Anyone for OAP Porn??
06 January 2012
Re-adapting to a modern western society was as easy as lighting a fart in an artic snow storm after 19 months of living the life of unrefined, nomadic tramps. But like an expenses fiddling politician or Cornel Gaddafi, sooner or later we all have to face the music. It’s hard to say if Australia was less prepared for us than we were for her but both parties have received a sobering slap to the face with many a raised eyebrow to follow.
As our flight circled over the stunning Northern Auzzie coastline there was an underlying feeling of sadness that overshadowed the anticipated joy of reaching our 30th country. We knew that once the plane touched down there would be no language barrier to contend with, no alien culture to explore, no flash mobs of puzzled Ewoks waiting outside our tent of a morning, no $1 feast to satisfy our unquenchable appetites, the roads would void of horses, carts and bottomless potholes and the supermarkets would be well stocked with things we know and like. Where’s the fun in that?
Our first hurdle upon arrival was to dodge the gauntlet of extremely anally retentive customs officials. Anyone reading this who has frequented the land of Shrimp and Baaaarby will know how touchy they become at the thought of foreign items upsetting their delicate eco system, I was even told that anyone who put foot on British soil during Foot and Mouth time cannot to this day give blood due to the fear of turning the population into mad cows. I shit you not!
The sight of two gritty individuals hauling trolleys overflowing with luggage that appears to have been used to mop up after a violent and disturbing skat (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=skat) party is enough to upset the most determined of baggage fiddlers. We were quickly ushered away from the “normal” passengers, who smugly wheeled their pristine Samsonites towards freedom and taken to a quiet spot, asked to open the bike boxes by a lady who looked like an incarnation of Magnum PI with an eating disorder and a few years in rehab. After a split second of inspection she barked in an unsurprisingly gruff voice “Well they’re gonna have to be hosed down for a start”.
Our hearts sank at the realisation that the contents of our stained and smeared panniers superseded the relatively minor skank attached to our beloved bikes by a ratio of at least 10 to 1. An evil grin crept over my face as I imagined Magnum fishing out panties that have shamefully accompanied us since day dot and are home to more skid marks than the starting grid at Silverstone, sleeping bags that provoke instant gagging, even from those whose scent they encapsulate and tents that are home to soils, sands and the odd stain that may or may not be the aftermath of a wet dream.
Luckily for both parties a 4th person entered the battle, a giant of a man strolled towards us accompanied by the agonising ping of latex gloves against hands that would destroy the most liberal orifice. Our sphincters intuitively tightened like a couple of waiters coming to the realisation they were working one of Barrymore’s parties. If there is one thing that travel teaches, it’s that first impressions are rarely correct, our hulking anal violator turned out to be a saviour, more interested in tales of travel than ripping us a new one. He promptly relieved the overly empowered shemale, chatted to us about the trip and after a token shake down of our tents sent us cheerily on our way to civilization.
It turns out that this particular civilisation has been the victim of drastic inflation since the days of the £10 Pom. After enjoying over a year in which a slap up feed would rarely exceed a buck we were choked to the point of collapse to find the best nosh we could sniff out with our highly tuned vagabond noses was a sandwich for an extortionate $10, You could buy half a Bosnian bakery for less!
As we resentfully chomped down like a couple of sulking school children we came to the morbidly obvious realisation that we would have to rejoin the labour force imminently or face starvation in a matter of days.
So, like a couple of crack whores in need of a fix we stormed the streets of Darwin, willing to do….. Well, pretty much anything a crack whore would and more. We frequented every recruitment agency in town. Even in our destitute state we were grateful not to be sat on the other side of the desk (where both of us would have been found a few years prior).
After searching every notice board and asking every Bruce and Shelia who would give us a second, our chances of finding a job were on par to Stephen Hawkins chances of snatching gold at the 400 meter Olympic hurdles.
It turns out that this time of year in Darwin holds the uplifting title of, Suicide Month. Darwinians traditionally flee the city if possible, tourism shuts down and the remainder of the population start flinging themselves off the limited number of high rises like Castlemaine XXXX swilling Lemmings. All this occurs due to the build up of humidity before the monsoon cometh. One might think that the rapid decline in population would create a competition vacuum leaving the gates open for a couple of scruffy hobos to jump in and satisfy the employment needs of the City.
It seemed this was not the case, or perhaps like an aged crack whore we had reached the time in our career where we were no longer suitable for hire. Unaccustomed to the bitter taste of defeat we cast our net further a field and eventually found a Mango farm who would hire anyone in possession of at least one arm and leg, it was rumoured that they even employed the French!!!
