A lot of people ask me how my trip is going. This is how the conversation usually goes...
Enquirer: 'How's it going?'
Jimbo: 'Yeah, good!'
Enquirer: And how's the car holding up?
Jimbo: 'Yeah the car's going well'.
Enquirer: 'Anyway, let me tell you about my mortgage, my partner, what I think about the latest Big Brother eviction, how my favourite football team is going, my new promotion, how my boss is treating me, the kids, my sibling's new job, the weather, my new fitness campaign, who got married recently, who got engaged, who got divorced, who is still single, my golf handicap, my renovation plans, what my local council is like, what the new restaurant opened up near me is like, how blind I accidently got the other night, my one week holiday planned for next month and this new really cheap phone deal I got onto recently....
All great stuff, but I often get the impression that I'm about as interested in the detail of these conversation topics as a lot of people are in my ideas, adventures, rooting stories, mishaps and characters I've met on the road.
I think at the end of the day, conversations are essentially about common ground, and the reason why people can find it hard to understand what I do is that it is so different, or at the very least strange. To me, it's just normal. In an attempt to redress this, plus for those who are generally interested, I've written a pretty in depth diary of 'A month in the life of Jimbo'. It just so happens to be of March 2005. Thus, now when people ask me 'how I am' and 'what I've been up to', I can now say, 'IF YOU'RE REALLY INTERESTED, READ MY DIARY!' It in turn too, saves me a lot of hassle!
I so enjoy travelling by myself. For me personally (not everybody) I know, I experience so much more being by myself, than if I had someone with me the whole time, mainly because I'm so much more flexible. The only consultation I have in every decision I make, is with my instincts. I'm also at the end of day, the sole person responsible for my moods. I'm the only constant. Therefore, there's really no-one else to blame for any downs.
The flip side is, I've got no continuity with anyone with regards to sharing the journey, particularly the ups, of which there are many. I hope you enjoy my diary. In essence by reading it, you are my travelling partner, or as close as I get to one. The diary is like my comedy. Pretty direct. Some like it, some don't. It may not be all that pretty, but that wasn't really my aim. To me, when it comes to a good story or comedy or whatever, the truth is far stranger than fiction. Fiction to me, in a story, is like spice to a meal. Just a bit makes it delicious but not too much.
I truly hope no-one is offended by any of this diary, particularly anyone I talk about. It's not my intent. The people I meet along the way truly make the journey for me, and I love them all, in all their different shades, colours and variety. If you do get through the diary, please feel free to put a comment on the forum or guestbook section. I get a buzz out of reading every one of them at various telecentres and internet cafes around the country, as much as I hope you get out of seeing what life on the road is like through my words.
If anything, my road journey has taught me that life really is amazing and a thing to be enjoyed. It's our number one moral responsibility in life. That is, to enjoy ourselves. I mean let's face it, nothing else makes much sense....Anyway enough of the bullshit.
It's now April 14th, exactly a year since I left Sydney for a life on the road and whatever happens tonight, I probably won't remember much for an update. Besides, I've decided to take a rest from the diary and just let it happen for a while. Writing a diary everyday can be a little exhausting, but I'm glad I do it from time to time. If nothing else, hopefully, my eyes will be good enough in the nursing home to read it. Maybe it will be a blessing that they're not!
Writing is so weird for me. With stand-up comedy, the response is immediate. I think that's why I love it so much. If it hits the mark, the crowd tells you with a laugh. If it doesn't, the crowd's silence basically tells you, 'that's your shit and not ours'. Once you get over the personal exposure though, there's a direct communication happening, in stand-up, like no other art form. And that's why I love it.
Anyway, who cares, I've got another drink waiting...
'A life in the month of Jimbo - March 2005'. Please enjoy...
01/03/05
I've nearly been a month in W.A. and haven't been laid. And I know why too. People
over here don't give a fuck. In the Eastern states everyone seems to have one eye on
the property or stock market. In W.A. people don't even keep an eye on their change
at the bar. No need to. It'll still be there when you come back from your pool game.
The culture here, particularly the pub culture, is particularly friendly and laid
back. No poker machines in pubs either. It makes such a huge difference. People look
to each other to be amused instead of machines.
On my travels, I went into a town
called Cranbrook. It was the only pub and called The Cranbrook Hotel. I'd spent
ten hours driving that day, stopping off at various pubs, looking to line up gigs
for the upcoming months. Inside the bar, I was immediately greeted by an old guy
called Bernie who asked me to sit down next to him while he bought me a beer. He
said, 'we like to look after strangers in this town, everyone's welcome'. I noticed
a plaque in front of him on the bar. It already had his name on it. Bernie then told
me of his grandfather who used to own the pub in 1910. He said he still sees his
spirit every now and then, 'checking things over'.
I explained to John the publican
my show and he booked me immediately, in a month's time. He could see I'd been doing
some long driving, so he then offered me a room upstairs to crash for the night for
free, and invited me to relax with the locals, who he said would look after me. All
night people bought me beers. Each one took me further and further away from from
the reminders I'd had lately of how broke I was, after three weeks crossing
Australia doing no gigs.
My reward from the travelling gods: I was again surrounded
by good people, just when I needed it. Cranbrook was a shearing town. I spoke to a
heap of them. A lot were from NZ, who come over in their shearing off season, each
year. At closing time, a couple of girls fell over pissed trying to get out the
front door. Chris, one of the shearer's immediately jumped up and gave them a lift
home. He was back in five minutes. He was going out with the girl behind the bar. A
lot of overseas backpackers get contracted to work behind the bars in W.A.
Apparently there were three weddings that month in Cranbrook, from Shearers who'd
convinced the girls to stay. Like I said, it was a friendly town.
The industries in this area of Australia mainly alternate between wheat, sheep,
logging, tourism and mining. I was looking forward to gigging here because people
who sweat for a living generally laugh harder. Their humours are much more broader
and forgiving, which suits my Big Night Out show better than some of the bigger
towns.
In Northcliffe, I spoke to the owner of the pub and warned her that my show
had a 'bit of language' in it. It's surprising how many publicans don't like
swearing, especially the pubs in cities who are looking to attract more of an,
'upmarket clientelle', post property boom. These pubs are easy to spot: alfresco
dining, a new coat of paint and expensive cocktails. Linda the publican replied to
me, matter of factly while dragging on her cigarette. 'It's probably better if you do
swear'. She then exhaled deeply, 'otherwise they'll think you're a poof'. Above her
was a sign that said, 'In Australia, there are only two states to be in: Western
Australia and pissed'.
As usual in country towns, they often boast about their tidy town credentials, no
matter how far back it was. The oldest retro dated tidy town boast I found was in
Narrogin. A sign still reminds visitors how they won their category in 1979.
Anyway, I was impressed.
Margaret River was okay but didn't blow me away. Apparently it's got good surf
though. Driving into town, there were heaps of signs trying to get the cashed up
city tourists into their vineyards with huge arrows pointing to, 'wine, coffee and
golf'. Unlike most of the other towns, leading up to the vineyard country, which
were more of the, 'beers, cones, bowls and fishing' variety. I know what I'd prefer
- the towns where you could still get a house for $30k not half a million!
The main
street of Margaret River was full of expensive jewellery shops, and overpriced
clothes and craftwear. I did manage to jag a gig though at the Settlers Tavern, on
the main street. It still seems to cater for the original ferals who discovered this
sleepy farming town. Just like Byron Bay, relaxed Aboriginies living in heaven
had been followed by farming pioneers who had been followed by surfers who had been
followed by tourists who had been followed by yuppies who had been followed by
property investors. Followed by people like me who go, 'Twenty dollars for a
counter meal - fuck, I'm a bit late coming to this town'. I went to Coles. Even
their prices were double.
I'm not usually blown away by tourist sites, as you may have noticed. Take 'em or
leave them, generally for me. I prefer meeting freaks and relaxing in towns where
there's nothing to do except read, chill and talk to locals. One tourist site in
Walpole did blow me away though. The sign off the main road pointed to 'The Valley
of the Giants - 13kms'. I'm glad I turned off. It ended up being an eco-tourism
project. A narrow walkway took you on a twenty minute walk amongst the huge red
Tingle trees, which are a pocket of remnant tree species, left over from when
Australia was part of Gondwana land, over 65 million years ago. This is one of the
few areas in the world in which they still grow.
