The Road Trip From Hell, or What The HELL Was I Thinking?...

I like Valiants. 

Everyone has their little foibles, and mine (one of 'em, at least) is The Big V. Please don't judge me...

The Valiant started out in 1962 as a US import brought in to compete against the Holden and Falcon. And for a while, it did. After a while, though, sales diminished, Chrysler Australia was sold to Mitsubishi, and the Valiant was killed off in 1981. RIP...

During their glory days of the early 70's, the Valiant was used in the various Crawford TV crime shows - "Homicide", "Division 4", "Matlock Police", "Ryan", "Bluey", and "Cop Shop" all featured VH, VJ, and VK Vals dressed up as Victoria Police vehicles. While the Crawford streets featured more Valiants than you could poke a driveshaft at, in real life, the Victorian Police didn't actually use all that many. They were fast in a straight line, but didn't like corners all that much.

But nary a Crawford show went by without a car chase featuring a hapless crim being doggedly pursued by the cops in their trusty Valiant, complete with spinning wheels, smoking tyres, fishtailing rear ends, and more body roll than you'll see in a weight loss centre.

It made an impact on me as a kid, and still does now. For years, I've hankered after one of those 70's Valiants.

And been keeping an eye out for a suitable candidate to turn into something like this:

Found one suitable candidate - and missed out. Saw it on Gumtree, and got in touch with the seller. Turns out the car had been sold, and he just hadn't gotten around to pulling the ad...

So, each day I'd diligently check eBay and Gumtree for a contender. Which is when I spotted this:

A 1973 VJ Valiant Regal. 

Now, I wasn't actually after a Regal - I wanted a base-model Ranger, to mock up as a cop car. I'd always figured that if I were to get a Regal, it'd look like this:

That's the one used in "Bluey" (later known as "Bargearse"). Would love one identical to that. But this one was on offer, and was priced low enough to pique my interest. So, I made further enquiries, and received additional images:

Not bad - aside from the usual Valiant rust spots...

After further convos with the seller, a date was arranged for me to travel to Shepparton to check the vehicle out. The plan was that, if I liked it enough and thought it was worthy, I'd purchase it on the spot and drive it home to Melbourne.

The seller expressed misgivings about the plan, which should have rung great big warning bells. However, An Idiot Will Not Be Deterred, so I duly withdrew the funds from the bank, obtained an Unregistered Vehicle Permit which would allow me to drive it on the highway, and teed up good buddy Lenny to chauffeur me to Shepp.

Cometh the Great Day, and Lenn and I zoom up the Hume in his trusty Magna. The day is pleasant, as is the company, and the trip goes well. We arrive at the destination with only one wrong turn, and there she is, parked in the driveway.

Closer inspection shows her to be pretty much as advertised - perhaps a tad more rust, but nothing unexpected. Starts and runs OK.

Bought it on the spot, and started to drive it back to Melbourne. 175 k's or so.

Which is when the fun began...

The Best-Laid Plans Of Mice And Men, or Whose Dumb Idea Was This Anyway... ooh, bugger - mine...

Even making allowances for having gotten out of a nice late-model car with all the mod-cons (my daily drive is a lovely 2007 Mitsubishi 380 GT), the Val was dreadful. An absolute pig, in fact. Steering and suspension were (are) buggered - that horrible wandering steering that you used to get from cross-ply tyres; a quarter-turn of free play, and constantly turning the wheel from side to side in a partially successful attempt to correct the wander and keep tracking straight. It's been well over a decade since I've had a car without power steering, and there was major culture shock. I was used to a wide turning circle (the result of several front-wheel drive vehicles, which are noted for having the turning circle of a small house), but this was something else entirely. Instead of the usual "two fingers on the wheel and a flick of the wrist" turn, this was a two-fisted, twenty-five turns lock-to-lock experience.

Power steering will be fitted at some point.

The brakes worked, but I was pretty wary using them - again, stepping out of a decade of vehicles with four-wheel disc brakes and ABS into a non-ABS job with drum brakes on the rear and a "yeah, I'll let you know" response to jumping on the anchors didn't inspire confidence...

And, on attempting a tyre-shredding rocket launch from a set of traffic lights, the transmission slipped a couple of times, too. 

All fixable in the long term, just not much fun at the time.

Also not much fun at the time was realising that the car directly in front of me was a Highway Patrol unit, and that my Unregistered Vehicle Permit was in a bag on the back-seat of Lenny's car, rather than Affixed To The Windscreen Of The Vehicle, as required. Quickly rectified.

