If anyones interested, here are some excerpts from a four-part series I am writing for Heavy Duty magazine. Sorry, but its what writers do - shove their shit down cunts throats. I rolled into Lakes Entrance, found a motel whose owner also owned a 74 Shovel, bought a cooked chicken, some fruity cider, rolled a few numbers, and stood on the motel’s balcony in my underpants contemplating the water across the road. The cider was awful sweet. I felt it was just the thing for priming dirty girls for dirty deeds. I felt a bit dirty myself, what with being in my underpants on a balcony and all. Maybe that’s what this holiday shit is all about? Standing around in one’s underpants, drinking whore-soup, smoking dope and wondering what one of the black swans I could see across the road would taste like. I ate the chicken instead and passed out not long after. ______________ A few kays further on, I stopped again at the Bay Of Martyrs, which I thought was even more impressive and turning inland felt it was right and proper to breakfast at the old whaling town of Port Fairy. It was once called ‘Belfast’, and the Irish is still strong in the town. It seemed appropriate to drink whiskey with my breakfast, and so I did. I also called my brother Biffa and told him about the sheer Irishness of the place. “Get out of there before they rob you and beat you,” he counseled. Thus enriched and advised I proceeded to break every speed limit I could as I charged further west, hit Mount Gambier, and turned north for Robe. The road to Mount Gambier is billiard-table smooth and fast, winding through vast plantation forests and empty of traffic. As a result, I rode myself into a red-eyed madness. It’s a glorious state of transcendence, and one that can only be achieved when one is holidaying far from home, and one has done nothing but ride motorcycles for days on end, pausing only to drink whiskey and stare at things. __________________ I paused briefly in Dimboola, a town of some literary fame, and bumped into a mate, Brian, who told me the road to Halls Gap through the Grampians had been sealed after recent bushfires. “Surely I could just ride it and look at the burnt shit?” “Maybe ask the cops in Horsham?” Brian shrugged. In short order I was in the Horsham Police Station being attended to by a very fat policeman. “It’s open,” he said when I asked him about the road. “I heard it was closed,” I said. “I drive it every day,” he drawled. “I would know.” “I would hope so,” I enthused. “What the cops don’t know is simply not worth knowing.” “That’s right,” he agreed. “So it’s open?” “I guarantee it.” Half-an-hour later, after riding through some catastrophically burnt-out country, I thuggered to a stop in front of a Road Closed sign. Officer, I hope your fat-impregnated internal organs murder you after great suffering, you know-nothing tub of rot. Didn’t you understand that I was on a VROD, and that being the case, surely you knew that it carries a finite amount of petrol and uses it like a woman uses cash at a shoe sale?
Posted on: Fri, 03 Oct 2014 09:52:50 +0000
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