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General Hunting

06 Thursday Oct 2016

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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General Hunting and Aide de Camp

In this gripping final episode, Gregor comes to grips with a mug

Within seconds of our arrival, the shed door swung open, and a middle-aged man emerged. Clad in more military attire than a North Korean general, he sported so many medals on his chest that he had developed an alarming lean to the left. He was also armed to the teeth. I stopped counting the guns and knives he carried when the combined glint of the sunlight on his medals rendered my temporarily blind.

I lurched forward to introduce myself – but in the time it would take an ordinary mortal to utter the words “stolen valour”, I was intercepted and asked politely, but firmly, to kneel in the dirt and consent to what turned out to be quite an invasive search of my pockets, shirt, torso and genital region. No one, not even an African warlord’s henchman, wanted to touch my anus.

Convinced that I wasn’t carrying a harmful weapon, the leader of the group motioned for me to stand, and extended a hand in welcome.

“I am General Hunting,” the man said. “General Goodwill Hunting.”

The flash of warning that came from Godwin’s eyes suggested that now would not be a good moment to acknowledge what would otherwise have turned out to be the best pun of this entire story.

“I am informed that you are here to enquire about our coffee, yes?” he asked. “I am happy to provide you with coffee. Would you like one kilogram? Ten kilograms? However much you require, I am happy to do business and able to provide whatever quantity you need.”

It sounded like a reasonable business transaction – but Mr Hunting’s use of “air quotes” whenever he mentioned the word “coffee” was beginning to make me “suspicious” of his “good intentions”.

I asked to see the produce. He agreed – and I was led, at gunpoint, into the garden shed, where it turned out that the “air quotes” for “coffee” meant that the “coffee” was, in fact, “cocaine”.

Mr Hunting had established the plantation as a front, using this particular part of Nigeria – long established as a waypoint on trans-African trade routes since around the time that man invented the camel – as a storage facility for high-grade narcotics making their way from South America to various Middle Eastern countries, as well as Portugal.

My hatred of all things Portuguese was, it turns out, well-founded.

After agreeing on a price for one kilogram of “coffee”, I convinced Mr Hunting to let me retire to the vehicle to retrieve the cash, before finalising the transaction. Once free of the confines of the garden shed, I bolted to the car – only to find Godwin alone behind the wheel.

“We need to leave. NOW!” I calmly informed him at the top of my lungs. “We have about 60 seconds before they realize something’s gone really badly wrong and the shooting starts. Where is Ajagbe?”

“Ajagbe is gone,” came the cheerfully despondent reply. “He has joined Boko Haram. He was offered 72 virgins – and despite using my satellite phone to try to negotiate a better deal with our Human Resources department, it was an offer that they were unwilling and unable to match.”

“Dammit… Let’s get moving.”

“I would love to, sir – but I cannot,” Godwin said. “We are waiting on another passenger… a cousin of mine who is a Nigerian prince, requiring safe passage from this region, and help relocating USD$4.8 million in misappropriated foreign aid, stolen from his bank by militant accountants, to fund a coup. I promised his mother, who has been emailing me for months, that I would help at the first available opportunity.”

Part of me died.

I patiently requested information as to Godwin’s cousin’s whereabouts, and mid-answer there came a tap-tap-tap on the window. Peering out, and expecting to take a number of 7.62x39mm rounds of ammunition to the face, I was both amazed and distressed to see him; Dressed to the nines in traditional robes most often associated with horrible Hollywood stereotypes, stood Godwin’s cousin, Mubuku.

He was, understandably, upset by being dragged bodily into the vehicle via the window – but within moments, we were underway, headed for the relative safety of Lagos and my flight back to normality.

We had travelled less than 50km when, through entirely calm and rational discussion delivered at staggering volumes, it was decided that it was completely unsafe for us to be travelling by road with Mubuku, or anyone closely associated with him, in the car. With around 1550km left to drive, I made an executive decision.

They would travel in the boot. I would pretend to be the least offensive white person in the world (a Canadian) and break as many land-speed records as I could getting to the airport. When Godwin and Mukubu vehemently recorded their opposition to the idea, I was left with no choice.

Calmly, and gently, I put one hand on Godwin’s right cheek, and the other on Mukubu’s left cheek. I looked them both in the eye, and spent 45 difficult seconds pounding their heads together until neither of them moved.

Luckily for me, there was plenty of room in the trunk of this particular six-cylinder, luxuriously-appointed Mercedes sedan. Shuffling my luggage to one side, I was able to fit both of these fully grown African men in the trunk – safe in the knowledge that even if they did regain consciousness, the eight-speaker Bose sound system would help keep them entertained until we arrived at our destination.

The drive back to Lagos took a scant 27 hours, the final nine of which were spent in a traffic jam within sight of the airport. While waiting in traffic, I was amazed to discover that someone had managed to steal my shoes without me even realising that they had been able to break into in the car at all.

I happily ditched the Mercedes at the airport carpark, released Godwin and Mubuke from the trunk, placed my bags upon a luggage trolley and spent a good nine minutes swearing at Godwin, calling down the kinds of curses that would have made the authors of the Book of Revelation weep with embarrassment at how paltry their efforts had turned out to be.