And hey - the factory power windows (a rare option in those days) all worked perfectly!

Being low on motion-lotion, I hustled the Val into the nearest servo and filled the tank to the brim. The seller had told me that he'd topped the coolant up that morning, so I didn't bother checking it. Or the oil. Or the transmission fluid. 

A BIG mistake (and my own silly fault).

So, hi-ho, hi-ho, it's down the road we go. Nice arvo for a drive - windows down, breeze blowing through what's left of my hair, and hitting that sweet spot where all the various rattles and vibrations coalesced into a sort of harmony and the ride became bearable.

Belting along at 100 km/h in a 110 zone, keeping diligently to the left, with my buddy behind me, everything's going more or less OK. Until "more" became "less". And then "not".

Fifty or so clicks down the road, the Temp needle is rising. Then it's on the red. Not entirely unexpected, and I've taken the precaution of bringing water and coolant with me. So, I kept going in the hope of reaching a "service centre" on the side of the road. Which I did. Except that it's on the OTHER side of the road, which was a much use as a politician is to a pensioner.

Another few K's, expecting a cloud of steam and smoke to issue from under the bonnet at any moment, and we came upon a handy rest spot. Pulled up, and lifted the bonnet. Sizzling, bubbling noises from the radiator, smoke coming off the engine. The accumulated oil which has leaked from the rocker cover and side-plates over the years is now burning. The radiator cap is red-hot. 

Lenn is exceptionally helpful - "Problem, buddy?". He's in no hurry, which is great. We've got time to let the car cool down. 

Poured water over the radiator header tank until it cooled down enough to touch, then with my hands sort of protected by a huge wad of paper from the rest stop loo, I gingerly rotated the radiator cap to the first stop. Surprise - no gusher of scalding, rusty water! Off comes the cap, and...

...the bloody radiator was pretty much bone-dry. Unlike so many 40 year-olds, this one HADN'T retained water. Had a litre of coolant on me, and several bottles of water - and it took 'em all. And several refills from the taps in the rest stop loo, with Lenn and I forming a kind of ad-hoc, two-man bucket brigade. 

On the positive side, not a leak to be seen once it was full.

Remembering the slippages, I checked the tranny fluid. Surprise, surprise - bone-dry. Had a litre on me, which I added. And burnt my arm doing so. Checked the engine oil - not much. Didn't have any of that on me, so I resolved to pull into the next servo and get some!

But, all fluids had been pretty much replenished, so the problem should be solved. Right? Of course not, stoopid. Have you learnt nothing so far?

Kicked her in the guts - she fires straight up, temp gauge is down to about 1/4. Off we went.

Got about five K's before I noticed smoke. Figured it was the engine still smoking. But, I could now smell it and it smelt acrid and electrical, and was getting worse. Smoke started billowing from under the dash. Pulled up, shut her down, and staggered out of the car, coughing. Lenn climbs out of the Magna - "Problem, buddy?".

(Back-story. Car had an LPG system fitted. It caused the car to overheat, so it was disconnected. A separate ignition switch was fitted, bypassing the one on the column. Lots of extra wiring under the dash). 

Car's off, and there's no more smoke, but nothing's happening - the ignition switch isn't working anymore. I'm on the side of a major highway, 100 or so K's from Melbourne, with a dead car, and no tools. Not my idea of a happy Sun-dee arvo...

If necessary - and it appears to be - Lenn and I can get back to civilisation just fine in the Magna.

But, I don't want to leave the car there. We'd have to push it off the side of the road, which is kind of not an option - I'm as far over to the left as I can get, and the side of the road curves upward. Pushing a Valiant uphill is not an option. It's on a bend, and cars coming round it are getting uncomfortably close. I have visions of returning hours later to find a mangled heap of green scrap metal where my car used to be. And it's gonna be a pain in the ane organising a low-loader to get the Val back to the Big Smoke (no pun intended).

Back In My Yoof, I did an apprenticeship as a motor mechanic. I was awful. I've no patience at all with inanimate objects (as those who know me are well aware!), and that's a pretty basic failing for a profession which involves spending most of your day dealing with recalcitrant nuts and bolts. Basically, objects either bend to my will, or get trashed. There's a long history of destroyed VCR's, computers, and CD players which can attest to my lack of empathy with "things" - my prevailing philosophy is along the lines of "if I press the button, you WILL work. Or else".

