Nomad’s laying battery

Some hostels are like battery cages. The Nomad Backpackers in Melbourne is the mother of all battery hens. Hens and roosters, the desired end product – their money. They put plenty of it on the counter for their daily bread: grain, wheat and barley. A bar as a feeding trough, the hens clucking in unbelievable pitches, the roosters crowing unknowingly for their lost lives.

I don’t understand the whole discussion about which husbandry is better: To wither away in a cage, or to tear each other apart in a barn. I move from the cage to the floor when a little helper cock says: “If you ex this jug, I’ll pay it.”. Well, the Bavarian does, no problem with the prices – maybe I’ll even become a rooster.

I could have guessed what would happen. The assistant punk thinks there’s still some left in it (yes – the Bavarian leftover nonsense) and pours it over my head. Then he leaves without paying. I almost have to laugh. I sit down, look and write.

Around me, mad cow disease is rampant among the poultry. Some let themselves be plucked. Others pull out a comb. All of them are shedding their feathers. Every blind hen finds a grain. Drinking without sense or purpose, no brains, so at least nothing to lose. There are so few moments when it’s simply wonderful to feel old. This is one.

The stairs full of vomit, the loo a lake of piss. Slurring zombies in their final convulsions. Only the vocal chords are still going – the police will come three times again tonight. The hens let their tits hang down to the floor. It’s hard to get bras undone when you’re three per mille. The roosters fall into every cleavage with looks that make you want to vomit – which one of them does in the end – just next to the cleavage but still on the hen.

I’m going to bed. Survival kit: toilet paper in my ears. At one o’clock I’m woken by the first full-on chainsaw snorer. At two, a couple fall through the door. They scramble up and fall into bed under me. Hallelujah! Then the bed starts to shake.

I don’t actually have anything against people who fuck in public. Some just want to show a bit more, others want to see a bit more. I only have something against people who are guaranteed not to remember anything the next morning. Who are so dense that beds get wet. Who forget that a certain tyre pressure is an advantage when driving a car. Tyre pressure is too low when you’re drunk.

But don’t worry, dear rooster! Alcohol makes you creative. If your mug doesn’t want any more, then just have chicken wings. They always work, they’ve got bones in them. Finding your goal and fine-tuning your coordination may remain difficult, but hey, where there’s no will there’s a way. But please don’t ask yourself the next morning why your fingers smell like shit. Because to err is human. Especially in animals.