It's Time to Kill Some Puppies.

No, it isn't.  Just like it isn't time to sell heroin to children, rob the elderly à la the opening scene in Mystery men or kidnap some nuns, force them to strip for nothing except torn up pages of their own bibles, shoved unceremoniously in their lacy underwear by the guys who come to your door and try to get you to sign over with their electric company.
It's just two people wedding each other; it's time to say yes to same-sex marriage.
In 1895, women (who were British subjects and 21 or over) were granted the right to vote in South Australia.  1895.  The first parliamentary elections in Australia were held in 1843.  That's fifty-two long years of women being classified as second-class citizens.  In 1962, the Commonwealth Electoral Act provided that Indigenous people should have the right to vote, though under Commonwealth legislation, it was illegal to encourage them to.  NINETEEN-SIXTY-WHAT-THE-FUCKING-TWO.  Not even sixty years ago.  I'm not going to digress down that particular road, because I'll be here writing for too many hours on end, but suffice to say Indigenous Australians are still struggling for equality, and so am I.
We struggle for different reasons, neither of them is more important than the other, and they are equally ridiculous.
This is 2013.  It's easy for people to sit in their living rooms with their moccasin-clad feet resting high on their matching poufs and tutt-tutt about how terrible it is that Aboriginals weren't allowed to vote until the 60s. 'Isn't it terrible, Mabel!  You'd think it was the seventeen hundreds!  Such antiquated and bigoted views!  I'm glad Australia sorted itself out; we really are the lucky country', takes a sip of red bought from a boutique winery in the Barossa worth $80 a pop.
'Oh yes, Nigel, I wholeheartedly agree... and by the way, Macy and Julie invited us over for dinner.'
'From next door?  The spinsters?'
'Well, yes, but they aren't spinsters, they're a couple; in fact I believe they were married last week.'
'Married?  How?  They're both women!'
At this point the couple stop what they're doing, look at each other and pause, then erupt in tittering laughter, like some pointy-nosed green bitch from the Wizard of Oz and an evil ho-hoing Santa.  Then they high five, each give their poufs a good kick in the ribs and then pick their teeth with the bones of baby bilbies.
Well, that's how I see it.
I don't care what your religious views are.  That's not to say I don't respect your beliefs, because I do.  I respect choice.  I have made mine; I don't shove it down people's throats, because I don't appreciate when they try to shove theirs down mine.  What I do care about is that other people's beliefs are standing in the way of me being treated equally, in this so-called 'lucky' country.
The WA School Education Act states that the curriculum and teaching in public schools is not to promote any particular religious practice, denomination or sect, and goes on to say that public schools provide a secular education to students and families from many different cultural backgrounds and faiths.  In NSW, parents can choose if they want their kids to attend religious instruction in school, and in ACT, parents have to actually request if they want their kid to receive it.  So, the free, public, available-to-all education that our country provides teaches kids that in these times, in our society, we don't identify as a particular faith, because we welcome beliefs from all walks of life and are tolerant to them all.
Tolerant...
Then, little Johnny grows up, graduates from high school, falls in love with James, wants to spend his whole life with him but is told 'whaaaaaaat?!?!?! You two can't marry!!  The bible says so!'
Johnny furrows his brows and says 'what the fuck's a bible?' cos his family is atheist, and he was always taught in school that religion is a choice, but our nation does not force it on us...
WHAT A BUNCH OF BULLSHIT.
I'm a good person.  I love kids, and they have always loved me, because I don't give a shit how I look and I'll be a dick in public if it makes them smile.  What's that?  You wanna play dragons in the supermarket aisles?  Well you better run, cos my wings are bigger than yours.  I volunteer in a prison once a week, helping the residents with literacy and numeracy (though I suck at long division).  I once rescued a baby plover (the birds I hate the most of all birds) from peril, as it had fallen in the gutter, even as its mother attacked me.  I am not a monster, I'm just in love with a woman when I also happen to be a woman.  Together, we own a house.  We donate to the Guide Dogs and the Australian Conservation Foundation.  We're good fucking people, goddam it, but we're treated like second-class citizens.
Why do I pay the same taxes as straight people?  I pay the same money for less rights.
