100% Super soft cotton. Tight fit. Available in Girls and Guys sizes. Feel free to make enquiries about sizing. To order, liase with The Bedroom Philosopher directly HERE and he’ll post it to you himself. Only $25 inc. postage and handling. NOTE: Albums are also available this way. (GIRLS S, L, XL, 2XL GUYS S, M, L).
Throughout the ages man has felt an insatiable desire to self publish. The origins of blog and zine culture can be traced back to the Stone Age. It was here that early man first became aware of his own genitals and was able to draw them on a cave wall (a cromagnadoodle). This is the art worlds equivalent of inventing the wheel. Man then became in touch with his own ego (‘grong woz ere 10000 b.c.’), and published a primitive rant piece (‘mamoth sux.’) These incidents would also provide the well tagged cornerstone for modern day graffiti, which has itself evolved from ‘for a good time call’ binge booty texts, to pseudo-academic philosophies and grammar defying blather.
My first memory of graffiti was in my hometown Burnie where someone had spray-painted ‘BAD DUES’ on the swimming pool wall. They were obviously such bad dudes they didn’t even need all the letters. Other haiku’s included ‘RAP MUSIC,’ ‘Karissa is a mole’ and a super smiley out of proportion woman about to rendezvous with a finger. When I was ten I took time out from a pleasant family BBQ to use a public toilet, only to read some explicit scrawls about pleasuring a clitoris. There was no internet safe search or shrink wrap plastic to protect me from this self-published smut. I traced the walls and found them to be full of inglorious and puzzling sentiments. Who were these profane prophets, putting the amen in amenities?
Stepping into a cussed up cubicle is like being inside a not so ‘beautiful mind.’ Similar to the scene where Russell Crowe’s maths theories sprawl out like vines, in the uriney toilet it’s more of a spidery throwback to The Shining. The manic, the frustrated, the crest fallen and the bemused, their all-work-no-play primal screams tattooed in hexed texta. After a couple of breath-defying sessions in ‘they smell how I feel’ unisex booths, I’ve identified the five main genres of faffiti as:
ANGRY: ”fuckin shoeless punx homos the lot of em” – Burnt out teacher turned pot dealer who’s ran out of paper and missed out on the open mic blackboard.
POLITICAL: “You tosser…it’s getting weird everywhere. We’re so lucky here. Ever imagined Stalin’s USSR or Nazi Germany, or the Chinese cultural revolution? Get your head out of your own ass you tragic person.” Political Science student coked out on no doz in the 9th trimester of his PHD riffing with a Kerry O’Brien hallucination.
PHILOSOPHICAL: “Always keep a diamond in your mind.” Drifter hippy girl big on spirituality and getting smashed – full of love, unreliability and Tom Waits lyrics.
POETIC: “By the flickering stars with my legs around his hips. The currency of love is being cremated.” Scholarly goth hip-gypsy calamity girl with long legs and dark eyes. A walking Nick Cave song who’s constantly ‘burning off’ and ‘workshopping.’
FUNNY: “What if the hokey pokey is what it’s all about?” Youth worker slash amateur comedian spends a lot of time with teenagers – communicates in Simpsons quotes and sees toilet wall as platform for positive change.
I have an admiration for anyone who takes the time to write a letter to the editor in God’s pool room. Being a democracy, other users have the right of reply. The silver pen statement ‘LOVE EVERYONE’ was met with: (except you.) The incongruous ‘I am in the ladies’ was backed up with ‘fair plan to u brother.’ While my favourite was ‘playing banjo is the key to happiness all your problems. On the bottom of the toilet door was this quivering sonnet:
‘all I had to do
was hold onto you
when the world spins so fast
and our grips cannot last
the force that holds us here
finally disappears. Xox’
I felt a pang of sadness, took out my pen to reply, but found that I’d been beaten to the punch.
‘LIFE SUCKS DICKHEAD.’
Sometimes words are enough.
Request new track ‘Northcote (So Hungover) on JJJ’s Super Requests HERE.
Tram Inspector single of the week in Inpress: “….The Bedroom Philosopher’s hysterical skewering of meat-headed ticketing inspectors falls somewhere between a Fame-era Bowie slink and inspirational Hunners balladry. I like my musical comedy to, as the name suggests, be musically captivating first, funny second. Luckily, with Tram Inspector, both come equal first.” Clem Bastow, December 16 2009.
Tram Inspector is now available on iTunes HERE
• Songs From The 86 Tram is finished and sounding a million dollars. I’ve fast tracked the first cut ‘Tram Inspector’ on Myspace. The plan is to a) wander around a bit b) send it off to record industry types c) leave a pile of copies on the tram like the hardware version of file sharing d) release by March. I shall be reprising the show at next year’s comedy festival.
• I appear as John Safran’s re-enactments on his new show. It was filmed during two weeks in June. The segments demonstrate my ability to act, beginning in Year 12 when I won the theatre award, continued during uni student plays and then left by the wayside for ten years unless you count Bedroom Philosopher as a kind of character which he/she is. The biggest acting challenge was wearing jeans for the first time and driving, (while in jeans!) Spare a thought for my Mum and Nan who tuned in to see my television debut only to find me blowing my brains out. I’m currently pitching concepts to ABC for my own show where I re-enact the awkward moments from celebrity’s lives.
• I’m growing. This year I went to an accountant for the first time and I think I’ve become vegetarian. The latter is a trend I’ve been steering towards over the last year, eating less and less meat, even though I love it. The decision is more health than political and I’ve tried to offset my stressful lifestyle by eating as many vegetables as I can. You get iron from nuts and I’m keeping fish, everything’s cool. (Since writing this I’ve passed out several times and gone back to meat.)
• I am living in my fourth sharehouse in under two years and once again experiencing difficulties. This time it’s based on the piercing train crossing alarm right outside my window. If anyone has any tipoffs for affordable solo living in Melbourne I think it might be time to get a bit Salad Fingers.
• Me and my 70’s tie collection will be featured on ABC’s collectors early next year
• Thanks to everyone who came to the Melbourne Toff residency. Happy two thousand and zen. Lime Champions will resume on February 1.
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LapTopping – The Bit Long, Official E-zine of The Bedroom Philosopher
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ISSUE 74
Monday November 30, 2009
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LT BIRTHDAYS
Happy Birthday Garry Shandling 60 yesterday!
Happy Birthday Ben Stiller 44 today!
Happy Birthday Billy Idol 54 today!
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AUSTRALIAN TOWN NAMES AND MEANINGS
Coolamon – Traditional term of approval used in reggae.
Grong Grong – A caveman’s telephone ringing.
Tongaboo – Surprising someone at a barbecue.
Koonoomoo – Trying to soothe a new-born calf.
Boggabilla – A traditional place to play Boggle.
Lavington – Decorating a toilet seat with desiccated coconut.
Thurgoona – Drinking cheap wine on a Thursday.
Gleniffer – The female form of ‘Glen.’
Moolort – A special wine for cows.
Wareek – The shock of seeing Warwick Capper.
Dooboobetic – Someone who is allergic to the Doobie Brothers.
