Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

I’m Bloody Exhausted

21 Monday Jun 2010

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

≈ 9 Comments

Tags

, ,

I wanted a pic of Suzie Wright here, but all I could find was pix of Lee Rhiannon - so here's another green.

.

Well, the Penrith by-election came out as expected – with the flogging of Labor by the worthy Liberal candidate Stuart “Stu-boy” Ayres.

And what a flogging it was.  While pundits have been evenly divided over the underlying cause – assuming that it was just one cause, adding a touch of “can’t get to work for under $80 a week – if the public transport ever shows up” to “our suspicions about the incumbent being as crooked as a dog’s hind leg being confirmed” and maybe just a dash of “time to change the pigs at the public trough” should just about explain the massacre.

Local versus national issues ?  See the previous paragraph !

When the ABC interviewed a few locals this morning to get their take on the blood-letting, I found one response particularly interesting.  A former Labor-voting woman put the boot into the Liberals for wasting so much paper morning after morning at the railway station (so much for a cyberspace campaign debate, folks).  This woman voted “Green” of course, but she went one further than that.

She voted “Green” and then “Exhausted” her vote.  Now personally, I usually find voting exhausting – and even debilitating if it was not for the local P&C cake and coffee provided as a public good and fundraiser for the school.

But in this sense, in NSW, at least, one can simply put a “1″ next to the party of one’s choice and nothing else and nobody gets a preference after that.  It’s a way of raising the middle finger to the major parties.  And when I cannot bring myself to vote Liberal no matter how vomitous the candidates or the totality of my traditional roots party are, in the NSW election coming, at least I would like to simply do as our Penrith sister did.

Admittedly a by-election voter backlash is not unusual – democracy being such an imposition particularly when the Panthers are playing away, or the Wallabies are set to cough one up to the Lions (thanks, Matt).  But this one has the hallmark of an avalanche to come.  In Penrith, this time, 3% of the 88% voter turnout  voted informal and the exhausted vote count was 62%.

The people of Penrith were pretty clear about their preferences.  In some traditionally Labor booths, the Liberal candidate out-polled Labor 2 to 1.  Labor’s vote set the new record turn around of minus 25.7% of which the Liberals scored plus 18% and a bit and the Greens (not traditionally well rewarded in the Western Labor heartland) were rewarded with a gain of somewhere around 8 % – just for showing up.

I don’t know about you, but given the incumbents and the alternatives, vastly talented O’Furball team, I’m feeling exhausted already.

* Apparently “optional preferential”  voting only works in NSW single constituency by-elections.  Disappointing, huh ?

something quite  like this appeared over at the daily bludge a few minutes ago….

The Return of Tiger Woods

21 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

, ,

...Mr McInnes has admitted behaviour "unbecoming" of a chief executive in relation to a female staff member at two company functions..... pic and caption c/- the ABC. My 8 cents are in the mail.

.

Well, the weekend papers and the electronic media were chockers full of rather unflattering news about the sacking of the former DJs CEO, Mark McInnes, now bunkered down with his pregnant wife in a distant hell-hole like Monaco, somewhere else on the Riviera or the Costa del something.  Wealthy tackiness score – 10/10.

When the story broke late last week, there was a memorable quote from ‘shareholder activist’ Steven Mayne about how Mr McInnes had single-handedly turned around the flagging flagship retailer and how this had been one of the truly great feats of corporate governance by miraculous leadership.  Shareholder value, blah blah blah.

I was wondering, then,  aloud over a rather fine cup of Java why it was that DJ’s had not simply handed over a cartload of cash to the victim and buried the story – getting on with the urgent task of making more  shed loads of cash, matching Gerry Harvey’s  cut-throat prices, giving excellent customer service and pouring out the finer goods to the gentry.

First Mate did her oft-repeated impression of tired incredulity with my naivety and said simply “Tip of the iceberg, tiger woods style”.

From Here to Nairobi 8 – The Christo Conundrum

21 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

, , ,

.... the old Entebbe tower had seen better days ....

