Topic of Crapricorn

It is this forum’s preparedness to deal with subjects that are not for the squeamish that lends it its robust authority, judicious and estimable reader. In the interests of promoting the general reputation and value of the forum, I have decided to again present you with a tale from my dark past. The usual warning applies: if you are prone to nightmares or distress, you should read no further.

Those who know me have heard about my time in the tropical north of this country- specifically in Darwin, capital of Australia’s Northern Territory.

This was a few years ago and Darwin was not the polished modern city that it is today. It had a sort of “frontier” feel to it and the largely male population felt no compunction about walking around in big hats, talking about cattle and generally behaving in a manner unfamiliar to the polished urbanite such as me.

I had been entertaining some visitors from “down south” (as any other part of the country was referred to) and I do not shrink from telling you that we had consumed more red wine than was advisable. This was actually a remarkable achievement because it is generally too hot, humid and sunny to drink any red wine at all in the tropics. One usually gropes for a cold lager or a crisp white wine, a gin and tonic or rum.

We had closed the blinds and turned the air conditioning up then started sloshing claret into the expensive and capacious glassware. The lunch was long and riotous resulting in, amongst other things, a nasty mess on the floor of the women’s lavatory. At some point during the afternoon, we all agreed to go to a party in Berrimah, an outer suburb of Darwin.

At the time, Berrimah was largely open land comprised of market gardens with an occasional, isolated house. There were also the organisational headquarters for a couple of groups of motorcycle enthusiasts who, when not piloting their large machines noisily around town, distracted themselves with horticulture and other light industry. These compounds were invariably well guarded and aggressive dogs were the rule rather than the exception.

We were driven through the back blocks of this slightly threatening area, the car was parked and we staggered across a ploughed field to the party, which was in the yard of one of the isolated houses to which I referred earlier.

Now, by this stage it was quite clear that none of us was in any state to contribute to the festive atmosphere and indeed we would have done better not to have come at all, but it was too late so we did the best we could and had a few more drinks.

Before long I looked around and saw that the members of my group had all dissipated and I was alone. I was not much concerned about this, most of them were perfectly capable of getting taxis for themselves and going back to their hotels. One, however, had been a little worse off than that and was on his first trip to Darwin. I was concerned that he may not have made it, so I went looking for him.

I did not have far to go. There was a big, damp haystack just near the shed and he was reclined on that, sleeping peacefully. I was pleased that he was safe and was wondering whether I could leave him there and go home or if I should wait.

As I idly turned this over in my mind, I became aware of a telltale tension in my bowels. Being away from the throng and in the open air, well I am not proud but am obliged to admit that I thought nothing of easing myself by indulging in unfettered crepitus.

I elected to break wind.

Not only did I do so, but I actually facilitated the beastly action by leaning forward at the waist and pointing my right toe.

“The best laid schemes”, said the poet, Burns “o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.”

Just what he meant by that, no one quite knows. It is widely suspected that he had been tippling, which may be so. After all, he was talking to a mouse.

In any event, my scheme did gang disastrously agley. I will not dwell on this distasteful incident but will put it as frankly and manfully as I can.

I followed through. I copped a pantload. I pappered my trolleys. I soiled my drawers. It was disgusting.

Panic set in. Although I was relatively isolated, I needed to get away. I could not go to the house, that was simply out of the question.

I could not go far because the mechanical effect of walking on my unwanted cargo would render a cleanup impossible without a fire hose. I cast a fevered glance around me and saw, about two hundred metres away, a lone tree.

Using little dolly steps, I made my way over to it. A mere sapling, it was not really up to the task of hiding my great bulk, but it was all there was. I removed my trousers. That was easy. They dropped to my feet and I kicked them away rather gracefully.

Next came the underpants (“pants” in some parts of the world although I am not sure if these, being the brief style, qualify). These were more problematic. After some manipulation it became clear that they were beyond saving, so to make their removal as clean as possible, I tore them at each side and was able to throw them away.

