Like a Sack of Potatos.

Once in a while you get into a situation that you just can’t get out of. You know you’ve fucked up, you know you’re going to get into trouble and you know there just isn’t any way out. You’re going to have to go through it and by doing so you’re going to have to take a big bite out of the shit sandwich of life. One of these times that immediately spring to mind for me is the time I broke my wrist. It’s also the reason why after eight years I am just barely getting able to drink vodka again. I was sixteen and a rare opportunity had occurred; both my mother and father were out of the city at one time. To some, this may not seem too extraordinary, however in my instance this was a first. Coming from divorced parents does have its advantages as a teenager, you can go over to the other one’s house if one is annoying you, you can wring both of them for money and you can use them as an excuse for some good old fashioned angst. The disadvantage to this is that the chances that both your parental units are out of town at the same time are slim; let’s just say that they don’t go holidaying in the Whitsundays together. So in all this time, this was the first time I had been left alone in the city for a weekend. I had heard stories of this happening to other kids and the gooey delicious mischief that flowed forth, so I was eager to impose my own brand of mayhem on the fine tradition of teenaged misadventure. Would my sweet treats turn out to be sour? Would my venture forth into the rainbow coloured candy land of irresponsibility and chocolate devil may care mud cakes be as wondrous and magical as I heard? Or would I get my just desserts?

I had conveyed my excitement to friend and neighbourhood ally Jayden Elphick and we began to set in motion a grand plan. We got some cheap vodka a bottle of fizzy lemony sweet water, discarding half of the contents of the squash we poured in the vodka and set forth. Where did we go? Where do all teenagers go for pre drinks for the night of their lives? The park. We met up with a few more of Jayden’s friends and to cut a long story short; we got drunk. We got drunk and high on sugary fermented treats. After which time we decided that it was time to take full advantage of the current situation and adjourn to my mum’s house and carve the night in twain with our lust of life and exuberance for rebellion.

I lived on 14a Millimumul way in Mullaloo; a little beach side suburb in the heart of the Northern suburbs. The house was small but more or less comfortable and had a lovely little back yard with a retaining wall and a shade cloth over it to keep prying eyes from looking down from 14b Millimumul way in Mullaloo. Why do I tell you this? Because it is the crux of the story. In amongst the din of loud music and four sixteen year old running around full of sugar and fermented potatoes I decided that it would be cool if I could some how jump from the retaining wall and swing on the wooden shade cloth. With my judgement clouded in adrenaline and sweet fizzy booze I went for it. I’d like to tell you that I did it, I’d like to tell you that I swung on that fucker and did a double somersault and landed perfectly on the roof and we all cheered and applauded and went on cheering and applauding till the wee hours of the night, that my high school crush came over and we made long passionate love on the soft green lawn while the sun rose. But I can’t, because I didn’t, I didn’t and wouldn’t make love to another person for another two years, there was no cheering and applause, I did not swung on that fucker and I certainly did not land perfectly.

A drunk virgin Ben awoke on the cool green grass; the wind knocked out of me, dazed, confused and in pain. I remember a weird sensation in my right hand, as if there was something caught on it, attached to my arm but not a part of my body. There was a large lump on the top of my wrist and an even large thing protruding from the bottom of my wrist, it had broken right through. In an attempt to keep me calm, both Jayden agreed that it was not in fact broken but badly sprained and we would wrap it in ice and go to sleep. The other two friends leaving for fear of getting caught up amongst the trouble we went to bed and passed out. I awoke about three in the morning in a bitch face amount of pain, proceeded to lie in the bathtub and call for help. Great family friend Jasmin Lyford came to rescue and after spewing in the front garden from what I imagine was a result of both shock and drinking cheap vodka I got into the car and went to hospital. The moment I looked at that mangled wrist I knew what I had done, yet I tried to fight it, tried to deny what had happened by thinking it was only sprained. I’ve sprained my wrist a few times before that and I knew that this was a completely different feeling, for one I could still move my hand afterwards and I couldn’t see bone where there shouldn’t have been.

I had to go into surgery to reset the bone and wore a cast on my arm for a few months during which my school grades went downhill as a result of me not being able to write with my right hand. I didn’t touch vodka for a longtime and still have a slight aversion to the vile drink. But more importantly I learnt that just because you can doesn’t necessarily mean you should, that I was not as indestructible as I was led to believe and that I can’t jump as far as I thought. My Mum had to come back from Rottnest early and see her youngest son drugged out of his mind on morphine with a broken wrist. Hubris is an ugly thing.

Dead Teaching Society

High school is tough no matter what sort of kid you are. It may have been tough because you were incompetent with the opposite sex or maybe you were a trouble maker, or a nerd, or not good at maths. Whatever the case at some point in your high school career I’d wager that you had a little cry about it. If you were me, there was more than one of these moments; one in particular was in year twelve. My history teacher had just confronted me and told me to leave school because I wouldn’t pass History and would bring the average down “for the students”, after which I went behind the old Phys Ed office and shed salty angst tears. Looking back I realize that when she said “for the students” what she really meant was “for the school”. These are the institutions that are meant to help kids, I’ve seen the movies, Robin Williams reaches his students through poetry, passion and language and through that they learn about life and love and English. Yes the guy from House kills himself in the end because the guy from that 70’s show is his father, he’s a scary looking bald man and House guy wore stupid tights and tried to be an actor, it wasn’t Robin Williams’ fault. Teachers aren’t supposed to be looking for the bottom line in education; they should be helping their fucking students. Kids that they are going to be sent out into the big bad world to get their teeth kicked in. Sure I wasn’t a model student, but I wasn’t a bad kid. I always treated my teachers like adults; I never punched or kicked anybody, or broke or stole anything. I was a fucking drama geek for Christ sake! I may have not been good at History, in fact I was shit, but when you go into a class and got sat in front a television screen with a documentary playing that was made when women were still give thalidomide for morning sickness what are you going to do? Granted this may not be the fault of the teacher, truth be told I actually liked the woman, unlike my English teacher.