Just as I ran out of breath, an explosion rocked the domestic terminal, less than a kilometre away.

“Happy Friday!”, Godwin sobbed.

It was the final straw. I turned on my heel, and strode purposefully away, pausing only momentarily in anguish when I realized that my return ticket was aboard an Air France flight, with three stopovers between here and home. In economy class.

I checked my bags, cleared immigration, and went to endure the unending horrors of a general public boarding lounge in central Africa. Fatigued beyond belief, I sought some form of stimulation… and then saw a sign.

“Café Neo”, it said. The only coffee chain in Africa, and destined to be the Starbucks of the developing world. I walked on what felt like broken limbs and shoes filled with molten glass, and ordered a café latte, one sugar.

The barista, noting my haggard face, worked like a Trojan to produce my coffee – the only coffee I had seen since I set foot in Nigeria, despite the entire reason for coming here in the first place.

He set it down on the counter. I grasped it with both hands, lest my shaking limbs spill even one drop of this precious elixir. I lifted it to my lips, inhaling the heady aromas, and sipped.

It was truly fucking awful.

The writer travelled as a guest of Emirates, and Air France, and lodgings were provided courtesy of the Lagos Oriental Hotel, and the Nigerian Tourism Development Corporation.

Just Drive, Godwin…

05 Wednesday Oct 2016

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Gregor, roasted, grounds to a halt

Leaving Lagos is like Leaving Las Vegas – interminably long, difficult to experience and by about 20 minutes in, one is left with a profound desire to kill Nicholas Cage and get everything over and done with, but without the sustained horror of watching Elisbath Shue be brutally assaulted via the “tradesman’s entrance” by a college football player, whose name was probably Chad.

But once we had hit the open road, I felt that I could relax, and begin some more background research with Ajagbe’s assistance. I began by asking about Nigeria’s ongoing passion for coffee.

“Oh, yes sir! Nigerians are very much learning to love coffee!” he enthused. “Two entrepreneurs from Lagos have started their own coffee chain, and according to their press releases, they will soon be the Starbucks of Africa! I have been to one of their three shops in Lagos. Neo Café is the best coffee in the whole of Africa!”

He paused.

“Except for Kenya… their coffee is amazing.”

I interrupted his misguided tirade.

“No, no… I want to know about the rich traditional heritage that Nigeria has for growing coffee beans,” I demanded. “I have travelled all this way to find the most exclusive coffee bean in the world, and I want to know its history.”

“Sir… I believe there is something that you must understand,” he replied. “Yes, there is coffee grown in Nigeria. And yes, the UN says that Nigeria is the ninth-largest producer of coffee beans in the world. However, that’s not entirely true. In fact, according to a report from the Nigerian Federal Government, Nigeria has not produced a single coffee bean since 2013. That is why it is so highly prized… because, according to the government, it doesn’t exist – which means no one can export it, which means no one can buy it, which means no one can drink it.”

My heart sank. Quickly revisiting my research on my laptop, I double-checked the Wikipedia links that I had bookmarked for offline viewing. Sure enough, the UN’s assertions about Nigeria turned out to be entirely untrue.

Nigeria is listed as only the 40th-largest coffee-producing nation in the world. And, upon that Wikipedia page, the link that should lead to the entry outlining “Coffee Production in Nigeria” is an ominous red – and the URL confirms that “The Page Does Not Exist.”

Panic set in. Had I been hoodwinked? Sent on a wild goose chase by the anonymous bearded hipsters that haunt my favourite café, Flicking the Bean, which is centrally located on the bustling inner-city shopping, dining and entertainment precinct of Newtown and offers an extensive all-day breakfast menu coupled with friendly service and very reasonable prices, considering all of their food is organic and they don’t charge extra for gluten free?

Worse still, was I currently in a vehicle, headed for the far-flung Sambisa Forest, in search of a coffee plantation that was even more of a phantom than my ability to pay for my incredibly luxurious flight from Sydney to Lagos in the First Class cabin of Emirates airlines, where no request is too difficult for the staff and the dining options make a prolonged and steadfast mockery of every stand-up comedy gag about airline food ever made by the likes of Jerry Seinfeld, who could afford to fly First Class on Emirates but doesn’t because it would completely ruin his ‘what is the ‘dee-yul’… with the peanuts… on airplanes’ jokes?

I needed to think. And I think best when I am asleep – so I took a leaf from every other car-bound person in Nigeria, pretended to be stuck in traffic, closed my eyes and drifted off…

Final Destination

When I opened my eyes, I was greeted by the grinning visage of Godwin, who chirpily announced that we had arrived in Sambisa Forest, where – he assured me – we would find the only viable coffee plantation in Nigeria.

It was owned, Ajagbe went on to explain, by a local warlord whose affiliation with a local jihadist group was a source of only minor concern. This region was “comparatively safe”, Ajagbe said.

“Define ‘comparatively’,” I said.

“Okay… compared to… say… trying to survive on the surface of Venus, this region is considered ‘safe’,” he said.