I then cleaned myself as best I could, using whatever was to hand. The tree had shed some leaves that were each about the size of two squares of lavatory paper. These were handy but not ideal as they were dry and not very pliant.

In any event, having done the best I could I re-assessed. I was as clean as I was going to get, but that did not mean I was clean. Far from it. I smelled very bad and looked little better.

There was no question of rejoining the party. I had no idea of the address, so could not call a cab. There was only one thing for it, I would have to walk.

Despite my inebriation I was reasonably sure that I knew the way to the highway, so I set off along the web of unlit, unpaved rural roads to try to find it.

Anyone who has not lived in the tropics during the “build up” will not appreciate what a trial that was. During this time of year, both the temperature and the humidity increase to make the climate most unpleasant with little by way of rain to ease things.

Although it was quite dark, and had been for some hours, it was still awfully hot and humid. I was already uncomfortable with the personal hygiene and the addition of copious sweating, particularly around the un-underpanted nether regions, made things worse.

Further to that, it was not long before I had to admit that I had no idea where I was. I had made a couple of turns and the landscape seemed to have changed. Rather than the empty, ploughed paddocks there were vast areas of low scrub with barbed wire fences around them.

There was practically no light and no sign of human habitation. From time to time I would squat and try to wash my soiled hands in water that had collected in wheel ruts in the road, but moistening the filth only seemed to freshen its stench and make a bad situation worse.

Although there was a lot of water around, it was not drinkable and the effect of the alcohol I had consumed together with the exertion of staggering around the hot and hostile environment were making me awfully thirsty.

Perhaps worse than that, there was a large blister forming on my right foot. I had used my right sock to try to clean myself under the tree at the beginning. It had been so ineffective that I elected to keep my left sock on my foot rather than waste that too, but that meant that my left foot was in cushiony comfort while my right was in great pain.

Suddenly I heard a car. I looked around and saw the glow of headlights coming from behind me. The relief was immense. I straightened myself up and waited by the side of the road, facing the oncoming car and smiling broadly. As it neared I took one step onto the road surface and waved.

The car swerved slightly and sped past, splashing me with muddy water and tooting its horn as it did so. I was devastated.

It was clear to me that I was not going to be able to find my way home that night, so I went a couple of paces off the road and lay down in the dead grass to get some sleep.

The tropics are famous for many things. One of these is the abundance of insect life.

Within about twenty seconds of lying down, I could feel dozens of tiny bites and stings all over my body. I felt like Gulliver being shot with Lilliputian arrows.

So, there I lay. I was drunk. I was lost. I was far from home. I was hot. I was exhausted. I was thirsty. I had a big blister. I was hungry. I was sweating. I lacked underpants. I was dirty. I was infested. I stank.

I wept.

It was, dear reader, the lowest point of my life (to date). I decided that I did not blame the motorist who had refused to pick me up. I would not have done so in his place.

After twenty minutes or so when the insect bites became intolerable I realised that I was not going to be able to sleep there.

With my filthy paw I wiped the tears from my face, set my jaw and staggered to my feet. I was not going to let this get me down. There were some houses around here. I could get an address and a cab. By darn, if they were not happy to help me I could cry. Who could resist that?

With my resolve stiffened I set off again and, after a couple of run ins with vicious guard dogs, was shuffling towards yet another rural abode when I saw, only a few kilometres away, some street lights! The highway!

I covered the distance on winged heels and the first car I saw was a cab. To flag it down was the work of an instant and I even had sufficient wits about me to get into the back rather than the front, reasoning that by the time the cabbie smelled me it would be too late and he might as well get his fare as boot me out again on the highway.

Thus ended one of the lowest points of my life. What did I draw from it? Well, I learned the benefits of perseverance, that tears without an audience are pointless and that there is no depth to which you cannot drag a Darwin cabbie if you really set your mind to it.

All of this I learned but most importantly, it was a full week before I got that drunk again.

I give you this that you may learn from my mistakes.