The rich were located in suburbs quite a distance from mine. Over the years the method of transport changed from walking, bike riding, skate boarding and then finally cars. When we got our machines it provided us for a new way to waste time and enable riskier trouble, just the way we liked it. We started out with an age old tradition, heading down to the local corner store or nearby supermarket and buying a dozen eggs. We’d drive. Drive around all night waiting for someone to be casually walking around the streets and the person who’s turn it was loaded and flung the egg out of window towards the victim… Over time our aim improved to almost near perfection. I’d like to add that this was not a once or twice event but something that we did most nights when not at work or the rare other commitment besides each other. Due to this frequency and the volume of missiles we had some close calls of course, one time we lined up a target, a huge man that was trapped in a glass phone booth unaware of the incoming projectile, talking to someone emotively using his hands. At the point of impact he turned around and chased after the car, laughing poring into the wind as it sped by then…silence… The road was a dead end. Turning around the man was in the center of the road, yelling and red with anger. The driver centred the steering wheel, aiming straight and floored the accelerator. The man covered with egg became the chicken, I’m not sure what it would have meant if he stood tall…

We needed more risk / excitement / damage / noise… something. We progressed from eggs to using baseball bats to knock of mirrors or smash windows. Then we moved on to bubbles. Bubbles were the light covers on the fences of the rich peoples houses. They unscrewed quite easily and were made of brittle plastic, these were thrown at oncoming busses, cars or other solid objects. The result was a loud explosion with glittering shrapnel appearing through the rear view mirror. Satisfying.

After our adrenalin accepted the new norm we moved on to finding empty or preferably full rubbish bins on wheels. The most memorable was a finding a big blue paper recycling model, full to the brim of books from the library it was parked out of the front of. The left rear passenger positioned it parralel to the car and signalled the driver to proceed. At around 80 km/h the passenger could not hold the weight any longer and the bin carried on towards its target, crumping a brand new white station wagon to half it’s size, the scale of the impact was beyond belief…


They say it goes in cycles, the good and the bad that is, a friend once told me that if you’re having a tough time with a phase your child is going through it would only last for two weeks, than some other shit, ideally easier will take over. I’m a proud dad who loves his one and only daughter more than anything else in the world….


Drugs – Part 1.

One of the myths you heard growing up was around the effects of weed on your short term memory, surely this was yet another of those scare campaigns that was spread by parents to keep you out of trouble, like not eating cheese before bed or you’ll get cheese dreams (Are these real?) . It was around my mid twenties when I realized how much of an impact this had on my life, my short term memory is painfully problematic and hinders my absorption of lots of data and most noticeably studies and even remembering characters names in movies or bands.

I believe it was around the age of 14 or so I started on my quest with weed.

My first cigarette was around the same age skateboarding near a private girls school in the Inner West of Sydney with friends Matthew and Seamus. Seamus was a bloke who was always taking everything we did to the next level. He died in his early twenties from the damage of drugs and alcohol, this was not a surprise to hear. Last time I saw him was in our old teenage pub where he was trying to make small talk and seemed quite happy to see me after so many years. I pretty much ignored the guy and looked down at him. When I was about 16 or so he set me up in a train station tunnel to be rolled by a local gang, taking my frog green Nokia 5110… I never forgave him.


All my mum talked about was travel. She had about 5 – 10 stories in her repertoire, involving travels to various parts of the world: On a travel bus with only the one Neil diamond tape creating the soundtrack of the season – That one time she smoked hash (which did not effect her), after pressure from shady locals in Morocco with deviate plans and an almost lesbian camping experience. These stories would automatically come out whenever a series of related keywords including any that could be linked such as mode of travel, marijuana, gay / lesbian references, Neil Diamond, etc..

Despite how these stories made me cringe whether in public or not I inherited the urge to travel and explore, this has defined my motivations in life and I have been very lucky to land a career in a company with extensive travel and secondment opportunities.