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Author Archives: Mark

Merv says

11 Sunday Mar 2018

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

cricket, humour, Mark

Helvi considers the appeal…

 

 

Merv here. This is terrible. The Shit Carters Arms have challenged us to a game of cricket, down at the park and wheeze have to provide our own umpires.

“Fucking cricket” says Gez “where ennui meets boredom”

“Eyes hates cricket, now chess, that’s a man’s game.” says Gib.

The change rooms

“Well mes and Hung love cricket but wheeze need at least eleven plus umpires so that’s around about thirteen folk needed give or take a decimal point” chips in Angler.

“Fucking 13 people. Wears wheeze gunna find 13 brain dead people with there eyes gouged out to play the most boring game ever invented” says Gez again. Gee, Gez gets two says in this story, he must be important.

“I’ll umpire” pipes in Sister Yvonne “just what are the fucking rules?”
Crikey, a lot of fucking going on, what is happening.

“Me fucking too, so there you go wheeze have the umpires and there is no rules, not in a social game, lets sledge the bastards.” says Nurse Barbara.

 

Let me at the batter, gnarl…

“I’m the fast bowler, can gnash teeth, swear and insult the batsman’s missus” says Honshades “Oh and I’ll chuck in a fucking”.
How come my spell checker recognises fucking? Hmm, something odd is happening here.

Just when crisis point is about to be reached Gordon appears in the bar. Lets face it, if Gordon hadn’t taught the universe how to play cricket none of this would be happening. Isn’t blame appropriation a wonderful thing.
Gordon fills the room with his aura or as we know from the old days, garlic.
“And so be to Gordon, go the farce has ended, oops, wrong story. Now the Shitties have a really good team so we sledge them big time, for example, we remind them that their washing is on the line and that they must check the letterbox whens they get home” dictates Gordon.

“Oh fuck off,wheeze gunna kill them” says Gib getting in a second says an upping his strike rate and hence his remuneration package.

“Yeah, fuck off” says Angler feeling the financial pinch of raising 16 children plus

Angler and children

realising that the Shit Carters have a vicious fast bowler that says naughty things.

“Hash tag, me too” says Hung not really knowing what to say but deciding to be like everyone else “and fur, fur fur, fuck off.” Gees, fancy telling the creator of the universe to fuck off, well I never.

Oh well, thinks Merv, we may as well declare and tell the Shit Carters Arms to fuck off.
“What about fucking Helvi, she’s from fucking Norvay, theys wouldn’t declare, theys would fight” says someone not yet named but gets a says.

“Oh yeah. Forgot that, in the park Sunday I guess” says Gordon racking up yet another says.

“Hung you can’t say fuck off, this is a family friendly blog” says Emmjay.

“No, it’s alright boss, I’m Merv in this story.”

“Well that’s okay then” says Emmjay racking up another says.

You know, I have come to this point in time where I hate says gatherers, don’t ewe.

Helvi goes vild…

Merv wants a day orf

31 Sunday Dec 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 39 Comments

Tags

Angler, Gib, granny, humour, Merv

Merv has a fink about it

 

Story by Mark.

Merv wakes to the usual smell of bacon, gently frying in the pan, some freshly brewed coffee and hot toast but today is different. Merv has decided not to get out of bed, he wants a day orf. After finding out he has family, Mack, Mick, Mark, Mike and Minx, a sister, he has decided he needs some time out.  All identical twins, as the author can’t spell sextuplets, plus there will be nothing for perverts in this story, I mean surely there must be a better word for six then sex. Merv has to use all his fingers and toes to get the counting right but yes, six of them. Uno, duo, duo plus one, duo plus duo minus uno and so it goes on, all the way to sex, oops, I mean six, you perverts.

Granny knocks at the door as it is getting late, thinking that Merv is masticating about somefink. “Wake up wanker, I have your breakfast ready and it’s almost time to open the bar”

Stick it up your arse, I need a day orf

Granny pushes the door open hoping to find Merv doing somefink he wished he didn’t only to find Merv snugly covered by his doona or nona or blanket, so many words so little time.

“Granny, I’m having a day orf. I is overwhelmed by all this family all of a sudden and eyes need a day orf. Get Hung to run the bar and the Jones boy to take the money.”

Granny places Merv’s breakfast on his bedside table, bacon, scrambled eggs, dry white toast, tomato juice and black coffee. One of the meals she lovingly makes for him everyday. For Merv to want a day orf this must be serious, granny decides she needs some wise council(yes I know).

Well the girls aren’t in yet so there goes that option, Foodge and O’Hoo, don’t think so and when the door opens and it’s Gib and Angler fresh from a cat shoot and wanting some

Did you say cat?

refreshments and revelry before facing any reality, yes thinks Granny, these are my people, well till they fuck up.

