It was an eleventh hour call from The Experience that changed everything. An offer of a pickup, drop-off, and more importantly, fuel charge free trip to the Farm. And who could pass up such an opportunity? Having been openly berated for this year’s non-participation in the annual iPharm trip, the author could barely care less. Having been criticized on everything from haircut to his skinny jean couture, he was decidedly nonplussed about claims of having female genitalia. One Sebastien Wilson was particularly vocal in his stance, despite belonging to a blood line which seemed genetically pre-disposed to surrender and cowardice. The irony was too much to bear, but your author stood firm.
Fresh from 9 months of chronic unemployment, he was neither of sound mind nor monetary position to fulfil 5 days of carnivorous and alcoholic excess. A new job loomed the next week – a chance to set everything right, to get his career back on track after it was callously snatched from him. To come all the way from a simple Deutsche doccer to trading savant. He needed a sound mind and a sound body if he was to execute his chance perfectly. But, there was no surf and it was a free trip, so what the hell.
After a short trip across town and country, we arrived at Cunningham’s Creek, the ancestral home of fireworks, bonfires, terrified sheep and Gypsy curses. The amphitheatre of sausage collected around the fire reacted with cries of astonishment to groans of distaste, but the author was unperturbed. He was already suitably dressed in slippers and flannel, the first beer tasted especially good as it was someone elses…the bitter taste of unemployment washed away in a few sips.
As expected, the weekend progressed as it had done for the past half-decade….it was almost scripted by now, but somehow the cast didn’t notice and the audience didn’t care. It was boys being boys, boys being slovenly, boys reciting filthy jokes, boys drinking and eating, boys getting naked and running around the fire. In fact, the only difference one could notice was that Shehadie had even less hair than before…it was the only way you could tell the passage of time in the photos each year. Sadly, Sunny’s ridiculous sideburns still remained.
By 9pm the air was hot and thick…the stench of 12 males swigging beer, breaking wind, scoffing Bolognese, mixed with the undercurrent of Duncan’s scotch breath. The author seems to recall a one Tom Chapman one or two years ago lobbying to allow the inclusion of girlfriends, much to the chagrin of other attendees, and, more relevantly, before anybody actually had one. I say let them come! Let them sit in the room for five minutes and observe! Let them see Nick in his underpants! Let them run shrieking from the building never to return!
The night settled into a not-so-quiet celebration of what it is to be a man. Drinking, joking, singing, jokes about Sophie Delezio. Chapman’s rendition of ‘Mike is a c*nt’ was particularly poignant for its reference to Mike’s allergy to the female genitala, and garnered many laughs. It is believed NASA sets its clocks to Mike’s bi-polar clock, being more accurate than an atomic timepiece, and he was off to bed within minutes. A heavy landing for Mike but not, as Mash would no doubt quip, as heavy as the landing that poor ol’ Sophie was accustomed to.
As the night wore on, the collection of empty vessels accumulated, as did the empty beer bottles. Duncan had put a severe dent in the Scotch, his two 6-packs of beer long gone…unfortunately this cannot be said for his cries of ‘You owe me a six-pack!’. Nick continued to shake and gesticulate wildly, espousing theories of everything from criminal law to reasons why Australia is so average. Sunny and John retreated to talk about whose football team was worse, a debate that undoubtedly still rages to this day. TK sulked quietly in the corner despite pleas for him to drink more. Seb sat back on his paunches, letting a beer rest coolly on his burgeoning belly. Richard tinkered with engine parts, stirred the Bolognese, all the while wondering if 23 cloves of garlic and 16 onions were sufficient for 3 kilograms of Bolognese. Probably not, better put three more of each in just to be sure. Josh sat pensively by the fire, and, having forgotten his glasses, had no idea what was going on. Mash strummed the guitar, no doubt devising more distasteful yet entirely hilarious Sophie Delezio jokes. The author sipped on his free beers, his enormous, reddening proboscis swinging wildly about the room. Stu shuffled about the kitchen with all the grace and purpose of an axleottle, the two at that point sharing the same expression. And all the while Joel shot in people’s faces, pausing occasionally to take a photo.
But with the fire fading away and the week’s trials weighing him down, the author relinquished the double bed in the cosy upper room, despite having to share with a half-naked Chapman. At that point he’d share with the Devil himself. God knows they’d have more to discuss than bad punk music and Generally Accepted Accounting Principles.
And as he drifted away, content and happy with his decision, the cries of Shehadie echoed terrifically (NJ Broadbent et al 2007) off the solid brick walls and floors…..”This one time I had Johnnie Walker Blue label and, I swear to God, it tasted like honey…..”

Mount Ilford - cursed by Gypsies and wandering bogans