We were hurtling down the road, the mighty blue’s speedometer clawed angrily at the 140 mark as it roared down the tarmac. Unsuspecting 28’s* chewed at the grill, exploding into a puff of feathers out the back. We were going on an “Editor” hunt, which for all intended purposes is much like trying to trap a Yeti. Their elusive cunningness makes for a serious challenge.. Well for the modest that is, but Monkey boy and I aren’t modest.. Hell no we’re more like two eager rock gazelles, second generation Rambo’s loaded with a full metal van.

The ornate hunting tools littering the van bed rolled carelessly as we swept through the tight bends. We had packed light with the knowledge we may have to take up some foot thunder in pursuit of the prey, should he try to escape our elaborate ambush that is. This was no time to be held down by the weight of overzealous preparation..

My first personal encounter with an editor was some time ago now, she would sweep through the gym 5:30pm every afternoon, cleverly using a wrist watch I’d assumed. Her lustrous bloom was like the feathers of a peacock, metaphorically of course, she didn’t have actual feathers. Anyway as she passed I would stumble over a word maybe two, smart and witty at the forefront of my mind, “Hi.. me.. (Slurp)”, she would hint a polite smile and then, as quick as I could blink, she was gone. Crafty creatures they are.

Until one day, with a shard of luck I caught her in a journalistic trance**. I felt like some Budda Monk learning the secret of silence. No not because the conversation was bleak, incoherent maybe but not drab. Anyway enough with this dribble, at this point I learnt something very valuable, something I could use on this trip…. All editor’s and journalists are proud alcoholic’s!

My preparation would be perfect;

Worn in set of Volley’s (Sports model preferred)…. Check
Suitable protective clothing like flanno’s etc… Check
Spare stubby holder…. Check
Cold beer…. Check
Half a container of left over Chinese... Check

It would appear we were ready.

Monkey boy and I could see the sun was setting as we rolled into town, the tired big blue gave a last puff as we pulled up on York Street.
“It’s getting dark, well have to do something quick” I mumbled through my Cascade Green,
“Isn’t that him” Monkey boy pointed to a pedestrian crossing the road a few metre’s in front of the car. “No” I insisted, “This is an Editor hunt, it’s supposed to be hard and full of perilous adventure”. I took another heavy slug of beer.
“No, I’m sure that was him” Monkey boy gestures.
He was probably right, but how. It had been over a year and half since I had meet Mark Roy. In that time he had moved towns at least 1400km away from our origin. It wasn’t possible that the first person we saw was him? I’m sure many pedestrians mindlessly wondering down the street, cask in one hand and a flower in the other…

Monkey boy and I exploded into action, “That was him” Monkey Boy confirms. But it’s too late, Art Director had slipped into some mysterious dark shadows and was one. I gulped some more beer thoughtfully, reloaded and stuffed another into my pocket. “Grab your boot’s mate, we’ll have to walk the streets from here” I ordered. We looked around; the street was wide and ran up a hill. Old two story buildings converged with the verge. A couple of dark looking streets ran off to the side. “Mark Roy reckons this place is loathing with right-wing Christens doesn’t surprise me really, look how dead this place is”. Apart from some commotion up the hill, not much else was happening. We decided we might try finding out what this commotion was, given it didn’t look like we would find the Editor any time soon.

As we approached, we could make out a small crowd banded around the front of a large building entrance. At the top of some stairs a school band were performing an old hymn, a pretty small affair by any standards. Suddenly I had a thought, and rushed closer to get a better look, while being careful not to be noticed. This isn’t the time for a crowd panic.. One glimpse of this beard could send these right-wing townsmen into hysteria. I’d be lucky to get out of here without a pitch fork to my neck. I creped in closer, examining the crowd.. I know you’ll be in here somewhere, I thought. It was the obvious tell tale signs I was looking for and there it was, a pronounced hip camera illuminating a sense of importance.

I’d have to get in closer for a chat, but the risk was large. I waited until she took a few steps back away from the crowd, who were now busily focusing on the band marching into a solid chorus. I tapped her on the shoulder, she turned and our eye’s meet. She was gorgeous, but this was no time for games..
“Do you know Mark”, I questioned
“Mark.. Mark Roy you mean” her voice was pleasant and familiar.. Her skin supple and soft..
“Yes that’s what I mean, you don’t know where I could find him?” There was no time for idle pleasantries I thought, best off I get out of here before it turns sour.

A quick few words and I was now on my way, still no phone number but I had some rough directions.. “Above the hairdressers” she said.. I wasn’t listening though, too busy following her lips move around the words.. Soft and gentle, her sweet face could melt a man.. I turned, slurped a good amount of oat soda and set off again. This was a hunt and I would have to be skilled.. No distractions!

It took some time but Monkey Boy and I finally located the apparent lair, in which Art Director was thought to be couped up. We knocked hesitantly, not knowing what trap we may be walking into. For all we knew some old grandma might live here… The site of us wrapping at her front door would certainly do us in. I could picture the Cops swooping in from afar “Cuff these ones fella’s, they look like a wild bunch”, ” And book’em for disorderly conduct when you get’em back to the meat pen” the Sergeant hisses to his men.

Knock, Knock, Knock.. No answer.. The hairdresser who was originally working feverishly now periodically glares though the shopfront window. Fumbling with his phone, and conveniently setting it down close to his work station.. “We’ll have to leave a note” I suggest, “Not much point loitering around here it’s like a ticking time bomb”. We made our way back to the big blue, our shelter and haven as it would seem. By this stage I was in much need of a top up anyway so it seemed a good idea.

It wasn’t long after we got back when I received a message… It read with a sense of urgency, the way a message from an editor/jurno always sounds. Not only are they always boong drunk (Pardon the derogatory comment, I’m happy to take it back) but they are always in a rush!

We found him at the front of the hair dressers stepping into a Taxi when we called out… A look of surprise spread across his face. Maybe I should have told him I was coming down to say good aye, or at least got his number before I left..

“We’re heading off for a shed jam with a local group, you guys wanna come?”
“Too right!”.

As usual, the unplanned always turns out to be the best. And this didn’t seem to disappoint! After a hum ding set the party died down so we decided to move on. By this stage we were feeling pretty intoxicated, Mark Roy was now successfully getting into the lower half of a second cask when he suggests.. “You guys want to go to the lost lake?”. Now I’m not sure but when you hear the word “Lake” you conjure up thoughts of a vast quantity of fresh water right? So after a massive drunken tramp through the bush we finally arrive at what has been described as a lake.. Which for the purpose of this blog I will confirm it looked much like a small drain. Though in Mark Roy’s defence, he was drunk the last time he had come here (Surprise) and it came with a pretty cool story about being dug by convicts in the 1800s so he was forgiven.

We trekked back to the big blue, cracked another beer and lit a decent fire. Settling in for another quite night on the road.


* 28's Are birds which sit on the side of the road..

** journalistic trance = DRUNK