Am I getting through to you yet?  No?  Then I'm guessing you're straight.  Try this: imagine that you are in love with someone of the opposite sex.  Imagine that you simply cannot picture your life without them.  Imagine that you feel like you've always loved them, and that you can't wait to see how cute they look with wrinkles.  You look at pictures of Paris and imagine you and them atop the Eiffel tower, wind whipping your hair around each other's faces as you embrace and whisper how perfect the moment is.  Like, seriously, this person is the shit.  Then, imagine that they only have one leg.  It doesn't matter to you; you don't even notice.  It's a non-event, beyond insignificant.  Who needs two legs?  You can get by with one.  It's just a leg.  A person's worth isn't defined by a leg, that's ridiculous.  Things are going great, and you decide to get married.  You become engaged, and it's the happiest day of your life.  You start planning your wedding.  Then, all of a sudden, you find out that you can't be married.  Two-leggers can't marry one-leggers, dummy!  E'rybody know dat!  Where you been living, under a rock?  No fucking way!  That would be an abomination!  You two are not normal, your relationship isn't natural.  I mean, if you want to be a couple, that's fine (make sure you tell centrelink so that they can pay you less though), but nooooooo, you don't get to be married.  That's only for the two-legger couples.  You can't believe it.  You see forward flashes of your life together, hanging out with all your two-legger married couple friends... you're all having fun, they think it's stupid too, but you always know, deep down inside, that in the eyes of your government, you are less than equal.
If you still don't get it, fuck off outta my blog, ya maggoty bigot.  Go on, get.
So, that was just some ranty stuff to ponder... now onto the nice stuff.
Anyhow, I proposed to Mercedes on Sunday at the Adelaide Roller Derby grand final.  Not gunna lie, I'm pretty chuffed with myself.  She is the queen of surprises, so I knew I had to go big.  She'd been nonchalantly dropping little hints for over a year, saying how her friend proposed to his girlfriend with a ring from a 20c machine, saying how a twisted up piece of straw would suffice, as long as it was circular, showing me stuff like this.  It was always accompanied by an assurance that there was no pressure, but I knew she was basically saying 'I'm ready when you are.'
The problem was that I just don't have the money for a traditional ring, you know, made of gold and with shiny rocks in it.  But, I knew it was time.  It felt so right; I'd never been more sure of anything in my life.  So, I got to thinking... I knew if I made her something, it would mean a lot more than if I bought something.  She'd shown me these cute robots, and we would like to get them tattooed.  So, I decided to draw the boy one on shrinky-dink paper and I got my beautiful friend Letta to help me make it into a ring.
As it happens, shrinky-dink paper can be a tricky business, so I had to make quite a few before I sorted out a good method.  I curled up a few first.  They came out of the oven like little circular robot wheels; I felt cruel throwing them away.  I made various sizes, colours and even one was on skates.  I then gave them to Letta to mount, and the game was away.
Bout day came and I woke up surprised that I had fallen asleep at all.  I still wasn't nervous, but I thought it was maybe cos it was still hours away.  Once at the showgrounds, I made sure everything was as it should be.  The commentators were prepared, Kit Cat had the ring that I'd chosen from the multitude poor Letta had to make, and a lovely bow tied around her neck.
We did the skate out, and the two teams playing first headed to their benches.  I hung around awkwardly, running over my lines in my head, and counting them out on my fingers.  The commentators were handing out a big novelty cheque to our chosen charity.  I finally started to feel my heart jumping in my chest, and I noticed I was shifting my weight from foot to foot and exhaling through pursed lips.
They finished the presentation.  Then Lori, our head commentator had the mic and walked over to me.  She handed it over and I headed into the crowd.  Kids I knew were in the front row; one of them looked up at me and said 'you're awesome', to which I replied 'YOU'RE awesome, now get outta my way.'  Behind me on the track, my whole team lined up on a knee as well.  I fucking love them.
Mercedes could tell I was heading for her, and her face said 'whaaaaaat are you doing?'  I reached her and didn't really know where to begin, so I introduced her to the whole crowd of approximately 2700 people.  A strange calm came over me and I looked deep into her eyes. Then, I took a knee and said 'baby...'
She gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth.  She began to cry, which was not my intention, but I was in too deep to stop by then.  I (as calmly and clearly as I could) recited the following words that I had written the week before, and practiced many times whilst delivering pizza:

You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,

I fell in love with you the moment we met.