“Granny, drinks and wedges all round” cry the lads, none of this shut up and take my money bullshit.

“Boys, can you talk to Merv. He wants a day orf after meeting all his family. He didn’t even have a wank this morning” replies Granny as she pours some glass canoes.

The boys quickly down their beers, then another one and maybe one more, perhaps even another then quickly ascend the stairs to Merv’s room.

“Merv, what’s wrong old cock?” asks Angler, feeling a bit wobbly plus knowing Merv didn’t even have a wank this morning. Something is seriously wrong. I mean the

Stick your hand up your own arse

last time you would have went without one was the day you got your electric bill. See how serious this is!

“Yeah Merv, get out of fucking bed and down to the bar” discreetly requests Gib, gentle and kind as always.

“I’m having a day orf, so go away.” replies Merv.

“So look Merv, I’m a nurse and Angler is not a nurse so trust us, what’s the real problem?” pleads Gib.

“Well, you promise not to laugh” well like a red rag to a bull the boys laugh but swear allegiance to Gordon, the creator of the universe, that they will be on their best behaviour.

“Well” says Merv “Now I have all these identical twin brothers and twin sister, how am I expected to know their birthdays!!”

 

Me and family

 

The Sociology of A Place To Call Home Part 16

30 Saturday Dec 2017

Posted by Mark in Sandshoe

≈ 10 Comments

Tags

Christina Binning Wilson, homelessness


 

 

The Sociology of A Place To Call Home Part 16
by Sandshoe

The tolerance and creativity of the community on the beach arose out of the empathy travellers feel for like-minded travellers. ‘We’ included domestic refugees seeking other than disposession, happier environments than those that were once home by geographic placement, birth allotment, associations and at odds with conservatism by lifestyle, cast against a background burden of war. R&R deserters found their way to that harbourage. The community knew trauma and acknowledged trauma. The growth of community represented the growth of voice, individual resistence and collective will, a youth movement certainly as more youth gathered and swelled the numbers, but more, a local and universal movement of people of all ages and background that was growing.

The weight given the inference that all resisters were opposed to the welfare of homecoming soldiers is a sad outcome of the Vietnam War. Between ourselves our individual stories struck chords that revealed a common awareness of justice and

War, what is it good for

injustice, but never the pillory of individuals. Nobody either mistreated anybody who expressed a different viewpoint from the mainstream of the beach community opposed to continuing involvement in the Vietnam War.

Instead I reflect on the potential waste of people everywhere who make creative community. attract the best of virtuousity and not to neglect the worst of vice in all its guises. Vice is usury. I have not included in this account the sheerly fantastic of which I know only half stories, of empire builders. The originals of us were innocent of criminal activity albeit cognisant of agency amid the dangers of handing anybody over to authorities, their potential undoing on political grounds, as scapegoats, as undocumented, as simply set up by powerful individual others and the implementation of the Mental Health Act among the possibilities.

We became canny because we ourselves were in danger.

‘Hippies vs Hairies: the early Australian counter-culture in Kuranda North Queensland’, entered in 2013 as an Honours thesis at James Cook University by Rohan Lloyd deserves accolades particularly for his choosing community as a pivotal identifier of history. Rohan describes the beach community as a forerunner of the contemporary

Karunda Hotel

community of Kuranda, which is where this juncture of my attempt to describe the sociology of housing experience leads to. I had written this text in first draft as well before I found and read Rohan’s thesis, all the more interesting from my viewpoint because I am invested in inderstanding the meaning of community. Many different ideological stems and sources however can be traced to Kuranda including Kuranda had a pre-history of ‘alternate’ settlement by individuals and groups.

The beach community, too, found its place in social history because of an enclave of residents tolerant of difference. Holloways Beach that I have not previously identified so as to depersonalise it I read many years ago in popular news media was a gathering place of ‘widgies’ and ‘bodgies’ previous to the Vietnam War-era of ‘hippies’. The same article suggested as well the pre-condition existed that I am calling tolerance of difference (I cannot remember what the article called it) because Holloways Beach was the home of crocodile shooters attributed as ‘community’ and that their origins were European (true). Kuranda albeit identifiable as containing an ‘alternate’ culture or counter-culture is as complex as the beach community was.

Rohan further draws inference in effect the beach community was a hippy community that lost its essence in Kuranda by virtue of ideological conflicts driven by stress

Rohan Lloyd

between attitudes inherent in ‘commune’ and the drive of individualism.

