It’s been a rough couple of years for just about everyone but property owners, and the fall of magazines and newspapers has seen the majority of Australian writers take on more second jobs than they do assignments. So when someone offers you cash-in-hand work it’s hard to refuse – regardless of what that job involves.
So with my tail between my legs and my pride all but gone, I ambled off the train at Olympic Park with the hordes of harsh-sounding housewives to spend my Easter long weekend in a dagwood dog caravan at Sydney’s favourite money-grubbing institution: the Royal Easter Show.
Before I go any further, I should probably let you all know that I fucking loathe the Easter Show. This is because of three powerful factors:
1. I live east of Parramatta Road
2. I am between the ages of 13 and 40
3. I am borderline bankrupt
I also have a general (and fierce) hatred of crowds, but that isn’t strictly an Easter Show thing.
Actually, with six years of intense training under my belt, “Fast Foodery” may be the closest thing I have to a trade (never tell an actual tradie that “writer” is a trade… they tend to rage).
Within minutes of getting behind a register or deep fryer, all of my childhood teaching came back to me – like a militia McMinded reserve recruit, the training kicks in once you’re in the line of fire. Suddenly I became the very best version of me; I was polite, I smiled, I gave false compliments and acted interested, I gave change – I dunked dagwood dogs in tomato sauce.
And for a few days, I actually enjoyed it.
I learned how to make dagwood dogs, which I’m told is a fine art. One worker explained that it took him three years to perfect the batter and he even revealed the secret ingredients to me (a ratio of flour to water).
The Easter Show itself was a fucking weird reality. Trains clogged the Homebush Bay lines as thousands of bogans flooded Olympic Park, with their dream list of showbags and money to burn stashed in assorted bum-bags and two-wheeled trolleys.
The crowd looked like a sea of “Things Bogans Like” (a top blog if you get the chance), a veritable omnibus of missing teeth, beer bellies and poor pronunciation. The rides and food vans charged at rates which should be seen as illegal (or, at the very least, collusion), and showbags were stuffed with 80 cents worth of junk and resold for at 10 bucks a pop.
However, as I mentioned, the first few days were spent enjoying my rediscovered skills, and the constant parade of oddballs to eyeball were a great degree of enjoyment for the hobbyist people watcher. With the backwater folk from the greater west becoming as much a part of my Easter Show experience, as the prize pigs and Robosaurus.
…
On my second day, after getting into the swing of things and dressing like a carnie, I made the mistake of referencing myself as a “fellow carnie” to the other van workers. I quickly found out that there are varying degrees of dirt bags at these events, and caravan workers are apparently not carnies.
Apparently, to be a carnie you have to be a member of the “Showmen’s Guild”, which is the union for ride workers and such folk. “We’re not carnies, we’re far classier than those scumbags,” my manager explained through teeth covered in crystals… That’s right, fucking crystals.
NOTE: It was my first glimpse of this new “fashion”, but apparently it’s all the rage in Orange and Dubbo to have Swarovski crystals stuck to your teeth with dental glue… thank God I was working with such high-brow folk.
Regardless of your carnie status, the carnival workers all stay in a camping ground out near Wentworth Park. Apparently it’s gotten much better since the local hotel purchased a sign that says: “No carnival workers allowed.”
My manager dulled down the wonderful imagery of this site, but I didn’t care. I imagined it was like an out of control shanty town. Something like the Hooverville in Central Park during the Great Depression… or even our own Frog Hollow back before it was a safe place.
I pictured crazy men with beards swinging off of flag poles with rum in their hand, while crazy old women hiked up their skirts to passing drunks… which sounds more like Pirates of the Caribbean than Carnies in Sydney. Either way, it sounds like something that I must experience before I die.
…
On my third day and 200th dagwood dog, I caught the train in with a bunch of navy kids from the HMAS Success. As though their uniforms weren’t enough to envy, they worked on a boat called the fucking HMAS Success? Jesus Christ – I felt like scum.
By now, I was getting pretty comfortable with being a carnival worker (though not officially a carnie). My black polo shirt had the sleeves rolled up to show my tats (a carnie favourite), my hair was now greasy with chip fat, my hands were scarred with burns from various heating bays and my wallet had more Easter Show tickets than cash.
All the while, these sharply dressed naval folk sat there in their crisp white suits, magnets for any passing mate (in sexual terms – not shipping), and I naively considered how a writer could make a living in the navy.
