But Cels, my good man, surely you can’t be shocked? Down with this sort of thing! I say nip this in the bud post-haste, as it were.
Because, don’t you see, this is how it begins. One minute it’s a child destroying expensive school books within urban infrastructure that pertains to the collection and transportation of wastewater, before skipping—nay, flouncing—away in a precocious arrogance wearing a just-so stylish coat and hip boots. Soon enough, she becomes a teenager. By 13 she’s sniffing glue for sh-ts and giggles and stealing spray paint cans and tagging and graffiti-ing heritage-listed public buildings. By 15 she’s lying about her age and pole-dancing in a strip club to feed her addiction for just-so stylish coats and hip boots.
Before you know it, she’s 16 and hanging out in a red-light district going by the name of Roxanne (forever dodging the police sting) in downtown Brisbane (specifically, Fortitude Valley, for those in the know—and indeed, for those that need to know ;-). The last time I was there I certainly needed a great deal of fortitude, but that’s what happens when you’re flush and you order three at a time—but that’s a story for another day. Besides, what happens in the Valley, stays in the Valley.) Roxanne now thinks she’s made it as she gives out $100 blowies to dirty old kerb-crawling men in posh Mercedes-Benz sedans. In actual fact, her raging crystal meth dependency has now turned into a $200-dollar-a-day heroin addiction, shooting up and going on the nod in some filthy back-alley squat.
By 18, she is nothing but a dried-up husk, looking three times her age, that precocious arrogance now long gone, her boots worn and her coat bought at a thrift store, an empty, hollow soul filled daily with existential dread—now a pornographic actress called Rhoda Hardcok—and making 20-at-a-time gangbang movies for cents in the dollar and a fix.
So you see Cels, my simple, single one-line was, in actual fact, a homily—a parable even—on what is ostensibly a merciful fate. On the other hand, all this could have been avoided by refraining from the vices of wanton destruction of educational material, the unnecessary and attention-seeking demonstration of flouncing, and the ruination of a city’s urban infrastructure. Instead, she could have ended up as a fine, upstanding citizen, in a fine, upstanding suburb, engaged in a fine, upstanding occupation—you know, like a currency trader, or hedge-fund manager, where people nod their heads in affirmation and doff their hats, and say, hand on heart: “We are in awe of your successful, morally right, and lawful occupation”
Compare this to the likelihood of her eventual descent into a depraved and debauched lifestyle that would make the Maquis de Sade’s Justine look like a prim and proper schoolgirl. Note here that I didn’t say ‘prim and proper Catholic schoolgirl’. I have to be careful. Here in Australia, Catholic schoolgirls have a certain reputation as randy little so-and-so’s, with a penchant for bending over and lifting up their skirt, wherein they’ll happily take it up the Arsenal have been really quiet on the recruitment front, thus far. I don’t trust ‘em, the shifty buggers—I think they’re up to something! Whereas, as you are no doubt aware, those red f@#!*ers across the park are always up something.
Anyway, Cels—errands to run, places to be—I have to go. I’m leaving you in charge for now, so don’t let things get out of hand. As General Macarthur said: “I shall return”. Speaking of which, Macarthur spent the War safely ensconced at S-W Pacific Allied Headquarters here in Brisbane, barely—and I mean barely—a stone’s throw from Fortitude Valley. I’ve heard the rumours, of course—notably the one involving Macarthur, two hookers, an inserted corn-cob pipe, and everyone lustily and lewdly singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” while nude. I’ll let your fertile imaginings do the rest—nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more. Best keep that one on the down-low. UTFT!
Signed:
Sir, your most obliged and humble servant. Please accept this expression of my most distinguished salutations. May your sword be sharp, your larder plentiful, and may the seed of your loins be fruitful—toodle-pip. Yours sincerely,
BrisbaneToffee, Grand Old Team’s Queensland Correspondent-at-Large
I think I was probably about 7 or 8 or so..
