Glenn H. Mitchell's Blog

Memoir #3 – How to Get Eaten by Crocodiles

29 days shooting documentaries in the desert and tropics. We covered murders, deaths in custody, the stolen generation and politics. So when we had a chance to drive to the tip of the Northern Territory for a few hours of recreation, we took it, smoking and relaxing, enjoying the untouched wilderness.

Apparently the secret to working out whether your truck was about to sink in the swamp was for one person to walk ahead, so I plodded through the mud as my colleague drove. The logic was simple: if the guide sunk, the truck was about to sink.

We didn’t get far. I heard the car horn and looked back with a generous amount of terror at the prostrate truck, wheels well below the mud’s surface. My colleague was understandably panicking considering he’d borrowed the vehicle from the town mayor.

There were hopeless attempts to lever the truck out of the mud. At one stage we managed to make it leap out, only to see it dive back into the sludge like an ungainly whale. Finally we decided we were probably going to die. You might wonder why we didn’t just walk out of there. The issue was the crocodiles.

We could see their eyes in the dim twilight, like little lights being switched on and off randomly. The scene had been reduced to tones of black, grey and blue as nature added to the drama by using a horror movie palette. The water had reached the car doors. The crocs were giving the tide another thirty minutes, just to make sure their dinner was easily accessible. We were meals on sunken wheels.

Strangely enough, just when you’d logically think death by crocodile attack would be at the forefront of my mind, I was distracted by the converging fog of sandflies that arrived with the night. Here’s a little education about this particular variety of sandfly. They bite you, then they – wait for it – piss on the wound. I have to ask: on what fucking day did God create that?

So I was surrounded by hundreds of these diabolical tiny creatures, in such a tortured state that I welcomed the crocodiles. The water reached halfway up the doors. We were not long for this world. You could hear that sound from wildlife documentaries signalling the entry of a crocodile into water: a slurping muddy slither followed by a flat splash.

That’s when we heard voices. I assumed they were angels or demons coming to take me to judgement. Then I saw the white crescent smiles lighting up the pitch-black canvas. It was a visiting party of men from – ironically – Crocodile Island who’d arrived to attend a funeral. Thanks to them, the funeral procession would not be extended due to the untimely deaths of two idiot city slickers. They tried to save the truck but it was too late. They did something much better in my opinion: they saved us.

I was later hospitalised. God damn those sandflies.

Fear for the whole family: a fun game with anagrams

Online I looked for a little word-game that had haunted me since it was taught by an old work colleague who printed books and was a learned lover of literature. When I searched for it online I found what I believed to be incorrect versions. I assume Chinese whispers have distorted what must be a very old anonymous game/verse.

The worst thing about the versions I’ve seen is that they water down the imagery by ruining one of the lines. I may be wrong, but I can’t find any version older than 2010 online, and I was taught by a guy that was about 70 years old, at least ten tears ago. It was taught to him when he was a kid. I’m backing my version.

So for posterity, I’ll record it here. If anyone challenges this version and has proof, or knows its source, I’d like to be informed. I’ll happily correct it as long as there’s a dependable reference to back the claim. A large amount of common modern references won’t convince me because my version dates back to at least 1940.

A game of anagrams that unlocks quite a spooky little verse…

A ____ old woman of ____ bent

Slipped on her ____ and away she went

Come my son, ____ she was heard to say

Who shall we ____ upon today?

Hint: the son’s name is ‘Levi’

Flash Fiction: Coagulation

He was obsessed with cheese. Any type would do. Some styles gave him more pleasure than others but there wasn’t a single fatty darling he didn’t adore. It started quite innocently at first – he seemed to make more toasted cheese sandwiches that winter and for the first time he began to buy savoury crisps and crackers. Then the slices on cheese sandwiches became thicker and the variety of cheese in the fridge was suddenly more extensive.