The Russians have sent more than a dozen probes to the surface of Venus. None of them lasted more than an hour in temperatures that hover around 426 degrees Celsius, coupled with an atmospheric pressure that beats even the depths of the Mariana Trench and incessant showers of almost pure sulphuric acid.

Needless to say, I wasn’t convinced – but I was impressed by Ajagbe’s knowledge of the nearest planet in the solar system to earth. The infomercials I’ve seen must be working – and eating bibles must actually help people learn.

Godwin drove us to our accommodation, a former hunting lodge on the boundary of what is now the Chad Basin National Park, a former safari venue for wealthy Americans with more bullets than empathy, and people called Chad who like to hurt things that they will never, ever have a chance to understand, because they are all Neanderthals with nothing but sexual conquest at any cost on their mind.

Sorry.

These days, according to the literature I found in the reception area of the lodge, the hunting of animals has stopped entirely, and “the only kind of shooting allowed here is with a camera!”

The unmistakable crackle of small arms fire in the near-distance belied that particular claim – and each burst of fire was greeted with the now-familiar cry of “Happy Thursday!”, accompanied by the kind of increasingly guilty looks usually worn by those who know that they’re lying, know that they’ve been found out, but have decided to persist with the ruse on the off chance that the person they are lying to might have a stroke and forget everything that has happened in the past 14 days.

The lodge was, to be kind, a complete shambles. We were met at what passed for a reception area by a surly chap in military greens, brandishing a Soviet-era AK-47 – arguably the most menacing welcome to a hotel that I had received since I attempted to check in at the Rynek Główny hotel in Krakow without offering the requisite bottle of imported vodka to grease the wheels of arranging a room.

For a barely sub-Saharan area, this reception was confusingly frosty.

I found my room, let myself in and was horrified at the state of it. The bedclothes were filthy, and bundled at the foot of the bed, where they had clearly been left by the previous tenant – who, if I were a gambling man, I would bet had less than 24 hours to meet with a doctor before what could only be described as “a catastrophic failure of the bowel” occurred and he shat himself to death.

I marched back to reception, and demanded to know why my room was in such a state.

“The maids… they have all been taken,” was the reply.

“By whom, and to where?” I enquired.

“Boko Haram, and to Paradise,” came the response.

“That’s all fine and dandy… but I’ve done my homework on this region,” I shouted. “It was only a few weeks ago that local Governor Kashim Shettima had pledged millions of Nigerian Naira to help fight chronic unemployment. There must be people lined up for miles to come and work here. Where are they?”

“We cannot employ them because they do not have the required level of education,” I was told.

“Again, I’ve done my research… and that makes no sense!” I exclaimed. “Right now, the student to teacher ratio around here is better than most of the developed world! How can education be so poor, when that is the case?”

“… It’s because Boko Haram have abducted all of the students as well.”

Momentarily flummoxed, I bellowed until Godwin arrived. I suggested quite forcefully that it might be time for me to get to this coffee plantation, get my story, and move on. Nigeria, I told Godwin’s crestfallen face, was becoming my own personal Fall of Saigon. I wanted to take what was obviously an ignominious defeat, portray it as a victory, and fly home as soon as humanly possible – just like the American army in 1975.

We needed to move, and move fast. Godwin, myself and the strangely increasingly-distant Ajagbe got back into the car, and drove for an hour into the wilds of Borno State, the most north-eastern province of Nigeria. The principle exports of Borno State are – for those of you playing Trivial Pursuit while reading this story – rubber, and cocoa. Coffee, it would appear, is a long way down the list. In fact, it is so far down the list, that it doesn’t actually appear on the list – a list which includes words like “sorghum” and “yams”, which are clearly made up by someone who enjoys editing Wikipedia pages when they are drunk and lonely.

So you can imagine my surprise when we stopped in a clearing beside an aluminium garden shed, guarded by four young men who fairly bristled with weaponry. A sign above the aluminium shed clearly read “Simbisa Coffee Concern, Est. 1978” – and there was even a picture of a cappuccino.

Tomorrow:  General Hunting

Loving Lagos

03 Monday Oct 2016

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Gregor Conrad takes us deeper into the heart of Africa in search of the elusive bean…

The streets of Lagos fairly hummed with activity, as the residents made their way through the day-to-day activities for which Africa is duly famous. Nigeria is among the more developed African nations, but even still I was surprised at the number of locals who had taken to using cars as their chosen mode of transport.

I asked Godwin how far it was to the hotel.

“It is barely 35 kilometres, sir,” he smiled. “It should not take us longer than four or five hours to get there. If we are lucky, we will beat the peak hour traffic.”

As I contemplated getting out and hiring someone to carry my bags for me as I took the quicker option of walking through the oppressive heat of the afternoon, what sounded suspiciously like an explosion erupted nearby.

“Happy Tuesday!” Godwin beamed. “We do love our fireworks!”

The traffic delay became something of a farce within a very short space of time, and we were rapidly surrounded on all sides by other stationary vehicles. It wasn’t long before the driver in the car next to ours switched off his engine, reclined his seat and went to sleep.

