Behind enemy lines: neighbours from hell

I thought I could handle it.

I thought I could cope.

I thought, perhaps somewhat foolishly, looking back now, that some of The Beloved’s seemingly infinite reserves of patience and tolerance had rubbed off on to me, magically replenishing my non-existent inherited reserves of said traits.

I write to say that, in fact, my reserves of patience, tolerance and compassionate love for mankind remain at their usual stark, below-standard levels, regardless of The Beloved.

It pains me to say so, given that I would really, really *like* to like people in general. Honestly. I would.

So I am blaming my neighbours.

My EXTREMELY LOUD, GAY PAN PIPE PLAYING NEIGHBOURS.

They are not making it very easy for me to feel empathy and compassion for mankind in general because I HATE THEM.

I am quite sure that if I met any of these devil’s spawn doling out soup and bread rolls for the poor or short ten cents at the tram stop that I’d think they were just lovely, what with hearts all in the right places and Nobel Peace Prizes and the like.

But when they move in to the house next to me and INSIST on playing Buena Vista Social Club repeatedly at the highest possible volume, just to make sure they’re doing their community service and allowing the poor saps at the other end of the street to appreciate Ry Cooder’s work with those groovy old Latin dudes as well as their next door neighbours, I’m going to dislike them rather intensely.

I might even go so far as to say that I will resent them most thoroughly for ruining my Saturday and Sunday morning P & Q, and for ruining my Saturday and Sunday afternoon P & Q, and my sleep at about 1am during the working week.

They are the enemy, and there’s only one rule about enemies (other than that stupid one about keeping them closer than your friends, which, if you think about it is just plain DUMB, because who in their right mind would want to keep someone who plays gay pan pipes at some OUTRAGEOUS VOLUME at all hours of the morning/afternoon/evening THAT close to them?) and that rule is to scheme for some very nasty vengeance to come their way. Via me.

Yes, yes. Yeeeeesssssss, I shall continue to resent, dislike, fume, roar disapproval, sulk, cry and pout at having to leave MY OWN HOUSE JUST TO STOP LISTENING TO THAT FUCKING THUMP-THUMP-THUMP COMING THROUGH THE WALLS AND INVADING MY SPACE AND HEARING.

But will I go round there and tell them in no uncertain terms to shut the bloody hell up and if they don’t let them know they won’t enjoy the consequences?

Will I bollocks.

That’s what the cops are for.

I have tried, believe me, I have tried. I have done everything but stick my fingers in my ears like a three year old and chant TRA-LA-LA-LA-LA-NOT-LISTENING-NOT-LISTENING.

I have tried to be Zen-Jen, and concentrate on other things and not let the gay pan-pipes and the seven-hour-long bongo drum practice sessions (if only I was joking! SEVEN hours. Who can do ANYTHING for seven hours in a row?) get to me. Tried to see it as a nice little musical treat as I’m hanging out the washing ignoring the continuing degradation of my eardrums.

Oh, how I’ve tried.

I’ve tried leaving music on in our house, to mask theirs. The Beloved has suggested wearing earplugs at night for sleeping.

But frankly, I shouldn’t have to leave music on in my own house to drown out that of the next-door-neighbours and nor should I have TO WEAR EARPLUGS TO GET TO SLEEP ON A WEEK NIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING SUBURBIA.

The Beloved and I have spent many an hour dreaming of ways in which we shall exact revenge, some of which involve death and dismemberment and the notification of all news media outlets of our community service, but none of which would be necessary if either of us had the guts to go over and have That 30 Second Conversation that no-one wants to have with their neighbours, particularly if you’re just over 30 and feeling like you’re actually starting to age and the neighbours are clearly in their early 20s and invincible.

That Conversation goes thusly:

“Hello, I’m from next door. Could you turn your music down, please? We’d appreciate some peace and quiet and your music is too loud. Thank you.”

Hello, I am now officially Old.

Ah, the sounds of silence. I remember those days. The days when I'd hear silence and immediately insist on playing music to cover it up. Oh! How things have changed! But I'm old(er), now, see, and that means I'm entitled to change my mind. I'll take silence any day, these days.

Some days are better than others, like those days when I’m at work all day and Carlton’s a bit too far out of range for their super-strength stereo system. Or the days when they’re out of the house and everyone else on the street breathes a sigh of relief, barely daring to believe the sweet sounds of silence that have just graced the block until their car turns the corner and we all realise that The Noisy Neighbours have just been around the corner for a booze run, and it means there’ll be Yet Another All Night Party Involving Table Tennis Tournaments And Very Loud Gay Pan Pipes Music And Bemused Police Turning Up At Five AM.

