And we’re on in 3, 2, 1 *under-handed point gesture to indicate that it’s over to me*
Silence
“Ahh, McGnizzle, you’re on.”
Nothing.
“McG-nizzle, are you… oh, holy shit! What are you doing?”
“Ah, oh, shit. Oh, oh, oh nothing. I’m just…just… ahh, giving a lesson.. yeah, a lesson.”
“What the fuck? Why are your pants down? And is that the 13 year-old paraplegic work experience kid under your desk?”
“Ahh, no.. ahh, well, yes, well, no. He was just.. just.. ahh, fixing the computer wires… you know, giving him some IT experience.”
“Dude, there’s no computer on your desk.”
“Yeah there is.” [runs to the next desk with a computer] “See, look a computer.”
“Umm, you just ran to that desk.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did, I saw you. And the paraplegic work experience kid is still under the other desk.”
“Sshhiiittt.” [McG looks at the camera and offers a broad smile, still with his pants down and paraplegic kid in the background, under the desk] “Good evening everyone and welcome to the program!”
Cue intro music.
Ahhh well my little sugarplums, it’s been a while since I’ve erected (ha. erected) this virtual pedestal, for me to preach to the masses about my worldly observations, witty banter and cheap pop culture slag-offs. Wait, what is the plural of “slag-off” anyway? Is it “slag-offs” or is it like “governors-general” and therefore, “slags-off”? See, the worldly observations have already begun. Or should I say “word-ly observations”?
Now, I don’t know whether it’s the “security” of a job next year, or the so-called travel bug, or the 14 government departments after me, but I once again felt the urge to flee Oz. I really shouldn’t have, ‘cause I barely have a cent to my name, nor do I have any real purpose to this trip (not that the others had one either).
But I’d managed to take young Benni Shemesh hostage for the first couple months of my jaunt abroad. Ok, I know, I know. I could’ve chosen so many better people to travel with. Look, I was desperate, alright? We all make mistakes. Well, that’s not technically true, ‘cause I don’t make mistakes. So I’ll put this one down as charity work.
Regardless, I was stuck with that prick. And as if being taken hostage by yours truly wasn’t enough, he was determined to get us arrested from the moment we stepped aboard our discount China Airlines flight to London, via the picturesque Taipei. Interestingly enough, the pilots were two 12 year old boys, keeping the region’s child labour reputation alive and well. Well, I wasn’t sure how long we’d actually be alive for given it was their fourth back-to-back long-haul flight. So I generously slipped them a Red Bull. The drink, I mean. I didn’t actually slip them a raging bull on the flight. Don’t be silly. How would you go about “slipping” someone a bull anyway? They're fucking huge! Some sombrero-wearing dude in a back alley of Madrid, unscrunching a vicious bull out of his back pocket and just going, “right, here you go mate. Keep this under wraps.” And why would you paint the bull red anyway? Man, you’re gonna have some seriously bad luck if you ever let it near a mirror.
Anyway, back to Benni trying his hardest to get us into the clink. Firstly, he was sporting a freshly shaved head, as Islamic terrorists apparently do before a suicide bombing. Secondly, his thick, festering dark beard didn’t exactly scream, “my name is John Smith”. I made a point of getting him to speak every time the airline staff walked past, ensuring his Australian accent was clearly heard. I think that just made us look more suspicious, with me loudly asking him inane questions like, “SO HOW ARE YOU TODAY, BEN-JA-MIN?” and “I’M REALLY LOOKING FORWARD TO OUR BUSINESS TRIP IN LONDON. ARE YOU?”
Thirdly, Benni refused to touch virtually all of the meals that were served on the whole flight. He’d kind of nibble at a bit of bread and leave the rest. Naturally, this attracted the curious eyes of the staff, who were obviously trained to spot heroin traffickers, storing the merchandise in their stomachs, preventing them from eating on the flight.
Fourthly, whenever Benni opted for a nap (which was 75% of the flight), he’d do it with his hood over his head, making him look even shadier. He didn’t help matters when he pulled a gun to a hostess’s head as she leant over to collect his untouched meal. Ha. Nah, I’m lying there; his meal wasn’t completely untouched.
(if you lingered over my use of a semi-colon there, you need to get a life)
In the end, we disembarked without any problems. But that was probably because the staff were more focussed on fearing for their fucking lives, with the amount of turbulence we experienced on that flight. More turbulent than the NSW Labour Party (ha, that was too easy). More turbulent than Daryl Somers’s career comeback. More turbulent than…okay, I gave myself 30 seconds to think of something quality, but nothing worthwhile came to me, so I’ll move on now. Anyway, in the end, I ended up taking my naps in the emergency brace position, just to save time.