By Neville Cole

It was a very subdued crew who climbed aboard the “big fuckin’ Russian helicopter” that morning at the Oasis. We hadn’t heard from John, Jean or the girls in nearly three days and none of us was confident that they would meet us in Entebbe by 1pm as planned. I was especially concerned as John was my ride back to Nairobi.

Wolfgang came down to see us off. He was grinning like a demented hyena as if delighted to have an empty hotel again. After several weeks at near capacity he was probably looking forward to a much needed break and an opportunity for some serious drinking. Just as the engine exploded to life and the MI-8’s enormous rotor blade began to turn, the lean silhouette of Christo appeared on the horizon loping toward us. Michel saw him immediately and gestured to the pilot to wait. Justin jumped down to the tarmac and ran out greet him. I’ve got to hand it to the guy he knows how to make a dramatic entrance. Typical Christo performance. None of us had seen or heard from him since we returned from Koobi Fora; then, just as we are leaving he comes strolling back from beyond looking for a free ride. Still, as much as I didn’t want to like this guy I couldn’t help but admire him. He carried no bags and wore only a simple traditional Turkana wrap and an old pair of sandals. The only adornment I could see hung around his neck: a small gold medallion in the shape of a sun inlaid with various gemstones. For someone with an apparent Messiah complex he played the part very well. He climbed aboard the helicopter without a sideways glance and quietly took up the space against the wall next to Justin.

One note here for any of you considering a trip in an Mi-8 helicopter. They are loud buggers. Bloody loud. I do not suggest a trip of over 3 hours in one. Ever. The only advantage they have over small planes is they don’t make me want to puke up my last two meals.

Landing at Entebbe airport is a surreal experience on the best of days. Doing so in a helicopter designed for war by the old terminal building is even more eerie. We managed to get a bird’s eye view of the far end of the main runway on the way down. Yes, that same runway where, still rotting in the tropical heat, we could clearly see the hijacked Air France airliner, that once held 300 hostages until their rescue on July 4, 1976.

I also happened to notice that the closer we got to landing the more agitated Christo became. He actually appeared to be fidgeting. After touching down, we all stood to get off the plane. All of us but Christo and Justin, that is. They lingered at the back of the pack talking intently in anxious but hushed tones. The rest of us filed off the plane and were escorted by armed guards to the customs area for processing. I only had to glance around briefly to confirm that Christo was not part of the group.

“There is a message from Jean and John,” Justin said as the group gathered in the terminal a half and hour later. “They say they will all meet us at the Black Pearl in three days.”

“What?” Michel said with a jolt? “We are supposed to shoot at Lake Edward tomorrow. Jean knows this? What is going on?”

“You think maybe they are having too much fucking fun in the Seychelles for their own good?” I suggested, stating, as usual, the plainly obvious.

Our papers in order, we all marched back to the Mi-8. Several machine gun carrying soldiers were only now stepping back to the tarmac. They appeared to have made a thorough check of our cargo and equipment. Wherever Christo was hiding he apparently had not been discovered. I had to wonder if it was a simple lack of documentation that forced him to take this action or if something more sinister was going on. My curiosity was well and truly piqued; I needed to get to the bottom of this Christo conundrum once and for all.

Geoffrey the Inept IV

18 Friday Jun 2010

Posted by in Big M

≈ 6 Comments

..... hoping the condom practice will not be in vain .....

By Big M

Geoffrey had settled into the Outpatient Clinics. The patients were relatively well, usually didn’t stink, and were capable of taking themselves to the toilet and wiping their own bottoms. It also meant that Geoffrey had every weekend off, so he’d been able to socialise. He’d been to a few parties, and had even been on a couple of dates with one of the clinic nurses, Morticia. She wasn’t a cracker like Melena Stuhl, but she was the only girl who’d ever said, ‘Yes’ to an invitation straight away, so that put her way ahead of everyone else.

