MY PAL by GOD. Story by Rijn Collins
It’s a classic punk song; raw, revelatory and raging. The Guardian claims it’s “one of the best singles ever made by anyone, anywhere, anytime”.
It’s a classic punk song; raw, revelatory and raging. The Guardian claims it’s “one of the best singles ever made by anyone, anywhere, anytime”.
If it wasn’t for the pandemic … I wouldn’t have started swimming in the sea at the ungodly hour of 6.30am. And making wonderful new friends in the process.
Dicko invited me to a concert at the Mooroopna Mechanics Institute. On a Sunday night. To see Slim Dusty. I had heard and rejected Slim and his music.
I worried the distance would be a death sentence as I found myself alone in my best friend’s mostly empty new living room, 1681 miles from any possibility of weeknight concerts, impromptu G&Ts and sushi, Galentine’s Day, movie marathons, holiday gatherings, city adventures, beach birthdays, and drop-everything post-tragedy afternoons of comfort TV.
Greensleeves is the sound of anticipation. The sound of promise and summer. The sound of hot days. The sound of ice-cream on your tongue, melting over your fingers, dripping onto your toes.
In that final hour, I felt compelled to dance. I’ve never been a dancer, nor have I ever truly felt the inclination, but suddenly, I felt the desperate need to stand up and flail around my bedroom like a madman.
A short poem about COVID, porridge and a Fiona Apple song.
At the time of writing this I am currently on day 132 of self-isolation, with no end in sight. It is the first day of the mandatory mask wearing in Melbourne, Victoria.
What the world needs now is more of this. More sultry men steaming up your computer screen as you scratch out a living in this Covid-19 world.
That night I hung out down the back of the venue because the molten mosh pit at the foot the stage was simply terrifying.