That approach didn't work for me as an apprentice at the SEC - I remember getting out of an International truck with a persistent brake problem, and slamming the door so hard that the window shattered. And then there's the time I hurled a huge spanner in a fit of impotent rage and frustration, and damned near decapitated a passing leading hand...

I retained a basic, "backyard mechanic" level of knowledge, but there's a twist: the SEC was fairly heavily unionised, and the apprentice motor mechanics weren't allowed to ever touch electrics. So, I can change a head gasket, brakes, and all the most basic stuff - but know sod-all about electricals. Which is what the current problem was. ("current" - HAAAAA!!!).

Necessity being the Mother Of Invention, and Desperation being the Mother Of Necessity, I lift the bonnet in the hope of being able to nut something out. I figure I can mayyyybe run a wire from the battery to the coil, and then short the starter motor out with a screwdriver, and get her running that way.

I jump back into the driver's seat, and have a look at the aftermarket ignition switch, and have an idea (gleaned from watching all those Crawford cop shows). Can I bypass the ignition switch?

Hoicked the wires off the switch, and touched two together. Bingo - the dash lights come on. Touch the third one, and she starts! OK, problem solved. Lenn and I are both overjoyed. And I'm soberly aware that it's only the relatively simple mechanics of the car which have gotten me out of the hole - had it been a more recent vehicle, with the various engine management computers and electrics, I'd have been buggered.

I'm now using a jumper cable to hold all the wires together, and we're mobile. Granted, the indicators aren't working, and neither are the power windows (so I can't give hand signals), but she's at least moving, and at this point, that's all that matters. Lenn's behind in the hasn't-missed-a-beat Magna (well, it's sort of a Valiant...), so he can indicate for me. Off we go. Again.

Pull into a servo about 20 k's later - added another litre of tranny fluid, and a couple of litres of oil. No leaks anywhere. Clipped a wire off the defunct LPG system, plugged it into the fourth wire from the ignition switch, added it to the wires held by the jumper cable, and I've got indicators and windows back!

So, we're off again, with Lenn keeping station behind. And, after a while, the temp's up to the red again. But, by this point, I'm at Wallan, which is spitting distance from home. Pulled into the rest centre, and had some McChucks (was starving by this point!). Shouted Lenn lunch - the least I could do for all his patience!

Car had cooled down again, and basically stayed OK from that point on - needle was hovering around the "m" in "Temp", and didn't go any higher.

Apart from one very hairy moment where the route back onto the freeway consisted of a long, tight right-hander which saw me straddling both lanes at 90, trying to get the Valiant around it without understeering off to the left or oversteering off the the right (neither of which I'd have been able to save with the dodgy steering), we made it back to Melbourne just fine - eventually! I figure that's the worst it'll get, and it's all downhill from here.

And I even had my first taste of the positives of owning a classic car - I hear a "toot-toot" next to me, and look around to see a gent in a Ford Territory giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

But, hey - she's home!

First priority is getting the wiring sorted, then steering and suspension, then the cooling system and idle (miles too high). Rust repairs and respray are still a way off. Money will be involved, and it'll get expensive.

But... Since getting home, I've walked out to her a few times to do minor bits and pieces. And each time I've walked out and seen her sitting there, I've gotten a huge grin on my face...

So, it all worked out. But if you ever hear me planning to buy an old car and drive it home, you have my permission to slap me across the face until I snap out of it!

Illegal music downloads - the necessary evil...

I type this in blazing, white-hot fury, after once again spending several fruitless hours trawling the 'Net trying to purchase music for use in my radio programs, and once again failing dismally.

Illegal music downloads, so the record companies tell us, are evil. They're destroying the industry, and fiendishly ripping off struggling artists. Websites such as RapidShare and the recently-departed MegaUpload are the devil's tools, the music pirate's equivalent of WMD's, enabling mass circumvention of the natural order (which, of course, consists of record companies raking in a fortune, some of which may occasionally find its way back to the artist who created the work in the first place. Often not).

Well, I illegally download music. And on a regular basis, as it happens. Why? Because I have to. Because the record companies won't make tracks readily available for legal purchase. If they did, I'd purchase them - as I do with a half-a dozen or so tracks each week, from iTunes and other websites. But they don't, so other means are brought into play.