See, I think maybe a part of me wouldn’t mind if it was AC/DC or Thin Lizzy being played at excessively loud volumes at the occasional Saturday night soiree. After all, everyone in Australia knows that it’s not a party ‘til the cops come.

If you’re going to cause a ruckus, I say, do it with good, old fashioned, ruckus-making music. Like AC/DC. Or Jimi Hendrix. Or Wolfmother. Or Led Zeppelin. Something actually worth ruining your relationships with mankind; worth destroying your speaker system when you crank the volume past ten.

But for the love of humanity, don't make it pan pipes, don't make it EVERY BLOOMIN' WEEKEND and certainly don't make it the Buena Vista Social Club EVERY DAMN WEEKEND, which everyone on THIS block has heard blaring out from Number 30 about 75 million times in the past month, which is about 75 million times too many, especially when you’re not actually IN Latin America sitting on a front veranda, overlooking the ocean drinking gin and tonics but in downtown suburban Melbourne JUST LOOKING FOR SOME PEACE AND QUIET ALREADY.

If you’re going to get the cops to come, do it with flair, I say. A loud, melodic, amp-ruining, ten-minute lead guitar flourish. Then maybe I’ll only hate you begrudgingly, instead of wholeheartedly wishing plague and ruin upon you and yours.

Every day I get up thinking, today is going to be the day they leave off the choons, surely.

And every day once the thumping begins again I resign myself to thinking that today will be the day I tell them to turn it off before I slash their tires and leave raw eggs in their letter box. Or pour olive oil all over their windscreen. Or unplug the mains. Or something.

Anything, really, to get them to turn it off.

Anything except the only adult, mature thing to do, which is to knock on their door and say, “Hello, I’m from next door. Could you turn your music down, please, before I smash in all the windows on your car and leave dog turd in your letter box? Thanks ever so much … oh, and by the way, if you turn it up ever again we’ll bury you alive in our back garden! Cheers!”

Whoops. What I meant was, “Hello, we’re from next door. Could you please turn your music down? We’d appreciate some peace and quiet and your music is too loud. Thank you.”

That’s for the cops to do.

The Big Day Out

Seven am. SEVEN A. M.

It’s not a pleasant time of a Sunday morning for me, unless it’s still Saturday night in my head, of course.

But there The Beloved and I were, shuffling around Princes Park, at SEVEN AM, looking for what seemed to be a mystery gate that we were told to enter, a gate that said STAFF.

By virtue of knowing somebody who knew somebody who knew several somebodies in the know, The Beloved and I found ourselves signing up at the decidedly ugly hour of SEVEN AM for duty at the Melbourne Big Day Out.

Upsides: free entry, kudos, decent money for every hour worked. Well, “work”. What is this “work” anyway?

Downsides: the crowds, the crowds, the crowds. And a wee mention of the stinking temperature and tres uncomfortable sunburn in awkward and unexpected places, but more later on these things.

The world is a bleary, eerie quiet place at SEVEN AM. Especially when you know for certain that world will EXPLODE with EXTREMELY LOUD RAAAWWWWWK MUSIC before noon, which for any decent person is about waking up time, especially on a Sunday.

We stumbled through a maze of mesh fences to the staff – sorry, crew – marshalling area to find out what we’d be doing all day and when we could finish so we could skip off and “see” our favourite bands.

“Seeing” your favourite band, I’ve slowly come to realise over the years, means very little at festivals. You can certainly “see” something, but even with the advent of excellent optometry or a pair of binoculars or astronomical strength telescopes and big video screens I can’t see jack of who’s on stage:

By eight us lucky crew were gathered together and read the appropriate riot act about ensuring no-one had bombs, stick-like umbrella related implements that could be used from a distance for jabbing that tall bastard standing in front of you or !CONTRABAND ALCOHOL! in the bags we were required to check, that everyone who came through the gates actually possessed in their hot little hands a genuine ticket, and that generally speaking, people seemed ok to come in.

By nine, we all had our lanyards (what the industry types call neck tags), wrist bands firmly clipped, hats appropriately donned in preparation for the forthcoming doom only a 35 degree day can bring, and assumed our places near the gates, which, even by ten o’clock I might add, were swelling with queues the size of I don’t know what. Actually I do know what, but we don’t date any more and I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about dick size today.

Waiting at the gates to check tickets, I took some time out from my incredibly hectic work schedule to ponder the state of Yoof Culture today. I realised that it had been quite some time since I even attended an event populated mostly by said demographic, and I also realised that I had no real idea what The Kids wore these days, or what they were In To. I was out of touch; see below:

Me: There. That guy.

