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E morì con un felafel in mano
Se cambiare casa vuol dire cambiare qualcosa di noi stessi, che cosa si diventa dopo aver traslocato 89 volte nel giro di pochi anni? Dopo aver avuto a che fare con “ogni tipo di umanità esaltata ed estrema, di cazzoni disadattati ed eterni studenti”? Ed essere scampati a incendi, devastazioni, blitz dei fascisti, retate della polizia? Una storia grunge di coabitazioni infernali raccontata da un autore australiano che l’ha vissuta in prima persona. John Birmingham ha veramente coabitato con centinaia di persone diverse, annotando tic, abitudini e follie varie. Da quegli appunti è nato questo libro, un inedito modo di scrivere un divertentissimo romanzo di formazione. John Birmingham ci fa scendere nell’inferno delle case coabitate, in cui ogni girone si rivela più allucinato e incredibile e ci racconta, a venti anni dalla sua prima uscita, che non è cambiato poi molto. La necessità di condividere un appartamento per sostenerne i costi è ancora parte integrante della vita di molti giovani, e non più giovani. Torna in libreria un cult della generazione anni Novanta, un libro e un film che sono rimasti nella memoria collettiva di milioni di persone.
169 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1994
98 people are currently reading
3028 people want to read
About the author
John Birmingham
79 books1,178 followersJohn Birmingham grew up in Ipswich, Queensland and was educated at St Edmunds Christian Brother's College in Ipswich and the University of Queensland in Brisbane. His only stint of full time employment was as a researcher at the Defence Department. After this he returned to Queensland to study law but he did not complete his legal studies, choosing instead to pursue a career as a writer. He currently lives in Brisbane.
While a law student he was one of the last people arrested under the state's Anti Street March legislation. Birmingham was convicted of displaying a sheet of paper with the words 'Free Speech' written on it in very small type. The local newspaper carried a photograph of him being frogmarched off to a waiting police paddy wagon.
Birmingham has a degree in international relations.
While a law student he was one of the last people arrested under the state's Anti Street March legislation. Birmingham was convicted of displaying a sheet of paper with the words 'Free Speech' written on it in very small type. The local newspaper carried a photograph of him being frogmarched off to a waiting police paddy wagon.
Birmingham has a degree in international relations.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 322 reviews
February 9, 2017
I once lived with a man who covered the entire wall of our shared (four people) bathroom with hard-core Dutch pornography. I asked him to take it down and he claimed it couldn’t be removed as it was ‘Art’. We had a yelling match that went for thirty minutes.
If you’ve ever shared a home with someone, (a roommate in the US, known as a housemate here in Australia) you most likely have a horror story like this (I hope yours is less gross). If you’ve argued over dishes, gotten annoyed at your roomie’s parties, messy girlfriend/boyfriend or inability to make rent on time you will find something you recognize in He Died with a Falafel in his Hand.
Do not read this book if you have a weak stomach, if you despair at the depths of squalor that human beings can sink to, if stories of passive aggressive post-it note battles and weed-smoking lassitude get you down. Do read it however if you like to laugh out loud, and want to go on a journey through what student, unemployed and renting life in Australia was like in the 1990s.
Birmingham takes his readers on a hilarious journey through the many, many homes he shared and the many, many weird and outrageous people he lived with, culminating in the housemate who inspired the book’s name, who did indeed die, and was found with a falafel (also called kebab in some jurisdictions) in his hand.
Don’t know how a bucket bong works? Birmingham will show you, with diagrams. Wonder what it would be like to have someone living in a closet in your home or in a tent in the lounge? Birmingham has done it, and you get to enjoy the chaos from a distance. Ever left your dirty dishes for so long that you’ve had to drag them out onto the lawn and hose them down? You guessed it, Birmingham has, and he shows it in all its grotty glory.
This book is a genuine Australian classic. In the 90s and early 000s John Birmingham was Australia’s answer to Hunter S. Thompson, writing scathing, biting Antipodean Gonzo with real humor (his obituary of the corrupt hillbilly dictator of Queensland, Joh Bjelke-Peterson is the rawest, fiercest example of the form I have ever read). He Died with a Falafel in his Hand is hilarious and appalling in equal measure, and should be given to anyone thinking of leaving their parent’s house in favor of shared housing, in order to ready them for the horrors they about to experience.
(One word of warning- there are a lot of Australianisms to be found here, and a slang app would be useful. I read this book in New Zealand and thought the often referenced backyard ‘Hills Hoists’ in the book were devices for removing car engines, leaving me with an image of Aussies as a people unreasonably obsessed with car maintenance. It was only three years later when I migrated that I learned that a Hills Hoist is a clothesline, and that Aussies are quite reasonably obsessed with drying their wet clothes.)
A Hills Hoist clothesline.
If you’ve ever shared a home with someone, (a roommate in the US, known as a housemate here in Australia) you most likely have a horror story like this (I hope yours is less gross). If you’ve argued over dishes, gotten annoyed at your roomie’s parties, messy girlfriend/boyfriend or inability to make rent on time you will find something you recognize in He Died with a Falafel in his Hand.
Do not read this book if you have a weak stomach, if you despair at the depths of squalor that human beings can sink to, if stories of passive aggressive post-it note battles and weed-smoking lassitude get you down. Do read it however if you like to laugh out loud, and want to go on a journey through what student, unemployed and renting life in Australia was like in the 1990s.
Birmingham takes his readers on a hilarious journey through the many, many homes he shared and the many, many weird and outrageous people he lived with, culminating in the housemate who inspired the book’s name, who did indeed die, and was found with a falafel (also called kebab in some jurisdictions) in his hand.
Don’t know how a bucket bong works? Birmingham will show you, with diagrams. Wonder what it would be like to have someone living in a closet in your home or in a tent in the lounge? Birmingham has done it, and you get to enjoy the chaos from a distance. Ever left your dirty dishes for so long that you’ve had to drag them out onto the lawn and hose them down? You guessed it, Birmingham has, and he shows it in all its grotty glory.
This book is a genuine Australian classic. In the 90s and early 000s John Birmingham was Australia’s answer to Hunter S. Thompson, writing scathing, biting Antipodean Gonzo with real humor (his obituary of the corrupt hillbilly dictator of Queensland, Joh Bjelke-Peterson is the rawest, fiercest example of the form I have ever read). He Died with a Falafel in his Hand is hilarious and appalling in equal measure, and should be given to anyone thinking of leaving their parent’s house in favor of shared housing, in order to ready them for the horrors they about to experience.
(One word of warning- there are a lot of Australianisms to be found here, and a slang app would be useful. I read this book in New Zealand and thought the often referenced backyard ‘Hills Hoists’ in the book were devices for removing car engines, leaving me with an image of Aussies as a people unreasonably obsessed with car maintenance. It was only three years later when I migrated that I learned that a Hills Hoist is a clothesline, and that Aussies are quite reasonably obsessed with drying their wet clothes.)
A Hills Hoist clothesline.
July 22, 2024
Great title, shame about the content.
To be honest, I listened to this on audiobook for book club several months ago, but was happy to borrow a print copy to revisit it for signs of an improvement.
