Mad Sunday

Pulling up at a local hotel I sensed something was wrong when I noticed the vehicle next to me was covered in mud, had 2 flat tyres and a piece of the body detached. It was the apparent the driver had made it TO the pub, but wasn't leaving at any time in the near future. As I entered the bar I became aware that the regular quiet Sunday recovery session had been replaced by a rowdy profanity laden "wake" for a local football team whose season had ended prematurely in a finals defeat.

Thinking it wise to befriend the natives, I approached one of the young men to establish a rapport. His preference for hip hop and grunge music suggested problems, although it seemed "The Gambler" might pacify them should the need arise. Disturbingly,  he confided  intentions to stay for the rest of the day. My immediate thought was that the "non-service to intoxicated patrons" laws would surely nullify such an ambition, but this was quickly tempered by the knowledge the publicans rarely withhold service to customers who are conscious and financially flush.
Abandoning hope in any adherence to the law,  I decided the best approach was to ignore most activity and concentrate on the task at hand - entertaining the audience. Not an easy task amidst an increasingly  unsteady group whose members amused themselves by pushing and shoving, showering each other with ice and twisties, issuing challenges with bar stools and continually  requesting "Hotel California" in the face of repeated admissions that it couldn't be done.
With any sense of social propriety and moral inhibitions long lost in the haze, the behaviour eventually descended into public indecency as the group developed an insatiable desire to expose their sexual organs and buttocks. Still no move by the management to evict.

The occasional visitor drifted in, exhausted by the day's book fair, but invariably made the choice to relax at another venue.

Any hope of responsible adult role modeling disappeared with the arrival of a group who had been  drinking continuously  for 38 hours to celebrate a 69th birthday. The suggestion by one of the members of this group to the footballers that they engage in a competition comparing the size of penises seemed too much for even the intoxicated young men, who retreated to the edge of the bar to grind twisties into the beer sodden carpet.

After 3 and 1/2 hours (but what seemed like 3 1/2 days)  it came time to bid farewell and pack up amidst of cries of "one more" and claims that "you've only just started". 

As I drove away I observed that the aforementioned damaged vehicle maintained its uncomfortable slump against the kerb outside the pub, but by now its indignity had been heightened by a dampened interior as a result of drizzling rain and half open windows.

Fatal attraction

Many of you are probably sceptical of the "magnetic attraction" theory currently gaining momentum in certain sub-cultures. Broadly speaking, the view is proposed that certain individuals have a magnetic attraction to police, and subsequently receive a disproportionate amount of attention by law enforcement agencies. Before dismissing the notion, I ask you to consider the following.

The year is 1954. Footscray displaces Collingwood as reigning premier, Bill Haley records "Rock and around the clock", and a constable in a remote Australian police station listens to a radio broadcast of the first cricket test as it unfolds in Brisbane. Several miles from the police station, a four year old boy removes a registration sticker from a car windscreen (ostensibly to improve his aunt’s driving visibility) and sets himself on a path that will see him attract an unprecedented level of police attention for decades. Within hours, the officer's cricket fixation is interrupted by a request to attach a new sticker - a task he undertakes with some haste lest he miss another wicket. The degree of irritation displayed is sufficient to alarm the boy's aunt and her recollections half a century later prompt investigators to speculate that the officer may have filed the child's name in the "to be harassed in future" file. The innocent victim in this instance is the subject of our case study, and will hitherto be referred to as “X” - an ordinary citizen with an extraordinary ability to attract the attention of authorities.

Fast forward to 1965. Thousands of teenagers challenge authorities by growing their hair long and spending their pocket money on Beatles records rather than public transport fares. The majority escape detection, but “X” is one of the few targeted by ticket inspectors. Apprehended for fare evasion, he is summonsed to the State Children's Court, convicted, and penalised with a moderate fine. An embryonic feeling that he somehow attracts undue police attention is suppressed by the view that the incident is an aberration.

In his last year of schooling (1967 ),  a holiday to Brisbane provides "X" with the opportunity to explore the city with the type of enthusiasm that only youth can dispense -- only to be apprehended and interrogated by Queensland police . Although the officers involved contend that X's sibling's long hair sparked their attention, X harbours fears that his mere presence may be a factor.

