It’s a psychological thing, no matter how painful the seat is, it’s preferable to standing comfortably.

Wednesday,  6 September 1995  8:50AM


You know how I decry myself every Monday for my appalling behaviour at Friday drinks, and then promise never to go again, and then go again, and do exactly the same thing over again every week? It’s stopping here.  Last night Simon invited me over the road to burn some time before he headed off to a family dinner.  There were a few other people from work there, and I had a sedate coffee, and they relayed to me bit by bit my adventures last Saturday evening.  It turns out they weren’t so bad, just amusing for them, embarrassing for me.  So I’m feeling relieved, and Simon offers me a beer.  I think to myself, now here’s a good chance to prove that I can have one drink and be satisfied, so I accept his generous offer.  Then I had another.  That’s all I had, but it was enough that I could sense a change in my behaviour.  I went home and my thoughts were so erratic, and I started doing some rather odd things.  I just don’t think I’m supposed to drink, Sis.  I think it doesn’t agree with me.  Perhaps it was that mere taste of alcohol which revealed it to me.  I could observe my behaviour a bit more lucidly – it was enough to make me weird, and not too much to cloud my observation of it. Your pisspot brother is actually considering the life of a teetotaller (I’ve always loved that word).  I wanna be reborn (there’s a scary word) as a Benevolent Buddha-J.  Recede from Temptation like the outgoing tide. Strip myself back to the basics. I wanna be nice dammit. I’m sick of being cynical and bitchy, amusing as it may be for others.  I wanna be able to feel good about the taste of my soul (how dramatic!). Wanna rid myself of static tinnitus buzz of apprehension that never really goes away.


Same day, 4:05PM

Just went to (shudder) McDonald’s for a coffee with Simon, Jeremy and Quinn. Had a café latte, wasn’t too impressed with the coffee or the “Gee, I’m so dumb” service. Hate those gigglers. Fuck, I can’t even keep up this Benevolent Buddha-J thing for a day. I will persevere.

Josh rang just before. He’s giving me a ride to Brett’s gig tonight. (Everyone has their license but me.) It’s at “Chasers”, the night is called Outlaw and I wish I wasn’t going. Last time Brett was there he came out at 5am and there was a pack (and I use that word in its true canine sense) of skinheads lying all over his car, pissed. It’s a rich image isn’t it? I imagine it something like those car safaris where you have to “keep your windows closed and your person inside the vehicle at all times.” I see them like a group of drugged baboons, perched supinely on the roof, the bonnet, the boot. Brett ingratiated himself with the club bouncers and gently wove his way through said cropped skulls, opened his car door and said “Come on fellas, I’m off.”  They had to drag one big one off the bonnet. His head smacked on the tarmac and his friends (?) brayed snorty laughter in unison. They’re a strange but simple breed, skinheads. Gee – I hope there’s some there tonight, it’ll really make the evening.


Thursday, 7 September 1995  9:10AM

Well, there were no skinheads, but there were dickheads galore. Here I go again – making fun of everyone. But God you should have seen them S, head bangers! Where do I begin? Perhaps I should tell you about the guy who was head banging so hard he was down on all fours (and not for momentary effect either, he was down there for three of four songs).  Or about the guy who pulled out a didgeridoo and tried to play it into the base player’s mike when his back was turned. Or about the guy who accosted Josh and insisted that he knew him from St Kilda (How’s Carol eh? Eh? Eh eh eh eh?”). Oh S, white trash to the left of me, loonies on the right, and there I was, stuck in the middle distance with Josh. I say middle distance, because we decided it would be best to stay out of the front-line.  (I always feel guilty if I’m not doing cartwheels in manic worship of the Death Metal Society.)  We thought it would be a good idea to get a table, so we pounced when someone went to the toilet. The chairs were so damn uncomfortable, I’m sure my ass is zebra striped with bedsore-bruising, but there was no way I was going to surrender that seat. Hell no.  It’s a psychological thing, no matter how painful the seat is, it’s preferable to standing comfortably.  Maybe it’s some Throne Principle with which I’m not familiar, but Lord knows I wasn’t gettin’ off that seat. So Josh and I remained stoically, soberly (Wild Man J of the West, the Gun-totin’ Teetotaller) until the conclusion of their seemingly interminable set at 1:40am. God I’m tired now. We’re talking hours of sleep that you can count on one hand. I think the gods must have been merciful this morning, they let me ride the tram for free.


Same day, 1:23PM

Bone-weary and feeling fat in my skinny-jeans. Didn’t have time to wash my fat ones (nice turn of phrase there, “fat ones”) last night, so I’m doing the untucked shirt routine to disguise my great ponderous butt, walled in precariously by faded denim, straining its stitching.


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