His addiction drove him into unfamiliar territory, browsing foreign flavours, wading through the low fog of refrigerated shelves in delicatessens, shivering slightly but always smiling as he sampled blue cheeses with fat varicose veins bulging from pungent mush. He salivated, letting his watering mouth submerge hard amber Edams and bullet-wounded Swiss.

His girlfriend tried ignoring his new preoccupation. She had forgiven his many OCD-driven affairs. He had fallen in and out of love with Brazilian Jujitsu, smoked fish, pointillism, antique furniture and duck hunting, to name a few. Over time the harmless obsessions always faded, and she’d come to consider them strange ways of gaining more attention. If that was the case, the transient infatuations were simply his way of reaching to her.

But his latest infatuation showed no signs of decay. She soon noticed it was escalating to a worrying phase. She was not the type of woman who could accept second-place; she was determined to curb his desire for dairy.

Gritting her teeth and muttering profanity, she removed any cheese that was remotely close to its expiry date, but he was well aware of his total inventory and immediately replaced any missing variety of cheese immediately. The colour yellow dominated the refrigerator, it reeked of the pungent aromas of vintage cheeses, and smeared plastic wrap hung from the white grill of shelves, rubbing against the bare skin of her arms every time she reached for fruit or margarine. Her hate was now as intense as his love.

She surprised him one night by leaving work early and sneaking into their home. As she peeked around the kitchen doorway, she was shocked to see how far his love for cheese had gone. There he was with one hand tightly gripping a block of cheddar, pants around his ankles, his other hand glazed with pate’, surely poised to perform an unspeakable act. It was the breaking point and as she gazed upon her boyfriend and his unlikely lover, she could no longer see yellow; she could only see red.

Moved by jealousy, she cleaned out the refrigerator and filled a garbage bag with every morsel of food. The bag was dragged into their bedroom as he watched, stunned. When she began spraying lighter-fuel over the precious foodstuffs, he panicked and lunged for the canister of gas. Being much stronger, she turned him away with a backhanded blow to the face, which instantly knocked her frail lover to the ground. He woke, being dragged out of the front door of their home as the smell of smoke and smoked-cheeses filled his nostrils. The ensuing blaze spread through three rooms of the house before the fire department could control it.

She seemed calm, sitting on the curb, watching the charred house smoulder, slowly nodding in the direction of the controlled blaze, but when a delivery truck emblazoned with an ad for cheese-flavoured corn chips drove past, she suffered a psychotic episode that led to the assault of a fireman. Thrown into a paddy wagon, she overheard a conversation between the two officers about cheesecake and kicked through the protective partition between her mobile cell and the back seat of the van. When she was given an evaluation, the French psychologist talked about the fire and innocently said it was lucky no one was injured by debris. Thinking he was referring to ‘the Brie’, she attempted to strangle him. Finally she was admitted to a home for the criminally insane.

Her former boyfriend now visits her once a week and brings a small basket packed with dips, fruit and crackers. After a terrible conflict involving a cheese platter, a nurse and a butter knife, her sentence has been extended by two years.

Memoir #2: Age 14 is not the time to learn how to drive a tip truck

Woo, buddy!

That was the high-pitched warning my massive stepfather issued whenever I exceeded his unbelievably high threshold for danger. That same awkward squeak – an alien sound coming from a man with mitts like Thing – was usually associated with his stubborn attempts to teach me to master the control of cars, trucks, boats and planes when I was still a child.

When I was 13 years old I executed a perfect Hunter S Thompson-like four-lane drift across swerving traffic to make it to a freeway turn-off; accelerated a 42-foot fishing boat in high seas to temporarily enjoy the sensation of flight; and half sunk a utility by letting it roll down a boat ramp. Yet his squeak was identical every time – just a polite, cautionary understatement. Nothing fazed him.

To put things into perspective, I have to say that Dad didn’t mind a drink. This was evident the night I suddenly found myself packing at 3am to go on a road trip to Darwin to hunt wild crocodile. He also threatened to leave us stranded in the desert as a character building exercise.

