The Lost Weekend

When a band from one's youth gives an in store appearance 40 years after it had its first big hit, who knows what a weekend will bring. On a Friday that promised so much, it seemed fitting that Spectrum's lunch time performance at the Basement Discs should form the prelude to a bizarre chain of events. The chant of "Someday I'll have money", although well received by the largely greying audience, seemed somehow hollow when I checked my superannuation balance and took a rough estimate of how many days I may have left to acquire some money.

I wasn't long before I struggled past a string of buskers in the city precinct to conduct one of my regular social research projects on public transport. Seeking to verify media reports of regular violence and intimidation on Melbourne's rail service, I apprehensively boarded the Craigieburn train and observed a limited degree of graffiti. No threatening fellow passengers were immediately apparent, and within a short time I was surprised to be offered a seat by a young girl. Dissecting the situation I balanced the indignity of being perceived as an "aged person in need of a seat" with my actual physical condition and gave only the mildest of protests before slumping in the seat.

Have survived at least half the trip to Craigieburn I disembarked somewhere in the Northern suburbs to take my mid afternoon siesta. This admirable Spanish custom re-energized me enough to return to the city and tackle the Deluxe Beer bar at Federation square. Whilst the variety of beers available deserved commendation, the prices urged a lesser level of satisfaction, and I settled for a glass of iced water and a cheese burger.

The early evening found me at the MCG for a football match that did not meet my expectations and within 40 minutes I decided to leave the stadium and take a seat within arms length of a statue of Don Bradman and a stone's throw from a jam donut stand. Some time had elapsed before I became vaguely aware that someone was talking to me. A slight turn of the head brought in to view a woman in tears, seemingly repeating a mantra that she had been "booed" out of her seat in the stadium for supporting the wrong team. Her tears made me think she was a Collingwood supporter, but a Cats scarf suggested otherwise. Having voluntarily vacated the stadium myself I was unable to provide much empathy but agreed that she had been treated harshly. The only response I could muster to her subsequent admission that she had spilled her beers over the offending fans was to mumble that "that wouldn't have helped". She claimed that her attempts at apology had been rejected and further confided that her husband was still in there watching the game. When she began the story at the beginning again I decided it was time to excuse myself and move on.

It wasn't long before I found myself behind the wheel of a vehicle in a narrow concourse somewhere near the famed AC/DC lane. Have exceeded the legal number of occupants (six in a five seater), it was necessary to keep a low profile before unloading a few bodies in Lygon Street Carlton and heading further North for more sleep.

The morning offered no relief to the trauma of the night before, and I recalled seeing an advertisement for a lecture at City Church on the signs precipitating the end of the world. I decided to give it a go, partially to find out if one the signs was the magnitude of the football debacle the previous evening. Before doing so I set about perusing a caravan park somewhere near Pentridge in Coburg. It occurred to me that if the end of the world was coming, such a location might be just the place to avoid calamity. The lecture did offer some solutions, but couldn't put a precise date on things. Having developed some awareness of the futility of attempting to predict the future I decided that I would probably have no use for my grand final ticket and sought out some free Wi-fi to email potential purchasers.

Some chili bean enchiladas at a bar in Brunswick supplied some sadly lacking indigestion before the band arrived and announced themselves as "The Miserable Little Bastards". Their entertaining first set ended with the pronouncement that they were going out for a bong and could be back in ten minutes, depending on how things went. When the fiddle player eventually returned to the stage, packed up his instrument and walked out the front door, I surmised the bong hadn't gone so well and it was probably not worth waiting for the second set.

The following morning I became aware I was in rural community somewhere beyond the outskirts of Melbourne. I found myself in a Church for a triple Christening ceremony before being ushered to a bar called the Pig and Whistle where an Irish music session evolved with a level of spontaneity. After several hours of jigs and reels I remembered the need to work in Warrnambool Monday morning and bade my farewells before driving off in search of potential road kill. It was nearing midnight before I was home in my bed reflecting on the reality of the three days.