The rise and fall of @#$%^&& electricity company

We didn’t hang around in Brisbane and quick off the mark we got interviews with a promotion company – promoting what exactly, we didn’t know. Arriving at our interview, we laid eyes on a room full of bushy eyed backpackers; every shape size from every corner of the world, all as clueless as us! It was hardly the intimate group interview we had envisaged, bearing more resemblance to a cattle market. We were told that we would be doing door to door sales, persuading home owners to switch electricity providers to X&@£*X%!. Everyone was called back for training including a 50 year old man from Kazakhstan...

The next two days were spent (unpaid) training; at this point we didn’t have much option other than to stick with it considering the credit cards had been overly swiped on the coast. Our teacher was a microscopic, egotistical, opinionated French man who thought he was Armani, sporting skinny jeans and thick black frames in an attempt to disguise his mono-brow.



His philosophy on humanity was that we can be categorized into one or a combination of four animals - a bull, peacock, lamb and an owl. Annie a lamb and K an owl, LIBERATION, the last 22 years suddenly made sense... not (Borat ). Combine this with him calling us arrogant he soon took first place on our ever growing shit list. Diarrhoea continually poured out of his mouth.

After an hour exam to prove we had the brain capacity to work out someone’s bill & understand their meter readings we were set to work. In our white T’shirts and rape alarms in hand, we were packed into a mini bus and one by one dumped on a corner in some remote suburb of Brisbane. An hour in, the water bottles went dry & the effects of being separated were surfacing. Wandering around in blistering heat knocking on every door, dogs barking and housewives telling us to fuck off..

Annie rang K “fuck this shit, I just signed up a lady, 5 minute job took me 45 and on her only day off”

K“I just witnessed my team leader bully an old deaf and blind couple into signing on”

We had enough. We missioned to the middle of the suburb to find each other and sat on a curb being munched on by ants. Ks phone was vibrating more than her rampant rabbit .Her team leader, Charlie, fresh from the mothers teet, common and horny as a chav dog on viagra, wanting to know where she was and how many people she had signed. In annoyance she picked up 

“none, I quit” 

He began a motivation talk that forced K into meeting him to at least talk about her decision face to face. Annie remained sitting on the curb having a day dream – until Armani pulled up in his D0 Audi, French rap blasting from his muffled baseless speakers. The breaks squeaking as he came to a halt near the curb. He sat proudly in his child seat and instructed Annie to get into the banger. He tried to bribe her with a homebrand, melting lolly from his plastic budget glove box to get her back to work...she cringed at every emotional/motivating bull that dribbled out his mouth. She couldn’t stop staring at his chapped lips and diseased gums, what an arrogant prick. Meanwhile K is being talked down to as if she was an inmate in an American prison – she laughed at his child like face as he tried bribing her with drugs.

That evening Annie welcomed a kidney infection due to being left parched in the desert of Brisbane’s suburbs. K got her arm twisted into returning. Single handedly she managed to demotivate everyone else on the job, apart from an Aussie guy who lived off red bull and wore the same clothes for 3 days. Backpackers dropped like flies while K refused to do anything. She stopped selling electricity and started selling her company spending days looking through naked photos of old men’s ex wives’ & debating religion with Mormans. Soon it was all too much, with a diminished work force and cracks showing she was asked to leave. Months later the company went into liquidation...

strange that

Excuse me, where's MOooolooooLAbaaa?

Yes we know the blog has been stagnating but these laptops we’ve been traipsing around have become plagued with all kinds of foreign viruses thanks to dodgy wireless networks. One even had a swim...

Where were we.... Aaah yes, The Sunshine Coast, a smokey blurred haze. Weekdays were spent lazing by the pool and “working” the odd shift at a greasy fast food joint, stoned... While on munchies K managed to get a job at the local Chook House, mutilating chickens teeming with salmonella. Annie was doing measly 3 hour shifts at a kebab shop on the esplanade drooling over a 19 year old college boy; cougar in the making. During the evenings we watched series 1,2,3,4,5.... and 6 of Sex & the City over pizza and cones. We relaxed into the true Queensland way of life.

Occasionally, on the more productive days we managed to explore the landscape with the Sunshine coast’s very own Bear Grills.

He took us to waterfalls, showing us spiders, lizards, bugs and on the off chance eating them. He drove us around in his massive 4WD, beer in hand while we forced him to listen to our electro music.

Hype did surround Saturday night where all the Coasties would put down their bongs and surf boards for an evening, doll up and hit the streets of Mooloolaba. Unfortunately due to scarce, pricey white powder, drug taking needed to be more inventive by popping anti-anxiety pills.