“This man here,” Godwin chuckled. “He has the right idea of sleeping. This traffic is truly awful.”

I asked Godwin why the traffic is so bad.

“Ah yes,” he nodded sagely. “It is mostly because a lot of people like to stop their car and go to sleep. In Nigerian custom, it is considered very impolite to interrupt another person’s sleep with your own problems. That is why they are usually left to sleep.”

“But… surely people only sleep when the traffic is as bad as this…”, I opined.

“This is true, sir, yes,” Godwin replied. “They sleep because the traffic is bad, and the traffic is bad because they sleep. Perhaps one day, we will discover a solution to the problem, and then the traffic will not be so bad.”

Taking my cue from Godwin, who was beginning to open up further about his beloved Nigeria, I began to ask about what life was truly like here. As all experienced travellers, such as myself, will attest – the life of a visitor is often vastly different to the life of the locals.

“Oh, Nigeria is a wonderful place,” he said. “There is much to do and see, with many things that are a lot safer than people will tell you. Why, here in Lagos, the many different cultures that make up our people have become a melting pot!”

On that note, Godwin was quite correct. Nigeria, and Lagos in particular, has become something of a poster child for African economic success. The bustling business district has adopted a very African take on the 1980s Wall Street ethos of “Greed is Good” – and the slogan “Get Very Rich” is in the hearts and minds of its many inhabitants.

Such is the extent to which this has been taken to heart, in 2012 Nigeria’s GDP eclipsed that of South Africa, a nation whose economic growth has been faltering since the fall of Apartheid, according to Godwin. He stopped just short of blaming the former all-white leadership for abandoning the people of South Africa under an onslaught of international outrage over apparent institutionalized racism.

Many people see Lagos as the unofficial capital of Nigeria, an easy mistake to make, largely because Lagos was the capital until 1991, when Abuja became the federally mandated capital of the country. Abuja was chosen, I suspect, because it is just shy of 750km from Lagos, meaning insurgents and would-be military dictators would be far more likely to be dissuaded from staging a coup when they faced driving such a distance in appalling traffic.

I asked Godwin about the reports of rampant crime and social dysfunction, the main reason why Nigeria is often seen as a very dangerous country, which drew a hearty laugh from my guide.

“There is no crime problem here, no,” Godwin laughed. “The Nigerian people have been unfairly categorized as criminals all around the world, but it is simply not true.”

It turned out to be an inopportune time for Godwin to be boasting about his countrymen’s sense of civility. Mere seconds after he had sought to rest my mind assured that Nigeria was safe, two young men quickly and expertly relieved Godwin’s vehicle of its headlights as we waited in the traffic. Needless to say, I was shocked.

“Aren’t you going to do anything about that?” I asked.

“There is not much I can do,” Godwin frowned. “It is a shame to see my fellow Nigerians resorting to such petty thievery. It makes me very, very sad… and it will certainly going to make driving home tonight much, much harder than before. We are not easy people to see in the dark.”

At that moment, another loud boom shook the car, this one much closer than before. Glancing out the window, I could see a large plume of dust and smoke curling up from behind a nearby high-rise building.

“Happy Tuesday!” Godwin shouted glumly, as he peered into the rear vision mirror, watching three more enterprising young men removing his brake lights, before escaping into the throng of pedestrians that now moved freely between the stationary vehicles on the road.

“Are all of the young people here thieves?” I asked Godwin politely.

“No, not all,” Godwin smirked sadly. “Most of Nigerians are honest, hard-working people with steady jobs. My brother, for instance, works for one of my country’s thousands of princes, writing letters to ask for assistance in relocating funds that have been wrongly seized by the military during coup season, which runs from March to October every year.”

“But yes, I shall admit, there are many thieves in my country,” Godwin continued despondently, with a sparkle in his eye. “This, you have already seen for yourself. Please, be careful. They are crafty devils, sir, who would steal the milk from your coffee if you give them half a chance.”

The mention of coffee reminded me of what had prompted my journey, and I asked Godwin when we would be travelling north to find the plantation I sought.

“Tomorrow, we will go,” Godwin sulked buoyantly. “If we are to leave early, we will only catch the end of today’s traffic jam, hopefully before tomorrow’s has a chance to catch up.”

“When we do go north, it is vital that you follow my instructions,” he continued. “Here in the city, it is quite safe.”

Another small explosion sounded somewhere far away.

“Happy Tuesday!” Godwin exclaimed solemnly. “But yes, here in the city is safe. Australians are welcomed here, especially journalists. The only thing I must warn you is that you must never, ever reveal to anyone that you are a homosexual. Nigerian people are not at all tolerant of homosexual people.”

“But I am not a homosexual!” I protested.

“That’s the spirit!” Godwin smiled.

Mildly outraged by Godwin’s complete mischaracterization of my impeccable dress sense, we passed the remaining four hours of traffic jam in silence, arriving at my hotel – the Lagos Oriental, on the far side of the Lagos lagoon from the city itself.

Lagos Lagoon gets its name from the Portuguese word for lakes (lagos) – giving the large body of water here the ridiculous translated name of Lakes Lagoon, and cementing forever my long-held belief that the Portuguese should never have been allowed to name anything, ever.

