(THE SCENE: The Great Western Highway west of Lithgow on a sunny Sunday morning in early October, the clear blue sky smiling upon the Central West. The landscape consists of golden grass waving in the wind, the horizon punctuated with rows of poplars, planes and pines along the roads and property boundaries. The pine forests on the Yetholme range are to the east, the broad, grassy Macquarie River valley to the west.
Upon this tranquil scene descends BOGUE and his brats AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN and KAIDEN in a late-model lime-green SS Commodore sedan, travelling 30 km/h more than the 100 km/h speed limit, stereo blaring, causing a magpie perched on a power line to flutter away in fright. The four aforementioned brats are squabbling and carrying on while playing hand-held video game consoles.)
BOGUE: (reaches around and gives KAIDEN a hiding while managing to keep the car on the bitumen) Oi! Youse will shut up, y’unnerstand? This is the first time that we’ve been able to go to the race, y’hear me? I got these tickets through work, and if any of youse f#$k fings up for me, youse are all grounded. Y’unnerstand?
(BOGUE gets nothing but silence from the others)
BOGUE: (raises his left hand higher while not looking at the road ahead of him) Y’UNNERSTAND?
AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN, KAIDEN: Yes! Yes! We unnerstand!
BOGUE: Good! (turns his vision back to the road, where he sees that he’s almost about to go up the rear end of a Winnebago with Victorian plates, doing 103 km/h in a 100 km/h zone)
BOGUE: Oi, who’s this farkin’ softc#$k? C’mon mate, hurry the f#$k up, you slowcoach c#$t.
AIDEN: Dad, look, the sign says “Overtaking Lane 500m Ahead”.
BOGUE: Naah, that’s too far. Well, here goes! (BOGUE pulls into the opposite lane across double white lines and speeds past the Winnebago, narrowly missing an oncoming NSW TrainLink coach bound for Lithgow which swerves onto the hard shoulder)
BOGUE: There we go! Never doubt yer old man’s drivin’ skills, ay? Now youse kids, watch and learn today, and one day youse’ll be as good a driver as I am!
(The Commodore climbs a crest just before Raglan and a shimmering, gentle city of red brick and steeples presents itself, sprawling in the Macquarie River valley below, a mountain to the left covered in antennas and satellite dishes and rows of tents standing sentinel over the town)
BRAIDEN: Yay! Bafurst!
JAIDEN: Yeah, I can’t wait to see all them fast cars and stuff at Bafurst.
AIDEN: Bafurst is so cool!
KAIDEN: I want my mummy … I want my mummy … I don’t want to go to Bafurst … I just want to go back to Mummy …
BOGUE: Well, you can’t, can you, Kaiden? Don’t you unnerstand, yer ma f#$kin’ pissed off leaving me to raise all youse little c#$ts all by meself. Some mother she is! She’d rather stay with yer stupid bloody Aunty Shevonne than in a farkin’ mansion wiv us and lookin’ after youse. Oh well, she’ll learn one day, won’t she?
(The Commodore crosses the Macquarie River and turns left off the Great Western Highway into plane-lined streets with lamp posts in the middle of the street, lined either side with sturdy yet modest Victorian worker’s cottages, 100-year-old flour mills re-adapted to become cafes and antique shops, and ornate terraces built with gold rush money. BOGUE approaches a four-way intersection with an elaborate cast-iron Art Noveau lamp post in the centre of the intersection.)
BOGUE: Christ, how am I supposed to turn with one of these stupid bloody fings in the middle of the innersection? (BOGUE turns right at the intersection, going around the lamp post like a roundabout rather than in front of it like a traffic policeman. A local turning right from the opposite direction almost runs into BOGUE, tyres screeching and horns blasting.)
BOGUE: Bloody hell, dickheads around here don’t know how to drive, I’m tellin’ ya.
(A police car behind BOGUE switches on its lights and sirens and directs BOGUE to pull over. The middle-aged, stocky, grey-haired, grey-eyed and bearded policeman gets out and knocks on BOGUE’s window)
POLICEMAN: Mate, did you see how you almost caused a major accident back there?
BOGUE: No I didn’t. That dickhead back there didn’t even know to give way to traffic already on the roundabout.
POLICEMAN: Mate, that was no roundabout. You’re supposed to turn in front of it!
BOGUE: Well, how was I supposed to know that?
