T'WAS THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS

Well, t'was the day before Christmas and I was not running out of money, I was down to my last few dollars. I couldn’t even get a job being on a tourist visa. Things were getting pretty desperate. Deflated, I sat down on Sydney’s equivalent of Oxford Street for a cigarette. Laying my bag next to me, a coin suddenly dropped onto it, then another, then another… Was it raining money? I looked up to the heavens. Had Scrooge been visited by ghosts twenty four hours early? Nope, in my unshaven, bedraggled state, businessmen in suits were dropping me money. In the time it took to roll a cigarette I had become a wino, a tramp, a hobo, a vagrant, a bum, a son of rest…

Forty five moribund minutes and four dollars later, I decided this wasn’t the life for me, father hadn’t put me through my expensive private school to be reduced to the stakes of Mr Wendell. Father hadn’t paid to put me through any schooling in fact, skipping the country days before I started at the posh school my siblings attended, but that’s a whole other story…

Dusting myself off, I picked myself up… I’m a resourceful guy, I told myself, after all I had run my own car washing business when I was thirteen until Simon Boddy cracked onto the same idea and stole my customers. I kicked him in the nuts and rode off on his bike with his bucket and chamois leather, flicking the V’s all the way, which while not solving the problem made me feel a whole lot better.

I know! I could buy a bucket and walk door-to-door washing cars I thought, but that being too much of a backwards career step of over two decades, I decided to do some busking instead. Only I can’t sing and the only instrument I possess is safely tucked into my boxer shorts. I spent my last four dollars on a tub of Brasso, fashioned a drum out of a discarded catering-sized vat of mayonnaise and made my way to Bicentennial Park where I polished up my apparatus and unleashed it to the unsuspecting Sydney public.

Finding a spot at the intersection of four pathways on top of a small hill I opened my flies and opened my repertoire with the first of the four Christmas carols I knew:
Ding Dong Merrily On High, in heaven the bells are ringing…

With the correct thrusting movement from my pelvic region, the newly shined beer-bottle-tops hanging from my dangleberries acted as miniature windchimes in the summer breeze; providing the perfect percussion to my flamboyant drumming.

Jimi Hendrix used to play the guitar with his old man, butt I doubt he was capable of this…

Within minutes a crowd of onlookers had arrived, only no-one seemed to be joining in…

I quickly moved on to Little Donkey.

It wasn’t that little, but they were unimpressed.

In what I presumed must be some bizarre Antipodean festive tradition the men in the crowd began shielding their wives ears and eyes before fleeing the scene with many women and children showing their appreciation with screams.

It‘s 1963. I’m the Beatles. I’m bigger than Jesus!

Unbuckling my belt and dropping my trousers I starting a rousing rendition of…

I Saw Three Ships come sailing in, come sailing in, come sailing in…

Coming back seconds later dressed in identical blue fancy dress and shorts, the festive cheer had seemingly drained from these school children’s faces. They stood, mouths agog pointing their early Christmas present toy guns towards me.

As they neared the top of the hillock I realised they were too tall for children and for the fourth time on my travels I had a bevy of law-makers brandishing their weapons in my face… but this time it was different; this time they were not the only ones packing a piece, like the Lord Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane I wasn’t going down without a fight, not this time, so I unbridled my secret weapon….
David Bowie and Bing Crosby’s “Peace on Earth”

Pounding rhythmically with my member I thought would be enough to whip the crowd into a frenzy so I began the first line at the top of my voice

”I am a Little Drummer Boy pa-rum-pum-pum-pum”

Nothing.

Whinging Ozzies; lighten up - it’s Christmas Eve for Christ’s sake.

Louder this time.

“Come they told me pa-rum-pum-pum-pum”

I used my the engorged end of my stick to change from military to a Caribbean steel band style drumming while my grab-bags added some Boney M syncopation.
This would win them over. Everybody loves that shit.

Who needs bongos? Eat your heart out Matthew McConnaghey,

The rhythmic, pulsing beat of the drums had everyone transfixed, they were hypnotized and even I was mesmerized, drawn in by the pre-historic, tribal beatz of our Aborigine forefathers.
I’m not sure how long the spectators and I were in what we call Dreamtime, it could have been a matter of seconds or hours.

Stuff your twenty minute drum solo, Bonham - My Moby Dick is longer than yours.
I saw the beginning of the universe, the dawning of man, the arrival of the palefaces, many dingoes stealing many babies over what felt like hours.

I was on fire!

Literally.

A warning shot whistled passed my left ear, sending me tumbling backwards.

These weren’t toy pistolas, they were the real deal…

The bullet had grazed the top of my ear and sparked my hair alight.

Barnet ablaze, my trousers round my ankles, my makeshift drum and I careered down the hill; my oversized drumstick accidentally entering the tub several times on the way down…
Landing at the Police Commissioner of New South Wales’ size twelves I realised this was gonna take some explaining.

“Merry Christmas” I uttered, my hair still smouldering and my privates smeared in week old mayonnaise.

I had gathered a large crowd yet my only reward was a night in the cells of George Street police station, but at least I had somewhere to stay Christmas Eve.

My crime - indecent exposure, arson and an illegal act with a giant tub of diet mayonnaise.

How I talked my way out of this one I will never know, but who’d have thought that mayonnaise could be so tasty or could clean so many pairs of Doctor Martens.
I think it must be the vinegar.