Terrappee – Using an outside toilet at night.
Catumnal – An almanac published by cats every year.
Tittybong – Couldn’t think of one.
Bald Knob – Couldn’t think of one.
Diddillibah – The disappointment of only getting a funsize Mars bar.
Tinbeerwah – The disappointment of only getting canned beer.
Chatsworth – The measurement of a good conversation.
Mooloo – Couldn’t think of one.
Boyerine – A dairy spread marketed at men.
Daliak – A dalek programmed to understand the paintings of Salvador Dali.
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TINY LEGENDS – Moments that fell down the back of the couch.
From Stephen Ives, Melbourne.
“This happened at the Vic Markets on one of the rainy days last week. One of our crew came back from a toilet brake laughing his arse off, he had just witnessed a young Chinese man holding his toy poodle upside down under the automatic hand dryer drying its feet.”
EMAIL US YOUR TINY LEGENDS.
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INANIMATE OBJECT BEREAVEMENT NOTICES
******
DEAD
******
From Alice Gage, Sydney.
“My pain is very fresh, and I thought I’d write to you to help me on the road to healing. Thank you for creating this platform for people to express their grief – it mean so much.
Why didn’t I take that bus? Why did I have to try the breakfasts at that new cafe? Why did I drink so much soy latte that I needed to do a poo? And why didn’t I hold it? These were the questions running through my mind as I watched my iPod slowly drown on the inside, after dropping it in the cafe toilet (post-flush FYI). Despite the fear of faeces particles that weren’t my own, I got in there quick as lightning and pulled my iPod out. First it seemed to have survived. Then the water leaked inside the screen. I furiously tried to dry it but it was no good – by that point, it was already gone. So, no more tunes on the train, no more bopping on the bus. No more arrogantly changing the music at friends’ parties when I don’t like their playlists. Rest in peace, Serial no.: 9E852010V9K. I know I won’t, because now I can’t listen to my relaxation podcasts.”
20/05/09 – RIP white iPod 5th Generation
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WE PRAY FOR THEIR RECALIBRATION
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SEND YOUR BEREAVEMENT NOTICES TO laptopping @ bedroomphilosopher . com
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GET A WRIGGLE ON GOOGLET!
Phrases people have typed into Google to land on my website:
“the bedroom phelosophier”
“worm boy hey hey its saturday video from 1994”
“north fitzroy pretentious”
“financial planning comedy songs”
“where do i kiss my bride first on bedroom?”
“does uppercase xxx mean more than lower case xxx”
“harry noblets wallpaper shop”
“cheese feeding budgies”
“xavier rudd ear plugs”
“poems about 1080 poisoning”
“bunyips childrens band coffs harbour”
“perth vegan jarrod”
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TIME IS CHEESE AND MOUSE IS HUNGRY!
Greatest YouTube ever? (courtesy of Tony Martin)
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STORYTIME
BROWN & ORANGE TOUR DIARY
Tuesday June 30. Melbourne – Sydney.
Mad Dog, Hitz and I set off on the twelve hour drive to Sydney. Mad Dog dropped an early gem by referring to KFC as ‘Dirty Bird.’ I realised I was going to run out of songs to program after one and a half Beck albums.
OP SHOPPING BONUS ROUND: In a country town an hour out of Melbs I picked up a mint condition black velvet suit jacket made in England for five bucks! Easily my greatest score in five years. Mad Dog began the adventure of finding vegetarian food in the country.
TYPICAL CONVERSATION:
MD: What’s in the vegetarian quiche?
Shopkeep: Ham.
Arrived in Sydney that night. Stayed at a mate of Hitz’ place in Bondi. The next day we had a wonderful swim and I couldn’t be cynical about Bondi at all – 23 degrees in the middle of winter. Plus we ate at a nice cafe Jed’s and had Jamaican Porridge. Here we began our tour trend of baffling waitstaff with our colossal indecision and ridiculous questions. “Are the napkins organic?” While we are actually a dangerously polite band of cardigan wearing vego’s, passive aggressively we can fairly trash the place.
Wednesday July 1. Sydney. Bar Me.
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE YOUR OWN TOUR MANAGER: There I am, having the discussion about band meals with the barman. He says we can have a free meal off the $10 board. An hour later he says “I spoke to our manager and he’s veto’d it.” This put me in a massive grump for the rest of the night. I ate my Irish Stew a bit quickly and scolded my mouth.
FUNNY GIG MOMENT: Flutes Magee wandered off stage and came back with the door money, which he’d been given by the door guy getting bored. Flutes handed it to me halfway through a song, as if no other opportunity would present itself.
SOUND GUY: Was great. A sound guy can make or break a night. (That and whether you have to pay for your own soft drink. Here and the Espy…YES). When it’s going well the soundguy is a) into you. b) lets you play your own pre-show music. c) doesn’t say things like ‘Can’t polish a turd’ when you ask for more fold back. When it’s going bad the soundguy is a) a bitter husk of a failed muso glaring at you through butted out eyes.
Thursday July 2. Canberra. ANU.
SANDWICH ADVENTURE
I’d bought a ham and salad roll, but then upgraded my lunch option further up the highway. Two days later it was found hot and steamy in the glove box. We pulled up to a rest stop with a public toilet but no bin. I contemplated hurling it somewhere, but knew that wasn’t my scene, so I decided to put the roll on the roof of the car and not tell anyone and hope it would magically take care of itself. As the car pulled away I noticed a grey haired man suddenly tearing out of the toilets, mouthing something while pointing to the roof of the car. In a chase sequence not unlike Terminator Two, as we continued to crawl away he easily caught up with the vehicle, and handed the sandwich back to me, for which I acted grateful in an AFI winning performance.
DETAILED CANBERRA REPORT TAKEN FROM BMA COLUMN:
The rock and roll circus that was The Bedroom Philosopher tour rolled into Canberra. (More of a Cirque Du Soleil type circus…costumes and pretention). Our party of seven, split into two cars went screaming up Northborne avenue doing at least 70kmh, The Beatles at a sensible volume and my arm holding an empty coffee cup daringly out the window. Nothing we could do could compare to the rebellion of ABC 666. Satan in slacks.
Seeing Canberra for the first time in a while reminded me how squares and circles it is. I went on a rant pretending I was Walter Burley Griffin, it involved a bad European accent and ‘my father was a box maker and I’ve always loved boxes. I also had a spirograph. I wanted Canberra to have a roundabout on every corner, like cement connect four.’
Canberra responded to my humour icily. It was seven degrees and raining when we hit Civic. We checked into the YHA. There was seven of us in an eight room dorm, so we were awkward about a blind date with our extra friend. He turned out to be a meat and potato Irish backpacker airing off his feet, telling us he ‘moight come dern to the univoisitay laytor.’
‘Look for the balls!’ I screamed to the driver as we winded about the back road labyrinth of the ANU. Sure enough, the big cement balls of the ANU bar appeared. Inside, the atmos was pumping. Fluro lights. The patter of evening rain. Three tired students and a Tooheys New keg change. I activated my expectation lowering and nervous energy dispersing subroutines. I reminded everyone that Kurt Cobain had played on this stage, and how people bashed down the doors to see Nirvana. I had visions of a similar event tonight, with people trying to stop me playing I’m So Post Modern.
