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Falling in love, then fleeing.

AUSTRALIA | Monday, 28 January 2013 | Views [1091]

Who would want to leave such a beautiful view? A suicidal cat it seems!

Who would want to leave such a beautiful view? A suicidal cat it seems!

Ahhhh, Fremantle. The place where hippie hang out meets playground of the mining rich. A suburb who's every individual aspect is retained as the very definition of conurbation. (Surely I must win something for being able to use that word in a sentence?) A tight knit community so in love with their AFL team that my favourite colour, purple, is by far the most commonly seen on the streets.

But possibly not for long. Believing the second paragraph is not too soon to ramble off topic, it seems that Fremantle is set to lose its purple clad warriors now they've started fighting for a cup instead of a wooden spoon. The Fremantle Dockers are being poached by a neighbouring suburb known as Cockburn. And in a weirdilicious mangulating of English speakulation, the 'ck' is supposedly silent. No one outside of Perth knows that or will want to believe that. They will forever be the Cock-Dockers and they are now my favourite team in all sports, politics, the bedroom or any other arena where balls are used to best an opponent.

Even though I have fallen in love with Fremantle, AFL team or not, it is about to lose me as well. What the ?

Yes, strange choices come easy to me, easier than 'furthering my career' ones anyway. Moving to Hobart at any time of the year that isn't the height of Summer is like renting out space in a supermarket freezer. So, why? I'm obviously not the sort of person who would be head-hunted for a job in another city, unless someone is opening up a camera smashing business. If you guessed it was for love, you would be right, and spending too much time thinking instead of just reading on and waiting for me to tell you. And not the aforementioned love of Fremantle or I would be staying put in my 'still too awesome not to be burning up large doses of good karma' house.

Apparently looking-to-settle-down Harry, was not as attractive as happy-to-do-anything-on-impulse Harry. Every aspect of life in Fremantle was word for word from the script Rocking my own world; the play, with me in the lead role. Everything, except for a leading lady. God knows I tried. And God knows I nearly got arrested for indecent exposure, but I heard He loves a tryer. So He rewarded me with a love interest, who so happens to live on the other side of the country. Fortunately, love of a good woman is less likely to concern a court appointed shrink than love for a suburb, especially if that suburb happens to be Collingwood.

My no longer so recent trip back to Melbourne had many justifications, none which offer any comfort now that I am broke and unable to buy food. A two day return to Hobart was meant as a straight forward catch up with the girl I had been decently exposing myself to when I left Hobart's frosty shores three years prior. She shall remain nameless for the sake of keeping something so special private but I will now relate in graphic detail the passionate way our love was rekindled......or not, if I want the love to keep kindling on.

I returned twice more to A/ Ensure that she had not mistaken me for someone else, B/ Confirm she was definitely worth moving Heaven and Earth for, or at least a backpack of measly possessions, C/ Start 2013 in ridiculous amounts of debt and D/ Add another missed flight to my already impressive resume of flying fuck-ups.

If concocting an idea while drunk and not sobering up in time to realise its folly could be translated as an intentional act, then I deliberately missed the flight. I hadn't deliberately forgotten to set an alarm, nor had I deliberately gotten drunk enough to flush more money down the toilet than recycled alcohol. It gave me an extra day with my new lover, which was almost wasted with a hangover bad enough to be banned by most chemical warfare treaties.

Paying for another flight robbed me of all but baked beans to eat for the last week or two, but never before have I had to pay more for 15kgs of luggage in the hold, than 78kgs of ass on seat. After berating Tas-money-a for its high cost of everything in a previous journal, I was estatic to find the complete opposite was true in their op shops. I accumulated so many retro bargains for less than $50 that I could have renewed every seniors wardrobe at a retirement home. Such savings counted for absolutely bugger all when Tiger Airlines insisted I pay an extra $84 to fly them back home with me. Had I not shit for the entire week I was in Hobart my extra colonic weight would have been more than my pile of 'not so much of a bargain anymore'! Even though I didn't think of eating any of the clothes at the time, destitution has certainly impelled me to think about it since.

The art gallery MONA even charged me for not being Tasmanian, like it was some sort of retribution for years of cousin-loving jokes. At least that represented some value for money as the gallery was unique for reasons that went beyond pure nausea and shock value. Some pieces were ingenious and defied explanation as to how they were completed. Others were repulsive and not worth mentioning without a link to a psychiatric website. All were explained by the mobile device you were given to carry around that looked like a work of art itself to me. One sub-section was symbolised by a stylised picture of a dick, creatively titled 'art wank' to detail the more in-depth aspects of the displayed pieces. That would have been my favourite part of the gallery had some artist not put a mirror directly underneath one of the toilets to make the act of shitting such an observational experience. Now I know I poo art.

One of the highlights of not being in Fremantle, even though I missed out on so much good stuff while I was gone, was a boys camping weekend. Not the sort of thing many people would prioritise, but I am a fan of male power bonding to the extreme. It was worthy of being made into a television series if they ever find a way to measure non-sexual love amongst mature heterosexuals. Every other bizarre slant of humanity is given a minimum 6 show contract, so I chose to miss W.A.'s beer festival to ensure I could do some script research on aforementioned TV show.

It was five dudes heading bush with more booze than food, more brain than beauty and more history than we cared to remember, or could remember even if we tried. We had a combined chronological age of nearly 200 years and a combined drinking age matching Ireland back to the Dark Ages. A small tin dinghy and 7 esky's were all we brought for entertainment.

The one and only dinghy ride I took started with it navigating another boats wake like a surfer does a big wave and duck-diving underneath it. After that the dinghy barely sat above the water line with five dudes creating a new weight class for that size boat that has more superlatives than kilograms. Something like 'super-mega-ultra-extreme-bodacious........uber-drastic-belief defying-must have eaten a bag of clothes-frighteningly heavy weight'! An hour float at less than oar-paddling speed with damp balls and a rock hard seat as lures were cast with sinister intent for both fish and fellow boat-riders alike. With a life jacket functioning like your castrated pet's Elizabethean Collar, I decided that the only rememdy was voicing my displeasure with less feigned boredom than I had since the initial tsunami.

The site we stayed at was a one-in-a-million chance find that drew early calls for 'Campsite of the year'. Future visits will determine that, but with enough space to train an army, enough food to feed them and more than enough beer to get them hammered for the next three generations, the weekend was going to be epic irrespective of the spot. True to form, there was enough outwardly homosexual jokes and references that it would be completely remiss of me to say it was anything but the theme of the entire weekend. Throw in my usual penchant for random acts of nudity and the male power bonding was ripe and ready for a prime time TV spot.

And it is with the impending relocation to Girlfriendsville that makes such a dude trip seem so much more dudey, and important. Single life is soon to be a thing of the past, and such regular, bloke orientated endeavours may not endure. If I am willing to give up such a great life in Fremantle, what else might change in the process? Having recently finished a degree, my lady love is keen to trade school books for travel guides, so I have no doubt I will be amply rewarded for the sacrifices I am about to make. Wanderlust wins out over domiciliation again, and I wouldn't be surprised if not much at all changes from the last few years. As long as there are planes, there'll always be the chance of being left behind.

Tags: art gallery, fremantle, friends, hobart, love, moving

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