If blokey, sexist humour and endless repetitive and pointless variations of sharing a series of sewers with grotty, drunken, drugged housemates is your thing, you’ll love it.
But be warned, it’s ’The Young Ones’ without The Comic Strip or ‘Withnail & I’ without Richard E. Grant. And that’s not funny.
To be honest, I listened to this on audiobook for book club several months ago, but was happy to borrow a print copy to revisit it for signs of an improvement.
If blokey, sexist humour and endless repetitive and pointless variations of sharing a series of sewers with grotty, drunken, drugged housemates is your thing, you’ll love it.
But be warned, it’s ’The Young Ones’ without The Comic Strip or ‘Withnail & I’ without Richard E. Grant. And that’s not funny.
September 29, 2007
great paragraph:
We all smoked way too much. If you took all the shit we smoked in just one year and rolled it into one big joint, it would be so much bigger than the biggest joint you have ever seen that you would need to smoke two really big joints just to deal with the concept of its incredible bigness.
We all smoked way too much. If you took all the shit we smoked in just one year and rolled it into one big joint, it would be so much bigger than the biggest joint you have ever seen that you would need to smoke two really big joints just to deal with the concept of its incredible bigness.
November 27, 2016
Apart from Scientologists and born-again Christians, junkies are probably the worst people in the world to live with. Even other junkies will tell you that.
Everyone seems to be telling their Sydney houseshare horror story so here's mine:
Young, innocent and off-the-plane from Perth, my boyfriend and I move into our first room off King st. The house is an decrepit 3 bedroom terrace (no living room) with a disgusting bathroom (the plastic in the bath is warped and stripped away). In our first week there someone stole the yellow bin out back. Who steals a rubbish bin?
Anyway, it's about 11pm, our housemate opens our door and we're all "????...what's up mate?" He doesn't respond. Instead he turns around, leans against our doorway and pisses into the hall and on our floor, then trudges through it to our other housemate's room and falls asleep in his bed.
Our other housemate and his girlfriend return. They find it hysterically funny. ("You've pissed on the floor Brett*, don't you think that's a bit odd?" "That doesn't sound like me.") We were a bit traumatised at that point to laugh. On the plus-side he bought us a box of favourites the next day as a "sorry-for-pissing-in-your-room" gift.
All in all, just a regular Tuesday night for John Birmingham.
This book is great. One man's tale of living in the cheapest possible lodging in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne during the 90's. Very funny and quintessentially Australian. Verandahs and fibro walls abound. Birmingham can turn a phrase, especially when describing some of the 89 characters he's come across in his 10 years.
Lead singer of band The Black Dogs named Lizard Man, "The Lizard Man was a six-foot-two love machine who oozed really creepy sex - he had this thing about being naked, couldn't wait to get his gear off and run his hands up and down his body" who John haplessly lets crash at his parents' house, "My parents and I did speak to each other again. Eventually. After about two years. But we never mention the Lizard Man."
Paul the quiet journalist, "Paul was completely unremarkable, except for an ability to drink beer and play snooker for three and half days without sleep."
Student Melissa, " We didn't know about the smack when we took her in, didn't actually figure it out until long after she'd left and we had to clean out her room. At first we thought all the bent spoons came from too many tubs of frozen Homer Hudson, but the 1mL syringes with the bright orange caps sealed the deal."
No Sydney house saga is ever complete without the cockroaches,
"The cockroaches lived behind the hot water system in the kitchen. you'd switch the light out, get the Glen 20 and wait. When you could hear them you'd flick on the light, hold a cigarette lighter up to the spray can and flame the roaches off the wall. It was a lot easier than actually spraying, which didn't really work anyway."
Everyone seems to be telling their Sydney houseshare horror story so here's mine:
Young, innocent and off-the-plane from Perth, my boyfriend and I move into our first room off King st. The house is an decrepit 3 bedroom terrace (no living room) with a disgusting bathroom (the plastic in the bath is warped and stripped away). In our first week there someone stole the yellow bin out back. Who steals a rubbish bin?
Anyway, it's about 11pm, our housemate opens our door and we're all "????...what's up mate?" He doesn't respond. Instead he turns around, leans against our doorway and pisses into the hall and on our floor, then trudges through it to our other housemate's room and falls asleep in his bed.
Our other housemate and his girlfriend return. They find it hysterically funny. ("You've pissed on the floor Brett*, don't you think that's a bit odd?" "That doesn't sound like me.") We were a bit traumatised at that point to laugh. On the plus-side he bought us a box of favourites the next day as a "sorry-for-pissing-in-your-room" gift.
All in all, just a regular Tuesday night for John Birmingham.
This book is great. One man's tale of living in the cheapest possible lodging in Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne during the 90's. Very funny and quintessentially Australian. Verandahs and fibro walls abound. Birmingham can turn a phrase, especially when describing some of the 89 characters he's come across in his 10 years.
Lead singer of band The Black Dogs named Lizard Man, "The Lizard Man was a six-foot-two love machine who oozed really creepy sex - he had this thing about being naked, couldn't wait to get his gear off and run his hands up and down his body" who John haplessly lets crash at his parents' house, "My parents and I did speak to each other again. Eventually. After about two years. But we never mention the Lizard Man."
Paul the quiet journalist, "Paul was completely unremarkable, except for an ability to drink beer and play snooker for three and half days without sleep."
Student Melissa, " We didn't know about the smack when we took her in, didn't actually figure it out until long after she'd left and we had to clean out her room. At first we thought all the bent spoons came from too many tubs of frozen Homer Hudson, but the 1mL syringes with the bright orange caps sealed the deal."
No Sydney house saga is ever complete without the cockroaches,
"The cockroaches lived behind the hot water system in the kitchen. you'd switch the light out, get the Glen 20 and wait. When you could hear them you'd flick on the light, hold a cigarette lighter up to the spray can and flame the roaches off the wall. It was a lot easier than actually spraying, which didn't really work anyway."
October 23, 2022
'...I needed that continual injection of bizarre and unexpected strangeness you can only get by living with a random series of complete strangers. Tent-dwelling bank clerks, albino moontanners, nitrous suckers, decoys, wonderbabes, gay blades, vampires, mental cases, acid eaters, mushroom farmers, brothel crawlers, fridge pissers and obscurely tiger-suited Japanese girls. I had become the chaos around me – I’d wake up sometimes, stumble into the bathroom and just stare at the pallid, hairy, redeyed horror looking back at me in the mirror. I realised that I too was a rider on the endless highway ribboning through the madness of it all.'
Review to follow.
Review to follow.
May 31, 2015
Sharehousing in Australia
13 December 2012
John Birmingham wrote so much better when he was writing gonzo journalism rather than the sci-fi books that he seems to have written of late, but then again he seems to sell books, and the books that he did write early on pretty much set him up to the point where he could pretty much write what he wanted to, so I guess more power to him. Anyway, while I do not know what the experience of share housing is in England (and I understand that there is a lot of it there), the feel of this book is that it is distinctly Australian, and having been in a number of sharehouses myself I can seriously relate to what he is describing here (though I must admit he has probably embellished the stories somewhat, but then again why let the truth get in the way of a good yarn?).