You were everything I'd ever searched for,

and everything I could ever want for the rest of my life.

You're my best friend, my soul mate

and the woman I want to spend eternity with.

Will you marry me?

The crowd erupted.  I reached to Kit Cat for the ring, and it flew onto her finger like it was magnetic.  In the video, it looks like she's going 'gimme gimme' hehe...  She grabbed me and held me so tight that I didn't hear almost three thousand people, I just heard her telling me that she loved me.  If you'd like to see a video, it's here.

And that was that.  We already have received an incredible amount of support from so many people who tell us over and over how stupid it is that we can't legally be married.  Hopefully it's just a matter of time until we're seen as actual real human beings who deserve the same rights as everyone else.

It's been a while since I've written a post.  There is a reason for it, but now isn't the time to tell it.

Thanks for reading:)

Tx

P.S. The Salty Dolls won the grand final.  They played amazingly.  So did we, and it was close, but they ooched us out.  It was the most fun game I'd played in all year.  Afterwards, we partied until the wee hours, as a league, and it was perfect.  I love the absolute shit out of my team and league.  I've never played a sport before where that would happen.  We've had a bit of a rough year, and I couldn't have possibly been more proud of the team if we had've won.  Below is a pic of us after losing a game lol...

 Photos by Matt Walker and Suitcase Photography.

SHOCKING NEWS (really only moderately shocking: startling at best, noteworthy at worst).

And I'm starting with a rant.  And a preposition.  Twice.

Ok so the rant is on bicycles.  There is a chance that I have let fly about them and the persons who operate them on a previous occasion, or seventeen, but nonetheless, here is another.

I will begin by stating: I am a bike rider, NOT a cyclist.  I still cannot stand the latter.  Lycra sporting, traffic impeding, two abreast chatting motherfuckers really chap my ass.  There should be specific loactions where they are allowed to ride, and locations where they are just not.  Like the streets.  Disagree with me all you want, but until they can go 60km and have to pay rego like I do for my car, then they are my nemeses, each and every one the scourge of my life.

Bike riders, on the other hand, are alright, especially since I am now one.  They include, but are not limited to:

1. persons riding a bicycle because they lost the right to drive a car, owing to:
• drunkenness,
• recklessness,
• unregisteredness and just plain
• quambiness.
2. persons riding a bicycle because they are not physically capable of driving a car,
3. persons under the age of 15,
4. ladies in dresses with flowery baskets on the front of their bicyclettes,
5. persons who like the outdoors and are too lazy to walk (these individuals are identifiable by the distinct lack of speed),
6. hipsters (though these walk a fine line),
7. persons who like to keep fit BUT ARE NOT CYCLISTS (these are characterised by a lack of lycra, no visible pump attached to their bikes, the wearing of skate style helmets and no cleats on their pedals).
8. ANYONE who owns a penny farthing or a unicycle.

NOTE: the only thing worse than cyclists are those JERKS that ride those LAME lying-down contraptions.  The only people who are allowed to do this are thos who are not able-bodied and cannot ride a regular bike.  Then it's not lame, it's cool.

The categories that I fit into are 5 and 7, though I used to own a unicycle (never learned to ride it).

Now that I have the most venemous part out of the way, I would like to get to the more positive, 'shocking news'.  I have become a bit of a bike addict.  I have, only recently, discovered the joys of two wheels.  In company with this discovery, I have leared a few things.  These things are as follows:

• if you go into the driveway too fast, the jolt to your bicycle will be too great and your front fender will fall right off (who needs em anyway),
• if you go 'off roading' after heavy rain, your bicycle tyres will become lodged in mud,
• if you can get your bicycle out of the mud, as you wheel it to the nearest road, lots of little rocks will stick in the mud covering the tyres,
• if you try to ride it with the mud and rocks in the tyres, then it will all combine at the brakes area to form a conglomerate of mud, rocks, little sticks, a toilet seat and a shoe, and then the wheels won't turn at all,
• if you accidentally make the seat too high, you will experience a series of harrowing 'near misses', when your feet don't touch the ground and you almost topple over,
• If you ride through patches of 'unknown foliage', then you will almost certainly get a goat's head thistle in one, or both of your tyres,
• if that happens, and you are at traffic lights days later, and spy a thistle in your front wheel and pull it out, a hissing noise will result, telling you to put it back in,
• the thistle will then keep the tyre pumped up,
• if you change your gears impatiently and crank the adjustment mechanism too far, you will stand up to pedal away at the lights, and your chain will slip off with somewhat startling suddenness, you will almost fall head first into the bitumen.  Cars will honk at you,
• if it's gale force winds outside, don't take your bike, you may have an asthma attack and
• if you remove your rear fender to look cool, the very next day it will rain and you will arrive home with a wet butt crack.