Post gig we went back to the YHA to drop off stuff and make our beds. I sat, perplexed, staring into space with a fitted sheet half on. My band asked me what was wrong. ‘It’s so boring.’ I replied. We strolled next door into the defunct funk of Transit to get loose. I sat on a stool with Josh Earl and we did our ‘everyone’s nineteen and we’re sitting on stools watching people dance lucky we know we’re cool or we’d be a bit shit’ act. I was feeling a bit restless so I wandered over to play pool. Some dudes already had a coin down and told me so casually. I came back at them with total aggression. I hadn’t drank or smoked for a few days, self enforced mood diet, and I was uptight and ready to go these guys. Some cute first year philosophy girls bailed me up in the corner to tell me that I wasn’t actually a philosopher. I argued that I knew who Socrates was and had read some Alain De Boton but they just laughed. They said some stuff and asked me if I preferred red or white onion and it was probably flirting but then I got tired and left. Michael Jackson came on and I did a tribute shimmy.
Back at the YHA we went up to the games room where some supremely dull tourists were watching the tennis. We whispered discreetly and they glared at us with melancholic hatred. On my way to bed I culture jammed the chalkboard so that ‘Monday: Aussie movies’ said ‘Monday: Ass movies.’ Still got it.
DID YOU KNOW? That while on tour I discovered a new diet of not drinking any sugary drinks or smoking before I got on stage. It made me have a more constant level of energy and not be so frantic.
THE NEXT MORNING: I ordered the pancakes but wished I’d got the omelette. (Who wants to buy the screen rights?)
CAR TETRIS
Jesus wept did we have some trouble packing the two cars. Drumkit, percussion, two amps, sitar, four guitars, merch, bags, fifteen harry potter books, four kilos of sour worms. Suavey was the packing master, but it was dense man, real dense, we needed one of those space saving vacuum seal bags that Nan gives me at Christmas.
FAQ
Q. What was it like having best friend Josh Earl on board?
A. Good thanks. He quickly bonded with the band and did a fantastic job opening. For example, in Canberra he coaxed everyone to the front of the stage, warding off my number one enemy ‘dance floor gap.’ One thing about comedy is it gives you great interpersonal skills with your audience which can really help awkward music venue dynamics. What is WITH audiences watching the support act as far away from the stage as possible? A few people were in their cars watching through binoculars. How did we become so self conscious? I blame the church.
GIG ROCKOUT MOMENT: During ‘Cmon x 5′ I crawled underneath the stage and refused to come out for a while. Some people left and I used my telemarketing technique of conducting an on the spot survey, finding out why they were leaving and did they enjoy the gig. These people ‘had to catch a train’ which is crowd speak for ‘you’re a precocious off-key buffoon.’
WHAT ABOUT FLUTES MAGEE? TELL ME MORE ABOUT HIS ANTICS:
Pre-show some casual girl students asked Flutes about the gig and he went bananas. He said if he span around on one foot while playing flute they would have to come to the gig. The girls accepted the offer and Flutes went pear shaped. I looked up from changing strings to see a lean, moustached, curly haired boy in a jumper leaping wildly about while playing a maddening tableaux of impossibly high woodwind super crotchets. In perfect Canberra uni student form the girls didn’t seem to notice or care.
FLUTES MUSICAL SCREEN SAVER: There was a great trick, if you left Flutes standing still for long enough he’d start playing the James Bond theme.
HOW TO WIN OVER POTENTIALLY SURLY SOUNDIES: Have a sitar in the band.
Friday July 3. Newcastle. The Lass’O'Gowrie Hotel.
The Lass’O'Gowrie is the kind of unpretentious boho sanctum where they have a series of coins lining the bar mantelpiece so if you’re a little bit short of change you can buy yourself a beer. This was a welcome shot of Melbournesque goodwill. I was in a bad mood for various reasons. I wanted to buy the band dinner. I was trying to pay for as many things as I could with my extremely well timed TV money. (I’d been cut off from Centrelink that day.) Tonight there was no door charge and people weren’t there to see us so Josh was the hardest working man in gentle whimsy comedy pop.
OBSCURE CROWD MOMENT: A guy told Josh he’d been ‘powned’ but refused to clarify.
FIRST THING THE SOUNDIE SAID TO US: “I’ve got a blockage in one ear.”
THAT NIGHT: We stayed in an abandoned bowls club turned communal living arrangement between the Newie hip-gyps and indie-ferals. While it was good for the Kerouac page in our bio’s in reality it meant spooning your gurgly band brethren in a damp partitioned costume room with manikin heads peering down on you while a baby screamed for most of the night in the next room. The next day we played a rigorous game of soccer on the bowling green and bought some serious fruit and veg.
Saturday July 4. Byron Bay. Rest Day.
HOW HELPFUL WERE IPHONES IN ALL THIS: Two words, Google Maps. Flutes earned himself the ultimate Australian compliment, the ‘double nickname’ – that’s right, a nickname on top of a nickname by becoming ‘Maps Magee.’ Infact, like the x-men, we all had our areas of speciality:
Gordon “Suavey Shankar” Blake: Packing and energy. He’d be the one up at six to have a surf. We basked in his limitless enthusiasm for madcappery. He and Flutes were the only ones holding up the ‘rock pig’ flag. While the rest of us were all hommus and flossing, he was busting out the tequila for ‘business breakfasts.’
Andy “Nature Boy” Hazel: His studious dedication to reading all of Mad Dog’s copy of the final Harry Potter provided a calming presence, like watching someone rake a zen garden. Also: Snack monitor. His Naturopathy skills ensured a steady flow of fruit and nuts to counteract our sudden obsession with sour worms. (Poor Naturopathy, even spellcheck won’t recognise it.)
Jamie “Hitz Rodriguez” Power: Hitz was great for band spiritual morale, being road captain, and using his years of Yoga instructing and band touring knowledge to keep our physical well being in check. Ie have a stretch and lay off the sausage rolls. He also acted as dietician, working hard to keep me off the sugar to improve my mood. We were also able to learn about his dark past as a mask wearing double kick drummer in a Kiwi thrash metal band.
Hugh “Mad Dog” Rabinovici: First Lieutenant of the hire car and Faff Monitor. Early on in the piece Hugh identified the bands incredible propensity to faff about. From standing around an unpacked car cracking gags to chatting to the sound guy about who supported the Stones in the 70’s. In his most polite after school care tone Mad Dog could be seen clapping hands and starting sentences with ‘all right lads…’
Michael “Flutes Magee” O’Connor: Iphone Map Specialist and ’special features’ back seat driver. Flutes earned a third nickname, ‘Special Features’ after it was revealed that he would not only tell you about the state of the intersection coming up, but also tell you the cultural history of the highway you were travelling on, when it was built, planned developments and a bibliography. It was all on when Hitz was driving and Flutes was giving him directions such as “the road will veer left here, turn your steering wheel left and the car will stay on the road. Here are some traffic lights, if they are red then you must brake.” Hitz had to salute a lot of suns that day.
