Category Archives: The Mens

Merv worries about Money

03 Monday Apr 2017

Posted by in Mark, The Mens

≈ 7 Comments

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Merv gets ready for the day, nasal hairs clipped.

 

Story by Mark.

 

Merv was feeling pen, pen, pen something as he stood behind the bar, erectile and well dressed. Merv had been taking guitar lessons from Nigel Fargo Evans who apparently taught Jimi Smith and Stevie Ray Jones how to play however it wasn’t rubbing off so to speak.

“A is first followed by B then C” proclaimed Nigel. This was too much for Merv to comprehend so he decided guitar playing was not for him.

Merv was pen, pen, pens.., looked around the bar and noticed that the usual crowd

I’m a quark, I fink

were in chatting away about quarks, astrophysics, shotguns and girls just like any Inner Cyberian pub would.

But Merv was worried about where all the money came from? “Ask Hon, she’ll tell ya” said Hung.

“From me purse Merv, eyes look in it an the money comes out” says Hon.

“Where’s that bloody priest, Sandy get Gordon here” roars Merv.

“Bless you my son, I now pronounce you man and wife, whose soul will thus goeth to hevanus” replies Father O’Way, from the church of St Generic Brand, just to get the word count up.

“Cut the crap Sandy, get him here” demands Merv.

So Sandy rings Gordon and asks him over. “Gordon,you better get here quick, we have a religious uprising”

Bloody Kennards no Pleece boxes

[Sound of the Tardis, Sound of the Tardis, Sound of the Tardis, Sound of the Tardis]

“Hey, who are you, where’s Gordon” cries Merv.

“No. I am a replica of Gordon. I am a programmed cardboard cut out from the planet Aurora and am here to answer any questions about money here at the Pigs Arms. As a cardboard cut out I save the Pigs Arms lots of money in space travel time and I gotta say Emmjay is always telling us that the budget can’t afford these special effects.”

“Well, special effects my evacuation valve but I want to know about money at the Pigs Arms. I make thousands of dollars every night to a sui generis group of people” pushes Merv. Bloody heck, what does that mean? I always wondered about a group of people.

“Sorry, don’t recall, no, don’t remember, no I don’t recall that I can remember,

I fink I just went to the toilet again…

possibly,no, probably not, I wasn’t there, she told me she was sixteen, I can account for everything that I have done but sadly they are subject to FOI(Fuck Off Idiot) Laws” says the cardboard cut out.

“Well Hung gave me a twenty and I had to give him $250 change” goes Merv.

“Sorry, don’t recall, no, don’t remember, no I don’t recall that I can remember, possibly,no, probably not, I wasn’t there, she told me she was sixteen, The vehicle has low kilometres and service history. Finance can be arranged. Test drive sure can, here snort this” says the cardboard cut out.

“And mees and him had a bet on the foottee. I went the Newy Shitkickers and he went the Illawarra Underworld Figures, anyway where’s the bong?” pips in Gib W.

Trust me, I don ‘t need to go to the toilet

“Sorry, don’t recall, no, don’t remember, no I don’t recall that I can remember, possibly,no, probably not, I wasn’t there, she told me she was sixteen, look renovators dream, shag pile carpet and Elvis Presley wall paper, reduced, knock that wall out, rebuild the pergola, add an extra bedroom, new kitchen and bathroom, the roof, insulating and heating, hot water, driveway, garden, mate what are you waiting for…” says the cardboard cut out.

Does this feel familiar?

Jesus fucking Christ, someone give us a fag and where’s the bloody loo.

Foodge Nearly 60 – Like the Author

06 Sunday Mar 2016

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick, Mark, The Mens

≈ 30 Comments

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Hung, off his face after too much Acetic Acid, fish and chips every time...

Hung, off his face after too much Acetic Acid, fish and chips does it every time…

Episode 60 – Story by Mark aka Hung One On

“Bloody hell” says Merv in his usual laconic style, not that Merv understood what laconic actually meant, see he was born laconic, at the Inner Cyberian Hospital, any one born there has to be laconic other wise they are up shit creek without out an outboard, know what I mean. “Hung has done it frigging again, he’s written another fucking episode of Foodge using us, even has an episode number, what is this world coming to.”

“This is true Pigs Arms style we’re none the wiser. This is excellent” says Earnest Moncrieff, the deadly sparrow killer from one of the many other meaningless episodes of Foodge. “Another kayak Merv, and no fly shit this time mate, it upsets me acid” continues Earnest.

