Monthly Archives: November 2010

1. The Adventures of Mongrel and The Runt

29 Monday Nov 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

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Author! Author ! Warrigal – Santa’s Little Helper and  his Big Sister (as a Dolly in a Box)

By Warrigal Mirriyuula

1. Two Dogs.

Mongrel and The Runt were two dogs about town.  Well known to all, they had their rounds of the place. A regular morning stop at the back of MacCafferty’s Butchery for the offcuts, then down to the creek for a good chew on the bones happily supplied by the old butcher; then up to the Central School to mess about with the kids at playlunch, always a chunk of sausage roll to be had or on really good days a sugar biscuit; and then a rest in the cool under the decaying concrete loading dock at the abandoned ice-works, snoozing out the heat of the day.

Their afternoons were less structured and usually involved a quick burst of speed up the lane behind the commercial precinct on Bank Street where they had taken to hassling the guard dogs chained up behind a few of the stores. They both enjoyed the excitement of the wind flapping their lips and jowls, supercharging all the smells and odours of the town up their nostrils. It was their daily news and told them all they needed to know about what was going down in town, whether old MacCafferty was butchering that day and what. Whether the timber mill was cutting boards or raw logs, whether the hospital on the hill was incinerating waste; and what was being cooked in the kitchens all over town. And then there was the risk that one day one of the bruisers wouldn’t be chained up. That added the thrill of the possibility of big dog action. They barked and yapped their silly heads off, stopping here and there to scratch vigorously on the paling or corrugated iron fences. That always seemed to get the guard dogs going. They’d bark up a storm, slavering at the mouth and nearly strangling themselves on their choker chains, silly buggers! What did they know of the life of two free dogs, two dogs about town.

Mongrel and The Runt had been their own crew of two for a few years now and like other colourful locals they were known at all the well patronised spots, the front bar at The Freemasons Hotel, the pavement outside Jimmy Hang Sing’s Takeaway, the forecourt of Perks’ Motor Garage, in fact anywhere where there was action and some fun for two dogs about town.

They were an odd couple, Mongrel and The Runt. Mongrel was a big dog with the conformation of a Kelpie, but somehow bigger and more powerful. His coat, generally short, had an undercoat of softer hair like a heeler. This undercoat of grey white gave the coarse black overcoat a slightly peppered appearance, which gave way to the tan and yellow of his legs and his blue spotted white “socks”. Big-chested, he had a blaze of thick “true blue” around his neck and chest that also covered his belly and reached up to the top of his head where it merged with the smooth black again, offset by dark tan eyebrows and tan and yellow round his snout. He was one handsome hound.

The Runt on the other hand was a dog only a bitch could love. Mostly Jack Russel Terrier, but with maybe some Fox Terrier too, and a few after thoughts for good measure, The Runt had never been certain whether he was a “plain” or a “wire haired” dog. Bits of him were one, bits the other, and some bits didn’t have any hair at all. What hair he did have seemed unable to make up its mind what colour to be, so it had settled for a kind of non colour, somewhere between off white and dirty grey brown. He was small and could, and often did, take shelter under Mongrel’s belly. He’d lost the best part of an ear before he teamed up with Mongrel and his tail was a mess of poorly healed breaks that gave it the appearance of a furry lightning bolt as The Runt ran after Mongrel on their daily adventures.

They’d first met up after Mongrel escaped from the local pet store where he’d been dumped by his aesthetically challenged human. Mongrel had been the biggest of his litter and the most variably coloured; traits that apparently didn’t fit the “lifestyle” of that owner.

He’d been very lonely at first but the girl in the pet store had liked his colour well enough and the puppy had ingratiated himself with her in the hope that one day she might leave his pen open and he could get away. And he did. One day shortly after Mongrel had treated the shop assistant to his best “wide eyed puppy” shtick, she lifted him out of the wood shavings and shredded newspaper that lined his pen and put him down on the floor. Before she had time to turn and pick up the chew toy she thought the puppy would enjoy, he was out the door and up Bank Street, flying as fast as his little puppy legs would carry him. He ran right into The Runt who, seeing the young shop assistant running after Mongrel, had clamped his jaws round the thick fur of the pup’s neck and dragged him quick smart up a convenient lane and under a shed. The pup was excited and frightened all at once and as soon as The Runt relinquished his grip Mongrel turned on The Runt and began to yip and yap at him in the cool gloom, dropping at the front, his little backside twisting, his tail wagging fit to bust. The Runt having rescued the pup now had no idea what to do with him.

