by Nick Cummins
She’s puzzled, but agrees. I’d seen that puzzled look on a woman’s face before. And trust me, it’s not good. It normally finishes with the words: ‘Let’s just forget the whole thing.’ But in this case, I didn’t want to be in a state to remember anything in the first place.
So I stop her. ‘You reckon this one will work, doc?’ The doc: ‘You’ll be gone in 10 seconds’. So I say: ‘Righto, smartarse. Let’s have a bet – if I can make fourteen seconds, you owe me 10 bucks – deal? I’ll see it on my chest when I wake up. If I don’t, I owe you five bucks.’ He agrees. Admittedly, somewhat reluctantly.
The anaesthetist gives me another hit and we start the clock. Being cocky, and thinking I was invincible, I confidently counted, as my vision blurred, all the way to sixteen before going under. When I woke up I looked for the Chris McKenna. Hell, just thinking about the food I could buy with $10 got me through the operation. Couldn’t die then and there from complicated ankle surgery. But get this, the tight bastard didn’t pay his debt. He sent me home with some painkillers, stressing the importance of hydration while on this medication. If the old man taught me one thing, it’s you can’t trust a man who doesn’t pay his debts. So I wasn’t about to be fooled into taking his ‘professional’ advice. So I fobbed it off and said: ‘She’ll be right, mate’.
IF THE OLD MAN TAUGHT ME ONE THING, IT’S YOU CAN’T TRUST A MAN WHO DOESN’T PAY HIS DEBTS.
This is where it gets gross.
So, a week goes by and I realise I haven’t snapped one off in a while. I made an embarrassing trip to the chemist and using the most delicate term I could conjure, inquired about some ‘constipation-busters’ for a ‘friend’ that’s in strife at the moment. But after two days of pills, still nothing.
So I decided to pull up stumps on the old Gary Glitter to initiate movement. I’d read about Caesar and how he dealt with the problem – rolling on his stomach and having his servants pick it out. Well, the boys weren’t down for that and Mum never replied to the text.
I REMEMBERED MY SISTERS TALKING ABOUT WATER BIRTHS. ‘CUMMO, YOU GENIUS.’
So I took it upon myself to do something about it. An hour on the throne saw no progress but I remembered my sisters talking about water births. ‘Cummo, you genius.’
So sheepishly, I relocated to the shower. And began grunting. Without too much detail, 30 minutes and two cracked shower tiles later I’d dropped 4 kilograms on the scales. And the only costs I incurred were the pills and bobcat hire for removal of the evidence.
Of course, it all could have been avoided had the stingy doc come good on his debt. I’d never have had to turn down his advice.
WHEELY-BIN BREAK-IN
While playing for Randwick, I was put up in Coogee near the rugby club with an old bloke going by the name Wayne. I suspect it was an alias but you never really can know for sure.
Anyhow, Wayno was in his late 50s, smoked like an ’85 Barina and loved a good yarn almost as much as a punt. But boy did he get filthy if you woke him up. Which ordinarily wouldn’t be a problem, only that he went to bed at 7 pm and left for work at 3:30 am. Now, my body clock was a tad different to ol’ Wayno’s and recently having been given the hard word, I decided to attempt an unorthodox second-storey Mission Impossible entry. And like T. Cruise himself, this one involved me doing all my own stunts which, in this case, meant the strategic placing of two wheely-bins on top of one another.
When the coast was clear and no cars in sight, I climbed from the neighbour’s ground floor windowsill onto the second bin. Then I made the leap of faith from bin number two to my window – which, of course, was closed. Farking, Wayne! But with a cliffhanger-style manoeuvre I was able to open the window and pull myself in, landing on my bed with a perfect 10 and not moving until the next afternoon. Not a bad effort given I’d had a couple under the belt.
Of course, the Neighbourhood Watch lady living below us didn’t see it that way and had no problem getting on the line to Wayno when she found the wheely-bins stacked by her window along with some remnants of a doner kebab.