Social movements are complex. Individual and collective experience gained in a period of persecution and resistance has a heart beat. As invisible or seemingly extinguished as a community driver may seem assessed neighbour to neighbour or in members of a once common group divided by circumstances as international refugees are, a common knowledge of a greater reason for living than self drives the same core individuals’ actions and reactions in their respective spheres of influence. What happened on the beach created common considerations that were short term and longer at the point when the beach community was called ‘finished’. Its participants engaged some only solutions that were common including that locations other than Kuranda were eventual destinations whether on the basis of individual choice of environment or presentation of seized opportunities.

The significant factor in the sociology of the beach community was, however that among its members were key enablers of creative conversation for its own sake. The art of conversation created community. The prevalent external factors of disposession

Conversation, I thought you said conversion

and persecution provoked intense discussion of common meaning, of ideology but strategy and migration exactly as villagers of far longer heritage have been documented as doing in the face of threat, settling even in entirety most certainly in a district in another country because of common weal. I lived in Adelaide in a suburb that was home to the inhabitants of a near entire migratory Greek village (I learned from its researcher).

Safety not ideological consideration was paramount.

The local Council would in fact soon exclude the campers on the beach from paying fees by non-acceptance. By that virtue that the campers did not pay fees, they had no voice in Council and behind closed doors repealed was the long held right of campers to the esplanade roadside/beach front strip. Announced was the establishing of a caravan park and camp ground at the farther end of the beach considered uninhabitable for its infestations of sandflies that proliferated where they were protected from the wind blowing freely at the deposed camper’s end. Developers and affiliated interests waiting in the wings stood to make immediate profit through sub-division. Without the least consideration of an innovative approach to its community and inclusion, towards only its dislocation as happens more generally everywhere in phases termed local development, the Council went for the quick buck. Notices of eviction were served.

I stood on the beach on the final day with perhaps two others and the couple whose day-to-day living space in an army disposal tent had evolved into a gathering place, a

Nice tent

first aid station, a design studio, ours the last shared moment of witness to history that on its surface was gone, the beach left so tidied there appeared to have never been a community.

The landlord of the property my partner and I lived in had in the same time period decided to sell the beachfront cottage. He offered my partner and I first option to buy. We were not able to buy and would soon be looking ourselves for a new place to call home.

to be continued…
Christina Binning Wilson

Hmm, Aussies, always pissing themselves.

Merv finds more family

24 Sunday Dec 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

humour, Mark, Merv

Merv and family

Story by the guy at the keyboard.

Merv was standing behind the bar, washing the glasses and refreshing the spittoons when the door opened and a man walked in an ordered a beer. Merv didn’t take any notice at first but when he looked up at the man he saw a reflection of himself.

“Um, er, Mick?” asked Merv thinking it was his identical twin brother Mick from Mick’s Auto Mechanics and Florist Shop.

“No, I’m Mack, your other identical twin brother” said the man, um, er, I mean Mack.

“But doesn’t that make us identical triplets?” enquired Merv intelligently for a change.

“But wait there’s more. There are five of us, me, you, Mick, Mike and Mark. All identical twins” said Mack.

“But that makes us…”

“No, identical twins. The author can’t spell that word so we won’t mention it, okay?”

“Um, er, suppose, okay I guess. What’s brought you here Mack?”

“I went to see my doctor, Doctor Doctor and I said to her, doctor doctor give me the news I gotta bad case of lovin you but she told me that I have Stupiditis and that it runs in the family”

My Christmas outfit

“Stupiditis!!” double exclamation marks remarks Merv.

“But wait there’s more. It also affects our identical twins” counters Mack.

“You mean our qu…”

“Don’t mention that word, the author can’t spell it plus he wants an extra set of steak knifes hence the double mention of but wait there’s more”

“Stupiditis” say Merv “I don’t get it”

“Exactly” replies Mack. “It’s a disease that is so subtle that you don’t get it till it’s too late. Like what did you do this morning?”

“Dunno, got up, had a shower, got dressed, ogled granny, scratched my nuts, washed glasses and replaced the spittoons” says Merv feeling quite bewildered.

“Yes, that’s because that is what you do every day. When was Gordon here last?” presses Mack.

“Dunno”

“Stupiditis” says Mack. “Lets test it out with a few of the patrons. Hey Foodge, what did you do yesterday?”

“Smoked lots of cigarettes, drank heaps of booze, represented a fine defaulter in court, told the Prime Minister to stick his head up his arse, usual sort of thing why do you ask?” replies Foodge.

“No reason” says Mack. “See Merv, what do really remember about yesterday?”

“Dunno, I fink I got outta bed, came down here to the bar and later went back to bed”

“Stupiditis, big time” says the twins.