“I thought that this episode was really funny, till I read it, then I realised it had a deeper esoteric meaning, I mean line 69 tells you that in one go” says Hung who as usual was propping up the bar trying to remember if the magic mushrooms he had consumed for breakfast were blue meanies or gold tops. Memory wasn’t one of Hung’s assets, lets just say he would be classified as disabled under DSM-V if any one knew what it actually means.

“Please, sir, what’s a kayak of beer?” queries Yvonne, a quiet single lady who regularly sits at the bar sipping her Pink Drinks. Yes, the beautiful, picturesque Yvonne has now been dragged into the story, ever since Hedgie went to jail and all he wants to talk about now is all the anal sex he is getting in jail, Yvonne on the other hand is a much nicer character.

“Kayak refers to a schooner glass 15 ozs in the old money” bores Emmjay, typical scientist, still reckons 1+1=2, dear oh dear, lets face it,  the rest of us know that 1+1 is somewhere between 1.9 and 2.1 but never tell Emmjay that otherwise we will all have to sit through another routine lecture on mathematics he had published in a science journal called the No Idea.

Emmjay continues in his typical monogamous style “In NSW (which didn’t have until recently half pints, but pints (20 ozs) were also used – albeit more rarely). Large glasses are for showing off – more moderate ones are for keeping the beer colder for longer” he lies.

“Why don’t you just shut the fuck up” says Merv, forever the diplomat. “Hung’s trying to write another drug story to make us all laugh and all you can do is talk facts. Haven’t you read line 69 yet?” questions Merv which is truly a rare occurrence.

By this time however, Emmjay was in full teacher mode. As if anyone actually cares. Lets face it, this story is pure fiction and facts are basically useless, similar to members of parliament.

“Deivad Eyland wrote a novel in the 1980s called The Non-Crystalline Amorphous Solid Kayak set in a pub called “The Shit Carters Arms” drones Emmjay. “That pub actually exists, unlike the Pigs Arms, on the corner of Anal Rd and the Rectum Highway near Glenda’s House of Pain. But the pub at the heart of the novel was actually “the Toothless” for a couple of factoids. One, if you survived the night at the pub you will probably come home without your teeth and two, it was a dwelling for plasma” says Emmjay.

“Will someone tell this bloke to shut the fuck up” says hph who had just arrived after a bad trip and a train journey on the overnight flyer which really fucked up his drumming, big time.

“In the Toothless Estate on G-Spot Rd” continues Emmjay, much to the disinterest of the Patrons ah la Pork, ”My dad used to drink there – until he moved in 1956 from Long Bay to Silverwater.”

“Has anyone told Emmjay to shut the fuck up?” says Vivienne DeOliveria, a gourmet chef who helped Granny invent her famous Vegemite and Anchovy sauce to serve with potato wedges. “Anyway, when do we get to the good bit?” asks Viv, as only Viv can.

“The novel, The Non-Crystalline Amorphous Solid Kayak, was and remains the inspiration for the Pig’s Arms. You can buy a copy in any decent second hand bookshop” continues Emmjay and lets face it, by the time this story is finished second hand book stores will be too busy selling SFA due to ennui from the general public but on wee go.

“You can get one for sure online, or offline or at a second hand book store if any still exist” says Gib W, who just suddenly appeared out of nowhere, as all purse carrying nancy boys tend to do in this story.

“Gez, now I have to become illiterate?” replies the gorgeous Yvonne. Now we all know that Gez is Gerard Oosterman, genius and multi millionaire who is married to the delightful Helvi, but he doesn’t turn up till the next chapter disguised as a potato. Again on wee go.

“Nah, just semi-literate, like most of the patrons here at the Pigs Arms” interjects Gib W, wanting a bit more air time seeing that Emmjay has dominated the story so far.

“I take offence to that statement, I’m demi-illerate” says Hung as the mushrooms kick in. Hmm, wedges with Vegemite and anchovy sauce, my favorite, as he heads for the Men’s to practice his regurgitation skills.

“Sorry Sister, didn’t mean to offend the demis.” says Gib W reading the script on his laptop. Gib was more worried about offending GILBET(Gay, Intersex, Lesbian, Bisexual, Extraterrestrial and Transgender) folk especially seeing that Hedgie is now batting for the other team.

“Is that like a movie trailer Gib?” pipes in Earnie as he puts the bong along side his half full kayak then skulls the water from the bong instead of the Trotter’s. Fly shit again he he thinks. Pfft.

“Yes, Earnie” says Gib, “You thought a the trailer was big, wait until you see the demi-trailer” asserts Gib. “But has anyone told Emmjay to shut the fuck up lately?” Says Gib.

“So trailers carry containers and trains carry containers so they must be bigger than a trailer or say a finch. The debate could be about trains or for that matter rhododendrons. We’ve had the train one and anyway Hung hasn’t said anything in ages so at least he got the message to shut the fuck up” says Earnie.

