From:    'J'
Date:     17 July 2001 2:11AM (AUSTRALIAN Time)
To:      'S'
Subject:  The Tightest Pants in Bendigo hygienically sealed, of course.

The Chronicles of J continue..

Oooh la la! I had a GREAT weekend (don’t get too excited – still dry sheets in the Richmond House of No-Sex). Went to that wedding that I was bitching and moaning about and had a really good time. I was split up at the reception from Jade and Lucy and Lena but I made LOTS of new friends on my table! I drank it dry and then had to steal from the surrounding tables’ carafes.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves – no sense saying something in 100 words when I can bloat it out to 1000!

Saturday morning started OK. I had a slight hangover from Friday night when I went over to Tim’s and Nash’s (Tim was out) and played Playstation and drank beer with Michael. I dosed myself strongly with anti-hay fever drugs before I got there so Jimmy the Cat didn’t make me sick. So Saturday morning  I wake up in bed with the chips and the cheezels and I look around and ask myself “What fresh hell is THIS?” like I do every morning.  Jade was banging on my door screeching “Get up J! By the BALLS of Beelzebub we are not going to be late to this wedding!”  So I’m up, scratching around for my Berocca, looking at my enormous pile of washing and wondering if I even have a clean shirt for this shindig.

We’re packed, we’re on the road. I’ve decided on my white shirt, silver and black tie, black shoes (I toyed with wearing my white leather loafers with the gold tassels but I couldn’t afford to get my gold silk suit dry cleaned), dark blue pinstripe single breasted suit and the Paul Smith magic motion topless barmaid cuff links and matching money clip. (Money clips make me feel like I’m a pimp real good.  Luv ’em.)  Jade and I pick up Lucy in Brunswick and we’re on the Calder and on our way. We sing songs from Cabaret, we talk about our love lives, we talk about our many many mental problems, we ooh and aah at the early lambs gambolling about the pastures green.

We roll up at the McIvor Motor Inn, and it’s as good as it sounds. We call it the McGuyver Motor Inn and proceed to pull apart the air conditioner and  make a nuclear bomb. We sell it to the Pakistanis and move to Barbados, hang out with Sade and Mick Hucknall and date faded tennis stars. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. We squeeze into our glad rags and I proclaim that I am wearing The Tightest Pants In Bendigo. At least my shirt is clean, even if my cuff links are dirty. The day is overcast and fur-reezing. We shuffle into the church, a gigantic weatherboard affair (“the oldest church in Bendigo!”) and brazenly sit in the third row, centre, pushing relatives and real friends alike to rear stalls. We rubberneck the rest of the crowd, prowling for potential paramours. The organist starts the ‘Here Comes the Bride’ complete with elaborate flourishes worthy of the Groovy Ghoulies and the bride comes on down. Nice veil. I dig veils, even if the symbolism is a bit crass. I just think they’re funny. Her hair was quite dark and half way between Jackie O and Gidget. I liked that too. The shoes were low, strappy and white. The dress was plain, straight and white as white. It was a Catholic wedding but a short mass, maybe 40 minutes from start to finish. Then it was outside, air kisses and frozen feet.

Jade, Lena, Lucy and I retire to an Irish pub and have a Guinness and Baileys each, toast the bride and groom and we sing songs from Cabaret, we talk about our love lives, we talk about our many many mental problems, we file our teeth in anticipation of tender lamb at the reception. We cab to the reception at the Four Seasons and go to our separate tables. I proceed to set the evening alight with my tales of urban dissipation, book-ending each of the three courses with two glasses of wine – absolutely para!

We cab back and Jade and I bounce around our McGuyver cell and take drunken photos of me with the “Hygienically cleaned for your protection” sash from the toilet as a belt. Me and Jade pretending to be engaged. Me and Jade sprawled on the messed up bed.

We drove back the next morning, eating chips and chocolate and congratulating ourselves on a night well done.

Last night I went out with Jade and Mia and her friend whose name I can’t remember, but Jade fancies her brother Peter, whom we’ve dubbed the Electric Eel cos of his fancy dancin’.  We went to the Black Cat on Brunswick Street and poured drinks down our throats and listened to Mark C Halstead sing some cabaret tunes – he has the most amazing voice, he really does. He sung ” 1 6 Tonnes”, that old blues song. Do you know it? It’s about this guy who shovels 1 6 tonnes of coal a day for some company and is trapped – it’s the original wage slave song:

"Well, you load 16 tonnes,
And what do you get?
You get another day older
and deeper in debt.

St Peter, don't you call me
Cos I can't go
I owe my soul
To the Company Store"

which I thought was hilarious because ” 1 6 tonnes” is my password for my computer. I thought, well this is just too much. I have to talk to this singer and tell him this FASCINATING anecdote over my ninth beer. And then I told him about my country song, “There’s Plenty More Fruit in the Salad”. I tell you, he was ENTHRALLED, so much so he had to run away from me to calm himself down. Jade bashed the ear of Matt the saxophonist and we scammed a ride home from him in his beautiful old Mercedes.

So this morning I wake up in bed with the chips and the cheezels and I look around and ask myself “What fresh hell is THIS?”

And so it goes…