Merv and family

Tuna and Pear Pizza

23 Saturday Dec 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

pear, pizza, tuna

Tuna and Pear pizza

 

This is one of my favourite pizzas of all time and comes from an authentic Italian cookbook that Tutu an I used a lot in our early days.

So make a pizza base. Do you need me to tell you how to do that I’m not sure. So buy one or make one. The home-made ones are better but I’ll leave that up to you.

Now as for level of ingredients, again that’s up to you and how many people you need to feed.

So lets assume you have a pizza base on a tray ready to go. The sauce that you apply goes like this.

Garlic

Onion

Salt and pepper

Olive oil

Anchovies

Tuna

Tomatoes and tomato paste

Method

Add oil to pan with salt and pepper then fry garlic for a few minutes. Add onion and keep frying for a bit longer then add tomatoes, anchovies and tuna. Add tomato paste to thicken, this needs to be spreadable. Mash and let cool.

Get you pizza base and spread the tuna paste on the base. Add slices of pear and onion rings, cheese of choice and cook for 10 minutes or so in a 220 degree oven.

When I took a trip on the Ghan I sat next to a pizza shop owner who loved the idea of the recipe. The pair softens and is sweet. The tuna is salty and adds the contrast. The tomato base is basically tuna bolonaise and is delightful as a balance to the other ingredients.

Tutu and I voted this as our second best pizza. First place was onion, capsicum and mushroom.

 

 

 

The Sociology of A Place To Call Home Part 15

22 Friday Dec 2017

Posted by Mark in Sandshoe

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Cairns, Christina Binning Wilson, homelessness

Picture of a bikie minus the bikie

 

 

The Sociology of A Place To Call Home Part 15
by Sandshoe

Still on the beach with the beach community…

A southern based bikie gang arrived one week-end and endeared themselves that they respectfully asked what could they do to help the community. To suggestion they help pick up weekend townies’ litter that otherwise would discredit the campers, they as respectfully patrolled litterers.

The female partner of the couple whose army disposals tent was meeting place was a

Aren’t nurses wonderful people

specialist nurse. She achieved a senior position at a very young age. She and I strolled along the beach and shared why we had left our professional positions and training. Her decision too she arrived at on grounds of protest and concern about the status of her profession and working conditions.

The economy of the local store at the curve of the road onto the beach boomed. The dramatic influx of domestic and international travellers brought new influences to bear on local food supply. Wholemeal and grain bread was near unheard of. My German friend I had campaigned with to alert the business world to the travesty of the seizing of the painting and the subsequent court case asked in a stentorian voice in a busy Cairns City central bakery to buy a loaf of bread. Once served, he stepped back from the counter, pushed the loaf down to its smallest possible size with two hands, rolled it into a ball he stuffed into a pocket of his khaki trousers, uttered the historic guttural statement, “It’s rubbish” and walked out. Not something I would think to do, but there again I was not yearning for a stout heavy grain loaf of bread and a beer garden.

“We are going to the pub”, R. announced one day when my partner obliged him we would be transport and helping hands on one of our friend’s wheel-dealer runs. We had arrived at a location on the Atherton Tableland. “No,” he announced firmly when we arrived. My partner and I had started towards the lounge.

On his insistence we were there to exercise it transpired the right legally awarded women in that year (1970) to drink in a hotel bar, the three of us walked in the street entrance of the pub’s front bar.

I was short of 21. The legal age was not dropped to 18 until 1974. None of us gave it a thought. My age was not challenged. I might have been however the first femme in the bar. The entire attention of the patrons was rivetted on us. The silence was

The Cans Hotel

audible. Served, the three of us awkwardly sat on the bar stools available to sit one next to the other. We sipped on our beers. R. said abruptly, “Come on. I can’t stand it.” His voice was so replete with quiet determination to leave, my partner and I stood and followed him as he walked out. We were all glad to exit. We left three beers unfinished on the bar counter top.

Yet R. favoured the look of an Australian worker in khaki work shirt and trousers and work boots. His headwear was always a battered Australian bushman’s felt hat. Nothing to see there. Perhaps my partner’s abundance of over the shoulder curls was not so usual in a country pub in 1970.

The diversity of stories shared grew in kind. The community’s members and local residents were swept up in experience that evolved out of their neighbourly relationships, become actors in real life dramas as moving as any we find where humans group; great love was seen to be found, love triangles were absorbed, trysts negotiated, international intelligence agency (not too intelligent) revealed, a history of individuals who shed their anxieties, abandoned their worldly goods, collected new accoutrements. The red double decker London bus conversion that was a mobile home and mechanics workshop double parked.

The stories of the double decker bus and our new friend’s varied fortunes are legend. News was an ice cream shop was opening in Cairns. The double decker was driven to town for the clamouring purchase of different flavours of icecream in cones for a busload.