All we had to do was make our way 300km South to the quaint sounding town of Katherine in the quickest and least expensive way possible. The bus was a bankrupting $160, our faithful steeds would've carried a three day expense penalty so we opted to test drive a new way of travel and hitch. How hard could it be, erect your thumb and let the good times roll…… Sounds similar to a party I was once invited to on Hampstead Heath.
The Road to Granny Porn
We conservatively estimated 6 hours to cover the 3 hour journey, after all, there is only one road heading south and with the exodus of the suicidal locals, people were bound to take pity on a couple of tourists standing hopefully, in the climate they were trying to escape. 28 hours an 4 lifts later we arrived at our destination, lobster red, weary and wishing we had not deserted our bikes. Having said that the true merits of a method of transport are not always clear at the time. The people who picked us up were all true gems - hooning the highway with beer between the legs, stories of narcotics and bush craft were plentiful but it was not until a couple of days later that we collected the full and exquisite pornographic privileges of our testing travel experiment.
Hughie and his Aboriginal wife Joy were a retired couple and the first to pick us up in Darwin, they aided us for 50km and even offered to put us up for a night of flowing beer and smoke when we made our way back down on the bikes. We exchanged the number of our newly acquired phone and left, feeling the warmth of humanity and congratulating ourselves on our decision to hitch.
The texts started a couple of days later. Like all sexual predators grooming their prey they came across as innocent and wholesome as Mr Kipling. “Hope you made it there safely” etc etc. How kind can people be to actually give you a lift, ask for nothing in return and care enough to follow up to ensure you are safe. Then without warning the predatory duo released a missile “This is Joy… I want to see what a Scotsman has up his kilt!!”.
Our sides split as images of the sweet old pensioner we had met a few days prior morphed into that of a dirty little granny, sat in her rocking chair plotting her porno fix.
Unwilling to give up the goods after such feeble grooming efforts we opted to play hard to get and not reply. Our tactics paid off to unimaginable levels when we were hit by the second and final missile. I’m not sure if their intention was to strike the fear of God into us, offer a bargaining arrangement or just offer us a joyful gift but upon opening the message we found no words. Some say a picture is worth a thousand words but I can narrow this one down to a choice few “Big, Droopy, Aboriginal, Pensioner, Titties…… With a slight hint of a suspect liquid dribbling down them“. You just don’t get that with most modes of transport. We offer a salute to the hitch hike, a tough mistress but unrivalled in its potential for authentic granny porn.
Joining The Labour Force
If someone mentioned fruit picking to me prior to our employment it would conjure up a Sound of Music esque image of people skipping through a meadow, wicker basket in hand grabbing the odd berry when they could be arsed. All this coupled with a pay cheque at the end of the day and it seemed we were lined up for a few weeks on easy street.
I for one was blissfully unaware that Mango sap contains more poison than Linda McCartney and burns through skin like Premiership footballer’s indignation through the tabloids. Turning up at the campsite, populated by “pickers” was like walking into the Chernobyl Accident and Emergency department on the day it all went pop. The more extreme cases had every inch of their exposed arms and legs and hands covered in rancid burns, blisters and rashes. Think Woogie’s hives in Something About Mary, triple donk it and you’re close.
Our day would begin at 5:30, Mangoing by 6:30 in a never ending orchard inhabited by 40,000 trees, millions of flies and the odd snake. Teams of 6, 1 driver on a lethal 4 ton brute of a machine and 5 pickers stripping the trees of every fruit, miss a few and a spank would shortly follow. The heat varied from the mid 30s to mid 40s, total breaks for the day would never exceed 30 minutes and were mostly 5 minutes diving for shade and a stuff of the face when the machine refilled with water. 10 hours later we would finish up, by 6ish we would be back at camp. And for this, your reward is a slightly above minimum wage, pre tax $200 per day. It’s fair to say there were not a lot of happy faces around, but as for us…..
You have never seen two happier Mango pickers, each day is equal to around 30 days vagabonding, 30 days of complete care free, unadulterated, road junky, scream it from the top of your lungs like William Wallace "freedom", we lapped up every second of Mango action we could until the orchard was as naked as Hughie’s missus. I can’t say we escaped unscathed. Henry in particular suffered the wrath of Mango sap - face arms, legs and eyes all got a spurting. I escaped with an unsightly Mango rash - definitely the bitch on the war wounds front. Two weeks on and there’s no lasting damage to anything other than our faithful tent which lies in tatters.