I present programs on two community radio stations. Unlike the commercial stations and "community" stations like 3RRR and PBS, we don't get tracks supplied by the major record companies. All our tracks come from either the artists themselves, or are purchased by the presenters, out of our own pockets. We source our own material, and in my case, that means occasionally downloading a track via less-than-legal means.

(And, let's be clear here - the tracks I download are for on-air use. Free promotion for the artists. In the case of new releases, it's done so we can play the track at the same time as the commercial stations, which wouldn't be an issue if the companies would supply us with the tracks themselves).

Now, there'll already be howls from those vitally interested in such things - "thief", "terrorist", "you're taking money from the artist's pocket", "depriving him of a living", "throwing his children out onto the street", and so on....

Ummm, no. It's not done through malice. Not through deceit. Not through choice. Not through a desire to "stick it to the man".

Wanna know why people illegally download music? 

Because the record companies won't make it legally available.

Seriously. And here's a few of the ways in which they don't make the music available...

#1: "It's not available to the public yet, only radio stations"

Ever heard a great new song on radio? After hearing it a few times, a DJ will eventually condescend to back-announce it (I mean, why back-announce "Khe Sanh" or "Stairway To Heaven"? Everyone knows those; how about giving us the name of the song you've never played before, instead of the one you run four times a week?), and you toddle off to your local record store to buy a copy.

And are told that it's only been released to radio - copies aren't available for purchase for another three weeks.

Think about that for a second - you've walked in, holding money, and asked to buy a copy of a song. And been refused.

The record companies will claim that they release songs to radio early in order to generate interest in the songs, and therefore reap mucho sales when the tracks are finally made available to the public. Except...

Ever heard a new song, liked it - and then been heartily sick of it after a week or two of saturation airplay? Hands up if you have. Mmmmm...

Basically, they lose sales that way - those who'd have purchased the song the first time they heard it (they're called "impulse purchases"), now never want to hear it again.

#2: It's YOUR fault for living in the wrong fucking country

In which you hear a great song, hie thee off to iTunes, Amazon, or some similar site, and try to purchase the track in question - to be told that it isn't available to your country yet. Once again, you're rolling up with money, asking for a copy of a song, and being refused.

This is another idiotic record comapny practice designed to stimulate anticipation in foreign markets. But, in an age of instant global communication, it's just plain stupid - potential buyers can see the clip on YouTube, and hear the track on any number of websites. It's not unreasonable that they'll want it now. It is unreasonable to refuse to sell it to them. And as with #1, by the time the record company condescends to make the track available, the potential buyer may no longer want the track in question...

3#: What do you want that old crap for?

Now, not all songs are available on-line. Not all ever will be. And, let's face it - some just plain shouldn't be. However, there are a lot of songs that should be. A lot. In fact, pretty much any song that's charted should be a walk-up start. But, nooooo...

Basically, I / you / the average punter should be able to log onto a website and purchase any song that's ever charted. The record companies, however, have a different musical vision in mind - if they don't think you need it, or can't be arsed digitizing it, you can't have it. As with #1 and #2, there you are, money in hand - and a record company exec giving you the finger, and a "no".

And this is where they're at their most two-faced. So, you can't buy the track on CD, or online. You've tried. You've also tried the artist's website, and been told that they'd love to sell you a copy, but the record company won't allow them to sell their own tracks on the site (in fact, 80's Melbourne band Serious Young Insects were refused permission by their former record company to feature their own fucking tracks on their MySpace page!)...

You do a Google search, and find some blogger somewhere has uploaded a vinyl rip of the track, which you duly download. And naturally, the record company freak. "You're stealing from the artist!!", they scream. "You're depriving them of royalties", they howl. "Pirates like you are killing struggling musicians", they whine.

To which I inscrutably reply - "Frog-shit".

So, to any record company exec / apologist reading this, I pose the following question: how exactly am I depriving the artist of income by downloading a copy of a track which isn't commercially available? Huh? If anything, it's the record company who's depriving the artist of income by stubbornly refusing to make the track available to those who wish to purchase it - just as in #1 & #2. Here I am, waving a handful of money. There you are, telling me to bugger off and stop bothering you.

Wanna take a guess as to who's at fault here? Yep - the record company which won't make the track available. 

Now, before you scoff and come the "Serves you right for wanting tracks that are so obscure" lark, I should point out that, for the most part, the tracks I seek are past Top 40 tracks. And from well-known artists. They're just not available online.

Give it a try yourself - do a quick search on Goanna, Sharon O'Neill, Margaret Urlich, and see what you come up with. Sod all. And those were Top 40 charting artists, for pity's sake!