As our troops feel the heat of the February 1968 Tet Offensive in Vietnam, “X” celebrates his 18th birthday in the relative comfort of an Australian city. Dutifully accorded the dual privileges of legal drinking and licensed driving, he, like many of his peers, finds it difficult to separate the 2 activities. Within months he is apprehended by police officers who find him sleeping in a bogged car on the banks of a lake. Although not satisfied with his explanation that a companion dumped him there whilst he himself sought refuge in an unlocked Mercedes Benz parked in a nearby carport, the police decide not to press charges.

In October 1968 “X” flees a Chinese restaurant prior to settling the bill, claiming he was goaded by less scrupulous companions. Police apprehend him, but agree to drop charges on the condition that retribution is made. Authorities may have been drawn to the incident by the pursuant restaurateur wielding a meat cleaver, but it is notable that his companions comment that they have “done runners” many times before and never attracted any police attention.

In 1969 he witnesses a surprise Collingwood victory over the reigning premiers (Carlton) in the 4th round of the VFL season, and celebrates accordingly. Buoyed by the experience, he attempts to board a train home but is apprehended by rail inspectors who claim he does not have a valid ticket. Berated for hours, he is eventually released on the condition he appears in the city Magistrates Court. The Magistrate appears to share the view that “X” has been unfairly targeted, and dismisses a charge of fare evasion (whilst simultaneously upholding a charge of "using offensive language to a railway employee").

A few months later, police intercept a vehicle travelling through Geelong and allege that a passenger (identified as “X”) has shouted obscenities at a police car. They agree not to press charges on the condition that he relocates beyond the city limits and does not return.

In a matter of weeks “X” is observed at Young and Jackson's Hotel where he is drinking with some old school friends (one of whom has a police record). Police who descend on the infamous watering hotel arrest most of the group and transport them to the city watch house in a “divvy van”. In the absence of an obvious offence, the arresting officers give the incarcerates a choice of a charge -- "drunk and disorderly" or "offensive behaviour", but eventually allow them bail with no pending charges.

Faced with compulsory military service in 1970, “X” joins thousands of others in a peaceful demonstration against the war. Perhaps attracted by his presence, law enforcement officers form a barricade to block the march at the bottom of Bourke St., and "The Age" publishes a photograph of him grappling with police.

Entering military service later that year he finds the task of defending the country arduous, and fails to return after weekend leave. Military police agree to drop AWOL (absent without leave) charges after a medical certificate is produced.

Returning to civilian life in 1972 his vehicle is unexpectedly intercepted by police who declare it unroadworthy. Facts remain shadowy but questions arise as to why police are waiting on a remote rural road the very day “X” chooses to travel on it.

A short time later he is approached by an acquaintance to participate in bizarre scheme to push a car over a cliff and claim the insurance. His role as "getaway car driver" ends prematurely when police intercept both parties on the cliff top. Were they tipped off, or was it the attraction factor?

In 1974 he attends a friend’s 21st birthday party in a regional town. The party is interrupted by the arrival of a dozen police cars and “X” has his own vehicle searched. An attending officer comments that the car holds "everything but the kitchen sink", but fails to lay charges or give any explanation as to why police may have chosen to raid this particular party. We now think we know why.

In 1975 drug squad detectives raid “X’s” inner suburban shared house and detain the occupants for questioning. An American house mate is interned and threatened with deportation, but later released. Eventually no charges are laid and questions as to why the house was targeted remain unanswered.

Eight months later “X” offers a friend a lift home, but is intercepted by police who charge him with drink driving, and detain him in a suburban lock up. The arresting officers give no explanation as to why they are patrolling that particular stretch of road at that time of night, but do comment that they had observed him almost collide with a parked car.

In 1976 his suspicion that he has some kind of attraction to police gains credence when “X” visits a friend’s house after a day`s drinking at a suburban hotel. Shortly after his arrival narcotics agents leap the fence and arrest the occupants at gun point. “X” is interrogated but not charged, and left to ponder the coincidental timing of the raid.