This haven amongst the brick piers holding up the shed was obviously a regular resort for The Runt, maybe even home. There was an accumulation of old bones in various states of denudation and crunchedness. There was a large piece of tattered green tarpaulin and a number of shredded old jumpers and a blanket all wadded into a very comfortable nest. The pup shut up and gave himself a distracted scratch behind the ear, a quick spot of attention to his pizzle and then he got up and went over to give The Runt a good introductory smelling. The Runt did the same. There must have been something in the air that morning. They were instant, inseparable companions from that moment on.

In time the pup grew larger and stronger on the tucker they scavenged about for. It wasn’t exactly a good life, living on human garbage and scraps, but they were their own dogs and their own company was enough for each of them.

Late one spring day they’d found a dead lamb on the outskirts of town. The crows and maggots had already had the best of it but there was still plenty of good left. They crunched on it a bit, really enjoying the sweet fragrance of decay. They chewed on the woolly carcase until after dusk. There was still a sizeable chunk of the lamb left and they’d decided to drag it home so they could enjoy the smell later. Perhaps even have a roll in it. It hadn’t worked out for them though. The very next day while Mongrel and The Runt were pursuing their morning rounds the owner of the shed had come out the back to get something he’d stored there. Opening the door had been assaulted by the gorge raising stench of animal corruption and death seeping up through the ill-fitting boards of the floor. He soon discovered the malodorous carcase and the detritus of the dogs’ lives under the shed. Holding his breath and pulling all manner of disagreeable faces, he’d cleared the whole lot out. By the time the dogs got back that evening the shed’s owner had installed chicken wire between all the outside piers. The dogs couldn’t get in. They hung around a while, half-heartedly scratching and chewing on the chicken wire, but it was no good. They’d have to move on.

It was Mongrel who had found their new home at the ice-works. He’d been bounding after a big rat that had disappeared under the tangle of bent and rusted rebar and broken concrete that was the remains of the loading dock. Once out of the sun Mongrel lost interest in the rat as he looked around in the dark cool where the collapsed front of the dock created a commodious and weatherproof space. Mongrel clambered back outside to bark The Runt over so he could give it his approval. Both satisfied, they’d taken to searching out some new bedding for a nest and within a few days they were as right as rain. Nobody would disturb them here. This was a place abandoned by humans.

Humans are odd things. Sometimes Mongrel thought they were better off without them and other days, when he saw house dogs playing with their human companions, he wished he and The Runt had someone to throw the ball and play Frisbee with, a basket and a blanket by the fire to go home to. The Runt didn’t like people at all. He’d been cruelly treated as a pup and would often draw close to Mongrel and growl if a person took an interest in them. He could carry off a very forbidding act of aggressive posturing with all the attendant growling and barking, but he was only a little more than a handful so no-one was fooled no matter how good a performance The Runt gave.

It was one of the humans that regularly gathered in the front bar at The Freemasons Hotel that confirmed the two canine companions in their names. Mongrel was just returning to The Runt from a little way up the street where he had run after a cattle-truck on its way out to Wellington. He’d given it a great deal of barking and lunging at the tyres of the speeding, clattering, rattling monster right up to the turn by the Baths. The Heeler in the dog box under the trailer had said “g’day”; just one bark before being obscured by the dust as the semi turned the corner.

It was quiet in the front bar at The Freemasons. The radio was playing the races at Towac Park. Truant smoke from the neglected durries hanging from every drinker’s lip lazily filled the afternoon air. The barman, cleaning glasses and looking out through the street doors had opined, “That silly mongrel’ll get himself run over one of these days.” It was just for something to say while they all waited for the next race on 2GZ. “Not that mongrel. He’s too bloody smart.” another drinker had responded. “Too bloody smart by half. Have you ever seen a more fit pair of strays than that mongrel and the runt he has for an oppo?” He turned the page on his form guide and made a few notations for upcoming races. “They get around like they own the place. Old MacCafferty’s feedin’ ’em most mornin’s.” The other drinkers nodded as though that explained and settled the matter. It seemed that in no time at all the dogs were known around town as that Mongrel and The Runt, and being officially named seemed to give the dogs a legitimacy and license not vouchsafed to other canines in the small central western town. Molong really was their town.