POLICEMAN: Christ al-f#$king-mighty! The regional council has taken the f#$king liberty to paint arrows on the bitumen around all the lamp posts, showing dickheads from the big smoke like you exactly how to turn — and you still don’t get it. (gets out his infringement notice book) Oh well, this’ll teach ya, won’t it, teach you morons from elsewhere about our local ways. Your licence, please.
BOGUE: (hands the POLICEMAN his licence) Oh, please! Please! Ploize ploize pretty ploize don’t book me. I’ll do the right fing from now on. Honest! Ploooooize!
POLICEMAN: Yeah, I’ve heard that about five hundred and seventy-two times this weekend.
BOGUE: Mate, I got me four kids with me and–
POLICEMAN: Yeah, well, maybe you should set an example for them and learn to drive properly.
BOGUE: Foine. Gimme a foine then. Foine.
POLICEMAN: Gladly. (tears off the ticket and gives it to BOGUE with his licence) And don’t let me catch you again, because then it won’t be a fail to give way ticket, it will be a dangerous driving charge, you hear me?
BOGUE: Foine. (BOGUE drives up Panorama Avenue, the bitumen dappled with poplar shade, past Charles Sturt University and parks in the massive car parking paddock which is just a kangaroo feeding ground 363 days of the year. He gets out with AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN and KAIDEN and walks up towards the circuit.)
BOGUE: All right, let’s find our way to the Holden enclosure. (BOGUE hands his tickets to the collector at the gate and follows the signs to the Holden supporters’ grandstand. On the way he passes the half-plastic, half-human, half-dressed Barbie dolls known as the Jim Beam Girls who were having photos taken of them with racegoers and giving out freebies.)
BOGUE: Wow … the Jim Beam Girls! Wow … I fink I’m in heaven! They’re perfick! Christ, I don’t need me missus any more. Wow, a combination of me favourite drink and chicks with long legs and massive cleavage showin’ and tiny little bodies and no brains and more make-up than David Jones. I reckon I’m in love, boys! (pinches one of the Jim Beam Girls’ bottoms as he passes) Oi love, go out wiv me, sweetheart, you know I’ll treat ya roit!
JIM BEAM GIRL No. 1: (turns around and slaps BOGUE) Get away from me!
JIM BEAM GIRL No. 2: (slaps BOGUE as well) Yeah! Look but don’t touch, mate!
JIM BEAM GIRL No. 3: (slaps BOGUE) Yeah, we don’t need sleazy old p@#$ks like you molestin’ us an’ shit!
JIM BEAM GIRL No. 4: Yeah, let’s get him!
(The Jim Beam Girls give BOGUE the chase. Considering that BOGUE is a hundred and thirty kilos, the girls were winning. BOGUE trips over on a grate and the girls all descend on him and slap him)
JIM BEAM GIRL No. 1: Yeah, that’ll teach you to sexually abuse us an’ stuff, won’t it?
JIM BEAM GIRL No. 2: You filthy old man!
JIM BEAM GIRL No. 3: Yeah, what a douchebag!
BOGUE: Ow! Ow! Stop slapping me! Please, stop slappin’ me, I didn’t mean nuffint by pinchin’ your arse. Honest! It was a compliment, I’m tellin’ ya! Boohoo, oh boohoohoo, stop it! Ouch!
SECURITY GUY: (laughing his guts out) All right, girls, you’ve taught him his lesson. I’m sure he won’t make the same mistake again, will he? Hawhawhawhawhawhaw. That’ll teach you, won’t it, old mate? Don’t touch our girls. Y’unnerstand?
BOGUE: Yeah yeah, all roit, I won’t. Now boys, let’s go watch the race.
(BOGUE and the four boys go to the Holden grandstand. The Bathurst 1000 race is well under way and has settled into a cat-and-mouse tussle between Mark Winterbottom driving a Ford and Jamie Whincup driving a Holden.)
BOGUE: (shouts) Woohoo! Go J-Dub! Smash them Ford c#$ts!
BRAIDEN: But Dad, you always used to go for Ford–
BOGUE: (nudges BRAIDEN with his elbow, and growls sotto voce) Braiden, shut the f#$k up, y’hear me, don’t f#$kin’ start me–
AIDEN: Yeah, Dad. You’ve changed ever since you got that job at the Holden dealership. What’s happened?