A paucity of encounters in ensuing years convinces “X” that his capacity to attract police has abated to an acceptable level, but in 1982 an ominous pattern returns. A random breath testing station mysteriously appears on his preferred route home, triggering a second drink driving charge. Protesting his innocence, he is summonsed to court. This time the magistrate agrees with him and dismisses the charge on a legal technicality. Believing the tide is turning in his favour, “X” relocates to the country in the hope that such a move will reduce the chance of detection. The plan works for some years, but in 1986 police eventually zero in. For no obvious reason his vehicle is intercepted on his regular drive home and authorities once again arrest him for drunk driving. The magistrate suspends his license for 2 years, but ignores police calls for 4 year suspension.

“X” encounters limited police interaction in the 1990s and comes to believe he is once again in a safe zone. Unbeknown to him, a slight legislative adjustment introduces compulsory licence suspension for offences involving speeds greater than 25 ks over the limit. Police photograph him allegedly travelling at 87 kmh in a 60 zone and suspend his licence for 1 month. Unlucky, a victim, or .......?

As the new millennium unfolds “X” is routinely detained for minor incidents such as driving at night without headlights and failing to indicate. At a regional music festival police try in vain to come up with a viable charge after intercepting his vehicle allegedly travelling on the wrong side of a roundabout. No legislation seems to mention driving at night with sunglasses, and no alcohol or drugs are detected. Investigating officers comment that they have not seen driving like that from a sober person.

In 2002 “X” witnesses an incident with national political implications and is forced to go underground to avoid confrontation with both the prosecution and defence attorneys vying for his support for their opposing views. He eventually turns himself in to a local police station and makes a statement.

As technological advances afford inks between databases, other agencies join the fray. The fire brigade attends “X”s home on no less than five occasions, usually without need. In one instance police arrive at his workplace with the news that his "house is on fire" and insist that he accompany them in a police vehicle. His image is not helped by the fact that his previous manager has recently been similarly escorted from the workplace on child sex charges.

In 2010 the State government issues “X” with a Seniors card bearing the inscription “The holder is a valued member of our community -- please extend every courtesy and assistance”. The police apparently have a distorted view of what assistance may mean, and intercept “X” for speeding on three more occasions - at one stage alleging that he has led them on a high speed chase in dangerous conditions.

In 2012 “X” turns 62 but experiences little relief. The police and the fire brigade descend on his home after a family wedding, yet seem confused as to what offence has precipitated their intrusion. Traffic control authorities patrolling a remote stretch of road on Anzac Day Eve intercept his vehicle but are not specific about the reason for the stoppage. The fact that the officers ignore some obvious car defects (a mirror attached with adhesive tape and a side window supported by wads of newspaper) suggests that they have been attracted by some unseen force.

As fellow Victorians celebrate the Queen's birthday in June 2012 (when it is not actually the Queen's birthday),traffic infringement authorities seize the opportunity to photograph X allegedly breach the speed limit on the outskirts of town and subject him to further financial and demerit point penalties.

A holiday in far north Queensland in October 2012 is marred when police tale "X" for 15 kilometres before stopping his vehicle, breathalysing him, and issuing a caution. Although there is some suggestion that  an attempt to drive on the wrong side of a divided road may have triggered police attention, a more likely explanation is the "attraction theory".

In November 2012 "X" flees to South Australia in search of anonymity, but within an hour of his arrival Adelaide he is cautioned by police for walking across a street outside of marked cross-walks. The police explain that under s 87 of the Road Traffic Act 1961 it is an offence to walk without reasonable consideration for other road users but  fail to indicate why, of all the people in in the city, "X" has come to their attention.

In a bizarre development less than 8 hours after the jaywalking incident,  "X"  receives a text message from police in his home town regarding an alleged offence involving leaving the scene of an accident.

In January 2013 "X" visits some friends camping in a foreshore park at a seaside resort. The campers maintain they have not seen an authority figure since their arrival, but within minutes a security guard appears at the camp asking if everything is under control. Coincidence, or ....?

April 2014 -- a vehicle allegedly driven by "X" is photographed going through a red light in Parkville -- did this happen, or was in part of a larger conspiracy?

