I went and had a pretty good chicken Parma at The Napier Hotel in Fitzroy tonight. First time I’ve been there. Also on the menu, their ‘bogan burger’ is apparently the stuff of legend. At 7000 kilojoules, it constitutes the average daily dietary requirements of a regular adult human. I stayed away. I really don’t like the idea of the simple act of eating dinner becoming a measurable challenge with a clear victor or loser. It’s dangerous.

I’m a real sucker for Google Maps these days; I have absolutely no idea where I’m going most of the time in Victoria and instead of actually learning where I am and orienting myself accordingly, I use my iPhone and Google Maps to get from point A to point B. This often has dire repercussions, especially when Google decides that the destination that I’ve entered is a completely different venue twenty kilometres from where I actually wanted to go in the first place. I only know the following routes off by heart:

1)      From my house to work (and vice versa)

2)      From my house to the Melbourne Cricket Ground (and vice versa)

3)      From my house to Laksa King in Flemington (no return journey occurs because I reach nirvana shortly after consuming a duck laksa.)

4)      From my house to The Great Northern (and vice versa)

Wolves – Should eat more Melbourne parking inspectors.

To be honest, I really don’t think my spatial awareness is that good either… this is probably why, even though I was following my Google Maps tonight to the letter, I still ended up parking about one kilometre away from The Napier tonight despite thinking that I was literally around the corner.

Dinner came and went. After the arduous journey back to my car from The Napier, I discovered that my poor old Honda had been paid a visit by the parking ticket fairy (cunt) in my absence, who had graciously blessed me and my vehicle with an $85 parking infringement notice for parking in an incredibly poorly marked permit zone. The ticket was issued at 8.42pm, suggesting that one of the delightfully petty residents in the area had put in a call to their local Yarra City Council parking attendant in order to ensure that I was duly punished for my error.

After I’d got into my car, I held my hand on the horn for a good fifteen seconds as I drove away (to make sure that all of the pieces of shit living in the area that most likely dobbed me in were wide awake for my departure at 11.00 p.m.) My car still has Tasmanian licence plates, so I’m going to contest the ticket on the grounds of being a country bumpkin.

“But pwease siwr, I didn’t know what a pewmit awea was… if you just wet me off this one time, I pwomise I’ww be mowr vigilant in future.”

I’ll let you know how I go. I’d say I’m a 40% chance of successfully having the fee waived. How you measure that I do not know.

A final note; Mr Parking Inspector, you are the lowest of the low. It fucking astonishes me that it’s legal for you repugnant charlatan pricks to charge me $85 for accidentally parking incorrectly, once. Nobody charges you for your blatant thievery of the Earth’s oxygen. I hope you die in a blizzard and get torn apart and partially devoured by wolves so that even your dear old wife is unable to identify your mangled, bloodied, half-naked corpse. Fuck you.

/end communication