A Fallsy Fable

The mental energy exuded by people in devising the most surefire ways to smuggle booze into a music festival (or, if you are an Australian and 16-19 years old, into anything) must be enough to, if put together, create, I dunno, some really cool laser-y thing.

It would sure be enough brain power that, if put in the hands of the Empire, would allow them to come up with some better Storm Trooper armor (why lug all that white junk around if you are going to go down after one laser hit from a Rebel's blaster?)

Now, I say fable. But this is actually true and was told to me by a Falls Festival veteran. But it didn't actually happen to me, so I can't say it happened for sure. But I'm sticking with it (A Fallsy Non-Fiction, and A Fallsy Fa-shizzle were admittedly close runners-up.)

But hey, before I do something annoying like getting bogged down, here's the "fable".

For those unfamiliar with Marion Bay, the place at which the Tasmanian Falls Festival is held, it is not exactly a suburb. In fact, come to think of it, it's not exactly anything. I believe one refers to places like these as localities- akin to some of those annoying "towns" in Mid-western N.S.W that, whilst on a long leg of a "seemed like a good idea at the time" road trip to Queensland, pouring over a map to find the next urinal/gumtree, you think 'awesome, a town, we'll stop for a McFlurry'. Then, on arrival, you realize it's nothing but an electric fence, cows, and very relaxed looking Kangaroos on the side of the road that mummy assures you 'are just sleeping, dear'.

So basically, Marion Bay is in Farmville, only with real farmers and fertilizer, not sad sods taking a break from masturbating and Warcraft.

The organizers have a deal with some of these farmers, primarily the one's on the only road into the property at which Falls occurs, to narc out suspicious activity. You see, remarkably, the pillpoppers, pushers, and pissheads (a.k.a all festival patrons) tend to leave the "Where we gonna stash the stash, man" debate until five minutes before the first checkpoint. I guess, as the old saying goes, they eat pressure. (That said, on any given day, you'll find these people in a state where they'll eat just about anything.)

On the first morning of the festival a couple of years back, a car full of Falls-ers pulled up into a driveway where suspicious actions transpired. However, it was all rather inconspicuous. Absent were last minute attempts to find a better hiding place for those little plastic bags of white joy. Also not to be seen was the 11th hour transference of Smirnoff into Pantene bottles (Trust me, after rinsing out a shampoo bottle to the point where you lose count, you'll still get one weird tasting vodka).

But still, the fact that they pulled over and did... something, for 5 minutes or so prompted Farmer Joe, perhaps partially due to his need for human interaction (see above description of the Marion Bay township), to phone the alcohol checkpoint folks with the number plate and make of the car.

The Falls-ers arrived at the checkpoint. Finally, after toasting in the mean Tassie sun, the officials had something to write home about. To digress ever so slightly, this really does not fit the bill of the checkpoint folks at Falls. Maybe my views are distorted as I was a volunteer- my Taswegian colleagues who were lucky enough to have a motor vehicle at their disposal were rocking up with their wagons laden with 3 eskies filled to the brim with good times. Due to their being part of the "Falls Family" no checks were made. But overall everyone is chilled, even when its non-staff entering.

The car is stopped. The driver gets the Spanish inquisition. The minions commence their search of the vehicle for the holy water/happy pills. They are far more thorough compared to other searches undertaken that day. Who can blame them? After all, there is incentive to confiscate the hidden treats- how else is the staff party at the festival's conclusion so well stocked?

However, no discovery is made. The car was so dry, the only way it could be lamer is if it was electric. The glove box has gloves! The boot has bags! The bags are full of clothes. Clothes! The shampoo smells like... Shampoo! (Though so does Vodka in an emptied shampoo bottle sadly, as already discussed).

The driver is putting on a good show as well- up on his high horse, expounding his good virtues, speaking of how he and his peeps (do the kids still say that?) are all about the music and just having fun ('fun without booze? 'May I see your birth certificate, sir?')

The gatekeepers are crestfallen. The minions are recalled. But as Harvey Dent says, 'the night is darkest just before the dawn'. The driver, still wiping his brow after frothing up to the point of impersonating an epileptic, hops back into the car and lands hard on the seat...

'Pachissssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst'!

After a fair but firm execution of the old would-you-mind-stepping-out-of-the-vehicle routine, it was revealed that this particular band of Falls-ers had opened up the innards of each car seat and stuffed them with cans of their favorite party juice. Obviously, for the whole day the driver and passengers had been quite meticulous in the way they planted their backsides on the seats, and presumably the 11th hour stop off at Farmer Joe's was to check there was no sign of a Boags Draught rearing its ugly, yet so alluring, head.

Alas, so close to the finish line, on the precipice of hatching their scheme, the driver, still caught up in a fit of self-generated, overcompensating rage, blew their cover.

The seat cover that is (dohoho, see what I did there?)