Move forward several months and:   It is not the first time "X" has encountered a law enforcement officer posing the question "Do you know why I've pulled you over today?", but a warm October morning in 2014 experience proves no buffer to the unnerving intensity of the probe.  At 8 am that morning "X" had risen from a fitful sleep at a truckstop perilously close to constant highway traffic and had availed himself of adjacent roadhouse facilities before purchasing some over priced fruit and driving blissfully into the future. About the same time, 200 kilometres away, a Senior Constable from a regional Highway Patrol was issued his assignment for the day. Although verification has not been possible at this stage, it is likely that this assignment was to intercept "X's" vehicle somewhere en route and issue a penalty. It is also likely that a rural town equidistant between "X's" current position and his predator's control room was nominated as the interception point, and a radar equipped vehicle dispatched accordingly. Not having estimated that "X" would get lost on some back roads west of his commencement point, the officer has a considerable wait before his prey eventually looms on the horizon. The unwitting "X" is stunned into immediate curbside submission by the traditional flashing light/siren method and given the opportunity to reply to the abovementioned question  (ie "Do you know why I've pulled you over today?") His response that "maybe I was doing a little over 60" is greeted with derision and the suggestion that "X" guess again about the speed. Before he can think of better answer the officer offers a figure of 79 and goes a step further by identifying the exact location -- "passing the pub". He then asks an even more difficult question -- did "X" have a reason for driving at this speed?  Thinking more clearly as his adrenalin rush kicks in, "X" volunteers  that he has a drinking problem and has been hypnotized  to  speed away  from hotels lest he be tempted to stop and imbibe. The immediate reaction of the officer is to reach for his breath testing device and command his suspect to blow into the beckoning tube. His disappointment at a negative result is barely masked before hastily issuing a $295 fine and adding "3"  to "X's" escalating accumulation of demerit points Finally freed to drive "X" continues on his journey, but has not ventured far before being subjected to the humbling gesture of the officer overtaking him on his return to his home base -- mission accomplished.

A pleasant afternoon's drive on a warm Autumn day (May 26th 2018) is punctuated by a police officer alleging "X" has been driving at a speed of 115 kph. Despite have presented to him an argument that the 35 year old van is incapable of such a speed, the police officer issues a $317 fine. Interestingly a few days later the news breaks that police have been falsifying breath tests. Whilst in no way related to the speeding incident,  it is an indicator of police honesty in the pursuit of quotas and one could be excused for thinking "X" has been a victim of such an action.

As “X” is still alive, this case study must be considered a work in progress, but should serve at least to validate the theory as a possibility. I ask you to keep an open mind and be aware of any similar cases before dismissing the idea.

Dark side of the moon

Challenges often come in threes. Exiting a band rehearsal room strewn with empty wine bottles is difficult enough, but add in a sprained ankle compounded by a knock from a falling music stand, a loaded back pack, a guitar and amplifier and the 200 metre trek becomes a challenge at another level. Whilst starting most automobiles involves a simple turn of the key in the ignition, there are certain vehicles (such as a 1986 Pulsar with a leaking radiator hose and a hood that requires a block of wood to hold it up) that necessitate extensive preparation (such as the addition of sufficient water to last a 14 kilometre journey).

Having overcome the aforementioned challenges on a cold dark night one might expect that the only other variable was running out of petrol, given the lack of an operational fuel gauge. Factor in the  traffic police and we meet our third challenge. Obviously waiting for a citizen to harass, a police car pursued me from  a remote site near the municipal saleyards  before the flashing lights and sirens suggested I should stop. As expected, requests were made to produce my licence, verify my address, state my destination, and indicate my level of sobriety. They asked whose car it was and informed me they knew it was registered to someone in a Northern suburb of the State's capital. They told me to be aware that the registration was due to expire. Shining a torch towards the front of the vehicle, they surprisingly made no comment on the fact that the side mirror was attached with adhesive tape, or that the side window was held in place by pieces of paper jammed in the cavity. Fortunately no request was made to open the passenger side door, as the would have been a difficult achievement. Eventually they added my details to their extensive file on me and sent me on my way.