The Babby, as we affectionately named her has been our back up home since we hit the road over 20 months ago. Following the destruction of our last 2 spacious tents we have promoted her up the ranks. She was enjoying reign as our top dog. Given that she could comfortably sleep a dwarf and his pet Racoon she is not exactly fit for purpose and we have had many a night forcibly spooning to levels that would make the gayest of gaymen wince.
After a lucrative day flogging the Mango pony we were firmly in the land of Zees, dreaming of droopy, aboriginal titties when we were awoken by a series of thuds assaulting the tent. In our dazed stupor we retaliated with many an expletive (unfit for a blog of this level of sophistication) and a fist or 5 against our attacker. Too lazy to investigate further and eager to reconvene our pleasurable dreams of all things droopy we dozed off again only to be awoken by what felt like the full force of a Sumo Wrestler carrying Vanessa Feltz on his back crashing on top of us. We franticly scrabbled for some source of light like a couple of moles in a beach bucket eventually finding our phone, shining the light outside just in time to see the worlds most evil Wallaby hopping off, middle finger erect into the night leaving our 3rd and final tent as flat as a kippers dick.
After 6 weeks graft and a range of job titles including: Picker, driver, supervisor, barman, cleaner, yard worker, dishwasher and chef we have escaped the indignity of having to bend over and take it from whoever’s paying, breath in a lungful of free air and return to the infinitely preferred indignity of being a pair of tramps. Much to the bewilderment of most locals we will be loading up the stallions and heading down the guts (middle of Australia to you and I) tomorrow. Granted it wasn’t the best planned venture but tackling it in the height of Summer with temperatures in the 50s with hundreds of kilometres between civilisation sounds like it could make a good blog. Next stop Hughie and Joy’s……………..
You might be aware, if you are a regular reader that we have taken it upon ourselves to ordain a handful of the worlds most unbelievably amazing people as Modern Day Saints. These chosen few are people who have taken generosity, kindness and humanity to unprecedented levels but until now this elite hall of fame has been filled with only men, making it a rather boring group to be a part of on a Friday night. That’s all about to change with Ciara and Lynne. Two Belfast beauties who we met in Vietnam, the type of girls that the more pessimistic among us might have thought were extinct.
Like Henry, Lynne holds the cause of Brain Tumour Research close to her heart and when they returned to Ireland the girls put on a fundraiser which totalled a whopping £2270. Our hats go off to you girls, you’re an inspiration and more than worthy of being the only two Blazing Angels in existence.
Somebody necessarily lend a hand to make significantly posts I might state. This is the very first time I frequented your website page and thus far? I surprised with the analysis you made to make this actual publish incredible. Magnificent job! eeeebekegddb
Awesome blog, enjoy the delights of the real Australia, granny porn, goon and 2 minute noodles
Richard Howse says
Brilliant blog chaps - Henry will you send me Joys' phone number; i think me and her would get along..! Keep it up you couple of global robo-tramps! x
David Sanderson (distant relative to Jamie) says
Welcome to Australia, I have been down the west coast 2010, Barn hill Station is an excellent (rustic)place to take in some Aussie hospitality, you may find some of your fellow countrymen there as well.
Adrian Morris says
A fantastic effort....truly inspirational. Enjoy Australia and good luck for completion.
Mark Jenkins says
Nice one lads, stay safe!x
Tom Gatenby says
Really great read as always, but think you have outdone yourselves here! Congrats!
tom brydon says
one of the better ones me thinks.
Hey! Loved the blog, you're crackers!!! Dont stop the comic, it's just great! LMFAO!!!! XOXO
Great blog boys, vid for Bali is coming along nicely just adding the finishing touches, stay safe x
Julianan Grant says
Hi guys! I have been following your exploits since Hungary, but I have never laughed as much and as loud as readng this. You have real comic talents, I do hope you publish something at the end. Talking of which, I hope you don't stop in Oz and go all the way round, like Arpi and Zita are planning. Hope you meet up with them in Oz, although they are still in Pakistan and might arrive after you moved on. Best of luck and be careful out in the desert!
Jeremy Gladwin says
So good to read your blog. Where were you educated?
St. Goran ft. Family says
So far, so close... You are incredible, guys! Big hug!
Jane & Johnny Brydon says
Great blog guys. Stay safe. See you in Sydney. xxx
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