Author Archives: Mark

Kerobokan Gets Father O’Way

15 Thursday Jul 2010

Posted by in Mark

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Sandy Beach

Well, Father O’Way here, I mean look firstly she told me she was sixteen, sorry not my child, I was outta town that night anyway, I was just trying to show her the Heimlich Manoeuvre honest, boy so many questions.   So the Bish banishes me to Indonesia, over a little fling with the housekeeper and bit of dope left in my boogie board bag, I mean it was only a few kilos.  Filling in for 2 weeks at Kerobokan Prison as resident Chaplain with my little Shappy, I mean, this was going to be hell, pardon the pun.

Shappy said most people sleep on the floor of their cell. Hers sleeps 6 and is a tight fit.  I asked why they didn’t use bunk beds.  “It’s very tight in there.” said Shappy, pointing to her sarong, hmmm I thought, I love a tight fit.  Shappy said she couldn’t give me any info on what was going on.  I said, “But people are interested in your mental state and your cleavage oops I mean conditions?”  She said she was holding up okay and when I told her that the guards and the media were saying she wasn’t accepting visitors, she said don’t believe everything you read in the press, especially anything on the bulletin board at the Pig’s Arms.  Shappy said there’s no tennis court at Kerobokan as reported in the newspaper, I mean fecking hell, no tennis court!

I asked her about the lack of daylight, she said she has gotten used to the fluorescent light being on the whole time, “Christ, oops sorry Father, not even a fecking energy saver”.  The press likes to exaggerate everything and one source said she had not seen the light of day for 6 months.  When I saw her she looked tanned, more tanned than me.  She has an ample breast line, curvy waist, long legs and a million dollar smile.  “Father, Father”, she yelped, “No hands please, but lower Father, much much lower”.

We bribe the guard with a Pig’s Arms t-shirt to let us go downtown, I mean, who wouldn’t want a Pigs Arm’s t-shirt.  We walk to the Hotel Intan Bali and stop for a bevy at the Kakatua Lobby Bar.  Shappy says the beers are crap here.  I tell her I have a six pack of Trotters, she looks at me “Father, I’d do anything for a Trotters, I mean anything”.  So we go down the beach and we have a photo taken of us in the sand as we knock back a few ales.  I ask Shappy if there was one message to give people back home, something that would show that she was innocent.  After a long pause she replied “Yes Father, can someone mind my hydro!”

from the Pig’s Arms’ correspondent in Bali, well, Hung

Warrigal Drops Into the Pig’s Arms

10 Saturday Jul 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

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By Warrigal

Brickwork cratering, exploding. Shit!! my face, then hear shot!

(Shotty?)

Face stinging, shit, left eye, swallow hard, GOGO GO! Low fool!! Twoshot! Fuck! Torn carpetlefthand and I lit outa there as fast as I could.

“I only came for a fuckin’ beer and some of them wedges.! What’s with this? Myall Creek again?”

Toohard shout and run, BLAMthreeshot TOOclose whizzzzzfzzfzzfzz by my ear and blew a wad outa the dart board as I flew by. If I can just make it into the lounge I stand a chance,  almost there, crashthrough swingingdoors, ??occurring to me?? Is this sport??. Shit! He couldn’t miss me from across the bar, FUUUCK!overbarstool, drinkers look notfussed. “Fuck me!” Who is this guy? What’s with the cannon? Why me?

My mind begins to race. I knew this pub was weird when I saw that bearded guy tie that alpaca up outside. What was that about? And the collection of oil dropping British marques in the car park; and that Black Series III Zephyr 6, (?) Chief Inspector Barlow must be about.

I go down, I hurt bad, in places. I’m goin’ nowhere!! justGOprone…. Armsoutspreadeagle….

“Get up ya bastard!” He kicks my ankle.

Keeping my hands out all the time I roll around, I’m staying on the floor. My ribs hurt where I crashed over the stool. I mean they really hurt, crackedbroken? I can’t see properly outa my left eye and the back of my left hand has a spray of pellet wounds. Shit!!

I go for comedy.

“Ya got me….,” big smile and a happy shrug but he’s not buying any of it.

“Get up ya bastard, I said!”, and not to leave it out, to finish his routine, kicks me again and I get another sharp pain to worry about.

Gingerly, ??noticing?? several aches sprainpains!! Left hand throbbing, slowly stand uuupp…

(You should see this. I mean really; I may be battered and broken but this guy is seriously fucked up. Stick with me right, because this is how it looked as I slowly lifted my head……,

The mad cannoneer has grubbywhite socks under cheapplastic sandals, cheap polycotton pants, beige; white belt. Knitted??, NO! Crocheted!! yellow polo shirt with a “Jaguar Drivers Club” cloth patch over the left tit! Sorry,  saggy tit. Seriously! Who is this guy? Why does no-one but me see this whole thing as seriously twilight zone.

“I really did only come in for one beer and some wedges. Honest mate, I seriously dunno what’s going on here. You coulda killed me!” a little too hysterically, but you’ll forgive me I’m sure.

“If I’d wanted ya dead, y’d be dead already. Quit whining!”

Then I see it! Casually but firmly held, as though it’s just part of his arm, is a hand tooled Purdey, Side by Side, All the Gods of Gunpowder! it’s a beautiful thing, perfectly balanced in his grip, both sinister blue steel gleaming barrels pointed at my guts. He had my full attention.

