Author Archives: Mark

The Pig’s Arms Welcomes Reuben Brand

11 Saturday Sep 2010

Posted by in Reuben Brand

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All good cyber pubs need a  foreign correspondent to keep the patrons well-informed and up to date.  Our man in the Middle East is Reuben Brand.

Reuben’s following article, “Pakistan’s dirty laundry” was first published in Online Opinion – Australia’s leading journal for social and political debate:

And you can see his portfolio at

http://www.reubenbrand.com/?cat=13

The ongoing war with the Taliban has nothing to do with freedom and democracy: it is a distraction.  Look beyond the curtain and you will find a lot of dirty laundry.

The war for civilisation, the war on terror, the war for oil, natural resources, control, freedom, whatever you want to call it, it is here and it has made itself quite comfortable in the minds, media and lounge rooms of the world.

Pakistan is now public enemy number one and the US are making no attempts at hiding the fact that they want to bring this nuclear armed Islamic Republic to its knees.  The war with the belligerent Taliban has become a joke, a proxy, and a distraction.  And of course, as always, it is the innocent civilians caught, quite literally, in the crossfire who suffer most.

Thanks to US pressure, and the basic ultimatum of “either you fix the problem, or we’ll do it for you – Iraq style,” more than two million people are now refugees, baking in the oppressive summer heat in makeshift camps. With no proper amenities, little to no medical services and living in appalling conditions, it won’t take long before serious disease and sickness sets in. Not such happy campers.

So what exactly is this indigenous Pakistani Taliban that we are so obsessed about? The reality is they are nothing more than an excuse, used by both East and West to justify more violence. Sure they have committed some heinous and barbaric crimes, but at this point in “the war” they are now seen as means to an end. Nothing more than pawns in a larger chess match for control.

“We are not fanatics! We want what everyone wants. We want to be able to live our lives in peace!” said Omar, a local Pathan businessman, as we sit in his office in the heart of Peshawar.

“The Americans continuously terrorise us with their constant drone attacks in the tribal agencies, the Taliban don’t make it any easier for us to live in peace and the media portray us all as terrorists! We are not terrorists!” he said with frustrated passion.

Another man then spoke up, telling me in broken English that most of what the West see are the actions of common criminals: “most of these men are not even Taliban,” he said, “they are criminals and miscreants who are bought by external agencies like the CIA and India’s RAW agents to further destabilise Pakistan”.

Later that evening Omar kindly offered to take me into the centre of the Swat Valley, a Taliban stronghold. I assured him that my fair Aussie complexion and somewhat pathetic excuse for a beard was no match for the trained eyes of Taliban spies.

“I like my head firmly attached to my body” I said jokingly. He laughed, “You will be perfectly safe when you’re with me. You don’t have to worry about security, this is our insurance plan” he said, handing me his Kalashnikov. “I drive into some very remote parts of the tribal belt and sometimes into Afghanistan as part of my job, so I need this (weapon) for my protection,” he explained.

Later we heard a huge explosion as we sat drinking sweet buffalo milk tea – a music shop had been blown up, it was just up the road from his office – the media reported it the next day as an act of terrorism and, of course, the Taliban were responsible. But Omar believed it was nothing more than the jealousy of a competitor who wanted to generate more business for himself. Who needs an expensive media campaign when all you need to do is blow up the competition and blame it on the Taliban?

So the Taliban have become scapegoats. One such incident came as no surprise as only a few days ago a friend told me about a mulvi (religious leader) from his village, who had been discovered as a Hindu agent working for India. The man had been posing as a religious leader; he taught Islamic scripture and led the prayers in the local mosque; but it wasn’t until the inquisitive minds of the local children began to probe that his elaborate ruse became undone.

They saw him dancing and listening to pop music in the mosque. On telling their parents they were quickly scolded and called liars, but as time passed and the so called mulvi began asking for food enough for 20-plus men each night, the villagers became suspicious.

When asked who the food was for he would reply “guests” but no one was seen entering or leaving the mosque, until one morning the villagers found a group of Taliban fighters’ asleep inside. So again, it begs the question: who are the indigenous Taliban if some of them are not even Pakistani? These faux Taliban fighters’ are an excuse; they are the perfect playing field for the political motives of external agencies bent on further destabilising an already unstable country.