So I am learning.  I have a friend Jimmy.  His real name is Freddie.  Freddie is a great name, but the first time I met him, he reminded me (with his thick auburn beard) of my cousin Jimmy, so now, to me, he is Jimmy.  Come to think of it, my cousin Jimmy changed his name actually, so now even cousin jimmy isn't cousin Jimmy anymore...

I digress. 

Jimmy has three bicycles - a BMX (which stands for bicycle motorcross, but they are sans motor, so that doesn't make sense), a single speed and a 'fixie', which I guess is short for fixed speed.  Jimmy is an all round good guy.  He rides bikes, has a beard, likes hats and can draw like a MADMAN, here is the proof that I am not lying.  He can also carry two full grown men on his shoulders.  He claims he can carry anyone up there...

So there's Jimmy.  Why am I writing about Jimmy?  Because he's ace and because he changed my mind about people who ride fixies.  Until Jimmy, I thought only wanky hipster knob jockeys did, but I was wrong.  It seems that certain people are 'bicycle purists', who, for various reasons, like to ride a bike old school style.  See, Jimmy tricked me.  He endeared himself to me before I knew he had a fixie, so by the time I found out, I had no choice but to change my opinion.

So, there you have it.  I'm a new woman.  I don't want a fixie myself, I'm just not that pure, and I love to freewheel.  I do, however, have my 'new' bike all planned out, it's going to be plain as plain, no bullshit, no fanciness, just a bike with one gear, one brake and one sticker.  Oh, and spokey dokeys.

 

So.  Shocking bike news out of the way.  Next topic is Father's day.  I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before that it's a hard day for me.  Luckily, I have an amazing girlfriend who works overtime on days like that to ensure that I am distracted.  So, we went to the Port markets. 

It was the first day of spring, and no amount of clichés could accurately describe the weather, suffice to say that it was perfect.  Warm, sunny, just a hint of breeze... We rode our bikes to the train station and headed to the city, then to the port.  Just after we got off the train, we were on a little path leading to the Port Canal shopping centre carpark.  Ahead I noticed an elderly couple approaching: arm in arm, enjoying the sunshine, so I stopped to let them pass, my plan being to recommence cycling after they had gone, up the little incline and into the carpark.  The flaw is my plan was that Mercedes was up my ass and had to veer off the path to avoid a collision.  She had enough speed to induce not only panic, but a sweet little skid in the gravel.  It was ace.

So we had a lovely stroll around the markets, and I broke my detox.  I did this because whenever I have a Dad rememberance day, I drink a glass of port for him, that's what he liked.  Since I knew I would be breaking it that night, I broke it in the day and we enjoyed a delightful baked potato out in the rays overlooking the port river.  Behold, the loveliness:

 

 

After the starchy goodness, we took a little ride around the Port, then headed off to see Lori in Semaphore.  Somewhere in this time frame I rode through goat's head thistles.  En route, I suggested we get some beer, drink it in the sun, then watch it set.  Skip a few hours, three six packs and a tallie later...

 BEWARE OF THE C-BOMB! turn down the volume, turn up the brightness.

 

By then, I was aware of my flat tyre, so the plan was to go back to Lori's, pump it up and catch the train.  That didn't happen.  We ended up staying the night at Lori's, where the ghost of her Grandfather shone a light in my eyes and woke me up.
Now, to finish.  I have decided that until I have been through the whole collection, I shall end each post with one of my robots and its background.  Enjoy.

 

This is Zorbitron. 