Again, I want these tracks for on-air use - so I'd much rather a nice crystal-clear digital copy of the song straight off the master than a dodgy vinyl rip which still has a few crackles and pops in it. And I'll happily, eagerly purchase one - if the record companies will let me...

And that, gentle reader, is the bottom line: as with the Costnerism "If you build it, he will come", so "If you make tracks available, people will buy them".

If not, they'll get them any way they can.

Sure, there'll always be those who illegally download in order to avoid paying - just the same as there'll always be those who shop-lift for the same reason. The majority will pay - if the record companies let 'em.

So, next time you hear an industry type bemoaning the fact that illegal downloads are killing the industry off, feel free to hit 'em with the above, and watch their reaction...

"The Wisdom Of Joe Pesci", or "The Question"...

So, I tend to eat a fair whack of McDonalds. More than I should. Waaaay more than I should. Precise details are between me, my physician, and those pesky Greenpeace types who keep trying to roll me into the water whenever I'm at the beach...

Leaving aside my record-breaking cholesterol, rock-hard arteries, and my not needing embalming when I die due to the stupendous level of preservatives I ingest, it means that I spend more time at Maccas outlets than your average punter (unless your average punter is named Morgan Spurlock). As a not-particularly-keen, I-just-seem-to-be-around-when-shit-happens observer of the human condition, I can't help but notice the various foibles that afflict the bright-eyed, eager young things who happily provide a seemingly never-ending source of sub-minimum wage labour to the fast-food outlets.

Now, as with so many red-blooded Aussie blokes, I'm a strictly meat-and-potatoes kinda guy. Don't like fruits, nor veggies. (I shall manfully refrain from making any gay jokes, or references to sub-par intellects - this is strictly food-related. You can make your own arrangements, and deal with the consequences). Accordingly, when I feel the urge to grease up (in a foodish way), I order my McFood sans accoutrements, aka "Leave All That Other Shit Off!".

My bite of choice at the mo' is McDonalds' Mighty Angus. I like it. I like the thicker Angus patty, as opposed to the poker-chip thickness patties in the other McBurgers. I also seriously dig that it comes with a slice of bacon - and genuine "Is Don, Is Good!" rasher bacon, too, not that dreadful, artificially mashed-together "breakfast slice" crap that Hungry Jack's have been foisting on the consumer for so long. I challenge any Hungry Jack's employee, from the CEO down, to tell me what part of the pig that stuff comes from.

Perhaps better not. I've eaten there...

But bacon (REAL bacon, see last paragraph) is one of life's great joys, as noted by John Travolta in "Pulp Fiction" - "Bacon tastes goooood". (Admittedly, in the same scene, Samuel L. Jackson refuses to "dig on swine", but I in turn refuse to take seriously anyone who boogies around in public sporting a pretentious middle initial. Seriously - Samuel L. Jackson, to distinguish him from the well-known Samuel B. Jackson, or Samuel X. Jackson, perhaps? I propose a name-change to the more appealing "Samuel L. Mother-Fucking Jackson Mother-Fucker". It works better. More adequately sums up his general public persona, and would be one of the all-time great responses when pulled over by the cops and asked to state your name...).

Brief digression: why do cops always ask reeeeeally dumb questions when they pull you over? "Do you have any reason for doing 195 miles per hour in a 30 zone?". What do they expect the answer to be? "Duuude, I just took a shit-load of acid, and I'm tryin' to get home before it hits"... Digression over, back to our program...

So, when I hit McPukes, and am asked to place my order, here's my reply: "A Mighty Angus - meat, cheese, and bacon only - with an extra slice of bacon". Simplicity itself, although you'd be amazed at just how often this turns to tears...

Firstly, the staff are trained to try and get you to order "a meal". To give you stuff you don't really want, just to get more dough out of you. It's indoctrinated. Ingrained. Resulting in the following:

"What would you like?". (What would I like? Well, Jennifer Hawkins / Belinda Chapple / Natalie Portman, naked, please. With bacon).

"A Mighty Angus - meat, chee.."
"Is that in a meal?".

After politely answering "No", I proceed to give the order again. I'm invariably asked to repeat it, as it's a hard concept to grasp. There's an occasional hesitancy, as the counter-operative (no, not a spy - although I actually did once see one wearing a Hungry Jack's shirt! Really!) tries to work out the implications of "meat, cheese, and bacon only" - "You don't want pickles?". "Are pickles meat, cheese, or bacon? Then, nooooo"...