I guess I should do what others have done when commenting on this book, and that is talk about some of my sharehousing experiences, and I must admit that I have had a lot. The average time that I have spent in a sharehouse is usually about six months, though there have been a couple where I have lasted about two years (though one of them had a somewhat itinerant population) and the shortest would probably have been about two weeks. Okay, I guess one may need to define the idea of a sharehouse as being one where you are sharing with more than one other person, though sometimes the actually definition of a person living in a house can be rather dubious. One house we had was originally intended for two of us, but as soon as my housemate picked up a girl (he always had to have a girlfriend) she immediately moved in, and then another guy decided to camp in the lounge, and within two days he had brought another friend around as well. Mind you, this particular house lasted two weeks before the police kicked in the door and arrested the lot of us.
Then there were the Findon Flats, a collection of about two hundred flats were while there were only two of us living in the flat, the entire place was like one community: there were always people coming and going. Mind you one of my friends was a small time drug dealer, so that is probably why there were always people coming and going. One of the cool things about living there was that people would come in, hang for about half-an-hour, smoke some weed, and then leave. However, the problem with living with drug dealers is that once somebody hooks onto you as a drug dealer they suddenly become frequent visitors. Oh, and the fact that your flat also becomes a target for thieves seems to outweigh the benefit of getting free drugs.
I also lived in what is pretty much termed as a party house. It was a large, two story, six bedroom house in one of the wealthier parts of Adelaide with a pool and a spa. The problem with the spa was that it always broke down. However, we actually had ten people squeezed into that house at one time, which made using the rather small kitchen an absolute pain. However that house brings back lots of memories, including the parties (which wouldn't be a party unless the cops rocked up at least once, and usually multiple times). I still remember the time that my mate and I decided to cook some pasta using dope butter, and suddenly having the sensation of being stoned hit us so hard that we were literally flat on our back for hours.
That house came to an end because the landlord simply could not get anybody into the house, and I was too much of a stoner (read lazy and paranoid) to actually attempt to get others to move into the place. We did finish my time in that house with the mother all all parties which only came to an end when my friend almost killed himself by flaking out on a concrete step. That friendship circle also came to an end pretty quickly also since the mother of all hangovers literally turned us all against each other.
Hey, I'm still sharehousing, this time in Melbourne, and I do desire to try to keep the tradition of it by not staying in the house for too long. Okay, now that I am 700 km away from my parents, I do not have the luxury of running back to their house when things go wrong, and moving can be a pain. At least I have learnt from my mistakes and can at least prepare myself to consider moving on before things get too bad. However, the problem is that I have found a good church within walking distance, though nothing is ever that permanent, and since Paul the Apostle never really set his roots down anywhere for too long, I don't think I need to either.
13 December 2012
John Birmingham wrote so much better when he was writing gonzo journalism rather than the sci-fi books that he seems to have written of late, but then again he seems to sell books, and the books that he did write early on pretty much set him up to the point where he could pretty much write what he wanted to, so I guess more power to him. Anyway, while I do not know what the experience of share housing is in England (and I understand that there is a lot of it there), the feel of this book is that it is distinctly Australian, and having been in a number of sharehouses myself I can seriously relate to what he is describing here (though I must admit he has probably embellished the stories somewhat, but then again why let the truth get in the way of a good yarn?).
I guess I should do what others have done when commenting on this book, and that is talk about some of my sharehousing experiences, and I must admit that I have had a lot. The average time that I have spent in a sharehouse is usually about six months, though there have been a couple where I have lasted about two years (though one of them had a somewhat itinerant population) and the shortest would probably have been about two weeks. Okay, I guess one may need to define the idea of a sharehouse as being one where you are sharing with more than one other person, though sometimes the actually definition of a person living in a house can be rather dubious. One house we had was originally intended for two of us, but as soon as my housemate picked up a girl (he always had to have a girlfriend) she immediately moved in, and then another guy decided to camp in the lounge, and within two days he had brought another friend around as well. Mind you, this particular house lasted two weeks before the police kicked in the door and arrested the lot of us.
Then there were the Findon Flats, a collection of about two hundred flats were while there were only two of us living in the flat, the entire place was like one community: there were always people coming and going. Mind you one of my friends was a small time drug dealer, so that is probably why there were always people coming and going. One of the cool things about living there was that people would come in, hang for about half-an-hour, smoke some weed, and then leave. However, the problem with living with drug dealers is that once somebody hooks onto you as a drug dealer they suddenly become frequent visitors. Oh, and the fact that your flat also becomes a target for thieves seems to outweigh the benefit of getting free drugs.
I also lived in what is pretty much termed as a party house. It was a large, two story, six bedroom house in one of the wealthier parts of Adelaide with a pool and a spa. The problem with the spa was that it always broke down. However, we actually had ten people squeezed into that house at one time, which made using the rather small kitchen an absolute pain. However that house brings back lots of memories, including the parties (which wouldn't be a party unless the cops rocked up at least once, and usually multiple times). I still remember the time that my mate and I decided to cook some pasta using dope butter, and suddenly having the sensation of being stoned hit us so hard that we were literally flat on our back for hours.
That house came to an end because the landlord simply could not get anybody into the house, and I was too much of a stoner (read lazy and paranoid) to actually attempt to get others to move into the place. We did finish my time in that house with the mother all all parties which only came to an end when my friend almost killed himself by flaking out on a concrete step. That friendship circle also came to an end pretty quickly also since the mother of all hangovers literally turned us all against each other.
Hey, I'm still sharehousing, this time in Melbourne, and I do desire to try to keep the tradition of it by not staying in the house for too long. Okay, now that I am 700 km away from my parents, I do not have the luxury of running back to their house when things go wrong, and moving can be a pain. At least I have learnt from my mistakes and can at least prepare myself to consider moving on before things get too bad. However, the problem is that I have found a good church within walking distance, though nothing is ever that permanent, and since Paul the Apostle never really set his roots down anywhere for too long, I don't think I need to either.
March 25, 2019
Un libricino simpatico che si legge in una giornata che però non mi ha soddisfatto al 100%.
Date le premesse (un tizio che ha traslocato ben 89 volte in case coabitate) mi aspettavo sinceramente qualcosina in più.
Sarà che non ho mai provato un'esperienza del genere (e questo non mi ha fatto empatizzare con il protagonista), sarà che ho fatto il callo su argomenti del tipo droga ed alcool grazie ad "Infinite Jest" ma l'ho trovato abbastanza ripetitivo ed autoreferenziale nel complesso.
Comunque non posso negare che ci sono un paio di capitoli che mi hanno fatto letteralmente piangere dalle risate! 😂
Adesso devo recuperare assolutamente il film! 💪
Date le premesse (un tizio che ha traslocato ben 89 volte in case coabitate) mi aspettavo sinceramente qualcosina in più.
Sarà che non ho mai provato un'esperienza del genere (e questo non mi ha fatto empatizzare con il protagonista), sarà che ho fatto il callo su argomenti del tipo droga ed alcool grazie ad "Infinite Jest" ma l'ho trovato abbastanza ripetitivo ed autoreferenziale nel complesso.
