soon as the conversation ends, he’s back on me and destructive as ever.

He makes a habit of coming home drunk. I hear the front door slam and then loud, stumbling steps into the kitchen. On a good night he’ll pass out before he gets to me – but there aren’t many of these.

The hardest beatings are after friends visit. Confined to my dark, soundproofed room, I hear the clink of cutlery and the muted hum of conversation.

A heated argument often follows – now I’m really scared - and I know what’s coming, my master’s stress relief.

Mentally preparing as his heavy boots thump towards me, the anticipation builds. To be brutally honest, I kind of enjoy it. Deep down, I know he cares.

- Written by Lars Urich’s snare drum. Legendary drummer for metal gods ‘Metallica’.