I was up in my old hood last week, sweet old Sydney Town. And while I had fun catching up with friends, clients and family, one thing gave me the massive angry shits. The fucked up traffic!
Don’t get me wrong, I do miss Sydney. I grew up there and it will always be home. But bugger me, has the traffic gone from utterly shit to absolutely choke-tasticly fucked. It took me about an hour and a half to drive from Redfern (sorry, Eveleigh for the newly anointed snobs of the suburb) to Hornsby Heights. And I think I swore more during that trip than I have in my entire life.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I burst a few new blood vessels in my eyes from this journey into the abyss, the stress was so bad. Sorry to my mum and D2 (I’m too old for the word stepdad to work, so that stands for Dad 2) but by the time I finally got there, I would have preferred to be somewhere else. Like maybe Thailand, or Cairns at the very least.
You’ll laugh when I tell you I used to live in Mosman. Yes, I’ll just wait here while you finish choking on your chicken. It was a rental about ten years ago, forcing me to drive up and down Military Road which is one of the most congested roads in the city at any time of day or night. Once you’ve figured out the tricks of what lane to be in at what time, and how risky your little journey in the bus lane is (while you indicate left for a few kms), you can fool the system and save yourself from sticking a hot fork in your eye.
But something far worse than Military Road is coming up to take the crown of the most shit journey to nowhere in particular. It’s called the Pacific Highway. Nothing about this shitty, pot hole ridden, windy, bitch of a road resembles a highway. It was built during the days of the horse and cart and it clearly cannot withstand the extra people crammed into the 8 billion new apartments that have made Horny Hornsby the new Ghetto of the Upper-Upper North Shore.
Each morning the inhabitants of Hornsby make their daily pilgrimage to the city. And most probably have to wake up at a sparrows fart in order to make it to work by 9am. You roll from one school zone to another as you pass through the leafy suburbs, barely passing past the 20km/hr marker on your speedometer. You’ve got enough time to write a will, prepare your own eulogy and perhaps even give White Lady Funerals a call to book in a spot, because although you looked hot in the rear view mirror when you left, by the time you get to work you look like you’ve been dragged through a fucking hedge and aged about eleventy billion years.
So I say ditch the car because it’s really not getting you anywhere in a hurry and you are wasting your life. I’ve devised a list of ten things that will get you to work faster than a car, and will potentially hand you back some of your sanity. Or not.
Made famous by Michael Jackson, this method is great if you do not want to see where you are going, or wish to wave your middle finger in the faces of everyone else in their cars, who you are seemingly passing at the speed of sound.
Potato sack racing.
So when your work mates tell you that you look like a sack of shit, all you are missing is the shit.
A tandem unicycle.
Car pool. Phone a friend. And get on ya fooking bike!
Just ring ahead to make sure the sick bay are ready for you.
Haters gonna hate.
You start alone. But by the time you’ve made it to Chatswood, you’ve started a mother fucking movement baby.
Dancing like Psy.
Jumping on a pogo stick wearing a panda suit.
Because. Panda suits are cool.
Running in a cardboard box. Drunk.
So there you have it. If you live in Sydney you can safely sell your car and try any of these ten activities, because you’ll beat every other sad fucker that is sitting in their car making asshole faces at every other sorry soul on the road.
Fuck you Sydney traffic, you’ve really done a number on yourself.