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HUMOUR
03/02/2016 09:38
Certain names and details have been changed to protect the innocent
and guilty alike.
C009448
School camp:
clogs, cordial
and culture
Camps always loomed large on the school calendar, though the
reality very rarely lived up to the promise. When I recall the school
camps I attended, one in particular always springs to mind ...
We were on an adventure camp. At least, it was called an
adventure camp, but really it was more like a povvo camp for
the privileged. Iwas going to a posh private school by then and,
along with a dozen others, we were to spend a week living in the
bush, testing our survival skills. This involved variety of mindnumbingly boring activities, such as erecting tents, building fire
and eating really disgusting food that came in packages. Food
like Deb mashed potato and sliced Spam that was warmed up
in a dodgy-looking pan. Is it any wonder that I abhor camping
to this day?
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Another popular school trip back then, and one that is still popular
now, was the Canberra/Snowy Mountains haul. Accompanied by
the Year 5 and 6 teachers, we travelled by bus from the outskirts
of Sydney and down the Hume Highway to Goulburn. Here we
stopped so the bus driver could have a smoke and we could run
madly around the park in the middle of town. In this we were
encouraged by the teachers, who hoped that this burst of physical
exertion would tire us out sufficiently that we would shut the fuck
up for the rest of the trip.
I recall being very excited as we crossed the border into the
Australian Capital Territory. What a novel idea! One second you
were in New South Wales, the next you were in a whole new
world. Aworld of wide, clean streets and signs pointing out the
many attractions that Canberra has to offer.
We took in the sights of Cockington Green, aminiature village
created in 1979 by a gentleman named Doug. Its purpose? Well,
Iam not really sure of its educational merit, but it did have a free
barbeque area, if you felt like cooking a steak.
Next we visited Parliament House, which was about as interesting to a group of eleven-year-olds as you would assume. We
learnt why our capital ended up smack bang in the middle of
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after the heady mix of clogs and cordial and the anticipation of
seeing snow the next day.
As we drove out of Cooma, the bus driver made a lame attempt
to interest us in the Snowy Mountains Hydro-Electric Scheme,
but we werent having a bar of it; we were too busy competing
to be the first person to spy a snow-covered peak.
I see it! someone squawked and the bus erupted into cheers.
As we drew closer to our destination, snow began to appear in
little clumps by the side of the road. We arrived at a place called
Dead Horse Gap, which was a nod to all the brumbies that had
frozen to death over the years. The doors of the bus were opened
and a group of tired and cranky teachers basically told us to
go and knock ourselves out.
Now, we were a group of Western Sydney kids, most of whom
had never seen snow before. For some reasonmost likely an
excess of high spirits, exhaustion and green cordial, the snow
ignited something feral in us. The boys basically beat the shit
out of each other in the snow, while the girls ran shrieking as a
flurry of snowballs rained down on us. Here is a little something
about snowballs: when packed down very hard, they have very
little give. Like none at all. You might as well be throwing a brick
at someone.
After an hour, one of the teachers appeared at the door of the
bus and yelled that our time was up. The lads made sure that they
left as much yellow snow as possible, and we drove away from
Dead Horse Gap nursing a plethora of injuries.
So ... that was our trip to the snow.
The bus travelled back to Canberra, where, because our
teachers had not self-flagellated enough on this trip, we visited
the art gallery. Now, having taken groups of students to art
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31
School
excursions
When my son was in Year 6, he brought home a note from school
that, naturally, Ifound in his bag covered in leftover lunchbox
contents.
What is this? Iasked him.
He shrugged. Idunno. Something about a school excursion.
I read the note and then fell to the floor in a dead faint. Iwas
expecting something about the zoo, or the Opera House. But no.
The school excursion was to South Korea. Apparently my kids
school has a sister school there, so someone came up with the
great idea of popping on over to say gday.
When Id regained consciousness, Igently broke the news to
my son that he had as much chance of going to South Korea
as I had of winning Mr Trumps Miss Universe competition.
He asked me what my chances of winning such a competition
were and I told him. Zero. He protested for a bit, listing for me
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School excursions
One of the things we really got stuck into when I was in primary
school was good old-fashioned Australian history, which now
goes by the rather more glamorous moniker of Human Society
and Its Environment. (That is what HSIE stands for, if you have
ever wondered.) An excursion was arranged to Old Sydney Town
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School excursions
So, either you bribed your older sister to photocopy her drivers
licence for you or, if your older sister was a bitch face from hell
and refused, you did it the hard way. You photocopied your
birth certificate and typed up a new birthdate on a fresh piece
of paper, then, with the steady hand of the brain surgeon you were
not destined to become, you carefully cut out the new date and
pasted it over the original date on your birth certificate. After a
few minutes drying time, you photocopied the result. Then you
studied the photocopy. Were there any shadows? Was the new date
perfectly aligned? Yes? Then lets get back to that nightclub ...
After a while, those Sub Zeros kicked in and, all of a sudden,
I fucking loved house music! The lights and music throbbed
through my veins as I spun around that dance floor, bumping
into people and doing some exceptional interpretive dance with
complete strangers. I spied a few of our posse doing shots of
tequila at the bar. The night wore on, and our group of brighteyed and bushy-tailed teenagers became less bright-eyed and less
bushy-tailed.
And then I saw something so outrageous that I immediately
raced over to the bar and screamed: Kirsty Owen is PASHING
A GIRL!
Kirsty was one of my friends. She was very cool, exceedingly
beautiful and now, apparently, gay. We watched her suck face for
an eternity on that dance floor. Was this a cool thing? Was this
what you did in Melbourne?
After a while, Kirsty came up for air and I realised that she had
not been pashing a girl, but pashing a beautiful man with long
flowing locks. Long flowing locks on a man was not something
that you saw every day on the streets of the conservative North
Shore in Sydney. The fact that shed pashed a man with long hair
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School excursions
just made Kirsty even cooler in my eyes. Long hair! Who would
have thought it?
The sun was starting to pop its head up to say hello, so we
bade farewell to all our new mates and headed back to the hotel.
Many of us lost our guts on the way back, and by the time our
heads hit the pillows, sleep came very easy to us all.
About an hour later, our teacher banged on the door, reminding
us to get our shit sorted because we had to be on the bus in twenty
minutes. When no one replied, she opened the door, to be greeted
with a great big pongy waft of tequila.
You could tell by her face that she knew what we had been
up to, and that she was aware that if anyone found out wed
wandered the streets of Melbourne hideously drunk while on her
watch, she was screwed.
So she did what any teacher would do in this situation. She
said nothing. And up until now, none of us ever divulged the truth
of that evening. If there were such a thing as a risk management
plan back then, it would be worth no more than the paper it was
printed on.
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