The Adventures of the Honey Badger Read online

  THE HONEY BADGER

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  Dedication

  Life is a wonderful thing. Sometimes when I’m alone on a beach or some other special place, I think about what’s ahead and where I’ve been. It’s not easy, and for some almost too hard.

  Don’t judge or be too quick to criticise because we all have our goods and bads.

  Be the light in someone’s distance, say the word that brings the smile. Be the rock in the pond that spreads the ripple of happiness far and wide.

  I haven’t led a privileged life. My family has felt joy and pain like all families. We’ve learnt to choose life, to press forward, full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes. Don’t take anything too seriously because there’s far too much fun to be had.

  I dedicate this book to the goers in life, the people who will not be beaten, who get back up, dust off and choose laughter as the best option.

  Love much

  Nick (and Mark)

  Contents

  Dedication

  On White Water Rafting

  The Massage Incident

  Fear and Loathing in Bosnia

  Late-night Death Threats

  An Interesting Drug Test

  Some Fishy Business Up North

  Houseboat Hell

  Honkers Goes Bonkers

  A Norwegian Fishing Fiasco

  A Bit of Reflection

  The Port Macquarie Files

  The Big C

  Netball Coaching in Cambodia

  The Emerald Isle

  An Adventure in The Kimberleys

  Back to Kununurra

  Western Force: The Three Bagger

  Back Where I Started

  Swimming With Whale Sharks

  Norwegian Time-out

  Adventures on Ice

  Moving on to Women

  Gainful Employment

  Peruvian Soul Searching Adventure

  The Anzac Link

  The Roper River Runs Red

  The Handiest Word in English

  Time Marches On

  A Word on Rugby Positions

  After Rugby

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  Welcome to the . . .

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  HOW TO RESPOND TO A FART:

  ‘A bit more choke and you would have started’

  ON WHITE WATER RAFTING

  (And the importance of staying in the boat)

  I’ve been rafting a few times over the years and it’s a real buzz. The first time I went I was about 12 – the perfect roll of the dice.

  Dad, my two older brothers Luke and Nathan, along with a couple of the old boy’s mates and their sons joined us on what would become an epic adventure in northern NSW.

  Our mission? To tear the heart out of the Nymboida River and take the rafting world to a whole new level.

  So we packed ourselves into the Tarago van – remembering I’ve got enough siblings to fill an entire Sevens roster – and roared down the Pacific Highway, full of hope and wonder.

  The trip was going to take a few hours, so the old man brought along a Viking hat complete with horns. Anyone who said something stupid or cracked a poor joke had to wear it – in and out of the van. Because of the average IQ of the travelling party, the hat changed owners many a time, and yours truly was a frequent recipient.

  Anyhow, the hat had been making the rounds with the noticeable omission of Dad’s mate, Steve, who was either highly intelligent or painfully unfunny. So finally, having had enough of missing out, he made a formal request to don the hat and placed it on his melon. I was more confused than an All Black at a bookstore. So I asked him why exactly he wanted it, given he hadn’t said anything. He replied, ‘I had a stupid thought.’ Now, that’s integrity!

  A few hours later we were hooning down the Nymboida River in two rafts at a rate of knots and absolutely thrilled. Then we heard the roar of the rapids and there were some concerned looks.

  We had all the safety gear. And like a first-timer on the alpine slopes looking to impress, we looked like we knew what we were doing. But at the very last corner before the rapids, elation made way for unadulterated adrenalin as the roar of the pumping water grew ever louder and our rafting guide (the bloke at the back) stressed that this was an extremely difficult task and that we had to hang on for our lives.

  We approached the rapids at a fair pace and came to a 45-degree rock ledge, we were full of confidence! So much so that halfway down my brothers and I jumped up and dropped our strides, mooning the other rafters. But unbeknown to us, the rapids had barely started.

  Between the noise of the rapids, the screams of the moonies and the yelling of the old man telling us to sit the hell down, it was pure and utter chaos! Then it happened.

  We hit the bottom of the rapids and the rafts became airborne. What a bloody buzz!

  After a verbal serve from the raft captain, who could best be described as filthy, he told us the next rapid was too dangerous and that he’d take the rafts down alone while we legged it. Apparently, a few punters had pulled the pin in that section of the river and we’d hardly impressed our instructor with our professionalism.

  The walk was no easy task either. We had to climb a rocky outcrop about 10–15 metres high before we reached a ledge and were instructed to jump off and float down the river. We didn’t need to be told twice.

  One at a time, the boys made the leap of faith, hootin’ and hollerin’ until they slammed into the deep aqua below. Finally, it was only myself and one of Dad’s mates left – not Steve, that smart bastard was cluey enough to wait for the water to be broken by one of my brothers before making his descent like a pin. Ten out of ten for form.

  This poor bugger, Chris, was once a good athlete but because of a couple of knee replacements had no push power for the jump. He just leant forward and said to me, ‘Push me, you bastard!’