Wayne wasn’t stoked – to say the least. But what that man wouldn’t forgive for a carton of Toohey’s finest . . . Asking him to move his car at 9 pm is what.
It’s shift work, but someone’s gotta do it.
RICE EXPERIMENT
Living in Kingsford, Sydney, is the equivalent of sleeping with someone below your standards. You gotta kiss a few toads before you find a princess. And upon moving to Sydney and at the whim of Randwick, I had little choice in my accommodations. But hey, any hole’s a goal. And this place was a hole.
IT WAS THE HARDEST TIME OF MY LIFE – AWAY FROM HOME FOR THE FIRST TIME, AND HUNGRIER THAN KYLE SANDILANDS.
I had recently moved from Brisbane and was out of home for the first time. My experience in the real world amounted to zero times f*&k all – especially in a busy joint like Sydney.
I was doing my training with Carl McDonald, the most feared conditioning trainer in the land – and my boss at the time. Never having paid for grub before, I was quick to discover that 90 per cent of the money I earned was spent on food. It was the hardest time of my life – away from home for the first time, and hungrier than Kyle Sandilands.
I WAS ALONE. BROKE. IN A NEW CITY AND HUNGRY ENOUGH TO EAT KYLE SANDILANDS.
This one particular day I was bloody cooked after three training sessions and a full day of work. So I ducked into an ATM for a quick $20 only to be greeted with arguably the most soul-destroying four words known to modern man – ‘Transaction declined. Insufficient funds’.
Now, the best thing to do in these situations is panic. So I did just that and forked out another $2 of my hard-earned to check my balance. And if I was shattered before I was absolutely gutted when the figure $3.65 appeared on my screen. I was alone. Broke. In a new city and hungry enough to eat Kyle Sandilands.
So I began to think primal. I got home and was so tired and drained that I needed to eat within two minutes or I would pass out. I opened the cupboard. Damn it! I only had 3-minute noodles. That wouldn’t suffice.
Then a lightbulb moment. I grabbed a coffee mug, jammed it full of rice and added some water. ‘Nick, you genius. You’ve done it again.’ And like that I chugged it down, confident it would expand in my stomach. ‘Why has no one else thought of this?’
But it went down rougher than a Kiwi scrum, scratching my throat the whole way. I stumbled to my bed without showering or anything.
The next thing I remember is waking up late the next day, still in my rugby gear from the night before and scurrying off to training – but not before another hardy glass of rice. Some say rice milk was invented that very day. In that very room . . .
By the time I got to work my guts were making all kinds of noises. Then after a wind episode I felt something hit me undies. So I scurried to the dunny to check the dacks and was met with instant relief and amazement at the same time. It was a handful of completely intact rice grains, like they’d just been packed by Uncle Ben himself. Confused, I sat on the bowl to digest – pun intended – what had just happened and in no time silence turned to the sound of gravel being poured down a drain. It all looked reusable. But was it? Only one way to find out . . .
“. . . ABOUT AS STRAIGHT AS A MARDI GRAS.”
TRANSLATION: ‘The Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras is a celebration of sexuality, freedom and life. People who find the opposite sex attractive are considered “straight” in slang terminology. Therefore, those who find the same sex attractive are considered to be the opposite of straight – round, maybe?’
SPIDER BITE!
One morning I woke up to an itch or bite, which was understandable given my mattress was off the street. I’d gotten used to the odd tick or louse so I took off to training without a care in the world, thankful the bite was mid thigh and not upper if you catch my drift . . .
I pulled through the session no worries and headed to work like always. But by the arvo I was starting to drag my arse around and my boss
at the time – the now infamous Carl McDonald – was old school and as hard-arse as they come. You could show up with a broken arm and he’d tell you you’re a pussy and to get on with it. And I didn’t want it to seem like I was trying to get out of any training because of a little bite. So when he asked, ‘You ’right?’, I said ‘Yeah, she’ll be right’ and he proceeded to tell me to harden up and stop carrying on. I couldn’t win.
