Canberra Trip Part 3 - Dodgy Asian betting and the ride home

So we're on the bus trying to figure out where the ground is, getting directions from a couple of kids that came up with their dad in their own car - one of which I was doing one of those vocalised/mouth noise guitar solos to Frozen Tears - but were hitching a ride with us to the game. Good thing they were there too or else we might've still been looking for the place. We eventually find the place, and we're early enough to co-ordinate a dramatic entrance - by Canberra standards - and take up a position on the hill. Except of course that I was roped in to do the dodgy Asian betting thing. So I'm off to the halfway line.

To explain what that's all about, as best I can. Betting firms of indeterminate legality in a place which or may or may not be called China hire people to hire people to 'call' or 'commentate' VPL games. Except that it really isn't commentating in an Andy Paschalidis kind of fashion, more stuff like 'away danger', 'home corner', etc. There's different levels of detail for different companies, but the main thing is that the gamblers and those listening to your commentary don't care so much about South Melbourne or Robbie Wynne (for example) as individual entities, rather as part of an over the phone, online, and imagined tug of war .

I had agreed not only to do one game of commentary with one guy on the line saying 'ok', but also have another guy on another phone just listening - and if he was to talk tome, my instructions were not to talk to him - which all got a bit difficult when the game was delayed because not enough pegs were holding the goals, something that would usually be checked during half time in the reserves, except that the AIS's reserves play in Victoria, and they're not really their reserves, they're just the VIS. Anyway, the guy who I was talking to seemed to understand that there was a delay - which just kept on dragging on - but the listener kept asking for information who was attacking and such.

He must've hung up as I then received a call from my boss for the day, some guy called Jerry, getting stuck into me, telling me that I wasn't doing a very good job as his client wasn't getting information on who was attacking and such. A little miffed because I've been telling one guy on the hands free and one on my own phone that game has been delayed and the reason for it. Explaining it to Jerry his tone changes fairly quickly, and we're back in business. The game eventually gets under way, and apart from a few early teething problems, the sun in my eyes, and a linesman doing his best to block out my view, it's going ok.

At the end of the first half, which at that moment I didn't realise had gone only 40 odd minutes, I noticed that my battery had gone down to one bar. Would it last to the end? A mad rush to find someone to swap sim cards with ensued; incompatible carrier; seemingly impossible to release sim card; I decided that I would just try my luck with what I had. Of course the confusion caused by the 40 minute halves started kick in during the second half. My 'listener' called in a few minutes into it, and my talking 'ok' guy dropped out entirely, and didn't call back. Persevering to the end, seeing the game in only a limited palette, I wondered whether it had all been worth it, and would I get paid? The players go over to the supporters and high five, shake hands and say thanks for coming, and despite coming in a little late, I get a gloved hand to Goran Zoric, and then get my head shaking in annoyance on camera at the farcical situation of it all, having driven eight hours up and with another eight to go, for 80 minutes of football.

Time to get back on the bus, with the previous night's missed sleep starting to catch up with me. There's still the travelling humour, but people are more tired, and sleep takes over. Even I start drifting in and out of consciousness from Albury onwards. Easy listening music drifts across, most of it dross, but there's the brief flicker of outstanding respite when Springsteen's 'The River' comes on. More Acropolis Now episodes get played, with at one stage the DVD stuck at the menu screen and playing the theme song about 12 times in a row. Most of the complaints are coming from the back, the hellish torture of the the song itself magnified by the fact that there's almost no way of getting past that many arms and legs stretched into the aisle in order to turn it off.

We stop at a few places, service stations, roadhouses. I buy myself a bag of marshmallows and the most crappy banana flavoured milk I've ever had. Not wanting to get a carton which I know I'll spill over the seats, it's the only thing in a bottle that isn't some variation of coffee. Someone as a joke buys a forbidden dim sim. Just outside Seymour a car is flipped onto its roof, a police car behind it. Someone gets dropped off in Wandong. Someone else on High Street. Finally back to where we started from, a quick clean out of the bus, and them time to go home. I'm going to catch a taxi, but it's insisted that I get a lift with someone. That someone turns out to be a person who can't quite grasp the purposes of speedbumps and roundabouts, but there's no complaining, as I'm expected to be grateful. And when I get home in one piece, I am.



- This would have been better had I taken notes, but perhaps it would have lost some of its charm. With thanks to everyone involved on the trip, but especially Michal, Eamonn and Tony.