  Yes, sir! I gave him a good taste of the old Cummins’ squirrel grip and suitcased him right off the edge. I remember his descent in fine detail – it was like watching a YouTube ‘biggest fails’ video, Chris was falling like a cartoon character in a bad dream before hitting the water like someone whose parachute hadn’t opened. I thought I’d killed him! Suffice to say, I let out a heavy sigh of relief when finally his life jacket brought him to the surface. He looked liked he’d landed face-first, his face was about as red as my cheeks were about to be when my old man yelled out, ‘Don’t kill the bastard, he’s my accountant!’

  I now realise how important these people are in your life. I don’t think Dad’s paid tax since ’92.

  Moving on, we floated down to meet the rafts, about a kilometre downstream. It was anything but relaxing, as we were flung around like pinballs from one rock formation to the other. It’d been at least an hour by now, so it was time for some grub. We pulled up for lunch and strapped the feed bag on. The tucker was good and as the old fellas lay back they had that ‘I need a beer’ look screaming from every pore. To achieve Dad’s final ambition, it was clear we had to clean up this last rapid like the professionals we thought we were.

  We climbed into our rafts like clowns into a punch buggy. Before my raft had even pushed off we watched in hysterics as

  Dad’s raft went arse over head just 30 seconds after the mighty quest began. The old blokes looked like a group of giant spiders trying to claw their way up the toilet bowl before it flushed.

  Dad reckoned he stared death in the face and was on the brink of drowning before by some stroke of luck he was presented with something to push off aga
inst, and launched himself to the surface. Turns out that something was Chris, who breached the water a few seconds later like a harpooned sperm whale, coughing, spluttering and gagging. He blew up that someone had stood on his head and pushed off him. The old boy made a vocal stand right there and then that he wouldn’t have a beer again until he caught the culprit. He didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Nor the willpower to go any longer without a beer. Mission complete.

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  A BIG MISTAKE:

  1. Balls-up

  2. Blue

  A LOOK AROUND AND PEE:

  A fox’s breakfast

  THE MASSAGE INCIDENT

  (Try not to put your foot in it)

  Other than a meat pie, a cold one and the touch of a fine woman, there’s nothing better than a good massage. Especially if the latter is being performed by said woman.

  Over the years playing footy I’ve had thousands of ’em – massages that is – and afterwards you always feel like an absolute superhero, even if you’re slipperier than an eel in an olive jar. Well, I was home on a break and looking forward to a bit of surfing and fishing. But I wasn’t about to give up my weekly ritual – even if it was out of my loot and not the ARU’s. So one morning I put it on the old boy that we slip up for a massage and he was surprisingly cool about it, given he’s normally pretty conservative about most things. He still refuses to use chopsticks – adamant the Japanese of all people know better than to stick with obsolete technology. The fork won. It’s a no contest. You won’t see anyone – except hipsters – wearing a Walkman over an iPod.

  Anyhow, the old boy was agreeable to a rubdown on the condition his masseuse was a woman – because he didn’t want a bloke slaving all over him. Personally, I reckon he’d been watching too many movies about Turkish prisons and gladiators, but off we went.

  The setup was standard. We were in these cubicles side-by-side and we had to wear these disposable grundies – or mosquito nets – for the old tackle. I’d just started to nod off when I heard a blood-curdling scream from the old man’s cubicle. Followed directly by a thud!

  My first concern was that he might have got carried away and been belted one. But then the truth emerged. The poor girl was walking on the old boy’s back while hanging onto the tops of the partition and misjudged her step while working on the coight region – and I don’t mean she missed the table.

  Now, I’m OK with most things, but when you drop the heel into the sprocket you know that carnage is about to follow. Ask any rugby league player. She was far from a big girl, a scale model compared to Dad, and her leg must have disappeared up to her knee.

  I’m sure she felt she had been swallowed by a groper and then whacked over the head with one when she hit the deck. Her leg broke free from the vortex of the great beast’s nether regions. The suction release alone sounded like a cork popping. Her screams of terror brought people from everywhere. You’d think his unusually hairy back would have provided some sort of traction . . .

  By the time I made it in there the old bloke was trying to console her and get his kit on at the same time and it looked sus! How else could it look?

  After explaining my name was Drew Mitchell and the old boy was the Australian Wallabies coach, we paid up and fled the scene at Olympic-winning speed, leaving a one-legged masseur to recount the story of how she was swallowed alive and lived to tell the tale.

  I’m told she never oiled another back again. Won’t even cook with the stuff.

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  NOSE:

  1. Cherry picker

  2. Beak

  3. Honker

  4. Sniffer

  OBVIOUS:

  Stands out like a dog’s clackers

  FEAR AND LOATHING IN BOSNIA

  What’s that you say? Is there such an animal as rugby in Norway? Oh yeah.

  For about 30 years, apparently, Norway has had a national rugby team, which has had its ups and downs. Most of the teams have their fair share of expats and local Vikings, and some years ago my brother Nathan opted to follow a good sort to Stavanger – a small city on the southwest coast – and was pleasantly surprised to find a comp to play in.

  Now, Nath was always a pretty handy rugby player and had won premierships all over the joint. So when he asked my opinion, there was nothing to say but ‘go for it!’ It’d be a bloody good story at the very least.