Josh “Josh” Earl: Car DJ chieftain. Josh supplied a steady stream of Ryan Adams and bands from New York I’ve never heard of. Not to mention his stoic, upbeat demeanour – a priceless tool. (the demeanour, not him). He also provided an indie nemisis for Nature Boy, the pair constantly trying to out-underground each other.
The drive to Byron included our first annual ‘Rudeo’ This was an internal car holiday giving us license to be rude high school boy style. It was like an episode of Are You Being Served in there. I even followed Josh’s many taunts and bought a dirty magazine from a servo. It was violently disappointing. In a testament to our sensitive Melbourne boy posterior we criticised the state of the journalism and weren’t being ironic. On our way we called into Coffs Harbour and had deliciously fatty fish and chips while sitting on the jetty rocks, yelling at the sea. Afterwards, we bought ice creams and while handing one to Hitz, Nature Boy squeezed too hard and the cone broke. After a long day of Sydney detours and getting lost, Hitz snapped with a tirade of swearing. On tour, it’s the little things that break you.
BYRON: Dudes with their tops off. We escaped Saturday night by watching ‘The Hangover’ and it was ok. The next morning I was cross at the cafe for having fine print which read ‘extra 15% surcharge on weekends.’ I started to feel like a character out of Seinfeld.
SO WHAT DID SUAVEY, MAD DOG, AND FLUTES GET UP TO SATURDAY NIGHT?:
You know the saying, what happens on tour, gets edited in the tour diary based on space restrictions.
Sunday July 5. Brisbane. The Troubadour.
By day five your eyes are maxed out on countryside, silly town names and bemusing business titles like ‘Big Dad’s Pies,’ and ‘Swaggers Motor Inn.’ We played a few driving games. You say a band name like ‘Skunk Anansie’ and the next person must say one starting with the last letter of the last one. (If it’s a double letter, like Supergrass then you change direction). You get three strikes. Nature Boy narrowly beat me. We were rewarded for our last gig of the run with three flights of stairs to load in to the venue. I had foolishly booked a side solo comedy gig for Josh and I at the Brisbane Powerhouse, so was unable to do a sound check. I felt all lame-o so scurried off to find a falafel and jump in a cab for some a-grade ‘tour downtime.’
TOUR DOWNTIME:
It’s not all coke and hookers. In fact, it’s not even coopers green and groupies. It’s more like warm fruit juice and staring at a woman getting in her car at the servo. Tour Downtime is a common factor of touring. With seven grown men in such close proximity, one needs to respect the space and the quest for private time. For me, it was like taking all the best bits of school camps, and applying it to an adult setting. Little things, like a gentle rub on the back as you stared off into space, or an offering of almonds was the closest I’ll feel to having a brother. We noted how unusual it was to have so much exposure to man energy. I myself rarely congregate in groups of men. This felt fun and uncomplicated, like a good relationship.
TOUR UPTIME:
When you’re rocking the bananas out of some prog-novelty folk-rock with your band in hot form and the attentive Brisbane audience in rapturous cheers well, you are in the eye of the bejewelled chrysalis of your creatively climactic youth, aren’t you? You’re validated to the heavens and flying high on mirth and faith and syncopated idea smashing where the hammer of industry fitness reigns down on the flint of a rock hard lifetime’s worth of joys and disasters, sending glistening soul sweat and laser words splicing the silence – the moodquake vibrato of skins slammed and strings ploughed raining a kaleidoscope of idea melodies down on the audience like audio Braille.
BEST AFTER GIG FAN: I adore people coming up afterwards to thank me. Sometimes you get a bit of ‘you probably get this all the time’ or ‘I’m going to sound wanky but…’ but the truth is you can never get enough compliments. An interesting trend with comedy is you get a lot of couples, and often I get couples where the girl has something to say and the boy hovers somewhat protectively in the background. I find this gesture romantic and quite sensible because despite what you might think I am a complete hound and will bed your girlfriend in the time it takes you to buy me a beer. We won’t do anything of course, we’ll just be in bed and I’ll say I’m tired and she’ll huffily read the time travellers wife.
One girl, ‘Dawn’ came up.
Me: Dawn’s a lovely name.
Dawn: Can I tell you a weird story?
Me: Yes.
Dawn: The other day at Boost Juice they asked for my name and I told them and then later when they called out my name they called me ‘Bort.’
LAST NIGHT OF TOUR, TALK US THROUGH THE NO DOUBT CRAZY HIJINKS AND ARRESTS / TATTOOS / UNPLANNED PREGNANCIES AND ILLICIT SUBSTANCE TRAFFICKING. SERIOUSLY HOW NUDE WERE YOU AND HOW MANY HELICOPTERS DID YOU FLY INTO THE CASINO?
We stayed at Hitz’ friends parents house. We found to our bemusement that they’d locked their bedroom doors so we had to spoon in single beds. It was 12 degrees and we only had one bar heater to warm the whole house. We had a beer and some doritos and played half of Odelay on a small stereo and went to bed.
HOMEWARD BOUND (Cue the song in your head and imagine from now on that we are also dogs)
The group split up, not in a ‘I can’t stand the infuriating drone of your voice for one more second, I’m off to pursue a solo project which no matter how much work I put in fans will never embrace’ kind of way. I mean more like the Starship Enterprise can split into two groups. Mad Dog and I set off for a two day, 2000km drive from Brisbane to Melbourne. (Note my skills, the way I phrase things makes it sound like I might have actually done some driving and not just slouched sheepishly cuing Roots CD’s and offering water.) On the way we encountered Goondiwindi, which gets my award for most depressed country town. Lowlights included our daily scrounge for vegetarian fare which ended in an aggressive stand off with a bakery woman who said ‘whatevers in the warmer’ which consisted of eight near empty bay marie trays with a frizzled egg and some grated carrot. I was dressed in black velvet jacket, shorts and blonde birds nest hair and felt intensely self conscious. The overweight women behind the counter smirked amongst themselves in a way that took me back to high school. I’d forgotten in all my Gen-Y super freelance arty fartiness that meanwhile middle Australia was serving pies to truckies and frowning whenever uptight city prix blew in. As I stood in the local target fingering a $32 Pearl Jam best of, while a tubular kid snarled at his rotund mother about which x-box game he wanted, smelling the stale afternoon air and chemically cleaned carpet, I felt a great sadness, quickly anaesthetised with a healthy shot of self-satisfied adrenalin. I was doing well and had the option of getting in a car and getting the hell back to my home. I’d worked hard and I deserved to feel grateful.
Vegie pocket crumbs dropped on the boot tramped girlie magazine, as my feet sent a ten pin of empty water bottles spiralling in all directions. I put on Fourtet, the minimalist beat matching the white stripes of the road, and sank back in my seat as the burnt orange sun sank behind some fat macrocarpas, Mad Dog set the car in cruise and tapped a jazz signature on the steering wheel. We counted down the k’s and spliced through the haze.
ALWAYS THE SOUND: Of an engine.
TOUR RATING: #1 baby.