Morticia fascinated Geoffrey. She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t even pretty, but she had strength of character and directness he’d never seen in a woman, or man. When asked by a patient if the clinic was where she intended to spend her career she answered. “No, I only did nursing so that I could get into my training as an embalmer.” Morticia had done a number of on-line courses in embalming, and funeral directing, but struggled to get a foothold. She told Geoffrey that embalming was the last bastion of male domination, and it was up to her to break down the barriers. Geoffrey didn’t know what a ‘bastion’ was, and was far too lazy to look it up on the internet, so logged it away in his mind with ‘male words’ like, ‘trouser’, ‘sweat’ and ‘mechanics’.

Morticia also had excellent taste. She had managed to wean Geoffrey off cask wine, and on to sophisticated drinks like ‘Scotch n Coke’, ‘Vodka n Lemonade’, and, for real aficionados, ‘Tia Maria n Milk’.

Geoffrey had suffered from a few minor incidents. For example, there was the usual tripping over the ‘Wet Floor’ sign, nearly every day. He’d broken the news to a man, that his fifteen-year-old daughter was pregnant, with the exclamation. “Congratulations, Grandad.” He was banned from the Sexually Transmitted Diseases Clinic as he had tried to treat a particular type of inflammation, in a particularly private area, with cortisone ointment, when, the treatment of choice was, of course, a big injection of penicillin.

Dr James had dropped by, a couple of times; just to see how Geoffrey was going. The visits had nothing to do with the fact that the Clinics were between the Executive Office, and Obstetrics. Dr James had even let on that he was in line for a special Quality Award, for his P.E.N.I.S. The only contender was the Area Resource Scheme for Emergencies. Even the acronym didn’t seem to roll off the tongue. He was already icing the Porphyry Pearl!

Sister Kent sat out the front of the hospital smoking with the patients from the Antenatal Ward. She always tried to explain that smoking was bad for the unborn child, It had certainly been bad for her child but, thank Christ, she thought, I don’t have to see the poor little bugger. Uva had ‘fallen in love’ with a young doctor during her training, but he’d wanted her to get rid of it because of ‘their careers.’ She couldn’t, and didn’t, but chose to have the child given up for adoption, so she could resume her training. That was another life.

Uva picked the stray bits of tobacco off her tongue while she sat and thought about the hospital. She had, of course, become aware of the Quality Awards, one for James’ penis, the other for the scheme of her arch nemesis, Sister Ophelia of the Immaculate Conception, at the Mother of Misery Hospital. Her scheme was a grander version of the PENIS. It was an area-wide-plan that involved patients being admitted via an Emergency Department then, if there were no beds, usually due to closures, they were transferred to another hospital, sometimes two hundred kilometres away. Like the PENIS it costs a hell of a lot more to run, but the costs were concealed from the balance sheet. She’d trained with Ophelia Brown Nose, and she hated her more than chokos!

Uva looked up to see Tess waddling towards her with a scowl on her face. Dr James was striding towards both of them, from the opposite direction. They met Uva at the same time. Tess’s face quickly assembled itself into an amiable smile, no longer contorted with effort of contracting the pelvic floor. “Gidday, James, I reckon congratulations are in order.” Exclaimed Uva.

“Ah…err…thankyou…err…Uva, I mean, Sister Kent.” Stammered James, wrinkling his nose at the smell of tobacco smoke. He’d always had a weak chest as a lad. His mum always said it complemented the rest of him. “I wanted to catch up with you, and…err…Tess…ah…Mrs Tickle. I’ve heard reports about male nurses from this very hospital going out drinking and carousing. Being a male nurse myself I thought I should issue an edict, I mean memo, that all male nurses are to act in a dignified manner when out and about.”