(Come back next week when out two intrepid hounds play cat and mouse with the dogcatcher and Old MacCafferty goes to hospital, creating a kerfuffle when Mongrel and The Runt come to visit.)

11.5 Sandy Goes to Malice Brings

29 Monday Nov 2010

Posted by in Mark

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Digital Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Hey, Sandy here. You know the Bish, Bishop bloody Bishop? Anyhoo, the Bish wants me to go to Malice Brings to investigate a major breaking story. A story about a  man that suffered minor injuries. If you scan the web for societies that protect people with minor injuries, you’ll find none.  This in-depth study shows a haunting sub class of people out there with minor injuries. Frankly, it’s scary.

Here’s my interview from my favourite Aunty, Aunt Verity Well.

FOW: So Aunt Well what’s happening?

Aunt Well:  Malice Brings police say an unyouthful  non woman has been hit by a car after trying to stop two unelderies  driving away with his vehicle.

FOW: Come on, lets get real? Just because someone wants to borrow your car, no reason to get upset. Just joking but cars are inanimate ain’t they? I know people aren’t. What injuries did this car attacking gerontic mammalian throwback receive?

Aunt Well: Police say the 78-year, yes they say 78 year a lot down the station, old non woman received injuries from the fall, well just a little bit, could even develop into minor.

FOW: Police say lots of things. 78 year old should have know better anyway if it gets to minor, press ‘ill be all over it, I mean now news is 24 seven, minor makes the news. As I said scary. Look where’s this non persons car whatever?

Aunt Well: The assumed thieves drove away but forsaken the car nearby.

FOW: It is an allegation not a fact however it was possibly neighbours or perhaps Home and Away. Anyhoo they are hardly going to drive it back and leave the keys on the front porch. Has anyone been arrested?

Aunt Well: Police have arrested two non males of the species who are expected to be charged later today.

FOW: Well lets see, expected to be charged rather than have been charged. They may also be charged especially once they get back home or if already charged then this would get them into further trouble as police hate people who are charged.

Sandy O’Way, Malice Brings.

Foodge 19 – Trotter’s Best Saved

28 Sunday Nov 2010

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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By Big M

Foodge and O’Hoo sat in the main bar trying to enjoy a couple of  ‘Mugs of Chino’, as Merv liked to call a mug of tarry coffee with burnt, slightly frothy milk. They’d been hard at it since dawn, which, was around ten. It was now eleven. The Pigs Arms was abuzz with noise. Gez and the mysterious H were still helping Vivienne clean up the kitchen. Eschewing modern dishwashers (which didn’t work anyway) they’d fallen into a fascinating rhythm of washing, drying, stacking and sorting. O’Hoo, in the absence of his lover, was already onto his second, day-old sausage roll, smeared with sauce from the ever present sauce bottle. Merv refused to sell sauce in little plastic packs and continued to dodge fines from the Health Inspector by claiming that his sauce was for ‘personal use’, all twenty seven hundred litres of it.

The sound of Brkon and Dermot’s stertorous breathing resonated from the cellar. Last night they had started tasting the remnants of Trotter’s Ale, Bitter and Best to determine where the beers had gone wrong. They’d put in a sterling effort, generated copious tasting notes, and then slept it off.

The sound of footsteps on threadbare carpet broke through from above, not literally, of course, but this was quite on the cards. Last night, whilst sober, Brkon had called a mate in, Algy the mycologist, who had arrived early, and asked Granny to show him around. She was still enthusiastically showing him every aspect of the pub, highlighting nuances in her brewing technique. He’d taken bacterial and fungal swabs and plates from everywhere, which he labelled and placed into a backpack. Granny giggled like a young girl every time she was complimented on some little innovation of hers. She was quite a clever brewer!

Merv was dressed in his pink shorts and tank top. Rivulets of sweat trailed down his face and chest which he absent-mindedly wiped with a bar towel. He’d been for his ritual morning run to the boxing gym. This was ‘Merv time’, and he reckoned there was nothing like ‘punchin’ the livin’ shit outta sumpthin’ for relieving stress. He quickly gave the bar a wipe then focussed his attention on some new bottles of ouzo, which he placed on the shelves behind the bar, replacing the ‘Seven Seas Scotch’, which had been imported from Fiji at very little cost, back in 1949.