Something like this happens at least once a year. When my wallet is empty and my compass is broke I get the swift urge to quit everything I know and take up along the road somewhere. It’s during these times that it suddenly seems like a good idea to work on cruise liners – or with carnies.
When I arrived at work that day, I told my crystal-toothed manager about my seafaring fantasy. I said, “Think about it – it’s good money and I could write about it.” She replied, “You can make heaps of money on the rides if you buy your own.”
She went on to detail how a friend of hers was born into the ride business: “He’s done real well for himself. He went to Bali last year.”
I actually started to consider it. “It’s no different to the navy,” I told myself. “Travel from port to port, do it for a couple of years, write about it, get a book published… Why the fuck not?” Truth be told, the more I thought about it the better carnie life sounded. Free travel, cheap food, a chance to see the country and knock up a 19-year-old girl from Kiama called Blaze… or Storm… or Pepsi – just living the dream.
On my lunch break, I saw a sign on a ride called “Extreme G-Force Speed” asking for staff. I saw my chance and dialed the “Susan” from the sign. 
“‘Allo.” She barked.
“Hi, is this Susan?” I began.
“Yes…” She sounded suspicious, as though I was trying to sell her a phone plan.
“Hi Susan, I’m calling about the ad for staff wanted. I spotted it on the ‘Extreme G-Force Speed’ ride this morning.”
There was a pause as Susan considered the next step, before she finally blurted “You’ll have to call me back later, I’m real busy right now.” I knew what was happening. Believe it or not, I’ve been rejected before.
Perhaps this Susan character was merely trying to weed out the weak… Maybe she knew from my posh prosody that I don’t have what it takes to collect tickets and mop up vomit… Perhaps she feared I would know too much, perhaps she knew I would one day rule her entire carnival kingdom with an iron fist… Or maybe I should have just called her back?
Either way, I think it’s safe to say that proper articulation and British pronunciation will not get you far within the Showman’s Guild.
Broken-hearted and alone, I headed back to my caravan – where people know how to treat a man. But on my way back, a passing bin boy with aggressive, artless tattoos and a rat’s tail made a snide comment about my long fringe.
I looked around, hoping that someone in my immediate vicinity was enjoying the irony as much as I was, but no one seemed to care or notice.
This was not the safe realms of the Sydney I know… these were a whole new breed of people. The kinds of creatures that we city kids of privelege forget exist – until they steal a car and run down a family… or something equally Telegraph worthy.
Rest assured though, these people do exist – and the Easter Show is their time to shine.
…
By my fourth and final day I began to remember why I hated the Easter Show. And because it was the final day of the long weekend, dropkicks from all over New South Wales poured into the grounds with their arms outstretched and their wallets open.
On the other hand, this was also the day I became addicted to the wood chopping. I am not a sporty guy, but it felt amazing that in these horrible days of liability and work-cover-gone-mad; we are still allowed to have a sport that involves guys climbing trees and swinging big, fucking axes around.
But before I go and suck off a wood chopper, I have to remember that I’m trying to write a bitter, biased report about the Easter Show. So I’ll save this lumberjack-lovery for another day.
Back at the van, my manager asked me what I planned to do with my money. I told her that it was rego time, so the government will take most of my earnings and spend it how they see fit.
She told me that she planned to bring her two daughters to the Easter Show.
“What!?” I yelped “You’re going to bring your hard-earned cash here! Why would you do that?!”
“I do it every year,” she said nonchalantly. “The girls deserve it.”
I was morbidly confused and stupidly angry. “Why not take them on a holiday?”
“This is their holiday.”
I looked at my manager, who showed no signs of sarcasm or humour of any kind. She was 100 percent serious. That ridiculous, horrible, expensive place was a wonderland to her.
I asked her brother, one of the chefs in the van, what he planned to do with his money.
“Probably put it through the pokies like I did a couple of years ago,” he flipped.
Shocked, I asked him what he did with his Show money last year. “Wasn’t here last year – I was in lock-up.” A few more questions revealed that he had done some time last year for hitting a guy over the head with a star picket, apparently this all occurred in a kebab shop after a night out.
At this point I stopped asking questions, I stopped dreaming of a life on the road and I pointed my focus to the task at hand… I was polite, I smiled, I gave false compliments and acted interested; I gave change, I dunked dagwood dogs in tomato sauce – and I got the fuck home.
God bless the Easter Show.
Simon Hills-Johnes
I went to the Easter Show to watch the bearded ladies in the cat pavilion.
taking photos of show scum from inside a dagwood dog van – 2 points