(Cultural note to self: When posing as a religious leader in a village in Pakistan do not be so stupid as to have a Bollywood dance-off in the mosque!)

So why destabilise this third world country? What does it have that the rest of the world so desperately craves? It sure isn’t its open sewers and copious piles of garbage. You don’t think it has something to do with Pakistan being the geographic doorway to Asia and the Middle East do you? Unlike Iraq, Pakistan has nukes. Unlike Afghanistan it has Osama bin Laden. And of course, it has an oil and gas route that the US wants for its Trans-Afghan pipeline. Did I mention the nukes? Lucky Pakistan.

If left to its own devices Pakistan has the potential to become a very powerful and prosperous country. Agriculture would blossom in its extremely fertile soil; it has its own oil reserves, nuclear capabilities, strategic trade routes, and natural resources galore. But who are we kidding? The first world lives on the back of the third world. They carry us. Perish the thought of living in a world without sweatshops and soccer balls, fake Reeboks, child labour and bootleg DVDs. Without the third world we would have no first world.

To make matters worse, there are also whispers for the need to break Pakistan up into smaller nation states. If you take away the sovereignty of a country and it makes it a lot easier to control.

A good friend of mine recently had a gun held to his head and was robbed of all his personal possessions in Lahore, one of Pakistan’s major cities. A senior government official later told me that “when the crime rate dramatically increases in certain areas, it is usually a sign that the Taliban are on the move … They send out gangs of thieves to steal what they can as a means of funding their operations.”

Just like my friend in Lahore, Pakistan also regularly falls victim to the rule of the gun. But you have to ask yourself; what is the difference between a military dictatorship which oppresses its citizens and rapes the country via greed, power and fear, to that of another militant force that comes under the guise of religion? Both regimes share fundamentally flawed objectives. Pakistan cannot afford either if it wants to survive.

The sad reality now is that democracy has become a beggar in Pakistan: it lives, starving, in the minds of many while greed and corruption remain fat and opulent. The fanatical religious factions and corrupt politicians, who routinely bend to the will of external influence, are dividing the country and tearing shreds off any hope of Pakistan moving forwards.

Keep an entire country occupied with an internal threat and you’re well on your way to imposing pseudo democracy. Or maybe with President Zardari’s track record he has better credentials as a dictator. Either way, fear is a great medium for control.

Hung’s Parliament

19 Thursday Aug 2010

Posted by in Mark

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It’s a Hung House

Dear Julia and Tony,

Hi. Hung One On here. Look, I’m a nothing, yeah that’s right, a nothing but I have this thing called a vote. You want to know me when the election comes around but after that you don’t. You just go and do what ever you or your party wants to do. Then you will turn around and tell me that what you are doing is good for me. Yeah, sure, I’ll take a pay cut and lose compo rights so some CEO can go out on ten million. Give us a break.

See I’m in a safe seat, the seat of Port Adelaide. The sitting member is Mark or Michael or Matthew Butler. This guy will get in no matter what. I can vote for Donald Duck however the Labour bloke will get in. The Butler bloke doesn’t speak, text, phone or email. Yes, he did send me a letter once, wow, I almost once saw him at the supermarket and apparently he didn’t see me once at the art gallery. Overwhelmed, yeah, right.

Look, I’m writing to you as the current leaders of the political forces in Australia. This is addressed to you but it’s to all Australian political leaders, both past and present, government and opposition, to all those narrow agenda senators that thought they could make a difference. This is not personal however I address my concerns to you.

Will you negotiate with me over my income tax? Lets face it, both of you sat down with the mining industry and compromised on a deal, didn’t you? So I want you to sit with me an negotiate a deal for me to pay an appropriate amount of tax. See I’ve paid tax for 30 plus years. I effectively pay your wage. In theory you are my employee.