The Beloved: WHICH guy?

Me: That one. Wearing a beanie with a singlet.

The Beloved: And … your point being?

Me: Well, the question I have is why wear it? It’s obviously going to be hot, so I can understand the singlet, but why the beanie as well?

The Beloved: You’re old. It doesn’t matter why. That means you’re old.

Me: Oh.

Aside from this somewhat jarring realisation that I would never be 21 again, even if it felt like I COULD HAVE BEEN last weekend, and that I am seriously out of touch with today’s fashions, even though I have my own unique stoyle, I enjoyed the parade of colour and cloth.

There was also a great number of “quirky” t-shirts, several of which were home-made or just not widely available on Brunswick Street. To wit: “i-Pood” in the Apple Inc font, which I thought was HILARIOUS(The Beloved not so impressed) and the seriously fat dude, resplendent with jiggly man boobs, proudly touting “KISS ME I BEAT ANOREXIA” (The Beloved insisted I take a photo, just for proof). I took a particular dislike to the two young lassies wearing black t-shirts blaring ‘SUCK MY DICK’ on the front in hot pink writing and ‘LICK MY ASS’ on the back. If you have to ask why …

After “working” (which could loosely be defined as “leaning on the temporary gates and waving people through to the ticket rippers and bag checkers”, or to be frank, could be more accurately described as “standing around making small talk with strangers about this being the easiest money we’d ever made”) until 11am, The Beloved and I were set loose upon Princes Park, and instructed not to return for further duties until six in the evening.

Six. In the evening.

Like, seven hours away.

Like, the bands hadn’t even started yet.

Like, what were we supposed to do?

I think both of us began feeling our age, then. At Australia’s biggest annual music festival, and you’re over 30 and just not that into RAAAAAAAWWWWWK music any more, what the hell are you supposed to do for seven hours?

We looked at each other and shrugged. “Shall we have a wander, then?” The Beloved suggested.

We wandered aimlessly.

That took about 20 minutes. Nobody was there yet.

I took some photos. Yunno. Because I can, and because digital photography is my new geeky obsession.

I wondered if it was a bit too old and tired to suggest going home for a nap, or to Nova to watch a movie.

The Beloved suggested beer.

The Big Day Out is funny like that, these days, because you can’t just rock up to a bar and hand over a stonking wad of cash for a mid-strength, luke-warm tinny any more. No! That would be easy, and when you want to drink at festivals it seems The Authorities don’t like you to do too much of that.

(Repeat after me in the voice of Tony Montana)

First, you gotta line up to get the tokens.

Then, you gotta get the tokens.

Then, you gotta line up.

THEN you get the beer.

If beer doesn’t take your fancy, you can always line up to buy a king’s ransom worth of tokens to exchange for a UDL. Nine dollars. Please: bend over.

After a few beers, a seriously over-priced sausage in a bun and a bacon and egg roll, we concurred that yes, it was going to be a long, long day. A long wait ‘til 6pm.

So we wandered some more. Watched a few people pay to turn their stomachs over on some Luna Park style rides. Listened to the first few bands on for the day. I contemplated confessing that even at midday, it was all getting a bit too crowded and VERY LOUD for my liking.

“BIT LOUD, INNIT?” The Beloved yelled at me.

“WHAAT?” I replied. “MORE BEER? OKAY!”

So, after lining up again for tokens and then again for the actual exchange of purchased tokens for alcohol, we decided to leave the Big Day Out and enter … LILYWORLD.

Lilyworld was the most fun of ANY part of the day’s shenanigans. All local acts, all quite chilled out and remained throughout the day the place with the least amount of people contained within its walls, which as you may well imagine, given my dislike of large crowds, pleased me greatly.

And of any band or DJ we “saw” (read: squinted and could basically make out some ant-sized figures jumping about on a stage, somewhere) the bestest and the most funnest was Ghetto Fabulous, which featured an amazing female vocalist/rapper.

She was just awesome. The whole lot of them were, and no-one wanted them to get off the stage, and no-one was hugely impressed with the stage organiser, who clearly had a schedule to keep and kept running on stage mouthing: YOU GUYS HAVE TO GET OFF STAGE NOW! And being righteously ignored.

It’s sad to say but true: even though Lilyworld was fabulous and entertaining, by three we were over it and still well bored and still three hours away from going back to work.