“Issue a memo?” Uva continued to pick tobacco from her tongue. “The buggers will just give you the finger, if you do that! Why don’t you leave it to me ‘n’ Tess? We’ll put the word out and see what happens?” James was quietly pleased to find an unlikely solution to this dilemma, so nodded and strode off, concentrating on his PENIS. As soon as he’d gone, Tess and Uva giggled. There was a Male Nurses Imbibers Club, MaNIC, which was, basically, an all male drinking group. Tess and Uva had managed to become associate members because they liked a drink, and, quote, “didn’t talk bullshit.” In short, they were the chief carousers!

Geoffrey was excited. Tonight might be the night. Mum had caught the Country Link train to Albury for the weekend, leaving him ‘in charge’, which meant he had to feed her cat, ‘Mr Tiddles’. He was going to cook for Morticia. It was going to be a feast. Chips n dip for starters, two McCann’s frozen roast dinners, followed by frozen apple pie and ice cream. He had a selection of premixed drinks to accompany the meal, Vodka Cruzers, Jim Bean n Coke, and a whole bottle of Tia Maria and Long Life Milk.  He had even gone to the extreme of having two showers today, and had sprinkled himself and his clothes with Hyena. He hoped that the previous fortnight of applying condoms to zucchinis was not going to be in vain.

Long Days Journey into Bolivia – Part 1: The Airport’s Fault

17 Thursday Jun 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole

≈ 5 Comments

.... truth in advertising - another shining example ....

By Neville Cole


I was cursing myself for the hundredth time for not paying more attention in Spanish class, when the woman behind me finally interrupted my hopeless attempt to mime the phrase “I need to get to La Paz.”
“She is asking whether you want to say here in Bogata or go to Lima tonight and wait there for a flight to La Paz on Thursday.”
“No,” I repeated anxiously. “I have to get to La Paz tonight. I have a video crew waiting for me in Bolivia. We start shooting Thursday. I have to get to Lima by 9pm to make my connecting flight.” The woman didn’t even bother translating me; the Avianca rep already had an answer.
“There is no flight. It is not our fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” I asked.
The Avianca rep understood this question and had a very practiced answer.
“It is not Avianca’s fault. It is the airport’s fault.” She then began talking again to the woman behind me in Spanish.

“She says: You stay here tonight and leave in the morning or you go to Lima tonight and wait there for flight. It is the only way to La Paz.” The rep spoke again.