“What’s the ouzo in aid of?” O’Hoo thought himself rather clever in knowing the name of the imported liquor, then embarrassed himself by inhaling some pastry, which initiated a coughing fit.

“Greek stuff, for the Greek.” Mumbled Merv, with his back to the bar, showing off slightly more ars crack than was legal in these parts

“What Greek?” Foodge’s interest was piqued.

“The famous playwright, comin’ up from Melbourne to oversee one of his famous plays. ‘im and ‘is Missus will be stayin’ in the Bridal Suite.”

“But you don’t have a Bridal Suite.”

“He doesn’t know that”. Merv smiled to himself.

Granny and Algy appeared at the bar. “Lovely system you had here, Granny.” Granny blushed again. “It’s a great pity someone had to ruin it.” Said Algy, as he glared at Merv. “I’m sure the fungal swabs will confirm my suspicions” Merv had converted the attic into a play room for the twins by moving Granny’s lauter tun from the attic down to the basement, then lining the room with gyprock which he got from ‘some bloke’.

Merv poured another round of ‘chinos’ for the lads, and a double shot of ‘Seven Seas’ for Granny, who couldn’t drink beer, unless it was her own. They sat in silence until they were disturbed by the sound of a big Charlie, sans mufflers, followed by a loud bang from the front doors, followed by another bang, then the door swung open and the door frame was filled by an enormous shape. The shape took a couple of steps forward to reveal a young man, of enormous proportions. He looked a little bit like Merv, with shaven head, smaller eyes and ears, and a Pigs Arms T-shirt. A huge pair of leather saddlebags were slung over his shoulder, and a black, open-faced helmet was under his huge arm. “Uncle Merv, Granny, remember me!”

Granny rushed forward. “Little Wesley, your Mum rang to say you were coming. When do you start uni? Have you had breakfast? Sit yourself down. Here, I’ll get you a cappuccino. Have you met Foodge, O’Hoo and Algy? They’re helping with the brew.” Before he knew it Wesley was sat down at the bar with a coffee in hand. Granny had disappeared to cook up her trademark breakfast wedges, bacon and eggs.

“So, what are you doin’ at uni?” Foodge enquired, looking up from his coffee with a moustache of burnt milk.

I’m doing my nursing degree. Sick of working in the abattoir. The only other work at Tumbarumba is the new winery, put in an application to the uni, so, here I am, and that’s if Uncle Merv will put up with me?”

Merv looked concerned. “There’s always a bed here for me sister’s boy, that’s if we’ve still got a pub, eh, Algy?”

“You’ll still have a pub if you follow my recommendations. These swabs have only been taken to confirm my suspicions. The nascent beer that had been sitting in the lauter tun in the attic was being naturally inoculated with wild yeast that was resident in the attic timbers, in the same manner as a Belgian Lambic. Covering the timbers and removing the tun has prevented this. There is no commercial yeast that matches your naturally occurring yeast, so, what I’m about to do is isolate the yeasts, using culture media, as well as yeast genomic PCR, then generate a culture which Granny should be able to keep going for years to come. This may take some weeks but, all of Granny’s ales will be back.”  Algy smiled at Merv, for the first time.

“’ow much will this all cost?” Merv still looked downcast.

“Thirty two swabs at eighty seven dollars each, plus two or three runs in the PCR machine at nine hundred and thirty a run…”

Merv’s face fell further.

… but, for Granny, I’ll do this for free.” Algy got up and left, eager to get into the lab.

Granny had re-appeared with a huge plate of wedges, eggs, bacon, and toast. She’d overheard Algy and Merv’s conversation. “This calls for a toast, let’s try some of that ouzo!”

Merv poured a round of ouzo in middy glasses (he had no idea about anything other than beer and scotch). “Here’s to Algy, and here’s to me favourite nephew, Wesley,”

“Yes, here’s to Algy, and here’s to Sister Wesley.” Foodge enthused as he downed the ouzo.

The room went quiet. O’Hoo looked at him, shaking his head ever so slightly. Granny put a restraining hand on Wesley’s chest. Wesley’s face was flushed, but he remained seated. “You’re quite the comedian, Mr Foodge, but, I hope you’re not implying that I’m some sort of purse carrying, Nancy boy, petticoat wearing, gay Mardi gras marching sheila, or you’ll find yourself coming off second best!”