The walk is over a suspension
structure run off four supports, designed to swing gently as you walk over it, 'just
like when you were back in your childhood cubbyhouse', as the winning designer
describes in the brochure. The walk takes you forty metres up into the trees. The
see through, grated, steel walkway, enables you to see pristine nature in all
directions. It also keeps people from wearing a foot track around the base of the trees,
which grows the fungus vital for these suprisingly shallow rooted trees to feed off.
Before the walkway was set up, one popular tree for tourists a few kilometres away
had fallen over due to so many people walking around it's base. It was 60 metres
high, and I bet it gave someone a shock when it tumbled. Many of them are over 400
years old. Anyway, thanks to that event, the new set up is now pretty cool, for both
the trees and all the people who want to admire them. Well worth the $6.
A lot of the inland towns I went to, weren't catered for tourists at all, save for a
single dusty small screen, low speed, internet computer in the corner of their
library. At $1.75 an hour it came at a price though. These country towns in the
wheat belt, all seemed however to put on a special day every year where they do
something weird to attract people. Corrigan has the 'dog in a ute day', where each
year they try and break their existing world record for utes lined up with dogs in
the back of them. Last time they had over 1500 lined up. Broomehill has a boat and
fishing exhibition each year, known as Aquafest, even though the town is nowhere
near the coast or a river. Similarly, Darkan, has a beach party where they haul in
sand and dump it in their local park. They then get their speedos, bikinis and beers
out.
Shackleton is a small little hamlet which boasts Australia's smallest bank.
It's literally a dollhouse about the size of one room. West Bank opens there every
Friday between 3-4:30pm. I enquired about it with one of the locals. He said to me that he'd robbed it eight times and collected $60!
Outside Kulin for kilometres leading into the town there
are a series of bizarre sculptures advertising their once a year bush races. The
sculptures are all made out of scrap metal and have some kind of joke attached to
them. E.g A cop car with pigs getting out, holding up a sign that says, 'random
breast tests'. Or a tin horse on dunny reading, 'Playhorse magazine'. All this, on
the side of a wheat paddock in the middle of nowhere.
In Narmeburn, a large sign
outside the town advertises the fact that it's the home of the 'Female Emu', below a
picture of an emu with lipstick, winking seductively under her sexy hat. I
couldn't work it out. What are all the other towns round here full of - poofter
emus? A town called Harrismith boasts five houses but it does have a pub, aptly
named The Oasis. It has a reputation for 'going off'. The sign outside town backed
this rumour up. It said, 'Harrismith: Wildflowers and Wildtimes'. I also went past
a town that obviously had no good looking female emus in it. It was called
Gnowangerup.
I've got a heap of gigs booked down in this part of the world over the next
two months, thanks to some extensive driving/pub crawling all round the area. I'm
looking forward to doing some shows. I've had a month off gigging while crossing the
the Nullabor, into the personally unchartered territory of lower W.A. It's taken me
a while to line up work. Now I can relax and have some fun and hopefully earn enough
to keep going, without stopping in Cranbrook to do a shearing apprenticeship. Most
of my shows are in small towns. I love this because unlike in big towns, everyone in
the crowd seems to know each other or be connected in some way. In these pubs
there's a higher incidence of weird shit happening plus people heckle more, which
makes the shows more interesting for me too!
I've now been on the road around the Australia doing gigs since April last
year and have done over 65000 kms in my car. Inside my car (a '99 Mazda 323) is
everything I own. This fills up just about everywhere inside, including the
passenger seat. Taking up the most room are my two speakers, amp, DVDs and T-shirts,
which I sell after the gigs. Every time I pass a hitchhiker I shrug, as if to say,
'sorry mate' while they peer inside in disbelief. There really is room for them
though. It's a thin layer on top of all my gear, enabling me to stretch out fully,
for a good night's sleep, should I not find any friendly and cheap accomodation.
Lucky I'm a good sleeper!
Anyway WA, the forgotten half of Australia rocks and remember if you like any of
this diary (or hate any of it), write a message on the forum or guestbook pages, to
make me keep doing it. It also gives me something to read next time I get on the net
too!
02/03/05
I stayed in Corrigin for a couple of days. Coming into town late at night, I noticed
a sign that said, 'Loch Ness Monster'. In the morning, I discovered it was a
sculpture next to the town dam. I wonder if the town of Loch Ness in Scotland has a
sculpture of a 'a dog in a ute', signposted for no reason on the outskirts of their
town. In Corrigin was a business called, 'Curl up and Dye'. At first I thought it
might be the local undertaker. The chalkboard outside the hairdresser, says, 'Curl
up a dye', followed by, 'Have a lovely day'. They say it's a woman's prerogative to
change her mind. Kellie the owner was certainly exerting her's that day.
A few kms
outside Corrigin is a dog cemetery. Not a pet cemetery, but one specially dedicated
to dogs. I read the ephitaphs of many of them and it made me sad to think that some of the dogs at age three, had been cut down in the prime of their life.
The gig in Corrigin went off, thanks in no small part to the Cougar girls
who were walking around doing a promotion on the same night. During the show there
were tits out, (unfortunately not from the Cougar girls) a couple of cocks out from
the local drunks, lots of heckling and laughter, no fights and a big bar tab. The
perfect Big Night Out formula.
I was real glad that my first Big Night Out
show in W.A. was a success. And I celebrated by having a beer with the Perth Bundy,
Carlton and United and Jim Beam reps who just happened to be in town that night,
amongst others. The local 'Dog in a ute' organiser even asked me back for the
upcoming festival in early April. Although, the offer did come at 5am in the
beergarden, just before Woody the publican suggested it was time to go to bed. The best story I heard all night was about the last 'Dog in the Ute' parade where they broke the world record with 1537 utes lined up with dogs in the back. Apparently on the day, a german couple were travelling through town. They'd just been past the dog cemetery when they came across the utes all lined up with all the dogs in the back. One of the locals, 'Browneye' told me how they then went for a beer at the Corrigin pub where they'd commented to a guy at the bar, 'it must have been a popular dog!' They'd apparently thought it was a funeral procession!
03/03/05
In Corrigin a lot of the shops and pool etc are closed for two hours during
the day while people go home for lunch. I felt like I was in Spain.
Highlight today was being invited to 'corporate bowls'. Along with Skimpy
nights (where blokes who don't get to see women much get to perve on girls
serving beers in next to nothing).
Corporate bowls is a popular event in
most towns in this area of W.A. It's where all the business' in town get
together one evening a week and go lawn bowling against each other. I was
invited to be part of the 'Corrigin Hotel' contingent. All the team, I'd met
on my gig night. Wombat was one of the hardworking odd job men in town or
'yardies' as they're called. We had a bit in common. He told me how he'd
gone all round Australia doing different jobs to earn enough, just so he
could get to the next town. Like most people in the bush who were keen to
work, he bypassed Centrelink. Instead he just rocked up to the local pub
and asked around. Just like me. 'Sure enough there'd always be work
somewhere', he said. Wombat was a happy man. He told me he only had one
month left on his probation.
Jack was also on the team. He was the local
undertaker. I asked him whether he ever goes up to people who are looking a
bit frail and gives them his card. His weatherbeaten face looked back at me
in surprise, one cigarette hanging out the side. 'No, but that's a great
idea'. Also on the team was Tara. Tara had left Perth ten years ago, aged
19, when her mum had died. She'd been working in the pub, waitressing and
cleaning in Corrigin ever since, in between meeting a guy here and having
kids.
There was also Rob. I asked Rob what he did. He paused and said,
'fuck all'. He later on told me he used to be a farmer, born and bred in
Corrigin. Up the rear of the team was Woody the Corrigin publican and gun
player, who always bowled last. He knew how to weave his balls through
anything and always seemed to come up with the 'shot' bowl (closest to the
jack) just when we needed it.
The bowling green was across the road from
the pub. We strolled across in our thongs. The golf club, swimming pool,
shops, pub, in fact everything in this town were within walking distance.
We were coincidently drawn to play our first match against the hairdressers
from 'Curl up and Dye'. They were a bit wary of me after the pasting they
thought I gave them at my show. Personally, I thought I was just plugging
their business.
Our crew had been drinking most of the afternoon as a
warm-up. Wombat told me a story on the way over, about the last time he'd
played bowls. He'd pulled a hamstring after he'd got excited after a good
roll. He'd then run down the pitch and gone belly up. 'A bit embarrassing'
he said, grinning. 'They nearly had to stretcher me off the bowling green!'.