The Beloved perked up, just like a mercat. “Is that Bex over there?” he cried, and ran off into the swelling masses. It was, at last, someone we both knew, and who was sufficiently perky enough to entertain us both, hopefully not just with her own scintillating company but that of her other, equally perky and delightful friends.

Saved.

Fuck the bands, we had socialising to do, even if the band was Wolfmother, allegedly The Best And Greatest Thing Since Sliced Bread This Year. As we attempted to wend our way through the crowds to reach the Token Buying Place, so we could then get to the Beer Buying And Drinking Area, I noticed that there seemed to be some kind of orderly queue going on, getting bigger, and surging towards the stage upon which Wolfmother were performing (what would I know? I can’t see that far into the distance). A queue. Towards the stage.

Wha?

“It’s for the mosh-pit,” said Bex. “Which is all a bit wrong, really isn’t it? It’s a bit like saying, here, you can be anarchists, just do it in an orderly and respectful fashion, won’t you?”

Whatever.

Kids these days, I dunno.

And to be honest, Wolfmother sounds like a mix between Thin Lizzy and ACDC. Not original. Definitely not worth sliced bread. Particularly when you can't even SEE them doing whatever it is that kids do on stage these days:

Anyhoo!

The hours between three and 5.59pm could be summed up thusly: beer, queues, need to wee, queues, heat, sweat, heat, Lilyworld, aimless wandering, beer, queues, toilet, queues, heat, heat, beer, oh shit, gotta go back to work.

Bag checks are fun to do when you’re drunk. “YOU DON’T HAVE ANY WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION IN THERE, DO YOU?” I roared over the din that was whatever band was playing. “NO POINTY THINGS TO KNOCK OVER THE TALL DUDE YOU KNOW’S GONNA STAND IN FRONT OF YOU? NO? RIGHT, ON YOU GO!” without actually doing too much of the checking thing, which would have been, yunno, actual “work”.

Actually, that’s not true. Knowing how less than pleasant I can get occasionally when imbibing, I ensured I was super polite. “May I check your bag please? If you could open it up for me that would be great. Thank you. Enjoy your festival.”

It’s hard to be your standard hospitable self when you’ve got your gate boss standing directly behind you taking notes. All in all it was a fun day and easy work so I’d like to do it again next year, which means doing it right the first time.

Speaking of first times, Sunday was the first time I’ve ever seen a couple of yahoos jump the fence in such spectacular fashion. Yes, for all the $120 ticket prices, for all the kilometre after kilometre of yellow and red and mesh fencing, and for all the security guards hired to maintain a ratio of about two guards to one punter, two likely lads took them all on and one (although one got caught a bit later). In full view of us, our bosses and all 25 security guards standing around doing nothing but chat about steroids and how this was the easiest money they’d ever made, these two lads made it past them – up to a point.

They were clever, these two.

See, they had a plan.

After jumping the outer fencing and getting to the just-inside-the-gates-area, the lads pretended to give themselves up. Resignedly, they offered up their bodies as putty to 25 security guards, went all limp and passive and then with a double-deflect-dodge manoeuvre that Terry Wallace might do well to take on board to improve Richmond’s chances this season, those two skipped past everyone and made off into the crowd. They were in there somewhere ... somewhere. Poetry. Pure, Australian poetry.

By the time The Beloved and I walked home (yes, from Carlton to Thornbury) – because there were no cabs and about a million people jamming on the one available tram – we were giddy, hysterical lobsterian messes.

I laughed! Oh! How I laughed at the sunburn I found on my body in weird places, like the backs of my calves, and a weirdly shaped spot on the back of one arm, but none on my face, which seems to attract sunburn like shit attracts flies.

Oh! How we both laughed at how we were so wired from being over-stimulated by noise and people that our exhaustion actually stopped us from sleeping. Gawd.

I read in the paper the other day an article by a woman of a similar vintage to myself who came out of the festival hating closet to confess her dislike for the Big Day Out. At the time I remember thinking, wow, at last, someone’s come out and actually SAID it, it that has been in my head for many years now, it that has stopped me buying a ticket to the Big Day Out or any other such festival for quite some time now, it that makes me even more certain that if I’m not working at next year’s Big Day Out I will be avoiding it and the surrounding area as much as possible.

I’d rather pay a bit less and go and actually SEE the one band in the line up that I like, at a venue that doesn’t make me suffer through hours of uncomfortable sun and sunburn and grass stains and all those bazillions of festival goers, who all seem intent on walking right across or directly into my path as I’m trying to get to the ticket and beer buying area so I can burn more cash I don’t have.

But that’s just me.

Kids today, eh?

I dunno.