Author Archives: Mark

GOD in a Minty Wrapper

18 Saturday Jul 2009

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The Face of Gordon O'Donnell

The Face of Gordon O’Donnell

When I was young boy walking down the street a station wagon drove past. The window was open and someone was waving to another car and let a minty wrapper go. I picked it up and when inside to tell Mum and Dad. Now my parents were very serious people, mum starting crying “Environmentally devastated” said Dad.

Dad called a meeting in the town hall and a decision was made to send a small delegation to government house to protest. So Dad got out the Zephyr and we drove down to the big smoke.

The funny thing was that as we got closer to the city signs kept popping up on the side of the road like “Down with minty wrappers” and “Polluters die”. Somehow people new about our protest, bush telegraph I suppose.

When we got to the main square a good size crowd had gathered. A man with a megaphone stood on a crate “Wadda we want, biodegradable minty wrappers, when do we want ‘em, now”. The crowd roared the chant back and more people poured into the square. People were yelling and rattling the gate of government house and yelling abuse at the guards. Riot police entered the square and protesters threw rocks and fire bombs. The police charged at Dad but he stood his ground, the copper said “look mate we all want biodegradable minty wrappers but no protest allowed without permit number 1068B”. The crowd surged behind Dad, now in the tens of thousands.

SAS troops piled into to the square discharging weapons into the air, cars were being turned over and set alight, “No more minty wrappers, down with wrappers” they yelled. Fighting was erupting all over the place, there were over a hundred thousand people now and machine gun fire sounded in the distance. Tanks were rolling into the square.

Suddenly a trumpet sounded the loudest sound imaginable. Everyone stopped in their tracks and looked to the sky. An enormous cloud enveloped the square. The trumpet played one more note piercing ear drums and flattening any resistance. The crowd, police and troops all stopped and all eyes were fixed on the sky. The cloud opens and a figure appears that resembles a man with one of those flat caps. “Listen up” the creature says “haven’t got long Z Cars is about to start” he grumbles “God here or Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, Jehovah whatever just don’t call me late for dinner, get it, my real name is Gordon, Gordon O’Donnell, get it GOD, boy, you lot need to get out more”.

The crowd is stunned into silence, troops and police alike lay down their weapons.  “Look” the creature says “It’s 1966 your time and biodegradable wrappers aren’t ready yet but they will come, it won’t be long. Computers will be the size of a pocket watch and a man will walk on the moon”. A man to my left yells “He’s a fake, a computer the size of a watch, man on the moon, he talks in tongues”. The man looks around nervously and then shuts up. God shrugs his shoulders “Look, it will happen, a time will come when almost every home will have a computer and they will all talk to each other via the telephone, I will contact you when this happens, look to the ABC, my name will be Jayell, any questions?” “God, what will become of us, what’s the meaning to life?” “Life, well, a writer will appear and give you the answer, 42 but no one will take him seriously. Look I can read your minds, sorry no cash or winning numbers and with football don’t worry everyone will continue to hate Manly” I thought to myself, I guess some things won’t change. “Is their life in the universe besides Earth, of course, but not as you know it Jim, anyway enough now. I am now going to make you all forget what’s happened. I want you to stop fighting and go home”.

When I was young boy walking down the street a station wagon drove past. The window was open and someone was waving to another car and let a minty wrapper go. I picked it up and when inside to tell Mum and Dad. My parents looked at each other and as their eyes met a meteor burned up in the stratosphere causing a bright trail across the sky, “Be a good boy Sandy and put it in the bin” said mum, Dad smiled, the dog yawned. Life’s a funny thing sometimes.

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

11 Saturday Jul 2009

Posted by in The Sports Bar

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At 5 for 548, we cross to the commentary box.... Hung ?

At 5 for 548, we cross 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

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.

Hung One On – from Deep Fine Leg ………

Kerobokan Gets Father O’Way

04 Saturday Jul 2009

Posted by in Mark, Politics in the Pig's Arms

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Sandy O'Way and Friend

Sandy O’Way and Friend

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

Fine Dining at the Pig’s Arms

19 Friday Jun 2009

Posted by in Mark, The Dining Room

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Attentive Wedge Carriers at the Pig's Arms

Attentive Wedge Carriers at the Pig’s Arms

Here is an extract from the Mearld-Hail dated 31st June 2008 after food and wine critic Earl Sandwich and partner Jules Carrot went on a search for the best inner west pub meal. That night, they dined at the Pigs Arms.

Arriving at the hotel is indeed an experience in itself. Tucked away, just off Porcine Ave, the Window Dressers Arms Pig & Whistle, the Pigs Arms to the locals, boasts the most interesting welcome. A sign greets you at the door saying “What lies in front us and what lies behind us are huge irrelevancies to what lies out there…..”, well, what can you say to that Odlaw?

