old car :(
new car :)
This week I decided to buy another car. This decision had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that my original, and most precious car, a 1968 HK Monaro, was flogged from outside my apartment the night after Valentines day. The STOLEN posters I printed up at work and plastered around Stanmore hadn’t done anything, and those destitute weirdos in the Yahoo Monaro group were no help at all. For all I know those dirty middleaged vultures were in on the conspiracy. Bits and pieces from my beloved HK are probably adorning these losers’ shitboxes right now. And of course the useless inner-Sydney cops are too busy riding their pretty horses, or telling responsible citizens like us to turn their stereos down 9:30pm on a Saturday night, to be out looking for my car. Society as we know it is fucked.
So naturally the first place I checked for a new car was Ebay, and sure enough Ebay came through with the goods. For four and a half grand I picked up a very nice 1972 Holden HQ Premier wagon, with a small v8 and 3-speed auto on the tree, aftermarket air-con and power steering, the sort of car I’ve actually been thinking about buying for a while now - a true Australian icon. And as my good friend Boothy might have said, although the green-cyan paint is a bit ‘gay’, it offsets the car’s natural manliness. We all know the last thing I need is to have my car looking more manly than my own good self.
The dude I bought this Green Tuna from picked me up from Manly wharf in his girlfriend’s Barina, a tiny car into which he could barely fit. I was almost completely dwarfed. Volumetrically, Andrew, a diver in the Navy, was about twice the size of myself, and I’m most certainly not implying that he was a large fucking fatass. Even if fat does float, they don’t let obecities like Pavarotti and Kim Beazley squeeze into wetsuits to set themselves loose, knives in teeth, armed with spearguns and MP5’s, on heroic underwater search and destroy missions.
When we got to his place, he backed the car out of the garage, and after a good look over and an extended trip around the block, I retired back to Stanmore to mull over the situation. A couple of days later there was still no news of my stolen Monaro, and no better cars for sale in the paper or on the internet, so myself and Andrew agreed on a price and I travelled across the harbour once more to pick the Prem up Thursday afternoon.
The car needed gas and Andrew wanted to take it for one last drive around Manly. Why not, I thought. He was only selling the thing because he was going to sea for god-knows-how-long the next week, to help defend this great country from countless unnamed threats abroad. The least I could do is let him drive his own car down to the petrol station; the Last Goodbye.
The Green Tuna’s 10-stacker CD player was already loaded with Andrews favourite tunes. “Let’s put some Ministry on,” he said. I nodded contently. Al Jourgensen would totally approve, I thought to myself. A couple of good old boys tooling down the strip at Manly in a prime specimen of Australia’s own King of the Road, perving at Manly girls in pink bikinis, rockin to the nasty industrial groove of New World Order. But it wasn’t to be. Instead, the awful stench of (what I assume was) some terrible blonde’s voice came assaulting through the speakers. “I love Ministry of Sound,” mused Andrew. “That chick sounds so hot.” Indeed she does.
Anyway the deal was made. After I gave Andrew the money he turned to have a final look over the car. “She’s going to miss Manly,” he said. “She loved going to the beach.” Don’t we all. Hell, this car has a better suntan than I do. It’s a good thing he left the Free Parking in Manly sticker on the windscreen, you know, in case she ever feels the need for one final roll around the Corso. Unfortunately he removed his Navy parking sticker. “I can’t leave this on,” he said with a grin, “in case you’re a terrorist.”
How these Times They Are A-Changin’, with the constant threat of terrorism and whatnot. You can’t trust anybody anymore. I can just imagine us now; Booth, Tone, Maxwell and myself at the wheel of the Green Tuna, rolling straight into some Naval base at night with the lights off and the engine cut; all camoed up and balaclava’d from head to toe and armed to the teeth with an assortment of illegal weapons and blu-tack that we’d bought with the money we earned on our last bombing run. Those mounted pony bitches had really been asking for it. But who’s funding this violent exercise? It doesn’t matter, because we’d get away with it, since Andrew left his Navy Parking sticker on a car that he sold to a nerdy terrorist. And you thought that crazy homeless arab in the brown gorilla suit harassing the teenage girls on Dixon Street, Chinatown was trouble.