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It’s hard to pin-down exactly what turned Breaking Bad’s Walter White into a homicidal, manipulative, self-serving, methamphetamine producing-turned cartel baron egomaniac, but definitely a running theme of the fantastic TV series has been his unrecognised potential as a chemist of some brilliance, and the deep resentment he feels towards his University peers who reached great heights in the field of industrial chemistry to become multi-millionaires, while the equally brilliant Walter wound-up teaching high school chemistry to disinterested, unmotivated teenagers by day, and scrubbing strangers’ cars in a run-down car wash by night.

There’s nothing like returning to one’s home town to bring back all kinds of latent memories, and in particular, to drag from one’s closet - clackety clackety – a whole crypt of condescending, grinning and highly reproachful skeletons.  Yesterday, in the stinking summer heat, the family and I commenced a road trip to the high-brow climes of the Mornington Peninsula, via a short stop to catch-up with an old friend in one of Melbourne’s beautiful, bay side suburbs.

It’d been ages since Donkey had spent much time in this part of the leafy South, where he’d previously spent years of his life servicing the bored housewives, distinguished gentlemen and plastically-enhanced daughters of Melbourne’s established, moneyed families.  Day after day, Donkey had slaved away in accordance with their whippish demands for buffed bunions, magnificent nails and honeyed heels; a little callus chipped off here, a nail edge filed away there and wrinkled old ladies groaning in long-forgotten, post-menopausal orgasmic pleasure as Donkey’s magical, lubricated hands did their thing to wind-up a messy session of grinding away at gnarled toenails and horned corns.

For all this labour, and the accompanied pleasant, inane conversation which was all part of the service, Donkey would extract a pretty penny from his clients, but after a few years, the high-yield and resultant, high-paced lifestyle of shiny red sports cars, cocaine-fuelled cocktail parties, court-side box seats and luxury holiday villas proved too high a price for the sheer boredom of the work, not to mention the all-too-frequent, inadvertent glimpse up an octogenarian’s panty-less skirt which is an occupational hazard for any hard-working podiatrist.

As the horror and mental burn-out set in, Donkey set off on a new adventure and new career, and before long found himself saving the world in far off, exotic locales.  I’ve never looked back, and in truth have found the mental stimulation and physical exertion of working in and with remote island and mountain communities to be tremendously fulfilling and truly life-giving.  Well, that is until yesterday…

As we drove past the beautiful homes of Ocean Highway, with their steady, socioeconomic scaling-up in proportion to their distance from the city, I pointed out to Mrs Donkey the various homes, sports cars, tennis courts and swimming pools of my former colleagues, and before long, their well-appointed, beach-side holiday homes and luxury yachts.  I ignored her popping eyes and increasing, green-tinged pallor as these dwellings became more and more extravagant, and I ignored her uncomfortable fidgeting beneath tightly packed luggage inside our rusting, third-hand beige Toyota.

Before long, we stopped at my friend’s home for a very pleasant lunch of antipasto, French champagne and post-meal cognac.  We marvelled at the marble floors, seventeen-foot ceilings, walk-in wine cellar and three-hundred and twenty-five inch flat screen TVs in every other room, and we listened attentively to talk of the booming podiatry business, mid-week golf and winter-long Mediterranean getaways.  Eventually, we waved good bye with a promise to visit again soon, and drove in tight-lipped silence all the way to the coast, where we joined our newer friends in our rented holiday home for the next few days which, we were relieved to discover, was similarly appointed to the home of my friend and former colleague, with beautiful, architecturally designed hallways, sea-view balconies, airy designer kitchen, multiple cavernous bathrooms and pleasant hallway water features.

Within an hour I was fully relaxed and just settling into a chilled beer and crisps (definitely more Donkey’s style these days) when I noticed a note from our landlord requesting his tenants to be careful not to mark the ancient teak floor boards - ‘imported from Borneo’ - with high heel shoes (and this accompanied by a picture of a stylish man and his fashionable lady returning from a polo match).  As I read casually through this missive, my eyes were drawn to the bottom of the letter, and to the landlord’s name resting beneath an ostentatious, flourishing signature. 

An icy chill crept up my stiffening spine as I realised that the owner of this magnificent, beach side monument to modern hedonism was none other than one of my fellow podiatry students from years ago, who had failed his final year of university and who, rather than repeat the year, opted to open a podiatry equipment supply facility which he later franchised, floated on the stock market and went global in the biggest small business start-up of the pre-internet age.

It was quick work, but Mrs D managed to talk me down off the roof within the hour, and the hyperventilating soon subsided.  As a precaution for the safety of private podiatry practitioners and their families in the greater Melbourne metropolitan area, she’s got me tethered to the extravagant, four-poster bed from where I am being forced to write this using voice-recognition software (hence the typos) while staring at the kind of ocean vista that can only be purchased on the backs of a million well-manicured toenails.

Seems a bit over the top from my good wife.  I mean, it’s not like I’m bitter or anything.  Sure, this landlord … and all my podiatry friends, in fact, are rich beyond my wildest dreams, with Swiss bank accounts as fat as their spoilt, sedentary offspring, with wives as well manicured as their landscaped gardens, and mistresses as fresh as the waxed ducos of their Jaguars, but it’s not like I am going to turn homicidal and hunt them down in merciless, resentful cold blood.  Sure, I might be up for a bit of hedge burning and perhaps even a spot of spooky stalking of their children down the well-lit streets of their exclusive, gated communities, but I’m not about to commit anything which could be considered physically dangerous.

No, that’d be an act of a bitter man … a man who felt that he had been denied all the breaks and opportunities to excel in his field and become rich, fat and powerful.  I’m not that.  I made my own choices.  I love being this poor … ah, I mean, happy.  Happy, not poor.  And in fact, in the happiness ledger of life, I am rich indeed.  You may untie these bonds my good wife.  I am stable and I am content.  Now, I am just popping-out to the shops for some matches … I mean milk.  Too-da-loo.

What would tip a mild-mannered, failed podiatrist into a Walter White-esque, homicidal maniac.  Pic:  http://www.entertainment-bureau.com

Relapsed Hoof in Mouth

T'wouldn't be the first time Donkey's been in the shit for cracking wise about serious and sensitive matters. 

Once, as an insecure school boy trying to generate some social currency, I loudly remarked to my sniggering peers how much of a shame it had been that the doctors had sliced off Sister Kathleen's huge knockers because now there was nothing good to look at during Geography.  This appalling remark had been delivered whilst the Mother-Superior smouldered silently, menacingly, behind me.  When I'd finally noticed that the cackles of my peers had exceeded even my comedic abilities, I spun around and flinched at Sister Sophia's detesting face protruding from forbidding, mission-brown from eyebrows to 'obnails.

The hectic confusion of the school corridor suddenly plunged into silent slow-motion.  I cowered pathetically as her piercing stare damned me to the eternal inferno with a hatred one wouldn't have thought possible from a woman of the cloth, and after a deliberate, seemingly endless breath, things sped-up very suddenly with her launching into a violent rage of verbal abuse which actually damned me to the eternal inferno.

More recently, it has been my recent, blasé spray about escaped convicts in Vanuatu which has sent me diving for the self-flagellation stick.  Despite my treatment of the subject as just a big, harmless old joke, things have taken a nasty turn around these parts recently with the severe beating of a long-term, well-known and respected expatriate by intruders in his home, followed the next night with the brutal murder of an elderly expatriate couple in their beds.

It was immediately, generally understood that the perpetrators of both incidents were none other than six of the twelve escapees which, everyone soon discovered, were still on the run, some two months later. 

Confirmation of this fact from the sheepish Correctional Authorities a couple of days later saw egg on both their and my ugly mugs, but the latter was soon sizzling away fit to explode when it was confirmed by the police that the escapees really were the prime suspects in both incidents.

The town went into lock-down as the rumour mill, known locally as the 'coconut wireless' went haywire.  Everyone's brother's friend's dog had seen the escapees hiding-out in the bush behind their homes, and every other punter's house had been burgled in the space of a week as bored young people took advantage of the e-scape goats at large to break into the homes of every expatriate in their neighbourhood to make off with those enormous TVs they'd been eyeing off for the past year and a half.

Amidst this genuine fear and panic, the additional, extraordinary rumour went out that someone's husband/brother/aunt works in the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and the Minister had just issued an edict that the Vanuatu Mobile Force (VMF) – the poorly-trained, trigger-happy paramilitary arm of the Vanuatu Police Force – had permission to take up arms after dark and to shoot anyone on suspicion.

You can just imagine what that led to; better six nut-bags with knives moving through the night than 70 with officially sanctioned automatic weapons! 

Crikey!  I'll know never to take the piss out of a serious situation again.  I never could have believed that this tuen of events could have become this dangerous.  I've definitely learned my lesson; there's nothing ... absolutely nothing funny about living in fear for your life every night.  No more making light of such issues ... ever ... again!

Oh by the way, on those first couple of nights during which the VMF were on the loose, only a few gun shots were heard, but they appear to have been well wide of the mark, 'cause a few days later the Government issued a warning to the (now seven) escapees – "Turn yourselves in by midday on Saturday, or else...". 

Or else what?  They've been on the run for two months! ... and judging by the location of these two crimes, they've not been very far away from the cops that whole time.  "Turn yourselves in by midday on Saturday, or else ... we're really going to start looking for you"?  Hmmph!

 

Vanuatu's 'coconut wireless' works even faster these days with the aid of Facebook and email.  These pics (2 of the 6) were in Donkey's inbox accompanied by versions of the murder long before any official news of the incident were released.

100 Miles and Runnin'

A return to rambling.

Although I may not have looked much like a gangster from the ghetto at the time, what with my blotchy, pimply skin and unmanageable red hair; a school uniform comprising a three-toned striped tie with matching cricket blazer, long shorts and long socks - back in the early '90s, sixteen year old Donkey and his private school chums, like their compatriots growing-up in 'The Projects', were pretty obsessed with hard core American rap music.

This was just before Las Angeles erupted into flames and was flooded with more military personnel and hardware than East Beirut.  It's by no means not clear why we were so fired-up by the likes of Public Enemy and Ice Cube – perhaps we'd somehow confused the neatly clipped lawns, white-washed mansions and European cars of Melbourne's Southeast suburbs with the boarded-up shopfronts of Southeast LA (for sure, an easy mistake to make).  Whatever the trigger, we'd become all consumed with pimps, bitches, ho's, drugs and drive-bys, and were on a head-on plunge down the amoral slope towards hard core sexism, racism and anti-authoritarianism (although to be fair the latter amounted to little more than one of us – and certainly not me – once pissing on the tyre of a parked, unmanned postal truck).

For me, personally, my biggest influence here had been NWA, the Niggaz With Attitude.  Sure, it was probably tracks with exciting, risqué names like Fuck the Police that got me listening in the first place, but what I really came to love was the theatrics of many of their tracks, and in particular, the great story telling.  My favourite was 100 Miles and Runnin', which took us on a super-paced, action-packed prison break following the 'Niggaz in Black' as they high-tailed it out of the Federal Penitentiary on their way, so FBI sources informed us, for their home base, Compton.  A fantastic, high-speed yarn indeed, although it did always seem strange to me that if the FBI knew where the Brothers were goin', they might have saved themselves the chase and just headed straight over to Compton to round them up...

The main event – Back in the Pac.

S'nice to be back in a small pond again; seeing the same faces in the stores, restaurants and bars each day; the same protruding butt cracks and flabby bellies crammed onto the only open, accessible beach on a Sunday afternoon; being privy to all the juicy social scandals within moments of an illicit wink, kiss or haphazard lover's retreat out the backdoor while one's partner walks in through the front. 

Even more enjoyable is returning to a place where, simply by virtue of the size and proximity of the population, one is so much closer to the [only slightly] higher brow happenings of Government and big business.  And Mrs Donkey is in her element with not one, but two Z-class local newspapers; she's resisted the urge thus far, but I can tell she's only one typo, sexist or racist remark away from a semi-publishable (but sure to be published), outraged letter under some translucently flimsy pseudonym.

But it's not all palm trees, pina coladas, tea-on-the-lawn and cucumber sandwiches.  In fact, even before The Donkeys - now with new edition completing the full nuclear configuration - left for the sunny skies of Port Vila, the pre-departure briefing notes supplied by Donkey's new employer flagged the following security concern:

Prison breakouts have occurred.  Crime rates may increase in the period following a breakout.  We advise you to pay close attention to your own security, monitor the media for events that may affect your safety and security and follow the instructions of local authorities.

Mrs D and I nearly choked on our daiquiris upon reading this - such an odd addition for something that 'has occurred', we laughed.  But we've now been here for two months, and there have been no less than three mass breakouts from the same prison.

Upon a breakout, the fun starts immediately.  First the rumours shoot through the town, followed by email warnings confirming the rumours, and successfully designed to spread abject panic amongst the expatriate citizenry (especially the yanks – they seem to absolutely lose it).

For the most part, at least for the casual, but very interested observer, I find these breakouts kinda fun.  Let's face it, we live on an island, and everyone knows each other, so where are they gonna go?  They bust out, find themselves with no long-term plan, so decide to go on a bender of wine, women and song, and the first thing they need to get them there is cash.  The houses immediately surrounding the prison get done-over for money, jewellery, phones and iPods within moments of the perpetrators having gained their liberty, and ten minutes later, the gear is sold for a song and the fugitives are at one of seven bars in town throwing back beer and whisky faster than country kids attending their first University O-Week. 

It's a game, and for the most part, is relatively harmless.  Just three weeks ago, about eight inmates went 'over the top' (I didn't mention that the high risk prison facility in town, known colloquially as 'Container City' consists of cells made out of converted shipping containers surrounded by a single, standard, rusting cyclone fence with gaps beneath as wide as those between the gates).  The authorities seemed thrown for days, being unable to work out where they could have escaped to, only to discover the answer when the fugitives all turned themselves in a week later. 

They'd been 'hiding out' ... with their families ... two suburbs away!  With the help of their community leaders, they released a statement to the press describing their whereabouts and explaining that their escape had been designed to draw attention to their poor living conditions and inadequate meals.  As I said, a game.

But things took an ugly turn this week when the latest mass escape saw twelve hardened criminals disappear into the urban expanse one evening.  As usual, the rumours started, then the disturbing emails; this one from a colleague;

Was on the bus with a policewoman this morning and she mentioned they were last seen early this morning around 4am at Beverly Hills area - Ples blong ol Man Ambrym [description of a location].

Beware, Beverly Hills and Belview residents! Stay safe, 

Ha!  Did I mention this feels like a game?  If it wasn't for the fact that the Donkeys had only just moved into a house at Bellevue and stocked it full of all our worldly possessions, I'd be pissing myself about the way this piece of intelligence was leaked to the community – not by official FBI-type sources, but by a police woman riding on a bus (note: there are not enough police cars).  And the other thing to note is that these suburbs are literally only a 5 minute drive away (OK, 10 minutes on the bus) for the cops to get there and round 'em up ... but I am getting ahead of myself here.  As I mentioned, immediately upon breakout, first come the rumours, then the panic-provoking emails, and eventually the press statements earnestly urging residents to be alert, not alarmed, and to be assured that Vanuatu Correctional Services will apprehend these felons lickety-split;

Good Morning all.

[Faithful translation] Just a short message to let you know that 12 high risk prisoners escaped from Container City at around 10pm last night.  Ensure your families and property are safe.  We will be deploying soon for a recapture operation.

You all have a nice day.

And I kid you not, that was the sign-off.  Uh-ha, oh-kay, now that I know for sure that they are high risk prisoners, and that after twelve hours, Correctional Services are still bumbling about trying to find a car with enough fuel to take them 5 minutes down the road, I feel much better about the situation.  Thanks, I will have a nice day, especially as I've also received the attached, angry-looking mug-shots of 'The Disgruntled Twelve' (as we're now calling them in our suddenly less-secure-feeling Bellevue house).

I guess that if the LAPD couldn't work it out to skip the chase and meet NWA at their known destination, I shouldn't be all that amazed that the Vanuatu Police Force remain the last people in town to know that The Disgruntled Twelve are at their mothers' homes right now chowing-down on some baked taro before hitting the town for some grog-fuelled booty action.  I guess this post going live is testament to my laptop remaining in my possession, so hopefully that means the VPF have finally wizened-up to the game ... it is good to be back.

Fortunately for the VPF, they'll not have to push much past 3 ... but still they probably won't make it.  Pic: http://www.nwaworld.com/lyrics/

Psss ... you chasin'?

Melbourne Air Traffic Control must have pricked up their radars recently with the number of unregistered, airborne objects appearing above the city's inner north.  It seems we can't turn a corner around here at the moment without seeing pairs of running shoes, laces tied together, hanging from the power-lines.

I've never quite understood what this is all about; in my day, the odd occurrence would likely have been the result of a weedy, unpopular kid with new sneakers having wandered across the path of the neighbourhood toughs; the latter having seen fit to take advantage of the former's lowly social status by forcibly removing the offending footwear before an audience of admiring sycophants, and launching it to the heavens.

But this could never be the explanation for the modern-day appearance of these 'pedal stalactites' all over our suburb.  For starters, the sheer volume of hanging shoes would mean that there were too many unpopular youths to make up a critical mass of social strata such that there wouldn't be anyone left over to rule.  Furthermore, the local toughs would have had to outsource their bullying responsibilities to independent contractors in order to meet the necessary quotas for juvenile public ridicule, and the current government requirements for meeting basic safety standards for commercial contractors would be beyond the means of most 12-15 year olds.  So there has to be another explanation for this urban phenomenon.

A friend of mine suggested that hanging shoes were a sign that drugs were sold in the adjacent house.  Indeed, a quick scan of the innernet suggests this to be a common belief in many parts of the world, but it's not clear to me whether the intention of the shoes would be for the dealers to advertise their location, or whether it was the doing of neighbourhood vigilante-types trying to expose these 'undesirables' to law enforcement authorities.

But I am afraid this all sounds pretty implausible.  While I don't hold the Victorian Police in particularly high esteem, if the hanging shoes were a signal to prospective buyers, I do think the cops are at least capable of using Google to discover this, and subsequently initiating the biggest round-up of illicit drugs since Nancy Regan sat down to play Risk with Ron, and landed Afghanistan, Burma, Thailand and Colombia in the opening round.

The local, anti-drug vigilante option also doesn't sound too plausible given they have proven in the past that a limited grasp of the English language and a can of red spray paint works effectively enough.

And let's face it, if hanging shoes were a signal, either to the lazy, fat, donut-grease-stained coppers, or to people out chasing a score, then the vast number of these signals would indicate that every second person in my locale would be off their head on coke, smack, weed and meth, at any time of the day or night; my hood would be like Southeast Los Angeles during the annual LAPD Picnic – everyday!

There has to be another explanation, and I'm all ears.  What I did find interesting today, though, was a particular pair of hanging shoes.  I have mentioned before how people around here are just that little bit too cool, and that they like to stand-out by making an alternative, unique statement.  Well, just around the corner from my home, hanging from the power lines is a pair of shoes much like all the rest, except this is a pair of lace-less, slip-on shoes, and someone has gone to great effort to sew some string to each one, before launching them over the wire.  Perhaps it is a sign from a drug dealer trying to market their product as being something different from that sold at five or six other houses on the street.  No doubt by December, it'll be flashing Christmas tree lights contributing the next breakthrough in the urban drug advertising war.

"Hey, anyone know where I can get some drugs around here?" Pic: http://www.jenius.com.au

The Horror, The Horror

It's so hard to remain young and funky when you've got kids; the cool, hip pubs and bars which you once habitually frequented, although just as geographically close to you as they'd been but a year or so ago, seem completely inaccessible these days. 

It's not enough that caring for and raising a child keeps you tied to the home in terms of being there to watch over them through waking and sleeping, but even when you do have the opportunity for a free night away, you're completely knackered from the day's responsibilities such that you know it's gonna take chemicals a damn sight stronger than mere alcohol to even get you into the front bar, let alone on the dance floor ... and that's when the allure of half a DVD movie and an early night is just too good to pass-up.

The only consolation to the passing of your misspent youth is that your fellow offenders of yore, ensconced as they are in their own breeding programs, are experiencing the exact same social  isolation and troubling passage of time as you.  And like you, they are just as happy to let one Saturday night after another pass on by without so much as setting foot out their front door.

But there's something about our culture which demands that at Christmas time, one makes an effort ... kids or no.  The problem, though, is where can a bunch of people, once famous for their selectivity towards cutting-edge venues and significant staying power possibly get together and maintain their hip and groovy status?

The answer is ... no where!

And so, a couple of weeks before last Christmas, in a determined effort to get together somewhere that was both kid friendly and licensed, we all bit the bullet and descended upon the 'dining room' of an inner-city hotel, complete with pokies and bar maids wearing the mandatory, low-cut bodices and push-up bras that any self-respecting, red-blooded, TAB-going Aussie male would expect from someone pouring his $2-Happy Hour pots.

We were the first of our group to arrive, and had to wait in the front bar for 10 minutes until the dining room was opened.  It was here the realisation dawned that this wasn't the kind of place one was wont to frequent in one's wilder days; there were four men at the bar, each wearing Christmas break-up Santa hats and were very, very drunk.  They were all speaking at the same time; their different conversations creating a loud moan that seemed to buzz around the bar and, as if by telepathy, would come together in unison to utter the phrase "f@*king c@nts", before heading off again on murmured, indecipherable tangents.  It was kind of like this,

Drunk Man #1:  "Murmer murmer murmer murmer    - f@*king c@nts -     murmer murmer murmer".

Drunk Man #2   "Whah blah whah blah whah blah    - f@*king c@nts -     whah blah whah blah".

Drunk Man #3:  "Wang wang wang wang wang       - f@*king c@nts -     wang wang wang wang".

Drunk Man #4:  "Yarda yarda yarda yarda yarda      - f@*king c@nts -     yarda yarda yarda yarda".

So, not quite the kind of place we cool, funkmeisters would once have sought-out for a drink, and not quite what one might have had in mind for one's child.  Still, the dining room looked like it might be a little more civilised, so we surreptitiously slipped in, and hid in a dark corner until the booking Nazi was ready to throw open the doors.

Within five minutes, the place was packed with large groups of pre-Christmas revellers ... and their kids.  At every table, there were as many high chairs as there were seats.  We could tell by everyone else's assured movements that we were clearly the only newbies in the place; as we tentatively sought-out our table and tried to work out whether we were yet allowed to sit, we saw other couples stride-in with great purpose and resolve, and once inside, without even making eye contact, the acid-wash jeaned man would head to the bar while the peroxide blond, pink-spangled boob-tubed woman would dump their kids at the indoor playground and proceed to the table where she would fidget anxiously in anticipation of the impending delivery of her bourbon and coke (by the industrious Mr Acidwash) – all this executed with brilliant timing and precision.

Hang-on a minute, Donkey!  Did you just try to slip something by us, and think we wouldn't notice?  An indoor playground ... in a pub?!

Heh heh ... yes, I was getting to that.  One of the things that makes this place kid friendly is that it has an indoor playground [ie: a place you can dump the kids while you get schickered].  This is quite an elaborate set-up, completely sealed-off from the dining room with glass that, while not great for ventilation, does allow one to keep an eye on one's offspring while downing one's pre-Christmas beers and Bundy chasers.

Our friends all arrived, and with similarly haunted looks, we sat down with our kids to order dinner.  This was our next shock, and the second string in this venue's kid friendly bow.  Y'see, it wasn't just the indoor playground that had this place buzzing at 5.10 on a Tuesday evening, there was also the sentence in big, bold, red letters staring back at me when I picked-up the menu, "Kids eat for free!".  Uh oh!

Yes that's right.  Kids are able to select - for free - from a menu of deep-fried goodies, PLUS get a free 'red-lemonade', PLUS a free 'frog-in-a-[red]-pond' desert.  "Sure, it's not the most nutritious feed in the world for a growing body and mind, but hey, it is great value and...", I was suddenly warming to the whole experience, "with the money we save on Hambones' meal, we could try our luck on the pokies".

Hang-on, did I just say that?  Or did I just think that ... blimey, what's happening to me?

So, brushing aside a strange, unexplained, nagging feeling of alarm in the pit of my stomach, the kids ate for free, and we ate our own, larger but equally deep-fried slabs of meat with sides of deep fried potatoes and bright-green, oily garnish.  I was feeling thoroughly ill myself by the time Hambones'd downed his red lemonade and jelly, but it was only fair to let him have another run around the indoor playground with the other kids before we headed home.

As I followed him in to take-up our group's supervisory post (our revolving, continuous presence in the 'fish bowl' constituting the only adults to visit the room all evening), I was nearly struck down by the visceral wave which hit me in the senses as soon as we opened the hermetically-sealed door.  It was at this time when I came to understand the instinctive unease which had been gnawing at me since I first laid eyes on the words, "Kids eat for free!"

Because the thing about kids is that if you feed them high-fat food prepared in bulk, in conditions of questionable hygiene, and you combine this with immediate, post-ingested physical activity in a humid, poorly-ventilated room, one of three things are likely to occur; i) they will vomit, ii) they will shit themselves, or iii) they will vomit and shit themselves.

And another thing about kids is that if you feed them red food colouring (in lemonade and jelly) and you send them into a humid, poorly-ventilated room with brightly-coloured plastic play equipment and rubber floors, they will go nuts; run around and scream at the top of their high soprano little voice boxes.

And another thing about kids is that if they have been fed red food colouring, and been sent into a humid, poorly-ventilated room with brightly-coloured plastic play equipment and rubber floors, and they are going nuts, it won't be long before these kids start pushing, hitting, punching and biting each other like little savages.

And another thing about wild little savages who have been force-fed artificial stimulants and placed inside a glass prison to fend for themselves while the prison guards go off duty to immerse themselves in cheap liquor, is that like any group of beings fighting for their survival, they will factionalise; with the biggest, strongest inmates asserting their dominance, and surrounding themselves with flunkies through which to inflict real, physical pain on the weakest individuals sharing their cell.

So with my sauce-enveloped, fat-saturated meat products sitting rather precariously just above my liver, I entered into this maelstrom of writhing, screeching, vomit- and shit-reeking madness, and physically shuddered as I witnessed two bigger boys beating the absolute living daylights out of a much smaller child, and an older girl clothes-lining other kids in the neck as they were pushed down the slide by one of her accomplices.  In one corner, a little boy was curled-up in the foetal position, screaming as another boy unwrapped foil from a dozen, soft cubes of butter he'd misappropriated from the dining room, and was smearing them in his victim's hair, while in another, a little girl {demonstrating how her sense of taste was inversely proportional to that of her parents for bringing her here] was throwing faecal matter leaked from her bulging nappy at the flat-screen TV belching-out vintage Britney Speares music videos at megasonic volume.

Needless to say Hambones and I didn't last too long in there; by the time we'd dragged him out of that horrendous glasshouse and bundled him into the car, Colour 123 had expended its influence and he'd fallen into one of those post-party hypoglycaemic comas which make it almost impossible to pry a child from a car seat at the other end.  Never-mind coming down from ecstasy a couple of days later, this night of chemical inducement took our wee one a week to recover from.  OK, it was Christmas – a special occasion, and we got to meet up with our old friends ... but everyone else in that hell-hole were regulars.  Given the time it took for Hambones to 'come down' from his trip, these other kids must spend their whole week like brain-dead zombies, before doing it all again, and again, and again.

The experience has definitely placed mortal fear deep into my heart.  My next trip to the pub will therefore be with Hambones and his mates, aged 18 ... and we'll be going somewhere cool.  I just hope I'll still be able to squeeze into my drainpipes.

Under the influence of artificial stimulants, it's only a short jump from indoor playground to juvenile offender. Pic http://cakeplow.com

Beaten by reality

FOREWORD: I drafted the following post last Thursday (12^th August), back when all was quiet on the inner city streets ... little did I know that my Hindenburg-like, pseudo-intellectual smugness was going to be deflated in a great, blubbery mess by the pointy-end of the real world, as Melbourne's gangland mobs geared-up for a whole new shooting spree.

While the ongoing northern suburban teenage knife fights and the cudgelling of Indian students keeps the blood-lusting Sunday paper readers interested past the Page 3 Girl, the rest of the city is starting to get a little twitchy that there hasn't been a decent shooting outside a suburban home, cafe or primary school for well over a year now.

For a while there it was looking promising that Carl Williams might be released before someone could knock him off in broad daylight outside Woollies (preferably at a home-value-inflating shopping strip near you), but alas, the grubby, tubby drug lord met his end on Her Majesty's watch, selfishly denying a salivating populous its opportunity to spend the next eight years driving by 'the spot where it all happened' and pointing at the pavement where one would claim that in the right light, you could just about determine the outline of his leaked cranial blood.

Such is Melbourne's obsession with organised, true-crime. Where the release of a ghost written 'auto-biography' of a notorious, nouveau celebrite gang lord can steal the front page from a politician's dastardly, late-night government takeover or a despot north Asian leader's preliminary steps towards nuclear world war.

And thanks to the good folk at Channel 9 bashing-out three series of Underbelly in as many years, the rest of Australia has followed suit and is obsessed with the seedy underworld of organised crime (not to mention soft porn and Matty Newton's arse!).

But while all eyes and cameras are firmly trained on the last known survivor of the Moran clan (poor, two-year-old Kitty is alleged to have signed a multi-billion dollar exclusivity deal with Murdoch's News Limited, to be paid in a lump sum on the release of Volume 1: the Primary School Years, should she be fortunate enough to live that long), the rest of the nation's established criminal families have been more-or-less free to get on with the business of drug-manufacturing and running, theft, extortion, protection racketeering, arms trading and illegal gambling, with narry a glance from the press or the cops.

Take my neighbours, for example. These folk aren't the types to be escorting high-end hookers and joining Eddie McGuire for the AFL's Brownlow Medal Count at Crown Casino in a few weeks time. They're not even the types to be seen playing at the high-roller tables of the same establishment. You won't see them hooning up and down Chapel St in Ferrari convertibles or spot them joining George Calombaris at table in one of his fine-dining establishments.

Rather, these fat, balding, tracky-daks-wearing, butt-crack showing, pitbull-walking, possibly excessively violent, but otherwise neighbourly types are more likely to be seen scoffing $8-parmies-and-a-pot-before-noon down at The 'Wick, throwing a few bucks each way on Race 6 at the Cranbourne Dish-lickers, or dropping twenty-cent coins into a slot after 3pm at the RSL. They're more likely to be driving a '96 HSV Commodore than a Ferrari, and the only thing high-end about their hookers is that when working the back alleys, their girls make sure they're not standing where the drain water pools at the bottom of the rise.

So while the three generations of criminals living next door won't ever grace the front page or be made the subject of a high-rating Australian TV series, you gotta hand-it to them for their diligence at keeping at it – a bit of a meth lab here, some movement of stolen goods there, a dabble in some illegal importation of tobacco products there – for decades, and all completely under the radar*.

I guess you'd have to liken them to former Prime Minister John Howard's Little Aussie Battlers. The kind of folk who will never be singled-out for their selfless and unrelenting contribution to society, but who, by their commitment to honest hard work, keep the economy on its feet.

That's my neighbours ... the Little Aussie Battlers of Organised Crime. They'll never be recognised for what they do, but with the media, the police and the hungry, true-crime-obsessed public's attention preventing the higher-profile crooks from dabbling in anything even slightly bent, my neighbours, and other, likewise established families are keeping organised crime alive.

The real Aussie Battlers of Organised Crime look more like David Wenham's character, Johnny Spitieri (Gettin' Square, 2003) than the slick, playboy types of Channel 9s Underbelly. Pic: http://www.oldmovies.net.au/top-10-funny-characters/

* - well almost completely, except if you count the incident which saw our neighbourhood wake up to view the late night handy work of one of our neighbour's grammatically-challenged competitors or disgruntled clients scrawled across their front fence in red spray paint; "DRUG DEELERS" (sic).