I actually contemplated whether or not, by an act of fate, I was doomed on that flight. Before I left Sydney, my dad made me sign a will he’d drawn up for me. I literally signed it at the airport lounge. Benni was only too pleased to witness it. But I have heard that China Airlines are offering will kits as an extra option when booking online. For $11.95, why not?
We’ll be back after these messages from Dulux….
Day 1 of work at Roskilde.
Roskilde HQ.
In London we had a day or two to kill before heading to Denmark for Roskilde Festival, where we’d be volunteering. In that time we watched Australia bow out of the World Cup, and The Scissor Sisters bow into of my list of bands that I never want to see again. Totally sterile, rehearsed and soulless. Which is kinda ironic for a soul-disco band.
So, it was off to Denmark, still half-jetlagged. Satisfied with our Copenhagen hostel booking in a 60 bed dorm with online reviews such as, “if you’ve ever wanted to experience sleeping in a jail, stay at this place”, and “I booked 7 nights, and stayed for 1”, and “I’d rather sleep in a horse stable”, we made tracks for the land of the Vikings.
Turns out we should’ve taken heed of the reviews, because we checked out after the first night and moved into our Danish friend, Asser’s place in Norrebro. Apart from the spy-cameras he’d set up in every room, it was a wise move. We had the last laugh though, leaving solid skidmarks for him to deal with after we left for Roskilde. Apparently Benni’s resembled Elvis Presley.
At Roskilde, we were assigned to the Climate Change Campaign. It sounds glorious and philanthropic, doesn’t it?
Our job was to collect trash. I now know how Peter Garrett felt when he discovered what looking after the “Environment and the Arts” portfolio really involved.
Ok, so our job wasn’t exactly to collect trash. We were in charge of specific types of trash. That being batteries and scrap metal. We’d then have to lecture people at the campsites on the benefits of separating their trash. Then we’d spend the rest of the day chasing Danish teenagers who’d stolen our work vests which had “metal” written on them. Turns out they like their heavy metal in Denmark.
Roskilde is the best large-scale festival in the world. In my opinion. It is so damn well-organised (except perhaps the 30,000 people that stormed the fence 10 hours before it was due to open), superbly laid-out (except perhaps the decision to locate the “quiet campsite” next to the train tracks), clean and green (except perhaps the swimming lake which was closed after day 3 for e-coli infestation) and a brilliant line-up (except perhaps Jack Johnson). It’s a festival where anything-goes, but without the scungy vibe of most anything-goes festivals. If you want to do sit-ups in the nude, go ahead (unless you’re Gretel Killeen. Please cover up). If you want to take a piss, then just squat. Obviously, I’m talking about girls here. If you want to smoke a joint, feel free. If you want to knock your mate’s lights out, be my guest. I mean, it could get awkward having to camp for the next week with someone whose lights you’ve knocked out on day 1. But you can always just say you thought you were at Carmen’s Nightclub.
Despite being a huge festival (around 110,000 people), it has still retained its down-to-earth, green, hippy ethos. Unlike the Big Day Out, which has now become a decrepit cesspool of booze-fuelled, flag-flying aggression. And the hard drug culture at Roskilde is minimal (or at least relatively well disguised). People prefer to stick to booze. Crates and crates of booze. Warm booze. But nobody gets stupid. But perhaps that’s just the Danish way: drink fuckloads, but make friends. Unlike the Big Day Out, where thousands of spray-tanned, hair-straightened teenage whores chew their faces off and check out their own reflections in their friends’ sunglasses.
Hey, they don’t call me “negator” for no reason.
Nobody has ever called me “negator”.
Well, one person. But she wears loafers with no socks, so her opinion doesn’t count.
Another thing I learnt about the Danes is that they like drawing penises. A lot of them. By day 4, there were penises drawn everywhere. On tents. On toilet doors. On food stalls. On signposts. I even saw one guy with a penis drawn on his own penis. When Benni and me were walking around collecting used batteries and bits of scrap metal one morning, I decided to count the amount of penises I saw in half an hour. It was something like 40. That’s one and a third (recurring) penises every minute. I haven’t seen so many dicks in one place since I finished law school.
Plus, I’m now gay.
And that concludes today’s episode.
“But tune in next time to find out, is Mcg-Nizzle really gay?”
“Hey voiceover dude, I thought we changed the script. I didn’t agree to that.”
“Yeah you did. Here’s your signature right here.”
“That’s not my signature. That’s some kid’s handwriting. And it’s in purple crayon…. and it’s a picture of a house with a smoking chimney and a smiling sun in the sky.”
[yelling to the crew] “Right, who the fuck let that paraplegic work experience kid out of his cage?!”
