Author Archives: Mark

Ashes to Ashes

23 Wednesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, ,

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

≈ 31 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

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

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

,

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

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, ,

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

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

, ,

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

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

, ,

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

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

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.”

Yeah yeah

06 Sunday Jun 2010

Posted by in Bands at the Pig's Arms, Mark

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

, ,

Tutu wondering how did she ever meet Hung

Seeing that we have gone musical lately I thought I would share this tune with you done by my alter ego, Mark. This recording went through a very complex path. First I use a computer program called Band-in-a-Box. You write you backing tracks in this program by adding the chord structure. You pick a style and the software creates the backing, drums, bass and keyboard. This is then recorded onto my Boss 4 track tape deck onto the first track. On the second track some guitar is added by taking a line out of the amp into the 4 track. Vocals are added direct via a microphone, in this case a Shure SM58, straight into the deck. I left the fourth track for a guitar solo but never got around to finishing the project. This was written 15 to 20 years ago and it’s about my life time dream, to win lotto. Enjoy the laugh.

Hung One On – Utopia

For those that play, this song has the same chords as Gloria by Van Morrison but backwards and slower, plus I did make a few little alterations.

9.0 Rehab a la Sandy

20 Thursday May 2010

Posted by in Mark

≈ 32 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Warrigalised Pig

I open my eyes. Hmmm, where am I? I don’t seem to able to move and I don’t recognise the room. Gees, I must of hung one on last night and have CRAFT Disease at the moment. C’mon, I don’t need to explain that one do I? Okay then, its you Can’t Remember A F*#@king Thing, c’mon guys you know I hate swearing.

Someone approaches, it’s Big M “Hi Sandy” he says “you hero, winning the game for us. Man, the party at the club was wicked, what a shame you missed it,  pity you almost died and ended up here in a regen-o-bubble in the local stute. Yeah, Sandy, you’ve got the best man, IV line, poovac and uripack, mate we’ll have you back to best before you can say, er, um, I mean, um Jack, oh well whoever” Big M informs. “Seems pretty self sufficient” I mumble as I look around at the bubble, “but don’t the nurses do all that?” I ask, “Nah” replies Big M “we just hang around the nurses station and look busy, it’s a bludge man”.

“Where’s Belinda?” I ask. “Well, it’s a long story but she’s out in space at the moment with Helvi” relates Big M “fighting the rat Lord Howard”. Oh, Belinda, what are you doing girl? “Get me outta here Big M?” I ask rather forlornly. “Sandy, you ain’t going nowhere at the moment, you still need another couple of months. Now go back to sleep and when you wake Belinda will be back and all will be well”

I’m having this weird dream. I’m walking down the street when a woman approaches and is thrusting out some eggs. “Deedee” she says “Deedee, deedee”. So I pull out my gun fire a shot into the air and say “Gees, in all the excitement I can’t remember how many shots I have fired. I mean this is a .44 magnum, the most powerful hand gun in the world, I could blow you head off with one shot punk”. The woman replies “well you have only fired one so in theory you should have five left” I thank her and take aim. I’m about to pull the trigger when I wake up. Darn, don’t you hate that, just as you get to the good bit.

Warrigal is sitting on a chair in the room reading a magazine. Knowing Warrigal it’s bound to be a scientific journal of some kind that will explain all the wonders of the universe. “Hey Warrigal, what cha reading?” I ask “The spring edition of Big and Bouncy Sandy” Warrigal replies refusing to move his eyes off the page, hmm, must be something about big objects.

Big M and a woman approach “Sandy, this is Dr. Voice, she is a NERD” Now I have been in space long enough to know what’s coming but my head is hurting so much I fall into line hopelessly “A nerd Big?” I reply. “Yes Dr Voice is a NERD, a Neurological Emergency Response Doctor and she will operate on you.” “Yes Father, I have had your brain scanned only to find that there’s not much there and the tiny little bit you do have needs help if it’s to be saved” informs Dr. Voice. Acronyms, everywhere acronyms. “Well Dr. Voice, do your worst” I reply trying to hide my nervousness “Yes Father, I am sure that I will” says Dr. Voice with a very strange expression on her face. “Oh Sandy” says Big M as the needle goes into my hand “Helvi left this message for you when her and Belinda when back into space, she said don’t worry they will fight and die heroes and martyrs” just as the anaesthetic is administered…..

