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...

When I first drove into Sofala nearly a decade ago, it seemed like your typical Aussie country town. A few old blokes sitting on sagging couches watching the world go by, and a pub with the comforting odour of stale beer and urine, with dead flies by the window.  There was a shop selling toasted ham and cheese sandwiches (white bread and plastic cheese of course), and a scattering of stallholders packing up after the monthly market. In other words, despite a streetscape that would do a Clint Eastwood western proud, Sofala didn't stand out over hundreds of other small towns that I've downed a schooner in. Sofala, the main drag Here's Russell Drysdale's take on the same streetscape.  It's a bleak, unforgiving vision. Russell Drysdale, Sofala Drysdale visited Sofala for the first time in 1947 on a road trip with fellow artist Donald Friend.  The town had a bigger impact on Drysdale than it did on me.  It was to become a focal point for some of his b...

On long road trips, it's important to have a travelling companion. Not so much to share the driving; more to avoid being labelled as that creepy bloke driving around the outback by himself in a Land Cruiser. Over the years, I've dragged along a series of female companions on my longer trips, with varying degrees of success. One of them concocted some story about a family emergency, and insisted I drive 450km out of the way, and drop her at Sydney Airport.  That was in  September, and I'm still waiting to hear from her.  September 2009, I should add. Others have different ways of coping with my personality.  Like drinking heavily early in the day (Heather, call me.  I've lost your number). Pic taken somewhere west of Arewethereyet Bay.  I'm not sure why it's smiling. This trip though, I had a male passenger.  Paddy, my son actually, a 20-year-old veteran of my strange habits and mood swings.  So you'd think he'd just roll his eyes, a...

Every weekend, thousands of patriots pull on their singlets, and head out to reclaim Australia. Draped in the flag, and and chanting fuck knows what, they're out to stop the Islamic invasion. According to them, the sand niggers who call themselves Muslims (Reclaim Australia's words, not mine) are nothing more than pedophiles and suicide bombers. Strangely, most of the anger comes from people living in white suburbia.  Places where the only Muslims are are likely to be the local doctor, or kebab shop owner.  That's hardly an invasion.  An invasion is where you arrive uninvited, and commit genocide, but I'll get onto that. Ms Hanson, these people idolise you.  People can analyse the behaviour of angry white people all they like, whether they're from Bendigo or Alabama, the fact is this; they have growing political clout. And many other political leaders agree with all the anti-Islam rhetoric. pic courtesy of Oyna Magazine Where am I going with this? ...