Australian psycho
My new friend Ed and I clinked our beers together and settled down to watch the FA Cup final. We'd only met that afternoon as he was staying at the same backpackers as us in Torquay, just south of Melbourne. Due to the time difference the game didn't kick off until midnight so we were pretty knackered but agreed to stay up to watch the game. After about 30 minutes one of the other guests came home, visibly drunk, and started violently cooking in the kitchen. From the corner of my eye I could see him pouring far too much oil into the pan causing flames to lick up to the hood over the oven. 'Hey' he shouted over at us.
'Yeah?' Ed replied. Our masterchef was brandishing a kitchen knife and waving it at the television.
'It's all paper you know, doesn't matter what's on TV, it's all paper'. He paused for a second before adding 'Fuck!' and slamming the kitchen knife into the counter. Ed and I had a quick private conversation and decided that this guy, in all probability, was a bit mental. His amateur pyrotechnics in the kitchen continued for some time, eventually setting off the fire alarm, which he artfully disabled by disappearing round a corner and making alot of banging noises. We were trying to ignore him, hoping that he would eventually tire and go to bed, but he just stayed, rattling around the kitchen occasionally swearing at various cutlery. ('Spoon! Fuck!').
Shortly after Man United made one of the more interesting plays in the first half, a kitchen knife came flying across the room like a dart, clattering off the blinds about eight feet from where we sat. To say we were mildly perturbed would be to indulge in gross understatement. Ed leaned over, as if about to impart a life-long secret, and whispered 'That's not right you know'. I nodded solemly and whispered back.
'Yeah. Rooney was never offside'.
'No' whispered Ed. 'The knife thing'.
'Oh, yeah, I agree'.
By this point our friend had disappeared out the front door, and Ed and I were able to converse at a normal speaking volume.
'Do you reckon we should call the cops?' Ed asked, nervously casting a glance over his shoulder at the open front door.
'I don't know, we probably should. Got a phone?'
Ed handed me his phone, an older style Nokia, and I punched in three zeroes, the number for emergency services. The phone rang a few times before an operator picked up. 'Hello, do you require police, fire or ambulance?'
'Police' I whispered, for Masterchef had made his way back into the kitchen and was casting appreciative glances towards the knife block. I didn't want him to know I was on the phone to anyone, let alone the cops. After being connected to the Victoria state police, it took what felt like an hour and a half telling the man on the end (whom I pictured as being an obese middle aged man in a uniform too tight with his stomach squeezed under the desk) where exactly it was we were.
'It's 51-53 Surf Coast Highway, Torquay' I said, as calmly as I could. I knew the exact address because I'd read it in the Lonely Planet a few hours before.
'That's Bells Coast Highway?' The man on the end said.
'No, SURF Coast Highway' I whispered.
'Okay'. I heard him type something. 'Is that in Bells Beach?'
'No, it's in Torquay. Surf Coast Highway, Torquay'. This went back and forward a few times including a few seconds when the phone went silent (at this point I pictured the man dipping his doughnut in his coffee) but eventually he arrived at the right address. I explained the problem and I heard more typing, then a few more seconds of silence before I was asked to repeat everything I'd just said. I could have exploded. Eventually he got all the details right, and the cops turned up a few minutes after our crazy friend had ran across to the petrol station over the road. By this point, almost every other guest had arrived downstairs, and we surveyed the carnage. The glass panel of the door had been shattered with a chair leg, and when we went to inspect his dorm room, we found that had been trashed too. The police eventually came back around 2am to tell us that they'd picked him up and incarcerated him for the night, and we all went back to what we'd been doing. Ed and I watched the end of what was an incredibly dreary football match, and I spared a thought for our friend sobering up in his cell. I don't know what's worse, waking up knowing you've tried to trash a backpackers hostel, or knowing you've ended all hope you may have previously harboured of appearing on Jamie's Kitchen.
'Yeah?' Ed replied. Our masterchef was brandishing a kitchen knife and waving it at the television.
'It's all paper you know, doesn't matter what's on TV, it's all paper'. He paused for a second before adding 'Fuck!' and slamming the kitchen knife into the counter. Ed and I had a quick private conversation and decided that this guy, in all probability, was a bit mental. His amateur pyrotechnics in the kitchen continued for some time, eventually setting off the fire alarm, which he artfully disabled by disappearing round a corner and making alot of banging noises. We were trying to ignore him, hoping that he would eventually tire and go to bed, but he just stayed, rattling around the kitchen occasionally swearing at various cutlery. ('Spoon! Fuck!').
Shortly after Man United made one of the more interesting plays in the first half, a kitchen knife came flying across the room like a dart, clattering off the blinds about eight feet from where we sat. To say we were mildly perturbed would be to indulge in gross understatement. Ed leaned over, as if about to impart a life-long secret, and whispered 'That's not right you know'. I nodded solemly and whispered back.
'Yeah. Rooney was never offside'.
'No' whispered Ed. 'The knife thing'.
'Oh, yeah, I agree'.
By this point our friend had disappeared out the front door, and Ed and I were able to converse at a normal speaking volume.
'Do you reckon we should call the cops?' Ed asked, nervously casting a glance over his shoulder at the open front door.
'I don't know, we probably should. Got a phone?'
Ed handed me his phone, an older style Nokia, and I punched in three zeroes, the number for emergency services. The phone rang a few times before an operator picked up. 'Hello, do you require police, fire or ambulance?'
'Police' I whispered, for Masterchef had made his way back into the kitchen and was casting appreciative glances towards the knife block. I didn't want him to know I was on the phone to anyone, let alone the cops. After being connected to the Victoria state police, it took what felt like an hour and a half telling the man on the end (whom I pictured as being an obese middle aged man in a uniform too tight with his stomach squeezed under the desk) where exactly it was we were.
'It's 51-53 Surf Coast Highway, Torquay' I said, as calmly as I could. I knew the exact address because I'd read it in the Lonely Planet a few hours before.
'That's Bells Coast Highway?' The man on the end said.
'No, SURF Coast Highway' I whispered.
'Okay'. I heard him type something. 'Is that in Bells Beach?'
'No, it's in Torquay. Surf Coast Highway, Torquay'. This went back and forward a few times including a few seconds when the phone went silent (at this point I pictured the man dipping his doughnut in his coffee) but eventually he arrived at the right address. I explained the problem and I heard more typing, then a few more seconds of silence before I was asked to repeat everything I'd just said. I could have exploded. Eventually he got all the details right, and the cops turned up a few minutes after our crazy friend had ran across to the petrol station over the road. By this point, almost every other guest had arrived downstairs, and we surveyed the carnage. The glass panel of the door had been shattered with a chair leg, and when we went to inspect his dorm room, we found that had been trashed too. The police eventually came back around 2am to tell us that they'd picked him up and incarcerated him for the night, and we all went back to what we'd been doing. Ed and I watched the end of what was an incredibly dreary football match, and I spared a thought for our friend sobering up in his cell. I don't know what's worse, waking up knowing you've tried to trash a backpackers hostel, or knowing you've ended all hope you may have previously harboured of appearing on Jamie's Kitchen.
Labels: FA Cup Final, knives, Masterchef
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home