  Once he arrived he hooked up with Stavanger Rugby Club, a small mob that had been doing it a little tough compared to their big cousins Oslo and Bergen. And like the champion he is – and possibly aided by the fact he couldn’t understand their appeals for him not to – it wasn’t long before Nath took over the joint, becoming captain-coach of the club and national side. Yep, Norway’s eligibility rules are looser than Queensland’s in State of Origin.

  Of course, he was met with some trepidation and solid resistance from some of the old rugby heads who didn’t believe Nathan could do much to help the joint. So one night, after a few refreshments at the local, Nathan proclaimed that Stavanger would go the full year undefeated. Brave or stupid? In this context, they meant the samething.

  This was met with a raucous chorus of laughter. Tom Ward, a former rugby player, suggested he would walk around the harbour nude if Nath’s proclamation rang true.

  Well, that was incentive enough for Nath, who’s spent a lifetime ensuring his best and closest are oft humiliated. And sure enough, Stavanger won the 2014 national grand final – undefeated. Nath had come good on his word so old Tommy did the same – not to the same amount of applause, mind you – and paraded his manhood along the wharves for all and sundry to view in absolute horror.

  Rugby’s typically a winter sport, so it was quite cold on that Norwegian morning, and the conditions did little to exaggerate Tom’s assets. To add to this evening of merriment and likely as a result, Tom had become newly single and ensured little chance of immediate change to his status. Poor bastard claimed he was batting above anyway and this was the last straw – figuratively and literally.

  I’m glad to say, Stavanger has now won Sevens and 15s national titles undefeated the past two years. They should drug test the bastards! Especially Nathan.

  But it hasn’t been all glamour for Nath. His first game for the national side as captain was against Bosnia – in Bosnia!

  It was a little town named Zenica and is what the crew on The Block would describe as a real fixer-upper. To be clear, that’s what they would say. I’m not that insensitive. But if you didn’t have bullet holes in your house you weren’t having a go.

  The stadium wasn’t much different, but thankfully there was some safety signage out front – ‘No dogs & no guns’.

  The Norwegians warmed up to the jeers of the crowd, marching music and dogs howling at the flares and crackers, which were all the go. Like Nath, the referee obviously wanted to get out of town alive, and appeased the locals with some interesting decisions.

  It was rugby at its best – the linesman puts his flag up for illegal play, the crowd threatens him with guns and dogs, and the linesman lowers his flag. Pretty straightforward stuff and from a player’s perspective on the home side, the home crowd really is an advantage. Maybe that’s where the saying comes from?

  Anyway, the boys got done at the death – no pun intended – by a few points and they were pretty down about it. Enter the old man and a very patient mate of his, Russ, who forced their way into the dressing room. Russ distributed the beers while the old fella climbed onto the table – for the first time since the massage incident – and commanded the attention of the crowd like the rugby god he believes he is.

  Better yet, the door was shut and he had a captive audience. I’m told the pep talk went something like this: ‘Gentleman, today you played your hearts out for Norway and you are Norway’s finest. Tomorrow, they’ll still be Bosnians!’ The dressing room erupted and Norway was back on track.

  The following week, Norway hammered Bulgaria 42–0 at home. The
boys had their horns pointing forward and all signs pointed towards a big night.

  A few of the troops wandered down to the harbour for a bit of stomach lining before the celebrations. Nath, Dad, Russ and myself were having a feed when two middle-aged English tourists turned up asking the question, ‘What are you having?’ Dad was quick to exclaim: ‘He’s having the whale, but it’s a bit tough. I’m really into this dolphin. It’s tender as, on account of it being clubbed to death.’ You should have seen the look on our faces let alone the tourists’ as they retreated in horror. We’ve since had Dad undergo a psych eval and are awaiting the results.

  Note: No dolphins or whales were hurt during this shit-talk.

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  HOW TO DESCRIBE A DOPEY BASTARD:

  ‘If brains were dynamite, he couldn’t blow up a letterbox’ or ‘He hasn’t got enough brains to give himself a headache’ or ‘You can’t put brains in a monument’

  LATE-NIGHT DEATH THREATS

  It was 2011 and the Western Force was on tour to South Africa. We landed in Johannesburg, one of the finer cities, then bussed it to Durban – also a city.

  After making the hotel regret putting in an all-you-can-eat buffet for breakfast, we headed for training at a field previously scoped out by team staff and deemed to be a secure location, safe from the peering eyes of the opposition team’s undercover staff.

  All seemed to be going pretty well until the end of the session when one of the lads having a shot at goal kicked the ball right over the fence and into some long grass.

  I drew the short straw and had to go collect the thing. As I stepped over the wire fence, I copped an almighty shock – some bloke pops up from the grass with a long-lens camera, grabs his tripod and bolts deeper into the scrub.

  He was moving well for a big fella. And with high knee lifts like that I had to make a decision fast – either engage in hot pursuit or alert our security (ex Special Forces) to cut him off on the other side of the scrub. Finally, my moment had come. A moment I’d trained my whole life for, to take down a wildebeest with my bare hands at speed. Or be badly hurt trying.