The Great Ocean Road, crazy German, and angry boss
Trip Start Aug 28, 2009
96Trip End Feb 25, 2011
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Where I stayed
Nomads Guest House
...A pilot, you racist f*cker!
I planned to be in the library again for hours, but got sidetracked with my German friend CLAUSE BECKENSHLAUSER, who kept buying me beers!
Also, I was getting fed up with being in the city all the time, so I decided to plan a venture outside. The most apparent idea was the Great Ocean Road, a legendary drive west of Melbourne. I suggested this to LINKENSCHLOFFER HUMPERCLUNKEN and he agreed. Two of us clubbing together to hire a car was cheaper than any of the tours – and anyway, if it's a great road, one would be crazy not to drive it, right?
So, we booked a car for the following day, then went to the library for a couple of hours
At night an agency I had signed up with called me – I had a job for monday!!! I was in a celebration mood (and felt a little better knowing I had some money coming in) so I had a few...
Today myself and GUSHLINKEL GERHAUSEN woke at 6:00a.m, made breakfast and lunch and grabbed the rental car for the drive up the Great Ocean Road. As we gave ourselves only one day to do the 300km to Twelve Apostles Nature Reserve and back, we decided to get GPS with the hire car. At 8:00 we left, and the sky was cloudy. Bugger. I was the outbound driver, and FUNFEN HINKLEHEIMER was tasked with the return journey. 100kms or so later we hit the start of the Great Ocean Road, with 95% cloud cover. It was good to see the sea again. We stopped for a quick photoshoot and got under way.
The Great Ocean Road, even with not much sunshine (and bouts of rain), was an amazing drive. I was like a kid with his first go-kart, whizzing round the sweeping mountainside bends overlooking the sea.
Every time we reached a viewpoint we stopped and got the cameras out. On occasion we were lucky to get a moment of sunshine - a gift hole in the clouds. I decided to give HUBERT GIMMELSHIEMER a different name each time I addressed him, in friendly German-mockery style banter. He didn’t seem to mind anyway. He kept saying “You crazy British”, to which I would bat back with “You crazy Germans, YAAAAH?”. We got to the first beach of the Twelve Apostles and went nuts with the cameras. The sun came out for about 30 minutes, and I felt as appreciative of it as your average English person does (very, then). GUMMELMEIMER SCHTOPPLEBERGER got into beach-bum mode and wandered about in the sea. I got bored, so I started looking for deadly snakes (see photo of sign) and experimenting with some camera trickery (see photos). We were there for about an hour, wandering up and down the beach, German wading into the sea, and me, in my long bottoms, trying to avoid it (it was generally cold that day, and I wasn’t in a sea mood – hence the woollen top in the photos of me). Presented with two routes around the rocks, I took the dry option and LACHTENSHTIELER GIMBLEBEIMER would say “Zis is ze mans route, you are on the womans route!”
We were about to head back when we realised that we had taken a billion photos of only two of the twelve apostles, so we went looking for the remaining ten
On the way back it was GERFUNKEL SCHLIPPENBURNER’s turn to drive. I enjoyed listening to him sing to tunes on the radio, or more accurately putting it, talk to them in “Ze German” voice. Very entertaining. 30 minutes into the return journey I fell into a half-asleep daze, and when I came round we were driving on a meandering one-lane road through dense forest - definitely one we had not driven up on. I said to SCHMITZEN GERFUFELDORF “This road doesn’t look familiar to me” – he said “No? Zen we have a problem.” Just then his favourite tune came on (Backstreets back), and he abandoned all care of us being potentially lost and immediately turned into Michael Shumacker (assuming Shuey talks loudly in monotone to his favourite music). I gripped the seat as I struggled to work out if he was a very good driver, or just thought he was (“Oops” was uttered a few times, but he held the road well, but he went very close to very hard bollards, but he didn’t hit them).
We stopped and checked GPS – she told us we could go this way, but turn left at the end
We stopped for an expensive burger, and afterwards I started burping. Every time I did, GERPLINKER SCHTINKLEDEIMER opened the windows, but the funny thing is that he never bothered to do it when I dropped a fart. Strange that – I wondered whether sh*t is on the German menu...
