Posts Tagged ‘hoon’

Stepping back in time

There’s no denying that Australia is behind the times compared to the mother country in many areas: internet provision, supermarket layout (Fran’s suggestion, that one), racial equality.

But there’s one area in which it is trails the UK by a country mile and Bruce is absolutely delighted: petrol prices.

Today, the Hoonmobile was topped up for 102.9 cents per litre – 44.36p at today’s exchange rate. Last time it was that price in the UK Bruce wasn’t even a spark in Bruce Snr’s eyes and Hovis bread was still delivered up steep hills by young Northerners on bikes.*

What a daft time to have bought a bike.**

(* This timeline is based on no research whatsoever)

(** Not true, eco-warriors, there’s never a bad time to buy a bike, is there?)

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Perhaps it’s time to rein in the rampant absorption of all things Aussie.

Bruce has already piled on half a stone (the reining in starts here with the use of imperial measures – ha!) from excessive beer drinking and Fran has to stop her voice rising at the end of sentences.

Bruce is using the cover of Movember to replace his beard with a far more extravagant piece of facial topiary that will be in keeping with their current home suburb of Collingwood while Fran is obsessed with pies.

At the rate they’re going and with the company they’re keeping Bruce will soon be a misogynistic peep show addict while Fran will be speaking full Strine within weeks.

She’s already moved up to the next level of Hoon…

“That doesn’t look promising,” said Bruce as they collected the final batch of post from their old flat in St Kilda.

It wasn’t. A fine for going through a red light – and three points on his licence.

“We must be able to challenge it,” said Bruce. “We’ve had loads of parking fines overturned.”

Fran had gone quiet and, unless he was mistaken, a little pale, the pre-Summer tan fading in an instant.

“Erm, I think it might have been me,” she said. “What’s the date?”

It was the day after their first Aussie bbq. 7.45am. Bruce was definitely still tucked up in bed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. $227 worth of sorry. “Hang on a minute,” she added. “I remember now. There was a car coming up really fast behind me so I was worried it might hit me.”

“Really?” asked Bruce. “If that’s the case I can go and look at the photo and we can challenge it.”

“Well, actually,” said Fran on reflection. “I might have made that up…”

No matter, she’s moved one step ahead of Bruce in the race to join Melbourne’s marvellous Magna Club. Bloody hoon.

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Bloody idiots

Bloody idiots

The barrage of lies, deceits and downright stupidity unfolding in the US Presidential Campaign caused Bruce and Fran to enter a period of solemn reflection this week.

It led them, in a rare moment of soul searching and honesty, to admit that they had been rather hasty in naming their vehicle the Hoonmobile back in May.

Sure, it was bright red and, as a three-litre guzzler that undermined their claims to care for the planet somewhat, had more power under its bonnet than the 1.2l Punto they left in the UK. What’s more, of all the great Aussie-isms they’d enjoyed in their early weeks in Melbourne, hoon was one of their favourites; what’s not to like about “DOB IN A HOON!”, up there with “YOU BLOODY IDIOT!” for promoting sensible driving (although, like Asbos in the UK, one can imagine certain sorts taking the mantle of hoon or even bloody idiot as a badge of honour).

But, no, the Magna is not a souped up super-Ute, a lowered Impreza or a boom box-laden Holden. It’s a car. A bit of a middle manager / family car at that.

Or so they thought, until Thursday night, when, enjoying a post-victory beer with the Mountain Goat indoor cricket team (having carefully plotted the route out of Northcote to avoid the Booze Bus (bloody idiots)*), the throbbing, insistent roar of altered car engines hit our ears.



One after another, swerving from side to side like F1 drivers warming their wheels pre-race, came a convoy of 25 cars, all with body kits and neon lights. Reaching the corner, they slowed, before accelerating into a series of the most pitiful front wheel spins and disappearing into the industrial site.

“Did you see that?” yelped one of our players excitedly. “The Magna Club! Doing that. In a Magna! Of all the cars!”

Bruce’s pride initially dented, his eyes followed the cars until they parked around the corner and opened up trunks and bonnets for fellow retards to inspect.

It took him back to Sunday nights in Nottingham, when the local retards would gather from across the Midlands to parade their modified Vauxhall Novas, Ford Fiestas and Citroen 2CVs around the “circuit” in one of the most pathetic and misconceived attempts at manliness (far less glamorous than its assumed title, the “circuit” was actually a small ring road around an ugly 70s concrete stack car park).

But, tail between legs – and upset that he’d been given a lift to the game and couldn’t show off his dented rear end (“YOU BLOODY POOF!”) to the other Magna Boyz – he returned home to Fran.

Then it dawned. They were hoons. They drove Magnas. They’d been right all along.

Their car was a Hoonmobile after all.

* One bottle of beer only. We’re not bloody idiots, you know

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“It’ll just be a junkie messing about,” said Fran as the intercom started buzzing at 2.30am.

Little did she know that the buzzer had already infiltrated Bruce’s dreams and quickly convinced him that they were expecting visitors at this early hour.

“No. We’re not expecting anyone. Get back into bed,” she added sternly as he pulled a pair of trousers from the floor.

Too late: he was off.

Just as well really. Walking towards the intercom the flecks of bright, reflected light on the black and white monitor slowly coagulated into the word: “POLICE”.

“Are you the owner of car registration *******?” said the officer. “Your car has just been involved in an accident.”

Is that it?

His brain’s REM state still lingering, Bruce was filled not with panic, but with excitement. His bright red Magna stolen by underworld crims, used in a bank robbery then forced off the road into a ditch in a high speed police chase. Ace!

Or maybe a joyrider had taken it for a spin, lost control and gone flying off the edge of the West Gate Bridge, plummeting onto the deck of a passing tanker.

“Er, OK,” he said. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

Truth stranger than fiction? My arse. Some idiot had backed a removal van into a big old Ford Ute, ploughing it into three other cars, of which Bruce’s was part of the sandwich filling. Thankfully, the car behind came off far worse – a write off – and the Hoonmobile was still mobile.

But still, if you’re going to be woken at 2.30am by cops telling you your car’s been involved in an accident, you want something a bit spicier than that. Should have listened to Fran and stayed in bed after all.

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