“Oh well, that’s sorted.” mentally groans Viv, kind hearted to the bitter end of this story and waiting for line 69 like the rest of us.

“Has your goat had an orgasm lately?” says Kneeville Coal, who is apparently from North Armenia as he orders a kayak of Trotter’s Ale. North fucking where??

“In a fashion” says Emmjay, “such a typical Pig’s Arms explanation” explains Emmjay on line 69.

“Sorry for the delay, Gib” says Emmjay who appears to be struggling with the concept of shut the fuck up. “I’m still re-configuring MF’s dead, but flat, cat, but this looks like a setup. The Pleece are working better than ever now they and have got the challenge of sifting through 13,000 tabs to find the eleventeen I want to take” says an oblivious Emmjay, high on Trotters Ale and Acetic Acid, his favorite trip. “I hope you liked the sly pic. Don’t you just love a dead machine” says Emmjay adding yet another red herring to the story.

“Loved the pic” says Gib, “I imagine it would be easier to rebuild an Ariel Square Four, than resuscitating a dead but flat cat” continues Gib and seeing that no one on the planet will know what an Ariel Square Four is makes him an expert. Remember, an “ex” is something that was and a spurt is “drip under pressure”, so we can all assume that this statement is truly meaningless.

“Probably died of boredom or dare I say ennui. The squaffer was a classic bit of British engineering design genius which was a first for Britain. Lots of poo being impossible to air cool – bad in a cold, moderate, hot, wet, dry, windy, rainy, cloudy or sunny climate. Disastrous in Australia.” hyphens Emmjay.

“My biological father reckoned you could always fukka venal woman cheep after a night at the Toothless. A great kebab on the way home, lots of emesis overnight  then panadol and sick leave the next day, doesn’t get any better than this don’t it.”

Annemarie’s Consummation with a Night on sad stretcher.

16 Tuesday Mar 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Mens

≈ 11 Comments

  

“We’ll do the novena after the dinner”; “we’re all starving”, she said.  “No, not the novena to-night again” a chorus of children protested. “Ja, natuurlijk”, “of course we will”, her dad said sternly in guttural Dutch. All Dutch fathers are stern and ramrod morally straight. A novena par for course it would be, with those large and fatally catholic families. No interruptus of any coitus there. Let the little ones come, and mother will do the endless scrubbing, stove sweating, cooking, shopping and kiddie feedings!  Gutturally challenged fathers are often in easy chairs and smoking Graven A’s.

The novena was popular with large catholic families. It involved something religious with the number nine and praying.  Nothing voodoo though!  In Annemarie’s family it soon became clear just after dinner when instead of the usual thanks-giving prayer; the whole lot sank onto their knees on the floor with crossed hands on the dining chairs in front of them. They were doing this for nine weeks and were now in the second week. I dutifully followed kneeling just behind and beside Annemarie. They were all fingering the rosary beads while praying for a good future, including for ‘own home on own block and own solid Torrens Title’. 

 

 Of course, with the mashed potatoes, carrots and onions and some minced cows, the bedding down of the food while kneeling in pious prayer was not easy and soon a few light-hearted farts were wafting around.  Nothing too serious and parents smiled benevolently and lovingly at their happy off-spring, gathered on knees.  Apparently, the farting was the acceptable price negotiated in return for everyone agreeing to do this nine week family Novena, ‘for a better future in Australia, for our children.’ I suspected the farting would be on regardless of any novenas. Good Dutch families that fart together stay together.

In all that what was going on I was focussed on showing due piety in my posture, eyes turned at a slant and heavenly upwards. But, and as usual, it was in direct contrast to those infernal and intruding carnal thoughts. So close and yet so far. How ironic.  There she was the dreams of my youth. So lovingly on her knees, dress hiked up somewhat, lovely roseate thighs with rosary slipping through agile fingers. Oh, the irony of it all, the temptation so close and yet so far and under such dire and difficult circumstances.

With the novena having come to its last bead, we all got up and I offered to do the washing up, hoping a reciprocate move from my beloved. “No, it’s Elizabeth turn”, she quickly retorted. Roderick is waiting!   So much for love reciprocating.  Mother stepped in though, “no, you do it tonight”, she said sharply. With this latest set-back I decided that Mr ‘normal nose Roderick’ was more on her mind.  No doubt waiting for her around the corner, practising his ramrod straight morals as I was bloody well helping her do the washing up, even dried the dishes allowing the towel at times to stray against her leg. That’s the best my thousand kilometre scooter trip was capable of achieving.  Bitter rewards and pathos at its best that I would now be sleeping in her bed; perhaps with her scent on pillow case, providing her mother hadn’t changed the sheets or pillow case. Was it any better than sleeping in my lonely tent?    Is this what I had been so good for?