Mid
way through the game, sipping a beer in the warm evening sun, I remember
having a moment. Here I was in this idyllic country town playing bowls with
the most relaxed and friendly bunch of people, who had all embraced me for a
couple of days, like I was a local. I was experiencing all the ups of
living in a country town without the downside of the gossip and small town
politics. No-one knew what colour my underpants were - unfortunately.
After the first game with Curl up and Dye, Kellie came up to me and said, 'I
can't believe you didn't swear once'. I told her it's actually a form of
selective Turret's syndrome. It just comes out when I'm on stage. In
between games was a $3 sausage sizzle put on my some of the older ladies in
the town. Anyway, we ended up winning both games. Woody smiled at the end
of the last game. 'We're the most pissed team in the competition each week
but we'll still make the finals'. Afterwards everyone kicked on back to
Woody's pub across the road.
It was about 11pm when I suddenly had a bit of
a panic. I'd had free accomodation for three days, had a heap of drinks
bought for me and had the most unreal time in Corrigin. I'm not really a
big drinker and had been having about one drink to everyone else's four.
I had bought a few rounds though over the my time here (nowhere near what
had been bought for me though), but it had still dented into my daily $15
food and drink budget slightly.
I pulled my pockets out and counted my
money. I'd actually spent more in Woody's bar bistro and town than the
$200 I got for the gig! Can't keep that up for much longer, I thought.
Plus the local, 'Dog in a ute' organiser, again over a few beers had somehow
come to think that I'd now be happy to cancel a few gigs next month and come
back to their festival and perform for 5000 people - for free. I know how
to make people laugh but a negotiator I ain't! To top things off, instead of
cougar girl, the boys in the bar were trying to set me up to sleep with a
cardboard cutout of a Bundy bear that night.
04/03/05
I woke up in the morning, kissed the bit of cardboard beside me goodbye and
thanked the gods I had enough petrol in my tank to get to Boulder that
night. Everything was in order. Stopping off at a supermarket on the way,
I resumed my staple road diet: That is: water, a carrot, an apple, an
orange, a pear, a banana, cheese, some bread rolls and a couple of tuna
tins.
At the cashier, I walked past a whole lot of people who had their
trolleys full of coke, fast food, alcohol and cigarettes. They were
surrounded by partners and kids who were all giving each other advice on
various topics such as which aisle to go down to what else they each wanted
to do today. I started getting depressed. None of the trappings of
success in this society such as kids, a marriage, debt, cholesterol and
extra weight were mine. And it was being thrown in my face everywhere I
went.
All I had to fall back on in my life was my health, untold freedom, a
job I loved, a fear of the known, belief in strangers and an inordinate
faith in the guiding hand of my travelling angels. 'Pretty soon, I'm going
to get some big paying gigs and invest like the rest of the population', I
dreamed. Boulder, here I come! That's where I'm going to get my big break
and be discovered! I pulled out onto the road which again rose to meet me.
As usual, ABC Radio National was the only thing on the airwave that I could
pick up. The talkback subject this morning was lead by an expert from New
York. It was about his new best selling book called, 'Toxic friends who
undermine you'. I listened in, while watching emus and tumbleweeds drift
across the the road.
Driving into Kalgoorlie, Woody from Corrigin rang me. I'd left my video
camera in the front bar last night. I hadn't even noticed it missing. 'No
worries' he said. I've got a mate going to Kal. He'll drop it off for you
on Sunday'. I imagined my chances of leaving a video camera in a bar in
Sydney and getting delivered back to me for free, 500kms away. Fuck all.
Woody signed off by saying, 'Make sure you drop back into Corrigin,
especially if it's bowls night, there will be a spot in the team for you'.
It's a big place the Australian country but the way people are connected,
sure makes it feel smaller than it looks.
I was greeted in Boulder by Brendon, Mike and Lyn. Mike and Lyn were
recently married and friendly as. They were Kiwi - like a lot of people
in the goldfields. Lyn stirred Mike, 'He's 37 and about to become a
granddad'. 'Step granddad', insisted Mike. They then offered me what every
travelling entertainer living out of his car, dreams of: A complimentary
beer, a big steak lunch (with heaps of chips) and a room to crash out in. I
greedily devoured my meal, then caught up on the couple of hours sleep, I'd
lost in Corrigin.
I then did my mandatory walk around town before the gig.
These walks are good for relaxing me and picking on the vibe of the place,
which can help for my show. Everywhere I went, there seemed to be people
walking down the street by themselves, doing their business with a stubby in
hand. All ages, black and white, female and male. The Australian country
is a pretty relaxed place. I wonder how much of it has to do with the fact
that most inhabitants are in a constant state of mild inebriation.
Boulder
is the sister city to the more well known Kalgoorlie. It wasn't always like
that, so I heard from the Boulder locals. The town was originally called
Boulder-Kalgoorlie. It's now known as Kalgoorlie-Boulder, despite Boulder
having all the mine sites and being the original town. The politicians,
prostitutes and tourists however are all in Kalgoorlie, a few kms up the
road - hence the profile change.
Highlight of my gig at The Albion Shamrock Hotel in Boulder was Sheree
getting her tits out. She won the talent quest by letting young Gavin, a
guy from up the back who she didn't know, have a suck of one of them in
front of the whole pub. Gavin was pretty young. I said to him, 'I reckon
the last time you had a sap of a chest puppy was 18yrs ago off your Mum'.
He assured me and the rest of the pub, it wasn't though. 'Last Saturday
night, mate' he boasted proudly into the microphone. Mike the owner was
pretty impressed. He told me afterwards that getting two strangers 'to do
that' was worth my fee alone. The end of the night ended up being even
better than my previous night in Corrigin. This time the barstaff set me up
with a cardboard cutout of the chick off the Hahn ad! - And there were two
of them!!
05/03/05
I had a quick look around Kalgoorlie in the morning. The strangest thing I
saw was 'The world's biggest bin' on the outskirts of town. It was the size
of a normal street bin and went up about 20metres. High enough for no-one
to be able to put rubbish in it. Most of the pubs here were built at the
turn of the century. Actually the phrase 'turn of the century', is a bit of
anachronism now because it conjures up images of 1900 but in actual fact was
only five years ago. A chalk board outside one closed down pub at the edge
of town had a chalk addition from one obvioulsly disgruntled drinker. It
read, 'Established 1895 but still not open'. I then drove 40 odd kms out to
Coolgardie where I was doing my gig tonight.
Coolgardie was discovered in 1892 by Arthur Bayley, whom the main street was
named after. He was a prospector who walked out here from Southern
Cross, 190kms away. He found a few big nuggets on the ground with his mate.
He then went back to Southern Cross with his find and staked a claim. Pretty
well overnight, Southern Cross emptied. Coolgardie then became the last of
the great gold rush towns in the world. People from all around the globe
flocked here. It was worldwide news.
There were few police back then. Law
and order was done by the prospectors themselves. If anyone broke their
unwritten but well understood code of behaviour a dish was rattled and a
general assembly took place. Accusations were made and a defence heard.
The usual sentence was, 'move on, we don't want you' and the culprit
invariably moved on. It made me think that in today's world of rigid
policing, strict laws, litigation and lack of personal responsibility
perhaps we've got it all wrong. Cultural sterility and boredom inevitably
follow. It's no wonder urban ghettos like Redfern and Macquarie fields are
such sources of frustrated violence. The only way out, it seems to a lot of kids who are bored, angry and frustrated in cities is jail.
There are alternatives though, it's
called the Australian country. Don't matter what your past is out here, as
long as you work hard and do the right thing, you'll always be looked after
one way or another. Even today. Most of the country towns in Australia
haven't grown for over a hundred years. It's all the cities that have grown. People
often use the phrase, 'they're like sheep'. I've seen the distribution of
sheep in this country and believe me, sheep are far more spread out than
humans are. The irony is that humans are far more sheep like in their
tendency to stick together and mimic each other than sheep ever will be!
Why do we all flock to the cities? There's not even gold to be found in the
backyard! Anyway I digress.
Boulder-Kalgoorlie was founded soon after Coolgardie had peaked at about
25,000 people. In the late 1890's Coolgardie already had 26 hotels.
There's now about 1200 people and one hotel. In the 1960's the population
was down to 200. A poem on a sign in Bayley street sums up the early gold
rush days, 'And some returned from where they came with wealth and tales to
tell, and some found graves which bear no name, and some still with us
dwell...' All round the town are old period buildings and signs outlining
the town's history. The main street and it's buildings were burnt down a
few times in it's heyday. Water was practically non-existent here, so the
fire departments could do little more than watch when a fire started. A
water pipeline was built over 550kms from Perth in 1903 which wasn't a bad
feat considering there were only about 200,000 people in Western Australia
at the time.