The GPS was complete sh*t and had no programs for changing the route, avoiding motorways etc. During the last part of the journey the GPS revealed the full extent of 'her’ madness and stupidity. On the motorway she uttered several “Turn left” or “Turn right” commands when there was nothing in sight but more motorway. She kept saying “Recalculating” (yeah, hard to predict the route from a motorway, when we programmed it in 3 hours ago). Then she said “Return to highlighted route”, believing us to have left the motorway altogether. She reached a crescendo of insanity with her suggestion to “Perform a U-turn” on the motorway. We switched the silly cow off before she suggested that we take a shortcut by driving through war-torn Afghanistan
When we got back it was dark, and it took us half an hour to find a filling station to return the tank to full. I will say one thing about our Toyota Hybrid car – it was extremely economical, even with a shouting Shuey at the wheel.
I entered my room to find that my murder mystery book had gone missing - an additional mystery I could do without. Whodunnit?
I found my murder mystery book. I had used it to prop my door open (as your room keys deny you access to the room on an almost daily basis, and at random times. Very annoying, as you have to take the elevator to the ground floor to get it electronically unlocked, again. One morning I tested it on the way to the shower – it was working. After the shower though, it had decided to stop working. So I had to go down semi naked. Now I just get it unlocked every day when I walk past reception). A cleaner had picked the book up and stashed it on top of a room safe. Cool.
So do you wanna know whodunit? Well I guess you won’t care, since you don’t know any of the suspects, right? Well anyway - the mysterious thing is that nobody knows for sure, but the strongest likelihood was the daughter of the house, who was believed to have killed her half-brother to punish her stepmother (who bitched about her real (but dead) mother)
Back to my true story:
Today was my first day at work in over 3 months. I was put to work by an agency, working for a removals company. Today we were moving lab equipment.
In the kitchen first thing in the morning, I encountered two dappy English girls, who were complaining in a dappily slow tone that they had had their milk stolen twice in the last two days. Purely to be conversational I asked where it was stored, and they pointed to the top shelf, which was labelled “FREE FOOD SHELF” in large letters. I stifled my desire to say “YOU F*CKING SPASTICS" (slang term – bears no resemblance to the literal term) and instead politely explained the facts
I didn’t get off on the best foot with the job supervisor. First, I (just) missed the train, and turned up 24 minutes late on the next train. Oops. Then, being quite tired, I missed the point of a 'litmus test’ question he fired at me. He was referring to people having no common sense and standing about like lemons when he said “Too many of the c*nts I get have no f*ckun common sense. If you’re my mate and I’m sneezing, would you stand there holding f*ckun tissue? Would you?”. A little disarmed, I replied “I guess it depends on whether you have your own tissue”...his silence suggested it was not the response he was looking for.
Possibly due to this, I spent the majority of the morning in an elevator. I was the holder of the only access card to operate the elevator, and I was tasked with bringing in, raising the altitude of, and depositing the empty containers onto the upper floor, and then bringing the full containers back down to the lorry.
I gained intimate knowledge of the elevator, including the time it took for the doors to close on different floors
The repetition of her annoyingly garbled robotic mutterings (“Going up?”...“I’m on the lowest floor you stupid bitch, of course I am”) drove me into my youthful mind, and I spent much of the time alone between floors blurting out loud, random experimental noises and assimilating strange body positions to keep me sane. For example, I liked seeing how quickly I could switch from being in a lunatic wanking posture, wailing at the top of my voice, rolling my eyes in mock ecstacy, to being perfectly formal and presentable when the doors opened. I came close to being found out. Had I remained in a pose and not noticed that the doors were open I would surely have been committed.
Two of the guys with the team that day were youngsters, and had the typical terrier air about them that suggests they will fiddle and f*ck about the moment anybody in authority is clearly not around. So I laughed when I came up to see why they had not brought more containers to the lift and found them playing with a large, interactive penis L.E.D board in full view of an office
The old supervisors were bald-headed, pale-skinned, knobbly kneed, wrinkled and freckled. They looked as if they had slept on uranium beds throughout generations of inbreeding. One of them was fascinatingly ugly. As you might have expected they were moody, impatient, narrow-minded and swore as if each swearword somehow made them look stronger. When one of them started taking about his ‘f*ckun missus’, I tried to picture anybody but a scraggly haired, pointy-nosed beer-drinking profanity machine with missing teeth who chews gum, smokes, and talks on the phone simultaneously during nonchalant sex with the neighbour on a littered bed. I couldn’t.
They seemed to randomly switch between ‘your mate’ and ‘total moody f*ckhead’ without forewarning. They had the annoying managerial style of giving you no instruction and then tearing your b*llocks off when you didn’t follow it. Or giving you an instruction and tearing them off when you did follow it. Or telling you to do something, and then blasting your head off for not using your common sense and doing more after. Or letting you use your common sense, then blasting your head off for doing something you weren’t told to do. In short, you were automatically an agency c*nt with no brains
Then I hear from the boys that the big boss is much worse, on a bad day. He came in, and it was a good day. He wanted to do a photoshoot for their website. He nominated the young terriers and manipulated them around while snapping away. With a full view of all boss/supervisors backs I set to work trying to put them off with an array of stupid, wide-eyed faces...