Port Fairy Parking Festival

The injection of several thousand extra motor vehicles into the meandering laneways of a seaside fishing village produces, understandably, some unforeseen consequences. And so it was during the annual labor day weekend folk festival hosted by Port Fairy, when, sometime Sunday afternoon,  I encountered what I believed at the time to be the height of arrogance amongst local property owners. Earlier that morning I had availed myself  of a citizen's nature strip to rest my trusty 1992 Falcon (recently diagnosed with a possible cracked head subject to further scans). Returning later in the day to load in my equipment and make an exit,  I became increasingly aware of a voice from the depths of an adjacent dwelling.  The demand for "$20 in the box for parking " left me visibly shaken, but with enough control of my faculties to respond with less than enthusiastic "no worries mate" before speeding off.

As the day wore on I recounted the tale to anyone who would listen long enough, railing against the audacity and front of people who had the nerve to demand unauthorised parking fees. The incident was even drawn to  the attention of a visiting journalist who later asked me to identify the house involved.

On Monday afternoon I entered a local hotel to be greeted by the regular barman, who happened to know me from previous encounters. It was only when he commented that he hadn't found $20 in his letter box that I realised that the person who stood before me was the character I had disparaged for 24 hours. It was also obvious that many regular clients in the bar were aware of the encounter and were suitably amused by it.

There seemed nothing left but to order  a strong pineapple juice and thank the Lord I had not, in fact, parted with the $20.

When smoke gets in your eyes

It was the morning after a wedding, and the day of the "after party", with the temperature  well on its way to the expected 40 degrees. Hangovers and exhaustion gave way to panic as someone sounded the alert about it being a total fire ban day. The 15 kilos of sausages and 100 meat patties languishing in the Party Hire "cool room" seemed destined for obsolescence until the CFA website was consulted.  A careful reading of the regulations relevant to TFB days revealed  that GAS OR ELECTRIC BARBECUES ARE ALLOWED - 

provided that: The barbecue is located within 20 metres of your dwelling, the area 3 metres around the barbecue is cleared of flammable material, there is (next to the barbecue) a hose connected to a water supply or a vessel with at least 10 litres of water and, finally, an adult is there at all times when the fire is alight.

After much discussion about whether it would be easier to move the house to within 20 metres of the barbecue or move the barbecue to within 20 metres of the dwelling, the barbecue was relocated to a cleared area and not one, but 2, hoses were fixed to taps in the vicinity. Since there didn't seem to be any requirement for the adult to be sober, conscious or anything else other than present, compliance with regulations seemed complete.

As guests drifted in and the band struggled to keep the guitars in tune in the heat, the first batch of sausages hit the hot plate running. The artificial skins buckled under the strain, releasing a stream of fat that ignited on impact with the hot rocks beneath the grill. A series of sausage related explosions culminated in a steady stream of smoke plummeting skywards (an observation that had not eluded a vigilant neighbour with a finger on the emergency services number).

Those who thought the band was out of tune were proved wrong when it became apparent that the discordant sound was generated by a tonal mismatch between some fire sirens and a Hank Williams' song.. A  crescendo of warning signals heralded the convergence of a convoy of red trucks at the property entrance (conveniently given prominence by a bevy of balloons). The ominous sound of a helicopter echoed above,  as police cars and emergency response units descended in unison, hoping to net, at last, the district fire bug.

Startled guests were momentarily distracted from their alcohol consumption as a fully uniformed fire captain rushed the property in search of the incendiary epicenter. He was stopped in his tracks by the sight of 12 cauterized sausages on a recently subdued grill, and eventually conceded that the site met requirements and the party could continue. In a dramatic conclusion to the incident the police cars sped off in search of more lucrative offenders and the helicopter hovered in disappointment for a short time before ascending into the heavens.

To this day, no one can remember whether the band's next song was "I'm on fire", "It's my party and I'll fry if I want to" or "The road goes on forever and the party never ends"

Schack family Christmas Newsletter 2011

Whilst the predominant community opinion is that the Chinese year of the rabbit seems inappropriate for the Schack family, there is no doubt a minority alternate view.

Much of theyear was spent testing some of the hypotheses presented in the book “Why Men Don't Listen & Women Can't Read Maps” by Allan and Barbara Pease.