Comunque non posso negare che ci sono un paio di capitoli che mi hanno fatto letteralmente piangere dalle risate! 😂
Adesso devo recuperare assolutamente il film! 💪
September 8, 2010
I read this many years ago when John Birmingham wrote it while still writing articles for the Rolling Stone (I think).
It's the embellished account of thirteen share households he actually lived in across major Australian cities during the 1980s. Very funny. It's easy to relate to as you recognise the personality types that you may have met or lived with back in the day.
There was a movie version made of this, but I don't recommend the film. There is no real plot in the book, which makes it a fascinating collection of anecdotes. In the movie they developed a plot, which for me, weakens the charm of the original novel.
Yes I know movies should have plots, but I think you could have got away with not having one for this story. The first share house in the movie (which is closer to the book...no plot) works like a charm. After that, not so intriguing.
It's the embellished account of thirteen share households he actually lived in across major Australian cities during the 1980s. Very funny. It's easy to relate to as you recognise the personality types that you may have met or lived with back in the day.
There was a movie version made of this, but I don't recommend the film. There is no real plot in the book, which makes it a fascinating collection of anecdotes. In the movie they developed a plot, which for me, weakens the charm of the original novel.
Yes I know movies should have plots, but I think you could have got away with not having one for this story. The first share house in the movie (which is closer to the book...no plot) works like a charm. After that, not so intriguing.
March 13, 2024
Навіщо мені розповідати про автобіографічну повість австралійця Джона Бірмінґема "Він помер з фалафелем у руці", де автор поневіряється спільно винайманим житлом на далекому континенті, коли я можу поділитися подібним досвідом з власного життя.
Однієї ночі я прокинувся у своїй кімнаті в студентському гуртожитку, а мій сусід стояв поруч, на відстані двох долонь від мого обличчя і тихо, дуже тихенько і протяжно свистів. А зранку не пам'ятав про це і говорив, що я з нього знущаюся.
Інший хлопчина, перебуваючи ніби у тверезому розумі та при пам'яті, покликав мене в свою кімнату, щоби поділиттся спостереженнями за стелею: нерівності на її поверхні утворювали, на його погляд, зображення цілого легіону демонів та потвор.
Ще один повернувся додому п'янючий і збирався поставити на газову плиту чайника, відкрив газ, але підпалити його не встиг, бо вирубився. Ця історія закінчилася добре лише тому, що в той час я вчергове намагався почати бігати, прокинувся дуже рано, почув запах газу і всіх порятував.
Ще одного чудилу до 21 року життя стригли вдома батьки, аж раптом він чомусь вирішив віддатися в руки сусідів по секції. Доки цей перукарський сеанс тривав на спільній кухні, навколо помирали і корчилися від сміху студенти з кількох найближчих поверхів. Шоу тривало декілька годин і завершилося таки першим у житті візитом у перукарню.
Також є цілий пласт історій пов'язаних із сексом. На жаль (а може на щастя), з сексом не моїм, а чиїмось чужим.
Одного разу я грав на компі Red Faction, коли відчув, як похитується мій стіл. Поруч на ліжку спав один із сусідів по кімнаті з своєю майбутньою дружиною. І того дня стіл хитався зовсім не через землетрус.
Іншим разом отой чувак, який мало не отруїв мене газом вище, влаштував сеанс верхової їзди з нашою одногрупницею, доки я намагався спати на підлозі на відстані витягнутої руки від їхнього процесу. Всі ми тоді щойно повернулися з весілля парочки з попереднього абзацу.
А ще якось я з усіх сил вдавав безтурботний сон, доки в тій же кімнаті двоє дівчат займалися сексом, а потім обговорювали те, як мені вдається спати за таких пікантних обставин.
Але апогеєм був випадок, коли я зранку зайшов в туалет, а там в одних трусах спав в обіймах унітазом ще якийсь з моїх тимчасових сусідів, племінник одного з професорів універу, в якому я навчався. Поруч з ним лежали акуратно складена футболка та кеди. А штани знайшлися так само гарно покладеними за будівлею прокуратури на пустирі, під кущиком шипшини.
Зрештою, одного разу я теж злегка прославився, коли поставив варитися на плиту в спільній кухні картоплю, практично одразу про неї забув у звалив на багато годин грати в футбол. Дозвольте своїй уяві намалювати картинку того, що сталося з моєю каструлею...
Звісно, історії Джона Бірмінґема почасти набагато цікавіші і значно трешовіші. На щастя, більшість варіянтів описаного в цій повісті досвіду спільного проживання мене оминула.
Та раптом комусь хочеться пуститися берега, принаймні в своїй уяві, то сміливо читайте і радійте, що з вами ніколи такого не було.
Бардак і хаос, оргії, наркомани, змагання з відрощування лобкового волосся та інші прекрасні пригоди описані з добірним чорним гумором, а довжелезний перелік імен сусідів автора (або переказаних ним чиїхось історій) зливається в єдину хтонічну істоту — такого собі Метасусіда, котрого в реальному житті краще не зустрічати.
Однієї ночі я прокинувся у своїй кімнаті в студентському гуртожитку, а мій сусід стояв поруч, на відстані двох долонь від мого обличчя і тихо, дуже тихенько і протяжно свистів. А зранку не пам'ятав про це і говорив, що я з нього знущаюся.
Інший хлопчина, перебуваючи ніби у тверезому розумі та при пам'яті, покликав мене в свою кімнату, щоби поділиттся спостереженнями за стелею: нерівності на її поверхні утворювали, на його погляд, зображення цілого легіону демонів та потвор.
Ще один повернувся додому п'янючий і збирався поставити на газову плиту чайника, відкрив газ, але підпалити його не встиг, бо вирубився. Ця історія закінчилася добре лише тому, що в той час я вчергове намагався почати бігати, прокинувся дуже рано, почув запах газу і всіх порятував.
Ще одного чудилу до 21 року життя стригли вдома батьки, аж раптом він чомусь вирішив віддатися в руки сусідів по секції. Доки цей перукарський сеанс тривав на спільній кухні, навколо помирали і корчилися від сміху студенти з кількох найближчих поверхів. Шоу тривало декілька годин і завершилося таки першим у житті візитом у перукарню.
Також є цілий пласт історій пов'язаних із сексом. На жаль (а може на щастя), з сексом не моїм, а чиїмось чужим.
Одного разу я грав на компі Red Faction, коли відчув, як похитується мій стіл. Поруч на ліжку спав один із сусідів по кімнаті з своєю майбутньою дружиною. І того дня стіл хитався зовсім не через землетрус.
Іншим разом отой чувак, який мало не отруїв мене газом вище, влаштував сеанс верхової їзди з нашою одногрупницею, доки я намагався спати на підлозі на відстані витягнутої руки від їхнього процесу. Всі ми тоді щойно повернулися з весілля парочки з попереднього абзацу.
А ще якось я з усіх сил вдавав безтурботний сон, доки в тій же кімнаті двоє дівчат займалися сексом, а потім обговорювали те, як мені вдається спати за таких пікантних обставин.
