Perth, Part the Second

And so the conference continued. As previously noted, it was beyond dull. It was stupendously dull. It was Home Improvement after Tim Allen stopped using the nose candy dull. It was listening to the audio version of The Audacity of Hope as read by John McCain dull. I could go on; but I don’t want to bore you. Like all things Rotary, this conference as well came to an auspicious and strange end. The district governor, a woman whose arse was so large and wobbled so fiercely that even Hillary Clinton would say ‘dude, get a Stairmaster’, gave her concluding remarks.

She decided to close the conference by talking about the children. She talked about what a difference Rotary can make and went on to say all of the programmes Rotary must be involved with to improve the lives of children so that their future can be a little brighter. And then, and I am not making this up, there was an image that flashed briefly on the huge screen behind her. It could not have been there for more than 5 seconds; and at first glace it appeared as though when she said we need to make a better future for the children there was an image of a huge steaming pile of cow dung sweltering in the African heat; but on closer examination this was not a pile of poop: it was in fact a dead African baby. To be perfectly honest, I can’t think of an image that better highlights her point that we can make like lives of children a litter brighter and give them a better future than showing a picture dead baby. Oh, actually, come to think of it; anything would have been better. Who shows a picture of a dead baby to an auditorium full of people and does not even acknowledge it? She just kept talking, as if there was not a dead baby projected on a 7 meter screen behind her. It would have been better to have shown a clown making phallic balloon sculptures than to just be all like ‘hey, FYI there is a picture of a dead baby back there; but I’m not going to say anything about it, or why it’s there I’m just going to keep talking. It has sure been a good conference, huh? Now, who wants some tea?’ It was disturbing and I didn’t really have an appetite for the lunch the followed. Oddly enough, they did not have a vegetarian option at the meal. They only served dark meat.

Of course, the district conference was not all apocalyptic toilets and pictures of dead babies rotting under the African sun, there was a lot of drinking too. For some reason when I drink of Rotarians, they seem to make it a personal mission to get me smashed beyond rational thought. I’m not sure why they do that exactly, I guess they are just nice; it’s not like I have anything to offer them in exchange for the continuous and constant flow of fluids. We had two nights of drinking and a drinking outing. The first night was a rather informal affair and I don’t really remember too much about it, except that I must have seemed stressed because Rotarians kept coming over to me to rub my shoulders. It was a vicious cycle because the more they rubbed my shoulders, the more stressed I seemed to became. I am going to be honest with you, it is strange and not particularly soothing to have a several sloshed Scotchmen seductively stroking your neck. But then again, they were buying me loads of drinks; so it’s not like I was a cheap date or anything.

The second night was black tie, and I am not going to lie, when I wear a tux; I pretty much get eye raped. I don’t know what it is; but old people just seem to stare at me and undress me with their eyes. By stare, I mean there is excessive gazing involved; but mostly they just touch me. My arse literally felt like a pincushion. Like seriously, 10 old ladies pinched me in my nether region. It was … yeah. One walked out of a door and just placed her hands on my hips, said excuse me and walked away. I don’t know what I was attracting so much attention. The Rotary men were all decked out in Kilts and had various kinds of Rotary bling. They all had crazy Rotary gold necklaces and medallions. I’m pretty sure I saw a few crowns and at least 4 diamond encrusted Rotary grills. Their power was hypnotic. I couldn’t look away from the bright shiny bling. Of course, this might have just been because of the absurd number of kilts. I have a pretty serious problem when it comes to kilts because I don’t know where I am meant to look. I find myself staring at their hairy knees and wondering if they are wearing underwear. I don’t mean to be rude; but I just can’t help it. It’s like talking to a big breasted woman: you know you should be looking them in the eyes; but you just can’t bring yourself to do it. A cèilidh* is to me what a wet tee-shirt contest is to a normal guy. I can’t help it; love me for who I am.

As previously noted, there was a lot of drinking involved this night. The night ended with me talking to a 37-year-old Spanish and maths teacher from Canada who was on a different Rotary exchange. We talked for a little while and then I lost track of her. I was sitting in the lobby of the hotel where a Rotarian was teaching me magic tricks (and yes, he was wearing a kilt and sitting cross legged). I don’t know why the Rotarian decided that it now was the time for him to teach me card tricks and I haven’t the faintest idea where he was keeping the playing cards but there we were him teaching me allusions of grandeur and me sitting; hoping to learn the secrets of his kilt. Then, the 37-year-old teacher came up from behind me, ruffled my hair and walked away. The kilt clad magician put one hand on my knee, looked me straight in the eyes and said ‘go to her’.

I will end this entry as a sort of choose your own adventure. You can decide if I stayed with the Gaelic Magician or if I went to her.

* traditional Scottish dance: read ‘kilt central’

Later days,