 

The kids were around the table playing Monopoly, squabbling over who had the most money and who was cheating, the novena wearing thin already and materialism rearing its head.  “Don’t be late”, her mother said. I could smell a kind of cinnamon odour and a rush of Annemarie’s frock bolting to the door. Insult to injury. I certainly know when to beat a retreat and after a ‘good night’ I crept to her bedroom but at least in her bed.  Beggars can’t be chosers!  No doubt, her dad would follow soon.

 He did, “Hey Gerard, would you mind sleeping on the stretcher”, “I have a sore back and you are so much younger?”

I said goodbye next morning never to see lovely Annemarie again.

Razoring the Dread

11 Thursday Mar 2010

Posted by in Pig-Tel Products, The Mens

≈ 17 Comments

Pig-Tel – for a CLOSE Shave

Digital Mischief by Warrigal Zappa

As we hurtle towards the other major Christian festival, named for Eastre, the pagan Saxon goddess of fertility, I am reminded of the persistent human interest in raising the dead.

Which, surprisingly led to thoughts of the pagans razing a village.

And thus we arrived at razoring one’s face.

Now, I’m not one to drone on about the history of hair removal, to wax on about the Pig’s legs, or recount other hair-raising  stories of depilation – or (can it be true, ‘painless epilation’).  But I am alarmed by the technological thrust into the simple tool – the razor.

In truth, I was dragged kicking and screaming into the world of shaving after 35 years of merely giving the beard a quick trim with a small set of battery-powered shears.  Cost – almost zip.  When the First Mate quietly slipped the news under my guard that my rapidly disappearing melanin had led to a look that, (put frankly) was reminiscent of a dweller in the Hunza Valley in the spectacular mountains in Pakistan (famous for the incredible age of its inhabitants).

This same woman (in my interests, apparently) has a sly way of telling me it’s time for a haircut.  She gives a tonsorial weather report – describing my quiff as “cloudy, but fine”.

I changed the beard from a quick mow of a natural pasture, to a goatee that was reminiscent of a sea captain, or possibly a reclusive literary giant – mostly white.  Not what was wanted, Jan.  So I mowed the goatee down, and in one of those whimsical moments, I let go of the reins and just shaved off the whole damned thing.

My face felt like I had used it for sanding down the back deck.  Red and raw.  I mean I was feeling like a third degree kind of dude.  So the First Mate applied one of her girlie face creams and stood back as the steam rose from the rapidly-evaporating moisturiser.

But the whole show settled down and now I was faced (literally) with the difficult decision about what to do next.  I could just let the pampas regrow, but at the cost of adding ten years back on the clock.  Or I could contemplate shaving again.

The Emmlets (who, in their first twenty years of life, hadn’t seen me beardless) didn’t help by looking horrified and pointing out “Shit, Dad, you have NO LIPS !!!”.  But I was determined to try to see my way through the thicket.

So I went in search of the perfect shave – which seemed to me to be a matter of finding the perfect mower.  My old Dad had used a Remington electric shaver for as long as I could remember.  A straight, reciprocating no-nonsense thing.  He was theologically opposed to the Phillips triple rotary kind and warned me off them as a child with no need to shave, but a need to remember his lesson well into the future.  So I was permitted to practice.

Allowing for the march of time, and harbouring the fear of a lacerated face from a blade shaver I went for a new battery-powered Remington that was easy to take on tour.

This managed to leave just enough white stubble for me to look like an ageing rock star, but failed to actually provide what the advertisers call “a clean shave” and which by extension must have meant that I was wearing a dirty shave.

Next step was the dreaded blade shaver, but things had apparently come a long long way from the old Gillette blue blades of my youth.  Razors were no longer tagged with the “safety” epithet.  All the fear had been removed by encasing the blade in plastic and encouraging the punter to throw away the whole razor when the beast becomes blunt.   But that was just the half of it.  No, it was more like 16%-20% of it since the state of the art was apparently the five or six blade wonder with upbeat names  starting with F – like “Fusion”, or “Focus” or “Fabbitron 6”.  I was convinced that any whisker that escaped blades one to five was a sitter for blade 6 and I was impressed by the cartoon graphics that  showed how blade #1 dragged the whisker up just that bit further so that blades #2-6 could effectively cut it off below ground level – leaving a baby’s bum smooth shave.

But there was a catch.  Six blades (apart from being so expensive that a credit card purchase was in order – sufficient cash being just too heavy to carry) cause a huge amount of drag on the skin.  So sir will be requiring a top quality shaving gel.  Note, the brush and soap have apparently also gone the way of all flesh.  Thus started the search for the perfect shaving crème.