8.5 Ewe Don’t Know What You’ve Bean Missen

30 Friday Apr 2010

Posted by in Mark

≈ 17 Comments

Tags

, , ,

Everywhere on Missen this emblem invokes fear

We finally arrive at Missen. Belinda and I with Helvi and Warrigal beam down to the surface onto the lawn at Hardy Cocksure’s house. I can hear a female sobbing uncontrollably in the house. We walk to the front door and knock. A woman answers “Yes” she sobs “Hi there, I’m Sandy, Gordon has sent me” I blurt nervously “Is Hardy home?” The woman cries and brings out a tissue to blow her nose “I’m Pussy” she relates, Hmmm, wow, I can see that but I better not go there “My Hardy’s gone LIMP” she bleats “Limp?” I ask “Yes, that’s right, LIMP, Lactose Induced Meltdown Procedure, oh, anyway, come in.” An acronym, I should have known.

Pussy is Hardy’s girlfriend and she relates to us a story of ICCB troops turning up at the door and drugging Hardy with lactose knowing he is lactose intolerant. Pussy tells us that a short little man in a space suit then comes to the door and says “Tell Lord Climate that the games over and to surrender”, Hmmm, I can smell the Rat behind this. Warrigal does a head to toe and then calls the Regen-o-lance while Helvi, who has morphed into combat mode, does a quick reconnoitre of the surrounds hoping she will find 500 elite ICCB troops waiting for her so she can decimate them and have a little fun.

I contact Neville, our navcom, “Neville patch me into the rodents ship please” I state rather assertively, “Yes Lord Climate, patching now” “Lord John speaking” answers the little worm. “You piece of excrement zark off or I’ll blow you out of the sky” I state in my non parish priest style of voice “Sandy, Sandy, Sandy, temper, temper, you seem to be losing it a bit lately” whines the rodent, “Surrender, without Hardy you won’t win the game and Gordon won’t get to complete his thesis” hisses the scheming rat. “Pig’s Arms” I curse and with that I disconnect.

Just then a man steps into the doorway making the door and everything around him look incredibility small. “This is Big M” says Pussy “He will have to captain the team in place of Hardy and Sandy you will have to play” Me, and avid cricket hater actually play cricket, oh for zark sake, what else do I have to do in this story. “So” I ask full of nerves and knocking at the knees “Why do they call you Big M?” “Don’t know really” says Big M “might be because I’m big and my name starts with M but I’ve never really thought about it”

We go to the game the next day. It’s being held at the main ground on Flong called The Foval, I’ll let you guess how it got that name. Hardy’s team is called Male Nurses United and the opposition is the Oppressed Homosexuals. The OP’s win the toss and bat and thanks to a good opening stand of 114 from their openers Brucie and Waggers they go on to post 324 off 50 overs. Gregor, our spinner took 5 for 49 which is pretty good in a one day game.

We bat and thanks to a well crafted ton from Big M we get to 9 for 319 with last man in and one over to go, you guessed it, me. Helvi gives me a pep talk “Now Sandy you must win the game, you fight and die a hero and a martyr” “Helvi, can you leave out the die bit, I’m a born coward don’t forget” The nanobots in my pants are working overtime as I walk out. Luckily I’m at the non strikers end. The bowler for the OP’s is Les, Les Boss and he pushes off the fence to run it. I can’t even see the ball as my eyes are closed but Big M taps the first few back down the pitch. The tension is rising Les calls out “Hey priest, you’re such a pansy you’re on the wrong team” “Just go back and bowl you shirt lifter” replies Big M. “And you’re a another bone idle, good for nothing, purse carrying nancy boy, male nurse” retorts Les. The next delivery Big M smacks through the covers, must be a four, no well fielded keeping it down to a single. Two balls to go, four runs needed. “Hey, isn’t Sandy a girl’s name?” barbs Les, “Just zark off mate or I’ll tell your boyfriend where you were last night” retorts Big M. The heat is getting hot.

You know batting is difficult especially when you have your eyes closed as I did to the first delivery. Big M comes down the pitch “C’mon Sandy, if we win this there will be strippers, kegs, scoobies and steak sandwiches all night back at the club so c’mon, C’MON”. Just as I face up a voice pops in my head “Use the farce Luke, er um, Sandy, use the farce” says Dad. Only trouble is I can’t think of anything stupid. I remember Astyages saying attack is the best form of defence, so lets attack. I point to the stadium as Les starts to run in. American viewers will probably know this as the Statue of Liberty play in baseball. In Australia this is know as a very zarking stupid thing to do. One never riles a vicious fast bowler that has the potential to kill you with a single blow.

I can see Les approaching, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bulging out of his head. His tongue is wailing in the breeze and his hair forms a trail behind him. He bowls, I swing, I miss, ball hits my head, I’m rendered unconscious, the ball sails over the boundary on the full. It’s a six, the Male Nurses United win, Gordon passes his thesis, 326 is the average number of beans in a 440 gram can, life is a wonderful but strange thing, well sort of….