The town was in decline by the first world war. In 1928 a
cyclone ripped many of the town's rundown buildings apart. A 1000 gallon
galvanised drum was found several kms away after the storm. By the middle
1900's Coolgardie was trying to live off tourists by advertising itself as
a mining ghost town. Things seemed to have picked up slightly over the last
few decades though. I spoke to a guy outside his house on the main street.
He was chiselling back an old hand carved piece of wood he'd found. He was
making a bookcase. He said the town was never a ghost town though, despite
it now being a remnant of it's former self.
Several Gold and Nickel mines
still operate in the area and individual prospectors can still peg out
claims. He said the claims now come up for grabs on the internet. He then
told me of the Denver City Hotel where I was doing the gig tonight. It's
the only pub in town and was named after Denver City in the 1890's which was
apparently the roughest gold mining town in America then. He said it still
gets pretty lively in there 'with the odd decent size punch up. Just a
couple of week's ago, a brick was thrown through the back window', he said.
It was the room where I'd just set up my gear in.
Some pubs I walk into and
look at the crowd and think, 'Do these guys know what they're in for?'. I
walked around town that arvo thinking, 'Do I know what I'm in for
tonight!?'. Nothing like a bit of unpredictable energy in a crowd though I
reckon. It was these situations on stage which made me feel most alert,
most alive. Although a brick in my head from someone who had taken offence
to one of my jokes probably wouldn't make me feel that alive.
I thanked
Owen and met him later up at the pub for a drink with him and his
brother-in-law Timmy. I'd introduced myself to Owen as Jim. He said he
thought it was pretty funny because if we put our names together it sounded
like the Jimeoin. I told him that you won't find Jimeoin doing a gig in
these pubs but you will find Jimbo. Owen went onto say he'd travelled around
Australia for 5 years with his 'missus'. He said he'd lived here for the
last ten years where they had two kids. He works in the local mine and does
a bit of woodwork. He sells various rocks to passing tourists out of the
house he's doing up, on the main street. His shopfront reads, 'Coolgardie
rocks'.
It seems Australia is full of itinerant travellers cruising around
doing odd jobs. While to most people they probably look like 'hicks', truth
is they're often highly skilled people with a vast amount of practical
knowledge, having worked across all trades while on their travels and able
to do anything up with their bare hands: A house or anything mechanical to
intricate woodwork as in Owen's case. He said he'd also worked as a
cameraman at one time.
A lot of the houses in small country towns are beneath the real estate radar
as well. Real Estate agents don't want them on their books because they
make their business look down market, plus there's no worthwhile margin in
them. So most of the houses which sell for under $30k in small towns (and
there are a heap of them) are normally just done for cash (but
legitimately), through word of mouth.
I thought about how most people in
big cities usually just use their place to store all their stuff, watch tv,
have a few drinks and hang in peace from the outside world with their family
and friends. There's so many places in the country where you can do exactly
the same thing for a fraction of the price. And not lock your door. I
don't know why more people don't do it. As one guy in Corrigin said to me.
'I don't know why the government doesn't put all the industry in Australia
out in the bush. Most of the towns have great infrastructures. All we just
need are steady jobs which will then attract the families to stay here'.
The photos of the house below belongs to Thelma who apparently is about 80.
Her and her husband have decorated their house and garden with items all
found at the local dump. It's pretty impressive. One of the many great
tales from Coolgardie, I found out from the local Railway museum, including a
rescue in 1907 after a storm flooded one of the mines. A guy called
Varischetti was stuck in an air pocket, some 50 metres below ground.
Divers were called out from Perth in order to find him. They finally
managed to find him, after which they supplied him with food and messages of
support until the water subsided. He was pulled to safety, nine days later
and became a world wide news story.
I also read another plaque in town
which commemorated a journey from Coolgardie to Halls Creek, 2250kms north of
here in 1897. The party made the trip there and back to establish a
stockroute from the Kimberley's to the Goldfields. It was lead by David
Carnegie. The travelling I've done on my trip doesn't even compare. Their
pioneering work was done on foot and camel through uncharted territory in
what is now seen as amongst the harshest country in the land. No service
stations and NRMA plus memberships to back these guys up.
The show ended up having no bricks been thrown, just great heckles from
'Nightmare', Ferge, Stan, Brad, Fiona, Nathan, Steve, Angelina and crew. At
the end of the night I usually get the finalist of the talent quest up the
front. These are the people who have contributed to my show the most,
whether it be through, heckling, doing something on stage or just general
smart arse participation. Having them lined up the front, I then go, 'the
winner of the talent quest is the person... who gets the most gear off'.
Tonight, all I'd got up to saying was, 'the winner of the talent quest
is....' I looked around. Brendon, already had his shirt off with his pants
and undies around his ankles. He then grabbed the winning t-shirt off me.
Fair call. Staying at the hotel and working behind the bar that night were
a couple of young German backpackers called, Katie and Allie. The three
of us hung round after the gig upstairs, getting to know each other. Of all
the nights to not have my video camera.
06/03/05
Truth be known, the only footage that I would have got last night,
would be putting my hands around both the girl's shoulders on the couch back
in the pub's loungeroom at 2am. Katie, Allie and I had come back after
the post-pub party across the road. We'd adjourned to the tv room. It'd
been a great party where i managed to have a yarn to all the people I'd met
at the show.
One guy mentioned the couple who had walked out early. My
show is essentially about taking people out of their comfort zone. It's
extremely confrontational and intensely direct. It has to be in front room
bars. Otherwise I lose the crowd. What my show lacks in tact, it makes up
for in honesty. The people who stay for the duration of my show usually
recognise this and take the show for what I aim it to be: an invitation to
be naughty, free and loving as opposed to formal, uptight and toxic. It's
in this environment, juxtaposed on the roughness of a pub that the magic of
my show happens, the unpredictableness that also keeps me interested, gig
after gig, - and if a cock or a tit comes out in the process, so be it.
Surely there's worse things happening in the world to be upset about!
At the after-party,
Brad who loved my show told me about someone who had left my show and bagged
it out for being 'foul!'. I went into a rave of self-justification and
indignation. In other words, I was now being the stereotypical serious
comedian, at the bar after the gig having a whinge while at the same time
looking for free piss, food and a root. He cut me short, 'don't worry mate
if you're not offending someone, it's no fun at all'. I thanked him, and
then left the party mid sentence, after my German backpacker friends told me
that, 'we're going now'.
Anyway, after the party, it was just me and the girls, having a yarn on the
couch, back at the pub. After a good twenty minutes of small talk I thought
I'd managed to put myself into a pretty good position. I hadn't pulled the
whip early and felt I had run a good steady race, right up to this final
turn. Sitting on the couch, I felt at the head of the pack, with an inside
rail. I was particularly getting on well with Katie all night. Talking and
hanging together, right from when we'd first met that afternoon when she'd
served me a beer while I was yarning with Owen. The jockey riding my brain
at 2am however suggested I go for the 'all up'.
The Golden Quinella.
Lustful greed. Maybe, the Hahn girls last night had spoilt me. I put my
hands up and somehow managed to drop them around both the girl's shoulders.
No dramas. I then let my hands hang there for a good two minutes before
making the big move and simultaneously nudging both my hands on to their
pert 20year old breasts. This was all going well, again for a good couple
of minutes until Allie asked me what I was doing and gently dislodged my
hand. Katie soon followed suit.
Coolgardie is a town built out in the
middle of the desert. It's nowhere near a river or a port and is on land
which is useless for farming or grazing. It's remains are the remnants
built by men who came here looking for a fast buck. Their sole aim was to
get rich quick. To have it all. Most of them however died here paupers, in
nameless graves starved and destitute, their dreams turned to dust.
Likewise, my bold claim, pegged out and all, hadn't panned out either. I
went back to my room reminding myself that two in the bush was worth one in
the hand. Pity that hand was mine... If I had my time over again though,
like most of the men addicted to going from one boom town to another all
over the globe during the 1800s... I would have still gone for gold.
Arthur Bayley, I reckon would have been proud of me. After all, it seemed
that in 2005, (113 years after he arrived here) Coolgardie still had it's
dreamers...