This is no mean crusade.  Not enough lubrication = sandpapered face and pain.  Too much lubrication and the six blade wonder skims across the fuzz and doesn’t cut anything.  Not enough moisturising and the skin dries out and cracks like those heels in chemist shop windows.  Too much moisturiser and  “Whoo hoo – look at Mr Greasyface”.

And shaving goo comes in a range of products from $2.79 – the Pig-Tel  Lard’n Lye for Men right up to miracle products from Provence ($54.95) promising micropellicules of energising foodgemoosiac that apparently reverse ageing and improve sexual prowess.  I mean if Sean Connery uses them, how come he always looks unshaven. Huh ? Huh ?  Yeah, and George Clooney ?  Huh ? Huh ?

So I’m on the treadmill now.  The endless pursuit of the perfect shave.  And the secret search for the ideal treatment for the eruption of alarming amounts of ear and nose hair, that unlike the “cloudy but fine” hair hair, sprout black and luxurious.

It’s enough to razor the dread.

Underage child care in the 60’s

05 Friday Feb 2010

Posted by in The Mens

≈ 20 Comments

The last bastion in the late sixties for males to break down was the right to baby-sit. Women were in the throng of burning bras and going girdle less, stockings with seams were passé and Germaine Greer had announced ‘Bras are a ludicrous invention’. So, while women burned bras because they were seen as accoutrements of torture, men burned their draft cards avoiding real torture and felt liberated until they tried to baby-sit in Inner West of Sydney.

As it was, I turned up one evening and with the household all dressed to go and dine somewhere or see Zorba the Greek, I noticed a distinct cooling towards me. They made a discreet phone call and decided it would be safe for a man to be allowed to baby sit, just this time.  ? Of course, many of the parents that knew each other through social events knew each other as couples or, in the case of play groups, were mainly always women. For a man to be on its own, solo, and at baby-sitting in the evening was not that far advanced in acceptance yet. There was a meeting and the majority approved ‘male baby-sitting’. I don’t know what the objections or criteria were for being suspicious of males doing baby-sitting. Curiously enough, the mother that was surprised and taken aback somewhat when I presented myself to baby-sit, thought nothing of taking her clothes off for a life drawing session. Were males going to do evil things or was the reluctance because of lack of skills? It was not that much of a challenge though and much depended on what sort of facilities the parents had provided. Real coffee instead of the instant variety was preferred. Sometimes, there was a good book or a television program. Sometimes, especially if it was after midnight (double points) you would just go to sleep on a couch if available. Never in their marital bed of course!

Most times, babies would either sleep or cry. If they cried you generally gave them the option of a milk bottle or a dummy. With some families there were directions on procedures, and I remember one cot having a type of fly screen lid fitted on top. It was hinged and had a locking device which was difficult to open; it had a trick to it. I ended phoning the secretary. Did they think their baby was going to get stolen? I only had one time that my baby soothing skills were inadequate. Mind you, the babies (twins) were known as ‘the horrible twins’. Apparently, they would scream and could not be bend in order to change their nappies. It was my turn to baby-sit for these twins and as soon as I walked near them they broke out in a howl and in tandem. The nappy stench made clear I had to change them, but even another step towards their cot resulted in a renewal of their blaring sirens. It would only abate when stepping back. I kept stepping back and phoned the secretary again, she came around and changed the nappies. By 1972 most males had broken the barrier and were fully accepted for babysitting.

The Old Apple iPad

01 Monday Feb 2010

Posted by in The Mens

≈ 14 Comments

There’s been quite a lot of road miles written about the new wonder product from Apple with the dodgy name.  I watched chunks of the Steve Jobs evangelist gathering and product release.  As I said somewhere on Unleashed that I smell a rat – and there’s a lot of self-serving hoopla assumptions by Apple that I would rather use their slick device to do the kind of mundane things that I can – but rarely – do on a Laptop or a Netbook.

I have been long in IT and related work.  I have seen the next best things disappear without a trace many times before.  Apple did it with the Lisa (which pushed a good idea – mouse-driven graphic user interface) over the top at huge cost and for an audience that apparently was supposed to be happy with something less useful than it’s predecessors.  There was also a thing called “the Newton”.  Disappeared, vanished, poof !

Anyway  the more they hype it, the less I’m inclined to rush out.  But if one of the Pig’s patrons were to say “It’s fantastic !”.  That would be another thing and I’d have to check it out.

For now, here’s a tasteless clip for the patrons with thick skins – wherein ratbags ridiculed the iPad – in 2006 – four years before it went onto the market.