HE PROCEEDED TO TELL ME TO HARDEN UP AND STOP CARRYING ON. I COULDN’T WIN.
So I finished work and went off to afternoon training hoping a good work-out would get whatever it was outta my system. Note to self: training when sick only exacerbates illness.
By the next morning I was in more shit than a Werribee duck. I couldn’t eat – the official sign something was wrong – and was achieving less on the job than a council worker.
BY THE NEXT MORNING I WAS IN MORE SHIT THAN A WERRIBEE DUCK.
The manager became concerned when he saw the bite on my thigh and when he called the boss down I couldn’t hide anything. I told him I was gonna see a doc and call him after. Then I showed him the huge rash, the swelling, the building pus and he shook his head: ‘There’s nothing bloody wrong with ya’. Thanks, doc.
So now I’m sitting in the waiting room at the surgery and was slipping in and out of focus. The doc asks me to sit on the bed and I struggled to bend my leg to sit up, as the infection had spread covering most of my quad and marching towards the Jatz Crackers.
Doc: ‘Wow! How did you get here? You didn’t drive?’ I flashed him my car keys: ‘Does this answer your question?’
He was more concerned than filthy and said he was surprised I climbed the stairs to his office, let alone drove there. He said I’d been bitten by a poisonous spider and that as a result my glands were all swollen and the poison was moving through my bloodstream. ‘Speak English, doc! I ain’t no scientist!’
THE INFECTION HAD SPREAD COVERING MOST OF MY QUAD AND MARCHING TOWARDS THE JATZ CRACKERS.
He then proceeded to lance the bite to allow pus to run out and insisted I start on two courses of medication immediately. He gave me the pills then and there before rattling off the dosage, which I can’t say I was listening to.
He then sent me to hospital for overnight observation and said to call someone to pick me up and take me there. Who was I gonna call? Sure as shit not Carl. If he had his way he’d have had me back on the job and called me Nicole for the rest of my tenure. So I pretended to call someone for a lift as I walked out, then drove myself to the hospital.
But I could barely afford the petty cash to get there let alone hospital costs. And when that dawned on me, I hit the brakes quick smart and headed for home. Next thing, I was in a 60 zone and I could hear somebody huffing and puffing next to the car. I looked in my side mirror and this person arrived at my window asking where Woolies was. I looked down and the speedo said 60 km/h. Shocked and still looking at the speedo, I said: ‘Geez, you’re quick!’ And when I turned again he was gone.
IT’S THEN I REALISED I WAS IN REAL STRIFE.
Whether he was even there in the first place was a big concern. Was I hallucinating? Or did I just encounter a UFO? Either way, it was then I realised I was in real strife. And just as I parked up out the back of the dungeon (unit), my world began to darken. And fearful of passing out in that dodgy area – where my ute had a brick thrown through the window three weeks earlier – I wound up my windows and locked my doors.
My strength suddenly disappeared and I saw the passenger door wasn’t locked. So as I fell on my side I flicked the lock across as my head hit the passenger door and passed out.
A magpie woke me in the morning scratching around on the bonnet and looking at me.
I remember thinking something or someone must have been watching over me and protecting me that night. Most likely the homeless dude who made a bed in my tray.
But I was alive and strong enough to have a shower and head off to training. Pretty stupid really. I continued the medication but stopped two weeks early ’cause I was back on the burst, baby!
DROWNING WITH THE SHARKS
South Africa, 2015. The great white and tiger shark capital of the world. Just ask that bloody legend Mick Fanning, who fought one of the beasts bare-handed and lived to tell the tale. I hear the two are actually quite close now. The best friendships often begin with a scrap . . .
Jokes aside, a year earlier on tour in Durban I’d taken the opportunity to go cage diving with great whites. And it was a tops experience. But now I wanted more action.
So about an hour’s drive from Durban I took on the shark diving all over again but this time, minus the cage.