“She also say they cannot pay for any hotel.”
“There are no other flights?”
“No. There are no flights.”
I don’t give up easily; but three hours at various airline counters trying work out transportation details while stretching my 200-word caveman-like Spanish vocabulary way beyond breaking point was more than enough to make me raise a white flag. At least I knew of a decent hotel in Bogata. At least I knew I could get there in broad daylight and get a good night’s sleep for a change. I certainly didn’t fancy another midnight taxi ride through a South America capital with a driver determined to take me to “a much better good hotel” or “a club to meet some very pretty girl.”
“I’ll stay here and fly out tomorrow,” I resigned. “But can you find my bag?”
“Follow me.” The Avianca rep took off like a shot obviously delighted to be one step closer to getting rid of me.
I chased her through the terminal at close to a jog and just happened to notice a departure board that clearly showed a flight for Lima, Peru leaving at 4:58pm.
I grabbed the rep by the sleeve almost jerking her off her feet in the process. She let out a sharp yelp but I blundered on gesturing wildly at the board and blurting: “Won’t that flight get me to Lima before nine? Can’t I can still get to La Paz tonight?”
“That’s not Avianca, that’s TACA.”
“But it will get me there, right?”
“Avianca will not pay. It is not our fault”
“I’ll buy a ticket.” The rep huffed and muttered for a moment.
“Ok. Follow me.”
As we galloped toward the TACA counter I prayed a profane little prayer. “Please God, or whomever or whatever… Let there just be just one bloody seat on this plane and get me the fuck out of Colombia!”
My prayer was answered. There was one seat left and in first class, no less. The Avianca rep left me to buy my ticket and dashed off to find my missing bag. She need not have hurried as paperwork in South America in never a speedy process. I watched and waited and occasionally answered questions for the next 30 minutes as the TACA rep put pen to paper to not only fill out my ticket by hand but check and double check the 15 lines of calculations it took him to work out the price of my ticket. Just when I thought he was done, he called over his supervisor to check and double check his notes and calculations. I began to wonder whose fault it would be if I missed my flight because of a tricky ticketing situation.
My patience was pushed to the limit but I finally got my golden ticket and just as I swore “Shit! Where the hell is my bag?” the Avianca rep tossed it up on to the scale.
“Goodbye,” she said as I gathered my boarding pass. “Good luck with the video.”
“Thanks,” I said, totally flustered and with little sincerity.
I should have been more grateful, I suppose. After all, all I had to do now was clear customs in 25 minutes and I would be on my flight to Lima and still make my connection to La Paz and get in just in time to start the shoot first thing in the morning. Everything was going according to plan.
I ran through the terminal and glanced at a billboard that drew one final, bitter smile. “Colombia,” it read, “the only risk is wanting to stay.”
“Yeah, right…” I laughed.
My joy was fleeting and that all too familiar sinking feeling returned as I fell into line at security. Machine gun toting soldiers were forcing each and every passenger to open their bags and shuffle the contents around. There was no way I would get through all this in 25 minutes. “So close and yet so far” I began to moan. I was about to lose it for real when a sharp finger jabbed me in the shoulder.
“Follow me.” The Avianca rep took off toward the gate and I rushed right after her. A blank-faced soldier looked up momentarily as we appeared and, after only the slightest nod from the rep, waved me through with sweep of his gun.
“Muchas gracias,” I said to the suddenly gloriously beautiful Avianca rep, “por… er… everything, ah… todo.”
“Go,” she said with a Mona Lisa smile. “You will miss your flight.”
“…but that would not be your fault,” I said turning to leave.
“No,” she laughed. “It would be the airport’s fault.”
It’s always the someone or something else’s fault in South America.

Abandoning Andy

16 Wednesday Jun 2010

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

≈ 12 Comments

Andy Muirhead

Andy Muirhead, I’m sure you know was suspended without pay from his TV and radio work at the ABC and the TV show was not presented last Friday.  The ABC announced that it was to be stopped indefinitely pending the outcome of police charges of possession / accessing child pornography.

Greg Barns piece at Unleashed is a well-considered one – attacking the ABC’s cowardly treatment of the presenter of the popular show “The Collectors”.  And it is curious that Greg’s blog is closed after just one comment – from the moderator saying that the blog is closed for (unspecified) legal reasons.  It doesn’t take a rocket surgeon to work out who’s about to get their legs sued off here.

Barns is apparently a lawyer and he attacked the ABC for suspending Andy Muirhead on the basis of an as yet untried and unproven charge, denying him the natural justice right of presumption of innocence until proven guilty.

I think that Barns’ attack is entirely reasonable.

Suspension from duty often follows a situation where, if the charge is ultimately proven, the continuation of active service creates unnecessary risk to the community, say a bus driver found with a high blood alcohol level or a surgeon accused of professional negligence.

While I in no way deny the serious criminality of the possession or accessing of child pornography, surely the ABC’s actions open the possibility that an otherwise fair-minded person in the street might assume some level of guilt applied.    A person in the street might assume that an employer of a person in the public’s eye ought to consider the ramifications on the man’s career of a suspension without pay and the quality of justice already meted out to him if he is found to be innocent.

When the story of the charge broke, it was shocking.  And one could be forgiven for imagining that the police had such strong evidence that the outcome of the trial was likely to be a foregone conclusion.

Now it doesn’t matter either way.  The damage, one might argue is already done.  But woe-betide the decision makers if the case cannot be proven, or if there is some other explanation for digital mischief creating reasonable doubt.

While it’s understandable that the ABC faced a difficult public relations problem, it’s also not very surprising that they have acted as they have – particularly when the Chasers got a three week suspension and were forced to eat a truckload of humble pie for merely producing a single skit in bad taste.