Pizza enhancer

A report in the local newspaper, The Cairns Post, cited the bus driver who picked up schoolchildren in the morning as noting ‘they’ were all still in the same place when he returned in the afternoon. ‘They’ hadn’t moved from where ‘they’ waited for mangos or coconuts to fall into their hands to feed ‘them’. Other reports fabricated or interpreted people smoking roll-your-own tobacco were smoking drugs. I recall someone’s voice enquiring ‘What’s marijuana?’

We read standing in a group, craning our necks to see the one newspaper, that we were hippies.

“Hippies!”

I remained alcohol and drug free with exception I once experimented in the period, on my request supervised and ingested a small number, perhaps three, of the psychadelic mushroom, ‘the blue meanie’. I lay on my back in the grass of the back yard and my neighbour looked over the fence and laughed as I laughed. I found a fascination in the shapes of clouds that seemed to speed from one composition to the next. In the cottage bedroom blemishes in old paint on the walls assumed crocodile-like skin patterns that made me laugh for the absurdity. I lay on the floor to look at the ceiling. I was entirely engaged in the moment and realised I was lying on the floor gurgling in delight. My only further memory of it is that I sobered. The interesting thought occurred to me I had regressed. I do further believe that regardless happy chance I stumbled on recall of the baby within.

Such an outcome would not be everybody’s experience or mind construct. As result of

Hmm, these mushrooms are magic

observation and over the course of my life hearing of the experience of others my viewpoint is the ingestion of psychadelic mushrooms or any other common hallucinogenic is potentially dangerous.

If I was not habitually sober and drug free I would not have enjoyed the ease and depth of of relationship I did with the key members of the community who were as well habitually sober. Discussion increasingly turned to how and where to buy land.

Someone’s idea to buy a block of land as a collective we would manage as a camping ground appealed to the group. We would provide harbour to anybody in immediate need of safety from persecution.

Our land scouts brought back stories of being apprehended by police personnel and harrassment. One real estate office telephoned the police and when the two men emerged from the office after making their enquiries they found the street barricaded at both ends by police cars. They were arrested on suggestion of vagrancy and spent the night in jail. In the pocket of one was a list of all the names of the people keen to contribute money, thought to be their list customers and they drug dealers. We, instead, early identified key identities in the real estate industry we thought suspect of collusion with authorities, of rigging land values, and bidding up land auctions.

Meanwhile, the observation thought newsprint worthy that the “hippies” when the bus driver drove past were always in the same place hoping for coconuts and mangoes to

A couple of hippies

fall into their hands held the smallest grain of truth.

The couple who had established the army disposals tent as living space … that the surround of became a gathering place … were establishing a screen print design clothing business. The bus driver’s return journey coincided with afternoon tea.

A resident supplied the assistance of his premises for manging the screens and printing. Among the women of the community were experienced industrial machinists. Bikinis were stock-in-trade. Men’s and women’s shirts and women’s dresses were added. I enquired of interest in a line of children’s clothing. I drafted small girls’ sundresses and supplied the front panel for printing with a design I was asked to first approve or reject. The printed panel was returned to me for assembly.
An order came in from a local flag shop. I sewed small marine flags when they were printed.

Another of the community adept with a movie camera assembled a technical team and a movie was made intended for commercial promotion.

to be continued…
Christina Binning Wilson

Is that dress ready Shoe, tides comin’ in

The Sociology of A Place To Call Home Part 14

14 Thursday Dec 2017

Posted by Mark in Sandshoe

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

Art, Christina Binning Wilson, homelessness

 

 

Me? Offensive? You must be joking.

The Sociology of A Place To Call Home Part 14
by Sandshoe

The writer apologises for the delay in presenting Part 14. Here provided is a link for readers to the previous Part 13.

The Sociology of A Place To Call Home Part 13

The accused had purchased the painting from the artist, the same one-time friend of my brother and a local resident. The artist was fearful, especially concerned he may become the next target of police attention and potential vandalism.

I had known of the artist’s intention to the painting. I critiqued it for him as he asked of me when it was completed. I thought the work was excellent, regardless a departure. The artist was a landscape painter. He did win a major award with a

Sorry, I don’t do nudes

beautiful seated female nude. This instead was of a female nude lying across a bed on her back and her head hanging back over the bed edge at the forefront of the painting; a figure barely more than a semblance visible in a doorway at some distance from the main subject I knew was female. I am unsure in recall if that could be easily determined.