(No, fuck, there it goes…, )

What’s with that screamin’ pink drink and all the umbrellas in his left hand? I’m mad, must be! No, I’m dead! This is some outer circle of hell. I look him in the eyes.

Whatever…….

He fixes me with those rheumy gimlet eyes, the Purdey doesn’t waver, “Wha’did ya say to that bloke?” the “Best‘n’Less” spectacle indicates the punter I was talking to before the wall exploded.

“All I aid was, “Owning a collectable Jag is like standing up ta ya hips in a bath of used sump oil burning $100 bills one at a time”, it was a simple enough proposition and all too true, “I should know. I’ve had a few in my time.” I tried to extend my left hand, morepain!!! I pick out a pellet and flick it on the floor.

The Purdey wavered, did it droop? YESssjustslightly!!

“What have ya had?” his head drops on one side and he gives a dog like look

“Well over the years, many; but just at the moment I’ve got a 1987 Series III 5.3litre Sovereign, white with red; and a 1976 Series II 4.2L Coupe, red softtop with velour. Though I covered the velour with custom sheepskin.”

“The coup; carbs or injected?”

“Injected”

“That Sov.’s a beautiful thing to drive, (A deep sigh), lovely balance.” suddenly all the bluster’s gone from him. He slumps and breaks the Purdey, takes out the still smoking spent shells. “I’m sorry mate, really I am.” He’s trembling, lookin’ at the floor, “I just get so sick’a people taking the piss all time. I really do! I love me Jag, I love m’ Purdey. So I got this thing for British shit…, so what?”

He lifts his head and is just stood there, sobbing silently, shaking a bit. The old woman from behind the food bar comes out and puts an arm over his shoulder. Taking the empty, broken gun she hands it to this other dude who’s been standing around like some kinda factotem. First I’ve really noticed him.

The old woman turns to me and says, like this whole thing, it’s my fault!?!, “Merve didn’t mean no harm. Why’d ya gotta go and say them things in ‘ere? That’s just spiteful that is.” She takes “Merve”, apparently, out through the doors that say “Staff Only”

And I’m thinkin, I’m lucky to be alive, and lookin’ around the bar I see that all these other people are just lookin’ at me, like they think it’s my fault too. Well fuck that for a game of fuckin’ soldiers, “That bastard just shot at me!” I shout at no-one in particular, “Three fucking times for chrisake!”, I’m really mad now.

This grey haired guy stands and says, in a very final tone too, “Sit the fuck down you whining nonce, finish ya wedges and beer,. He didn’t hit ya did ‘e? (show him left hand), “Naaarh, that’s nothin’. Fuckin’ scratches” and he gives me his hankie to wrap round my wounded hand. My blood redly oozes through the pressed white linen, obscuring the monogrammed MJ in the corner. (So he’s MJ) “Thanks MJ” I say without really enough thanks. I go and sit down.

I need to put my poo in a pile. I take a long pull on my beer. Relaxing, my heart rate dropping as the adrenalin washes away, I look around. There’s a guy at the end of the bar reading Sophocles while he’s fillin’ ‘is face w’ wedges. So I stuff a few wedges in me gob for good measure.

“The’ wezzes are goo, weawy goo.” I say, mostly to myself through a mouthful of half chewed wedges,. More beer and wedges. “These wedges are fanfuckingtastic!” I spray at the same guy I’d warned about Jag’s. “I mean, they’re really great!” He smiles slowly and nods like the penny shoulda dropped by now, but I’m too busy yaffling more wedges.

I swallow my last wedge and go over to the food bar. The old woman’s there and I say, “Can ya tell, Merve, is it?, yeah? Merve, that I’m really sorry. It was all my fault. I was a fool. Will he ever forgive me? Will ya tell him that?” (She smiles knowingly. She’s obviously played this scene before.)

“And can I have another plate of them wedges?”

“Of course you can dear, and I’m sure Merve won’t hold it against you.” She smiles that winner’s smile, hands me my wedges, “You can call me Granny when you come again.” She winked at me, the old biddy winked at me.

But she’s right, Granny is. I’ll be back and probably soon too. Merve could ride a warthog round the lounge in the nude singing “Friday on My Mind” shooting every second drinker in the place so long as none of ‘em was me and Granny kept makin’ those wedges.

(I swear, seriously, she winked at me.)

Now I gotta go and find outa ‘bout that Alpaca.

About Middle and Off – Hung’s Wide World of Sport

02 Friday Jul 2010

Posted by in Mark

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At 5 for 348 over to the commentary box….Hung?

“Lillie approaches from the Vulture Street End, Boycott pads up, its bowled him, Boycott’s off stump knocked out of the ground, no shot offered……”, the lounge room roars into action, grown men cry, dogs bark, people flood the street tossing hats in the air rejoicing, backs are slapped, beers are poured, this is summer this is cricket, this is heaven, their best batsman bowled without offering a shot, life doesn’t get any better than this, ah yes, cricket where the only thing better than cricket is more cricket.

Yes cricket, the one true national game.  Forget your football codes cricket is life and life is cricket.  Understanding cricket is easy. Get more runs then they do, simple.  Nothin’ too hard bout that. And yes the culture, the joy, the atmosphere, its quasi-religious and coming from an atheist that’s saying something.