An as-yet unproven charge of possession or accessing child pornography ?  Way too tough for this ABC, so far to the right side of centre.

Only time will tell.

Foodge 13 Foodge – Very Private Dick

13 Sunday Jun 2010

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 11 Comments

.... Manne was about to replace the sign on the disabled toilet with something more pressing....

By Big M

It was a fairly low-key morning, for a Monday. The Pigs Arms had been part of the Lewisham-Leichhardt Food and Wine Weekend, which was uncharacteristic of Merv to allow. The Bowling Ladies had served Devonshire Teas in the front bar, in an attempt to proselytise new members. This had been completely unsuccessful, as they still had no green. Granny had brewed up a nice keg of her Cellar Floor Underpants beer, which she tried to market as an Indian Pale Ale, but hers was far too high in alcohol, and far too bitter for this category, so was simply sold as ‘Granny’s Boutique Bitter.’

The surrounding community had got into the swing of things. Gez and the mysterious, and beautiful, ‘H’ had set up a small art gallery with the profits going into purchasing materials for the local school. The Hell’s Angles opened the clubhouse and entertained the local children with the ‘Cosine Clowns’ and the ‘Arc-Sine Acrobats’, as well as ‘Tangent Tombola’ with their proceedings going into texts on geometry for the high school.

The bar was fairly quiet. The Bowling ladies had already cleaned the front bar, and gone off for a ‘roll up’ at a rival green. Emmjay and First Mate were firmly ensconced on the old, battered chesterfield, commiserating. Both had lost their jobs in the ABC wardrobe department, and were drowning their sorrows in Trotters ale. The occasional bang or grunt came from the cellar. Granny was spring-cleaning as the goat had got in and, well, done what goats do, eat inedible things, and then excrete them from their alimentary tract.

Foodge was  out of sorts. The cops had taken all of the glory for the de Sastri case, plus all of the associated misdemeanours committed by the Lambrettists. O’Hoo was otherwise occupied, whilst most regulars had spent the last fortnight preparing for the Weekend. He sat at the bar sipping on Granny’s, which, by the way, was a great throat elixir and expectorant.

Janet was alone behind the bar, looking a tad pale. She’d excused herself a couple of times to run to the ladies. Merv had left early to go into town. He wanted to buy a suit and managed to find out the name of  Clive Palmer’s and Joe Hockey’s tailor; Messrs Lowes and Elliot, who catered for the man of larger stature.  The third time she disappeared Granny intercepted and helped her to the flat upstairs. Granny returned to look after the bar, as most of the cellar was clean. Foodge looked at her quizzically.

“Pudding Club.” She replied.

“Ugh.” Foodge looked more quizzical.

“Up the duff.”

“Err.” Foodge shrugged his shoulders.

“She’s preggers.”

“O.K. Granny.” Foodge’s brows were knitted like a mad woman had done them.  Dropped stitches gave them a kind of triangularity – which pleased the Hell’s Angles.  “No need to be so cryptic!”

“She’s having a baby.” Granny shook her head. Brilliant powers of deduction.” Just don’t mention anything to Merv, he’s still a bit raw.”

“Oh…err…right.” Foodge concentrated hard on his mail that he’d brought to read. Bills, bills and more bills. Quote for the Zephyr, unmentionable, although, he thought, should be a tax dod…deduction. Fern had even slipped in a couple of acrylic nail repairs, as they were broken on the job. There was also a bill for her on-line short hand course. This really wasn’t money well spent, as she didn’t know how to use the internet. He shoved the mass of paper roughly into his coat pocket. Foodge silently pushed his glass canoe across the bar, which Granny dutifully refilled. He settled in to read Barrister’s Weekly. This week it was full of glossy colour action shots, with not much text, which suited Foodge. His concentration was disturbed by the sound of the door slamming, and a leggy redhead cha chai-ng towards him. “Sorry, love, don’t do divorces or missing persons.” As he turned back to his ‘journal’. This wasn’t entirely true, but he’d heard Phillip Marlowe say it, and thought it cool.