Але апогеєм був випадок, коли я зранку зайшов в туалет, а там в одних трусах спав в обіймах унітазом ще якийсь з моїх тимчасових сусідів, племінник одного з професорів універу, в якому я навчався. Поруч з ним лежали акуратно складена футболка та кеди. А штани знайшлися так само гарно покладеними за будівлею прокуратури на пустирі, під кущиком шипшини.
Зрештою, одного разу я теж злегка прославився, коли поставив варитися на плиту в спільній кухні картоплю, практично одразу про неї забув у звалив на багато годин грати в футбол. Дозвольте своїй уяві намалювати картинку того, що сталося з моєю каструлею...
Звісно, історії Джона Бірмінґема почасти набагато цікавіші і значно трешовіші. На щастя, більшість варіянтів описаного в цій повісті досвіду спільного проживання мене оминула.
Та раптом комусь хочеться пуститися берега, принаймні в своїй уяві, то сміливо читайте і радійте, що з вами ніколи такого не було.
Бардак і хаос, оргії, наркомани, змагання з відрощування лобкового волосся та інші прекрасні пригоди описані з добірним чорним гумором, а довжелезний перелік імен сусідів автора (або переказаних ним чиїхось історій) зливається в єдину хтонічну істоту — такого собі Метасусіда, котрого в реальному житті краще не зустрічати.
July 12, 2021
Це щоденник історій про тупих, мерзенних і обмежених людей.
Логічна та хронологічна побудова тексту відсутня взагалі.
Під кінець і персонажі і сам автор (це ж автобіографічний текст?) викликали відразу.
Не сподобалося категорично.
Логічна та хронологічна побудова тексту відсутня взагалі.
Під кінець і персонажі і сам автор (це ж автобіографічний текст?) викликали відразу.
Не сподобалося категорично.
Read
December 20, 2025Ho concluso la mia sfida dei cento libri del 2025 nel peggiore dei modi uffa!!!!
A quaranta pagine dalla fine mollo.
Ho letto sempre la stessa cosa, sempre le stesse persone, gli stessi fatti ripetuti all'infinito.
Non mi interessa sapere nemmeno il perché ha voluto scrivere questo libro.
A quaranta pagine dalla fine mollo.
Ho letto sempre la stessa cosa, sempre le stesse persone, gli stessi fatti ripetuti all'infinito.
Non mi interessa sapere nemmeno il perché ha voluto scrivere questo libro.
December 5, 2011
A very readable book. It reads like a series of articles sent to magazines.
March 14, 2015
Yuk. Disgusting stories of random bogans behaving badly. I couldn't force myself to finish this book (which rarely happens as I like to finish what I start).
June 17, 2016
I've been in the fortunate position for most of my life not to have dealt with anything like the flat/housemate problems and eccentricities in 'He Died with a Falafel in His Hand', having always lived with some sort of female partner since my very early 20s. That was until a year ago, when I moved back to Brighton, on the south coast of England and moved into a shared flat (sight unseen, as I had moved the length of the country specially) with well, I shan't name her. Let's just call her 'miserable catholic lesbian troll', or OK, to make this easier, I will refer to her as A.
Now A and I pretty much got off on the wrong foot straight away, when I arrived at the flat with the landlord. I was in the process of bringing in my suitcases (while he watched me struggle) and even before I had taken my coat off, she appeared from her room and announced that I was my turn to contribute to the gas and electric keys and that I should do that straight away.
Unpacked, I did just that and everything was ok at the beginning and she was pleasant enough going forward from there but gradually I could tell that there was something wrong with the dynamic of the building and specifically between her and the other two guys living there. Immediately, she made it very well apparent that she disapproved of them both and began to tell tales on them, before I had even met them myself. Then she one night, she told me of the previous tenants and how each of them had left after seemingly some sort of issue with her, including one guy who tried to poison her food. Great, I thought. She's one of them. Difficult and unforgiving.
As far as I could tell, A had no friends. She didn't work. She never went out, apart from church on a Sunday and had no apparent visitors. Not that we could answer the door, if we had any visitors or mail to answer the door to, as the building had no doorbells to each flats, and sure enough the other two guys left one after the other. Her main problem with one guy was that the temperature and heating controls were in his room and he kept turning them off, while she insisted on having the heating on all the time, 24-7 and all at the same time complaining that we (not her) were using too much gas. She also insisted that the lights in the only communal parts of the flat, a hallway, a bathroom and kitchen were to be kept on all the time. Even in the middle of the day when it was bright and sunny.
Pretty much, she made this atmosphere of tension so bad, even when she had other room mates move in. It didn't matter who it was, she would find fault with them and do tiny little annoying things to wind you up as much as she could, in order to cause conflict. As I had pre-empted this quite early on, I did my best to avoid A as much as possible, but even I became housemate non grata.
Of the contributions which were kept on a list in the hallway, she added another list highlighting the amounts we had contributed over most of the year and of course hers was the most, but she included what she had paid, for six months before I had even moved in. When I highlighted this and that I had paid as much as her over the amount of time that we had lived together, she went ballistic. I made it clear that I didn't care what she thought, which probably made things worse, but she had no right to inflate her position.
Then things started to go missing from the kitchen. One day, all the teaspoons went, then a couple of flat metal trays I bought to put things in the oven on, then all the knives went. Which may sound petty and silly, but its hard to butter toast with a fork. Try it. Then the toaster vanished one day. The kettle the next. Each time, I tried my hardest to let everything slide because I knew she was doing her very best to get a reaction. I was starting to feel sympathy for the guy who tried to poison her. A couple of us asked her about the toaster and the kettle and even though they are on the inventory as part of the furnishings, she insisted they were hers and said that she would rather have them in her room. It was spiteful.
She made the mistake of taking a small porcelain cereal bowl that a new housemate had brought with him. She just thought, 'oh, my candles would look nice in that' and when said housemate couldn't find it, he flipped out. We had already talked about the fact A was doing all this to create conflict and make everyone leave like everyone else before us and that essentially, I thought, she wouldn't be happy unless she had the whole place to herself.
When she was confronted about Bowlgate, she completely denied taking it. When the housemate disappeared, she finally admitted to me that she had taken it and when I said that she should return it, she said that she had gotten rid of it instead, in order to stop all the arguments. Because that was the best thing to do. Anyway, Bowlgate died down things went quiet for a while, when the bowl owner met someone and stayed round her place for the majority of the time.
One night, I came across A in the kitchen and she seemed a little spaced out. She was either drunk or high, I couldn't say and proceeded (uninvited) to tell me a very lengthy story about how she was drugged, kidnapped and raped by a very famous couple. When I pried for essential details and queried the many holes in her story, she had none and just wanted to have some listen to her babble on, a lot of it incoherent bullshit.
The next morning, she looked a bit worse for wear and I asked her if she was ok. She then went into tears about her ipad and that she couldn't afford to get the bus into town to fix it. I had a look at it and it looked like it had died. I said, walk into town with me, I'm going but she wouldn't, what with her being lazy and fat. To be fair, its a good two hour walk but I don't care. She cried further and I ended up giving her money for a bus travelcard, reminding her that I was doing this out of the goodness of my heart after she hadn't been very nice to me or anyone else generally.