I woke up and realised I had a few days off, plenty of cash in my wallet and
nothing much to do. I'd earnt some counter meal and beer money. Fuckin
unreal! I asked Peter the publican how much it would be to stay another
night. He said, 'don't worry about it, you can stay as long as you want'.
I drove into Kalgoolie and picked up my camera off Woody's mate, Jason. I
thanked him and gave him a DVD for his troubles, hoping he'd like it. 'Don't
show the kids though', I warned.
Katie and Allie came out with me for a drive. They'd only been out of Coolgardie once since they came here and
seemed happy to escape in between their shifts. We went and checked out the
superpit. It's the biggest hole in the ground I've ever seen short of the
grand canyon. Huge dump trucks hauling up loads on the other side of the
pit. They looked miniature from where we were despite having tyres bigger
than people. Back in Coolgardie, I planted myself at the bar, happy to just
relax with nothing on my mind. There was nowhere to rush today.
A bloke
called Paul then came down and sat down next to me. He was dribbling utter
shit while I read the paper. I was kinda hoping he'd go away. It'd been a
while since I read a Sunday paper. Then all of a sudden he changed gears.
Idiot to genius in record time. I'm always on the look out for these types.
I recognised my find and hung on like a fisherman who felt a big one. He
took the paper from me and explained that the front section was full of
despair outlining various people's downfall. He then turned over the paper
and said that the back half is full of story's of triumph. 'Did you know it
takes 30% of your face muscles to smile and 75% to frown'. I love it when
people do this to me - that is, hit me with all their best shit. Instead of
going, 'I'm going to have to wait until I get to know you until I reveal a
tiny bit more of myself and philosophies'. We bought another beer and it was
on. Paul said he'd been a prospector for over twenty years here. He'd
found heaps of gold but it was one of the worse things that happened to him.
As soon as he struck it rich, he said he lost all his friends. Seven
million dollars he reckoned he had at his peak. 'I lost all my friends
cause they all went dirty on me for not giving them enough'. He started
mimicing his disgruntled friends, 'why did you give him $10000 for a house
loan when you only gave me $5000 for a boat'. He then went on to say how he
knows plenty of places out in the scrub where gold is. Only problem is that
the 'Japs and foreigners' have bought all the land. Can't even wonder
around in my backyard anymore! I wondered to myself if this is how the
Abo's now feel. Paul went on, 'I wouldn't want it anyway, but I'll take you
out and show you if you want? Do you want to find gold? I know where heaps
of it is'. I didn't know how to answer.
I said, 'sorry Paul, I don't want
to lose my friends.... but as for prospecting, I'm interested in seeing how
it's done'. He then asked me across to his place for a beer. His place was
down the road from the pub. It was an old miner's house, built over 100yrs
ago. He proudly told me how he owned a couple of them. Outside his rusted
junkfilled backyard in between all the dead shrubs and weeds poking out of
the red earth, was a sign hastily scrawled on corrigated iron in red paint.
It said, 'private property, keep out'. The type of place I'd never go into
without a very warm invite or a Ned Kelly outfit. I scissored over the sign
with him and into his yard where he introduced me to his dog Eric. 'Gunna
have to shoot him soon' Paul muttered.
His house consisted of one small
room, just big enough to put a single bed and a couple of drawers and
another small room which was full of stuff/ junk/ personal possessions.
Outside was an outhouse dunny and bbq grill over a couple of burnt out
bricks, in the dust. I assumed this was the kitchen. It didn't look like
much, but in reality it had everything one needs. That is, to an old
prospector and a travelling comedian. Proably not the best place to take a chick back to though - then again, neither was my car.
It seemed Paul didn't
care for rooting much though these days. He showed me a picture of his Mum
and his five kids. 'One of them's in jail' he said. Paul opened his rusted
mini fridge and pulled out a brown paper bag. He then ripped it in half,
extracting a beer from each end and gave me one. I then sat down on the
edge of his bed, the only seat in the house. He immediately pronounced to me
his mission in life. It was so good, I pulled out my pen. The genius in
the weeds had popped out again, in one of the most unlikely places. I'd
struck my own personal gold. The ones I hunt for: the genuine characters.
I reflected for a milli second, eagar to not miss anything he said. Here I
was sitting in a ramshackle, down and out prospectors humpie, while my brain
was having a wet dream. I pulled out my pen and asked him to repeat what
his life mission was. This is what he loudly and proudly pronounced with
all the excitement of a town crier. 'My mission is to analyse the situation
through foresight and advanced planning and to avoid or circumvent problems
before it arises. Should the unexpected occur, then my aim is to arrive
swiftly and efficiently at a workable solution. However when you're up to
your arse in alligators, it's difficult to remember that you're objective was
to drain the swamp'. I was absolutely floored.
He then repeated the quote
word for word, to make sure I'd gotten it down. He then followed up with,
'when you tell the truth Jimbo, you've always got one foot in the stirrup'.
My brain was being thumped like a mental punching bag. 'To win without
fighting is always the best', he went on. There was no small talk at all,
just distilled wisdom. He continued 'Always look after your mother' he
said. 'When was the last time you spoke to your mother?' I said, 'two
hours ago, when she rang me up to wish me happy birthday for tomorrow'.
'Good boy', he said. 'Coolgardie is the mother town of the goldfields but
Kalgoorlie don't look after us and that's not good', he lamented. It kept
on coming, 'I've spoken to a lot of Aboriginies around here and they reckon
us white fellas have totally lost the plot over the 'yellow stuff' - which
is what they call it, because to them that's all they think it is - 'yellow
stuff!'. Often they come into the bar with a nugget, put it on the bar and
just ask for a packet of cigarettes and some beers', he said. He then took
out a scrap of paper and asked me to read it. He said it was his favourite
parable. I again felt honoured.
This is how it went:
Determined to hang on to his money when he died, a very rich man prayed
until finally the Lord gave in. There was one condition. He could only
bring one suitcase of his wealth. The rich man decided to fill his case
with gold bullion. The day came when God called him home. St Peter greeted
him but said he couldn't bring anything in here. 'I have an agreement with
God', the man said. 'That's unusual', said St Peter. 'Mind if I have a
look?' The man opened his suitcase to reveal the shining gold bullion. 'Why
in the world would you bring roadbase up here'?' St Peter asked......'
I was seriously blown away. What an unreal parable to be told from a broken
down gold prospector in a ghost town, I thought. This is why I travel! I
looked around his dishevelled house feeling like Luke Skywalker after he'd
just met Yoda for the first time.
His house was even smaller than the bank
at Shackelton. Yet it housed a wealth of wisdom! It was like I'd found an
oracle who was not only eloquently summing up all my beliefs in life but
also encouraging me to keep going, just when I needed it. He was my human
golden nugget, I'd inadvertantly stumbled on, while in the metaphorical
deserted creakbed of humanity! He looked at my DVD cover, I'd given to him
as a present. The cover shows an Aboriginie guy kissing me on the cheek.
He said, 'that's amazing, look at how both your hands are on each other's
shoulders, the black people have blessed you.. keep going with your comedy
Jimbo, you make people laugh, that's the best thing you can give to people.
People will always need a laugh, especially in towns like this. We don't
get many people like you coming around here. We appreciate it'. Then all
of a sudden he said, 'let's get back to the pub, the joker draw is on soon
and I need the $1000'.
On the way back, we passed one lady who walked
straight past Paul with her hand up, covering her face to him. She said to
him as he walked past, 'don't come around to my house tonight Paul, you hear
me'. Paul whispered to me, 'she doesn't like me much, my dog Eric killed
her dog'. Paul then walked past another guy asking him, 'don't forget, if
you know anyone who wants to sell a car for $500, let me know'. He then
called another guy from across the road. Paul said his name was 'Trendy'
and was the real deal, 'who lived way out in the scrub'. Trendy was also
coming down for the joker draw. Paul whispered to me, 'the bastard beat me
last year in the tipping comp by two points'. I walked away wondering how a
bushwacker who had just crawled out of the scrub in twenty year old clothes got
the name 'Trendy'.
Inside the pub, Paul said how he had no money and asked
me whether I could buy him a beer. 'Fuckin oath, yes master!', I thought.
We played a couple of games of pool against some others in the bar. All the
while, everyone from Katie to just about every local, came up to me, one by
one, totally perplexed. They all wanted to know how the 'town idiot' was
now my new best friend. 'What the fuck are you doing hanging out with
him', they all whispered. 'He's the town drunk who just talks utter shit.
