Classic Stitch-Up

Got stitched up something fierce by the bank today. I was sure that they had an ATM on Park Road, so I'm walking up the street, stopping constantly glaring about, scratching me head, doing the full weirdo routine trying to figure out where I thought I'd seen the fucker.

Suddenly remembering that I have the entire internet in my pocket, I stopped to employ the power of Google....in luck! Two ATM icons were showing on the map just up the road. Not where I remember it being, but fuck it, that's a result right?

Fucken wrong.

I get to where they’re showing on the map, apparently in the middle of an intersection, but they’re probably just in the shopfront by the intersection right?

Wrong a second time sir!
Not a slot to prod my card into to be seen anywhere.

I stop to reassess the situation. Maybe they’re crafty, hiding like, and perhaps I was too quick to take the search results on face value, missing vital clues as to their exact whereabouts. So, once more I consult the omniscient forces of the Google. In a light bulb moment (almost feeling the deerstalker on my head), I take the previously unthought of step of pressing on the ATM icons on the map, hoping to glean some extra info on their exact address………

…..got me good you fuckers.

P.S.

For your reference is the actual location of Suncorp Stadium (Google map marker), and the location that the bank had placed their ATMs (blue cross several hundred metres away). And yes, as you might be able to guess from the hours in the image above, that is a 50,000+ seat sporting stadium that only opens on game days

A Hairy Situation

Beardmares

It’s usually about this point of the beard that the dreams begin. They all commence the same, I’m dressed in my smalls, standing in front of the mirror, clippers in hand. Just a quick trim to keep those ginger face pubes in check. This is Queensland after all, land of 10-month summer. It’s at this point that it starts to go awry. For some reason I choose beard as the medium to unleash my inner Pro Hart. I start free styling, carving ‘speed grooves’, mutton chops, reverse Fu Manchu, chin tapers……Suddenly, hands, shoulders, and chest covered in offcuts, I experience what alcoholics refer to as “A moment of clarity” * and I realise what I’m doing. The beard is cactus, totally stuffed, beyond repair, a complete write off. Only one way to redeem this.

Shave.

The.

Lot.

And start again.

The sight of my bald, freshly shaved chin never fails to jolt me out of the nightmare. Struck bolt upright in bed, dripping in sweat, hands to my beard.

Makes me think, I probably wouldn’t be so sweaty if I just stopped faffing around and actually got around to trimming the beard in the first place.

*Yeah I stole this line from a movie. It’s a good line from a good movie.