The redhead flopped onto the barstool next to his, put her elbows on the bar then buried her face in her hands. “It’s neither.” She sobbed. “It’s this.” She pulled a packet of colour snaps out of her handbag.

Foodge looked through them with his head on one side, then the other, trying to determine the camera angle, or, some other angle. “Somebody’s got a big pe…err…smile.” He almost chuckled to himself, forgetting the gravity of the situation. “Shown these to the cops?”

Big Red shook her head as Granny proffered a box of tissues. “I can’t, he’s my husband, the Local Member.”

“Yes, I can see his member.” Foodge could be obtuse.

“No, he’s the Local Member.” She sobbed.

“So, I think I’ve got it. He’s local and is memorable ?”

“Foodge, he’s the bloody Local Member, MP, Member for Lewisham!” Granny growled as she tried to comfort the poor woman.

“Oh, the Local Member, you should’ve said.” Foodge grinned at his cleverness. “So, you want me to find Cecil Bee Dermill and give a him tune up?”

“No, they’re obviously photoshopped, but could be damaging if they find their way into a paper. I want you to find him, stop him, take the files, and give them to me.

“What, find your husband, I don’t do lost and found.” Foodge was umbraged.

“ No, find the photographer and stop him. Here’s five thousand to get started, there’ll be five more when you finish. Do we have a deal?” She held out her hand.

“OK, but what’s his name?

“I don’t know his name. That’s why I’ve hired you.”

What, you don’t know your husband’s name? Foodge was befuddled.

“Yes, he’s the Local Member. Don’t tell me you don’t know the name of the Local Member?” Big Red was getting exasperated.

“Well, no.”

“Patrick Fitzpatrick.!”

“Patrick certainly fits something.” Foodge muttered to himself. “Leave it with me, the five big, I mean. I’ll get started straight away. Foodge took the wad of cash, turned on his heel and marched into the putrid stench known as ‘The Men’s.”’ He then realised that he had no details, such as, her name, address, phone number, method of delivery of said photos, and so on. Minor details. Rather than lose face, he waited amongst the fetid odour, hid his five large in his secret pocket, and siphoned of some bladder contents. He returned to find Merv behind the bar, resplendent in his new suit.

“Ah, you’ll look great at the christening.” Granny suddenly slopped grey water from the mop over his shoes, sock s and lower trousers.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry.” Granny manoeuvred Foodge  back towards ‘The Gents’. “Say nothing, and keep walking.” She hissed.

Granny had been in a bad mood all day!

Cyrus: Chapter 17

10 Thursday Jun 2010

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

, , ,

CYRUS

by

Theseustoo

CHAPTER 17:

The Assyrian Empire

An Importunate Deity

The progress of Cyrus’ expedition towards Babylon was slowed considerably when they came to the River Gyndes, a broad and deep river with a very strong current; which would clearly require either boats or a bridge to cross, for it could clearly not be forded. As Cyrus’ army drew gradually to a halt beside the riverbanks a sudden commotion arose from the van. One of the six sacred white stallions which pulled Cyrus’ great chariot, as soon as it had been released from its harness, had refused the restraining commands of its groom and had suddenly plunged into the river and attempted to swim across on its own. The current, however, was far too strong and the beautiful snow-white beast was quickly swept away downstream and drowned.

Thankfully, Cyrus had not been in the chariot at the time; he had been scouting the banks with Pactyas for fordable places; although as it turned out they had done so in vain. Distressed at the loss of one of his sacred charges, the groom immediately sought his master to inform him of the loss. He found Cyrus just as he and Pactyas returned from their search.

“My king,” the groom said with a deep bow, “I have terrible news to report…” Nervously he looked up at Cyrus, who merely stared at him silently, the intensity of his gaze now silently demanding further information. Even more nervously the groom continued, “As you can see, Lord, this river, the Gyndes, is both too wide and too deep to be crossed without boats, nevertheless, one of your sacred white horses tried to cross it on it’s own as soon as it was un-hitched from your chariot…” here the groom broke off to wipe away a tear which had sprung unbidden from the corner of his eyes, for he had loved his charges very dearly, “Such a courageous creature! But it did not succeed, Lord; it was swept away downstream and drowned. The god of the river has claimed it as a sacrifice!”

