Regular readers of this blog may remember Ben Scott, the unsubstantiated but loveable lovechild of Bon. He’s hell-bent on accessing Scott-the-elder’s DNA, that elusive double helix which, he is certain, will perfectly match his own – thus unlocking the key to his true identity once and for all.
I first met and interviewed Ben at the cemetery, and since that time he’s become one of my most loyal readers, unleashing a barrage of CAPITALISED COMMENT CAMEOS, which perhaps, reveal traces of the great comic street poet which runs in his veins.
You may also have followed this brief flurry of excitement a month or so back, when it looked like BON OR BUST might finally bear fruit – Ben and I began plotting a cross-nullabor journey from Melbourne to Perth.
But alas, Ben had enrolled in a metallurgy course at MOORABIN TAFE and it did not come to pass.
(Furthermore, read this account of our even-more-recent, heart-fluttering near miss! Sigh…)
Anyway, here I am in Fremantle. I arrived a fortnight ago, transported on the wings of a mighty jetplane. But undeterred, and fiercely determined to get to the exhibition by ribbon-cutting-time next week, Ben is making the great pilgrimage alone.
Or rather – not alone!
His new Ford Falcon is chock-full-o fans (and/or backpackers), and they’re barrelling across the desert as I type.
The photograph above popped into my in-box from Ben’s satellite phone sometime this afternoon, with no accompanying explanation, except for the following cryptic sentence:
“MY SECOND ATTEMPT… THE FIRST CONTAINED SPELLING ERRORS… HA!”
Is Ben trying to squeeze in even more passengers, in a vain attempt to bring the price-per-passage down?
Or has his trusty Falcon burst a valve? Is his precious exhibit-bound cargo standing en-masse by the side of the highway, trying to hitch a ride, patiently waiting while he fixes his grammatical errors?
Ben Scott, where are you?