No-one can stand his dribble'. I pissed myself. It's the same everywhere I
go, the town idiots somehow are always the ones who blow me away with the
wealth of wisdom, clarity and lucidity that I love.
I assume it's like
looking for gold though with these guys. Heaps and heaps of shit before pay
dirt. Maybe I'd just got lucky. I didn't care. Paul was my pool partner
as well as mentor and I was shouting him, like a digger who had just pulled
out the big one! They were even paying him out for the 'clown pants' he was
wearing. No wonder I loved this guy! They were the same pants, I had in my
car! After two pool games, Paul was asked to leave by the Peter the
publican for having 'had enough'. The last thing Paul said to me before he
got kicked out was 'If you see someone without a smile, give them one of
yours'. He then waved goodbye with a big smile before stumbling onto the
pavement. He got up quickly and kept walking, without argument, resigned to
the the reality.
I went upstairs and had a shower. I needed one. Paul had
rocked my world, like a haymaker out of the blue and I needed to regather.
It was 9pm. Later, I went back down and had some beers with the bar flys.
They told me story after story of what a hopeless, alcoholic, pisshead Paul
was. I said how Paul said he'd been in Coolgardie for 20yrs. 'Bullshit'
they said. He only got here two years ago. Full of shit, he is'. I didn't
care. Paul rocked as far as I was concerned. I sipped my beer. It looked
like being a long lock in with the staffies. I was pretty tired and just
wanted to chill. I went upstairs and watched some tv with my German
Fraulines before they turned in.
I went to bed knowing I was just about to
turn 35, the next day. Was i meant to be doing something else at this age?
Was there a boat I'd missed? Should I be breeding? Or should I keep
bumbling along my own private creekbed, looking for adventure and whatever
came my way. I had to admit, I was addicted. I went to bed, eager to
regenerate. Later on that night, I heard a strong dull thud knocking at my
door. Turns out it was an unexpected Birthday present. What a night! When
I went out to my car the next morning, I couldn't believe it. There she
was lying spreadeagled on the ground again - wanting some more!
07/03/05
I often get asked about when I'm going to 'settle down' or how long I'm
going to be on the road for. It's usually politely phrased in the question,
'so are you sick of what you're doing yet?' I know I'm 35 but I still find
this such a bizarre question to ask anyone.
To me it's like asking someone,
'So are you sick of rooting the same person all the time, are you sick of
being waken every morning by an alarm clock, are you sick of whinging about
your partner, are you sick of dreaming about or performing lustful deeds
with strangers and not being able to tell the people who are closest to you
how enjoyable it was, are you sick of your kids not appreciating you, are
you sick of doing a job you hate because the bank forces you to, are you
sick of bitching about people who act, look or think different to you, are
you sick of telling people how you're going on another health kick, are you
sick of getting all your insights on human nature and world politics via the
tv, are you sick of asking loaded questions!?
Anyway I had a top birthday today! Without a single loaded thought
questioning why I was on this planet and what I was doing! Yeah, right! I
drove towards 500kms towards Perth. Before I left town, I made sure I
visited the Coolgardie Camel farm. So much of Australia's white man
discovery was based on camels and the skill of their Afghan riders. Apart
from the hard rocks which hurt their soft padded feet, it seems these camels
are suited to this harsh country. There's a heap of wild ones roaming out
there too, in the scrub to prove it. The record in Australia for a camel
going without water, is 600miles. Incredible I thought. That's twice as far
as my last car ever went without oil or water.
Driving out of a town, where I've intensely got to know the locals is what I
imagine the crew on the Star Ship enterprise felt. 'Wow that was pretty
freaky, I wonder what the next planet/town is going to be like'. I enjoy
long drives. It gives me time to re-gather, assimilate, before the next
onslaught. Being by myself helps too. I get so much intense people
interaction during my gigs that I don't mind solitude. It yangs my ying.
I
was also mindful today that I had nine gigs in ten nights coming up from
this Thursday. That is doing a three hour gig, hanging around afterwards
at the bar with the locals, then driving a few hundered kms and doing it
again the next night. It was important I was fresh for each show, otherwise
I wouldn't be able to get away with doing it. I was looking foward to a few
easy days to myself so I could maximise my radar for new experiences when
they present themselves. i.e The moments that made my road trip an
adventure not a package holiday.
Travelling has a rhythm though that needs
to be managed. The calms before the storms were necessary. I had one
detour at Southern Cross, to check out Marvel Loch, 30kms to the south. I'd
heard about it via Coolgardie. Apparently it's a mining town where heaps of
guys earn good money. Other than that though, it's just a town with nothing
in it except a pub and plenty of skimpy nights. Peter told me there were
plenty of men who have gone in there earning over $1000 a week but ended up
walking out of broke and frazzled because they'd spent all their money on
piss. I drove out there and I could see what he meant. There was just a
whole lot of tempory houses and one of the plainest galvanised pubs, I've
ever seen. I went up to the door. I heard voices inside but the doors were
locked. I'd run out of posters so I just got back in the car, happy in the
knowledge that I'd at least been to Marvel Loch. Must remember the place in
case anyone ever asks me to recommend a honeymoon destination.
I eventually
landed in Northam. I had some balloons to pick up in Perth tomorrow but
didn't feel like staying in there. Too much hassle, too expensive a town.
The pub at Northam said they'd put me up for $22. Plus, if the place I stay
in doesn't have creaky floorboards underneath forty year old carpet and a
long deserted hallway leading to my room, I feel uncomfortable. This place
squeaked every footstep. I then decided to go for a run.
Going through the
edge of town I ran past an industrial building. A huge Alsation dog busted
through the gate and came hurtling towards me. It's amazing how much
bravado you can get when a animal ready to rip you up with it's bare teeth
is running towards you and there's no-one else around you to help. I turned
around and repeatedly said, 'hey, hey, hey..' in ever increasing ferocity.
I had no choice. That was my dog language for, 'I'm doing nothing wrong
here buddy, back off and let me continue on my way'. By some fluke it
listened to me and pulled up just in front of me. By this time, I was on
the gravel having slipped over while I spun around to confront it. I jogged
away, still on a bravado high, thinking, 'the poor animal, he must be just
bored'. I then realised, 'fuck that was close, I nearly got killed'.
I then went and ordered a pub bistro meal, the best one on the menu, snapper
and prawns, extra chips, with a couple of glasses of white wine! Each year
we spend on this planet is such an achievement. It's such an achievement to
just be born into this spin out existence called, 'life', especially as a
human. I felt proud that I'd made it this far and toasted myself. 'In the
end it doesn't matter what you do though in life, the amount of people who
turn up to your funeral is very much dependant on the weather anyway'. I
love that quote! Anyway the two wines went to my head and I had a top time
chilling out, on this quiet Monday night in Northam.
08/03/05
I drove down the escarpment into Perth and was disapointed to see brown haze
nestled over the city. Smog. In the middle of the city were a few tall
buildings. As usual, they were mainly name tagged with huge signs by banks
and insurance companies. What a rort these industries have got going on!
'Give us all your spare money and we'll invest it in the most expensive real
estate, in all the major cities in the world'. I think I've been spoilt by
small towns. Cities now freak me out.
I drove into Perth to get my balloon
animal balloons. They're a bit of a specialty product, which I must say
big cities are handy for. Coolgardie had none of them. But to pick them up
in Perth, there was heaps of trafffic (compared to Coolgardie), heaps of
circling around one way streets for a park and heaps of coins needed for the
meter.
Totally stressed out by the culture shock, I then drove straight out
to Narrogin, two hours south-east of Perth where I'm doing a gig on Thursday
night. A town with all I need and nothing more: a post office, a pub,
internet in the library, a swimming pool, petrol station and supermarket,
all within walking distance. And no smog, parking cops or endless suburbia
full of shops selling endless repeats of fast food, auto parts, and
homeware, all lit up in mind numbingly dull neon lights, with the odd letter
missing. In Narrogin Hordern Hotel, while sitting on my balcony, I could
just see trees, big skies and the odd person strolling down the street.
What's happened to this city boy?! I even listen to Slim Dusty now!
9/3/05
Some people have a house, property and investments to 'fall back back on'. It gives
them 'peace of mind'. I get my peace of mind from chilling out and doing nothing
every now and then. Bit of a walk, bit of internet, bit of reading. All by myself.
Unreal. It may sound simple but it's a luxury many people can't afford and I fully
appreciate it. Anyway, I was down at the internet place today doing some e-mailing
of photos and other fiddly stuff. It was in a local visitors centre which also
doubled up as an arts and craft shop. Two elderly ladies were at the desk
nattering. I was on the net for two hours. No-one else came in.