Speaking of names, it was at this point that I pondered the name of my hotel for a short moment, and decided that the irony of latent racism is lost on the relentlessly cheerful Nigerian people. Oriental? Really? It was probably named by the Portuguese as well. And while we’re on the topic, whoever named Niger deserves to be boxed around the ears – and whoever decided to name the nation of Chad after every football-playing date-rapist from Brisbane with a propensity for stealing other people’s wives also deserves a stern talking-to.

Finally, we reached the hotel. Thanking Godwin, I left the car, and was alarmed that someone had managed to steal the front and rear bumpers of the vehicle without me even noticing it was occurring. I remarked on this particular turn of events, eliciting a world-weary shrug of Godwin’s shoulders, and the remark that this would make it much more difficult to survive crashing into the pedestrians who are very hard to see in the dark.

When Godwin popped open the trunk, and I waved to a porter to fetch my luggage and wheel it upon a trolley into the hotel’s beautifully-appointed reception.

The resulting chase on foot was mercifully brief, and the young man in the borrowed porter’s uniform was promptly and severely thrashed by the side of the road by several very enthusiastic passers-by. I trudged back to the hotel through the African dusk, pushing the luggage trolley and glaring at anyone that came within three feet, and eventually made it to the check-in desk.

“I have a room booked here. I was promised the finest suite in the hotel,” I said.

A nearby explosion and gunfire rattled the building, sending a small shower of plaster dust from the ceiling onto the beautifully polished, solid marble counter in front of me. The desk clerk quickly checked a calendar on the desk, before looking up at me and smiling benignly.

“It would seem that our Happy Tuesday celebrations are in full swing!” he said. “Now, if you would be so kind as to provide a credit card.”

And it was there that I cut him off. I had been warned of Nigerian financial scams, and this brazen approach bore all the hallmarks of a sophisticated attempt to raid my bank account while I slept.

“I am afraid I do not possess a credit card,” I said. “I do not believe in attempting to enjoy anything in life that I do not have the means to purchase outright on my own behalf. Besides – I do believe that this room has been arranged by the office of the NTDC – any and all expenses should be directed to them.”

“As you so desire, sir,” the desk clerk responded, a reply as slick and smooth as silk stockings on the legs of a slightly plump young woman named Mary, who wore them as a special treat for me one evening to a midnight screening of Ishtar. I shall never forget the tactile experience of running my fingertips over her knee, the chill of the air conditioning and the overwhelming pungency of popcorn pervading a cinema utterly devoid of patrons, save for Mary and myself. That should have been the night we consummated our passion, but as my knee-rubbing became more pronounced and my intentions more obvious, a sudden sneeze from the projection booth reminded me that we were not, as I had hoped, alone and unobserved.

Mary should have been my first, but I was cruelly denied, and any subsequent chance to spend hour upon hour exploring her exquisite form was also extinguished when I accidentally reversed over her in the driveway of her parents’ home in Chatswood, such was my hurry to get home and relieve myself of the pent-up sexual pressures of 107 minutes of rather vigorous knee-touching. The relationship would probably have ended there, but for the fact that I spent several long, difficult weeks at her bedside in hospital.

At one point, when her surgeons announced that she was near death and had only minutes to live, I proposed and she gave her consent by blinking twice. We were married 15 minutes later by the hospital chaplain. Three days later, she was released from hospital in a full-body plaster cast that restricted movement for her, and access to the parts of her that a husband might otherwise enjoy. Two days later, I returned from work to find that she had been swept off her feet by a hospital orderly called Chad, whose claim to fame was a brief stint in the second reserves for the Brisbane Broncos, until he was let go following a nightclub scandal, a 17 year old girl, and a quantity of sedatives purloined from Chad’s mother’s medicine cabinet.

But I digress.

“Here is your room key, sir,” the desk clerk said. “The dining room is open from 6:00pm – if you would like to dine downstairs, please call down to reception and we will send an armed escort upstairs to guide you to your table.”

“The lift to you your room is on the far side of the lobby, next to the piano,” he continued. “Go up to the ninth floor, turn right and you will find your room at the far end of the hall. Please… enjoy your stay.”

I strode purposefully across the lobby with my bags, following the desk clerk’s directions, and arrived at the lift just in time to see four extremely ambitious young men attempting to steal the piano. As the door to the lift closed, I could see a crowd gathering, getting ready to administer a beating.

“God speed, you plucky young gents,” I said to myself, and the lift lurched spastically, beginning the final stage of my journey to my room.

The room itself was beyond even my wildest expectations. I had been granted the full amenities of the Presidential Suite, which – in the interests of full disclosure – had been paid for by the Nigerian Tourism Development Corporation. The bill for the suite totaled 462,000 Nigerian Naira, per night.

I considered the fact that this was roughly 70 percent of the average Nigerian annual wage, which might sound quite a hefty sum, until one factors in the sheer oppulence this 300-square-metre island of solace, with its sweeping views of Five Cowrie Creek, and features such as the full leather couch, so startlingly red that it resembled a kiss from a high class escort that could comfortably seat seven people.

