This is the true story of how My friend Martin and I spent a holiday in Queensland under the influence of beer, weed, anonymity and Hunter S Thompson.
This should keep my blog full for a couple of months.
Cheers
Danny
My first encounter with Hunter S Thompson and how he changed my holidays Part 10*The Gold Coast Experience (Stage 2)*
While we were getting comfortable in our Motel room we invented a game to play, it involved the lead of the electric kettle to the handles of the bed side drawers ,which made a pretty good sling shot to shoot the Pink Panther that we had tied by the tail to the light fixture. We used empty beer cans as ammunition. It was a game of skill where one of us tipped the doll and set it swinging and the shooter had to hit it in the white part of its chest.
It kept us amused for some time.
Martin who got so excited at one particular shot tried to recreate his old back flip trick he used to do at home.
He actually accomplished it but lost his footing and crashed onto the floor and put his elbow through the plaster wall.
The wall was the only thing that sustained any permanent damage.
We only left the Motel room once more that afternoon to get some take away food and continue watching bad TV, shooting beer cans, smoking and talking amongst ourselves.
We decided earlier we were going to go to the venue about nine o’clock and as the time came closer I had to admit to Martin that I was pretty much cactus and didn’t think I could handle a night out now.
Martin smiled and said
“I got that covered” and produced something - and for the sake of my Mother if she ever reads this- it was of dubious gain and dubious mixture, but it did the trick.
We left the room in a frightful mess but thankful we had somewhere within walking distance to crash.
As soon as we hit the carpark Martin came up with the idea that since Bombay Rock was behind our Motel and that there was only a vacant block separating them , it would be a short cut.
So without any investigation he climbed the fence (it was quite dark at the back of the property) and jumped over.
I heard a loud smash and lots of swearing. I rushed to the fence climbed a rail and looked over.
From what I could see it was a good ten foot drop and there seemed to be piles of scaffold stacked near the boundary.
This is what Martin dropped right on top of.
I tried to see if I could help but he managed to unhook himself and after assuring ourselves that he wasn’t seriously injured arranged to meet at the venue.
Martin could take his short cut and I’d take the safe way.
As it turned out I beat him there because he had to limp all the way.
He also discovered he had a big rip up the arse of his trousers, which he hid by tying his jumper around his waist.
To our relief the entrance didn’t have a bouncer out the front and the tickets were sold via a lady in a booth, so no one questioned our – or more importantly Martin’s – appearance.
It was only half full so there was plenty of room to move. The bands for the night were called The FIXX. A touring British band who had a song in the charts and was capitalizing on it and an unknown local band that will remain unknown because I still don’t remember their name or performance.
The bar was our first port of call and what a wonderful readymade idiot proof piece of work it was. The set up was troughs of beer in ice protected by a sneeze guard type plastic cover.
Each trough had either XXXX, Fosters or Victorian Bitter beer cans piled in it, so to order you gave the bartender $1.50 and asked for either a Blue a Green or a Yellow.
Simple.
Martin decided he would shout the first round and pulled out his wallet in the most crowded part of the venue and did his stupid flick the wallet trick.
I looked in horror as I could only assume was our Motel key disappear under 200 sets of legs.
We looked at each other, confirmed the fact that Martin was a moron and decided it was a problem we would deal with later.
By now the speed had kicked in and we were feeling a second lease on life, and for some reason I just didn’t feel like hanging with Martin.
Before too long I was chatting with a group of people and it soon became clear that no one who was at the venue actually lived in Queensland, we were all tourists, all out on a bender. It made it easy to have a good time when everyone else thought like you did.
Now I could fill you with all kinds of stories how I was surrounded by women and everyone listened to my witty banter but it would be bullshit, I can’t remember a thing except all the toilet doors had been removed from the cubicles in the toilets. I only remember the lights coming on the bands had left the stage and a loud ringing in my ear.
Almost as if by magic Martin appeared beside me and said
“Good night wasn’t it” I think I agreed.
Now the next part I do remember because it sobered me up.
It involved standing in the cold trying to figure out how to break into our Motel room.
We weren’t allowed to take our beers out of the venue and all our beer was in the room.
I was dehydrating and using cigarettes to warm myself’.
After nearly three quarters of an hour of watching Martin try and pick a lock with two twigs I realized - why don’t we just tell the Inn keeper or whatever the fuck he was called and get a new one.
That simple thought seemed to brighten us up measurably and went to smack the bell at reception.
We only had to do it once and the same guy came out looking no different in grooming or dress.
“We lost our key” I said hoping he’d understand.
“What room?” he asked.
I told him
“Extra $5 plus $5 bond” he said
“Deal” Martin and I said going through I pockets and left a whole heap of notes and change on the counter. I took the key. This time it had a very large yellow tag attached.
I don’t remember much after that other than cracking a beer, pushing cans and rubbish of my bed and feeling warm again.
We were woken by the high pitched squeal of the alarm.
Martin must have been a bit more alert than me because he had set the clock radio and crawled under the sheets, something I hadn’t managed to do.
The clock said 9.30 AM.
I crawled off the bed and struggled with the stupid thing until I unplugged it from the wall. Then realizing Martin had hardly moved I kicked his mattress.
“Get up , we’ve got half an hour to piss off” I croaked.
I saw Martins underpants thrown over a chair and remembering he slept naked, picked them up , walked over to the door and threw them outside in some bushes.
I don’t know why, he must of done something to warrant it but I didn’t feel like consulting my list.
Looking back upon the room was a Jackson Pollock nightmare.
There were beer cans, food rubbish, beer spray and a large Pink Panther swaying in the breeze of the open door. Martin’s radio lay smashed in the middle of floor. Martin must of forgotten how to operate the easy latch last night and used his boots.
I went into the bathroom and splashed my face and washed myself as quick as I could.
When I came out Martin was frantically searching for something with a sheet wrapped around him.
“I just saw the Motel guy and his going into the rooms to clean, if he sees this we’re fucked” I had to agree with Martin, this would take some explaining if we were still here when he walked past.
Martin couldn’t find his undies and decided his beloved drug smuggling radio had out lived its purpose. The Pink Panther was to be sacrificed for a quick getaway
We left the room as the Motel keeper was entering the room two doors down from ours. Martin and I strolled confidently up to reception placed the key on the desk and ran into the pedestrian traffic for cover.
We had an hour before our bus left so we thought we’d get breakfast at a coffee shop.
We asked to leave when the lady behind the counter pointed to Martins lily white arse hanging out of his jeans.
He tied the jumper back around his waist and we went to another a couple of doors down. Where I thought it would be a great idea to have a bacon and fried egg sandwich, which I promptly threw up in a bin on the foot path.
We caught the bus back to Brisbane without incident and slept most of the way back,
I remember waking up and trying to read bits and pieces from my Hunter S Thompson book and saying to Martin
“How does the bastard do it?”
I must have said it a little too loud because a lot of heads turned to my voice, except Martin who was drooling on himself.
Lin was at the bus station to greet us and laughed till she cried, she was so pleased the children were being looked after, because they would never sleep in the house again if they saw Martin like this.
She asked what had we got up too?
Martin and I replied,
“What happens on holiday stays on holiday”
That evening after a shower , rest and feed we told them everything.
Next week: Part 11 Home