The ladies talked
non stop, right beside me. I couldn't believe it, they discussed just about everyone
in town. They knew about everyone's illnesses in detail, where everyone had gone on
holiday, whose kids were doing what, who was a good kid and who was a 'bit of a
worry', who played on the street too much when cars passed, which couples were well
suited, which couples were too young to be moving in together. It went on and on.
And this was just a snapshot from two hours in one day. They even talked about
someone down the street who leaves their air-conditioning running, 'when their
windows were open'. I couldn't believe it.
I suppose the flip side of living in a
small town is that everyone makes it their business to know yours and discuss your
life in great detail with other people. Familiarity bordering on downright
nosey-ness! There's so much more anonimity in the city with regards to other
people's business. This can be a bonus especially if you want to shag someone
without the rest of town knowing. Everyone in the city is too busy to even say 'hi'
to their neighbour let alone be worried enough to talk to other people about the how
the fuel efficiency on your energy bill is going! Fuck, in the city people often
don't even notice the stench of their neighbour's dead rotting body as it wafts
under the apartment door into the foyer!
Anyway, these ladies were about seventy
years old and even discussed in detail, the lives of the Australian Idol
contestants. 'Casey, was a great singer but far too young. Courtney has got a spot
on Grease, where are the others?'. The global village via the television. Love may
make the world go round but it seems that gossip certainly gives things a good nudge
too.
10/3/05
The gig at the Hordern Hotel tonight had a few people at it thanks to the Wagin
Woolarama festival happening down the road this weekend. My show went for near on
three hours. It's a cliche but the secret to comedy is definitely in the timing. The
idea is the meat of the joke but the timing of the joke is the spice. The invisible
skill that really only comes through practice and is never really totally perfected.
The split second decision on which gag to put in where and then the timing of the
execution. Often a joke may not be all that clever but the laugh comes from the
speed it's delivered. Getting the thought or comeback or punchline into people's
heads before they think of it themselves. No wonder comedians like performing to a
crowd that have had a few drinks!
In a noisy pub setting, it's mandatory for a
comedian to build the tension as quick as you can and then jam the punchline in as
quick as possible for that split second when the maximun amount of people in the
room are listening. A milli second off can be the difference between the whole room
bending over laughing or the ugly silence of 'yeah that was a bit obvious' and them
resuming their conversation with the person next to them. And then once there is a
laugh, this is the time to try and recapture all the other people who were talking
to their mate instead of listening to you. Which is fair enough, after all it is a
pub! Then when you've got them back for an instant, bang! - jam them again. Try and
get a roll happening. I love the challenge. It keeps me awake. The best rolls in
pubs I find involve audience members, especially characters who the whole town
knows.
Tonight's classics were Cecil, Michelle the local copper (great to be in a
town where the local coppers get pissed with the locals), and Annie who skulled some
beer from the glass jammed between her tits. Cecil won the talent quest however for
his impersonation of a windmill using his cock. The crowd loved it. I thought
'there's no way I can compete with that!' and I wasn't just talking about my comedy
either. As Ike the owner said later, ' Yep, he's certainly got a weapon there'.
Cecil then grabbed the blow up doll and started licking it out. 'Perfect', I
thought. 'I can sip my beer and have a breather while he does my job - that is, keep
the crowd amused.' Often at my Big Night Out show, I just see myself as a conductor
with the bar fly's as the instruments. Bar fly's are great. Who else has so much
practice at sitting around all day, talking shit and cracking jokes? I just try and
encourage their best shit.
A lot of people think a comedian takes the piss out of people. I see my job rather,
as putting piss into people. If there's a good bar tab at the end of my gig, the
publican who pays me is happy and will be more willing to invite me back. Spew in
the dunny is usually a good indicator. I therefore tend to drive my shows way beyond
what is comedically sensible, just so I can keep people there till closing or as
long as possible. By the end of three hours tonight, I was pretty tired from trying
to jam a gag, every ten seconds. It's mentally a good exerciser but a bit taxing at
times. As one guy said to me afterwards, 'you started petering out, repeating jokes,
at the end. You should have stopped earlier'. I eventually stopped knowing there was
half an hour to closing time.
The end of my show is usually a dangerous time for me,
especially when I'm tired from talking non-stop for three hours. What usually
happens is that a few genuine people come up to me wanting to buy a DVD as well as
about five other people who demand that i give them free t-shirts and whatever else
I've got in my bag. 'Come on, you handed one out in the show. Come on I helped you
out in the show'. I don't mind giving away stuff to friends and the odd one in my
show - in fact I enjoy it. One of the few things in life I do get upset about
though is people demanding that I give them free stuff after they've sat back and
enjoyed my 'no cover charge' show for three hours!
It may not seem like it, but the
show's I do are the result of over ten years, and 4000 gigs of practice. All
distilled into a three hour time slot. This is carefully served up to them as best I
can, after many stops at petrol stations, trying to get the pub, just to sell the
gig. I then return a month later to actually do it. The t-shirts and DVD's, I sell
after my show give me a $5 profit on each one. Some of the gear I've carried in my
car for over 70 000kms before I get to sell them.
Anyway while selling a few items,
tonight I had some t-shirts and DVD's flogged. One guy tried to take them from my
bag five times! He kept on grinning everytime I caught him with his hand in my bag,
while I was selling a DVD to another guy. Then I realised there was two guys doing
it! It was like trying to swat flies away from festy meat. It happens so often after
gigs and I'm not too sure what to do about it without getting all serious on their
ass - which is not the way I like to end a comedy show! It's usually by guys and
girls who are quite young. They've just got their first job and still think that
stealing things and getting away with stuff shows how cool you are! No idea. Anyway,
it's a bit disapointing. To make up for one t-shirt being stolen, I have to sell three
more just to break even and if I also want a counter meal from a pub the next day, I
have to sell 6! Anyway, just like AC/DC said, it's a long way to the top if you want
to rock n roll!
I was quite surprised that there was no black people in the pub tonight for my show.
It was a full whitie show. At the end of the night of friendly drinking, people
piled out into the park outside to perform the standard ritual happening all over
the country at closing time at their local. 'I haven't got a root, so what I'm going
to do now is satisfy all my pent-up emotional and physical needs through punching
someone!' Anyway, there was screaming and yelling, followed by a fight. One guy was
knocked out for a couple of minutes before coming to. An ambulance, eventually took
him away for observation. The crowd then dispersed.
I wouldn't have a clue how to throw a punch but I still find it hard to have an
outright opinion on physical violence. Is it ever justified? Is it the last resort
of people who aren't being listened to or is it the preferred resort of an out of
control bully who doesn't want to listen? It's such a massive grey area of
unresolved human behaviour and always has been.
Moral certitude, political correctness, ideals... whatever. They're not things
derived from a god given absolute. In the end, they're luxuries made up by the
powerful. I mean less face it, when it gets down to brass tacks, 'right' or 'wrong'
is simply a concept continually written and re-written by those with the biggest
spear, biggest arrow, biggest gun, biggest tank, biggest bomb, biggest nuke. 'Get
back in your pen, otherwise I'll use it'. End of history lesson. Why do we pretend
otherwise!? Freedom's just another word for - 'weapon of mass deception'. Can you
believe that was the slogan I was originally going to put on my t-shirt!! As if that
would have ever sold more than my 'I fucked a goat' shirts!! Betcha it would have
taken far more than 70 000kms to offload those fuckers!! Freedom's just another word
for - Weapons of mass deception.... yeah right Jimbo!!! But your 'I fucked a goat'
idea - now that's brilliant... People beg, borrow and steal to get their hands on
those shirts!!
I was driving along today admiring the country and thinking that the ultimate for me
would be to be just be able to wander out in the desert or bush and live off the
land. That's the thing I love and actually enjoy about going thru lean financial
times. I know it helps that I don't have a wife and kids to provide for, but I truly
think that being broke is an underrated experience. It forces you into thinking
about things differently, doing things differently, interacting with different
people i.e having different life experiences. I think the ultimate freedom and
security would be to learn how to find and live off Bush tucker. Just to be able to
wander out into the bush and survive indefinitely. Not something I imagine can be
learned in a three month tafe course though!
Maybe the opportunity to learn will
present itself to me after I lose everything I own - i.e. my car is taken! Perhaps
then I will be totally free! Living totally off the land without even a yabbie net!.
