The Tasmanian Babes Fiasco

by John Birmingham

Extract

The most fucked up night of my life ended like this. I spilled through the girls' front door, pants around my knees, howling like a loon at the Gates of Hell. I caught my foot on something and went down. But it didn't matter because I felt no pain. I was so far gone by then I couldn't tell up from down. The world seemed to swim up to me through a watery red mist and all I could make out through this mist were a lot of very serious looking people. Then the milk van exploded out on their front lawn. This was a piss poor turn of events, which I feel compelled to set down here, in the hope that others might avoid the same ruinous folly.

I'm not sure which domino fell first. The Babes? The Thunderbird? The mountain of drugs and tequila? I just don't know. I have trouble sorting it out. Perhaps I was too wasted or perhaps I just do not want to remember. Whatever. Trying to get this straight is a bit like pushing blocks of coloured smoke around my mind so you'll have to bear with me.