As a kid growing up in Wollongong all my mates played cricket and for me batting, bowling or fielding I couldn’t care less, just playing the game was all I needed.  Weekends were cricket in the juniors Saturday morning, Grade in the afternoon.  Sunday morning surf then when the nor’easter came in cricket in the park with me mates.  Mum had to come and get me for tea as the sun had set ages ago. She’d call out from the street “Hung, get home, it’s as black as, tea’s on the table, how can you see that ball anyhow?”, “But Mum, a century beckons”, I always wondered why mum called me Hung when my name’s Xavier, anyway some things are a mystery.

My Dad, an Englishman tolerating us colonials, would get the bus to the bottom of Bulli Pass and hold up a sign “SCG”, someone would always pull over and give him a lift. I was too young to go along at first but then my initiation came, the SCG, the hallowed turf, the smell of the freshly cut grass, the crowd, the banter between the Poms and the Aussies, always witty, never violent or abusive and supporters of both sides could sit together and barrack for their team.  Mum would pack ham and mustard sandwiches and Dad would shout an ice cream, bliss.

Then as a young man going to the test with my mates, eskies full of beer, pies and hotdogs, hot chips and seagulls.  Doug Walters would stride out and the crowd would erupt, “Douggie, Douggie” we’d chant.  If he got a boundary the noise was deafening, all of us would rise as one, “You bewdy”.  Then tragedy, Douggie caught in the covers, “Poms can’t field, how’d they catch that “.

Then as I aged a bit more and the Hill disappeared and my brother-in-law, Brad, and I would sit in the stands. One birthday, which falls in January, somewhere between the 4th and the 6th, hint hint, we went to the SCG and watched India play, Azzarudin, mate, me and Brad wanted to make him an honorary Aussie, he was brilliant.  But it was against the Poms that was best, the old dart, the mother country, those were the days.

Tutu and I moved to Adelaide in the eighties and loved it. 15 minutes to the oval, no rain, 5 days of heaven.  Saw the mighty West Indies, Adam Gilchrist, V.V.S Laxman,  Wasim Akram and the graceful Brian Lara.  In the first few years here, Tutu would bring books to the game  to read but it gets hot in summer, 40 plus, so now she drops me at the Oval and goes on a spending spree on my credit card, I mean am I a winner or what ?

Andrew Strauss not getting it either

So for those that don’t understand cricket, don’t worry.  Just pretend you like it or compromise like Tutu and read a book, enjoy the fresh air, the sun, the community, being as one with total strangers, applauding your opponent for good play, all of these things are cricket and oh yes check the scoreboard occasionally.
Now available at: http://hungoneon.wordpress.com/2010/06/12/about-middle-and-off-hungs-wide-world-of-sport/

Ashes to Ashes

23 Wednesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

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By Warrigal

“Tired of endless defeat, the MCC calls in the big guns to bolster the selection committee. We find them assembled in their private box above the SCG where they hope to get some pointers watching the colonials.

Nelson, dispirited that Hardy’s fate is to be 12th man again, has devolved into a brown study and will not be cheered. Elizabeth, on the other hand, enigmatically remembers Darnley’s powerful leg spin technique. Doctor Grace, proving that even death can’t keep a good man down, is padded up and practising a few blocking strokes; while Bond thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to shoot the lot of them and start again.”

Warrigal Mischief

ABC of Cricket – the Voice from the Hill

23 Wednesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Voice

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On the way to the MCG, at the MCG and on the way home from the MCG

by Voice

As a young woman, the realization that in order to prosper in the workforce I needed to be able to talk about cricket came as a huge relief.

If you knew the extent of my lack of interest in the sport of cricket spectating, you might find this puzzling.  It’s hard to pinpoint the cause of this militant lack of interest. It might be a female thing; it might be a reaction to my father’s seasonal lack of availability, or to his one-eyed barracking. My father was your archetypal one-sided sports fanatic.  It was quite late in my childhood that I fully understood the role of the other team on the ground. Until then, listening to my father’s exclamations during the endless TV broadcasts, I thought the members of his team were the only actual players, battling blind umpires, unfavourable weather, or worse, the occasional unforced error, in an effort to claim their rightful title of match winner.

In any case, this early disaffection with the game of cricket was only reinforced as a University student, where endless discussion of cricket scores was lumped together in my mind with endless discussions about cars as uncouth “engineer’s talk”.

Fast forward a few years, and the burning ambition to be able to pay for food and rent found me working for a manufacturing company in a largely engineer dominated IT department.  As the cricket season commenced I reflexively turned off whenever the inevitable discussions started. But I couldn’t help noticing that I was spending a lot of time talking to myself, and this was highlighted during a period of relative inactivity for my group, when half the day was spent arguing  about cricket (and the other half perfecting the giant paper ball). It became painfully obvious at a farewell for one of our group, where the others bonded with management over a cricket discussion while I found myself a lonely outsider, that something needed to be done.

So I decided to bite the bullet and follow the cricket. I shamelessly enlisted the aid of a co-worker who had both demonstrated some knowledge of cricket and shown some interest in my company (no doubt confirming in the mind of many engineers reading this piece the dastardly use of feminine wiles by their female colleagues.) Over a coffee break I confessed the reluctance of my resignation to spending endless weekend hours watching cricket on the tele, half-expecting him to recoil in horror. It took me a while to realize the significance of his counter-confession that some weekends he himself had to miss the cricket and that on those occasions he just checked the score intermittently, but was still able to hold his own at work on Monday. Imagine my relief and delight when I realized it wasn’t strictly necessary to know about the cricket. All I needed to be able to do was to talk about it.