 

 

 

He's 77 years old and hails from Atlanta, Georgia.  He began his life as a metal doorstop, and enjoyed that peaceful existence until he was urinated on by a cat.  His owners tried to clean him up, but there really is no getting rid of cat piss smell.   With only minimal regret they tossed him on the street, where the cat piss smell attracted other cats, who also urinated on him, drenching him, mixing with his salty tears to create a rivulet which meandered into a storm water drain.  Dwelling there was a creature with a body made of half boxer dog and half a deodorant can called Nathan.  He smelled the cat piss tears and bribed a transient with a heart shaped paper clip and a skinless orange to bring him the being from which such an odiferous river flowed.  As soon as he laid eyes on Zorbitron, he knew he could help.  With his bottom (from where the deodorant sprayed), he fixed the smell, and then, using tools he borrowed from a visiting merchant sailor, he opened Zorby, put some cogs inside, licked them with his boxer dog tongue and brought him to life.  From there, they lived a simple life, snacking on anybody who happened to stumble into the sewer.  At present, Zorby is on loan to me, while Nathan is in jail for dry humping a team of visiting Canadian curlers.

Until next time,

Tx 

P.S. Also, I have a friend called Rachel who always bails me out of trouble.  Wednesday night she brought me a pump and repair kit for my thistle at my work, just in case.  Everybody should have a mate like that.

Two outta three ain't bad.

Well.  There you have it.  The Road Train Rollers are ADRD champions again.  I'm pretty sure we were the underdogs once more, and I'm happy with that.  Let's flashback a week ago (or so) when I posted last.

 

Wait - have you regainsed consciousness from that time just now whan you fainted from shock that I posted a week ago?

 

Wait again - have you ceased laughing about the fact that I assume enough people read this for there to be even a single shocked person about that last fact?  Self-congratulatory motherfucker, I am.

 

Anyhoo, last Wednesday I finally posted about our win against the Wild Hearses which catapulted (and by catapulted I mean 'put') us into the grand final for Adelaide Roller Derby for the third year running - since the first year the league decided to have a final as such.  I left you with the nailbiting thought of who will win this year?  Will it be the Salties, with their lightning jammers - the whippets of the derby world, flying round the track with their ponytails snapping in the very breeze they, themselves create?  The Salties with walls made from Wolverine bones dipped in titanium which was forged by the blood of Zeus and Thor combined?  Or will it be the Road Train Rollers, known affectionately the world (and by world I mean Adelaide) over as the Roadies?  The Roadies who lost their last three games to the Salties, the Roadies who seemed to crumble under the the steely gaze of fourteen sea maidens with an on-track connection as tangible as an anchor chain?

 

The morning of the game I woke up with a grin on my face.  I'm creepy like that.  I prepared a little differently, and was a bit stressed, for the following reasons:

• for the preceeding five days I had been on a new diet.  Think of my digestion as a thin child.  That child was sent to swimming lessons, but as soon as she was dropped off, she scooted around the corner and spent the time at the library, thumbing through magazines about computers and renaissance fairs.  Then put that child in a helicpoter, fly her out above the ocean, and boot her out into a raging, frothy sea state five.  Without an asthma puffer.  Or a life jacket.  With her school bag still on.  That's my digestion.  A flailing weenie who can't swim trying to cling to life with nothing but hope and an unparalleled knowledge of the origin of chainmail.  I was at my wits' end with my bloody digestion.  The FODMAP diet I had been following was increasingly useless and I was bloating like a floaty corpse on a daily basis.  So, my good friend Rusty directed me to a lady who helped me out, told me some things and now I eat like a caveman.  I need detox, she says, so right now I'm going through three months of no sugar and no grains.  While I'm happy to be finally treating my body like the golden shrine that it is, I'm also turning slowly into an evil, snarling harpy owing to the lack of sugary treats.  Thus, my preparation that day was frought with worry at the prospect of trying to skate with less energy than usual.  Why did I not wait until after the final to change my diet, you ask?  Two-part answer: because I am a numpty and also because I was just becoming sicker and more fatigued by the day and I chose the lesser of the two evils.  I packed (instead of a Red Bull, a banana and a container of rice, salmon and mayo) water, seven almonds and a container of baby spinach, capsicum and salmon.  I was shitting my pants metaphorically, but on the bright side I hadn't shit through they eye of a needle physically in four days.
• Our car is broken right now, so the lovely Gateway Girl gave me a lift.  This meant that I had to be running on time, which I wasn't.  Owing to this, I accidentally locked Gateau in the spare room.
• We live forever out of the city now, so anything I left behind would stay behind.  I forgot my carnitine, which was my only chance at a bit of extra energy.