Cyrus' Chariot

Had it been any other horse, it would probably have been simply regarded as one of the inevitable losses any large armed force was bound to suffer on a major expedition; but as it was one of Cyrus’ own pure-white sacred horses, he took it as a personal insult. Another man might well think twice before complaining about such a sacrifice claimed by the river-god, but Cyrus was no ordinary man. His advisors had constantly insisted that his was no ordinary birth; it was foreshadowed with omens and portents they had said; the Magister had even said he had found Cyrus’ name in an old and obscure Hebrew prophesy which had suggested that he might well be the ‘Anointed One’; the Messiah whom the prophecy said would seize Babylon and destroy the Assyrian empire forever; and in doing so, unify the whole world. The manner of his accession to the throne, the Magister insisted, itself proved that it was certainly his destiny to rise from total obscurity to supreme power.

Babylon

At first Cyrus had wisely shrugged off such suggestions as fanciful, but as his empire had expanded, and victory piled upon victories were laid at his feet; often accomplished with remarkable ease, even in what were otherwise extremely difficult situations; that finally even Cyrus was persuaded that there may, after all, be some supernatural being guiding or even orchestrating his successes. The manner in which the path had been found which had given his soldiers the access they needed to Sardis and which had enabled them to take the city with little resistance, for example, had seemed even at the time like a gift from the gods.

The most ancient of all traditions held that a warrior who was victorious over all of his enemies; who thus subjugated them all to his own will, could only be the earthly incarnation of the son of the highest gods, Ea and Enlil themselves. Such a noble, indomitable and all-conquering warrior would eventually came to be recognized as the earthly incarnation of Merodach, their divine son; the Son of Heaven. Heracles, Cyrus had believed, was the last incarnation of such a demi-god, and before him, Perseus. But that he had been referred to as such even by his defeated enemies, he felt, was the final confirmation he had been waiting for before he allowed himself to be persuaded to believe in his own divinity.

So by the time Cyrus had reached the Gyndes, it was no longer any mere mortal whom the river-god had thus insulted with this involuntary sacrifice, but the Son of Heaven; a living demi-god, whose own status as the son of the highest god and goddess gave him superiority over any mere river-god. The insult to his dignity was thus, Cyrus decided, too much to bear.

“By all the gods!” he declared, “I cannot tolerate this insolence! The god of this river has overstepped his proper bounds with this theft! Have I not been called the Son of Heaven even by my defeated enemies? The god of this river must be punished! I shall break his strength so that in future even women will be able to cross it easily without wetting their knees. Divide the army into two parts, half on one side of the river, half on the other; I shall mark out trenches on either side of the river for the army to dig.”

***   *****   ***

Digging the channels which had been marked out by Cyrus cost him the whole summer and most of autumn; and now the first frosts of early winter gave the fresh morning air a crispy bite. Even so it was with evident satisfaction that Cyrus now surveyed his army’s handiwork, as he inspected the river’s depth with Hystaspes.

True to his word, the pair was able to wade across the river easily; the water coming only midway up their calves; and the current was considerably slowed; their knees were not even wet, Hystaspes noticed, as they climbed up the other bank, the gradient of which had been adjusted on both sides to facilitate the army’s crossing.

“Well then Hystaspes,” Cyrus crowed enthusiastically “we have shown this river, Gyndes, who its master is!”

Hystaspes, however, though pleased at his king’s success nonetheless felt that it had been something of a distraction from the main purpose of the expedition; and one which had cost them much valuable time.

“Yes my Lord;” he replied, a little wearily, “but we’ve lost the whole of the summer season digging the three hundred and sixty channels it took to do it!”

“Yes…” