Monday, 21 September 2009

Holy Fucking Hell

Here's a thing not to do. Don't go running around town getting drunk on a Monday night with young Aleksandr because he might take you to a bar where a jug of snakebite is real cheap and the backpackers from upstairs come down to race crabs. I have the feeling the light shades were covered in hula skirts and most people were wearing shorts. I don't recall an occasion where I have cheered for a small crab with a number painted on its back, lifting my beer glass in chorus with a dense crowd of international men. My crab was beaten by a crab named "Tradesmen Entrance". I suspect that crab belonged to a group of men wearing bike shorts, rubber truncheons and handcuffs.

I ran away in the end, made a break for it up the stairs and back out onto the street. I was surprised to find myself on George St and close to Central Station. I was quite sure that my geography took leave at the same time as my senses and that I was located somewhere brand fucking new. I met up with Spencer on King St in one of those same old pubs where the locals are local and the sausage sandwiches are free. Spencer took his time laughing at me for running away and into the night. I guess next time I see him I'll try and explain that sometimes when I find myself somewhere new I just need to run until I stop.

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