Occasionally, help is required. Another operator leaps into action, pressing all the correct buttons. I then repeat the "with an extra piece of bacon" post-script.

Which is when it happens. The Question.

"On the burger?"

Almost every damned time.

I used to be a huge fan of Mad magazine, at least until they launched that hyper-lame Australian version, and one of my favourite sections was Dave Berg's "Snappy Answers To Stupid Questions". And really, a veritable raft of witty rejoinders spring effortlessly to mind:

"No, in my hand'll do just fine...".
"With the fries, thanks"
"Could you put it in one of those little bags the Hash Browns come in?"
"It's not for me, it's for YOU!"

And so on...

Usually it's resolved, at least until I get my order, and began my forensic examination of the contents. See, very often, there are Foreign Objects in there - to wit, all the crap I specifically ahhhksed 'em not to put on, ay. Or, as a variation on the theme, occasionally there are omissions - such as the extra slice of bacon I requested, and paid an extra dollar for. On one halcyon night not so far back, they even left out the meat...

You're probably wondering what the Joe Pesci reference is doing in the title of this rant; if so, I congratulate you on your attention span! To paraphrase Hemingway, it is now necessary that you view Lethal Weapon 2. Or at least this bit of it:

It's one of life's great truisms. There's nary a one of us who hasn't been done over at a drive-thru at some point, and arrived at destination missing a variety of the items we'd ordered. Or with any of a dozen handy substitutes. It's almost a rite of passage. And an ever-looming pitfall for the unwary, the weak, and the fatigued.

Thus, one night, did I make my way into a Maccas drive-thru, and place my customary order. The Question went un-asked, thereby lulling me into a false sense of security. The McOrder was duly dispensed, and I pulled into a handy parking spot to ascertain that All Was Well inside the bag.

NOT!

I'd asked for a Mighty Angus and fries. However, there was a box of McNuggets on top. Poop. Being scrupulously honest (and as I don't eat chicken, and the extra bits were therefore of no earthly...), I removed the box, in order that I might return it From Whence It Came. And then noticed that it was suspiciously light...

Being of a curious bent, I opened it. And there, inside the box, resting confortably on a napkin, was my extra piece of bacon....

Music You Should Check Out, Vol. 1 - Nushu

Welcome to the inaugural edition of Music You Should Check Out!

The title pretty much sums it all up - tracks / artists I've come across that I dig enough to pass on to others...

First cab off the rank is Californian outfit Nushu.

They've been a favourite of mine for a few years, ever since they sent me a friend request on MySpace, and I toddled along to check out their stuff before accepting. Their page was loaded with tracks from their 2007 debut album, "Nevermind Lullabye". Female-vocalled, guitar-based power-pop pretty much floats the Dr. Keats boat every time, and this was no exception.

"She Said" and "So Glad You Dig Me" went onto high-rotation on my radio programs. From their follow-up album, "Hula" (2010), the tracks "So Long (maybe)" and "It's Just You" got the same treatment.

As I type, Hillary and Lisa are working on a five-track covers EP - first track to see the light of day is a killer cover of the late Phil Seymour's "Precious To Me", and that's the one I've decided to share with you this time around:



It's available on their website as a free download - boogie on along there, and grab yourself a copy! Then click on the "Store" link, scroll down the page, and check some of their other tracks...

Stories That May Not Be True, Volume 2

The Place: Melbourne

The Time: Ummmm... can I get back to you on that? Ta...


Outside a busy suburban shopping centre, a group of pedestrians are busily attempting to solve the riddle of "Why the chicken crossed the road". Yet, they are being hampered in their diligent efforts by two insurmountable obstacles: 1) traffic, and 2) more traffic.

Patiently, they wait. Every so often, one will dare to press the Big Button, earning gazes of contemptuous scorn and derision from those older, wiser souls who have already pressed it.

Finally, the traffic lights change, and the pedestrians may seek the greener pastures awaiting on the far distant shore.

But, Hark - what light through yonder window breaks? It is the head of a disgruntled motorist, throwing slings and barbs of outrageous misfortune at the gimp in the car beside him, who for his part offers several pieces of choice invective designed to help not at all...

The scene escalates, as such scenes doth tend to do. Motorist A gets out of his Monaro, and advances on Motorist B's Falcon, with the light of deranged righteousness in his eyes. Motorist B emerges, and is immediately on the receiving end of a hand-picked and hand-delivered selection of blows from Motorist A's repertoire.

