Saturday night, I’m in Brisbane City, for a Buck’s night. A combined Buck and Hen’s night; the “Bucking Hens night”, if you will. I’m the best man, so I had to go.
Fast forward to somewhere late in the evening; a rooftop bar, and I’m on my second lap of the bar taps. There’s chatter and noise, and I’m engaged in a group of six, eight; suddenly ten. There’s a couple of new ladies, late to the piece, good for conversation.
The repartee continues apace; everyone has never been so well-informed, and clever. And sir has seldom been so witty! And at the appropriate moment, I slip in an anecdote that I lifted fair-square from Alien Side Boob.
But then: the mistake.
I attempt to credit the author.
(Indeed; I intended to completely flog that horse.)
The erstwhile John Birmingham was mentioned. Nay, praised. And my referral to Mr Birmingham’s weekly subscriber service became lost in the hubbub.
“World War 2.1”
“Lives in Brisbane”
“Is that him?!”
No. I am not John Birmingham.
“You’re John Birmingham!”
No. Not me.
Look. JB is this tall. I am this tall.
He writes. I ramble.
“OMG I can’t believe he’s here!”
“I love his work!”
“Quick, gimme a pen!!!”
I’ve stooped fairly low in my time, but I’m not going to sign an autograph on naked impersonation of an author whom I hold in such high esteem.
“Quick, I’m going to get him to sign my boobs!”
My name is John Birmingham…