I have not viewed the painting for now 47 years so I do question my memory of the exact detail , but the colour gradation and palette; however perhaps a third of the height of the canvas was painted in an almost monochromatic dark charcoal-hue other than for an implication of a source of light behind the figure in the doorway. The nude lying on the bed was a work of realism in the style of the artist’s landscape paintings. I knew he sought a Renaissance depth and perspective. Nothing is revealed of the personality of the room neither its contents. A seeming dispersal of light coated the tones of the skin. I do not remember a racial description. The hair colour was I believe dark. The artist moved about a middle third of the painting out of the dark of distance to an effect of depth beyond the bed.

My admiration of the painting remains the sense of still moment.

The painting was seized by police who searched the accused’s small wooden boat in the belief they would find drugs. They had exhibited as was anticipated of their raids little discriminatory care of his belongings. They produced no search warrant, Not finding drugs of any description and perhaps foreseeing the need to establish an alibi for their behaviour in full view on a public beach, the police alleged they were walking

Hand over your money, um paintings

not far from the water’s edge past the location of an open boat parked stern to bow facing the esplanade road. They saw the painting. They were confronted and offended.

Thus the truth was eliminated that they had pulled the accused’s belongings every which way out of a meagre forward cabin where the painting was lodged for its protection from salt encrustation and sand in a surround of clothing.

The accused was seriously frightened. The thought alone of a conviction on a charge of anything terrified anybody were they vulnerable and exposed to what was potential of being continuingly apprehended by members of the Queensland Police Force, but the accused was from the UK, not an Australian resident or citizen. Serious consequences were potential affect on his future if judgement was pronounced in favour of the prosecution, to only be deported to the UK with a highlight of a criminal prosecution for obscenity.

The criminals must have been laughing as the saying goes. Some years later, 30 years ago now the Fitzgerald Enquiry in Queensland established irrefutable proof of the long-term involvement of key figures at the highest levels of government and policing in corruption and their financing through protection rackets, gambling and prostitution.

Meanwhile, back at the beach community, resourceful individuals put their heads together as is the wont of people of integrity where community and its reputation is at stake and kin fearful of corrupt administrative governance at every level, its members living with a siege mindset, their homes in danger of ransack.

A local lawyer was engaged whose reputation met the requisite critera that his genuine interest was the accused’s welfare and social justice.

What were the qualifications of the arresting officer to establish an artwork is obscene, offensive and to whom is it offensive if so and why.

I witnessed my first life demonstration of the practical use of mathematics and

An innumerate

experienced the wonder. For anyone to see into the boat’s interior from where the police alleged they had and were concerned for the public, minors for starters were ruled out beyond reasonable doubt by trigonometry. A passer-by needed to be 12 feet tall (3.6m).

Nothing would ever cause the accused in the circumstances to even smile we were to realise. My heart went out to him as result of my assuredly announcing by way of pure instinct the next stumbling block the police would meet with was no professional artist leastwise in the immediate district would witness the painting was obscene per se. The police would present in court without that evidence. He abjectly anxious announced to me I was to remember his entire future was at stake.

The feeling of sorrowful guilt that I failed when he needed comfort to assist his anxiety has never left me, remembered of course because I nevertheless learned a valuable life lesson about the relativity of perspective.

In place of others who chose to not be recognised for fear of immediate reprisals, I attended in clothes I hoped again rendered me conservative and unrecognisable. My responsibility was to deliver my court report back to the beach community without

Shoe goes to court in disguise

being apprehended and charged on any pretence. The community’s members anticipated retaliation for what was assumed an inevitable outcome the case would be thrown out of court.

The courtroom was packed. A hotch potch of business suits and brilliantly coloured and sequinned gowns worn by people I had never in my life seen and hair styles that were glorious, dreads and shining, gleaming, beaded, braided filled the gallery standing room only and and my memory for this life time. Permission for observers to stand respectfully was further granted. Where everybody came from I do not know.

The magistrate doused periodic outbursts of guffaws. He warned contempt of court. The court fell quiet. The trigonometry was presented with grave attention to its detail by diagrammatic representation.

The accused described himself as being on holiday from the UK where he was a merchant seaman by profession. The accused made the revelation he was a former student of art at a UK art collegeof reasonable renown. The police prosecution persevered that the depiction of nudity in a public place was offensive where passers-by did not expect to view nudity; however declared the painting in the same breath as obscene. The reason was advanced that the painting showed an obscene relationship.

No apprehending police officer in their right mind would consider in my cautious viewpoint presenting themselves alone in a public courtroom as witnesses of their own assessment of an artwork. They did. Advice on the grape vine was they had tried to

A rough sketch

engage at least one local artist so what I had surmised proved true. The police officers attested when asked to having no training in art. The magistrate enquired of the arresting officer what Michaelangelo’s sculpture of David meant to him in the scheme of things. He drew an entire blank. The confused officer had no idea what that was.