A king-sized bed awaited me – and I could not help but wonder how many Nigerian princes had slept in this bed before me.

Tomorrow – “North to Destiny”

Irresponsibility

05 Sunday May 2013

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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Story by Gregor Stronach

As I lay recovering from my recent birthday, where a quiet evening’s drink turned into a beer and acid fuelled weekend of ultimate confusion, I began to formulate many theories on irresponsibility. I feel bad because I drank so much beer. I also feel bad that I have, technically speaking, broken the ridiculous laws that demand that my consciousness remain seated at all times while the carriage is in motion. Why? Because Society would have us believe that being irresponsible is a terrible thing indeed.

Recent major events, both personal and involving the population at large, have given me reason to pause and consider the nature of irresponsibility. It has the twin abilities of making us cry and laugh. Crying is good for the soul, and laugher is, of course, the best medicine there is. Unless you have stitches in your scrotum. Then it’s bad. But even then, irresponsible things can be good, and a quick look will tell you that they’re happening all around us all the time.

I watched in awe as Albert Park was turned into a high-speed demolition derby yet again, by the travelling freak show that is Formula 1 motor racing. I love motor racing, but really – is it a good idea to be showing vehicles travelling in excess of 300 km/h on what are, essentially, public roads? Not to be outdone, some idiot came up with the idea of cramming celebrities into Minis and setting them loose on the track.

Everyone knows that celebrities, particularly Aussie celebrities, are competitive to the point of self-harm when it comes to getting their share of the limited exposure the Australian media can offer. Given half a chance, you’ll find them stepping over each other’s dead bodies in the street to get their heads on TV. Hell – they’ll even stoop to posing nude in ‘art’ magazine Black+White for a career boosting moment of pervy fame.

So giving them moderately powerful small cars and letting them try to kill each other live on national TV was probably not the most responsible thing to do.

We’ve seen irresponsibility recently in the Australian state of New South Wales’ politics as well. I question the responsibility of the two major parties trying desperately to one-up each other on the level of punishments that they’re willing to force the judiciary to mete out to hapless criminals. But God bless the Greens in New South Wales for their visionary policy that will neatly remove the seedy side of purchasing party drugs. No one’s gonna vote for them for suggesting that the state legalise pills and speed, but bless them for giving it a go. I really do think that once they manage to crowbar Cheech and Chong from their policy committee, they’ll finally begin to get somewhere. Until then, the paperless office is ought but a nightmare for the Greens – skinning up a joint with no paper is going to be a big ask, people.

My personal life has taken an irresponsible turn as well. I was granted my unrestricted motorcycle licence, merely for achieving the milestone of turning 30 years of age. Having been restricted to riding 250cc bikes, some of which are plenty fast enough, I suddenly found myself aboard what can only be described as one of the most irresponsible pieces of machinery in the world – a Suzuki Bandit 1200 S.

It sounds impressive if you know what I’m talking about, but if don’t, just consider this. Small Korean cars are being shipped to Australia for sale to secretaries and wives with 1.3-litre engines. This bike’s engine is a 1.2-litre. The main difference between the two machines is the weight. A small Korean car with a 1.3-litre engine weighs about 1200kg. The Suzuki weighs in at 220kg.

The short explanation of these facts – the Suzuki goes fast. The long explanation, for anyone still with me here, is that it accelerates like a jet fighter, and has a tendency to take off like one too. I did an enormous wheelie out the front of my parents house whilst trying to show off the bike’s abilities. I made it home in record time from my folks house, despite having to stop and clean out my trousers.

A touch of irresponsibility isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It’s important to keep our inner child alive. Not to the extent that Michael Jackson would have you believe, but life without a shade of irresponsibility would be like living in a mausoleum.

But the level to which some of us exercise our irresponsibility is a tad over the top. For example, dragging an entire geographically isolated nation of questionable economic and political power into a war on the other side of the globe for interests that are clearly never going to be high on our list of priorities is a bit much.

Sadly, as with everything fun in life, it appears that moderation is once again the key.

First published by Rum & Monkey  back when men were men.

An Open Letter to the Management and Patrons of the Pigs Arms

06 Friday May 2011

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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A little something Gregor dug up.....

By Gregor Stronach

Dear Mike et al,

I don’t write for fun anymore.

I know, I know… What an appalling statement to put on paper. Or type on screen. Or even think at all. For someone whose burning desire for the bulk of their adult life was to bring mirth to the millions (or at least chuckles to the occasional Internet Random) through inadequately researched satire, the admission that I’ve not told a joke in anger in years is horrible.

I’ve become everything I despised: grown-up, middle-aged, mortgage-paying “Dad” – complete with questionable fashion sense and a secret desire to donkey-punch young, single men in the back of the head whenever I see them having fun and not being responsible for anything other than themselves.

Not that I’m bitter. No. I’m fine. Just… tired. Hence, cranky. Ergo, quite likely to punch anyone who still plays video games past the age of 30. You know… those guys.

Still, I shouldn’t complain. It’s been a long time coming, and it’s not like my life is over or anything.