Despite my tardiness, we arrived with plenty of time and I was able to leisurely apply my eye stripe and tease the absolute crap outta my hair before going through our skateout practice and then taking my place for my job, which was taking people's tickets.

 

The skateout...

 

I'll freely admit I'm one of those people who make sure that everyone knows they hate elaborate skateouts.  I'm a bit of an asshole about it.  'I'm a sportsperson, not a performing seal' I say, 'if I wanted to dance, I'd be a dancer' I say.  But I do it because my league wants to do it and I love my league.  But... on Sunday I faced something I did not expect.  I enjoyed it.  Ugh.  I did, I really did.  When I was five, my parents put me in jazz ballet.  That's not a joke.  I was terrible and lazy, didn't practice, so they put me in the babies group.  I turned on my heel and walked out, never looking back once.  In hindsight, I think I had a chip on my shoulder about it.  So, any time I'm required to participate in organised dancing, I freak out a little bit.  That's why I'm always in the back line.  Now, this time, I wasn't the only one who didn't want to, or the only one freaking out.  So, I took it upon myself to count out the beats.  I watched Letta (the choreographer) with a dedication usually only seen in seasoned stalkers - you know, the ones with restraining orders.  I somehow started to take pride in getting all the moves right and helping other unsure people with the counts.  All of a sudden, it hit me: I liked it, and I liked it because it was similar to the Army.  It was like drill.  I was excellent at drill, and pretty damn good as a drill commander.  I even had guy soldiers tell me 'I usually hate when chicks call drill, with their high voices and shit... but you're ok...'  Little did they know I had my uterus turned into a tobacco pouch (wanna pinch?).  Anyway, I ended up actually liking it, and here it is:

 

(click here and look out for the goober in the black eye stripe and little hat)

 

So we did the skateout as a league, and then the Mile Die Club and Wild Hearses played off for third.  Hearses won, but with about 5 mins to go, they stopped the game and spent the rest of it playing queen of the rink, which is where everybody gets on the track, and tries to hit each other down or out, until there is only one person left.  It was very cool, and a great way to end that game, I reckon.

 

Then we were up.  Again, I had resigned myself to the fact that we could lose, and it would have been ok if we did, I just wanted to have fun.  I knew we could win if we played as a tight unit, but if we didn't, the Salties would crush us to dust, like bread sticks in a vice.  Regardless of the outcome, I just wanted a close game, for the crowd, and for the pride of both teams.

 

We got off to a good start.  The last few times (including practice bouts at training) we've opposed the Salties, they usually get a jump on us, as if they are raring to go just a bit more than we are.  We usually take a few jams to wake up.  This time, we got going straight away, and it wasn't long before Kit Cat was presented with a power jam and took a cool 19 points, to put us at 11 vs 32.  Not at this point, or ever during the game did they let up though, and we had to fight for not only every point we put on, but to stem the flow of points from them when they were on fire.  Both teams played nickel and dime derby until Phil grabbed 17 points for the Salties, putting them at 37 to our 48.  I think the thing that kept the game interesting was that closeness, and the fight in each team.  Our usual problems with the Salties are penalty spirals and ineffective blocking to minimise their power jams.  So, we trained to rectify those things, and I think that worked for us. 

 

Half time saw the score at 69-88, our way.  Known as the comeback queens, we weren't really sure what to do with ourselves.  We went to the changeroom, chilled out, talked shop for a bit and I choked down some baby spinach and salmon.  Yum.  I was right about the lack of energy, it was certainly not my best game ever, I played much better the game before.  It's not about me, though, and I resolved to just play my hardest, whatever that was.

 

As I always say, I can't remember much from bouts.  I can remember doing one good thing, the time I snuck through on the inside, as seen here:

 

 

I can also remember being hit so perfectly by Moe that I careened into the crowd for the first time ever, feet first, as seen here:

 

 

 

 

The rest I have to get from Twitter, and I quote: 'The roadies come roaring out of half time full of fire.'  The battle recommenced and continued much the same, it was just a struggle, for both teams I think.  I've never seen the Roadies block like that against the Salty jammers - there were a few times we had them trapped for quite a few laps.

 

With twenty minutes left, the score was 79-129, our way, not even close to anything consedered 'breathing room.'  Shortly after, Undies scored 19 points for the Dolls, she had a bloody brilliant game.  She later scored a 21 point jam, and the score continued to climb.  I was only jamming, which I don't really like to do, as sometimes if I'm suffering a bit of a lacklustre performance, a block can pep me up a bit.  But no matter, Kit Cat, Killa, Kaos and occasionally Pirate were all on fire and our blocking teams were not letting up. 

 

The final jam began with the score at 174-193, our way.  It had fallen to my turn to jam, and I thought of the final jam of our last bout, in which I wore the star.  I compared my performance to that day and knew I wasn't the right person for the job.  Kudos here to our amazing benchie team of Busty and Malty, because it was Busty who asked me to jam that last one in the Hearses game.  It was Busty again who gave me the panty for this one, and when I told her I didn't think I was jamming well enough and that she should give it to Kaos, she hesitated for only a second before she said ok and did exactly that.  I'm pretty pleased that a) I know myself well enough and am not motivated by greed and pride to admit when I am having a bit of an average game and b) that my benchie knows me and the game well enough to know when to push me or leave me.

So Kaos it was.  She was up against Phil, who is amazing, but so is Kaos.  I couldn't watch.  My team gathered together, arms around one another but I stayed seated, I felt sick from nerves.  Some random dude in the crowd berated and heckled me enough to make me join them, but I closed my eyes.  Then I opened them to see Phil get lead, but Kaos right behind her.  There was no time left on the clock, so no possibility of another jam after that one.  This meant it didn't matter that Phil was lead, and all Kaos had to do was keep up with her.  Phil got through, Kaos got through, Phil got through, Kaos got through.  Everyone was knackered, but the blocks never got any softer, and the jammers never slowed.  And so it went.  Time passed as it has a tendency to do, and in two minutes we found ourselves champions, with a final score of 190-204.  We couldn't believe it.  We'd had a crazy season - starting strong then hitting rock bottom.  We had such a close call with the Hearses to even get in the final, and then we won it.  I'd done everything I'd wanted: I had fun, we all did, and it was a close game.  We were so calm on the bench and on the track, we even had devonshire tea in the box, here is Kit Cat offering someone a cup of 'tea', for real:

 

 

All in a rush, it was over, the last eight months of craziness, fighting with my intestines, Bell's Palsy, buying a house... I'd made it through, and it was time to party.  Hard.

Considering the length of this post already, I will describe the after party with a combination of dot points and pictures.  Here goes:

 

Wheaty looked like this:

 

 

 

Squatters looked like this:

 

 

• Which was where we also recreated the scene from dirty dancing where Johnny lifts up Baby, itself a re-enactment of the train from Newcastle last year, complete with 'I've Had The Time Of My Life' sung by all of us to the accompaniment of vigorous clapping,
• and we also re-enacted the Skato and the leg slap:

 

That's Mercedes' hand print.

• We then went to a place called Sugar, which is where things get a little hazy.
• Then we tried to get into LaSing, but it was closing,
• So we went to Hungry Jack's:

 

Which was where I found myself with a mayo moustache and goatee, Colonel Sanders style.  Why isn't there a picture of that?

• Next thing I knew, we were walking to that soccer bar on Hindley st, where we played the worst game of pool, ever.
• It came to be that time, there were five of us left: Lori, Mercedes, Guns, Undies and I.
• We split up to go home.  Since we live in the boonies, we went to crash at Lori's place.  Here we are on the train at 6am:

 

• And here we are on the way to Lori's, when we found a trolley and a pipe and put the two together:

 

That's Lori doing the finger all the way at the back.

And that was that.  We left Lori's on the 3:16 train the next day, looking like this:

 

 

Note: still have my eye stripe on.  We didn't even go straight home, we went into the city and had tacos cos I only had a few hours left of my break from detox.  When we got home Gateau had pissed up a storm where I accidentally locked her in the spare room.  Well played sir, well played.

 

And that's it.  The end to a crazy derby year, but not the end to the craziness that is my abnormal life.  Stay tuned, dumb shit happens to me all the time.

 

Tricks :)

 

P.S. just had to pause before finishing this to clean up dog spew in the hallway with dog footprints through and around it.  Bon.