Foodge went pale, clutched at his abdomen, steadied himself at the bar, then gasped out an apology. Wesley was already at his side. “You alright, mate?”

Foodge had tears streaming down his face. ”Ouzo’s meant to be sipped, not skulled. I’ll be alright when Trotter’s Best is back on tap.”

Merv shook his head, placed the bottle back on the highest shelf, where it would remain until its appointment with the visiting playwright.

Silver Fish

27 Saturday Nov 2010

Posted by in Lehan Winifred Ramsay, Travels

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Story and Painting by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

I just read a piece of…um, journalism…over at unleashed about China. I usually feel annoyed when I read stuff about China. Interesting to me is that stories about China often remind me of stories of Murdoch. “It’s big, it’s cruel, we hate it” often appears to be the crux of the story. This one I just read appeared to have been written in Starbucks after a few nights of, ah, chasing leads. Sweet Chinese girls who answer the phone with a hello.

I’ve never been to China. Only Hong Kong, not the same thing. Only guest houses and hotels, not the same thing. Even a hotel in China is not the same thing. I think it would take about as long to get a story on China as it takes to get one on Japan, and I’m thinking that’s a minimum of 18 years. The same length of time as it would take a person to get through the school system.

One thing that caught my attention about China was the Olympic Opening Ceremony. Partly because it was the first time I ever noticed the Language of Olympic, seeing more than anything else in that great extravaganza a New Improved Version of the Sydney Olympic Opening Ceremony.

But what did impress me were the fields of people making something out of almost nothing. Brushing drums to create immense music. Small gestures animating that entire field. I think China might be the only country left with that kind of concentration and discipline. So when I hear these stories of Chinese might, and as always that might rests in the cruelty and calculation of the Chinese Leaders, I think they’re stupid.

We underestimate the population of China. We count only the gazillion inside the country. How many Chinese blooded people have been born outside China? To be always somehow Chinese. It’s that invisible population that gives China the appearance of a Murdoch. China is itself a World Wide Web. It’s maybe the only country that parallels the Internet.

New Cellar Master – Dermot O’Logy

27 Saturday Nov 2010

Posted by in Emmjay, The Public Bar

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Quality control is a vital part of every commercial organisation’s business.  And this is especially true for purveyors of fine beverages to the gentry – like the Pig’s Arms.

In keeping with the pub’s dedication to maintaining the highest standards in fine drinking, Merv has decided to appoint another new staff member to the team – our new Cellar Master, Dermot O’Logy.

Dermot O'Logy, resting after a hard day's taste testing

Merv selected Dermot from a highly competitive field on the strength of his dedication to the work and from an outstanding example of his tasting notes – that fell out of his pocket when Manne removed him from the gents helped him disengage from his work.

Merv is pretty sure, no almost certain that this is Dermot’s published work.  Possibly.

Merv is expecting Dermot to wax lyrical about Trotter’s Ale (when he regains consciousness – Dermot, not Merv) and he (Merv, not Dermot) wonders what the patrons of the pub really think about the brew – inviting comments from the astute and discerning patrons de porc.

The Van Doctor

27 Saturday Nov 2010

Posted by in Sandshoe

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By Sandshoe

25/11/2010

Driving into a glare of headlights on the Tullamarine freeway at 5.30 am, this the dead of winter in Melbourne and I am talking on a mobile phone to a client parked by Ayers Rock whose kids won’t “go” behind it, who is demanding instruction on what to do when the council toilets are locked, the motor home’s toilet blocked and “the wife” insists I send the van doctor. “She” will otherwise, logically, file for divorce.

The van doctor knows everything, I agree. You will need to learn, a sales manager told me, years ago as we were about to parachute together out of a plane, how to diffuse argument. I hope, first, diversion of my client from his anxiety attack. We discuss the pedestal on which I place the van doctor. The latter, I recall, I refered to at the depot as knowing everything anyone can, although I meant about vans not absolutely everything.

The contrast between the results of my solicitations (but don’t give anything away, I was told by the same sales manager) and my client’s original disinterest in niceties between us lends me belief a moment suggested no other before than his life’s entirety in vain. “Wow,” later in the day he yells into his mobile, “The van doctor is a helluva good bloke. Now about the toilet?”