I should, at this point, definitely clarify that having a family is one of the single most joy-inducing things I’ve ever done. Having a mortgage, sadly, is not. So the combination of the two means that, with the world’s (and my) finances being what they are, I still write.

But only for money. And never for fun.

At least, that’s how it’s been for the past two years – which, coincidentally as it turns out, is the exact period of time that the Pigs Arms has been open.

Now, if I were Andrew Bolt or Miranda Devine, I could simply make the logical leap that it’s because of the Pigs Arms that I don’t write for fun anymore. Think about it. There’s no such thing as coincidence. You’re open for business, and my mind has snapped shut like a mouse trap on Mickey.

I’ve been paralysed from the cortex, down. I’m the Christopher Reeve of writing.

However, if I really were Andrew Bolt or Miranda Devine, I’d be too busy pandering to my audience of half-brained skull-fucks in tinfoil hats to make an actual point. And, having neatly avoided doing so, I shall deftly change tack.

No one will notice.

See?

I shouldn’t be focussing on me. I should be focussing on the achievement of somebody, somewhere, flicking a virtual switch and hanging this site’s shingle out for the world to see. Creating a haven for those of us who were burned once, twice or three times too many by the Bad Man from Aunty.

I mean, seriously – I know that the god-fearing, tax-paying slack-jaws of Penrith and beyond probably don’t necessarily like the idea that their 33c a day might end up lining the pockets of some left-wing “satirist”, whose every article was – in current internet parlance – trolling, and nothing more.

(I secretly think that, just perhaps, they caught on. Which is why I’m not welcome there anymore. I hope so – surely no editor could be so transparently and terminally stupid. Can they?)

I shouldn’t complain, really. They published every single thing I ever offered them, regardless of how mean-spirited it was. But, at last count, my ‘renegotiated-in-my-absence-and-no-longer-open-for-discussion’ fee of $100 for a 1200 word article is highway robbery. So they can go fuck themselves.

I refuse to write for free. But I take even greater umbrage at being offered such a paltry sum.

I’ve done my time. I’ve worked for nothing as I learnt my craft. For years, I was underpaid for my contributions to more outlets than I care to name. I never, ever expected it from the ABC.

*big breath in*

*slow exhale*

Okay. Sorry. Tangents again.

Anyway. I’m actually writing to say Happy Birthday to the Pigs Arms. I’m writing, because you can’t sing happy birthday to a website. You just can’t.

Try it. You’ll get about three lines into the song, and then be suddenly overwhelmed by the same feeling you get when you realise that you’re acting like a dickhead at the zoo in the off chance an animal will do something equally as dumb, for your amusement.

Or, worse still, you’ll get a sudden sinking feeling of ego-destroying self-realisation, similar to the sensation you get when you realise your dog is watching you masturbate. And wagging its tail.

But I digress. Again. Mea Culpa. I’ll behave. Promise.

As far as outposts go, this little corner of the internet’s not bad. It’s kind of like Norfolk Island – sparsely populated, but housing quality inhabitants who are far less likely to kill each other than the general population of the mainland.

Of course, there’s no Colleen McCollough hanging around, writing novels and generally making everyone else feel helplessly inadequate. No – instead there’s a sense of camaraderie. A coming together of like-minded men and women, who share a passion for the written word, a wicked pun or simply want somewhere to empty the strange box of tricks that they keep at the back of their mind.

You know the box I’m talking about. It’s the one that smells a bit musty when you open it up, and you can pretend in polite company to be a bit shocked at what’s inside, but really… you’re only fooling yourself.

Tangent again goddammitsomuch!

Anyway. Happy Birthday, Pigs Arms. Congratulations to everyone involved, from the casual blow-ins to the regulars, implementers, facilitators and, dare I say it, enablers amongst us all.

Oh – and Mike – By asking me to contribute, you’ve got me writing for fun again.

So this one’s on the house.

Your friend,

Gregor

Performance Review – Four Horsemen

18 Sunday Jul 2010

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by Gregor Stronach

Gentlemen. Firstly, let me congratulate you on what has been a fairly busy century for us all. We know that the work that you have all undertaken for the past 100 years has essentially been ‘on the job training’ for the actual Apocalypse, and all four of you have shown great promise.

In particular, some of the self-directed strategy initiatives conceived by individuals have shown us that our implementation of negotiated accountabilities for each self-managing employee was, indeed, a wise decision.

Your individual reports have been collated, and have been included in this document to assist in the interdepartmental communication process, a problem area identified during the last round of SWAT Analysis reports we asked you to file in 1965.

Death

This has been a particularly busy century for you, and we’re happy with your performance over the period of review. There are, however, a couple of small problems.

We are pleased with the exponential growth of completed tasks appearing in your monthly reports, however we fear you might be over-committing yourself. The incidence of ‘near-death’ experiences has jumped an unacceptable 65% since 1971. This burgeoning figure needs to be halted. May we suggest you allocate more time to the individual deaths in hospitals, rather than wasting entire afternoons at the football on the off chance of a stadium disaster?