As my employee I now direct you to do the following,

  • Increase the mining tax to 60% and if they don’t like lets get someone who does.
  • Lets fix these basic issues, hunger, poverty, homelessness and hope
  • Lets tax the zark out of the rich to pay for the poor just like Robin Hood
  • Introduce Industrial Manslaughter so any CEO that disobeys safety and kills a worker goes to jail
  • Stop taxing the poor. $6000 tax free, what a joke.
  • Turn the tap off that sucks the Murray
  • Abolish state governments – old world stuff no longer needed
  • Bring back the death penalty for fine defaulters
  • Introduce a 4 wheeled drive tax on all non-country vehicles to 5000 percent value of vehicle.
  • Make Corporate CEO’s take a non benefit salary and tax the crap out of them. Then lets see how good they feel about things.
  • Allow outlaw motorbike gangs to executed on sight
  • No to gay marriage – we don’t want to inflict the gay community with the problems of marriage, now do we!
  • Legalise drugs. Prohibition hasn’t worked. Let’s get it under control. Do you want your partner, child, family member or loved one to buy a drug made by a bikie in a backyard or what? Wouldn’t a pharmaceutical dose of heroin from a chemist be better then a money bag from a bikie?
  • Lets arm the whales so they can fight back

Bugger it, you lot. I’m coming to parliament, Hung’s Parliament, Vote One Hung Parliament.

Written and authorised by Pee Dant for Hung’s Parliament Canberra.

Razzle Dazzle ‘Em – at the Pig’s Arms, Susan Merrell

13 Friday Aug 2010

Posted by in Susan Merrell

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Am I?

By Susan Merrell

While you were watching this ……

As I write, Australia is in the thrall of ‘Utegate’. It’s another ‘Ah ha! Gotcha!’ moment of which we are being served a regular diet.

Malcolm Turnbull alleges that the Australian parliament has been misled by the lies of government ministers. This, we are told, is a most heinous crime. Yet, politicians lie to the Australian public all the time.  In my book, this is a greater crime than misleading parliament. Yet they do so with impunity. So what’s this fuss really about?

This question can also be asked of the Tony Stewart affair. His Ah ha! Gotcha! moment occurred when he (allegedly) bawled out a staffer in public then held her leg so she couldn’t leave (allegedly). There was also that other grumpy politician, Belinda Neal, who (allegedly) yelled at a staff member at the Iguana nightclub then (allegedly) lied about it.

I don’t know about you, but, in the main, I can’t see what all the kerfuffle’s about. Politicians are certainly behaving badly. And when they compound the felony by lying their actions can only be judged as ignoble – yes, and sometimes even criminal. Nevertheless, our preoccupation with such trivial matters is elevating them to a position that isn’t rightly theirs.

In doing so, are important issues being overlooked? Indeed, are we being served up a mountain of trivialities in order to distract us?  Are the Australian public being razzle-dazzled?

Remember Marcus Einfeld? His Ah ha! Gotcha! moment came over a $77 speeding fine that he tried to get out of by lying to the courts. No doubt he behaved badly. He also paid a high price with a rather long custodial term. (Is he still in jail?).

When Einfeld’s case was all over the news there was another story of far more importance being played out in the background. It was largely ignored, not being nearly as ‘sexy’.

The same year (2006) that Einfeld had been prosecuted for speeding he had also been appointed by the government of the Solomon Islands to head up a judicial inquiry into the April 2006 riots in Honiara. The riots occurred because of popular dissatisfaction with the results of a general election – especially the appointment of Snyder Rini as Prime Minister.

The inquiry was very unpopular with the then Howard government as it intended to raise issues of culpability and incompetence of not only the Solomon Islands’ authorities but also of the Regional Assistance Mission to the Solomon Islands (RAMSI) -a body that had been formulated by countries in the region and headed up by Australia as a peace-keeping mission during the ethnic tensions at the request of the then Solomon Islands government. The request for assistance had come from the Prime Minister immediately previous to Rini, Sir Allan Kemakeza.

In the aftermath of the riots, Manasseh Sogavare, a more acceptable choice to the people of the Solomon Islands, subsequently replaced Rini. However, he was not so acceptable to the Australian government having always been a strong critic of RAMSI.

What followed was an international incident of significant proportions that contained allegations of corruption amongst Solomon Islands politicians, charges of bullying and overstepping their authority against the Australian government and RAMSI, High Commissioners being declared as persona non grata, illegal raids on the offices of Prime Ministers – and that’s not the half of it.