Riffing together we came up with the phrase “at one stage there…” as in “at one stage there Australia was 3 for 103” or “at one stage there Warne was 54 not out”. All that was needed was to check the scoreboard once during the cricket broadcast!

The day before the next lunchtime gathering I searched the newspaper for the cricket news. I arrived at work the next day with a few facts printed on the palm of my hand. After everybody had eaten enough to satisfy hunger, and the conversation turned to cricket, I surreptitiously glanced at my hand and announced “At one stage there Australia was 2 for 75.” This was greeted by a number of wise comments, and I was part of the group. Emboldened by this success, I further announced “At one stage there Steve Waugh was 75 not out.” This was met by a puzzled silence and I found myself on the outside once again. Later my ally explained to me that the correct pronunciation of  Waugh is “Waw”. Never having really listened to a cricket broadcast, I had somehow come up with the idea that it was pronounced “woe”. Since at that time Steve (or  Mark?) Waugh was captain of the Australian cricket team, this was a major blunder.

My second big effort was Christmas drinks at the pub, where I arrived unprepared but was thrilled to hear the cricket news being announced on TV, and immediately memorized the first piece of information. Later I proudly announced my hastily memorized factoid, and once again it was well received. Then somebody asked me “Who won?”  Unfortunately I had been so engrossed in memorizing that I had omitted to note this apparently important detail, and my face fell. An employee with all the social grace of, well, a young engineer working in IT, piped up “You can’t be very interested in the cricket if you don’t know who won.” The members of my immediate group, who by this time were in on the joke, were in stitches. I decided to own up rather than look a total moron, and by that time everybody had drunk enough to take it well.

Boxing Day 2008, and a couple I haven’t met yet are the hosts for the post-Christmas neighbours gathering.  The husband greets us at the door with “I was just watching the cricket”.  I have a moment’s panic; since I’ve been working at a small non-cricket oriented company the start of the cricket season has passed unnoticed. But through those earlier years of intensive training in cricket conversation I manage to avoid the crimes of appearing uninterested or asking who’s winning.  I settle on asking the score, and the moment passes safely.

Thankful for this reminder, and with job interviews pending, I search the web and find the ABC.Net cricket page. There I discover an invaluable innovation, the Live Game Log.  The first log entry is a summary of the state of play at the commencement of the day, and the follow-up entries are brief over by over summaries logged in real time. All the information needed to contribute to a cricket conversation available at your fingertips. At one stage there Kallis was not out for 26.

with thanks to Voice – for establishing  the perfect level of involvement …. and anticipating a rejoinder from Hung …..

The First Australians ?

19 Saturday Jun 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

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By Warrigal

There’s a fellow living in Brisbane by the name of Grahame Walsh. He’s just like you and me, no one particularly important, except in one very important respect. He is the world expert on the so-called Bradshaw Aboriginal Rock Art of the Kimberley. No one else even comes close.

Every dry season for the past several decades Grahame has made his way, alone most of the time, to the Kimberley to seek out and record what is perhaps the earliest available record of the human occupation of this continent. Surviving on silence and tinned tuna, he has amassed thousands of pages of notes and literally millions of meticulously catalogued images. He is responsible for the creation of the only working system for delineating the phases of this art.

‘It’s my life’s obsession, and I’ve devoted everything I had to it,” Grahame told a Fairfax journo a few years ago. “Health, wealth, personal happiness and friendship, I’ve sacrificed the lot in the quest. Now I’m 60, two buggered knees, my wife’s gone, and I’ve got no dough – but I’ve gained a higher understanding of the cognitive development of humankind than probably anyone else in this country.”

What makes this interesting is that Grahame has no formal art history or anthropological training, no degrees in archaeology, paleopsychology or cognitive philosophy, indeed no formal training at all. He was however, awarded an honorary doctorate from Melbourne University late in 2004 in acknowledgement of his life’s work. He is entirely self made, an autodidact; and like a lot of autodidacts he’s got some ideas that tend to get the hackles of more formally trained academics well and truly up.

Grahame Walshe: loner, autodidact and world authority on the Bradshaw art.

His ideas include the notion that the Bradshaw art is not strictly speaking “indigenous”. Grahame doesn’t think there’s any cultural connection between the art and the indigenous communities living in the Kimberley at this time. He may be right. Linguistic analysis seems to suggest that the current locals, while claiming both guardianship and a cultural connection, are none the less as separate from the artists as Grahame himself is. Further; physical analysis of the art has proven a minimum age of greater than 17K years. This was achieved by dating individual silicon grains in the fabric of a wasp’s nest built on top of an artwork. Not exactly a clincher, given that this doesn’t in any way actually date the art. Other attempts to date the material of the art itself have been unsuccessful to date as the pigments and binders used by the early artists have petrified. There is strong evidence to suggest that the preparation of these colouring agents and the binders is another lost technology. Current indigenous artists need to readdress their work from time to time to keep the colour in the work, whereas the Bradshaws have maintained their strength of colour over tens of thousands of years.

So what is it about the Bradshaws or Gwion Gwion, as the Ngarinyin call them, that makes them so compulsively fascinating to Grahame and almost everyone that claps eyes on them?

Well they’re different, really different!