Anyway, things went quiet for a few weeks until I heard a 2am knocking on my door, I ignored it and heard the door to A's room slam. Early the next morning, I heard her shout HACKER SCUM from the kitchen. I was watching Eastenders through my headphones as one of the other guys was working nights and had gone to bed (not that this bothered A), so I ignored it. Twenty minutes later, there was more shouting and I went to see what the commotion was, she ran back to her room when she saw me and slammed the door. I knocked and asked she was ok and the door flew open and she got right in my face, accusing me of hacking into her tablet from my computer (like I knew how to do that) and that I was scum and that she was after me. I tried to placate her but she just kept on. I told her that in no uncertain terms that she was batshit crazy and that she can fuck off.
Now I would love to have a happy ending to this story/experience but I don't. Because I'm still here and that was only last week. Ideally, I would be elsewhere but for the moment I am tied in and stuck financially. But hey, she's been a bit quiet the last few days. We shall see.
Now A and I pretty much got off on the wrong foot straight away, when I arrived at the flat with the landlord. I was in the process of bringing in my suitcases (while he watched me struggle) and even before I had taken my coat off, she appeared from her room and announced that I was my turn to contribute to the gas and electric keys and that I should do that straight away.
Unpacked, I did just that and everything was ok at the beginning and she was pleasant enough going forward from there but gradually I could tell that there was something wrong with the dynamic of the building and specifically between her and the other two guys living there. Immediately, she made it very well apparent that she disapproved of them both and began to tell tales on them, before I had even met them myself. Then she one night, she told me of the previous tenants and how each of them had left after seemingly some sort of issue with her, including one guy who tried to poison her food. Great, I thought. She's one of them. Difficult and unforgiving.
As far as I could tell, A had no friends. She didn't work. She never went out, apart from church on a Sunday and had no apparent visitors. Not that we could answer the door, if we had any visitors or mail to answer the door to, as the building had no doorbells to each flats, and sure enough the other two guys left one after the other. Her main problem with one guy was that the temperature and heating controls were in his room and he kept turning them off, while she insisted on having the heating on all the time, 24-7 and all at the same time complaining that we (not her) were using too much gas. She also insisted that the lights in the only communal parts of the flat, a hallway, a bathroom and kitchen were to be kept on all the time. Even in the middle of the day when it was bright and sunny.
Pretty much, she made this atmosphere of tension so bad, even when she had other room mates move in. It didn't matter who it was, she would find fault with them and do tiny little annoying things to wind you up as much as she could, in order to cause conflict. As I had pre-empted this quite early on, I did my best to avoid A as much as possible, but even I became housemate non grata.
Of the contributions which were kept on a list in the hallway, she added another list highlighting the amounts we had contributed over most of the year and of course hers was the most, but she included what she had paid, for six months before I had even moved in. When I highlighted this and that I had paid as much as her over the amount of time that we had lived together, she went ballistic. I made it clear that I didn't care what she thought, which probably made things worse, but she had no right to inflate her position.
Then things started to go missing from the kitchen. One day, all the teaspoons went, then a couple of flat metal trays I bought to put things in the oven on, then all the knives went. Which may sound petty and silly, but its hard to butter toast with a fork. Try it. Then the toaster vanished one day. The kettle the next. Each time, I tried my hardest to let everything slide because I knew she was doing her very best to get a reaction. I was starting to feel sympathy for the guy who tried to poison her. A couple of us asked her about the toaster and the kettle and even though they are on the inventory as part of the furnishings, she insisted they were hers and said that she would rather have them in her room. It was spiteful.
She made the mistake of taking a small porcelain cereal bowl that a new housemate had brought with him. She just thought, 'oh, my candles would look nice in that' and when said housemate couldn't find it, he flipped out. We had already talked about the fact A was doing all this to create conflict and make everyone leave like everyone else before us and that essentially, I thought, she wouldn't be happy unless she had the whole place to herself.
When she was confronted about Bowlgate, she completely denied taking it. When the housemate disappeared, she finally admitted to me that she had taken it and when I said that she should return it, she said that she had gotten rid of it instead, in order to stop all the arguments. Because that was the best thing to do. Anyway, Bowlgate died down things went quiet for a while, when the bowl owner met someone and stayed round her place for the majority of the time.
One night, I came across A in the kitchen and she seemed a little spaced out. She was either drunk or high, I couldn't say and proceeded (uninvited) to tell me a very lengthy story about how she was drugged, kidnapped and raped by a very famous couple. When I pried for essential details and queried the many holes in her story, she had none and just wanted to have some listen to her babble on, a lot of it incoherent bullshit.
The next morning, she looked a bit worse for wear and I asked her if she was ok. She then went into tears about her ipad and that she couldn't afford to get the bus into town to fix it. I had a look at it and it looked like it had died. I said, walk into town with me, I'm going but she wouldn't, what with her being lazy and fat. To be fair, its a good two hour walk but I don't care. She cried further and I ended up giving her money for a bus travelcard, reminding her that I was doing this out of the goodness of my heart after she hadn't been very nice to me or anyone else generally.
Anyway, things went quiet for a few weeks until I heard a 2am knocking on my door, I ignored it and heard the door to A's room slam. Early the next morning, I heard her shout HACKER SCUM from the kitchen. I was watching Eastenders through my headphones as one of the other guys was working nights and had gone to bed (not that this bothered A), so I ignored it. Twenty minutes later, there was more shouting and I went to see what the commotion was, she ran back to her room when she saw me and slammed the door. I knocked and asked she was ok and the door flew open and she got right in my face, accusing me of hacking into her tablet from my computer (like I knew how to do that) and that I was scum and that she was after me. I tried to placate her but she just kept on. I told her that in no uncertain terms that she was batshit crazy and that she can fuck off.
Now I would love to have a happy ending to this story/experience but I don't. Because I'm still here and that was only last week. Ideally, I would be elsewhere but for the moment I am tied in and stuck financially. But hey, she's been a bit quiet the last few days. We shall see.
August 1, 2011
This book is hilarious, laugh out loud funny. I used to read this while on my way to work on the tram and got some very strange looks from my fellow passengers because of my laughter. It's ok, they probably just thought I was one of those mental cases. John Birmingham has lived with such people, and here he tells us about them. We have stories about housemates who come home drunk and piss in the fridge, housemates who get into screaming arguments over which cupboard shelf the can of pineapple chunks should go on, and housemates who never really move in, but actually steal all of your things in the night and disappear. If you've done the share house thing, as I did for years, you will love this. If you haven't done it, first of all, get a life, go back to your parent's country club, and read this anyway. You should still find it funny.
December 11, 2025
I don't like being negative on public platforms but I hated this book and i'm gonna tell you about it!