Caution – serious mockery

Crikey – it must be good !

Workman’s Weekly

20 Wednesday Jan 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, The Mens, The Public Bar

≈ 31 Comments

Workman’s weekly.

You knew the week-end was coming to the end on any Sunday afternoon, rain or shine. A kind of gloom set in as if any enjoyment should never have been trusted in the first place. The suburban strips of hooded shops and steel awnings were closed up, and dogs and people had disappeared. Was this not the time on a Sunday afternoon to expect the arrival of the “Demon of Noontide’?

Some of the tens of thousands across Sydney and other places would now be getting ready for the routine of obtaining the ticket to work by rail during the week. In those days a weekly train ticket was the best option for those that did not yet have a car. This ticket was called ‘workman’s weekly’. It was coloured a cheerful red and had both the destination and the year’s week number printed on it. Next week the same colour but the next number would be featured.

It is rather nice to know that in those days, a workman and his workman’s ticket was part of a society that had not yet discovered the stigma that would later attach itself to the word ‘workman’ by some. How many would now saunter up to a rail station, let alone buy a” workman’s weekly ticket”?

Of course, to avoid queuing on Monday morning in the thick of it all, the better planned would get the ticket from the nearest railway station on the Sunday afternoon.

Therefore there would often be a slight flare up of life and respite from the ‘Sunday demon’ between four and six pm or so, especially around the railway stations, when one could see fellow workers, so staunch and brave, facing the coming week with an heroic and fearless grim determination to buy his weekly ticket.. Oddly enough, those tickets, as far as I remember, could also be bought by work-women. Perhaps I am wrong here. Was there some sort of letter of proof from employer that one was engaged in physical work?

Monday mornings were so much better for having survived the Sunday, another week and another quid was now coming up, we are talking about seventeen pounds ten shillings per week here, being about the average adult wage, back in 1956. It was mid-summer.

The trains had sliding doors that were manually wrenched open by burley blue yakka’ed station attendants. The waiting workers would flick away the Ready Rub fag end and all would align and board the train.

The trains then, as perhaps still now, were of a past era but very much accepted as being modern, almost in vogue. There were no toilets or water on board, so passengers would develop strong constitutions and camel like water retaining attributes and bladders, even travel by late pregnant women would be undertaken with no worries. The date on the steel couplings between carriages was around 1932 or 34 and above the seats were still those brass ornate luggage racks, now keenly sought by inner city residents to use as holders for their terracotta potted geraniums.

The workmen and their workman’s tickets were of the norm then and so were men in overalls and travelling women with hair curlers. The trains would be packed.

Heralds and Telegraph papers would be spread open and many women would knit, young men would glance through Post and Pix magazines, with photos of girls in swimwear revealing nude knees and even feet. The afternoon papers, Mirror and Sun featured scandalous stories of Princess Margaret’s romances and titillating scandals of Professors at Tasmanian Universities. Every six months or so, when sales were down, papers would print front page with a single word ‘WAR’. It was often a fracas in Egypt or disturbance in Malaysia. But the paper’s edition went sky high.

As the train arrived, its passengers would be disgorged and new ones would hop on, perhaps shift workers going home on the reverse trip.

Many workers carried those big bags that clipped together at the sides and would bulge downwards. Inside those bags one could easily have discovered tinned containers with clip on lids that held the previous night’s dinner leftovers. Those tucker tins and other goodies would then be eaten after the factory siren heralded the thirty minutes lunch break.

A lot of work carried out in factories was done by unskilled or semi skilled workers. It often involved very repetitive work, day in day out arms and hands sometimes combined with feet would perform the same movements all day. Those movements sometimes also had a counter on the machine and a minimum number of movements were required per day. To make extra money, it was encouraged to do more movements with working faster or taking shorter breaks. Often safety shields on machinery would be disengaged for extra speed, risking workers losing hands or limbs by compromising on safety.

But what sustenance the men derived from their tucker boxes of the previous night’s morsels, many women would get for tuppence out of the slotted coin machines fastened on the wall next to the bundy clock, in the form of headache powders. The bundy clock was that dreaded invention that would stamp arrival and finishing times at the factory.  Some stricter regimes also had time for lunch breaks recorded on those machines.

The bundy clock

It wasn’t so much the headache or other ailment those women suffered from, no it was more for the enjoyment of ‘getting a lift’, as I was often told. It was also not the single occasional paper foil of headache powder, no, three or four a day, and every day. Are you a bit sick, I asked? “No no, it picks me up you know, it makes me feel a bit better”.

Years later, when thousands of women developed liver and kidney ailments it was blamed on those headache powders, the ingredient of phenacetin was the culprit. Many women ended up with all sorts of organ breakdowns through their overuse.