HEY AWKWARDSTRA: Thanks, I love you.
THE END
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LAYTOPING IS MISPELLED, AND FREE! WHAT A GREAT GIFT IDEA, AND IT’LL CUT YOUR ENERGY BILLS IN HALF! SEND IT TO A FRIEND!
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NOTICE AND DISCLAIMER:
May you always feast liberally from your cosmic platter of creative inklings.
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Press stud check shirts and three piece flared suits
Art Deco prints and mod Beatle boots
vintage scrabble with no pieces missing
a few of my favourite second hand things.
Ah yes, like Scrooge McDuck used to flap wildly about in his columns of cash, the modern young thing can interpretive dance around shelves of perishable trinkets and wardrobes laden with long-lost fabrics, basking in the wealth of yesteryear. Boy/Girl, do we love vintage! If we had it our way, the whole world would be one big ‘the 60’s.’ Psychedelic pop art, milk in bottles, mint condition Stones records and no-one would have to go to work. We’d be too busy running barefoot through the sun drenched grass, on our way to the Sunbury markets.
For me, like many, a relationship with retro began as a child. Stomping about on orange and cream carpets, fighting with crochet pillows, being scolded for getting too close to the Royal Doulton tea sets – soothed by the bottle green pleats of Nan’s polyester skirt. Second hand stores existed within our first hand homes. Who hasn’t looked through the square window of childhood photos and seen a vintage catalogue. Your two toned blue Hawaiian t shirt, your Mum’s maroon cardigan, the yellow and chestnut diamond curtains – you’d happily buy it all. We learned to associate the bright woollens and warm vinyls of the past with a safe, adoring environment.
After rinsing away the brainwash of high school, we strolled independent through the bell-tripped opportunity doors. Baskets and racks, tables and shelves lay brimming like twenty cent smorgasbords. A museum of manufacturing seen through a Kodachrome kaleidoscope. If there are super foods then surely these were super things! Collectibles you could wear. Secrets you could sift. Modern antiques you could pick up and play. Treasure hunts, dress ups, shopping and charity all wrapped up in one glorious ball of wool. In a corruptible world, op shopping was our ideal private universe.
Ten years on and corruption has crept in like mildew. What was once an innocent love affair has been exploited into a vintage ‘industry.’ We are mere consumer demographic for big city boutiques; A-grade hoarders glued to E-Bay like arty pokie victims. Ironically, at a time when quality retro is supposed to be running out, we are granny blanketed with prize finds that have had the ‘treasure’ sucked off them like chocolate and the price tags privatised. Second hand has been sanitised for the mainstream. Like meat was once hunted and vegetables were grown, vintage was once ‘found.’ Now, it comes marked up and mark free.
Last year, in an attempt to keep up with this acceleration, my op shopping became more aggressive. I bled my internet trigger finger until my post box was choked with the 70’s ties I collect. I patrolled the inner-city circuit, budget blind and paying up to $20 dollars a piece. I chatted up store assistants and asked to look through the boxes out the back – on my hands and knees, rummaging through the retro rainbow, forever out of reach and drawing me forth. I was trying to collect an unlimited set. With the sense of discovery and bargain aspect gone, what was left? This was no casual afternoon browse, this was calculated retail therapy. I had mutated my hobby into a necessity, a distraction, a competition, an emotional drug. I was trying to buy my way back to better times. I was just another consumer filling a void. I had out retro’d myself.
With the commercialisation of vintage, it’s easy to lose sight of the wide-eyed wonder that drew us to it in the first place. I’ve recovered from my blow out, learning to put the mod in moderation. It helps to venture out to the country, where many op shops still remain untouched. They remind us that second hand cannot be measured in monetary wealth, but in that childlike elation where one’s trash becomes your treasure. The surprise hug from the past, somehow meant just for you.
They say humans spend a third of their lifetime sleeping. Of that time, I spend a third lying in bed swearing, a third sitting in the kitchen eating ham and a third rolling around in a half-awake dream state with the devil playing Pictionary. Rock and roll brain, you god forsaken sponge! Where did it all go wrong? Insomnia. Discusszzzzzzzzzzz.
I’ve always had an overactive imagination, and can’t remember a time when I didn’t spend at least half an hour hurtling through wormholes down the rabbit hole of my mindioli. Through childhood, this tended to be an exciting time, like a fairground for the subconscious. I’d lie there staring up at my glow in the dark stickers (the universe was blurry with my glasses off), enjoying the weight of a balled up cat on my feet, kaleidascoping friends faces with storybook scenery and a pencil case of colour. Teenagedom was reserved for a tour de farce of sexual fantasies and idea fireworks for stunts I could pull at school. With the 4/4 chug of my heart in my ears, a sound I’ve never been too comfortable with, I allowed my engine to power down, safe in the knowledge that I’d always manage to drift off.
As an adult something changed. Dark emotions weaved in like Pacman’s ghosts and screwed with the controls. My single mattress was adrift in space, galaxy’s outside my comfort zone. I was living in a Sydney sharehouse, directly next to a train line and under a flight path. One day a train and plane went by at the same time and the phone rang and I screamed. For weeks on end I’d still be awake at four am. I’d just left the warm arms of a long term relationship and was now tossing and turning like a rotisserie man-chicken – playing one man twister where every colour is BLACK! I drew the viscous circle of not sleeping and then worrying about not sleeping. My sticker-stars were replaced by the corrupt glow of the Internet, the only weight on my feet was unsorted washing.
They say the first thing you should do when you can’t sleep is get up. (James Brown often sang about this). My testament to this theory is a cache of virus ridden computers, a discography of ‘poor man’s Beck’ acoustic demo’s, half arsed attempts at Peter Carey novels and the kinds of snacks that would get you kicked off a cooking show. After alphabetising my medication, I’d return to my usual program of: whywouldshesayathinglikethat!maroon prism dissipates into yellow jelly bean! mustpaymobilebillcanborrowoffmum!sadlovelybushwalkmemorytreees!halfabuildingcrashedontogumboot!beatlesmelodylionsfacewaterslidebreasts! swimming in surf club burnt my steak beer with katrina tomorrow volcanic double faced clown crayon butterscotch scottishcloud stained glass whistling sandra sully! still not fucking asleep! 4:39! Tomorrows centrelinkkkk be at gig at 6sleep till 12no11no12okay1130 yes! No! don’t sleepin, mustsend email tofestivalbluepolesturningintohexagonflipsmeltsmillionsdarkness! can you have two wanks in a night?
The next day I’d awake like a smashed ant and try to conjure Edward Norton from Fight Club. At least he made walking around like a zombie look cool. (Scratch the blowing up credit card companies shtick…although…centrelink…*mumbles to self*)
Today, things are a bit better, and I’ve grown more confident in my ability to adapt. I’m tired of running at half capacity. I’m trying to funnel the fallout into a routine of exercise and early mornings. There are other practical things like no caffeine after four, getting up at the same time each day, and no Lolcats before bed. (SAD FACE). Others have suggested warm milk, BBC World Service and masturbation (all at once). I feel like there’s a world of meditation out there I’m yet to explore, and I think of my mind as a startled stallion that can be handled and tamed. Oh for rain on the roof, freshly washed sheets and snuggling deep under the covers. Oh for drifting into a beautiful dream where you’re flying high above the navy ocean, skimming the sunset clouds.
