The walk of shame

They call it the walk of shame. But if that was actually the case, then why is it.. do we actually always strut?  Granted, some walks are indeed pretty shameful. But if it was actually pretty good. Then the walk of shame, really, is the polar opposite from the truth.

It should really be called “the gait of honour”. Sure. You look terrible.  You’re seedy. Your breath stinks. You smell of sin. But there is a sense of pride that goes hand in hand with a walk of shame. It’s an accomplishment. Similar to say.. climbing Everest. Or finishing a marathon. You went out. Had a goal. Proverbially and figuratively, smashed that goal. And this is your lap of honour. Take a bow son. Take a bow.

There’s also that feeling. That every passer by you come across, knows what you’ve done. They all have the same look on their face “Oh. Look at you. Crinkly clothes. Messy hair. What have you been doing mister? Someone’s been a bad boy ;)”

Or maybe.. You really just look like a seedy fuck. With an air of disillusioned entitlement, because you were able to con some drunken girl to actually take your drunk ass home with her. And in reality, no one knows what the fuck you’ve done. Youre just the stinky guy in the corner of the tram.

And this is why it’s shameful. It’s not because you got lucky the previous evening. Its because you’re a seedy smelly fuck trying to get home. You may as well be a junkie. Shameful. Bow your head son. Bow your head.

Thirty-five minutes

This is the mark my housemate Dennis, has set for me. If I beat 35 minutes, I will get an all expense paid meal at my home away from home.. The Village Belle/Doulton. Affectionately known as the dirty D.. or the Dolo. The happiest place in the world.

A few years ago I got into running. Not exactly because I’m some sort of fitness fanatic. But mainly because I have a tendency to blow out. Growing up, I was what you would say.. pudgy. Actually no. Fat is the term I was looking for. My nickname in primary school was sumo. Yep. True story. Children are horribly mean. And this was a name that was actually given to me by my mates.

Being single, the main aim to working out, is not to become “fit”. But to look fit. Fit enough to be attractive to the opposite sex. Or more to the point, not become fat, as to detract the opposite sex. This is the goal. So I started working out, and more to the point, started running. But then I started to enjoy it. Even getting to the point where I started participating in fun runs. Which I must admit is extremely rewarding. Not only the finishing, the resulting medal and the feeling that youve achieved something. But mainly because of the amount of fit girls that you are able to see.. In lycra. The concentration of fit young females in one place is unmatched. If you’re male. Fairly fit. And single (or not single.. whatevs). Do yourself a favour. Sign up to a fun run. Do it. Trust me. You will not be disappointed.  When you’re out there running, you’ll almost think its illegal how much quality tail you’re looking at.

I started off small. With a 5km fun run. Then decided, that was a little too easy. So I did a couple of 10k runs. After finishing those fairly decently, and having quite a good perve along the way, I wanted to do more. Irrationally, I had it set in my head, that in the next 12 months, I would build up to a half marathon (21km) and eventually, complete a full marathon (42km). Boy.. was I fucking wrong.

Somehow, I completely forgot that my lifestyle does not allow me to accomplish such physical feats. Basically, 2.0 loves a party. Fuck, 1.0 loved a party. This is what turned him into 2.0.  (In your life, did you ever think you’d ever be witness to someone refer to themselves in the 4th person? Well.. tick that box. Because it just happened).  Being single, champagning and campaigning is just what you do. You do it to meet girls. And you work out just enough to meet em. Then you champagne and campaign, and reverse all the good work you have done. I drink. I smoke. I party. I get pissed. Then I eat KFC. I love it. This kind of lifestyle doesn’t let you run a marathon. The thought shouldn’t even conceive in your head.

But alas. With irrational confidence, and the excitement of  running with bunnies, I signed up to a 14km run. Big mistake. I jumped up to 14km thinking I would  eventually ramp up to the half marathon mark. I even trained a little for it. But then the lifestyle got in the way. I had just moved out with a couple of mates, and lets just say those first few weeks were… loose. And it was coming into summer and the weather was starting to warm up. The heat. The partying. The lack of training. Anything after 10kms was a struggle. Struggle is an understatement. Struggle denotes that it was just hard. No. It fucking hurt. Not even the thousands of bunnies helped. The last 4km was painful.. Mentally, more than anything else. Now I understand how Jesus felt when he was tempted for 40 days and 40 nights in the desert. In my head, all I kept trying to fight was the demons saying “Just quit ya dickhead. Who gives a fuck? Just stop fucking running. walk off the fucking course. Grab yourself a beer and light up a dart”. But somehow, I managed to finish.

