Well I'm off to a flyer of a start for the holidays, if it was any other time, I'd just call myself a beast slayer, because well, we all know the Chazza is a beast and it's four cylinder power is undisputed. It has carried us far and wide, many great journey's and experiences, including taking out a plover , chugging up the Gateway bound to Schoolies and well, a ship to rescue the drunken, but today a part of the beast died. Sorta.

It all started with Fingal, which I might add is in NSW (I'm blaming them, it's easier that way). I awoke nice and fresh at 5.30am ready to tackle a new beach with the usual crew of Benji, Kyle and Yeatsie. I had two coast cd's burnt, Best Of mixes, yes including The Unforgiven II and Summer of 69. The day was destined to be great, a fine start to the holidays, but twas not to be.

After picking up Kyle and Benji, we waited outside Yeat's house for the good old five minutes while he curls his hair, plucks his nose hairs and what not, when the Chazza just died. Idled to death. In shock, and surprise I went to start the beast up again, it sorta growled, almost saying 'Fuck you for waking me at 5.45am', but eventually it purred to it's slow rumble, only to die again. Eventually, like coaxing Ernie to leave The Shack with a stick, it started up and I took her on a victory lap. It survived. Yeats was almost ready at this stage, so we had a three course breakfast and then he jumped in the beast. All seemed well.

The epic journey was ready to proceed. Benji was talking usual sleep deprived shit, Kyle was seeping AGB and Yeats was just, pumped for beach. Tragedy struck. Cruising down Illaweena Street, the beast died... then came back to life. Scared by it's wavering loyalty, I wanted to run her around the block. I thought it'd be ok, no warning lights, she wasn't foaming at the mouth or anything. The beast seemed healthy, just suffering from PMS. Alas, it died rounding the bend onto Gowan and there she laid for the next hour, bruised and injured, weeping like a 10 year old boy whose Tonka truck fell into a stormwater drain.

Steam (or foam, I get confused between the whole beast to machine conversion), was seeping from under the bonnet. I opened her up and it seems that it's loyal owner had forgot about the necessity of oil. She was bone dry. I called Dad, he'd know what to do. Wrong, he's not the mechanic type, good with numbers, but not so much pets. RACQ was on the way though. After wishing we had packed a ball, or thinking of the possibility of retrieving The Shack cricket set we were passed by a Falcon load of Samoans. They were the only ones to stop and take a closer look at my dying beast. I guess they love animals too. I thanked the driver, and after a few 'bro's' later, they continued driving (probably to the beach knowing my twisted luck). Kyle's continual anal leakage kept everyone on their toes while we waited for the RACQ.

Enter Owen, RACQ mechanic for 15 years. I told him I was a twat and forget to feed her oil. After a bit of giggling to himself, he filled her with 3L of the good stuff, oil at $5 a litre. He warned me that I may of done her harm, the beast might be dead. Luckily it wasn't, she was just a little wounded, but it was serious. Turns out the first cylinder of my car is lazy and doesn't like to work (like someone I know) at idle. She only kicks into gear when the going gets tough, or going, either way. So turns out the beast isn't dead, just has lost a leg in the war against Iraq. I could blame Bush, but that'd just be exaggerating and the guy already has enough people whining to him, so I blame Fingal.

And yeah, I'm grounded until I fit her with a prosthetic leg, which looks like Wednesday at 1pm. So hoo-fucking-ray, Easter holidays going to be a blast!

Oh Cameron, I need another $15 for your Lamb of God ticket, the beast needed it, I know you'll understand, <3.

OaO

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