More like rock art from areas of The Sahara, or South East Asia, than anything else in Australia; the Bradshaws depict such strange things as hoofed deer. Not at all common this side of the Wallace Line and suggesting that the artists had some familiarity with these beasts. The images incorporate such diagnostic elements as an “horizon line” and rudimentary perspective. These elements are almost entirely absent from later indigenous art. They also depict what are arguably large ocean going vessels carrying goodly numbers of people, 29 in one instance. In contrast archaeological evidence relating to the current indigenous people of this continent suggests that water-craft of any kind, obviously present at the time of colonisation, must none the less have been a technology that was discarded or lost after landfall and only re-invented many thousands of years later. Maritime iconography is entirely absent from later aboriginal art right up until the last few thousand years when simple river and harbour canoes begin to appear.

Ian Wilson in his 2006 book, “The Lost World of The Kimberley” suggests that the art may predate the movement of the current indigenous population into this country. He reminds us that at Glacial Maxima the lower sea level would have extended the coastal plain beyond the current shore and connected and enlarged Australia and New Guinea into what geologists and paleogeographers call Sahul. The Indonesian Archipelago would have been a continuous land mass incorporated into a huge low plain connecting the highlands of Malaysia, Sumatra and Java with Borneo, with an enlarged Sulawesi to the East across a narrow strait.

Wilson suggests that this may have created a kind of equatorial Mediterranean. A protected sea almost entirely surrounded by land across which the many peoples of this environmentally rich area would have travelled to trade and for the acquisition of new territory. The so-called Banda People or Bugis are sometimes called the sea gypsies and it is from their name that the expression “Boogieman” originates. One only has to think of the Bangkok water markets to understand the longstanding utility of a water-based way of life in Asia. Wilson suggests that maybe it was the ancestors of these Asiatic people that worked the Bradshaw magic; but that at some point, as the sea level began to rise rapidly along the low gradient Kimberley coast at the end of an ice age, these people simply filled their ocean going canoes and abandoned their Austral experiment for greater certainty across the Banda Sea in the north, once again leaving the The Great South Land empty until the next wave of colonisers arrived probably via a route to the north and down through New Guinea. Later indigenous art, while wonderful in itself, simply doesn’t have the dynamism and freedom of form and execution characteristic of the Bradshaw art. It’s driven by a different aesthetic and almost certainly has a different cultural motivation.

You see, we do just strut and fret for a moment and then we go, to be heard from no more; and I wonder who it was that executed these stunning works. These people that transformed thousands of rock overhangs into galleries of great art and then passed away leaving nothing but the art and a mystery still waiting to be teased out of deep time.

Graham Walshe is probably there now. I wonder what he’s found this year.

Warrigal Mirriyuula

A Dark Horse, A Dance Floor, An Exciting Conclusion

18 Friday Jun 2010

Posted by in Julian London

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By Julian London

….. the story so far ………

Baggely sidled around the edge of the room to get to the podium, brushing past the great Womble of Warrigal, the most fearsome of all the judges…..

He handed in his completed form; together with his chosen piece on a CD single and explained to Mugla how he intended to use the floor so that they could work in unison, because one of Mugla’s jobs was shining the spotlight where it mattered.  Mugla also promised to switch the strobe light on, when Baggely gave him a secret sign, nodding and seeming to say, “Yes, I can do it- I can use the strobe appropriately- I’m up to the task- trust me!” ……..

Baggely returned to the bar for another double tot- but this time reciprocated Vanya’s gaze, with a knowing smirk- revelling in the thought of the sensational impression that he was going to make.  She looked puzzled-and he could understand that. They had never spoken- only swapped furtive, flirtatious looks over the last few weeks. But it would be different tonight!  And Maybelline had tipped him off in any case, thus ‘marking his card’, as to her fancy.

The large rectangular room was ¾ full now and the atmosphere was humming, like a bee hive, especially as the DJ had turned up the volume to compensate for the acoustical challenge of the crowd.

He was on fifth, which meant that one more snifter was in order.  And Maybelline, the barmaid from the bush, duly obliged, flashing her unmodified teeth , and wishing him well, in her irrepressible, quantitative way.

Everything was temporal now. The planning and dreaming was all gone.  Now is the hour came into his head. But of course the sentiment was different- he was staying not leaving.  The rum was having an effect and he looked around, taking in the multitude, noticing new people- here for the contest, of course.  Many of them taking advantage of the $5.00 bar snacks, thoughtfully subsidized by Merv.  Stuffing themselves – oblivious to the ‘competition surcharge’, that he had bunged on the liquor prices, in lieu of an entrance fee.

He heard the applause and moved to the edge of the dance floor to watch the end of MJ’s version of MJ’s moonwalk.  Baggely had to admit some admiration here, as he was an avid thriller fan- and the site of MJ gliding effortlessly around, acknowledging everyone and being feted, seemed apt for this magnanimous, compassionate, virtuoso.

He swallowed the last of the rum, put the Glass on the small shelf by the mirrored pillar, took off his tie and jacket and undid the top three buttons on his vermillion, Jaggeresque, paisley shirt- to let Johnny out.

He heard Mugla calling him now.   Bagglely!..Baggallee…Baagaully Shoreditch please.

He was Johnny now –the dancer — so he quickly moved across to the makeshift stage- and winked at DJ Mugla, hoping for acknowledgement of his flamboyant alter ego.  He placed his jacket and tie over the back of the vacant chair and took a deep breath, then turned, to be sure to catch the tom- tom and maracas- as the music started.

Yes, it started and Johnny was shaking his hands now, clutching the two pairs of maracas; just like Brian Jones in the video he had studied, listening for Keith to pluck and Nicky to tinkle, in unison with Charlie’s rimshots and Bill’s solid bass.