During most of this time we, the Australian people, were following, with bated breath, the Marcus Einfeld $77 speeding fine saga.

Perfect timing sustains the conspiracy theory.  On July, 13, 2006, Sogavare appoints Marcus Einfeld as chairman of the committee of inquiry – August 10, a criminal investigation into Einfeld commences while in parliament Alexander Downer announces that he has “concerns” about the Solomon Islands inquiry.

Disgracing the chairman of a commission so unpopular with Canberra would certainly put a spoke in the wheel. Wouldn’t it? And it did.

Yet only one commentator picked up on this. (Patrick O’Connor writing for the World Socialist Web Site.) Not even Einfeld himself gave voice to highly probable political motivations. I can only guess why not

In a serendipitous bonus for Canberra, as well as the speeding Einfeld, the inquiry would also deliver up another large target.

Lawyer, Julian Moti, later appointed Attorney General under the same Solomon Islands Prime Minister who commissioned the inquiry, Manasseh Sogavare, largely formulated the inquiry’s terms of reference.

After his appointment, it took the Australian government no time at all to resurrect a largely dormant inquiry into an old (1997) sex charge against Moti allegedly committed in Vanuatu while he was resident there. The judiciary of Vanuatu dropped the charge in 1999.

The Moti affair, had further international ramifications when the Prime Minister of Papua New Guinea, Sir Michael Somare refused to hand over Moti to Australian authorities to answer the charges and helped him reach Honiara.  Once there Sogavare also refused to repatriate him to Australia.

During the stoush that followed, allegations flew about corruption, bribing of magistrates and the right of sovereign nations to conduct their own affairs without interference.

Pacific relations had hit an all time low.

Yet we cared little for this as we got caught up in the Einfeld perverting the course of justice charge and the Moti sex-tourism charges.  (Moti was subsequently extradited back to Australia to face the charges when the new Island government under the leadership of Dr. Derek Sikua felt it was prudent to do so. His case is pending in the Brisbane courts as I write)

So, in spite of any crimes Einfeld and Moti may have committed (and do remember – no charges against Moti have been proved), I can’t help feeling that both of them are the scapegoats served up to distract us from seriously important political matters.

So what’s the real story behind Utegate?  Are you starting to feel like a fool whose righteous indignation will be used as a weapon for an unknown agenda?  Me too.

Susan Merrell – first published on Open Forum  http://www.openforum.com.au/content/razzle-dazzleem on 26 June 2009

Thanks to News for the loan of the Pic.

Glenda says Goodbye to Farrah Fawcett Majors.

23 Friday Jul 2010

Posted by in Ladies Lounge

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Yeah! Right!

By Madeleine

After closing, Glenda stood inside her quiet Pigs Legs Waxing and Beauty Salon staring at the poster of Farrah Fawcett Majors on the wall.  Her girls had left, and the closing night shone through the uncurtained windows giving an eerie glow to the hygenic tiles around the hair washing basins.

She sighed deeply and without knowing, picked up the razor, remembering the way she used to thin out the layers, Farrah-style.  There was a lot of servicing in Farrah hairsyle –  the cut, the layering, the colouring, the perm, and the big blow wave with the gel.

It was a good time, a big time, coming out of the au-naturale days of the early 70′s.  There was the Afro, the Olivia Newton-John Grease-style perm, the Bo-Derek plaits, but nothing was bigger than the Farrah.

Glenda had known about the anal cancer of course.  She’d talked about it several times a day since 2006.  Wherever the ladies were sitting Glenda was always on hand with a cuppa and a magazine – and six times out of ten, there was brave Farrah smiling from the pages.

Glenda hadn’t known she’d been holding her breath, but as she reached the moment of resignation it flowed, driving the lips of her lost-in-the-moment face into an unexpected pout.

A lift of her shoulders signalled intention, and with her new breath and life she walked over to the poster.  Carefully, reverently, she took it down.  She pulled off the bluetack that had been replaced several times, rolled it into a ball, and then lifted the razor to scrape off the final remains.