The accused cross questioned by the magistrate what was the meaning to the accused of the painting advised he intended to take the painting with him on his return to the UK as a memento of his holiday in Australia. Why did he buy this painting? He bought it as a study in ochres. What did he consider was the relationship between the figures in the painting? He had not considered the subject matter of there being two figures in the painting. His interest was technical. He repeated he valued the painting as a study in ochres

The magistrate advised the accused that he, the magistrate supposed the accused would not display the painting in, say the front window of, say a department store in the main street of Cairns and the accused agreed; if the accused had not, the magistrate could not find the painting was displayed in a public place and neither intention. The accused was exonerated of the charge and free to leave the court.

I interpreted the magistrate’s inclusion of definition of a public place achieved the unexpected clarity of a finding opposed by inference to the controversial seizing of art work by the Queensland police out of display in a public art gallery and equally to its

The Magistrate

being potentially seized out of a private home or display in a private art collection. The court’s packed gallery of observers were cognisant to restrain their exuberance until they exited the court room.

In the evening I recited the court case near word for word to an assembled group sitting cross legged on the floor at my feet. My capacity with memory had been well identified as a skill of no small function. The charming detail remains in memory that the next day the accused was no longer burdened with anxiety when I commented to him that the police as I presupposed appeared no doubt perforce without an expert art witness. He asked to my surprise and in wonder how did I know.

I did not know. I interpreted the status of the intelligence and experience of the police purely on the trigonometry presented to me by the mathematicians. My immediate thought had been that if they had not thought of the detail they could not view the interior of the boat from where they had claimed the painting was visible to the public, they would have likely given little or no consideration to how difficult the next step would be of enticing a local art specialist to testify the painting was obscene.

Why did I presuppose the responsible police officers could not forward themselves as sufficient and suitable witnesses?

Perhaps it did take a local and former Queensland University student who was a victim of the Queensland Government’s Education Department to hazard an informed guess what the educational status was of the Queensland Police in 1970.

No maths. No art. No deductive reasoning. No common weal.

to be continued…
Christina Binning Wilson

Pleece HQ

Merv has a Brother

29 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

Gordon O’Donnell, humour, Merv

Gordon is worried about somefink

 

There was a loud banging on the door at the Pigs Arms.

“Let me in, let me in” cried Gordon “I need a drink, something tragic has happened.”

Merv rouses from his slumber and opens the door. “What’s up Gordy?” he asks without a care for the answer, it’s 8 o’clock in the morning and opening time is still two hours away, one hour and 59 minutes of blissful sleep lost.

“Six pints of Special and two serves of wedges, me gizmo is broken” wails Gordon.

Merv pours a few pints for Gordon then goes out to the kitchen to fire up the ovens

Simulated Trotters Special Ale

and fryers. “What frigging gizmo is broken Gordon?” he yells.

“It’s me SPIT” replies Gordon. “My Small Personal Interplanetary Teleporter”

Thank Gord I didn’t need an explanation for that one thinks Merv as he returns to the bar and pours some more pints for Gordon.

“Well go and see my brother Mick, down the road and round the corner at Mick’s Auto Mechanics and Florist Shop, just between Rosie’s and Glenda’s” says Merv.

“I didn’t know you had a brother” says Gordon as he downs yet another glass canoe.

Nah, me neither thinks Merv but then again I don’t write this shit either.

Gordon downs his last pint and his two servings of wedgies with extra herring and

Simulated wedgies

Vegemite sauce and heads down the road and round the corner to Mick’s Auto Mechanics and Florist shop although the road seems to be acting funny, it’s swaying all over the place making it difficult for Gordon to step forward on every occasion. Maybe I should have had seven pints thinks Gordy, these planets in the Milky Way are trouble.

Gordon enters the foyer at the workshop to be greeted by a lovely display of petunias, orchids and lilies. No one is in attendance so he rings the bell on the counter.

A man appears in overalls and a sweaty face. “Yes, how may I help you?” says the man.

“Hey” says Gordon “you’re Merv in a set of overalls and some water chucked on your face to look like sweat”

“Look, I’m playing my identical twin brother Mick as Emmjay has said to cut down on

Simulated Mick

production costs so just go along with it, okay? Extra casts means extra expense, get it!” asserts Mick or Merv whoever.

“Hmm, well I need my gizmo fixed and your identical twin brother sent me here to get it fixed” blasts Gordon thinking maybe he should of had eight pints. “Don’t have any other brothers do you?”

“Not sure yet till we get to the end of the story” replies Mick. “Lilies are on special you know.”