Johnny was moving now, keeping with the maracas, concentrating on the deep notes from Keith’s 1957 Les Paul,  sadly without the benefit of the original Vox Supreme, but nonetheless; gravelly, strong and soulful.  He knew that Johnny danced better with the maracas- so he ignored the singing intro: Upstaging Mick in the process.

“Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth and taste.”

Yes he was…. he twirled so that the crowd could admire his shirt, tucked in, girt by the patent leather belt that came from Paddington Markets.

“I’ve been around for a long, long year, Stole many a man’s soul and fate   I was around when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain.  I made damn sure that the Pilate washed his hand and sealed his fate.”

Johnny did a pirouette and whirled again, shaking his feet, in a cross between the hokey-cokey and a line dance..He felt exhilarated, sanctified and excited and could see that the crowd was now an audience, with shiny, earnest, faces and swaying torsos.  Electrified, he thought!

Johnny moved around the floor trying to emulate MJ,s rapport.

The music got louder.  Mugla must have sensed the mood of the venue’s crowd.

Then: Suddenly it started…The backing chorus after “Tell me baby what’s my name.  I tell you one time you’re to blame …Ooo who Ooo who.

The strobe came on the music pounded…. Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo.

The crowd was singing now Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo.  Everything seemed frozen in the light of the strobe.  Johnny was at one with the music…the crowd.  The dance floor was his.  Everybody was caught up and the strobe became an opiate, hypnotizing them.  A bolero leading to a crescendo, where he could show Johnny off,  the Baggely no one knew.

He briefly spied Cobber The Larrikin next to him- which struck him as peculiar-  as Cobber was a loner and had always hung back.  It was hard in the strobe light to orientate his body and he felt that he was spinning.  Cobber seemed to glide into him and they both fell toward the stage.

Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo!! ….Everyone was chanting now and throwing their arms about.  “Tell me sweetie, what’s my name. ..Hoo Hoo,Hoo hoo”.

Miraculously Merv appeared and leant over to help Johnny up –  but he too tripped and knocked over the stand with the strobe, causing Mugla to get on his hands and knees, to look for it.

Well it was pandemonium now, especially as all the houselights had been extinguished to exaggerate the effect of the strobe      Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo; the chorus was going, echoed by a few stalwarts, chanting at the back of the room, oblivious to the mayhem on the stage and enjoying the darkness, except for the glow from the low voltage downlights, shining on the optics at the back.  They all felt Jaggeresque in the dark.

Merv, Mugla, Cobber and Johnny were all tangled in wires now and this pulled the DJ console off the stage, causing the music to stop and   sparks to jump around, with the result that some of the Pigs’ patrons fell over.  This mass of writhing bodies took on a life of its own now, with everyone looking for the edge of the floor in the dark and not being sure of the direction!

Suddenly the lights came back on! Maybelline of course knew where the switches were and realizing that things had gotten out of hand, enlisted Vanya and Mrs. Brabantia’s help to flick them all and illuminate the room, including the dartboard spotlight and ex- Central Station chandelier.

“Order, order”, Womble yelled, trying to instill some sanity..Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo called out The Printer, mimicking the song, in a pansyish parody of Johnny’s Jagger interpretation.” Shut up” the Moderator cried.  “ Shutuppa yourself”, shouted a loutish looking Arms regular, with a tattoo on his forearm, which proclaimed, ‘Workers of the world Unite’..And with that he punched the Moderator on the nose, which felled him like a  Gunns’s sawn rainforest.

Somehow Baggely untangled himself, feeling distraught that the competition appeared to have ended, without Johnny having a fair go and making his speech! He stood up and heard a loud click and a whistle of feedback from the speakers. Mugla had managed to get the microphone plugged in and the amp switched on.

“Drinks on the house!”  He could hear Mugla calling.  “Free drinks for all.  Share out the liquor!  Fair measures all round!  Drinks at the bar!”

Well of course everyone thronged toward the bar and that was it!

Poor old Johnny never got a look in after that!

But, Baggely vowed, in his mind; he would be back for the Karaoke, in November.

………………        Jayell

A Dark Horse, A Karaoke, A Pub on Edge

14 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by in Julian London

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By Julian

Baggely Shoreditch felt good this evening, as he walked with a swing to his gait instead of the usual shuffle. His chest was puffed as he thought of what he had to say; and how important it would make him look. He was wearing the new tie that Merv had presented to him for winning the Pig’s Arms limerick contest and he felt good and in charge.

He knew that now was the time to reveal Johnny. Oh yes, Johnny whom he had kept hidden all these years.

He stopped outside of Brockleberries antique shop and pondered his Carnabetion image in the window, in the faded light of the lamp post.  His wide lapelled jacket complimented his shirt, but kept it under wraps, for the moment.

The old commode and the sewing machine with the crazed varnish were still there, he noted, with the dusty labels turned sideways to obscure the price. Baggely loved the Willcox and Gibbs sewing machine and once again marvelled at the small shiny brass connectors and the new rubber tyres on the bobbin winders. He was glad that they found the original black rubbers. It made the contraption look preserved in time.

Oh how he loved the machines and artefacts of yesteryear.

Anyway, he mused; he looked dapper-ready for the contest; charged and mysterious. Johnny had said earlier that he should look impressive. And he thought that he did!

He checked his gait to stride up to the Pub’s front door- a beautiful piece of joinery, with its Lucien Henry influence and 2007 XXXX tattoo, in the corner. The latter carved by one of Adz’s Maroon Supporter mates.

