Australia - Part 14

The horrific jalopy had to be returned of course and in light of the distance limitation (100 km) some rather delicate handling of the situation was going to be needed. To everyone’s concern our subject was first up from his drink induced coma and set off to return the thing.

Not to his surprise it would not start but 15 minutes with the hood up and some lump hammer engineering had her purring like a tuberculosis ridden kitten and he was off to the shop.

Post-inspection the rental girl sauntered up to him and asked, “where exactly did you go?”; “err, we just pootled around you know”; “well it has done 360 kilometres, that’s a record”; “oh really”; “yes, that’ll be an $80 mileage charge.” Fortunately he did not mind and just forged Boris’s signature again.

A quick flight down to Brisbane was the main highlight of the day and then they settled down in Surfer’s Paradise for a couple of days of hedonism.

The first night ended up in the Prince Albert pub/club attached to the local casino populated by all the local girls and boys on their only night off of the week larging it up massive.

The pub itself was an horrific pastiche of a mock-tudor English pub (all set indoors including the beer garden) and as the beers flowed they began to speculate if their fellow drinker would know what a Prince Albert actually was (for the benefit of his mother it is a type of piercing that only boys can have).

Boris decided to resolve the debate by enquiring of two 18 year old lasses if they knew. How he could possibly have made such an approach without appearing to be a complete sleaze bag is quite frankly beyond us and to no-one’s surprise he failed.

Their light fantastic well and truly tripped they called it a night making their way back to the hotel through a rather ominous and perhaps prescient tropical thunderstorm.