Prince Charming

I'm going to take a moment to cast my mind back threw the years, way way back to the winter of 2004, then myself and Vince were in the scorching heat of Lima(Peru) crowded in what must have been the smallest cafe in the world, or perhaps that was because in were in a group huddle of 15 or so people, anyway it felt small, all of our eyes fixed on one piece of kitchen machinery and one very skinless looking amphibian. For those of you familiar with our past travelling exploits, I refer to the now infamous "frog in a blender" story. Of course on that occasion we were drinking the bugger and although blitzed up alive he was kinda dead when we pursed our lips and opened our gullets.
Fast forward to present day and here I am in Port Douglas(OZ), our last port of call on the Australian leg of our journey. It's a sleepy little town, I guess best known for it's proximity to the Barrier reef, and therefore it's numourous day trips out to it. This is partly the reason for our visit, apparently it's "better reef up here", oh yeah, and because Jules used to live here, obviously not in a mortgage and a stable job kinda way, more in a permanent travelly kinda way, I think she mustered 3 months in all.
Well, sink yourself down away from the hustle bustle of yachts, and the endless lines of boutiques, and you will find a sinister underbelly to Port Douglas. Some may have the gaul to argue that this is the real reason for our visit, given my track record, but I deny this catagorically, for PD is the toad racing capital of Australia.
You have to take that last statement with a pinch of salt mind you, I'm not talking London or Paris capital here, not even unknown American state capitals, I'm taking one bloke in a pub racing 6 toads, but given the pensity of the Australians to talk big and deliver small, this wasn't too bad an effort.
Put your glad rags on cause:

"Tuesday night is Toad racing night down the Queen and Kangaroo"

Funny thing being that Tuesday night wasn't in fact toad racing night down the Queen and Kangaroo because it was actually Wednesday night, and given that we only have one set of glad rags between us, a nice skirt and a wrinkled shirt, this turned out to be both disappointing and inconvenient. However we made the most of it, and seeing that we were out anyway we cut loose and bought ice-cream and went to the all night book store.

Put your glad rags on cause:

"Wednesday night is Toad racing night down the Queen and Kangaroo"

So second time lucky, off we trot down the pub in a slightly sweaty skirt and musty smelling wrinkled shirt. The pub from the front looked quite normal, but once our entry fee of $10 was paid, we were lead into into the back room, a poorly lit affair full of American tourists, I guess they were missing Vegas given the large wods of cash they were waving in the air. Through the dim light and the clouds of tobacco smoke a bearded elderly gentleman stood. In front of him a table with a sack on it, to his left a large chalk board with what looked like horses names. We bedded in at the back, having been to many comedy performances and street shows before, we were well advised on the pick on the guys at the front policy of these entertainers. The music starts and the elderly gentleman springs to life, much more energetic than I imagined. He's was from the outback and had a fierce patter to match, years of entertaining in Yorkshire working man's clubs no doubt.
His sack opens and out leap(or shuffle in most cases) 6 fine looking cane toads. I'm sure the mummblers and grumblers amongst you will now be muttering "bloody cane toads, bloody menace and a pest". Anyway they looked nice to me. I failed to mention that on arrival at the pub our $10 did not just gain us entry to the mysterious poorly lit back room but also to a numbered ticket. And as we were to find out, if your number was pulled in the raffle, well, from the old guy's hat then you were lucky enough to take part in the main event of the night, the race itself.

24.......37..........2........6............11.............................................17!


Wait a minute, I'm 17, well strickly speaking Jules was 17, but given here lack of desire to touch toads and my need for the limelight....


"I'm 17" I shout

"you've got a lot of facial hair for a 17 year old" our comic host replies

I make my way to the front of the room to join my 5 fellow competitors, in what I'm calling, for the purpose of this blog, the greatest race in history!
One by one the toads were picked up by the old guy, each one met with a loud rapturous round of applause, mostly admittedly from the drunk Americans, and one by one there names were revealed, coupled with a small story, usually pertaining to there sexual performance, I mean come on who really wants to know how many times, 12 times harry can ...
and one by one the toad was handed to a worried competitor, each competitor in turn prompted to moisten their lips and plant a smacker on the toad. Each time the audience(again, pretty much the Americans), rising up with syncronised screams of "eeeeeeewwwwwhhhh".
Well not being one to hiss at participation, when my turn came around I thought why stop at a fearful peck, why not embrace the situation and give Easy Elsa a proper kiss. Well threatening to do it an actually doing it are two very different things and as I approached with my toungue waggling, I just couldn't and settled for a fearful peck. I'll embrace anyone who can defy there natural instinct not to kiss toads(desperate princesses aside), well I probably wouldn't just out the priciple that they're probably a little weird.
Anyway, with the formalities of the introductions out the way, it was time for the main event, I could sense my moment of glory was neigh, I was going to give this 110%(for the americans) for so good were the prizes on offer nothing but full throtle would ensure I bagged the top prize, a toad logo t-shirt(not going to go into the lesser placed prizes).
I did at this point, although really excited about the iminent contest, wonder how the hell you make a toad leap across a table and then into your hands and then into a bucket, and the simple answer is a straw! Yep, the greatest pest in Australia, uncontrollable to all accounts, apparently answers to a little gust of wind up it's bum, so that's where the OZ goverment have gone wrong, stuff the attempts at poisoning and the mass culling, should have just popped down to Brighton on a summers day, rounded up a group of 5 year old girls, stuffed them in a plane and provided them with some hand held plastic windmills and let them just go at it. Not deturbed by this though and secretly excite about blowing through a straw at a toad, I take a deep breath:

1.....2.....3.......GO!

The toads were realeased, a mass frenzy breaks out, 6 strangers running around a table frantically blowing for there lives, the din of shouts from the crowd in our ears,
"go on....go on", toads jumping in every direction, most jumping in the wrong direction, fellow competiitors holding out there hands in hope, toads hitting hands and falling to the floor, toads jumping off into the crowd, the old man waving a stick and attempting to retreive the buggers, and my toad just sitting there, happy as you like, not a care in the world, despite all my efforts to blow him in the correct direction and even resulting to gently prodding her with my straw. Did she move, bless her no, and do I have a new t-shirt? alas again no.

Two major experiences with amphibians in my life, one ends up with me eating it the other ends up with me completely feeling dejected because I couldn't control it with a straw! Probably in the future going to leave toad kissing to the princess's of this world.