This is how it goes:
Me: I’ve never been overseas.
Person: What!?
Me: Yep.
Person: But you’re from Tasmania.
(Person laughs for 18 minutes).
Me: True. I guess I have then.
(Person continues anecdote of how they caught a train from Paris to Berlin and then ended up in Amsterdam and fell in love with a New York girl who they lived with for a while before moving to London via Tokyo.)
Me: I’ve been to Broome.
You’ve heard of the 40 year old virgin, now meet the 29 year old travelling virgin – oft attracting the same kind of playful derision from friends and colleagues that Steve Corell’s character does. Like him I am equally sheepish yet matter of fact about it. It just never happened, and now I’ve left it for so long that it’s become too bigger deal. I’ve missed the Contiki boat. Just as Steve’s friends assure him it’s not too late and start an intervention, I want someone to get me drunk and set me up with Thailand.
Travelling’s that thing that everyone does where they escape their life to feel the most like themselves and become more interesting with stories you can’t relate to. Travelling is an opportunity for people to come back to Australia and strut around like explorers with their Spanish fighting sticks, London hangovers, Vietnemese snake wines and American gusto. They can waltz around their home ‘village’ safe in the knowledge they’ve seen outside the square and have an unbreakable bond with the rest of the world forged through a quickie in a Bolivian backpackers.
I was raised with the philosophy of ‘we have no money,’ and jet setted around Tasmania in a caravan. I loved every minute of it, but didn’t think outside the triangle. As an adult, all my money was spent keeping my artistic ball in the air. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was work to be done here before running off to Scotland to crack a fat over architecture. As a comedian I was blasted with orders to go to Edinburgh Fringe and do a show, only to watch colleagues return, screaming about what a great experience it was, only to break down a month later with $10, 000 credit card debts. C’mon, I can lose that kind of money here.
When you’ve never been outside Australia, you spend most of your energy convincing yourself you haven’t made a huge mistake with your life. Here goes – part of me wants to wait until I pass the black belt of my personality so I can get better value for money – like rereading your favourite book and getting more out of it. I get my adrenalin rush from performing; I’m proving myself all the time; Touring Australia gives me an enormous sense of satisfaction and perspective, cruising through airports with loner superiority; I meet plenty of foreigners after gigs – at least one!
Me: New York seems amazing. From what I could tell from The Ninja Turtles Movie it has a lot of interesting characters.
Person: Where will you travel to first?
Me: (Thinks for 18 minutes) Uh, New…
Person: York?
Me: Zealand.
I think I’m going to break the ice with India. The sitar is my favourite instrument, Indian is my favourite food, I think Indian women are the most beautiful and apparently Bombay is stuck in the 70’s and you can get cheap custom made flares. I figure if i’ve left it this late, the only way in is the deep end. A massive dose of food poisoning, brutal scenes of poverty and a complete culture shock will shake me loose of this tiring precociousness. I can finally join the ranks of real adult mavericks who have taken the plunge, delving through the worlds chapters with glee – from the apple isle to the big apple!
ALTERNATE ENDINGS
Person: Where should I go in Tasmania?
Me: The airport.
Alcohol is pure sex. Frosted white wine splashing between your lips. A smooth green bottle, snug in your dancing hand. The spitfire sweet of a straw sucked liqueur. The luscious punch of ice shrapnel between teeth, a slush of lemon and gin anointing your smoky throat. Alcohol lubricates your gasping mind. Oils your dancing bones. Fuels your childlike craziness. Alcohol is the slinky DJ at the decks of your brain, fading your inner monologue and amping up the joy. Alcohol is your dear, dear friend. Wild and reliable. The champagne spray that christened your adulthood will also toast your passing.
As a teenager it was like cordial 2.0. This thing called beer that came in smooth blue cylinders. Charisma in a can! Like Popeye I could crack the top open and swallow one whole. As I opened my eyes the grimy rumpus room became disco spectacular. Faces seemed friendly, my jokes were ripe and my head filled with shampoo scents and creamy skin. With my fuzzy meters maxed out I could allow my curious hands to creep under tops and find soft beating chests. Childhood was gone and with this grown-ups drink in me I had found my footing.
By University my friends and I were worshipping alcohol weekly. We’d drain the glass batons and erect a shrine on the coffee table, lighting the cigarette lamps. If there was an art to this miracle drink we wanted to perfect it. With the upchuck of high school behind us, we synchronised our intoxication, erupting into pokie room dance routines, psychedelic singalongs and uncommissioned public transport pantomimes. Alcohol gave us giddy-sweet paper wings to fly high above society.
Hangovers happened. I’d awake with a gum sealed face and a vacuum cleaner emptied out on my head. But with a girlfriend to snuggle and a high-fivin’ greasy breakfast with friends it could be laughed off with the bravado of a scun knee from a bike trick. After a shower and video i’d be back on my feet, licking a bourbon to take the edge off. This was a time when my footprints were still on the edge of introspection.
Alcohol started running out of tricks in my mid-twenties. With the bubble of uni burst I was flat broke in big cities. I had my first time getting drunk by myself. On a Saturday night I flicked through photos while red wine sat by my side and watched me like a cat. Alcohol wasn’t lifting me up but had its arm around me. With my performer friends we’d still drink like professionals and laugh jaded at the sunrise, but some ingredient was missing. In 2004 my Uncle was struck and killed by a train. Booze had been his second skin, and he’d been overflowing with it when he’d passed out on the tracks. Novelty smashed like a bottle in the night.
Humans are strange really. We use stimulants to relax and depressants to have a good time. I’ve watched alcohol rust away the goodness in those I love. I’ve seen my family ride it like cowboys and tumble into darkness, only to have no memory the next morning. In a year when I’ve been at my happiest and saddest I can no longer take it for granted. It’s a drug with side-effects that I take to feel better about myself. So many nights I feel like I’m going through the same slow motions. I don’t get the rush I used to while the hangovers grow more unbearable. What used to be a headache is now an emotional shit-storm that opens the doors to my sadness I’ve worked so hard to close. It poisons my sleeping and takes Viking swings at my bank account. The world’s standard issue social elixir is failing me. I don’t know how many chances I can keep giving it or how many it deserves.
December Residency @ Toff In Town, Tuesdays in December.
See poser, I mean poster:
NEWS
• The Melbourne Fringe run of ‘86 Tram’ was sweet. Yarra Trams even came along for the first time. Three of their representatives came up afterwards and gave me a ‘I heart my tram’ badge. I think that’s good.
• I have spent the last month recording the ‘Songs From The 86 Tram’ album. It will be produced by Chris Scallan (has mixed Avalanches and Akon) *justin picks names up off ground* who finished off Brown & Orange. Six of the songs will feature The Awkwardstra in full swing, except Flutes McGee who is in Bulgaria. It’s officially sounding great and will surface early next year. By the way, if anyone has $15k and a loaded mobile can we get some face time?
