The mating ritual of the Upper Huttians.
I make no apologies for my White Trash background. I still love heavy music, I buy heaps of current stuff, but I harbour a soft spot for AC/DC, Motley Crue, Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, big hair, velvet tassled skirts, and make up applied with a trowel. Oddly enough that just about works for either gender, giving you an idea of the depth of social and gender confusion supported and encouraged in White Trash society in general.
When I was a lad (arrrrrr) the only acceptable lad’s cars were VE or VT Valiants of all varieties, HT, HG, or heavily modified HQ Holdens of all varieties, Escorts, preferably of the Mexico or RS variant, or Toranas either GTR or 2850 (173ci hoo-ahh!) Fakes were acceptable. Falcons were NOT acceptable transport for North Shore White Trash, they were the preserve of Westies, who generally moved up through Ford Prefect/Anglia, to Cortina, via a Mk3 or 4 Zephyr to a XB GT Falcon.
These vehicles all had roughly similar power to weight ratios, i.e Slow. Note the capital “S”. My mate who had an RD350LC successfully worked his way through each of us at stop light Derbies and top speed runs. I once beat him on a sustained top speed run, but only after I spent what he spent on the RD in its entirety brand new, on inlet manifold, heads, and carbs.
We pretty much ignored him after a while. We kept on going to speedway though, where he’d attempt to point out the finer points of motorcycle control on display, and try to educate us about the size of the “groinal” area required to do well in Speedway motorcycle racing. I went there to get my weekly hit of methanol tinged exhaust fumes, a jolly good deafening from the Sprint Cars, and to huddle under blankets with the girl with the biggest hair and thickest make up I could find.
I went to Te Marua Speedway this Sunday night just gone, and I took my five year old with me. I haven’t had a lot to do with my parents since we started procreating and William is starting to ask awkward questions about how I fit in Heather’s tummy. I think I took him along to the Speedway and Fireworks night to scare him away from my roots, in a subconscious fashion. It didn’t work though. I had a ball, the fireworks were spectacular, and I got to witness my post-adolescence all over again, by proxy I hasten to point out.
There were the staunch lads (no girlfriends), the mock-fight lads (out with a group containing girls they expect to become their girlfriends), the unable to stand up lads (recently acquired girlfriend sitting in lap all night), the “Raelene’s” patrolling the track perimeter fence in pairs (one attractive, one less so, both available and displaying their plumage), and the almost supervising but not quite interfering parental crowd control blocs. It was quite fascinating and probably, no, definitely a better way to manage those awkward first steps in the whole pair-bonding social rituals. It’s in public, there’s no alcohol on sale, and Dad always keeps a quiet eye on junior or juniorette, while giving them quite a bit of extra rein to go hang out.
The thing that I think has changed drastically though, is that the first steps into experiencing one’s first sexual adventures is now moderated and even influenced by vastly different communication technologies to those I had as a lad (arrrrr). I left my cellphone behind, quite unconsciously. I loved the freedom of those late adolescence/post-adolescence trips to the Speedway.
No parents (when you were old enough to be "trusted"), just your mates and your girl, and your own little super-important almost exclusive world of low paid jobs, mutton dressed as lamb cars, and good old, throw the goat, headbanging music.
On Sunday though, the girly cliques were texting furiously (those "rich" enough to have phones), and the lads were calling each other so they could let their mates know they were mooning them from the other side of the track. We just used to wait until security noticed and then pull up our pants.
I guess society does change as you get older, but some things stay the same. White Trash culture still rocks, still loves Escorts, HQ Holdens, and Ford Falcons, methanol is still the mating pheromone of choice and THEY PLAYED AC/DC OVER THE PA SYSTEM!!
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Hehehe!
Originally Posted by skidMark
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