Archive | May, 2010

Hitler was on to something

17 May

“Can I have a location?” I ask, and two hundred young men roar.

I am hosting an intra-school Theatresports comp at an all boys’ private school.. It’s a sweet gig. I do the set-ups for the teams,  grab the scores from the judges and give a nod when it’s a good moment for a scene to end. Housekeeping basically. Now whilst most of the impro is a variation on that glorious TS game, You’re a homoasianfag, let’s have a fourwaykungfufight,  I can barely describe the audience.



These young men. Most of the time, when doing a show, it’s a process of filtering one or two shouts, Thank-you, we did proctologist last week, but here, any call is met with a wall of response.  Each charged in their seat, determined that their idea is best for you. It literally parts my hair.

Two hundred screaming young men. The bass alone makes the floor rumble.

Oh, if you could harness this. Funnel this joyous fury.  I mean it’s hardly a headline, but again….



You could rule the world.


The F-Bomb Dictionary

15 May

So, screaming “Fuck, fuck, fuck!!” may not be the most rational response to blowing a hundred and eighty bucks on a red light camera  turn arrow, but it is a truthful one. No other word, or combination there-of, could come close to encapsulating the frustration as that cursed fucker (There it is again) of a box happy snapped my car and wallet.

Do the crime, do the time yeah yeah yada yada.

But that isn’t what this is about. It’s about my love for one of the last mongrel words, fuck.

We Australians especially, have retained the slap-in-the-face quality that the f-bomb thrives on. Is there a  response that defines us as a people better than fuck knows mate…? Our flat vowels were designed, it seems, just for this word. Oh just fuck off. Good one fuckhead. Fuckety-fuck-fuck. It’s a silly, angry word, one that still turns disapproving heads when shouted on public streets. Not the shrinking disbelief conjured by a piped up C-Bomb mind you, but heads turn none the less. Good on us.

The Yanks have trademarked the word almost into oblivion. Motherfucker and fuck you have such  musicality with the northern accent that the word often seems the softest section of a hostile phrase.  (I do like the power of their dickheads however) But they, more so than Oz, have racial taunts that can stop a street, so perhaps it’s a case of there being room for only one cultural  fucktaculous type fuck word, so fuck itself has been bumped.

It’d be a shame if the word lost its vulgar place here. I’m not sure I want to live in a world where the C-Bomb is considered the peak of offence.  A peak is an apex, and I just won’t have it.

To that end, I would present the following words for consideration into the newly authored, F-Bomb dictionary.

Fucktard n – A foolish person. One whom dickhead does not serve to capture the artistry of their folly.

Fuckscape n – A crowded freeway or shopping mall.

Fuckmare n – Unforeseen delays in travel. Plans gone awry. adj. fuckmarish

You get the drift. How many more variations are there of this glorious, stupid word?


Pure black-out terror.

10 May

It’s 2008, and I’m in New Orleans with my lady. It’s Halloween. Now ‘God Bless America’ has all sorts of applications. I’d employ it for the size of the food servings (This as a country where small means massive and don’t even ask me what large means), but most of all, I holler GBA for their utter conviction to all things spook come Halloween.

Now I grew up Melbourne. We had Luna Park’s Ghost Train, where the most frightening thing was the racket the thing made on the tracks. There was also the Royal Melbourne Show, with its haunted-houses-in-trucks, where some bloke smoking a cigarette would jump round a corner in his KISS T-shirt and go “Arrrgheerghh” and you’d freak and think lame at the same time.

So, can you imagine my delight when I see a flyer in our hostel foyer for something called ‘The Mortuary’, a haunted house inside ….. a mortuary. It’s next to an actualrealgraveyard too. My giddy aunt! So, feeling like an eight year old, at 11pm (it only opens late, Tick!) I catch a cab out to the nether regions of New Orleans and behold the three-story, white pillared block of pure joy.

Is it a tour I wonder? A ride? Will there be trains?  I was such a sweet kid back in 08.

