A Hobo Love Story

A Hobo Love Story

Ahhh first love! That warm fuzzy feeling you get when you find that special someone and your soul’s counterpart in another (pfft – as if I thought of that… thanks Wedding Crashers).

I remember my first love, which is surprising because I was drunk for most of it. It happened where most longstanding romances do (and when I say long standing, we’re talking three to 12 hours tops) – at a seedy hostel in London wedged somewhere between a Tesco and Pret a Manger, on the corner of chlamydia and desperate.

His name was Kyler Dawson. An American who – thanks to his last name, chiselled jaw line and my obsession with teen American TV shows – had me quoting Dawson’s Creek throughout our whole courtship whilst continually referring to myself as Pacey, who was actually Joshua Jackson as opposed to Katie Holmes (I fucked that one up).

We bonded over some voddy crans (vodka cranberry for those playing at home), our complete lack of understanding of what each other was actually saying (dribbling) and Kyler’s obvious lack of interest in my comedic ways. Life was good. I could already see the white picket fence being put up in my dreams.

As hour three of our relationship ticked past and I had drawn way too many ace cards in 4 Kings, we had our first lovers’ tiff. Some would say it was a little early for us to be dealing with this kind of scenario, but lets remember – we were in a hostel and a second woman had forced her way into our love equation. Her name was Candy, she was Canadian and like 80 years old and ugly (read – 22 and stunning). It was time to pull out the big guns to woo my man back, and boy – did I pull out the ammo.

Somewhere between five shots of tequila, forgetting what I was actually doing, kissing Jono the South African and putting on a disgraceful imitation of an Englishman yelling, “The po po’s got my lighta” to a roomful of unimpressed Englishmen, I realised Kyler had taken Candy to our master bedroom (i.e. room 34 shared dorm of 16).

Aussies are a talkative bunch. We pride ourselves on our mateship and ability to “have a yarn” with anyone from around the world. We also have a vocabulary like no one else, and so I used all of these special traits to stop Kyler’s eye from wandering over to Candy the she-devil. “PENETRATION, PENETRATION, PENETRATION!” were my words of choice as I stormed into the room. If you say that word enough, you can actually get quite a good beat out of it, so I continued to dance around serenading them if you will, but the thing is, poor old Candy was a little startled having never heard the sweet (obnoxious) sounds of a drunk Aussie before. Subsequently, “mid-pump”, she’d had fallen off the bed (top bunk) and was now lying on the floor naked with a broken arm. Oooops.

Always one to cease every opportunity, I proceeded to hop over the cripple on the floor onto the top bunk and continue what had started, so to speak. Love does crazy things to us, doesn’t it!

And for those worried about Candy, oh please don’t – Jono from South Africa was there to “help”. And that’s why I love hostels – there’s always someone there to pick you up (in more ways than one).

So as the sun rose on another shitty London day, I rolled over hazy as fuck about the nights events, had a quick panic about who the hell I was lying on top of and realised it was time to do the stealth slide-off-a-foreign-naked body movement as quietly as possible and pray to god I didn’t see either Kyler or Candy at the communal breakfast table down stairs. Great. And by the way – his jaw was nowhere near as chiselled as I thought it was after 100 vodkas. Dammit.

Love is such a powerful emotion. Couldn’t you see we were going to end up happily ever after?

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