Meanwhile... an opportunistic pedestrian has seen the light! He has discovered the means by which he may advance from the churlish burden of "pedestrian", and acheive that most cherished state of being: "motorist".

He advances rapidly, pushing his way through the throng of lesser beings, and into the driver's seat of the still-idling Monaro. Engages First gear. Floors it. And heads joyously off into his new life, leaving behind several months worth of shreddded tyre tread as a consolation prize.

Motorist A, still mid-pummell, notes his beloved ozone-depleting steed thoughtlessly leaving without him, and ceases re-arranging the molecules of Motorist B's face. He strides boldly forward, loudly demanding arbitration and that his vehicle cease tarrying with another. From the Monaro's window emerges that finger which simultaneously advocates mono-genesis, and signifies that neither vehicle nor new owner shall return.

As Motorist A is searching his less-than-extensive vocabulary for an expletive to adequately cover the situation, Motorist B carpe's the diem, and plants a judicious Size 10 in Motorist A's buttii, then jumps into his Falcon, and departs the scene bloodied, yet strangely euphoric.

Motorist A is now left standing mid-intersection, watching as both his own vehicle and that of his recent victim disappear into the sunset, and facing the thought of a long walk home, and what his mates at the pub will say when they find out...

The pedestrians are in rapture, particularly the one who told me this story. Knowing him as I do, I fear that it may not be true.

But it should be...

The night I killed the radio station...

PVFM Night
Originally uploaded by Dr. Keats

The following tale of woe takes place in a humble community radio station in Melbourne, Australia, many years ago. It's taken this long for the main participant to live down the shame...

Our story takes place on a wet, windy, stormy Melbourne night. Blowing an absolute gale. Yet, inside the radio station, and on radios all throughout the region, people are hopping and bopping to the sweet sounds of country music, being dispensed with glee, knowledge, and power by one George Peden.

Not the "yee-hah", shit-kicker, "Oh Lord, my dawg jes' died" sorta country - this is the Real Deal. The throbbing, pulsating, vibrant creature that is Today's Country. Brookes & Dunn. Royal Wade Kimes. Kenny Chesney. 45 South. Jo Dee Messina (look 'em up!).

The joint is jumpin', as per usual between 8 and midnight on a Saturday. And while the Big Man sets toes a-tappin' and hearts aglow, far and wide, Dr. Keats (an honorary doctorate bestowed by George) toils away in the Green Room, fielding copious 'phone calls, whilst scoffing even more copious mugs of tea...

So, the power goes off at about ten minutes past ten. All is in darkness, but for the glow of the three studio computers, which are still working.

The radio station's not. Well, kinda...

See, there's a contingency plan in place: if the station's transmitter site loses the signal from the station, a satellite broadcast kicks in from the transmitter itself. Thus, in place of the warm, down-home bonhomie of the nicer George W (Peden, rather than Shrub), we instead have the gentle wafting sounds of Deutch Weller radio, broadcasting live and direct from Berlin.

The listeners are still being served, albeit with bratwurst, rather than beans 'n' fries. Knees are still being slapped, the difference being that the knees are protruding from leather shorts, rather than hidden within faded blue jeans....

Meanwhile, Dr. K and George Peden are in the dark, in all senses of the word - with the exception of the 'phone system, which is now going into melt-down from incoming calls from kind listeners wishing to inform us that we're off-air.

As it happens, we know that already...

Yet, we can re-power it. We have the technology. In the form of a back-up generator upon which neither presenter not trusty side-kick have ever laid eyes, let alone hands...

The Emergency Torch is known not to work, so a mobile 'phone steps into the breach, lighting the way to the Switchboard for the generator start-up instructions. Five minutes and two pitch-black-bumping-into-things skinned knees later, the generator cover is located and lifted. Eureka - a working torch awaits within! A very bright torch.

A now slightly flash-blinded Dr. Keats duly follows the start-up procedure, neglecting to notice that some swine of a designer has located the exhaust right where a person needs to be to work the choke and petrol knobs. The carburettor is primed, ignition switch turned on, and zip cord pulled with might. The engine starts magnificently, belching a cloud of black soot directly onto Dr. Keats' white polo shirt, and down his throat, he being a mouth-breather and all...

However, it works - the station is back on-air, "The Bunkhouse" is resumed, George is satisfied, as are the many callers, and all's right with the world; even if the generator isn't pumping out enough watts to enable the studio computers to come out of "stand-by" mode.