So, myself and five other folk are ushered into the foyer of this building. It’s dark and an actor dressed as Morticia is instructing us on Mortuary policy. ‘You don’t touch the spooks, they won’t touch you.’  Say what now!?

Then we are lead off into various rooms where actors perform various bits and a couple of folk jump out and go ‘grrrrrh’ and we all kind of look at each other, embarrassed and I’m thinking America, you disappoint me.

Then our host announces, ‘This is where the guided section of the tour ends. The rest continues by yourselves… the basement!” She sweeps her hand left and I see a set of wooden stairs heading down to a single, blinking light. Say what the f’ now? The six of us huddle. We’re all strangers. None of us want to walk down those stairs first. Here’s logic. I’m the biggest. I’m a man. I’ll go first.

Now, I know it’s all a put on, but my body somehow hasn’t got that message. I laugh like a twit to show my bravery, but my legs are stiff and my elbows have stopped working. The corner leads to a small room with an autopsy bench and body bags swinging all around. Okay, I’m scared now. You win. A balded-up actor comes out and starts doing a bit and I relax. It’s just more of the same pantomime, just a better set. Lame-oh.

Then the curtain behind him ruffles a little. I know this. Someone’s gonna leap out as he speaks. I see your game. Just as I’m congratulating my keen scare-spotting-eye, something low and fast lunges from under the table right at me. I kinda go “Ugharrh” and shrink back like a poked anemone as the rest of the group screams. Without thinking, I am walking away, watching back on this paled up, blood soaked f’ker who just took three years off my life.

Then I turn. There is a doorway ahead. It opens. I see a clown face. A big, grinning, blood soaked clown face, coming right at me.


Then I see eyes. Frightened eyes, peering back at me. They’re caked in white. It doesn’t make sense. I’m holding something. I look down at my hands and I see they are around a person’s shoulders, pinning them to the wall. I look up. It’s the clown. He stares at me, I stare at him. I release my grip. He visibly relaxes. We stare at each other a bit more. “Which way?”  I ask, imploring an exit. “That way,” he points, relief in his voice. He has of course, pointed to a long dark corridor. It’s lined with suits of armour.

I’ve never blacked out through fear before. Once, a mate leapt out of my closet and I kicked him in the balls without thinking, but I’ve never had a moment of zero memory through terror. Oh God, Luna Park and haunted trucks never seemed so alluring as I moved on through this basement maze of  supreme and utter dread. Yes, one of the suits of armour came alive. There was also the green midget who lunged at my leg with his creepy little fingers….and that last corridor, littered with crawl spaces and a chainsaw thundering.

I went first through them all. Idiot vanity. Sometimes I got pegged. Sometimes the spooks hunted at the rear. There’d be screams and I’d skip my pace up just a little. By chainsaw hall, I was actually muttering, “please don’t” over and over as I did that kind of stare at the floor and fastwalk thing you do when you really don’t want to attract attention. Thankfully, leatherface was a mid-pack predator and I only heard him leap and people freak as I opened the last door and hit the blessed, blessed, New Orleans night.

I’ve never been more frightened in my life. Joke fright. Panto fright. Don’t matter. Monkey brain and body doesn’t distinguish. I jumped a cab back to my hostel, blurted like a baby to my girlfriend then slept for twelve hours straight.

The next day….I wanted to do it all again. I was Priam. I was the venturer of the underworld. I was point-man on demon patrol. And I was the guy who blacked out through fear cos’ another guy in makeup opened a door.

Apparently these things are common place in late October. Halls and sheds suddenly become ‘haunted’ for a fortnight. I saw an ad in a Dekalb paper promising  a maze carved from corn fields and “live”, yes, “live” chainsaws. What a country!

So, God Bless America I say. You may have your reasons, or not, for proclaiming that. But I for one raise a trembling hand to racing heart to a country that isn’t afraid of  up and scaring you to living black-out, just like nature intended.