What a skill to have. No wonder the Abo's had such a tripped out culture. So much of
our 'harddrive' and 'random access memory' brain energy, these days is taken up
calculating things like invoices, BAS statements, inventory counts, MYOB, bank
reconcilliation, house prices, returning phone calls, superannuation, bills,
deadlines.. Is it any wonder that at the end of the day, we love a few rum cans in
front of the TV!? Just to fucking forget about it all! The Abo's way of life was
dedicated to studying sunsets, animals, plants, nature, .... universal intergration.
Plus the odd all you can eat seafood buffet on the beach. No wonder they call it
the Dreamtime!
Driving around this country still blows me away though. The land that we all share
now is so old and we're still so lucky. Great weather, no-one dropping bombs on us,
good social security, council rubbish removals, running water... Getting too pissed,
gambling too much, driving too quick or banging stuff up your arm is about the only
way you can really fuck up, real quickly in this country. All fairly avoidable
potholes in the road of life too, if you care to look out for them. Nothing like
driving into a few of them every now and then though, especially when you need to
keep awake!
I mean, how often do you hear of someone in Australia starving to death - unless
they're stupid enough to wander out into the bush by themselves! Footy not famine is
the main concern in this country. Go the Sea Eagles!!!!!!! I seriously reckon
they're a chance this year. Or am I the one in Dreamtime?
11/3/05
I drove up to Kelleberrin via Corrigin, popping in to Woody's pub to say G'day and
have a sandwich at the local cafe. I knew the gig at Kellerberrin would be good just
from some of the stuff hung around the pub. Check out the photo of the Mount'in bike above closely. Doing my
gig that night, halfway thru my act, Wombat from Corrigin walked in the back door
with a big smile and waved. My first person in W.A who'd come to another gig of
mine. I had a following! I felt honoured. Wombat used to live in Kellerberrin ten
years ago and decided to come up for the night 'to get on it' and say g'day to his
old mates.
The show went well tonight. I did two one hour sets with a break which
made the show a lot tighter. Highlight was the mad chick up the back who said she'd
broken down in her car outside town that day and was just popping in 'for a drink'.
Her car must be pretty buggered cause she was drinking a lot and heckling like a
maniac. I loved it. Audrey and her friends came up from Tammin down the road which
was nice and got into the show, flashing the odd jug on cue. At the end of the show,
Brendan the publican and karaoke king, took the crowd thru til close.
Country
publicans are masters at reading a crowd. They have to be. They never have bouncers
or security to back them up, no matter how full the pub is, so they are constantly
scanning the crowds to make sure any trouble is nipped in the bud early. It's an
acquired skill. I could see Brendon doing this like a pro while belting out Meatloaf
songs, a bourbon in his hand and enjoying his night, all at the same time.
Multitasking at it's best. I remember Woody saying that his favourite line was going
up to a pissed troublemaker and whispering in his ear, 'pick a window sir, you're
about to leave this establishment'. He said it worked every time.
I sat back and had
a Jack Daniels and coke with Wombat at the bar. He had a grin from ear to ear like
most of the other people in the pub. The music was pumping and people were thumping
their hands on the table and screaming. It seems that alcohol, in fact most drugs,
enhance the mood you were in before you took it. Everyone was having a ball in
Kellerberrin. Drinking heaps however when your emotionally upset, especially angry,
ain't a real good idea. Sort it out when you're sober! Plenty of guys doing life
can testify to that! A moment's madness.
Anyway, amongst the good cheer I was again surrounded by tonight, Old Ken came up
to tell me a joke. 'What's the best thing to come out off a man's cock?' he asked
'What', I replied. 'The wrinkles' he grinned. He then told me how he'd had two
wives. 'I sacked the first one and buried the second'. He told me he was taking his
son-in-law out for a drink tonight who'd just had a bad break up with his daughter.
'When he asked me for her hand, I warned him. In fact I tried to talk him out of it
cause I know what a handful she can be... He's a good friend though, we were mates
before he met her and we'll remain that way'. He gave me his address and said I'm
always welcome to crash out in his spare bedroom, should I need somewhere to stay
when I'm around. Another guy came up to me and said he was divorced but had two
kids. 'It's the way to go mate, I'm a free man, can go to the pub whenever I want.
She gave me kids, that's what I wanted from her the most'.
At closing time I said goodbye to Wombat who was outside trying to get his key into
the ignition. He started work at 7am in Corrigin, two and a half hours away. 'Woody
and Jodie, really helped me get on my feet when I landed in Corrigin, so I always
turn up to work for them on time - I love 'em', he said. 'Fuck I love knockoff time
though', he grinned before getting his van started with a loud, 'you ripper!' and a
huge burp.
12/3/05
My gig tonight at Quairading was cancelled tonight because Jimmy Barnes was playing
a concert up the road tonight. 'Sorry mate, but no-one will be here' said Clayton
the publican. 'No worries', I said. I reckon if my gig had been cancelled because of
a Daryl Braithwaite gig up the road, I may not have taken it as well though.. No
offence Daryl. In fact, I shouldn't say that, I'm being silly, I'm always impressed
when I see an ex high profile performer still doing the rounds in small country
towns. I've seen a few on this trip: Diesel, James Blundell. Still truckin, still
doing what they love. Which reminds me of the joke I heard off my mate Glenny in
Tamworth, from the band 'The toe-sucking cowgirls': 'What did the musician do after
winning a million dollars?' 'He kept gigging, until the money ran out'.
I decided to
drop into Coolgardie for a night on my way to Kalgoorlie. How could I not? Free
accomodation, familiar faces and a $13 home cooked meal of apricot roast chicken and
vegies (with plenty of pumpkin) off Helen, the chef and surrogate mother figure to
all. On the way, I stopped in for a swim at Southern Cross in their five lane
33 metre pool. The sunset on the way out was amazing. My camera battery was flat. I
reckon its pretty boring to hear someone describe a beautiful scenery in writing, so
I won't.
At The Denver City Hotel, I immediately ran into Paul who invited me back
to his place to share a six pack. Again he blew me away with stories. 'When I was at
my peak after I'd just pulled out seven million dollars worth of gold out of the
ground, I went into Kalgoorlie and rented out a whole brothel for a month. Just me
and my mate, a heap of piss and all the girls'. He then said as an afterthought,
'yeah... wasn't a bad month that one'.
Afterwards I went back to the pub. Brendan,
who won the talent quest last week, asked me and the German girls back to his place
for a drink at closing time. Here's a tip. Never start watching the movie 'Troy' at
2am. All it is, is Brad Pitt and his army vs Eric Bana and his army. Three hours of
sword weilding carnage. It goes on for way too long. I reckon the by-line for the
movie should have been, 'The things some guys will do to get a chick'. Halfway
through the movie while pouring wine, Brendan enlightened me on his technique, out
the side of his mouth. 'I'm more of a traditionalist. I just try and get 'em
pissed'. I reckon 'Poida', would have agreed.
13/3/05
I drove out to Kalgoorlie again, for my gig at Judd's. It was a small but
interesting crowd. One lady who was having dinner complained to the barmaid. She
said I was 'the lowest thing she'd ever heard'. Can't win 'em all! The barmaid
pointed out to the lady that my show was advertised as R rated, was free and if she
doesn't like it, she should just leave. She did.
Winner of the talent quest was
Beavis. He got his cock out. He'd been drinking at the bar since midday. Jez also
got up on stage. Jez looked like he'd just climbed out of a photo from an old
miner's reunion in 1897. Dusty old mining clothes, weatherbeaten face, old boots and
droopy moustache. Getting off the stage, he slipped and hit the deck. He wasn't
moving and blood was oozing from his forehead. The bargirls cleaned him up and put
him in a cab. 'He'll be okay, does it all the time'.
Mitch also go into the show. He
was straight out of school and came up here to get some work in the mines. He was
from Newcastle and won the skulling comp. Afterwards I went up to Paddy's and The
Exchange Hotel. These two pubs are literally next door to each other and have a
inside doorway connecting each other. Only in Kalgoorlie would two pubs be joined.
There's a lot of drink driving in Kalgoorlie. Even the housewives do it. Here's a
photo to prove it.
Paddy's was cranking out the Karaoke. The Exchange was cranking
out skimpy's. This photo was with a girl called Kyah who'd come over from Qld to
work.
At the bar, I got chatting to a couple of local girls, called Tamara and
Beth. They invited me back to their place. These were real friendly. In fact,
Tamara was particularly friendly.
