Sunny Bundaberg
Unfortunately, due to my recent laptop downgrade, I cannot decorate this post with scenic photos. Fortunately, due to the fact that I am currently hanging out in a motel room wearing a towel, the photos probably wouldn’t be of interest to the general public anyway.
My day started at 4am with the realisation that I had no clean clothes other than those on the line, which were all wet. 30 minutes of ironing solved this problem, and I was ready for my cab right on time.
Flying Qantas for the first time in over two years was quite eerie. I really dislike the concept of being called ‘sir’ by hospitality staff; aren’t we supposed to be living in an egalitarian society? Even more odious is the flagrant use of the title “Mr Auld”. This name is reserved for my close friends only. If you don’t know me, it’s “Stuart”, or “mate”.
Anyhow, I survived not one but two Qantas flights, replete with bland bakery products and inferior tea. Upon landing in Bundaberg I realised that I should have hired a car, and so called the bean-counting department to get things moving. 45 minutes and 3 different forms later, I was on the road.
Having had consulted Google Earth about a week ago, I was fairly confident that I would have no trouble locating the distillery. However, a dream I had on the weekend completely confused me; I caught a taxi through the middle of Bundaberg and it was full of overpasses, bypasses and used car dealerships. After driving for ten minutes and not locating anything but endless fields of sugar cane, I resorted to Plan B: drive towards the chimney stack I can see in the distance, while simultaneously calling the office for help.
It was at about this point that a friendly member of the local constabulary stepped out on the road and motioned for me to pull over. He provided clear and concise directions to the distillery, for the bargain price of $100.
Is it possible to contest a speeding fine on the basis that you were driving a Tarago? I tried for the rest of the day to get it above 60 km/h, but couldn’t manage it. How he clocked me going at 72, I’ll never know.
Anyhow, I arrived safely at the distillery and was presented with an orange vest, a yellow hardhat and a rubber strap for my boots. The tour shortly commenced.
I think that the biggest insight of the day for me was learning where these “special blend” 18-year-old one-off bottles of spirits come from. Of course, the naive punter (aka me, 24 hours ago) would naturally assume that the liquor in question has been “hand crafted from the finest ingredients, before being laid aside in premium oak barrels for an extended maturation period”. In fact, the reality is somewhat different.
Engineer: “Hey, I just found some barrels that we stored in the wrong place 20 years ago, and have been sitting here gathering dust”.
Marketing department:”$$$$$$$$$”
To cut a long story short, I shall be heading to Bargara tomorrow morning to catch some surf, before departing for Brisvegas at 2:30pm. Adieu!
September 1, 2008 10:12 pm 6 Comments
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By Duncan
, September 2, 2008 @ 4:25 pm
I also dislike being called “sir”, though I am yet to be called Mr Macinnis. Mr Macinnis is my dad.
By Wombat
, September 2, 2008 @ 6:15 pm
“Marketing department:”$$$$$$$$$””
Priceless stuff.
Unlucky about the speeding fine Mr. Auld, but look on the bright side: if you were in Victoria they’d be hauling you away with six fatal bullet wounds for that kind of an assault on the peace.
By Wombat
, September 2, 2008 @ 6:16 pm
Awesome, check out the flag.
By stu
, September 2, 2008 @ 7:25 pm
Ah, so you did actually go to The Hague. There goes my theory that you were earning money in Thailand posing as a ladyboy.
By foster
, September 2, 2008 @ 9:38 pm
posing?
By foster
, September 2, 2008 @ 9:39 pm
ps how’s my flag – good old mother england
yet to achieve a real british flag but am working on that one
will update as soon as it is acquired