My English teacher; I think the poor guy just didn’t know how to deal with me. He would preach about how writing poetry was about breaking conventions and speaking from the heart. Yet when his preconceived notions of “speaking from the heart” or “breaking conventions” were challenged he would close off. When I found out how hypocritical the man was I didn’t make the situation better either, not with the turbulent ocean of testosterone and misguided anger bubbling underneath my pimply frame. As an example of me aggravating the situation, one afternoon when discussing The Handmaiden’s Tale by Margret Atwood (which now I don’t mind) he asked us “What makes a man?” to which I replied without missing a beat “Cock and balls might help!”. So alright, I didn’t help but the guy was a douche who was too preoccupied with trying to impress the female majority of the class, leaving the three males more or less high and dry (although Ben Woods was pretty much the smartest man alive). Another time I had tried my very hardest on a particular essay, I mean I thought about every line, every paragraph; I got a D. Then the next time I just let it rip, real stream of consciousness type deal, literally talked shit for four pages; I got a B- and a Great improvement comment. What the deuce? I had tried to put in the effort, put in every little rule that he had told us to include in the bull shit essays and I got butt-kiss for it but when I pull words from my gaping teenage anus it’s a great improvement. I think that’s when I realized that school was truly retarded, that teaching is just a job and like any job you can get someone who can make a great macchiato and some that give you a watery latte. Like any other business my school needed good marks so that it can publish them in the paper at the end of the year so parents of prospective children can look through and see which school will be the best for their little nightmare offspring. There are new admin buildings to be built, that new chapel won’t pay for itself, Mrs Godwin’s retirement fund doesn’t grow on trees, it grows in the pockets of northern suburbs WASPs.

All I can say is thank god for my form teacher Ms Wearne, that woman saved me in more ways than one. She not only talked to me like a grown up but was a shining beacon of encouragement in the dark, murky waters of unrealistic expectation and pressure. In a world where we were preached upon that school is the be all and end all of your life she kept me sane. She was the Robin Williams to my Ethan Hawke, not by making us call her Captain my Captain or spouting clichéd Latin phrases , but by reminding us that it was just school. That in the grand scheme of things it didn’t actually matter. It’s the choices that you make after school the count. She’s a good kid.

The Beginning

Alan Moore wrote that when writing about yourself you should start with the saddest thing you can think of and then take it from there. Idea being that after reading this the reader will travel with you anyway, whether it's out of pity or empathy or just because for some reason as human beings we find a morbid curiosity out of others' misery. Whatever it is I'm afraid I can't deliver, I've wracked my brains trying to think of the saddest, most terrible thing that has happened in my life and nothing seems to really measure up. I mean, I've had bad things happen, some tragic, some unfortunate, some times I had it coming. If we're going to gauge it on things that have made me cry then I can tell you about when my pet Axolotl died. I was camping down South with friends and I got a call form my father, telling me Stubby had passed. He was called Stubby on account that he had a misshapen leg, we had two of the ugly things, the other was named Bluey on account of it being an albino with bright red gills. I guess I had a bit of a soft spot for Stubby as he was the runt and we runts have to stay together. Still to this day I believe Bluey murdered Stubby, I never much liked Bluey, who never did die, we had to give the robust Mexican walking fish away in the end because the entire family were tired of taking care of what was frankly an ugly frog/fish creature who never said thank you or please. After the phone conversation which was just before bedtime, I lay in my sleeping bag and cried. It doesn't seem that much of a big deal now, but back then, it seemed like the right thing to do. Shedding a few tears for Stubby, I'm sure he appreciated it.

Am I getting some hardcore empathy from you yet? Can you spare a glass of pity or two? No? There has of course been greater tragedies in my life, but once again, nothing that hasn't been witnessed or experienced by your average person. There are a few things that have made me sadder than Stubby's passing/clandestine murder. I was sad I never got to know my Grandfathers, I was sad that I never got to go to either of my Grandmother's funerals, I was sad when a boy I worked with was killed in Bali. But we harden up, we get over it, learn to deal with it, the best we can do is hold these things in the backs of our minds, bringing them out from time to time to remember and learn.

I guess the point that I'm getting is that I have little to complain about in the grand scheme of things which is why this blog is not going to be a woe is me tale. This blog is going to be a journey through the things that I have done wrong and make no mistake I have made alot of mistakes, even for a twenty four year old and I'm only going to make more. I wouldn't have it any other way either, for through these mistakes I have learnt much, some would argue it's the only way I learn. But at least I learn. Some would argue that my previous statement is wrong, that I don't learn from my mistakes at all and to those people I say a polite fuck you. Seriously though, a deep, consonant filled fuck you, pausing slightly on the ef and ck for dramatic effect.

I'm going to try and post every week, which is more than I can say about my other fictional blog, which at the moment has been put on hiatus due to multiple shows that have been taking all my brain juices. I hope this is going to be a good venture. I hope you're going to enjoy it. I hope it will be funny or sad or whatever the fuck it is the young people of today are doing. On Sunday I'm going to be off to Melbourne for the International Comedy Festival. I'm positive that my month in festival town will be rife with mistakes, maybe I'll even post more than every week, maybe.