He felt ten feet tall when he paused in the Arms’ foyer (scene of many a chunder), to inhale the stale perfume from the ladies’ lounge- masked slightly by Merv’s vanilla fly spray. Straight off the back of a Brissie ute- so rumour had it.

Baggely decided a heart starter would be the thing and headed toward the saloon bar, where the competition was to begin in 25 minutes, according to the old Cobb & Co clock, which Merv had fished out of Harbour, down by The Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron. He loved the way it complimented the 1972 faded photograph of The Arm’s first XI, with all the team in borrowed kit, except for Malcolm who sported a cravat, from the Sydney Grammar School topping off his immaculate cricket whites.

Ensconced at the bar, with an officer’s ration of Jamaica’s finest, Baggely lent back, to survey the scene. Seemingly oblivious to Vanya from Salem, the Swedish dermal therapist- despite her brazen attempt to distract him from his mental limbering up- by thrusting her modified, traditional, bodice into his view. Her grandmother’s old pewter broach, barely up to its allotted task.

The DJ was nowhere to be seen, but his pre-contest compilation was grinding away, playing, “Holding back the years…..Nothing had the chance to be good…Nothing ever could, yeah”. It sounded OK. .Familiar. Comfortable.

Laidlaw Brabantia was also here tonight, leaning against snooker trophy case, clutching his choice. Probably an instrumental, thought Baggely- since Laidlaw’s language wasn’t conducive to flowing modern songs, with that awful, guttural noise, hampering the cadence. A  Dutch folk dance was Brabantia’s choice, judging by the clog shaped outline, in his Woollies’ plastic supermarket bag.  And, standing next to him was the Printer’s Chapel’s mouthpiece, obviously going over his Pan-Hellenic music-fingers clicking and head trembling – in anticipation of the opening notes from the baglama, in his chosen piece. He could be the dark horse Baggely mused…But no matter; Johnny would show him a thing or two.

The rum had hit the spot now and he felt more assured- convinced that when his turn came, Johnny would surprise them all.

What was that?  He suddenly heard his name called and looked across to the podium, where the DJ Mugla Madoff  was back on deck holding the Shure microphone with one hand and fingering the mixer on his Pioneer console with the other. His crocheted yarmulke partially showing some of the mantra Na Nach Nachma Nachman Neuman, as it was tipped at an irreverent, jaunty, angle, giving the slogan an appearance of Nordic runes…(Probably decipherable by Laidlaw’s spouse, thought Baggely.)

He heard it clearly now…..All music for the routines please!!… Any one not registered now will not be allowed to compete!..And; just a reminder- Soloists only tonight please!!

Baggely sidled around the edge of the room to get to the podium, brushing past the great Womble of Warrigal, the most fearsome of all the judges,- a stickler for the traditional  moves. He didn’t want any unnecessary attention now, as he felt that it would detract from his eventual triumph, his finale?? So he kept his head down, not wanting to make eye contact.

He handed in his completed form; together with his chosen piece on a CD single and explained to Mugla how he intended to use the floor so that they could work in unison, because one of Mugla’s jobs was shining the spotlight where it mattered. Mugla also promised to switch the strobe light on, when Baggely gave him a secret sign, nodding and seeming to say, “Yes, I can do it- I can use the strobe appropriately- I’m up to the task- trust me!” It was an MTB Monster Strobe and Baggely had noticed it, when he first walked in. It was on a stand and obviously part of Mugla’s equipment.

So it was all set then: …………

………………. for the exciting conclusion see you tomorrow night ………………..

When The Pig’s Arms welcomes the return of     ………… Jayell !

Is Vic Bitter over Trotters Ale

12 Saturday Jun 2010

Posted by in Mark

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Busy sampling Trotter’s Ale all day …. but then someone’s gotta do it..

Thumbing through Vic Bitter’s “Essential Guide to Beer Drinking, Australia – Vol 375” this article appeared in the chapter called “Boutique Brews” and reviews Trotters Ale – the beer that’s queer.

The Pigs Arms offers a unique experience with beer drinking. Brewed on the premises by the owner/publican “Merv”, Trotters Ale is a life changing experience.

I meet Merv who is a tall thin man with a pot belly wearing pink shorts and a t-shirt with “I didn’t see YOU in Vietnam 73” emblazoned on the front. Merv had black boots on with the words “Manne 1” on the right and “Manne 2” on the left written in white-out across the toes, how strange? Merv tells me Manne likes to have a kick around sometimes. On his arm he has a tattoo, a heart with the words “I love Blenda” curved around one side, when pressed Merv tells me he was dating Belinda but half way through getting the tattoo Belinda broke it off, so he started dating Glenda, “Had to have something there” he says. Some patrons are sitting in the courtyard around a wood oven, Merv informs me that they’re the “unleashed” and assures me they will speak about Trotters Ale.

A sign hangs over the bar that reads “If you order Trotters Ale leave your health insurance details with the barmaid”. I’m both puzzled and nervous. Belinda, the barmaid, pulls two glasses. She’s wearing a soggy sombrero and looks nervously at the window. The beer itself has a red glow and is served cold in a curvilinear glass. It has a small but notable vapour. My heart is racing. The glass is saying “drink me, drink me”. The ale has a unique aroma that is a cross between dead fish and the durian fruit. I take a deep sip. My mouth wants to cave in. In my head I hear a piercing scream of some wild creature in pain.