“Fuck lilies, can you fix my gizmo?” says Gordon wishing for another pint and handing over his SPIT. Don’t ya just hate people who spit.

Simulated ripoff merchant

“Um, probably, it will be costly” replies Mick as he takes the gizmo from Gordon. Mick looks at the bottom of the device and notices that the on/off switch is in the off position and switches it back on and hands it to Gordon. “That’ll be $500 fanks.”

Haven’t we all be there at some stage.

AI Is no Chook Raffle.

15 Wednesday Nov 2017

Posted by Mark in Sandshoe

≈ 15 Comments

Tags

Angler, Christina Binning Wilson, Gib, Gordon O’Donnell, granny, humour

 

Only 50 cents a ticket, finger lickin’ good…

 

Story by Sandshoe.

AI is no chook raffle.

“Won’t get off the ground.”

Sandy and Gordon were gettin’ another earful. Gordon got cocky. Instead of keepin’

Gordon steadies himself to sing

strictly in time with the karaoke-singin’-to-Gordon, he went out on a limb preachin’ AI well under the stormy weather.

“What happened to Blame it on the Bossy Nova? Tell us moa, and when, now” yelled out the patrons bit under the stormy weather.

Cue the protestors.

“ALL ducks are quackers.”

“Big statement. Right on.”

Everyone in the crowd started feinting, yeah, imaginary boxing moves in the air and proved they were replaced by AI robots spoilin’ for a setup. “Go, you young turkies”, they chanted. They tick and tocked all over the place. It’s virtual reality noiseworks. Made to sound like bangin’ out a good story on a typewriter. I think not. I miss the sound of the carriage return.

(Carriage return).

Yes, this is me and my name’s Shoe and I’m here to help.

“Nah, it’s untrue.” Gordon was unusually loud for a man and woman of science. He looked same as the tablecloth with Sandy’s beer that fell accidental on him in the name of science. Which was when Sandy threw it at Babel. More beer per chook more production.

Babel was already the best layer. Sandy’s judgement was affected by cosmicness and

Princess Layer

the lightness, Merv had too much to do to be affected, he had to run a pub. He kept saying it into the mirror behind the bar. He got Angler and Gib back from Hornsby. Someone did because they are both round the place.

Mangled, melodic mountains rock.

So Merv put up with a lot of addressin’ himself in the mirror. Granny was brewin’ up a sunny day. Foodge helped Granny titrate.

It’s a full-on battle now. AI reckons the brewin’ is not a generic statement of factual engagement, but a politico-fraco-fungal statement revealin’ unrest and the cellar is a metaphor.

Nice try.

Granny’s brewin’ be buggered it’s simple and it’s science. Sandy’s spewin’ about Babel pooping in his beer it’s that simple be buggered not a lot of science. Ok, Gord is the

A fresh beer Merv!

whole works, reality speakin’ in a runny eggshell. AI test checked Gordon O’Donnell as she and he.

Yeah, hahaha, likely story and we won’t fall for it. We’re too sofistickated.

Intelligent Gordon O’Donnell

11 Saturday Nov 2017

Posted by Mark in Mark

≈ 17 Comments

Intelligent Gordon O’Donnell

A Short Story
by Hung

Gordon O’Donnell was thinking about Sandy O’Way again. Sandy was a smart knight with vast hands and pretty toenails.

Gordon walked over to the window and reflected on his unusual surroundings. He had always loved distant in space with its mangled, melodic mountains. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel ambivalent.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a smart figure of Sandy O’Way.

Gordon gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was an intelligent, funny, beer drinker with blonde hands and tall toenails. His friends saw him as a defiant, decaying deity. Once, he had even brought a watery blind person back from the brink of death.

But not even an intelligent person who had once brought a watery blind person back from the brink of death, was prepared for what Sandy had in store today.

The drizzle rained like cooking lizards, making Gordon fuzzy. Gordon grabbed an odd rock that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Gordon stepped outside and Sandy came closer, he could see the shallow glint in his eye.

Sandy gazed with the affection of 6230 peculiar handsome hamsters. He said, in hushed tones, “I love you and I want peace.”

Gordon looked back, even more fuzzy and still fingering the odd rock. “Sandy, I ate your puppy,” he replied.

They looked at each other with surprised feelings, like two drab, damaged dogs smiling at a very stupid wake, which had jazz music playing in the background and two brave uncles chatting to the beat.

Gordon regarded Sandy’s vast hands and pretty toenails. “I feel the same way!” revealed Gordon with a delighted grin.

Sandy looked jumpy, his emotions blushing like a kindhearted, klutzy knife.

Then Sandy came inside for a nice drink of beer.

THE END

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