Thomas Mitchell - Today I F****d Up

To my wife, Kate, and her grandfather Ian without either of you, this book would never exist.

Damage, Joy

Growing up, there are few more volatile environments than the family road trip. No one wants to be there, no one is having fun and it never feels like a holiday.

When I was young, my parents would try to jazz up the school break by stuffing my brother, sister and me into the Camry and driving us ten hours to somewhere that looked much like where we lived. Then for the next five, seven or ten days they would encourage us to do activities that usually involved being far away from them.

Why dont you guys go exploring? our mother would say, the boxed wine already sweating in the sun.

Now anyone with siblings will tell you that the relationship typically has two speeds: best friends or worst enemies. But I had the unique problem that my brother and sister were twins, which made for a curious dynamic.

On some days I was an easy target. As the youngest youre born on the outer, and in any games we played to amuse ourselves I was inevitably cast in the least desirable role.

Lets play piggy in the middle, bossed my sister and, without being told, I would waddle to the middle, accepting my sad piggy fate. But on other days I became the swing vote as my brother and sister desperately vied to be top dog.

Each would approach me separately, seeking my backing and, because I was just happy to be included, whoever reached me first had my allegiance. We would then cruelly turn on the other person. Ha-ha! Feel the wrath of the piggy!

All this push-pull for power usually resulted in fighting, until my mother was forced to intervene. Do you think I want to referee your fights while Im trying to enjoy my holiday? she would ask, unwittingly making herself the common enemy.

I recall one particular trip where the bickering reached an all-time high. My father had decided to take us camping on the mid-north coast of New South Wales, which was a considerable dice roll because we were not campers. None of us really enjoy the great outdoors, so it was a tense week full of mosquito bites, wet socks and lost tent pegs. I was eight years old at the time and even then I remember thinking: Were really more of a resort family.

By the time my parents were passive aggressively packing the car to leave, it was a proper pressure cooker. My brother and sister were no longer talking because of a disagreement on who was older. They had been born forty-five minutes apart, but no one could ever agree on who came out first. It remains a sore point to this day.

Meanwhile, my dad was dealing with the dual shame of being both in pain and embarrassed. During the camping trip, hed been bitten by a spider, leaving a nasty welt on his leg. My father is many things, but a quiet sufferer is not one of them.

Do you think its infected? he asked me, his eight-year-old son, shortly after it happened. I simply nodded.

Because of his infected bite, he struggled to pack the tent up though I suspect he didnt know how to anyway so a father from a nearby campsite offered to lend a hand. He was tall and strapping, the kind of man who could be bitten by many spiders and not think to mention it.

As NewDad expertly packed the tent away, OldDad moodily picked at his wound and shuffled off to the car. My mother found this whole episode amusing, and she used every opportunity to bring it up on the drive home.

This was, of course, a deliberate niggle designed to get a reaction. She hadnt escaped the dark cloud of this family getaway either and she too was fuming, mostly at my father for deciding camping was a good idea.

As we silently sped home, bad vibes were brewing in the car and even as kids, we knew it was safest not to break the quiet. Simon & Garfunkel bled out of the speakers while I shifted uncomfortably in the middle seat another downside to being the youngest was a childhood of giving up the window.

About two hours into the journey, we hit a set of traffic lights, unusual for these quiet country roads. Minutes passed and nothing changed; the light remained red and so too did my fathers face.

Laughing was definitely not allowed, but there was something comical about idling at a red on an empty road. As if the traffic gods had decided to test our patience.

While we played the waiting game, a white convertible with a retractable roof pulled up alongside us. I could feel my familys collective gaze drift towards the car, and I knew we were all thinking the same thing: wow, a convertible.

Despite being smack bang in the middle of the middle class, we were still impressed by any sniff of status. People who owned convertibles, along with people who had swimming pools, were the kind of people we aspired to be.

In response to the strange family staring at her, the woman behind the wheel pressed a button and the roof magically folded in on itself and disappeared. Woah, I said, finally breaking the long silence now she was just showing off.

She threw her head back and laughed, and while it didnt register at the time, she was probably laughing at us. We were the ogling battlers in the Camry, a sedan overloaded with tents and tension. She was living the high life in her flashy drop-top with the acrobatic roof and obnoxiously loud engine.

Unfortunately for her, it was this very engine that was to blame for what came next. She gave the motor an unnecessary rev, which was enough to spook a large pigeon from a nearby tree.

The bird took flight, cutting a path directly over her open car roof while being sure to drop an enormous turd from a great height. Had she not been laughing so heartily in our direction, her mouth would have been closed, but instead, it was wide open a direct hit.

Our car exploded with the kind of laughter that is impossible to control, not that youd want to. The more we looked at each other, the more we laughed, while our friend in the convertible gagged and spluttered.

Eventually, we heard the mechanical grunt of the roof closing, and that set us off once more. Quick, close the roof before he strikes again!

The light turned green, and my father hit the gas, leaving everything behind us. It no longer mattered which twin was older, or if I was piggy in the middle, or that my dad didnt know how to pack up a tent.

Our collective joy at witnessing this perfectly timed pigeon shit had wiped the slate clean.

I immediately understood the unique healing power that can be found in other peoples misfortune.

Turns out theres a word for this feeling. Actually, there are a few words.

The ancient Greeks called it epichairekakia, while in French they refer to joie maligne or malignant joy. But perhaps the most famous of all is schadenfreude a compound of the German nouns Schaden, meaning damage and Freude, meaning joy. So satisfying is the sound of schadenfreude we never bothered with an English translation, instead adopting the German as our own.

Schadenfreude, the act of deriving pleasure in anothers pain and suffering, is not a new phenomenon. Stroll any gallery and youll see artworks from every century depicting scenes of delight amid disaster.

Schadenfreude is everywhere. I spent half my childhood watching Americas Funniest Home Videos, which is essentially schadenfreude on steroids. Endless clips of old people falling over and outrageous waterskiing accidents bundled together and broadcast for our entertainment.