“Don’t smile mate just look serious. Stop smiling yeah. No don’t look at the camera – just pretend it’s not there alright. That’s it, look at the box. That’s good. Now, can we have you holding the cover over this microscope. Up a bit. Up some more. Turn the cover so we can see the company label. That’s good now hold it there.” He was getting off on the control thing so much that my mind was adding “Now get your cocks out and put them on the table. That’s good. Oh yeah that’s great. Now get mine out...” not sure if it was a sense of his sick-mindedness...or my own. Possibly both...
His face stank of greed. It was written in every mean, fat line. I suggested to the boys afterward that they could pull him up on taking shots of them for commercial purposes without permission, but it didn’t stick
In the afternoon we delivered the goods to the new lab/office. I was stuffed into another f*cking elevator again. This one was larger, but when I kept the doors open for 10 seconds it bleated an annoying alarm which sounded like the klaxon from a burning James Bond villain’s lair. When the alarm sounded, the doors began to close slowly and apocalyptically, as if they were ridiculously heavy nuclear bunker airlock doors. Try to open them by pulling them apart and the lift would go into a sulk and stop working. So I had to get 10 seconds worth of load in/out, then wait for the doors to close (slowly), and open them again. It’s a large cargo lift, but assumes that everybody can get all of their stuff into and out of it in under 10 seconds. Hmmm. That night I came back shattered, bought some more food, and did my second batch of self-laundry...ever. I don’t think I used enough powder.
Someone in my dorm had very cheesy feet. Dorm families are random indeed. Every night you bed down with total strangers, and you never know what to expect. Some nights you come in at 9:30 and all the lights are out with everybody asleep. Others you sneak in at 1:30a.m and a party is in full swing
This night was bad for me, as a steady stream of people came in and out at just the right times to deny me sleep. And I had to get up at 4:30 a.m. the following day to move jizz. At 11:30p.m. it grew quiet and I switched the light off. I was starting to drift off and a Japanese guy came in, switched the light on apologetically, and then spent the next 45 minutes seemingly checking every item he had in his three bags several times. So I was met with 45 minutes of intermittent rustling, zip noises, and general fumbling. I was desperately in need of sleep, and the short bouts of silence followed by more noises was driving me a bit mad. To keep myself from jumping from my bunk, and in a crouch position freefalling onto this f*ckers head ninja-style and punching his face through two floors until my arms died, I decided to count ‘zips’. I counted 27 uses of zips from this one man, and started to think that he had a night job testing zips from home. Finally he buggered off. It was now past midnight and a crew of very drunk people started up outside the window for the next hour. I really began to curse my guest house predicament, and made a promise to look into buying a camper of some sort. Coming home from a hard day at work is tough when you don’t know what kind of family will be there to greet you!
I woke up at 4:30 a.m
Today we had to start early at the lab because we were moving a freezer that stores sperm and stuff at 80 degrees below zero, and we had to do it before the weather grew too hot. This freezer carried the culmination of over 15 years of fertility research, and we had 30 minutes to get it to its new home. We were also moving wax samples, which also had a short lifespan without power. A pretty serious job. Being an agency worker without a care for this company, I half hoped the lift would break down and f*ck the whole job up. I enjoyed seeing the bald c*nts stressed out.
Ahem yeah I must apologise for any over-use of profanity in this entry. As I said before, atmosphere is incredibly infectious, and being surrounded by these supervisors for hours made swearing quickly feel like second nature
”F*CK! SH*T! C*NT!”
“F*ckun MOVE OUTTA THA WAY...c*nt”
“These f*ckun German c*nts haven’t got a f*ckun clue”
And while driving it continued:
“F*ckun wog c*nt - probably doesn’t have f*ckun traffic lights in his country”
“Who gave you a f*ckun licence ya f*ckun FAT BITCH”
These guys were perpetually f*cked off with everything all the time. So much stress. I couldn’t understand it – we were only moving sh*t from one f*ckun place to anotha for f*ck sake, what’s the f*ckun point getting off ya f*ckun tits about it?
