Pizza for Paupers

I’m staying in an apartment  hanging over Snapper Rocks. If I ran really fast through my lounge on the ninth floor and jumped, I’d get quite close to landing in the water. I’d get close, but end up splattered all over the Gold Coast, but the point of this overly dramatic intro is to point out the fact that I have spent all my money on beautiful accommodation (no more junkets thanks to the GEC or Gratuituous Extra Cash acronym), so I haven’t got any money left.

The last thing I want to do is waste any on superfluous thing like decent food. I make some toast, and put some ham and tomato on it, then I add a bit of cheese. This Australian cheese is kind of hard and crumbly, so I figure I'll pop the sarmies in the microwave for a few seconds and get the cheese to melt slightly, and grind a bit of pepper on. Like a pizza for paupers.

So I stick it in for 12 seconds. Nothing happens. Cheese is still hard, like little pebbles. Another 12 seconds, and there’s no melting at all. So I try again. All that happens with the third 12-second cycle is that the cheese gets a bit sweaty. I put the timer on for 20 seconds more and look away as I open a beer (toast and beer is the standard breakfast here – don’t judge me) and the next thing I look and my toast has exploded.

The cheese has gone liquid, the ham has curled up and gone brown, the tomato has turned into roadkill, and the toast has reverted back to its original state – wet dough.

Things happen fast in Australia, and if you’re not watching, you’re out of the game.

The next morning I wake up at 4:30am and check the surf. There are a few runners, and a bit of cross-shore on it. Nothing too special, and there’s still no one out. I yawn and stretch, knowing my way around a dawnie after years of experience at New Pier and Supers. I make some coffee and head on to the balcony to watch the sun edge onto the sea. I look at the sea and all I can see is a swarm of people already out, surfing. A literal swarm. New Pier on a good day, times 40. I start counting and even though my view is partially obscured by trees I get to about a hundred and twenty guys out and people just streaming onto the beach and heading for one of the few gulleys. It all happened so quickly.

It’s chilly in the late morning. The cross shore is blowing some wet wind off Duranbah and it’s coming across at us at the contest site. I’ve got a thin zip-through jacket on, shorts, tee and socks and sneakers. I shiver in the shadow of the Snapper SLSC. I decide to walk up the hill and have a good look at D-Bah; apparently Slater and Fanning are having some fun waves in the middle.

It instantly feels like I am on the equator in the desert and  someone is trying to steam iron the wrinkles from the back of my neck. ‘It’s going to get hot today’ says an Aussie friend of mine as I squint into the sun.

I walk up, and as I start walking the last cloud disappears and the sun bursts through. It instantly feels like I am on the equator in the desert and that someone is trying to steam iron the wrinkles from the back of my neck. ‘It’s going to get hot today’ says an Aussie friend of mine as I squint into the sun. The temperature has risen from about 15 degrees to 40 degrees in a minute, and he tells me it’s going to get hot. I remember then that he is descended from interbred, socially and morally corrupt bread-stealing convicts, as non-Australian history books tell us, so his stupidity is not really his fault.

That night we go for a quick drink. It’s Australia so we do the right thing and have a Bundaberg rum and coke. Double. The pretty young thing at the RSL (the Returning Servicemen's League, the local Club) looks at us strangely when we order. The drink comes in a small glass with loads of ice in it. All the eyedrop of coke does is add a bit of brown to the mix. I have a sip and it tastes like paraffin that’s gone off, but apparently this is what you do in Australia.

You drink Bundaberg and coke in the RSL. Pricey and I force one down, grimacing all the way, but pretending that we’re enjoying it. After the first drink we’re totally fine, and after the second we’re totally fine. Half way through the third one it’s like someone has stuck a hot potato in my mouth and I can’t talk. I keep on wanting to fall over to the left and all at once all we want to talk about are nightmare ex-chicks, how many girls we smashed in our youth, and big waves we’ve surfed. One of us starts talking about cunnilingus and before we know it we’re shouting. The alcohol didn’t give us any warning whatsoever before it climbed all over our brains and made us even more stupid than what we already are. We stop on the way home to order burgers and chips. Our order comes quickly.