She stared at the poster one last time, remembering the time she wore her own hair Farrah-style – the night she kissed young Mervin.

“Goodbye Farrah” she said.  “I loved you.  And if I’d had your teeth, things would’ve been different.”

Glenda was sentimental, but practical.  She screwed up the poster, chucked it in the bin, drew the blinds, pulled on her coat, picked up her keys, downed the lights, took a last look around, blew out another goodbye, and shut the door.

She turned right and walked towards her car.  Then stopped, spun 180 degrees on her heels, walked back past her salon, and right into the Pigs Arm’s.  “Come in for a pink?” said Merv.  “Expected you tonight” he said in his one on one way.

She gave him a flick of her hair and a lips-sealed smile.  “Have Belinda bring it into the Ladies Lounge, Merv.”

10. Ur, um, the end bit

19 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by in Mark

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The Joyous couple

Sandy here, back here on Earth and married to the beautiful Belinda, March 19, ouch, 21, okay, sheez! No need to be so touchy!  After a stay in the Regen-O-Bubble on Missen, Helvi and Belinda got rid of the little rodent Howard by blowing the zark out of him with a Waughhead [Thanks Waz,] The girls then did a pub crawl from Andromeda back to the Milky Way. Well, I must say, girls will be girls. Well I sort of wanted to stay on Missen. I had become used  to the way of life and  well, you know, shiraz, steaks and lots of things that now escape my mammary, er, um, oops, memory.

Anyhoo, Gordon has paid off the ICCB to go and zark off, the S.S. Julian II has rounded up a mighty cast and returned to Earth, yes that’s right Earth home now for Sandy and Belinda, no more space roaming for me. I’m a new man. It was an adventure being out there in space but give me the quiet parish life any day. See priests in my religion can get married. At our church you just insert the name of your God into out text sheet and away you go. No one cares about your views and everyone accepts each others rights to which fictional creature you want to talk to, everyone’s a winner.

Bishop Bishop performed the ceremony at the parish church of St Generic Brand. The post wedding party is at the Pigs Arms. Merve along with Granny and the two Vivienne’s, oh, yes, look the crew have come down for the wedding so we have the situation where like is meeting like, I mean its zarking freaky man, like imagine Voice meeting Catherine!

I look around the crowd and lots of people have turned up. Big M and Pussy Couscous have travelled from Missen. Zig and Zag have come from Zog.  Zig wants to begin tours to Earth  as Earth men are so easy, if you know what I mean.

It’s funny watching the crew from the S.S Julian II meet the locals at the Pigs Arms. The Vivienne’s don’t seem to be able to agree about cups. Astyages and Dave, the guitar droid, are working on a song list ready to play after the food has gone down. Helvi and the Helvi-tastic are agreeing on everything and everything while GO and Gerard are discussing Van Gough and Wagner. Emmjay and the first mate are swapping brewing techniques with Michael Jones, the publican of the Bats Droppings. Yes there all here. Even Mr and Mrs A are here, looking resplendid as usual and in deep conversation with Geo.r.ge.

I gaze at Belinda. She is beautiful beyond reproach. I am the lucky guy, I’ve won my lotto. Belinda has all her sisters for bridesmaids, Glenda, Juanita, Jacinta, Melinda, Rosita, Edwina , Sophia and Cassandra. Boy, am I going to have some birthday parties to go to, well, someone’s gotta do it.

I see Gordon, you know Gordon O’Donnell the creator of the universe, he has been busy having a few pints of Trotter’s Ale and approaches me. “Sandy, you old dog, got the pick of the bunch with young Miss Belinda” proffers Gordon, pulling back on a Café Crème “Yes, she’s a dish for sure Gordon” I answer rather distractedly as Gordon’s eyes have narrowed and he has grabbed me around the shoulder and pulled me in close to him. Is he batting for the other team? I think to myself “Sandy, look old chum there’s just one thing. I enrolled in uni next year and I need some help……”

[Authors note: Sandy was last seen in the back of an ambulance, in a white coat heading for the funny farm, yelling at the top of his lungs “PPPPPPPPPPPPPPiiiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggggsssssss in ssssssspppppppppaaaaaaaaaaacccceeeeee.]

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/