Around Australia by Schooner

There’s a fine line between a hobby and a mental illness. Some hobbies are fine. Stamp collecting’s fairly harmless, as is having a pet rabbit. At the other end of the scale are the wealth and sanity destroying hobbies; equestrian, ocean yacht racing, owning racehorses. Then you’ve got showing dogs, which attracts people who are, let’s just say different. Go to any dog show across the country and you’ll be treated the full autism rainbow in all its glory. That’s not to say dog breeders aren’t nice people. They are. Strange, but nice. For treacherous, even dangerous traits, you need to attend a chicken show. Poultry fanciers are just plain evil. Even at a chicken show in a small town, you’ll hear of poisonings, abductions and death threats. These people take their birds seriously. In contrast, dog owners, like the objects of their affection, are mostly harmless. I know everybody’s entitled to a hobby. But I’ve never understood why people would pack

She had what appeared to be hog bristles sprouting from her nostrils. He smelled of Old Spice, with faint undertones of old chops. “Would you like to move the conversation back to our house for a private party?” asked Mrs Hog Bristles. I was in some bar in Hervey Bay. I always knew there was something wrong with the place, but I never imagined it would be my ground zero; the place I’d be invited to share bodily fluids with a retired couple from Wangaratta. Also, I didn’t have a wife with me, and I was shit-scared they were planning to do a Rockefeller on me. So I made my excuses and sprinted up the street to a bistro full of young, attractive people, where I knew I’d be safe from molestation. Hervey Bay is a strange place. Sure, it’s got all the conveniences a modern city should have. A couple of Bunnings. Aldi. KFC. Like most Queensland cities, there’s a sex shop on every corner, with a Thai massage joint next door. But at first (and second, and

Senior Constable Cassidy was unhappy. I knew this because he was shouting at me. Droplets of spittle were hitting the drivers’ side window. Also, he was sweating profusely, rivers of perspiration running down his face and mingling with the froth spilling out of his mouth. I hadn’t wound the window down when he pulled me over because the electrics in the Mercedes were shot. The windows, air conditioning and cruise control had all died somewhere between Seymour and Grong Grong (great name, crap town). Actually, the trip had gone badly from the start. My travelling companion was two minutes late checking in to his Jetstar flight from Tasmania, and of course they showed no mercy. All our beer money went on a full-fare replacement ticket Then the Mercedes (affectionately known as the Land Yacht) broke down in the industrial badlands west of Footscray; no place to be stranded without heavy firearms. It took hours to coax it back to life. The plan was simple. Leave Me