Transport

There are times, moments even that exist simply to let you know that you're in for an ordinary sort of day, a signal of sorts that you might as well brace yourself for more than your fair daily quota of sanity eroding twentieth century stupidity.

I don't know. It started on the morning tram, as I sat there on those fabric seats and their inescapable remnant odour of one million previous arses. It reminded me when I'd once caught the last tram from the City to Brunswick in the middle of winter, wet and freezing. I was sitting in the carriage alone when an old wino scuffled in and sat next to me despite every other seat being empty. He stank about as bad as a live human being possibly could, the type of gangrenous, gut wrenching stench that makes your nostrils reel. He was clutching a package of fish and chips. I was doing my best to pretend that I wasn't there when he looked over, wiped his mouth and nose with the length of his arm and proceeded to dig out a sorry looking chip. With a mucus smeared hand, he wagged the horrific limp, oily thing at me, offering it up. All I could manage was a, er, no thanks mate, not wanting to appear rude. He was one of several unsavoury public transport experiences as any regular commuter can testify to.

There was a woman recently on my morning train to the city. In fact more Michelin Man than woman and a gaggle of snotty nosed spawn - proto juvenile offenders � all 70s rat tail haircuts and bite marks. Apart from her sheer size, she stood out by her very hairy armpits. It was as if she was walking around with a racoon head-locked under each arm. I'd heard her well before I'd seen her. Cory you fucking little shit. For fucks-sake. Cory. Cory, come the fuck here fuck ya. CORY I said COME HERE!!!! There were two empty seats to my left. I instantly knew that I was unlikely to escape this. My seated neighbour, a corporate woman with excellent posture, French Bun and expensive shoes almost visibly shuddered. Michelin squeezed to the edge of the seats, clearly intent to move in. The best I could hope for was that she'd plonk the least offensive of her kids next to me and that they'd behave. Unlikely though. The last one that sat opposite me took great delight in inventing a game called Kick the Legs of the Guy Opposite. He even made up a little song to go with bruises he was systematically inflecting on me. After a couple of minutes I protested to the bizarrely orange tanned mother. Excuse me, but your son is kicking my shins. What I wanted to say was, look leather face, would you kindly stop your vile child from kick me. It sort of worked. Junior contended himself by licking the window. That's a good boy, I thought, consume the germs, consume the germs.

Michelin started to move towards the seats and Corporate Woman and I moved our knees to the side to let her in (as required by unwritten law of commuter manners). With various bags across each shoulder, and grappling numerous kids with each hand, she was half way, red faced with effort, when the driver suddenly slammed on the breaks. The first thing I remembered was being suffocated by what seemed like a roll of upper stomach fat and a huge, monstrous bosom. It was as if my head was being sandwiched between two overweight fur seals. The more she struggled to right herself the deeper my head was sucked into the flesh trap. It felt like a full five minutes of both us flaying around like epileptics before I managed to shove her off me. The entire carriage was transfixed. I gasped for breath and it was clear Corporate Woman had suffered collateral damage. One the kids had been flung wide and their shoe had caught her on the bottom lip which was bleeding slightly. Fuck, sorry love, sorry, sorry about that. Michelin tried to give her something for the cut and could only find a dubious windcheater with Cats on the front at which point tears began to swell in Corporate’s eyes. I pretended that everything was OK. In fact I felt like spinning Michelin around and giving her a serve.

But it wasn't the wino this morning, or a dangerously large woman but two young girls, probably thirteen, fourteen, obviously friends, off to the city during the school holidays to hang out, smoke cigarettes, meet others, eat mass production burgers made by that paedophilic clown and engage in those particularly pointless teenage dramas, recounted over and over in that particularly annoying teenage gibberish. They were dressed in what you might call high camp young slut, THE fashion trend of the moment. One had a cut off T shirt with the word, "Pussy" on the front, tiny denim shorts, fishnet stockings and silver disco boots. The other wore sunglasses, had "Shaved" on her singlet, no bra and was sporting what looked like a homemade black tutu and army boots. Charming, I thought. It reminded me of an ad I'd once heard on the radio about Schoolies Week. YOUNG GIRL trying on fragrance to MATURE SHOP ASSISTANT, in hesitating voice� "Does this make me smell like a slut? MATURE ASSISTANT ..no! Of course no! .YOUNG GIRL� "Hmm, can you show me one that does? They were the new generation of young Australia women I'd recently read about. Those that thought nothing of venturing out at night and dragging a newly acquired playmate into a corner for a pash and a head-job, walking away, wiping their mouth, saying, "see what a dirty little minx I am, so there," as some type of small defiant victory in a tangled, fucked up, gender based, post feminist dating war. I don't know. They disturbed me. I can't be convinced that they're confident, strong, or empowered.

On balance however the girls were somewhat less disturbing than their mature counterparts. We've all seen them. Same clothes. Same attitudes. Just forty years or so older. Perhaps I've been in a coma. Since when did grown mothers and yes, even grandmothers, ever latch onto the idea and dressing like some dried up, withered old bargain basement crack whore constitute an informed aesthetic style for the mature woman? My grandmother was content to wear the same black dress without variation and watch World Championship Wrestling with her grandchildren while making fresh pasta. She didn't wear boob tubes. She didn't pretend to leer at men's asses. Now she was the power, an immovable monolith. As to the new lot, you can only shake your head with wonder. They'd have their own magazine soon. It'll be called Skank of the Third Age, something like that. And there will be in-depth stories about some bizarre, wide eyed, surgery addicted septuagenarian banging on about how liberating and exhilarating it is to get in touch with your inner whore. Of course, it probably is liberating and exhilarating, and, my objections are just my own multiple neuroses. Clearly.

With that thought mentally polluting me, I averted my eyes to something a bit more manageable, and settled on reverse reading the newspaper of the guy in front of me. I was hoping for an interesting story about a lost tribe or the discovery of some ancient artefact. What it had was a full colour head shot of Bronwyn Bishop. What a face. It's as if the Federal Member for Mackeller one day decided to have her make up done by a Kabuki artist. But not just any Kabuki make-up artist but one cruelly disabled by arthritis, and not just any arthritic kabuki make-up artist but one that had just spent the previous three hours on the piss. And not being content with a crippled Kabuki make up artist off their face from sake, but deciding to finish the whole horrible lot off by being dragged face down across a gravel pit by a tractor. Good grief. Her number is (02) 6277 4382 by the way. Ring her and ask her to explain. Alternatively, ring Dr Pearlman and nominate her for an extreme makeover.

For those that don't know her, Bron's a former Liberal party Queen of Hate, somewhat displaced by equally horrific Amanda Vanstone whose three times as large and twice as incompetent (if that's possible). They're both typical bullet headed conservatives - devoid of any imagination or intellect, full of born to rule ignorant self assurance. Her daughter is similarly plain and talent less - a third rate celebrity interviewer occasionally featured in the most inane programs ever broadcast by the cheapest TV station in Australian history. You'd suspect she'd readily bend over for any C grade celebrity after a pre-made cocktail or two. You know the sort - Big Brother contestants who were voted off first three years ago, magazine chefs, regional radio broadcasters, gardening segment hosts, lotto presenters, that lot. It's almost guaranteed. Scary? They should both be arrested and locked away under the new anti-terror legislation.

So that's what public transport does for you. At 8:45 today I walked into Public Servant Land with terrible images of that rancid old wino, strangulation through indirect obesity, pathetically wobbly old disco queens, and horror puppet Bronwyn Bishop in my head. Thank-you.