I hasten to recommend my readers make LifeLine a primary source of reference in crises. I’m no counsellor. You might say Pete’s a roadie, roughly. Fact: anything that’s got wheels, I drive, although done my share of rigging. Six months shooting crocs I don’t usually let on about in a fit. I unlock the depot, thinking what it was like in the Daintree those days, check the night’s vehicles in and the early morning’s out, and in.

Time to traverse the gleaming rows of snub-nosed metal hides, check the polish before helter skelter take vehicles to mechanics, for tyres, petrol, clients at the airport and fax service sheets. I’m literate. Writing a book in my spare time. Easy, service sheets. Fax refrigeration unit details, diagrams of accident damage. I stock take linen, cutlery, frypans, saucepans, microwave dishes… check diary and ring the van doctor. See if he’s a deal on the toilet valves.

A mechanic two doors down is dropping dead of a heart attack in the late afternoon, just before sunset fades. The junior calls by to advise in of course, the retrospect. Tears trace in the oil on her face. “I kissed him,” she says, “I didn’t know what else to do.”
That’s right, the van doctor… He’s always under a motorhome, seems, his arm is up the sewerage outlet. I’m stretched out, flat on a ground cover in the loom of the home. My head is pillowed on a knee pad lying next to the sink fill unit with the glue still drying on the old outlet ring seal and it’s 3.00am.

“I see you did the flyscreens in 531. Any hope of this working?”
The answer is a bout of swearing. I reel off lists of alternative parts distributors.

Check statements of monies owing.

The van doctor and I leave the depot at 4.30am to drive in convoy to my unit on Ascot Vale Road and déjà vu, steak and eggs. I brew coffee. My mobile rings, repeatedly. Tempted crack a tinny. Jim’s wife wants to know where is he. I say, “Here.” She doesn’t believe it. She is at the end of her tether and Jim at his.

Jim muses, “It’s my birthday, Pete.” I retort how amazing it is. “No, every year today,” he snaps and swears, volubly, the minute I tell him it’s my birthday. I think he is kidding he is upset. No, he is upset. Thinks I made up that it’s my birthday. Bloke’s nerves are shot.

The new ‘John’ is at the foot of my ladder. I’m washing a home. No small deal on an hour’s kip. “Who knows,” I hear and look down on my swirl of drive-wayed suds. ‘Jack’, in its middle, personally would, cunning, if he could for me, but no guarantee… best friend… boss… years… watch the water… bloke changes his mind like underwear… every day sometimes… business comes first! The spruiker brandishes a knife out of a hip pocket, shouting he hates Melbourne. The shout is at his mobile even as it rings and he queries, “Van? Doctor?” The thrown knife embeds in the wall of the motor home.

“Where? Who? What? Why? Strikin’? Parts? So’s Santa Claus! S’up the LADDER!”

The mobile sinks under white froth, tossed to the ground.

‘Jack’ turns my way. Least s’pose he did, chewing over this bit. I’m out of the equation, closest reach. Gone. Done a scarper. Quick and the dead.

By Sandshoe

Previously published in: Creative Writers: anthology of poems and stories/edited by Christina Wilson, 1950-/Noarlunga, S. Aust./Christie Downs Community House 2003, [34] p. ;21cm

Aardvark Me Dead, Damn those Frogs

26 Friday Nov 2010

Posted by in Emmjay, The Sports Bar

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Holy Shit !

I was shocked yesterday to see  in one of those newspapers that they give away at railway stations a photograph of a member of a precious protected species – the Wallabies – with one eye staring at the camera and the other eye having a little holiday somewhere in the back of the chap’s head.

He had some interesting facial embroidery accompanying his wandering orbit.

The story (sorry, I’m too slack to go find it – you can dig it out and I’ll post it) went on to say that THIS French rugby squad was terrifically well behaved and had almost weaned themselves off using the Christmas hold (a handful of nuts) as a primary part of their normative tactics.

But it is clear that they are certainly clinging to their other old chestnut – the digital eye massage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of these has got to be Os

I think that this is one part of the Australian defence sorely lacking  – the reprisal – and I am hoping that the Wallabies can enlist the services of my favourite game play persuader Os du Randt,  (through sheer force of personality) to persuade the French (who,  after all, have a chicken as their mascot) to cease and desist in playing with our boys’ wedding tackle and encouraging the Frogs to leave their opponents eyes comfortably ensconced in their sockets.

I’d like to send a personal thank you to Voice for the Aardvark joke.   Killed me.