You shuffle via the Ladies Lounge through the bar into the Bistro or as the pink neon light reminds you “The Pigs Arms Bar & Grill” just in case you would forget or in fact if you are ever able to forget.

In the bar a man stares blankly at a wall, humming a tune to himself, so softly in fact that no one else could hear it. We find out later on that it was Hung One On, a 70’s rock star who had a one hit wonder with an album that nearly everyone alive brought. “One trip too many” they say.

The waitress introduces herself as Belinda, “Glenda’s little sister”. It would seem Glenda is important. I comment that my sister also has that name but often complains that she is never allowed to sit near a window. How odd?

We are seated a table that has a picturesque view over the railway yard. Belinda gives us the menus. We order some drinks, Trotters Ale, as it’s a local brew. Served cold, it emitted a strange misty vapor and an aroma that burns imprints on your brain that are difficult to erase. Drinking this ale became a two way process. As I sipped it, it sipped me. Stranger than strange.

The menu was small however eclectic. It contained all the usual villains, prawn cocktail, grapefruits onto pasta, steak, cake and ice cream. The words “Granny’s wedges are a must for all beer drinkers” emblazoned on the front cover however the curious thing was the way the menu was written.

Prawn cocktail was described as “…innocent little Dendrobrachiata, boiled alive , stripped to the nut, served in a sauce made of the unborn children of Gallus gallus domesticus for some fat git with high cholesterol”, get the picture!

We asked for the wine list. A man approached calling himself “Merv”. A list is produced, listing 34 varieties of Shiraz. “Gez’s” favorite we are told, whoever Gez is. I ask for a merlot, “Mate, this pub is for locals, you know, the unleashed”, absolutely no idea what he means so we pick a bottle and I order another Trotter’s and wait. Jules and I read the menu, Mains. Wow, after the entrées, geeps, I’m afraid to look. Let’s see, Lamb Rack – “The rib of a defenseless young Ovis aries brutally murdered and marinated in the oil of Olea europaea, ascorbic acid, Allium sativum and rubbed in sodium chloride baked in a <>187.7 degree oven. Served with pan fried Solanum tuberosum and steamed piccoli bracci”, Crusted Flathead – “a portion of sample from an ill-fated platycephaliade, obtained by slicing parallel to the spine producing a fillet, pan fried in the oil of Olea europae in a coating of sodium chloride, Piper nigrum and the dried crumbed remains of baked Triticum spp. . Served with deep fried elongated pieces of Solanum tuberosum and a salad of Lactuca sativa, Solanum lycopersicum and Cucumis sativus”, whoa.

Dessert well lets not go there. By this time the Trotters Ale was staring to have an effect. Someone came past, counting everything, “37: John Howard, 38: The GST….”, I see a Dutch couple in the corner playing euchre and drinking Shiraz and arguing in Flemish about Wagner and his Ring Cycle.

Belinda arrives, we order but to her shock and dismay, we didn’t want any of granny’s wedges. The wine comes and a handsome Greek couple enters and sits in the corner reciting poetry and encouraging the DJ to play Stella Konitopoulou. From my days of researching restaurants if the local’s visit then you know it’s going to be good.

A giant orange arrived at the door shouting, “ Is anyone going to squeeze me?” , the paint on the walls start to peel turning into butterflies, SAS soldiers break through the doors shooting randomly and yelling at everyone to get on the floor, Jules hand mergers with the shiraz bottle and she has snakes coming out of her eyes, a man enters wearing a dinner jacket with monogrammed hankerchief’s, “MJ”, his name is Mike Jones, how I know that I have no idea, Glenda approaches, I hear her say to Belinda “Didn’t order granny’s wedges, what have I told you, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousands times the antidote to Trotters is in granny’s wedges, sheez”, a lion with a black eye walks up and puts his paw on my shoulder and says ”Here mate have some of this”, I look down and see a bowl of wedges, the lion says “The’ wezzes are goo, weawy goo, eat”. I shove wedges in my mouth and chew, I’m sweating, the lion is looking annoyed, a man approaches, its Jayell, “Quick”, he cries, “Get Hung to reprogram him”, I need my nappy changed and where’s mum I’m hungry, some one is shaking me “Sir! Sir! Sir!”

I wake up. I’m in hospital, St Boars. A doctor and nurse are in the cubicle with the curtains around, they tell me this happens all the time to people not used to the mild hallucinogenic effects of Trotters Ale “You need to order some of granny’s wedges, didn’t Belinda tell you” he says, they smile at me in a peculiar way, they call Jules. As we leave St Boars a giant orange is sitting on the side on the road, crying, “Won’t someone squeeze me?”……..

Hung One On ……