I sometimes thought that in those times, with the six o’clock swill at the ‘Locomotive or Cricketer’s Arm’ and similar, and those men pissing money on boots and porcelain, with pyjama clad kids hanging around pubs waiting and hoping daddy would come home soon for dinner, had a lot to do with the ‘lift’ that those factory women were getting and needing out of the tuppence phenacetin loaded headache powder slot machines.

Then there were those that did not have clip on bags nor clipped tucker boxes. These were the recently arrived Europeans from complicated countries and backgrounds. Thick accents, some heavily vowel rounded, others guttural consonantly. Many silently doing the factory processing work, week in and out, bending over machinery, often imported from their home country, making bolts and nuts or putting thread on same.

Hungarians, Czechs, and Slavs with professorial demeanours and qualifications from Giessen or Vienna and with Cum Laude as well, doing now in factories what the Bill O’Reilly’s had done for generations. These were the times of ‘workman’s tickets, factory work and European migration’.

Thor’s Hammer at Brayton

16 Saturday Jan 2010

Posted by in The Mens

≈ 19 Comments

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Rain, glorious rain.

We decided to take the kids to Canberra’s National Museum. Before we drove  off, the sky darkened with a promise of great drama to come. They were those kind of clouds, rolling  with menace and Helvi’s headache heralded something was in the air. We and the kids were most impressed with the Museum. Everything was askew and at acute angles. In the big theatre we watched with awe Australia’s white history but not before we had also watched in a smaller theatre the history from ‘black fellow’ Australia. This theatre had a revolving stage, fascinating for the kids. At the bigger theatre all went well, with the braveness of soldiers marching off to some war somewhere  when also all of a sudden a Qantas Boeing was taking off non-stop to somewhere.. I woke up refreshed.

Driving back, the clouds were black and white hot bolts of lightning flashing and thunderous claps sure made for a promise of water at our farm at Brayton.

Wellingtons for Lightning Protection

It pelted and the rain was drought breaking. I mean, paddocks awash and traffic to a snarl. When arriving home, Helvi checked and the gauge had run over. Empty and fill up again, 32 mls. Another storm, another 26 mls. The thunder and lightning was something to behold. The best for over 5 years. Total tally so far 82mls.

Wollondilly in Action

Wollondilly in Action.

First Fags and Boners

29 Tuesday Dec 2009

Posted by in The Mens

≈ 28 Comments

As a thirteen year old at school, I feared most to be called in front of the class and give an explanation on the advantages of the Treaty of Utrecht. I wasn’t the only boy to fear those impromptu frontages. They were the times when swollen acorns featured prominently and not just in class rooms. Those ‘impromptu swellings’ seemed to have a life of its own at that time. Thoughts about those pubescent and glowing roseate girls’ thighs in their school shorts were the bane of any school boy’s attempt at Treaties of all countries, especially in front of the class.

They were the times of my first fag. It was so simple and so desirable, to be like dad and older friends, to smoke tobacco and be seen as growing up, even if not yet grown-up. The oak’s acorn was the smoking implement par excellence at those post war times in The Hague. The mature acorn was hollowed out and pierced about 5 ml from the bottom allowing a grass straw to be inserted. This was my first smoking tool and even though those first draws made me reel and almost sick, I loved the sick. What a heaven had opened up.

I had a few mates in cahoots with those acorn pipes and somehow cents were put together and tobacco was bought. We used to hide in ‘portieks’, they were a kind of alcove or vestibule that most city streets had before entering individual apartments or flats. The joy of those first illicit smokes, hidden from view, carried me for years and even now I have no regrets.

Sure, the acorn smokes and those roseate coloured thighs turned into a hiatus in my education, but so did my parents’ decision to leave my city and country. I suppose at that time, smoking and thinking, dreaming about girls had priority over anything else, especially that dreary circa 1700 Treaty with those fucking Spaniards.

I gave up smoking in my early fifties only on the promise of starting again when turning sixty. I am (wait for it, on the cusp, ha, ha, of seventy) and haven’t done so yet.

Ah, those acorn pipes. Those first sickening tobacco draw backs. Those swollen impromptu boners in classroom frontages with Mr Kohler.

My Left Foot or Toes for T2

22 Tuesday Sep 2009

Posted by in The Mens, The Public Bar

≈ 25 Comments

By Theseustoo

T2 Left Foot 1

Left foot showing pin and scar from operation to replace my ankle-joint back on my foot.