Myself and some other fools boarded a scuba-diving boat that took us out through the surf break, which was an experience in itself, and then on to a spot where dolphins and turtles were cutting around. After a rapid ‘safety’ briefing that was about as informative as a Spanish infomercial in Dubbo, we were ready to hit the water. And by ready I mean shit-scared. Because our guide had scars from his armpit to the bottom of his ribs, which he informed us was where he was chomped by a shark while loading the burley bucket under the water with dead fish. You beauty!? All of a sudden a shark attack at a surf contest doesn’t seem like such an anomaly. They’re feeding the bastards over there!
Nathan Charles was on the surface holding on to a floating device with his head in the water. And he had that ‘I’m probably going to die’ look on his dial. The floaties certainly didn’t give me a boost of confidence.
This also happened to be my first scuba dive. And if you haven’t gathered already, paying attention has never been a strong point of mine. So once the instructor was done talking I just flicked myself overboard and started to sink to the bait bucket – and then beyond! And it wasn’t on purpose. Turns out I was pressing the wrong button and was descending rapidly, equalising every few seconds.
IF YOU HAVEN’T GATHERED ALREADY, PAYING ATTENTION HAS NEVER BEEN A STRONG POINT OF MINE.
I started to panic, frantically pressing the other button and trying to unclip the weight belt. But it was difficult. I looked up from the darkness to see tiny humans bobbing on the surface and below me total darkness, with that feeling of something watching me.
I slowed down and then slowly began to rise. And just before I breached, a two-metre blacktip shark swam above me.
I HEADBUTTED IT IN THE MOUTH AND ALL I COULD SEE WAS TEETH!
But I was still trying to shake the weight belt and without seeing the thing until the last second, I headbutted it in the mouth and all I could see was teeth!
With my heart rate reaching 600rpm, I was outta that water quicker than Nathan Charles could book himself swimming lessons and happy to give someone else a turn.
So there you have it, Mick Fanning wasn’t the only Australian athlete to take on a shark and win in 2015. And I’m extremely glad we both lived to tell the tale – though mine is more one of stupidity and dumb luck while Mick’s is all courage.
Aussies 2: South Africa 0.
ON FANS DRESSING UP LIKE HIM:
“I FIRST OF ALL THOUGHT ‘WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THAT BASTARD?’ THEN I REALISED, JESUS, THEY WERE BEING ME.”
TRANSLATION: ‘It’s an absolute honour to be considered a god in people’s eyes and each and every one of them is a dead set hot genius. Support our troops.’
TROUBLE IN DUBLIN
The 2013 Wallabies Spring Tour was a buzz. Three out of four wins against the European powerhouses was a pretty good result for me. Sadly, my work off the field wasn’t as sharp.
It started innocently enough. The night out in Ireland on the Tuesday before the Test was huge. And so was the match suspension I got as a result . . .
We all went out to dinner through the week before the Test. And all was going well until we were invited to a nightclub. Hell yeah, I’m in!
THREE OUT OF FOUR WINS AGAINST THE EUROPEAN POWERHOUSES WAS A PRETTY GOOD RESULT FOR ME.
The cabs turned up at the T
emple Bar and we filed into them like a well oiled machine. We stumbled out later, like circus clowns. The short journey was uneventful in itself, but we were about to make up for it.
THE MUSIC WAS ON, THE BLOKES WERE PRIMED AND WE HAD THE ROOM TO OURSELVES.
We jumped the queue – one of the perks of being a ‘big deal’ – and roared up the stairs. The music was on, the blokes were primed and we had the room to ourselves. What’s wrong with this picture? NO sheilas is what. Not a bloody bird in the room. If I wanted to spend my time with 20 sweaty blokes I’d join a rugby team. And seeing as though I’d already done that, I wasn’t too keen on the lack of babes.
Luckily, I’ve got a bit of halfback in me and I had a red-hot thought. So I ran to the bartender and said, ‘Mate, send up every good sort in the line outside for the backs. And the rest for the forwards. And no more blokes!’