The mouthfeel is somewhat chewy and I was unsure as to whether I would live or die. I smile feebly however Merv is looking at me, grinning, “Bootiful idn’t it”. I try to drink more to impress Merv, I mean I’ve sampled thousands of beers this one wasn’t going to beat me. I feel as though some form of exchange is happening between me and the beer and Merv orders some wedges. Flashes of colour seem to be bouncing off the walls and the floor starts to shift. The wedges arrive and I eat some. “Their granny’s hot chilli” I’m told.  My chest is pounding now and waves of nausea are crashing over me. I’m swallowing the beer like nothing on earth. More wedges, yes more wedges.  The nausea starts to recede and my heart rate slows, the room returns to focus and I’m finished my drink. I’m starting to feel better but I’m incapable of speech. My lips move and the words “My round” stroll out of my mouth and across the bar and into Belinda’s ear. Two more beers are poured and we consume more wedges.

I’m feeling really good now, yeah, this is good beer. A peculiar smile appears on Merv’s face and he shows me into the courtyard where the “unleashed” are eating mushroom pizza’s and wedges. “This is Vic” Merv says “He wants to talk about Trotters”. I ask the group about what they think of Trotters Ale. A man called Emmjay says “Look old chap, the by-product of maltose, sacchyomyces and H2O is always welcome in my digestive tract”, hmmm, a scientist. The man next to him called Hung, thrusts out his glass and pleads “More?” Another, Warrigal, tells me “The’ beers are goo man, weawy goo”. The comments are coming now, the unleashed are off the hook. “Beware the DNA of Medea”, says atomou as his voice evaporates and his eyes narrow, “It’s okay but its not shiraz, anyone seen my chasseur? From Doncherry you know, cost a fortune” declares Gez, “You don’t think a stunning looking woman like me would drink beer do you?” replies Helvi, “I’m too busy cleaning up shit from child care” utters Glenda, “I think it illustrates that Lenin had a point in delivering the Goelro plan as part of the communist manifesto” states Voice. A voluptuous looking woman enters and sits next to Hung, it’s Tutu “Pink drinks for me, although since Merv has started putting tomato juice in the brew it’s good on a hot day”, tomato juice in beer, surely no one puts tomato juice in beer! The last one in the group is Jayell. I ask him about Trotter’s, “Well Yes, what a Wag, nah, not for me”

My phone rings, it’s Danny, “Hey Vic, I got you that ute”, ah yes Trotters Ale, very queer indeed. In the background I hear the faint sound of a guitar and a tune floats across the air just like rocks don’t, “Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay , Si, Si, Signora , My sister Belinda  She pissed out her window on top of my new sombrero”

9.1 Belinda got a gun, Belinda’s having fun

07 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by in Mark

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The boys have landed on a deserted ICCB planet to get a little practice in before the main game against the Deathball

Pics by Warrigal

Belinda here. Helvi and I have taken the S.S. Julian II out into space while Sandy is having rehabilitation after hitting, well head butting, the winning runs in the one day final on Missen for the Male Nurses United. Our enemy, Lord John “The Rat” Howard had threatened to take military action against the Flongians so we decided to lure him away. We left behind 500 elite Helvi trained troops to protect Sandy just in case, at the advice of our garrison commander Al, Al Foyle. Al’s sort of spooky, he has these deep blue eyes, just like Sandy when he hasn’t been on the shiraz, and he doesn’t say much but seems to able to figure things out brilliantly.

The Julian has the fire power to match the Rats death ball. The big problem is the Death Ball’s defence shield which, like ours, protects the ship from space debris to laser cannon fire. Helvi and I call a meeting with Al, GO, Catherine and Warrigal. “Okay everyone” I start “anyone got any ideas on how we are going to get them to turn off the defence shield?” “How about we tell them I want to paint it?” says GO as he writes the words ‘cark it’ on a piece of paper and ponders off into the distance. “I know” says Warrigal “why don’t we just ask them to turn it off for a bit” Hmm, We are getting no where fast and without any farcical powers I can see I’m going to need a piece of complex fiction to solve this quandary. Al just sits and smiles however Catherine pipes in “I have an idea, lets ask Julian, he will know being a ship himself?” “Great idea “ says Helvi “And tell him we will fight and die heroes and martyrs” Do you get the idea Helvi has a death wish?

So as usual it takes a while for Catherine to get the answer back from Julian so we head for the pub. Dave the guitar droid is playing some Bill Withers and Michael the publican is doing a crossword. “Tonic water thanks Michael” as I settle in my chair. Of course all the guys get pints of Trotters, terrible stuff, makes you a bit trippy. I’m listening to the music when Catherine strolls in, in her cat mode and jumps up on the bar. “Well Julian has a solution” Catherine informs “See Howard is a cricket freak so Julian says to send the two cricket droids we picked up in the last junk sale, you know, Mark War and Shame Worn”. The bar goes deadly quiet, this is complex fiction at its best. “So I call Howard and tell him the droids want to come over for a chat and present him with the ball that took Mike Gatting’s wicket that went on to be called the ball of the century”. Yes I remember Sandy raving on forever and a day about that ball “But Catherine how will that get rid of Howard?” I ask. “Well” replies Catherine “in the Mark War droid will be a B.O.M.B.” An acronym, lucky Sandy’s not here “An acronym Catherine?” “No not an acronym young Bel, a real bomb, a WaughHead.”