Gorman - Dave Gormans googlewhack! adventure

First published in the United States in 2004 by

The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

141 Wooster Street

New York, NY 10012

www.overlookpress.com

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Copyright 2004 by Dave Gorman

All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

Google is a trademark of Google Technology Inc. Google is not affilated in any way with Dave Gormans Googlewhack Adventure.

All photography Dave Gorman unless otherwise stated Woman and Dog photo womenanddogsuk.co.uk The First and Second Laws of Thermodynamics Flanders and Swann. Lyric used by kind permission of Laura and Steph Flanders.

ISBN 978-1-46830-401-5

Australian history is almost always picturesque, indeed it is so curious and strange, that it is itself the chiefest novelty the country has to offer. It does not read like history, but like the most beautiful lies. And all of a fresh sort, not mouldy old stale ones. It is full of surprises, and adventures, and incongruities, and incredibilities, but they are all true, they all happened.

Mark Twain, Following the Equator (1897)

Id like to thank: Jake Lingwood (sorry its not a novel), all the reps at Ebury (G.T.Y.M.A.S!), Stina Smemo, Hannah Telfer, Claire Kingston, (not the) Ken Barlow and Dave Breen. Rob Aslett and all at Avalon, especially Alex Godden and Dan Lloyd. Simon Streeting for intercontinental help and wisdom, Matt Welton for advice, guidance, encouragement and constancy, Geoff Lloyd and Chris Maher for being wrong over a curry but so, so right about so many other things in life and Simon Singh for lending me some of his precision.

For taking a leap of faith, my thanks go to Susan Provan, Fiona Pride, Rebecca Austin and all at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival. For making me so welcome: everyone at the Sydney Opera House Studio Theatre and the George Square Theatre, Edinburgh. Julie James and Dan Cutforth, Eillen Sellam, and the Butterworth clan, likewise. Thanks to Lib Williams, Katrina Mathers, Jon Primrose and Rupert Two Pint Potts too.

But most importantly, for agreeing to meet and help a stranger, my gratitude and undying admiration goes out to all the googlewhacks I met along the way.

I didnt invent googlewhacking. Gary Stock did. If you find a googlewhack, why not visit googlewhack.com and leave it in the Whack Stack.

I am asleep. Now Im not asleep. But Im not yet awake. Im in the twilight zone somewhere in between; no longer dreaming, not yet conscious. The synapses of my brain are just beginning to fire up, sensations drip, drip, dripping into my central nervous system, each drip bringing me closer to reality.

I pull the covers to me for warmth. Drip. Not yet prepared to open my eyes, not yet ready for the world. Drip. My head aches, my body aches, if I can stay in the land of nod I can delay these unpleasant sensations. I try to rewind the dream to delay the inevitable but the video of my mind has broken and the dream is not only over but gone. Something to do with lemons, but maybe not. No. Forgotten. Lost without trace. Drip. My hands start to wander, a scratch here, another there. Drip. Nothing untoward going on its just that certain things need to be checked, counted, rearranged. Drip, drip, drip. Yep, one of those, two of these. OK. Best to just shift everything to the left like so. Drip. Hang on. Drip. Why have I had to push my hand under my trousers? If Im asleep I should be in bed and if Im in bed I should be naked. Drip. Whats the last thing I remember? Drip. New Years Eve. Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. Oh hell. Drip. So where am I? Think. Drip. Think. Drip. Nothing. Blank. Oh well, I need to work this out. I need more information. I have no option, Im going to have to open my eyes and let reality in. Drip. Here goes.

Eyes open.

Drip, drip, drip. But the drips become a flood; information overload. Im looking directly at a young Chinese boy. His face is only inches from mine. I dont live with any young Chinese boys which means that something is very, very wrong and someone, perhaps me, is going to have a lot of explaining to do.

He pulls his head back a little but he doesnt avert his gaze. Hes crouching down, on his haunches, staring at me, studying me with an expression of curious fascination as if Im some kind of exotic creepy-crawly. I try to say hello but my mouth is dry and all that emerges is a dead croak. This seems to frighten the boy and he jumps backwards. Then I see that he isnt jumping of his own accord, rather he is being yanked back by the concerned hand of his mother.

My frame of reference is no longer filled by his inquisitive, silent gaze and I am able to take in the scenery. Im definitely not at home. Not unless builders have knocked through and built a lifesize working model of a newsagents in my living room. Overnight. Some of my friends like a practical joke every now and then, but this, I think, is beyond even them.

My eyes are still adjusting to the light and it takes a few seconds for the scene to find its focus. Im in an airport. Heathrow to be precise. I close my eyes and shake my head as if shaking a kaleidoscope, rearranging the sands to form a different image. But when I open my eyes again the picture hasnt changed. It isnt an illusion. Im in Heathrow Airport. Its New Years Day.

Im very confused. Scared, even. I look back to the Chinese boy forlornly hoping that he will be able to explain the situation to me. Instead, he stares back at me, emotionless, curious, still. I think hes scared of me so I offer him a weak smile. He smiles back and tugs at his mothers sleeve, eager to point out that the croaky man is smiling. She turns to see me but doesnt smile. Instead she shoots me a glance so fierce that I wince with pain when it hits me. She bundles up her young charge and scuttles away. Im alarmed at the urgency with which she escapes whatever threat I supposedly pose.

Suddenly I realise that my hand is still inside my trousers.

I look around. Hundreds of people are milling around. Im on the cold hard floor. Fully clothed. Sweating. There are no covers pulled up around me, just a coat. Its January the 1st and my first conscious action of the New Year has been to touch myself and smile at a young Chinese boy. No wonder his mum had shown such concern. Happy New Year, Dave, I think, Happy New Year.

I need to pull myself together so, perhaps its ironic that the first thing I do is take my hand out of my trousers. The second thing I do is run my hands through my coat pockets and discover with a mixture of relief and alarm, what possessions I have about my person. Wallet, mobile phone; relief. Passport; shit. Thats not good. And then oh no, that familiar shape, the shiny paper envelope, the stiff cardboard. Surely not? No! Please? An airline ticket. Scared to learn the truth, I lift the flap of the envelope, and peek inside.

Oh.

My.

Life.

Washington DC! A ticket to Washington DC!

But it is much more than that. It is a ticket to insanity, to obsession, to the start of an adventure; a googlewhack adventure.