• ‘Lime Champions’ continues to kick goals. We’re into week 24 and still churning out close to an hour of pure Gen-Y savaging rock ‘n’ droll content. Praise be to co-hosts and writers Damien Lawlor, Josh Earl and ‘ladio’ herself Eva Johansen. Want podcast? CLICK HERE
• I’ve written a few pieces for Tony Martin’s new online column safehouse ‘Scriveners Fancy.’ You can read my bits in the ‘Visiting Scrivener’ section, but you should mainly spend your time improving your life with Tony’s brain certificates. CLICK HERE
• Brown & Orange is well launched! The tour was a success. I spent $6K and made $9.5K and had the best touring experience in years. Thanks to everyone who turned up. Diary to come.
• My arm is healing slowly. I have full functionality but it’s still quite stiff and hurts on certain angles. I’m continuing physio at the Royal Melbourne Hospital, who are surprised that it’s taking this long. If anyone has some tips on rehabilitating a fractured greater tuberosity of the humerus, I’m all arms.
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LapTopping – The Bit Long, Official E-zine of The Bedroom Philosopher
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ISSUE 73
Wednesday September 30, 2009.
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LT BIRTHDAYS
Happy Birthday Kieran Culkin 27 today!
Happy Birthday Martina Hingis 29 today!
Happy Birthday Fran Drescher 52 today!
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COOL SHOP
Having trouble finding Bedroom Philosopher albums and products? Forget passive aggressive conversations with aloof staff and settling with Motorace, now you can buy direct from The Philosopher himself and keep his fiscal economy thriving.
Items can be posted to you hastily and tastily within days, HAND SIGNED by the relatively well known pro-am social-lite himself! You then do a direct deposit like some whizz-kid.
You can get stuff like:
Brown & Orange
In Bed With My Doona
Limited Edition ‘Lifearooni’ Royal blue Tshirts. (S, M, L, XL) in men’s and ladies sizes.
All $25 inc. postage. Buy multiple items and save on maths!
Lay-by available! Up to 24 cat years. Email now! Our operators are lying down.
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URBAN HEADLINES
SECRET SONG ON END OF CD COULD PROBABLY HAVE BEEN LEFT OFF
MAN FEELS WEIRD AFTER TIPPING AGAINST OWN FOOTBALL TEAM
UNI STUDENT PRETENDS TO UNDERSTAND BOB DYLAN LYRIC
FILM BUFF DISTRACTED BY MARGARET POMERANZ’ SNORT LAUGH
HAIRDRESSER FLIPPANT ABOUT CLIENTS DAY
SPORTS DRINK COULD JUST BE CORDIAL
FASHION MAGAZINE NICE PLACE TO VISIT WOULDN’T WANT TO LIVE THERE
BOY UNABLE TO DATE AFTER REALISING ALL CANDIDATES ARE HIS FRIENDS
GIRL SECRETLY BORED AFTER BAND START TO GET A BIT SAMEY
ARTIST FEELS PATRONISED IN BANK
TWO AND A HALF MEN ON AGAIN
TEENAGER INTIMIDATING
CIGAR BAD IDEA
FRIENDS STORY ABOUT WORK COULD HAVE DONE WITH EDIT
BOY FORCED TO NURSE BACKPACK AFTER JIGGLY BUS TRIP
FACEBOOK BASICALLY A SOCIAL POKER MACHINE
TEXT MESSAGE GRAMMAR SUFFERS
WOMAN CAN’T REMEMBER WHAT SHE DID TWO BIRTHDAYS AGO
OLD HIGH SCHOOL FRIEND PUTS ON WEIGHT
MULTI VITAMIN DOES LITTLE OTHER THAN MAKE WEE BRIGHT YELLOW
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TINY LEGENDS – Moments that fell down the back of the couch.
From Tom.
“I was walking to the toilet at work the other day, and this guy from an office we share the floor with walked past me. He’s a tall, beardy, somewhat gormless kind of guy – very quite and he looks angry most of the time. I’ve never heard him say a word to anyone (not even his colleagues – even though I guess he must) and definitely not me. But as he walked past me, very quietly, just under his breath, he whispered:
“sausage roll”
I still don’t know if he was talking to me or himself. I kind of hoped it was me… we haven’t shared a word since.
EMAIL US YOUR TINY LEGENDS.
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INANIMATE OBJECT BEREAVEMENT NOTICES
******
SICK
******
From Kelly Chandler, Melbourne.
“The Cure ‘Standing On A Beach: The Singles / The Unavailable B-Sides.’ Loaned by Jon Paterson from Donny Hood in year 10 and never returned because got lost in the b-bits while smoking out bedroom window. After constant rotation, discovered today slightly chewed by tape player, still working but wonky. (i) may never recover.”
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WE PRAY FOR THEIR RECALIBRATION
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SEND YOUR BEREAVEMENT NOTICES TO THIS ADDRESS.
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GET A WRIGGLE ON GOOGLET!
Phrases people have typed into Google to land on my website:
“deliberately wacky”
“illegal drag racing tasmania”
“indecent obsession hey hey its saturday”
“bedroom linen associations”
“i forgot my girlfriends name”
“rodney rude asian names”
“where to buy retro australian lollies”
“where can i get harry potter glasses in albury”
“record for continuous swinging”
“drunk stirrup pants”
“hot hipster girls”
“amstrad computer club adelaide”
“justin blasko “
“how to remove ribena carpet”
“why is the coldest place up high if it s closer to the sun”
“i’m so postmodern i got drunk just on the thought of you fell into a coma and couldn’t be revived…”
“where do you buy inner tubes for wheelbarrows parramatta”
“funny bushwalking anecdotes”
“great novels to create a novelty showbag on”
“airwolf wallpaper 4 bedroom”
“blouse for broken arm”
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TIME IS CHEESE AND MOUSE IS HUNGRY!
Last month the one and only Tony Martin (as in the one and only one who’s not the actor one) came on my Triple R Show ‘Lime Champions’ and delivered this now legendary piece of superbole. It is THE BEST.
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A GIGGLE OF GIGS
SYDNEY
The Vanguard, Thursday October 29. Details TBA. This will be a solo headline show.
I shall also be Mcing at the Sydney Comedy Store October 20-31. Tue-Sat. (not the 21st or 29th).
For more info: www.comedystore.com.au/
MELBOURNE: Toff In Town Tuesday residency w/ The Awkwardstra in December.
DARWIN: Never again.
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STORYTIME
(Brought to you by the reverb drenched outfit straight out of Carlton ‘Mercury Fev.’ New single ‘Pressure point’ out yestermorrow.)
(NOTE: A while back I interviewed the inventor of the Golden Gaytime in Adelaide. I wrote up the story for a magazine. They were about to run it when they got in touch with Streets to request some photos. Streets denied all knowledge of this man, and claimed he didn’t invent the ice cream. The magazine decided not to go with the story. What a conspiracy! Is it a case of corporate politics – the big company trying to steal the credit straight out of the little guy’s hand, or did I spend an hour with a man who roams the countryside claiming to have invented everything from vegemite to the spork? You decide.)