In writing this assessment, we have taken into account the numerous memos you’ve sent regarding workflow from other departments.

In the short term, you’ll be pleased to know that we have seconded key staff from the departments of Luck and Fate to assist you. They will be applying their own methodology to assist in getting you back on track. However, your autonomous workload should remain stable. Taking too many at once causes problems, a lesson you should have learnt before your recent work in New York.
We want you to succeed and meet your goals, but not by the easiest route possible. You will need to be in peak form come the Apocalypse, and you’ll thank us for being this strict with you when that time arrives.

War

We are more than happy with your performance this century. In particular, your re-introduction of trenches to the field of battle in Europe was a master-stroke. WWII, we believe, was the pinnacle of your achievement for the assessment period, but we also acknowledge that, between major battles, you have been keeping yourself busy with minor incursions and skirmishes around the globe.

In particular, we’re pleased with your new ‘micro-scale’ warfare. Introducing ‘turf’ wars to the suburbs of major metropolitan areas has proven very useful, particularly for Death, who has not had to travel so far out of the major cities to make his collections.

We know you understand the workflow structure of this organisation, and that you need to keep both labour motility and the geographic warzone concentration ratio very slim to facilitate maximum efficiency for Death and, where applicable, Pestilence. With this in mind, please be aware that whilst scattered skirmishes and guerrilla warfare in mountainous regions may well be the most entertaining aspect of your position, they don’t really leave the high concentration of putrefaction that Pestilence requires to carry out his microbiological specialty work. We hired him for his abilities with germs, but since the humans legislated against your two departments in tandem, his case-load has dropped significantly.

On a final note, we are pleased that you have changed tactic, and moved with the times. Getting yourself elected President of the United States was a move of unparalleled genius, and we’re very happy that the faith we placed in you when we hired you hasn’t been erroneous.

Pestilence

You have been our poorest performer for the past 100 years, and we think that perhaps you may have been resting on your laurels and letting the other departments pick up the slack. You have let modern ‘science’ get on top of your work, and as far as we can see, you’ve got a lot of catching up to do if you’re to be ready for the Apocalypse.

We acknowledge your recent efforts with viruses – in particular HIV has kept Death reasonably busy, but with such a narrow initial vector program in place, it was never going to be wildly successful. This is a clear-cut case of putting all of your eggs in one basket.

Your continued attempts to claim Cancer as your own work has been brought to our attention. This must stop now, as we have all read the story of the little boy who cried wolf.

Occasional plagues every now and then won’t cut the mustard either. We all know you can do locusts at the drop of a hat, and frankly they aren’t advancing your case. Simply conjuring up insects when times are a little lean is becoming passe. There hasn’t been a decent rain of toads for more than 200 years, despite frequent requests from us that you show us evidence of your work.
Bubonic Plague has disappeared, Tuberculosis is controlled, and the humans have almost wiped out Small Pox as well. You’d better hope that War manages to sell his stocks of it to those wonderful folks in Iraq before March 2003, or you’re going to find yourself looking around for a new job.

Famine

A disappointing start to the century has been more than made up for by your recent efforts in Northern Africa. We understand that, for the most part, your workflow depends on how busy War has been, but we note that your recent development of harsh climate control, including El Nino, has been working well. Crop Failure is still the index by which we will be grading your performance, and as it stands you’ve been doing quite well. We’re pleased with your efforts in Australia – you managed to record a drought in every decade throughout the 1900s.

We received your memo concerning the interference by celebrities in your efforts, and you probably noticed that we had Death send two very clear warnings to Bob Geldof. He’s also working on Sting and Bono at the moment, and we’re expecting results very soon.

There’s still the matter of your overall performance, though. WE have it on good authority that fewer people died from famine in the 20th century than in the 19th century, despite the fact that the population grew by 400% in those 100 years. You’ll need to pull your socks up, straighten up and fly right. We know it hasn’t been a total disaster, which is why your contract hasn’t been terminated. We have faith in you, and we’ve seen you work. If you are having motivational problems, we can arrange for you to take a short holiday, and perhaps see a guidance counsellor. Just keep us informed.

Conclusion

We still don’t have a firm date for the Apocalypse, but we’ve got our IT department running up some code to see if they can second guess The Creator on this one. We’re envisaging sometime mid-century, which means that you’ll all need to be on your toes, and make sure you check your email every day. We didn’t spend $50,000 on those laptops in the 80s so you could sit around playing Solitaire all day.

Your salary reviews have been finalised, and most of you will be receiving a small end-of-century bonus. Wages will continue to rise, in line with the Consumer Price Index of the United Kingdom, and we’ll be instituting a performance-based bonus for each decade. Gentlemen – these bonuses are not automatic. We are giving each of you the opportunity to shine. Dazzle us.

If you need to contact me at any time, you may do so my calling my secretary and making an appointment.

Yours truly,

Thomas Coltrane
Grand Master
United Grand Lodge of Freemasons.

Gregor Stronach will probably now be found under a bridge with his eyes gouged out.
This piece was first published boldly, we might add – by Rum & Monkey  OK, a couple of the dates are a bit off whack, but we thought it was worth it anyway.