Consequences of such actions meant Saturdays were carnage, a whole weeks tempt up frustration was unleashed. Countless bemused Australian’s got escorted out of clubs for being shirtless, trouserless or both.

 Distorted vision meant you wouldn’t register how young, married and or vile the Ozzy hench trollup you were pulling were. We accused waitresses of short changing us, got ice thrown at us, lost sensory-motor skills, pretended to be Scottish and spent the majority of evenings with our eyes closed ....result? photos were undeniably magazine worthy.

The quest to find the perfect male was unsuccessful. K thought she had hit jackpot by wooing a blonde, young, tall textbook of a man. But the whirl wind romance was cut short by police armed with torches and dogs, interrupting a fumble on the beach. The possibility of a hefty fine meant K bolted; knickers round her ankles leaving behind an unsatisfied Aussie and a potentially momentous relationship.

 Annie’s man was less textbook, less blonde but with ten years more experience. Her mysterious diving instructor from Berlin seemed promising at first, after a few Bourbons and valium he wasn’t just instructing her in diving. After an evening of being spanked like a naughty child and an awkward breakfast, a huge language barrier and being accused of wearing shorts too short the remainder of their tender relationship was spent with Annie ignoring his existence.. He can still be found cruising around the Sunshine coast in search for Annie in her short shorts...

BBC 3 GENIE

We migrated to the Sunshine coast to be met by the sea, civilisation and kindly welcomed in to our friend Ash’s home. It was challenging to adjust to using a toilet again (not a shower) and eat food that wasn’t deep fat fried. More than anything, we were gagging like stallions to get out and see what the sunshine coast had to offer.


We applied an extra thick layer of make-up to increase pulling power, preparing ourselves and our two partners in crime, Danika and Ash, for a mischievous evening. After a heavy pre-drinking session at Danika’s we teetered our way over to a club. To our dismay people were just standing around talking and drinking. We wondered why people weren’t fighting, necking and vomiting in corners. It was all too sophisticated following the social deprivation we had just experienced at the carnival.

Walking over to the stage where the band was packing up after their set we found a box. Instinctively we opened it and stole a microphone head....moments later we acquired a highlighter pen and a battery. Combining them and throwing a camera into the mix we became ‘BBC 3 GENIE’ – famous presenters Annie and Krystyna from the United Kingdom interviewing Native Australians on a Friday night on what they loved about Australia.

As a test to show there patriotism they had to place the battery end onto their tongues (don’t try this at home) – it was a simple concept. Men were grappling for the ‘microphone’ –  excitement spread like wildfire; brawls were developing as we chose only a select few to interview in front of the camera. FINALY the dream of men flinging themselves onto us was turning into a reality!

There was only one arse hole – he was Canadian (obviously) we feel you will be amused by his reaction. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfOndG_CD68 
‘BBC 3 GENIE’ concluded Australian men are all in fact gullible masochists.

The Great Escape

We knew things were getting too comfortable – general physical appearance had disintegrated (fingernails were black and hair was dreaded). The private toilet (shower) smelt like a sewer and we were growing ever more accustomed to having bonges (cones) for breakfast. We found ourselves entertaining one another by feeding cow and horse cow from pies we stole from MaryFuckAnne. “cannibalism HAHAHA looook cannibalism”

            Cow Eat Cow

At this tragic point we knew it was time to move on and began to plan our escape. The Showies wouldn’t take kindly to us leaving so soon. They’d spent their limited funds in buying us Oak milkshakes, slush puppies, Take-Aways and of course Dagwood dogs. We knew telling them of our departure would have been a bad idea... one can picture Mark’s agitation, contorting and convulsing as he tried to comprehend why K, the woman he wanted to harvest his children with, would be leaving; Josh’s skeletal figure aimlessly passing up and down the trailer, distraught with the idea of no longer being able to cook Annie gourmet dishes. We had overheard that when people leave the Carny they give no notice, they up and leave in the middle of the night never to be seen again. Being dramatic and wanting another adventure we chose to do the same...

We got paid a week’s wage, cash in hand, and took turns that evening in distracting the Showies while the other would pack their backpack. We called Clay who had recuperated after the Wolf Creek ordeal and arranged for him to meet us outside the caravan park at 1am.