  

This pic shows my left foot, including scrap metal collection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Left foot showing pin and scar from operation to replace my ankle-joint back on my foot

Left foot showing selector for low range hill climbing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Insert Bolts here and fold back tab A

Insert Bolts here and fold back tab A

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Left Foot showing bolt insertion points; the bolts and the pin in these pics are about 10 cms in length and are screwed straight into the bones; the external bar applies traction.

 

 

 

 

First let me apologize for the quality of these pics; they were taken in poor light on a very old digital camera and getting the right angles was not easy…

 On Tuesday 15th September, I went back into hospital to have all the scrap metal I’d collected in my foot removed. This was a straightforward enough ‘day surgery’ and I would have been sent home after the operation, (the fifth, I think, thus far), but as I’d had a general anaesthetic and there was nobody to keep an eye on me for the next 24 hours at home, as required, I was sent for an overnight stay for ‘observation’ at Gleneagles; an old folks’ home out at Mawson Lakes or thereabouts.

 This was an interesting enough experience, though it leaves me not optimistic about getting old… This is something I simply refuse to do… except that, of course, it creeps up on you while you’re not looking and then suddenly, Bang! There you are, old…

 But while at Gleneagles, a pleasant enough place, with friendly, caring staff, I met an ‘agency’ nurse by the name of Paula White. Paula had just had a lot of sheet music left to her by one of the old guys she looked after and didn’t know what to do with it; she asked me if I’d like it… Now this was obviously an old guy’s collection of music which went back as far as the 1930’s so I said, “Sure, I’ll have it!”

 Later, however, I had second thoughts; I couldn’t accept them before I’d told Paula that because of their extreme age, one or two of them might just possibly be valuable… Does anyone know anything about the value of old sheet music? Including such wartime faves as Gracie Fields’ ‘Bluebirds Over…’ and ‘Kiss Me Goodnight Sergeant-Major’, ‘Red Sails in the Sunset’ and many others… I suppose most of them aren’t worth more than about 50 cents each, but I don’t know anything about what some of these might be worth to a collector… It IS possible one or two might be worth something.

 Anyway, Paula also invited me out to the Café Primo at Tea Tree Gully to a little ‘do’ they were having to celebrate her birthday and that of her ‘Virgo’ friend, Elaine…

She’s a real bundle of energy, that Paula, I can tell you! She picked me up at 2.45 straight from work and we drove up to her house where I looked through the sheet music while she did some odd chores and prepared herself for the evening.

 Her current partner, ‘Swannee’ arrived, a tall rangy bloke with a face reddened from a fishing trip which had left him currently in the doghouse. More people began to arrive, including Paula’s friend, ‘Renee’ and Paula’s eldest son, Lee.

 Eventually we drove to the restaurant, where I met Paula’s other two sons; all three boys came and shook my hand to introduce themselves and politely inquired as to the nature of my injury… Boys are easy to impress! A good ‘accident’ story, especially a ‘motorcycle accident’ story will impress them every time!

 The pizza (with the Lot) at café Primo was the best pizza I’ve eaten in quite a while… anchovies, prosciutto, mozzarella cheese and whole pitted Kalamata olives made it really something special… my compliments to the chef!

 And it was so nice to see a good old ‘family gathering’, with Paula’s family as well as several other nurses; friends of Paula’s from work all having a good time and enjoying themselves. Paula at several stages exclaimed ‘You’ll have to excuse us… we’re all a bit mad…”

 But I don’t think so at all; in fact I think Paula and her friends have discovered the secret to living a good life; they all work hard in a career which is both very challenging and very rewarding; and they all play hard and understand the value of having their families around them. They were a very happy bunch and I’m pleased to be able to say that I don’t think I’ve seen the last of them.

 But have you ever heard the expression, “It never rains, but it pours!”

 Now this is the first time I’d been out of the house apart from trips to the hospital; and the first social invitation I’d received in longer than I’d care to remember… but would you believe that on the Wednesday I was released from Gleneagles, I was sitting at home, enjoying a nice cup of tea when all of a sudden I heard an unexpected knock at my door. I answered it and found myself staring at three, count ‘em, THREE gorgeous young ladies on my doorstep; one Chinese, one Tongan and one Canadian. After inviting them in, I played them a couple of songs and was actually obliged to decline their invitation to go fishing with them on Saturday… the same day I’d just been invited out to Paula’s birthday ‘do’…

 Of course, it turned out these young ladies were from the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints doing missionary work… I told them they would not convert me, but that if they wanted to keep an old man company for a little while every now and then, they were welcome to visit and that I’d love to go fishing with them. I said that, where I’d taught the other Mormon lads who used to visit me how to play chess, I could teach these girls how to fish. I also told them they were much prettier than the lads they’d sent last time and that they had brightened my day considerably already… They said they’d come again next week!

Things seem to be beginning to look up…