Boys are literally disgusting and this was just a collation of proof of that with no plot, purpose or point. I gave it a chance with the first 50 pages thinking surely this is gonna go somewhere and isn't just a book of this guy rolling through share house stories with no through line or anything but I was overly optimistic. Felt like sitting next to dads racist sexist homophobic friend at the dinner table as he relives the "glory days" that actually reveal how problematic he is and you're just waiting until he needs to get another crownie so you can get up to go nuzzle into nannas arms.
The only reason this is getting 2 stars is because he actually can write I just hated what he wrote about !
The germans should invent some long ass word for when you read something really quickly cause you just want it to be over.
I <3 my housemates
Boys are literally disgusting and this was just a collation of proof of that with no plot, purpose or point. I gave it a chance with the first 50 pages thinking surely this is gonna go somewhere and isn't just a book of this guy rolling through share house stories with no through line or anything but I was overly optimistic. Felt like sitting next to dads racist sexist homophobic friend at the dinner table as he relives the "glory days" that actually reveal how problematic he is and you're just waiting until he needs to get another crownie so you can get up to go nuzzle into nannas arms.
The only reason this is getting 2 stars is because he actually can write I just hated what he wrote about !
The germans should invent some long ass word for when you read something really quickly cause you just want it to be over.
I <3 my housemates
August 2, 2021
Я канєшно не полюбила своїх сусідів після книжки Джона Бірмінгема «Він помер із фалафелем у руці», але мені трохи полегшало, бо могло буть як в цій історії. Це кумедні, хоча і дуже трешові історії життя на зйомних хатах в Австралії. Така собі картина людства. В книжці дуже багато людей і всі вони або кричать, або ригають, або в наркотичному угарі в акваріумах замість скафандрів садять шпинат на городі. Хоча в цих винахідливих співмешканців ще багато розваг, наприклад приматать бензопилу замість руки і різать стіни.
І це не лише якісь там маргінали, це працівники банку і лікарі приходять з роботи і вгашуються чим тільки можна, поліруючи косяками і балончиками з газом. Занурюєшся в цей побут, жахаєшся і ржеш до сліз:
«У нас не було кошика для брудного одягу, тож ми поцупили із супермаркету візок. Поставили його на балконі й кілька тижнів поспіль складали в нього шмотки. Звісно ж, ніхто їх не прав. Згодом у ньому оселилася кішка. Потім там спали якісь пияки. З тим самим шмотом він простояв там цілий рік. Коли ми з‘їжджали, то вивезли його на подвір‘я, облили метиловим спиртом і спалили»
Смієшся і думаєш як в анекдоті: «харашо, шо в мене такого нема». Історії канєшно кумедні, але брутальні. Закриваєш книжку і йдеш собі заварювати каву, радіючи що ніхто не насцить в твій холодильник.
#нашібукі
І це не лише якісь там маргінали, це працівники банку і лікарі приходять з роботи і вгашуються чим тільки можна, поліруючи косяками і балончиками з газом. Занурюєшся в цей побут, жахаєшся і ржеш до сліз:
«У нас не було кошика для брудного одягу, тож ми поцупили із супермаркету візок. Поставили його на балконі й кілька тижнів поспіль складали в нього шмотки. Звісно ж, ніхто їх не прав. Згодом у ньому оселилася кішка. Потім там спали якісь пияки. З тим самим шмотом він простояв там цілий рік. Коли ми з‘їжджали, то вивезли його на подвір‘я, облили метиловим спиртом і спалили»
Смієшся і думаєш як в анекдоті: «харашо, шо в мене такого нема». Історії канєшно кумедні, але брутальні. Закриваєш книжку і йдеш собі заварювати каву, радіючи що ніхто не насцить в твій холодильник.
#нашібукі
October 12, 2011
I'm afraid I didn't enjoy this book at all. It was loaned to me by my son, he loved it, also his wife. And the many others who have reviewed it positively. But it's just not my sort of story!
July 4, 2022
Dovrebbe essere divertente. Dovrebbe.
December 3, 2025
"And now, both he and the felafel roll were cold"
This is the perfect Australian sharehouse Bildungsroman for the twenty-something man. If you've ever lived in a sharehouse where there are fifteen new lifeforms growing in a pot that nobody wants to wash. If you've ever had to lock up your food to keep it safe. If you've had crazy housemates who you love to death but wouldn't mind smothering with a pillow. If you've ever felt your life consists only of cleaning up after these people, all while battling your own drug addiction and all the trials and tribulations of being a young adult. Then 'He Died with a Felafel in His Hand' is the book for you. It's a tale of love and hate, of joy and of horror, of poverty and the unexpected wealth that comes from poverty. Birmingham delivers his prose with a calculated and sardonic wit. He is the master of the clever metaphor, and every page feels like a great yarn with an old mate. It's inspired me to write down some of my own experiences of sharehousing
This is the perfect Australian sharehouse Bildungsroman for the twenty-something man. If you've ever lived in a sharehouse where there are fifteen new lifeforms growing in a pot that nobody wants to wash. If you've ever had to lock up your food to keep it safe. If you've had crazy housemates who you love to death but wouldn't mind smothering with a pillow. If you've ever felt your life consists only of cleaning up after these people, all while battling your own drug addiction and all the trials and tribulations of being a young adult. Then 'He Died with a Felafel in His Hand' is the book for you. It's a tale of love and hate, of joy and of horror, of poverty and the unexpected wealth that comes from poverty. Birmingham delivers his prose with a calculated and sardonic wit. He is the master of the clever metaphor, and every page feels like a great yarn with an old mate. It's inspired me to write down some of my own experiences of sharehousing
May 11, 2023
A hilarious read that conjured up a lot of nostalgia and no small amount of PTSD. Although most of us haven't quite had to endure the outlandish scenarios depicted in Felafel, many of the characters, exasperating housemate habits, and "sharehouse artefacts" (the frozen fish finger, the makeshift milk crate furnishings, the ubiquitous brown couch) will resonate with anyone who has taken a tour of the Australian sharehouse circuit (and broken a lease or two along the way). "There was a lot of slamming doors, a lot of note-writing, a lot of sulking, and the whole place just went down like a huge ship, bow up, slowly disappearing into the arctic sea.".
Recommended reading for anyone considering a move out of the parental home. But I wonder if this book could still be written with the current state of the rental market.
Recommended reading for anyone considering a move out of the parental home. But I wonder if this book could still be written with the current state of the rental market.
February 27, 2023
There is no understating how huge this book was in Brisbane in 1994. Lifting the lid on the Australian phenomena of share-housing and share-flatting, Birmingham exposed the partying, drinking, drug-taking and hooking-up, in hilarious fashion. 'Felafel' was made into a play, and a film, each focusing on different collections of tales, which were gathered by Birmingham after interviewing friends in Brisbane, Sydney, Canberra, and other towns. To this day, people still warn each other off prospective house-mates, by saying they were mentioned in this book. Luckily Birmingham changed most of the names, or he'd probably have his pants sued off. A modern classic.
August 26, 2020
still can't tell if this is more humorous or horrific
October 14, 2024
lmao finally finished this as an audio book
August 5, 2023
Is book why I’ve had so many work colleagues say “oh I could never live in a share house” “I’m too old to live in a share house” etc?
Came for the literature classic and early 90s Australian share house vibes, put off by the author’s constant casual bigotry.
