Tuesday, 18 December 2012

The Gospel of Drunk McBeardley


In the beginning, it was just a night out. There were five young men, myself among them, trading stories and drinking brew and whiling away the hours. At the time, we were just boys. Five young men, with alcohol on our breaths and, as yet, empty souls.1
It was then, my mate spoke of a gala, a celebration to be had in the Valley, far away. The young men, bored of their surroundings, agreed that it would do them well to take some for the road and head to the rock gig.2

We left our home and sought out the sacred Valley, where it is said people like to party.3
After a long trek, we were gleefully unsober. Not drunk, but definitely buzzed. They went into the bar, whose name I have forgotten, and had their eardrums flattened by the sound of much-too-loud music.4
At the end of the gala, the five men were to head home. But their hearts were heavy that they were so clear-headed.5
But lo, they had a fortuitous soul in their midst. The wisest of them had stowed away cans in the nearby bushes, to last them the walk home!6
They drank and were merry as they headed home, thinking the night was over.7 But it had only just begun.8

They left the Valley, and were but a few streets away from the bar, but the streets were longer and crooked, and they were already engulfed in the suburban maze.1
We all had our cans, and I was sipping my Bundy & Coke slowly, trying to savour it, but the flavour was becoming numb in my mouth.2
And that’s when I saw him.3
Staggering down the street, not far from a parking complex, there was a man in undefined homeless cloth, and with an epic beard you could hide a potato in.4
The man was sloshed, but I remember I wasn’t afraid, though some in our party were wary of the man. You don’t just approach random drunkards, there is a danger in that.5,6
But I truly wasn’t afraid. The man seemed to exhude an aura of pleasant drunkenness.7
Spake he: “Got a light?”8
I thought then that we would simply tell him No, and we would go home. But it wasn’t to be.
I said NO, and most of my mates agreed, we were without light.9,10
But then he sighed, seeming a little bummed that he could not find a light for his cigarette. We all agreed that ‘things were tough’. The man then nodded. ‘Indeed’ he seemed to say, ‘life has its troubles’.11
And then, to prove his point, he told us a rambling story. He had come from far off. Perhaps as far as Melbourne. And in his travels he had come across a large bag of weed, at least as big as a grapefruit. However the cops had found him and taken it away.12
Now I admit, I was not sure if this story was true . . . but that is not what matters. What matters is that it affected us. We all agreed that sometimes the man can come down hard on us. Even those sent to protect us can be ‘fucking pigs’, and can take even the simple pleasures from the working man.13
We were all attuned to one another. Although we had never met him before, we were like brothers. And our mutual agreement of ‘fuck the police’ had garnered a mateship with this man.14

And that is when I realized I didn’t want to waste my time drinking stale, old Bundy & Coke. And since the man seemed like he would enjoy any drink, from Absinthe to Tequila, I told him-
“Here, take my Bundy.”1
He looked pleased. There were tears in his eyes, and although I am certain they were from a night of hitting it hard, I like to believe they were tears of joy.2
The man took the can and said,
“Smash it, mate.” and then, in what can only be described as an epic gulp, he downed the stale beverage.3,4
And then, in gratitude, he presented a plastic shopping bag. And then he offered us his bounty. In the bag was a sixpack of Bundaberg Rum Cans.5
But this was no mere Rum & Coke. The cans were of an unusual design. I swear they had gold in the details, and promised a citrus drink, although my memory is hazy of the details.6
I don’t know what it was, but from that day forward my friends and I name this mysterious beverage “Bundy Gold”.7
We distributed the cans among us, and then again he spoke those words . . . “Smash it!”
and we did.8
As I opened the can there was the sound, a thick hiss expressing freedom as the alcohol smelled the air, and I drank.9
The taste was citric, something acidic and yet soothing. I didn’t realize it then, but this was a blessed moment. Never again have I found this drink, and experimentation has only provided a fruity, effeminate cocktail; a shadow of the true beverage.10
Nothing compares to that taste. And sometimes I wonder if the drink was real. Or if, perhaps, it was the night itself that gave it that taste. Either way, the drink was good, tasty and strong. And although I could not smash the entire can, three long gulps provided me with grand pleasure.11,12

We each expressed disbelief at the stunning flavour. but then the man said he was off. He said he wanted to find a group with a lighter, but I know that he was leaving to inspire others.1
And as he left, knowing we were losing a friend, one of us called out:
“What’s your name mate?”2,3
The man was almost three metres away, he managed to do a drunken spin which, although inelegant, turned him to face us with pride and a glint in his eye. And then he leaned back, arching his spine as though baying at the moon. He screamed his name to the night, like a howling wolf, he spoke his name . . .4,5
And then he left us. With nothing but a sweet aftertaste and a fond memory.6
Some days I wonder what became of him after that, is he still out there helping lost souls find Bundy Gold? I don’t know.7
But one thing I do know is, if you’re in the Valley, and you come across a man asking for a light, wearing a homeless man’s garb and carrying a plastic bag of unknown beverages. 8 Give him your time, and a light if you have one. You never know.9
It might just be, Drunk McBeardley.10


  1. Chapter 2 - Were they "weary" of the man, or were they "wary"?

    1. They were weary, until I edited the post and fixed the mistake.
      This is where I get it from, people . . .


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