I had lots of f*ckun fun taking the p*ss out of their profanity with an ever-increasingly accurate Aussie accent. Sometimes I would turn up behind some of the lads I was working with and start talking to them in the supervisors voice to mock his heavy-handed style (“Get a f*ckun move on, I ain’t paying you to stand here holding ya f*ckun deeks”)
I could sense the overall tension mounting from our supervisors as the day drew on. At one point we were in the new home of the lab equipment, unloading a very heavy machine that looked like a fumigation chamber or something. Bald c*ntbag A (with helpers) was lifting the machine off a dolley (a small wooden square with wheels on each corner, so you can wheel heavy stuff about) and he told the young German terrier to put the dolley further under. The German misunderstood and pulled it out completely, leaving these guys quaking as they struggled to hold up this very heavy machine. Bald c*ntbag bellowed: “PUT-THE-F*CKUN-THING-UNDER-THERE-CUUUUNT!!!”, which sent a wave of shock and discomfort through this dainty office. I noticed the mix of disgust and fear etched on the faces of some of the women as bald c*ntbag B said “George”, in a tone which meant (calm down mate, and don’t use that language in here)
I would say “F*ckunf*ckunf*ckun C*NTS!” to an Englishman called Chris. We kept our spirits up that way. I awarded Chris with the 'line of the week' - a line that nearly had me laughing my guts out of my mouth. We had just finished moving the spunk and plugging the freezers back in at their new home. It was the timing that made it even funnier, coming just after a blast of abuse from one of the bald, wrinkled aliens. The lift door closed leaving me and Chris alone - silence descended on us, and then he said:
“I’ve never been that stressed after shifting spunk...”
That killer line made my entire day! If I wasn’t already, I was certainly now immune to any abuse from these pricks.
When I got back to the train station I was so shattered that I walked the wrong way back to the guest house and got lost in a city centre I have known for two weeks
The lord was kind to me that night though – my new room was blissfully empty at 9:00p.m. I was out like a man shot in the face. By a light.
I cannot describe how much better I felt when I woke at 5:30 for day 3 on the job, so I won’t try! Today we were moving stuff from a single room, so it looked like an early finish. The double-edged sword - it’s cool at the time to go home early, but equally cool retrospectively to stay late and get more hours.
We got to the room and somebody had ripped out the fuse box powering the whole building, and the room had no windows ("F*CKUN SHEET!" said baldyballs). A site guy went and got us an extension lead and some lights, but a couple of carpenters, in what seems like true Ausssie style, said “F*ck it – we’ll smash the f*ckun wall down”, so they decided to smash a whole wall down to shed some light on the situation! I so badly wanted to grab a sledgehammer and join in, but the supervisor wouldn't even let me operate the hydraulic lift on the lorry
The day was hot. It was promised at 39 degrees but I think we were lucky in the end, having only about 34. Still, a number of problems plagued us. The first was that we had to unsrew and move an entire archive unit (sliding filing cabinets called compacts) but the doors we had to go through were too small, so they had to be dismantled by bald c*nt B (“AAAHHHH F*CKUN C*NT”) and reassembled at the other end. This lead to his mood being permanently horrendous for the rest of the day. Someone smashed a glass panel in a cabinet, which added fire to his volcano.
The c*nt left us out working for 4 hours of hot Aussie afternoon sunshine with no break. He went to get some water, but only got himself some. When he drank we saw condensation running down the bottle and licked our lips. There was a tap nearby, and a kitchen, but all of the water was spunk-white (it had only been turned back on recently). Still, we had to drink, we were approaching dehydration. So we minimised our intake. At one point bald c*nt B said “I wouldn’t drink that”. I felt like jumping on his face, grabbing his cheeks with forceps and bellowing “WELL WHAT ELSE CAN I DRINK YOU F*CKUN BALD C*NT SINCE YOU DIDN'T GET US ANY WATER”...!!!
Ok we are supposed to bring water but we all underestimated how much we needed
Yeah, that was a tough day – over ten hours of working either in the sun, or in the stifling heat of a storage container or a small caravan-ish building. We did everything we were told to do in the way we were told to do it, but bald c*nt still moaned at us for doing what we were told (example, we had to work in pairs wheeling the huge filing cabinets across gravel, and the shelves rattled out every time – c*ntypants was saying “thanks for removing the f*ckun shelves and making my day a lot f*ckun harder fellas”).
I tell ya what though – it felt very good to be doing physical work again – that tired, achy feeling. I forgot how much I missed it, how much it makes me feel alive, and how much easier I can sleep at night. Except when Japanese people rearrange their backpacks, of course.
I met a Tasmanian girl that night who told me a politically incorrect joke, so I’ll pass it on:
“What’s the hardest thing about being a paedophile? You just don’t fit in”...