The clock struck one – we could see the lights from Clay’s yute at the bottom of the hill. Silence on the campsite apart from the odd muffled snore. Both determined to be as quiet as possible, fully packed, we switched on the light and attached our oversized backpacks, K picked up her wheelie bag with a large squeak. We began our great escape. With every slight movement the caravan shaked and the wheelie bag squeaked. The knowledge of MarryFuckAnne sleeping in the bedroom a few meters from ours combined with the fear of getting caught and adrenaline left us crying with laughter. We tip toed ungracefully through the kitchen, lights off, pissing ourselves as we tried to sneak towards the front door. K successfully got down on the grass – Annie followed, unsuccessfully falling flat on her face still cackling with laughter. Rolling around like a haemorrhaging turtle, too weak to stand up. K disorientated from laughing and crying was running in the wrong direction. All the commotion resulted in caravan doors opening, lights flicking on, K realising her positioning swerved and started sprinting towards the yute. Annie catching up we threw our rucksacks into the back of the yute, scrambled our way into the front seats and screamed at Clay ‘fuuuuuuuck DRIIIIVE!!’ laughing, he calmly removed the hand brake and moved off. A few yards down the road K panicked, demanded Clay to stop and jumped out the yute to check she had her handbag.

Later he explained our lovers; Josh and Mark had witnessed the whole ‘Great Escape’ from their trailer window.... All in all it was the worst escape in history!

The next day K received an incoherent text message from Mark, “k2y3g h£$ egr you all hfgg s6gdejgba b\x/hg” after much debating we decided to interpret his rambling as him wishing us the best of luck.

Wolf Creek, the sequel

Carny life was going swimmingly, brain cells had degenerated and we came accustom to having dogwoods and chips for breakfast. One of our rare afternoons off we decided to explore the nearest town (Lismore) with only a handful of shops, mainly charity ones. In a music shop we met a boy called Clay who had a feisty little parrot shitting all over him and his computer. He invited us over to his, we jumped at an invitation as worryingly carnival competition of making us their showie wives was growing even more aggressive by the day. “Aaaah fuck ‘A’ don’t talk to her A”


He picked us up with his friend in his yute, trucks that look like 4 wheel drives but are in fact only 2. We jumped in the back speeding down the highway, looking up at the stars with the wind in our hair with the joint realisation of just how happy we were.

Over a few drinks and the usual small talk, the topic of the outback arose. They said they would take us 4 wheel driving in the bush along the fire tracks – routes no standard car can handle. We were keen for a new adventure and with little resistance got in the back of the yute, pissed as farts and drove into the bush.

There was a flood of excited screaming as the yute roared over fallen tree trunks and huge cracks in the mud. However, forty minutes later it was becoming ever more evident that the car was not able to handle the severity of the tracks. Clay was silent, concentrating on keeping control of the vehicle. The novelty of being thrown around in a yute was wearing off, conversation quickly turned to the subject of going home. Clay then announced that our expedition was still only a third of the way through. Moreover, due to the intensity and steep gradient of the tracks we could not turn back. We were forced to carry on. The night seamed to appear darker, the bumps more aggressive, the jolting more unbearable and the desire for home ever greater. With butterflies’ in our stomachs, we hoped that every ditch would be the last. Looking over at Clay hoping to hear him say we were on the home stretch he grew particularly nervous.

Then “Oh, Fuck” ... A piercing hissing sound.

“What is that!?””

‘Tiers blown, we’ve got a flat fucking tire’

K laughs ‘are you joking?’

The hissing sound coming from the back tier grew louder, he wasn’t joking.

We had never sobered up so fast. There was no spare tire, no signal on our phones, no water and no one knew where we were. We had a torch, 2 sleeping bags and 3 bottles of Smirnoff ice – Bear Grills would NOT have been proud! Staying by the car would have been pointless as only fire trucks and the odd idiot ventured through the bush. The consensus was to walk to the nearest logging road, which was over 8kms away...

Being city girls we had never seen night so black... It was all too much...

 

Eventually we reached a road, however it brought us no closer to getting home or having a glass of water. Arguments flared on whether we should carry on walking or set camp, light a fire and sleep until morning. Opting to stay put, resulted in insect attacks, low temperatures we didn’t know Australia was capable of, taking turns in collecting fire wood and listening to jokes about aboriginals coming out of the bush to spear us.

After four long sleepless hours with the fire on its last legs there was a rumbling in the distance and a faint glow through the dense growth. The light got brighter and the grumbling loader – it was an ultimate wolf creek moment. To the relief of all four of us it was a logging truck on its way to collect timber at five in the morning. We ran into the middle of the road, desperately waiving our arms hoping to be seen. The huge truck grinded to a holt and the door swung open. The logger looked startled and confused but after hearing our story told us to get in. A rush of relief as the prospect of getting home come over us, the ordeal was over! The logger radioed his colleagues so a fellow logger drove past to take the boys home while the man who picked us up would take us to the other side of Lismore. The boys were uneasy with such arrangements but feeling lethargic from the warmth of the truck we didn’t offer much opposition.