BOGUE: Boys, I said, don’t f#$kin start–
JAIDEN: Yeah, I remember you saying back at Christmas when we were having the barbecue in the backyard that Holdens were pieces of crap–
BOGUE: Jaiden, you say that again while we’re here and I’m f#$kin’ taking your stupid f#$kin’ Xbox away for life, you hear me?
BRAIDEN: But Dad, why did you change so much? You used to say that Peter Brock was a wanker.
(NICK, a thirty-something racegoer decked out in Holden gear with grizzly black hair, wrap-around sunnies, full-sleeve tattoos on his hairy arms, in the row sitting immediately in front of BOGUE, gets up, turns around, and folds his fire hydrant-sized arms while glaring at BOGUE)
NICK: What did your kid just say?
BOGUE: Umm … just ignore them … they’re lyin’ out their ears, I’m tellin ya …
NICK: Bullshit, mate. Bullshit. Kids don’t lie about things like this. So, tell us again, what did your kid here just say?
BOGUE: Umm … he said nuffint! Believe me!
NICK: Yeah roit. So, you reckon that Brockie was a wanker? Is that what you reckon?
BOGUE: Well … umm … I don’t actually … that was in the past, I’m not like that now … honest!
NICK: Listen. I didn’t drive up here all the way from Narre Warren in my V8 Commodore towing a trailer with a sixteen-man tent for me and my three boys, a generator, a fridge, my spare six-burner barbie, fishing gear, spring mattresses and a 50-inch LCD television just to hear my hero being called a wanker in the Holden grandstand! My hero, right here! (points to a Peter Brock tattoo on his left bicep) So if you don’t like Brockie, well, get the f#$k out of here!
BOGUE: Narre Warren? Where the fark’s that?
NICK: It’s in Melbourne.
BOGUE: What, is that were the poofs hang out, like Oxford Street?
(Ninety per cent of the grandstand get up out of their seats and look towards BOGUE)
FRANK: Oi! This bloke here just put shit on Narre Warren!
GIOVANNI: Yeah, he said it’s where the poofs hang out!
ROB: Let’s get him!
DMITRI: A punch-on? Grouse!
(The crowd converge on BOGUE and proceed to kick seven types of hell out of him)
BOGUE: Oh, not again! Stop it! I didn’t mean nuffint, I used to hate Holden but not now … I love Holden … I love Brockie, he’s my hero too now! Honest! Oh boohoo … somebody, help me! Boohoo … oh boohoohoohoohoo! Ouch! Stop it! I’m sorry, all roit?
(The New South Wales Police riot squad converge on the grandstand with shields and batons and fight their way to the centre of the melée and extract BOGUE and escort him and the kids out of the grandstand)
POLICEMAN: Oh … it’s you again, the same dickhead I ticketed this morning for being so retarded that he couldn’t follow arrows painted on the road? Well, guess what, buster. You’ve caused more than enough trouble for one day. You’re being ordered to leave. Go! Now!
BOGUE: But … but … I didn’t do nuffint wrong, they just all started on me for no good reason at all!
POLICEMAN: Bullshit, mate. It takes two to tango. Anyway, you’re being ordered to leave. Not just the Mountain – but Bathurst. Your type’s not welcome around here. Get out of here, you mangy dog’s arsehole!
BOGUE: But … I paid for my tickets, I’ve got the roit to stay here.
BRAIDEN: But Dad, didn’t you said that you got the tickets through work and stuff–
BOGUE: Christ, do you ever shut up, you little fat smart-arse c#$t?
POLICEMAN: Didn’t I say, “leave”? So leave!
BOGUE: All roit, all roit. We’re leavin’. (to the kids) And you’re all grounded. For life. No Xbox either. Grounded. G-R-A- .. umm .. G-R-U- .. umm … you’re just all grounded. For life. (sotto voce) Fark, the first time I ever had the chance to go the race and me own boys have gotta ruin it for me … grounded … so friggin’ grounded … that’s it … I’m sendin’ them to live with their mother and Shevonne in that pissy little Housing Commission townhouse, they can have the filthy little brats … grounded … so friggin’ grounded …
(BOGUE and AIDEN, BRAIDEN, JAIDEN and KAIDEN get into their car in the parking paddock, drive through the Carillon City’s eerily empty streets, and onto the Great Western Highway back to Sydney. They listen to the race coverage on 2BS and as they start the climb up Victoria Pass, they hear that Mark Winterbottom win the race for Ford after a desperate and thrilling finish)