In hindsight, alcohol may have inspired him to let me drive the six-wheel International tip-truck to Broadbeach Golf Club when I was 14. Somehow I cruised to the club in the massive vehicle without any major mishap. I played the back nine and sank a few brown cows. I may have snuck a couple of beers in as well. The old man was probably well over the limit, safe in the knowledge that he had a 14 year-old designated driver at his disposal.

On the return trip, running hot on a dangerous mixture of sarsaparilla cordial and alcohol, I got a bit overconfident and left it too late to negotiate a large roundabout. He issued his trademark ‘woo, buddy’ and reached for the steering wheel to make sure I didn’t attempt a late turn. Surprised (and I believe also impressed) he realised that I had no intention of turning: we were going directly through the island.

Over the brickwork and ornamental garden, the rattling, bouncing goliath carved an unapologetic line through the junction as I held the massive steering wheel in a death grip. As we dismounted the roundabout like an obese gymnast, the soil-coated wheels slid, we entered a graceful skid, fishtailed and spat out of the intersection back to the main road. As we regained traction, I looked down to see a stunned old man in a Corolla waiting for the hurricane to pass, eyes wide and jaw unhinged.

Neither of us spoke of the event as I drove home. It was in the past like the destroyed roundabout, stunned octogenarian and any hopes I had of a career as a truck driver. 

Unperturbed by the near-death experience, Dad later suggested highly impractical character developments including teaching me how to pilot a single engine Cessna, full-scale glider and 72 foot yacht.

Flash Fiction: ‘Chance Meeting’

I noticed a dream hiding in a crack as I walked down the sidewalk on Broadway. I recognised it from my childhood. The instant our eyes met, the dream looked scared, but I reassured it with a smile. It made me promise to keep our chance meeting a secret. The dream told me it had been working on Sydney’s north shore, feeding the neurosis of rich, middle-aged divorcees until it became too greedy and started looking for cash-in-hand work, eventually moonlighting as a nightmare in the slums.

As a result, it had been suspended by the Union of the Consolidated Subconscious Mind for four weeks and was forced to earn a living as a sexual fantasy in a large accounting firm. The dream became bitter, complaining that it knew of colleagues who had second jobs as drug hallucinations.

The dream had always been proud and I felt disappointed to see it reduced to such a sorry state. I gave it some hope, promising that I would call it if I ever needed a dependable escape from reality. It thanked me for the support and crawled back into a crevice that split the concrete, silently waiting for the wandering imaginations of unsuspecting commuters.

Very Short Story: ‘Chance Meeting’

I noticed a dream hiding in a crack as I walked down the sidewalk on Broadway. I recognised it from my childhood. The instant our eyes met, the dream looked scared, but I reassured it with a smile. It made me promise to keep our chance meeting a secret. The dream told me it had been working on Sydney’s north shore, feeding the neurosis of rich, middle-aged divorcees until it became too greedy and started looking for cash-in-hand work, eventually moonlighting as a nightmare in the slums.

As a result, it had been suspended by the Union of the Consolidated Subconscious Mind for four weeks and was forced to earn a living as a sexual fantasy in a large accounting firm. The dream became bitter, complaining that it knew of colleagues who had second jobs as drug hallucinations.

The dream had always been proud and I felt disappointed to see it reduced to such a sorry state. I gave it some hope, promising that I would call it if I ever needed a dependable escape from reality. It thanked me for the support and crawled back into a crevice that split the concrete, silently waiting for the wandering imaginations of unsuspecting commuters.

Humour: Who Wrote The Bible?

Who wrote the bible?

Peter Carey.

Peter Carey?

Yeah, I know, he’s very good.

I didn’t know that.

I think he won a Pulitzer for it.

What year?

Um…oh, hang on.

Ah, I thought you got that one wrong.

Yeah, it was God who wrote the bible. He used a few ghost-writers though.

Haven’t read it.

Epic.

Any other titles by God I might know?

Not really, I think he self-published a short story collection earlier, but his career really didn’t take off until the Old Testament.

He wrote the screenplay for the Charlies Angels sequel.