And that was that. Lesson was learnt. My ill-conceived notion of completing a marathon were dashed. Hell.. the half-marathon was out the window. Well for now anyways. Whilst I’m single. There is a fine balance between being single, loving to party.. and trying to look fit. I have come to the conclusion, that balance is 10km. Being somewhat fit enough to run 10km is the perfect mix, of somewhat looking fit, but still being able to drink, smoke darts, party, eat shit food – basically enjoy the luxuries of single life.

My brother in law recently started running  as well. But he actually dedicated himself, and became good at it.  And is about to run the Melbourne Marathon (the full 42km. the crazy fuck). His journey into the world of running is completely different to mine. Im pretty sure he  actually wanted to become fit. Not just look fit. He is married to my sister after all. (You can read about his running journey at  And thats the difference. If I could just party and enjoy the liberty and freedom thats associated with single life, and not have to work out. Then I would do it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, this is not the case. So I have to tow the line and run where possible.

And this is where the 35 minutes comes in. I recently moved home, to where now, I am able to run home from work. It’s approximately 6 and a half km. The perfect distance to look fit, but actually be a fat fuck. It takes me about the same time to go home by public transport. And the way I see it, no matter what, I need to get home. So I may as well run home and get stupid exercising out of the way. And Yes. I am that douchebag running with a backpack. I started out, running home in about 45min. Then got it down to sub 40min. Depending on how hectic my weekend has been, the time varies from 38.43 (best) to 52.23 (worst. It was summer. and I’m pretty sure I was coming off a bender).

So my housemate Dennis has been kind enough to set me a challenge. He understands my love for food and my love of the drink. He also understands my love for the Village Belle/Doulton. Or more to the point, my love for the girls that work at the Village Belle/Doulton. So 35 minutes is the mark. Forget about half marathons or marathons. 35 minutes is my new running goal. If I run home in sub 35 minutes. I will be shouted an all expense paid meal at my beloved Dirty D. With my beloved wives behind the bar. And thats the point. My goal for running was never to become fit. But just do enough running to  perhaps, attract the girls behind the bar. And then reward myself by smashing a shit load of food and a copious amount of alcohol.

2.0 does the snow

I’m currently in the back seat, on a 5 hour car journey back home, from a week long trip at Victoria’s Mt Hotham alpine resort. The playground of the rich and decadent. It has been one of the best trips I have had and I feel there is a need to share 2.0’s first time at the snow. Ok. That was a gypsy lie. I have been to the snow before. But that was before the coma incident. So technically 2.0 did get his snow cherry popped. And let me tell you, there was a lot of blood…. The best thing about this; I’m going to share it in words… And pictures.. Awesome!

Before the voyage got underway, I compiled a list of objectives for 2.0’s first trip to the snow:

1. Become proficient at snowboarding.

2. Not get injured/die trying to accomplish the first goal.

3. For a week, forget about anything associated with being at home. Work or personal or other.

4. Party every night.

5. Fuck a snow bunny. Meet a nice young lady.

6. Hit the slopes and board in my onesie.

So with my bags packed and my goals set, on a chilly winter’s morning, I, along with seven others, set out on a 5 hour voyage to a much much colder place. I had booked this holiday in the summer. As this winter had been extremely cool and I wake up everyday cursing the cold and dreaming for heat, I had reservations leading up to the trip as to why the fuck I had not chosen for a holiday to somewhere warm. But instead choose to go somewhere even colder than it already fuckin was. By weeks end, I decided I had indeed made the right choice. I had managed to tick 5 of the 6 goals I had set before the trip. Pretty good strike rate if you ask me. I wont divulge as to which ones. I’ll let you decide as to which ones they are.



20130801_145644This is me. And yes. This is me wearing a onesie. And behind me wearing a onesie, is Mt Hotham. I had not been to Hotham before. But had heard many good things. A friend of mine wont shut the fuck up about it being some sort of magical winter wonderland. She wasn’t wrong. As soon as you arrive, the vibe changes. Everything slows and becomes laid back. Everyone is friendly. Although, it does seem like some sort of exclusive country club. With membership existing only to those with.. money. The private school kid types. This, is their playground.