We began what we thought was the journey home. He offered us his breakfast – the edible gifts settled us down and we drifted off to sleep. Waking after an uncomfortable nap we clocked that he was back in the thick of the bush, picking up another load of wood. Then again... he dropped it off and picked up another load. We had been in his truck for 3 hours! Lismore having been around 40 minutes maximum from where he found us, tentatively we asked him when he would be dropping us off, “soon, you sheilas need to rest”. It felt like a never ending ordeal.

Driving through a logging station with signal the phone rang; it was Clay, “where are you girls, been tryin’ to call you for hours!” On the phone he told us that their truck driver tried to radio ours, but that our truck’s radio appeared switched off. Only when our tones changed and we stared to get stubborn, showing our obvious discomfort towards him and the wasted unneeded hours in his truck did he drop us off, 6 hours after the boys.

We arrived back to a worried group of cranys with a mixed reception of relief and anger. One of the older showies who had daughters of his own coldly reminded us Wolf Creek stories aren’t always fictional. Our hitching & spontaneous late night drives stopped there...     For now!

Two trailer park girls go round the outside

2 weeks of non-stop partying consequently meant it was time to find work. Conventionally you hand round CV’s into every bar/cafe/kebab shop/brothel around. But k and I chose to be less conventional – finding a hand written notice saying...


“ 2 female travellers needed for work. Good pay, free accommodation” grammar and spelling just as genie as us...it was a sign from GOD. We rang up spoke to a partly unconscious deep voice, got the jobs, packed up our shit and embarked on our new adventure.

The bus pulled up at Casino, Australia’s beef capital. And we were ushered to a working class funfair with a few retired ponies and rusty rides. We darted dodge ‘what the fuck?!?’ looks to one another as we were given keys to our new home, a trailer.

Our ‘Pinkies’ show work colleges consisted of Mark, josh, Wes and Mary fuck Anne..

Mark. Type 1 error of being ginger and covered in mutated freckles was nothing short of a psychopath. Decades of severe drug and alcohol abuse, serious learning difficulties and 7 convictions ranging from drug dealing to GBH meant he was an interesting character. Conversation with Mark was limited, awkward and usually through a small window of our trailer. He’d mumble and stutter usually offering a “cone” (Aussie term for a bong) or a “KFC” thrusting his deranged face or gifts through our window.

Josh. Type 1 error for only having 3 small black teeth and a BMI of a 6 year old was considerably more compos mentis. He also had a colourful array of convictions and claimed to be an extraordinary cook. We asked for scallops he gave us potato scallops...trialling his cookery skill we soon realized he talked absolute bullshit as I think you’d all agree, a jar of tomatoe sauce n pasta is not gourmet cuisine. He had no bank account, passport, driver’s license, national security number – he thought that all being very ‘cool’.

Mary Fuck Anne. Type 1 error of being a fat, Green Day obsessed mutton dressed as lamb. Smoked like a chimney, ate like a pig and general conversation of “fuck where fuck are my fucking smokes aye fuck spewing aye fuucckk.. fucking Boys fucking stole my fucking smokes fuuuuck... fuck ... FUCK... “Having to share a trailer with her was nothing short of painful. The slut cornered us in the trailer with a raw bleeding slab of cows’ liver and asked if we thought it was ok to cook. She was number one on our shit list.

Wes. Type 2 error of marrying a female showie and breeding an inbreed pack of children. Was a racist, arrogant, illiterate plank who happened to be our boss.

Our jobs were to sell either dodgem car or bouncy castle tickets to a bunch of inbred Australians and aboriginal kids. We worked 16 hour shifts in horrendous lycra, pink shirts. Different carnies would attempt to communicate with us by shoving Dagwoods ( meat substitute and bread deep fried) dripping with ketchup into our ticket boxes. They would offer us cones (bongs) sometimes as early as 8 in the morning. We would set up and take down the rides with no training after a few too many Jim Beans.

And yes we pissed in our trailer shower because we couldn’t be arsed to walk to the toilet – don’t judge. 

Get Down

It was always going to take a lot of beating after an insane 2009 new year – ‘2manydjs’ never made it to Custard Factory but we weren’t to know thanks to being shit faced and surround by the world’s greatest company (you know who you are!) But last minute plans meant 2010 was greeted by a crazy pre-drinks in a swanky Brisbane hotel with two equally insane Ozzy girls followed by the one and only 'JACK BEATS'. JACK fuck me BEATS for only $19 (£10) because the majority of Australians wouldn’t know good music if it shat in their coffee.


We remained at the front for the entire two hour set sweating like race horses. They dropped all the massive tunes – it felt like home all over again. After a breather, pretending we had aboriginal husbands to ransoms on the smoking terrace, we came face to face with JACK FUCK ME BEATS.

4sum

 And yes, they sooooo wanted to take us back to their hotel room and who’s to know if we actually did?!?