If you missed it, you’ve either got a long search mission or you can send me an Email stapled to a tenner and I’ll explain it…..

The problem with the renos, Voice,  is stopping the car to change the flat tyre – or just putting up with the flapping until we get to the party.

Big M Heads North

25 Thursday Nov 2010

Posted by in Big M

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Story and photographs by Big M

This may come as a complete surprise to most of the patrons of the Pigs Arms; I’m not a professional writer. I’m a Nurse Practitioner in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit.

A frequent part of my job is to head a team, which travels to regional hospitals in our area health service to retrieve sick or preterm infants. We often travel in our own ambulance but this is impractical beyond about 200 kms, so, we need to fly. Today we had a call to pick up a thirty-four weeker (born about six weeks early) with Respiratory Distress, in a Special Care Nursery around 400 kms north.

The first thing we did was to have a sandwich and a quick cup of tea, empty the bladder, and change into our flight suits. The equipment is in a constant state of readiness, so there’s very little to prepare, except for driving down to the helipad and loading the chopper.  The pilot and crewman are usually happy to do an inter-hospital retrieval as there’s never any winching of personnel out of surf, sinking ships, fires or flood, just a scenic trip!

Kooragang Island and Stockton Beach.

Whilst the whole concept of flying sounds exciting, it’s pretty tedious, and takes about an hour and a half. We arrive at out destination where wardsmen help move our equipment to the nursery whilst the crew refuel the aircraft, as well as themselves.

The baby is pretty stable; as her doctor has requested she be transferred to our unit before she becomes more unwell, and the nurses have done everything to enable us to swap over to our ventilator, monitors, etc, then move back out to the helicopter. Naturally we talk to the parents, who seem to take everything in their collective stride. Mum is not stable enough to come with us, so will be transferred later.

Retrieval Unit loaded into the back of Bell 412 Helicopter - with purse-carrying nancy-boy installed.

The trip back to Newie is unremarkable, except for the baby trying to disengage herself from her respiratory support. We have a tailwind, so the homeward trip is slightly quicker. The terrain from above is remarkable. One can imagine huge glaciers carving out the various valleys along the coast, with rivers, and creeks ‘tidying up’ eons later. Some towns naturally evolved into a kind of ‘inland port’ on riverbanks where logs were sent downstream. Other towns formed next to various bays and harbours, no longer loading produce onto ships, now providing accommodation for holidaymakers.

I’m happy when we land back at the helicopter base, for two reasons; the baby has done well during the worst part of the trip, and my neck aches from the weight of the helmet. We return to our hospital to admit the new patient whilst the crew refuel to take an adult retrieval team to another location on the north coast.

Manne, Oh Manne

25 Thursday Nov 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

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Merv was looking glum.  He was an expert at looking glum ever since Janet had joined the pudding club.  But this time he was not thinking of an unresolved itch in his corduroy strides.  He was thinking about Manne.

Jesus, granny.  Look at this….. he handed over a crumpled print of an Email addressed to Manne ….  it read ……

Good day Dear gentleman,

Please don’t be astonished. This letter isn’t spam mailing and doesn’t contain any commercial information. This is a one-time massage, which you are going to receive from this address.

The inquiry on searching for a love couple that you have left on the dating website, have finally been considered. Today we would like to bring astonishing words – you got the possibility to alter your life path. We provide you with a great possibility  to build serious relations. According to your searching wants we’ve chosen for you an ideal couple.

We would like to give you interim info about this lass:

Her name is Natalja, she is 35 y.o. and she is from Russian Federation. The girl isn’t married and has no children. She doesn’t smoke and don’t imbibe.

She is a young, calm, goal seeking and active lass, which lacks warmth and endearment in this great world. Her cheerfulness has no limits – her sports activity is a good confirmation to that. Going out for a walk, love towards nature and plants makes our candidate a romantic one. Maybe in future you could see the sunrise together, walking by the river, holding each other’s hands. Your happiness is in your hands now!

And this is only one part of all the positive criteria, which we were describing to you about this handsome lady.

At the moment our mission is finished.

If you would like to continue your communication with this charming girl, then you can send her a letter on her personal e-mail address – devochkanata@yahoo.com (don’t go there, OK !)

We wish you good luck! Bring love and be beloved!

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Oh, Oh, said gran.  He bit me for a twenty to go towards an airfare …….