Ceremony

What could be more Australian than a man, his dog, a breezy back verandah and a cold can of beer? Perhaps an immigrant, some vermin kangaroo, an unwanted pregnancy and a drinking problem - that might just tip the scales. But today I am enjoying the former. Me and Wilson are lazing about on the porch, smoking cigarettes and watching the world go by. I told him that he shouldn't smoke - dog years go by so quickly - he just coughed and flipped me the bird. Usually I'd've been a little hurt by such obscene gestures from a smoking dog, but today nothing can dampen my spirits. I have just been to my first Grog Ceremony.

Your grog might arrive in town on any barge - barge-days are Mondays and Thursdays - but pick up time is very strictly Saturdays at 11am every fortnight. It is known throughout the community as 'getting your grog on', 'getting a grog up ya' and 'Grog-a-palooza' - all of which I just made up then. If you happen to miss the proceedings of the morning your booze is stored in the police station, where it cannot be picked up until Monday. Being without a drink on a Grog Weekend is the equivalent of going to a school formal with a leper - the adventure, however well-intentioned, is bound to fall apart.

Two large refrigerated containers store the booze, as if Pandora's box had manifested as pair of meat lockers. Cars begin to line the street. Sunburnt white faces emerge, and huddle into neat and cliquey groups. Men with grey hair and blue shirts over there. Younger guys with bogan goatees over there. And a bunch of fat-ankled lesbians scattered throughout. There must be 20 cars, 50 odd people. The excitement in the air is so thick you could fill a bowl with it and call it custard. The police car rolls slowly into the lot - crunching and popping the gravelly dirt. They are The Deciders. They are the Keepers of the Chamber. They ...are the Key Masters.

'Mick Stevens!' The roll call begins. The lady cop has been stuck with the job of unloading all the slabs from the crate, while the bloke ticks stuff off on a clipboard. It must have been all the studies of Sexual Politics and Feminism at uni, but I can't help but find that amusing. 'Jack Thomas' The list reads like a 'who's who' of red-neck Australia. I feel like I'm at a graduation ceremony for a mature-age TAFE VCE course. 'Please accept this slab and a hearty hand-shake as a token of our congratulations!' The proud parents clap and wave stupidly from behind the camcorder. 'That's my boy!'

For me this is more important than any graduation. This is like receiving an Academy Award. My name comes up early - the light-beer slabs are on the top to deter break-and-enters - Huh? Me? Was that really me? Oh, my God, I don't believe it!
'Oh'
*breathlessly - even though I was sitting only a few feet away*
Thank you, Tony.
*kisses police man on both cheeks*
Oh, God. This is such an unexpected surprise...
*pulls a wad of palm cards from breast pocket*
'Oh, I'm so nervous...
*becomes suddenly calm and serious*
'I'd like to thank John and all the people at Malabam for giving me this opportunity to sink piss in a place where not everybody is allowed to. You took a chance on an unknown kid, now it's my turn to make you regret it. I'd like to thank the guys at the council for clearing my permit even though I haven't been here for three months. Oh, God...
*waves at someone in the audience*
'I know there's a million people I'm forgetting to thank, and you know who you are... and last of all I want to say thanks to my beautiful wife. Darling, you've always been there for me. I love you. And once I've finished this slab I'm going to try to have sex with you, then smack you around a bit for saying that I can't get it up... even though you’re right. Thank you again. Have a great night and God bless.'

There it is. I am now a man. I'm already three beers in to this entry, it's 10 past midday. The plan is to get myself drunk and sleep on the couch. Now THAT my friends, is living. Here's to responsible drinking.