 The first of these was that women talk more - 20,000 words a day compared with 7,000 for the average man - and they talk twice as fast. This may seem obvious to some, and many of you may recall the old joke "Once I didn't talk to my wife for six months - I didn't want to interrupt." William and Michael believed they found supportive evidence for this assertion at a Collingwood-North Melbourne football match, where it appeared a woman behind them was running in deficit on her daily word count, and needed to up the ante. Having initially assumed the person she was talking to was her marital partner, it was a surprise when she announced her early departure to meet her husband and it became apparent that some lucky stranger had been allocated a seat next to her that day.

Another proposition in the book was that women communicate indirectly, whereas men hear words literally. Michael uncovered supportive evidence for this proposition in the process of purchasing Grand Final tickets. Apparently when a woman responds to a question like “Do you want a grand final ticket?” with  “I have never been to a Grand Final – it would be an experience” it is not a literal statement of fact coupled with a thoughtful view of the future, but really means “Yes -- buy me a ticket”. In practical terms it can also be interpreted as “payment of a sum equivalent to the cost of a ticket will pacify those not included”.

Helen’s achievements included an incredible surprise of a “romantic getaway” in Melbourne. The concept of booking two hotels (in different suburbs) on the one night was just the “extra”needed for the “wow factor”.
Her references to an “overlap” as a “lap over” and “whipper snapper” as“whipper snipper” prompted an amateur, and probably misguided,  diagnosis of Paraphasia  (a form of aphasia in which a person has lost the ability to speak correctly, substituting one word for another, and jumbling words and sentences unintelligibly). However, before dismissing the diagnosis too quickly we should recall her referring to a particular Dulux paint colour as "Hog’s Breath" rather than “Hog Bristle”.
Her thoughts on chivalry received some colorful exposure after slipping on ice and tumbling into the snow at Mount Buller. The debate over whether a chivalrous man would assist a stricken lady to her feet, or take a photo of her as she struggled in the snow,  may go on for eternity, but one should not underestimatethe value such experience in contributing to the discussion on the “death of chivalry”.

A number ofquestions were raised about Michael’s consciousness during the year. There maybe a long wait for answers, but we’ll ask them anyway.
Did he just get sick of answering the phone or did he just not see it when he ran over it with the lawn mower?

What was he thinking walking into a crowded marquee at the folk festival with toilet paper dangling from the rear of his jeans?
Did he really think the biscuit tin was the correct repository for kitchen garbage?
What value did he see in storing the sugar in the fridge?
Does he really think the police would believe him went he said he was only doing 90 kmh when their radar gun indicated 110?
Did he really think wiping out the side panel of the family’s campervan would impress anyone with his trailer backing prowess?
Did he really think super-glue residue on his hands would lead others to assume he had calluses from working in the garden?
Did he reallyhave to locate all the water pipes on the property by puncturing them with a shovel, axe or pick?
Was he really trying to evaluate the idling capacity of his old Falcon by leaving it running unattended for four and half hours in the back yard while he drove to Warrnambool in another car after jump starting it with the Falcon?

Rebecca returned from overseas to witness a Grand Final loss. Having lived in India for a while she assumed it would be okay to climb in the window of her grandmother’s house – something that attracted the attention of two thirds of the officers at the Essendon police station, who suggested she might be better off at her parent’s home rather than running rampant in suburbia. Coincidentally,  her return to the empty nest vacated some years ago coincided with a rise in phone charges, an increase in electricity costs and an excess data usage notice from the Internet service provider.

Hannah excited everyone by getting engaged to Dan. Perhaps even more exciting was the valuable insight she gained into her parents’ demographic when the family attended an event at the Oakleigh RSL. Having been regularly exposed to the condom displays in the rest-rooms of inner city venues it was a revelation to find the RSL facilities sported advertisements for incontinence underwear.

William graduated from University and turned his attention to “blogging”, where his emotive descriptions of the agony and ecstasy associated with a Collingwood finals campaign attracted the attention of many. One of his final posts included the phrase “My name is William and I’m a recovering Grand Final attendee”.

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.