Wow, I loved that.

Yeah, for me it’s Gone With The Wind and the Charlies Angels sequel fighting it out for greatest film of all time. Oh, I’ll add The Deer Hunter to that list too, although I do think the Charlies Angels sequel is obviously the technically superior film.

Did God write Anaconda?

You get the feeling he was involved, don’t you?

It has the two most important criteria covered – it has a massive paper mache monster and an ex-gangster rapper. Whenever you can get forces that powerful together, it’s like a cinematic planetary alignment.

It is a spectacular union.

So, what’s God’s latest release?

A cookbook.

Wow.

Yeah, I’ve got a copy here.

It looks comprehensive.

It is, but … hmm… that’s strange.

What?

There doesn’t appear to be a section on Pork.

Memoir #1: Born Again Christian shark karma

Now, I’m not saying that my friend was almost attacked by a shark due to tricking me into entering a Christian recruitment ambush. I’m just saying it was a hell of a coincidence.

On that particular day after enjoying a good morning session of surfing, eating a burger with the works and hearing the cricket was rained out, the prospect of going to Miami Great Hall to watch surfing movies was tantalising. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a tiny voice – quite possibly Satan – telling me there was something wrong.

But as I sat in the hall surrounded by cliche surfer types, all enjoying the classic ‘Kong’s Island’, I finally relaxed and focused on the flick. My instincts had obviously been off kilter.

Then the lights came on, the ‘organiser’ asked us if anyone was ready to commit their lives to Jesus Christ and it seemed every head twisted Exorcist-360 and finally faced me, demonic eyes blazing above welcoming smiles. Sun-bleached zombies started shuffling slowly, almost ashamedly towards the bloodshot-eyed, Lightning-Bolt-wearing soul-grifter as he beckoned rhythmically, revolving his hand as though he was winding the reel and could feel the labouring spiritual fishing line dragging his catch ever closer.

I think I was the only one who didn’t convert to whatever the fuck it was they were peddling. My friend had the audacity to look disappointed in me. Kind of like a murderer being disappointed when his intended victim doesn’t sit still. I sat there thinking, ‘guys, I’m sorry I’m not willing to sell my soul to a random doctrine for the price of a short surfing movie, the promise of possible surf wear discounts and permission to smoke weed while I worship, but really it’s a big fucking no from me’.

Back at Sunbrite, God appeared to be apologising for the mix-up by delivering the sweetest little dark, glassy afternoon waves I’d seen in months. The creator also seemed to be willing to reward the conspirators.

In between breaks, clouds wrapped the sun and the whole scene turned into a sinister charcoal drawing. The Frank Miller-produced shore-break was begging for weirdness and it happened, right under my board as I faced my friend.

Obviously I didn’t feel the body of the shark against my skin. What I felt, forcing my legs apart like it was my first day in prison, was the water displaced by the shark as it moved under me. The creature was large enough to displace so much water that I felt myself lift. That explained the ghosty-pale complexion of my friend and his premature rigor mortis. As I was to later discover, the shark had been very close to the surface and aiming its oversized arrow of a head at me before suddenly diving deeper.

My board and I returned to our original positions and I scanned the dark water, trying to find the threat. It wasn’t the ideal time to lose a shark. Judging by my friend’s eye-line, it had dived and was traveling under him. A few seconds later I saw the shark’s fin surface in the background, moving away, along the coast towards Miami, hopefully in search of pot-smoking Christians. I’m not sure how big that fin was but the shark appeared to be well endowed.

It took me about twenty minutes to get my friend out of the water because he was catatonic. His state eased to a completely crippling paralysis, then suddenly he snapped into a rushed panic. I’ve seen outboard motors make more froth, but not many.

Why did I nurse him to shore despite the fact that I was shit-scared of being eaten? Well, he was still a friend, and as the old saying goes, ‘to err is Christian, but to forgive is divine’. I got that right didn’t I?

Having said all that, I’m technically a Catholic so it’s particularly breezy in my glass house.