It's taken all of five minutes to get everything re-happening.

At which point another stalwart station presenter, Dorian, arrives just in time to be of no help at all, although his presence is welcomed as Dr. K appears to be experiencing the onset of a heart attack through a combination of impacted stress and inhaled soot. Having notified a suspiciously sleepy-sounding Duty Manager, Dr.K then elects to inform the masses (i.e: the station's Committee Of Management), via e-mail.

Bugger, no Internet! Shit.

Aha, the little lights on the server aren't on, it obviously needs to be reset. So, Dr.K goes around the back, and gently moves the server's power switch to "off", then back to "on".

Which trips the fusebox's main safety switch, taking the station off-air again.

The brutally and prematurely-silenced host exits the once-again lifeless studio with a reproachful look of innocence betrayed, shaking his head at the vagaries of fate, while Dr.K head-butts the walls....

Stories That May Not Be True - Volume 1

The Place? Burwood, Victoria.

The Time? The Seventies.

The setting for our story is the hub of local culture and activity in Burwood - McDonald's.

There's a certain, palpable something in the air, other than the smell of over-cooked grease. It's a feeling, a strange vibe, a sense that today is the day when it might all change. Day 1 of the Brave New World.

Big Ronnie is coming to town...

Yea and yea verily, deck the halls with boughs of french fries, for the Great Day hath come. Patron saint of McDonalds, the man who gave of his own name that the organisation might flourish and spread - Ronald McDonald is appearing this day, in person, at McDonalds Burwood.

Approacheth the appointed time, and all the cracks have gathered unto the fray - mums, dads, kids, McDonalds crew members - and a group of local "sharpies". All are gathered within, united by one common purpose: to bask within the refected warmth of He From Whom All Good Things Flow, Ronnie McChuck.

Hark! Oh, frabjous joy! The Ronnie-mobile is pulling up on the opposite side of the road! All are beside themselves with anticipation as the yellow-and-red Bedford van lurches to a halt. The door opens, and yes, by God, the Great Man is here!

Youthful faces are alight with joy and glee, as Ronald disembarks the Bedford, ventures out into the roadway with cheesy grin and cheesier wave - and directly into the path of a speeding Holden, travelling north-bound along Burwood Highway...

The score - Holden: 1, World Famous Magical Clown: Nil

As Ronald slides from the bonnet of the now-motionless vehicle some fifty metres away, there are screams of terror from the shattered little children, murmurs of shock from the stunned parents - and hysterical howls of mirth from the "sharpies".

(The car driver was inconsolable - it was one step removed from having killed Santa, or infected the Easter Bunny with myxomatosis.The psychological ramifications for the man proved dire - he became phobic about the prefix "Mc", and was duly institutionalised after having been found cringing in terror beneath a ten-foot sign advertising McIlwraith's Plumbing Supplies. He fled the "retirement home" one rainy winter night, never to be seen again, fleeing into the night from his newly-appointed Occupational Therapist; the unfortunately named Dr. Michael McDonald...).

The McDonalds crew valiantly attempt to draw attention from the Dead Clown In The Middle Of The Road, Stinkin' To High Heaven by distributing free samples of raw cholesterol cunningly disguised as food, as parents hustle traumitised tots from the battle-ground, directing sharp and disillusioned glares at the still-convulsed "sharpies'.

The police arrive rapidly, aided to no small extent by the fortunate coincidence of Burwood police station being next door to Maccas. An ambulance arrives, measurements are taken, and the paramedics perform the famous "Parrot Sketch" from "Monty Python", pausing only to substitute the word "clown" for "Parrot", viz: "It is an ex-Clown, it has Ceased To Be!".

Yet there is one final task which must be performed, one last sop to the gods. And thus the Blanket Of Death is ceremoniously draped over the newly-created World-Famous Magical Road Statistic, as is customary upon the sudden and public extinction of Being. However, as if by decree from the God Of Comedy - from underneath the shroud protrude the huge Size 17 red-with-yellow-lace McBoots... one twitching ever-so-slightly, the final nail in the laugh-induced hernias now being sufferred by the sobbing, please-God-I'm-going-to-pee-my-pants-and-look-like-a-dick "sharpies".

This story may have happened - but I remember seeing Ronald some years after this. Could the paramedics have somehow erred? Is Ronald immortal?

Next time you see him, ask...