20130731_104812This is me preparing to take off at the top of the run. And yes. I’m shitting myself. I have been to the snow before and was there just a few years back. And I have snowboarded. But since the coma incident, every time I have to do do something that I could do pre-coma, I basically have to relearn with my new body. I don’t have a new body. But I have new muscles. I lost 15 kilos of muscle during that coma stretch. And everything we do comes down to muscle memory. From walking. To picking up an object. Our muscles know exactly how much force to exert to complete said actions. In my head, I knew how to do these things. Unfortunately, my new muscles (or lack thereof)  did not. The first time I tried to walk post-coma, without assistance.. I swiftly fell over. So yes. In this pic, I’m quietly shitting myself.


20130801_103918This is me on a chairlift. And it quickly became my favourite part about snowboarding. Not just because of the picturesque views. But because of  the actual sitting down and resting. Snowboarding, especially if you don’t do it often, is painful. Fucking painful. You’re whole body aches. The strain on your legs. The falls. The cold. It all takes a massive toll on your body. By the second day, I could barely walk. But it was worth it. When you’re out there snowboarding down the mountain, you start to immensely enjoy going through the surreal beauty of the place. And then getting to the bottom. Just so you can sit down, rest, and enjoy the chairlift back to the top and do it all over again. So yes. this became the my favourite part of snowboarding.


20130801_150456-1This is me snowboarding in my onesie. Note the ease and extreme control. This was on day three. Day one was a lot different. It took me a day to confidently get down to the bottom and get on the beloved chairlift. The first day I mostly fell. A lot. I even bled on that first day. I took a pretty bad stack on day one. Straight on to my face. And my nose instantly started to piss blood. And it wouldn’t stop. I thought I may have broken my nose. For 5 minutes, I turned the white snow, pink. But It wasn’t broken and that was day one. To become proficient, you have to get that first stack out of the way,  just so you know, that even though you may draw blood.. Falling.. Is not so bad and you can get that fear out of your head. That’s how you learn.. That was day one. By day three. I was doing 360s in my onesie. Like a boss.


20130802_192615This is alcohol. Delicious. Refreshing alcohol. The routine at the snow quickly became to board during the day. Then drink all other times. A lifestyle I could quickly could get used to. We got up early and boarded till midday. Had lunch. Had a jagerbomb. Or four. Got back out onto the slopes til 4 when the lifts close. Then drink and party until we couldn’t feel feelings anymore. And then do it the next day. Its a splendid way of spending a week away.


horseheadThis is horse DJ. Or a DJ horse, whichever way you want to look at it. We partied on  the last night at one of the many local clubs/bars. That was surprisingly the best part about the place. It really was just one big party. The playground for the rich. People partying in their onesies. DJ’s with horseheads. It didnt matter. Everyone was just keen to get fucked up. Again, a lifestyle I could quickly get used to.. I may or may not have also been on acid this night. So this horseheaded DJ, may or may not have actually been real.


20130802_021059This is me. This is me passed out. This is me passed out with heels, a handbag and a cashmere shawl. Note the content happiness slapped on my face. For a whole week I was able to forget about home/life and all the problems/griefs associated with it. And Just enjoy my time away. Even if I was passed out. Wearing heels. A handbag. And what I later found out to be a cashmere shawl.. You couldnt wipe away the content happiness on my face.



On a chilly winter’s morning, eight people embarked on a five hour trip for six days and five nights of unrepentant fun at one mountain. Bonds were strengthened. Friendships were born. Blood was drawn. Alcohol was drunk. Shots were had. Drugs consumed. Vomit thrown up. Despite the fact I had chosen to go somewhere that was actually colder than the extremely cold winter we were already going through, It was one of the best weeks I have ever had. In this life. Or my first one.

I’m about to buy my own gear. It has been decided, that the drinking, drugs, partying snowboarding is definitely up to 2.0’s alley and I cannot wait to do it again next year.


N.B. One night it started to snow. I hadn’t actually seen it snow at night before. I cant put it down to being magical.. or extremely eerie. There’s something about the silence of snowfall that just makes  it kind of…  extremely odd.