Free He Died with a Felafel in His Hand by John Birmingham Page B

was this guy lying on the ironing board. Flat on his back. Shivering. I asked Jabba, ‘Who the hell’s this?’ but he just shrugged. ‘Been there all day,’ and went back to the soaps. I edged over to the guy who suddenly turned his glazed eyes on me. He was on a really weird trip. Said something about being a ship in stormy seas. I couldn’t talk sense into him so I threw a blanket across the ironing board. But he freaked out, thought it was a shroud. He started yelling, ‘I’m dying. I can feel it. I’m going I’m going!’ Screamed that the only thing which could save him was mouth to mouth resuscitation.
    I said, ‘Sorry pal, you’re a dead man.’
     
     

     
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    Share House Artefacts : Number Two
    Fish Finger
    BIG DINNER PARTY THIS WEEKEND?
    Or just some friends who’ve dropped in unannounced.
    Surprise them with a Fish Finger recipe.
    Fondue, Casseroles or Grills. Nothing impresses like a Fresh Fish Finger .
    Even YOU can prepare them like a Pro. From the casual sophistication of Fish Finger Kebabs to a six course set-piece dinner arranged around the magnificent Fish Fingers in Aspic your guests will be as surprised as you were on discovering this culinary Must Have.
    FISH FINGERS AHOY?
    Enjoy!
     
     

5 THE FOSTER-LINDBURGH INCIDENT
     
    The dead man on the ironing board had me rattled so I moved down to Melbourne. Not sure why. When you live in Brisbane, you don’t really think about Melbourne. It’s a long way away, and you have to go through Sydney to get there. Most people don’t make it past Sydney. I did – threw all my stuff in the back of a Greyhound and twenty four hours later I was in the thick of it, soaking up the angst, checking out the trams. I had a bedsit in East Melbourne. Very few possessions. A typewriter. My old Japanese couch, which was actually a sort of black wooden park bench. A chest of drawers I found in the street, my mattress and this great Foster-Lindburgh bar fridge. I loved that fridge. It had rhythm. You’d hear it start and stop all night. About midnight it’d power up – zhmmmmmmmm – putting out those CFC’s to chill my beers and cocktail onions. And at seven in the morning it’d switch off – the sudden absence of its warm familiar hum surprising me awake. It was a great little fridge and the best thing about it was the mondo cool badge on its door, half an eagle’s wing like on the Harley Davidson motorcycles and the name Foster-Lindburgh spelt out in 1950’s typography. I loved that fridge and I would have it with me now were it not for my insane neighbours who kidnapped it and took it on an adventure around town.
     
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Andrew
One of the differences between Melbourne and Brisbane is the humble cockroach. It means the fry pan factor doesn’t play as big a role in Melbourne as it does in some of the West End houses in Brisbane. In Brisbane if you leave a plate unwashed, you can go out four hours after everyone has gone to bed and the whole kitchen is moving around. In Melbourne you can leave your dinner scraps on the bench for two or three weeks and Old Mr Rat might have a go at it but that’s about all. In winter it might even freeze, especially if you don’t pay the power bills. Personal hygiene is not such an issue down south because people tend not to stink as much. I mean West End in summer? A house full of hard-core separatist lesbians? They can get bit whiffy.
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    I was sharing my block of flats with Stacey, a Melrose kind of girl with no money whom I’d helped move into a unit directly upstairs from me. This crumbling unit block had been built for the American officers McArthur brought through in the Forties. It was worse than a gathering of former Soviet republics, torn asunder by untenable liaisons and messianic faction leaders. The macrodramatics were recreated in the daily theatre of life with Stacey, who feasted entirely on the exploits of others. She was jacked into a live feed from the Who Weekly Deathstar, so fully briefed