Came for the literature classic and early 90s Australian share house vibes, put off by the author’s constant casual bigotry.
November 29, 2012
I vaguely remember watching the 2001 film ‘He Died With A Felafel In His Hand’, starring Noah Taylor. I say ‘vaguely’ because I was probably stoned at the time, my brain compromised in the memory department. I do remember, however, that it was strange. But, then, I like ‘strange’.
The book is less strange; more nostalgic. It made me laugh, but it also horrified me. I spent part of my 20s lost in the world of share accommodation, and it wasn’t pretty. Most of it was spent under the influence of drink or drugs, in houses in Sydney that should have been condemned.
I remember I would make pacts with the cockroaches. They could roam my room as much as they wanted, but land on my bed and they were dead. They were also goners if they made any noise; the slightest rustle of a plastic bag and STOMP! Also if they flew. Sydney’s flying cockroaches have haunted me since I was a kid, when I would have to venture to the backyard toilet at my dad’s place in Sydney’s inner west in the middle of the night. I can still hear the crackle of creepy crepe wings as they flew at me.
‘He Died With A Felafel In His Hand’ was a fun, light read that took me back to the not so fun, light days of brown couches (yes, I owned one), milk crates (I had several) and bucket bongs. Bucket bongs were a thing in Queensland, Birmingham writes. They were also a thing in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, where my brother had one set up in his room, day and night, after our mum ran away from home with her lesbian lover.
And then there were ‘bulbs’. After a girlfriend’s father introduced us to them at 16, we went to Kmart and bought our own cream dispenser, nitrous oxide bulbs and balloons. We had hours of fun until my girlfriend’s stepfather walked in on us one day, after he heard the sound of the cream dispenser as it went off and filled up a balloon, over and over again.
“What are you two bloody up ta?”
We couldn’t respond, but he cottoned on pretty quick, grabbed the bulb paraphernalia and threw it in the bin. That was the end of that. Probably a good thing, in hindsight.
I related when Birmingham wrote: “Always be wary of phrases like, ‘My house is your house. Feel comfortable … Just treat it like your home.” I fell for it once, and before I knew it my housemate had a psychotic meltdown because I’d laughed at a scene on ‘The Simpsons’. Apparently you were not to laugh when he fought with his girlfriend. It was insensitive.
I related less to the fish fingers. My cheap meal of choice back in the day was pasta with a sauce made of canned kidney beans and tomatoes, grated cheddar cheese sprinkled on top. It’s the only meal I ever made, because, you know, I loved animals and was vegetarian.
Birmingham took me on a journey back to my lost youth. It was some trip.
*
PS My kids aren’t gonna get away with half as much – I hope!
The book is less strange; more nostalgic. It made me laugh, but it also horrified me. I spent part of my 20s lost in the world of share accommodation, and it wasn’t pretty. Most of it was spent under the influence of drink or drugs, in houses in Sydney that should have been condemned.
I remember I would make pacts with the cockroaches. They could roam my room as much as they wanted, but land on my bed and they were dead. They were also goners if they made any noise; the slightest rustle of a plastic bag and STOMP! Also if they flew. Sydney’s flying cockroaches have haunted me since I was a kid, when I would have to venture to the backyard toilet at my dad’s place in Sydney’s inner west in the middle of the night. I can still hear the crackle of creepy crepe wings as they flew at me.
‘He Died With A Felafel In His Hand’ was a fun, light read that took me back to the not so fun, light days of brown couches (yes, I owned one), milk crates (I had several) and bucket bongs. Bucket bongs were a thing in Queensland, Birmingham writes. They were also a thing in the Blue Mountains, west of Sydney, where my brother had one set up in his room, day and night, after our mum ran away from home with her lesbian lover.
And then there were ‘bulbs’. After a girlfriend’s father introduced us to them at 16, we went to Kmart and bought our own cream dispenser, nitrous oxide bulbs and balloons. We had hours of fun until my girlfriend’s stepfather walked in on us one day, after he heard the sound of the cream dispenser as it went off and filled up a balloon, over and over again.
“What are you two bloody up ta?”
We couldn’t respond, but he cottoned on pretty quick, grabbed the bulb paraphernalia and threw it in the bin. That was the end of that. Probably a good thing, in hindsight.
I related when Birmingham wrote: “Always be wary of phrases like, ‘My house is your house. Feel comfortable … Just treat it like your home.” I fell for it once, and before I knew it my housemate had a psychotic meltdown because I’d laughed at a scene on ‘The Simpsons’. Apparently you were not to laugh when he fought with his girlfriend. It was insensitive.
I related less to the fish fingers. My cheap meal of choice back in the day was pasta with a sauce made of canned kidney beans and tomatoes, grated cheddar cheese sprinkled on top. It’s the only meal I ever made, because, you know, I loved animals and was vegetarian.
Birmingham took me on a journey back to my lost youth. It was some trip.
*
PS My kids aren’t gonna get away with half as much – I hope!
May 19, 2015
I had a lot of fun reading this book, jumping from one mad share-house experience to another. It reminded me about dormitory life a little, but more insane. The diversity of characters is amazing, but most of them are episodic. This is what makes the book so easy to read: a lot of short stories, happenings, anecdotes, one after another, one crazy flatmate followed by an even crazier one, no space for pauses of normality. At times, I even felt a little envious of the author.
Anyway, it's not as good a book as many I've rated with the same 4 stars, but it made laugh and I mean really laugh, not smile, and that's why I'll be generous with my rating.
P.S. You'll also get to know why bucket bongs are popular in Perth and Brisbane, but not in Sydney or Melbourne.
Anyway, it's not as good a book as many I've rated with the same 4 stars, but it made laugh and I mean really laugh, not smile, and that's why I'll be generous with my rating.
P.S. You'll also get to know why bucket bongs are popular in Perth and Brisbane, but not in Sydney or Melbourne.
March 17, 2020
3.5 Stars - This detailed back catalogue of roommates is not only rich & engaging, but it offers more than its fair share of surprises, that aren’t altogether surprising! So very well written, through the eyes of the proverbial ever unreliable reliable narrator, Birmingham speaks fondly of all types of experiences, often with less bias than one would imagine if it were we whom where said narrator.
A strong nice, that honors it’s loyal subject with aplomb, this can be read any time of day, in any kind of mood - which is always a sure sign of a better than average piece of literature!
A strong nice, that honors it’s loyal subject with aplomb, this can be read any time of day, in any kind of mood - which is always a sure sign of a better than average piece of literature!
Read
May 1, 2022form follows content, for better or worse: a midden of dilapidated anecdotes & character sketches, drenched in bongwater & encrusted in australian slang. plenty of fun bits, but the choice of 1st-person narration is hard to understand when the narrator's such a non-entity -- barely more than an observer throughout. an influence on megahex i wonder? gotta look into more of this "grunge lit" genre.
May 11, 2022
Started off strong at first but as I progressed further into this book I quickly lost interest. The writing is decent but that's about it. There is no clear order for the variety of anecdotes being told and it feels like a mishmash of stories with no editing or clarity.
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