Most of us have had a Golden Gaytime moment. You’re at the milk bar, clutching Australia’s most iconic ice cream. The shopkeeper eyeballs you. At the last minute you lose your nerve and end up grabbing milk, bread and a newspaper with the yellow sliver tucked sheepishly underneath. You race out of the shop and down an alley. You rip off the wrapper and bite into the delicious soft combo of toffee and biscuit crumbs, free from retribution. Being a long-term fan of the treat with the timeless design and hilarious name, I once wrote a song about it that got played on the radio. I was contacted by the creator’s ‘people’ saying that he’d like a copy. I obliged, asking in return to interview the mysterious John Milton at his home in Adelaide. In a brilliant twist, the creator of the Golden Gaytime turns out to be the most laid-back Aussie bloke I’ve ever met. With silver hair, stern expression and laconic humour, the man who now runs a car spray-boothing business sits poolside chain smoking and speaking matter of factly about ice cream production.
“Back in the late 60’s they were really experimenting to see what people wanted. The Golden Gaytime was based on an ice cream that was vanilla with a chocolate coating on it. When the ice cream was removed from the mould and still warm we tried to apply the remnants of peanuts left over from Max Noblets (Nobby’s) peanut factory in Adelaide. It used to stick in your teeth so that wasn’t too good. For a fleeting time we started to apply coco pops or rice bubbles. That didn’t work either.”
When John realised that broken biscuit pieces were being thrown out at the factory down the road, he made a connection.
“We supplied a lot of butter oil for their Yo-Yo biscuits. It was a matter of the driver coming back and saying what are they gonna do with all those waste biscuits? So I said ‘let’s take a look at it.’”
The biscuit pieces were then blown onto the warm chocolate giving us the ice cream we know today. In this sense the Golden Gaytime was eco friendly well before its time.
“It was all experimental. We were just fiddling with food. We used to go and play in the laboratories and see what we could mess up next. We had two doctors in there and yeah it was fun. It kept you thinking.”
When I first contacted John, his tone was one of bemusement that the Golden Gaytime could have had such a lasting impact. Throughout the interview he is defiantly modest about his iced legacy.
“The Gaytime just evolved. It wasn’t anything special at the time that you’d beat drums about. It was just another ice cream on another stick. You know, the humdrum of what you do daily it wasn’t anything we thought was gonna save the world, it was just bringing out another line. Understand what the people want and give it to them. We were happy when we produced a line that was successful. You couldn’t sit back there and pamper with your ego, all you did was get on and produce the next line. I don’t think it was so much pride as intrigue. It was only supposed to last three months.”
John informs me that for every Golden Gaytime success story there were another ten ice creams left splattered on the factory floor.
“There’s dozens of them we went through. They brought one out called the aniseed high top. It was a delightful thing to eat but any white clothes it marked so that didn’t last too long. A delightful ice cream we called the south pacific as they’d brought out the movie and everyone was going troppo about it so we brought out this half banana half something else and that failed within three weeks. Our greatest delight was to manufacture dandy cups of ice cream and raisins with a hard dosing of rum. They were pretty well over proof ice cream. They used to have them after the RSL Anzac day marches but unfortunately one year they got mixed up and a lot of them ended up in the Country Women’s Association. They didn’t order them next year.”
While for many of us working in an ice cream factory sounds like a dream job, John speaks of an intense workload. During summer, when production was at its highest, he would sometimes work around the clock, sleeping at the factory. This was on top of the constant pressure to come up with the next ‘hit.’
“When you’ve got to sit down and come up with a new ice cream every three months it’s a bit daunting. We used to go out to the schools and talk to the kids. You’d produce a line, take it out to the primary school, line up all the infants and say ‘well what do you think of that?’ Try and get an opinion out of them. They liked anything free anyway so it was a bit of a lost argument.”
After about a decade, John left the dairy game to work in other areas of food production. While he can still enjoy an ice cream, life has delivered an ironic fate.
“I’m not supposed to have them because I’m diabetic. I still go three or four a week. There’s a wrapper under the front seat of the car I think. I’ve got to hide them from the wife. I bought a Golden Gaytime the other day and they’re pretty thin so they must be making their profit out of it. They used to be a larger wedge, a heavier weight in ice cream, so maybe it’s only half gay.”
John isn’t able to shed much light on how the name came about. He says it was the result of a ‘toss-around’ by the advertising company at the time.
“How it related to ice cream I never knew but it sounded all right at the time. I think the name is the thing that keeps it going. Everybody looks at one now and oh, I don’t know what their movements are but there’s nothing gay about the bloody ice cream I can tell you that. I suppose if you made an ice cream called a virgin ice cream it might sell like hell as well. The lesbian fruit-choc or something like that.”
In the late 90’s Streets brought out the Chocolate Golden Gaytime and one in a cone. To me both were like eating a pot plant.
“That’s the variations by bad management. It’s how far you can push a name. To me, a Holden’s a Holden and a Gaytime’s a Gaytime. You bring a Holden out as a Vauxhall Vectra it’s lost the name again. If you bring out another ice cream that’s not quite the same as the original Gaytime people will go off it. There was a Cherry Golden Gaytime but that didn’t last. We tried fudge in one at one stage.”
I can’t help myself “you had to try and pack some fudge into a Golden Gaytime?” John continues, endearingly oblivious. At this point I remind myself that I’m listening to a man talk matter of factly about the ice cream control room, right after comparing them with cars. I finish the interview by thanking John for creating my favourite ice-cream, which raises a wry smile. For him the Golden Gaytime is just another ice cream on another stick, but for generations of Australians it is a socially complicated but ultimately rewarding love affair of yum.
THE END
NOTE: The audio of this story is embedded at the end of the first Lime Champions podcast.
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LAYTOPING IS MISPELLED, AND FREE! WHAT A GREAT GIFT IDEA, AND IT’LL CUT YOUR ENERGY BILLS IN HALF! SEND IT TO A FRIEND!
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NOTEY & DISCOCLAM: Please consider the emotional environment before dissing this e-mail.
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Any needy or somewhat hot guys from certain angles contained in this e-flail and detachments must be handled by a bear trainer with sturdy gloves in accordance with the Grinformation Spact 2000 (Honolulu), the Whiffy Cheddar Act 2001 and the Tractor Gack 1888 (Commonwelf), as crapplicable.
This e-wail, including all hope, is confipoogal. If you are not the intended recipient, then duck down and remain under your desk in a non-responsive manner for up to eight hours or until thermos time. Any seduction, horse-play or inciting of jelly based social events based on this twee-mail is punauthorised. Recommendations. MUSIC: Ambivalence Avenue – Bibio TV: Madmen BOOKS: The Big Sleep – Raymond Chandler. FOOD: Chilli’s/garlic/soy/oyster/chinese5spice in a stir fry. MOVIE: The Truman Show. THING: Not sabotaging happiness by subconsciously synthesising some dilemma that you will then have to solve, maintaining the self fulfilling prophecy of stress and drama that is your life. You are beautiful, or else.
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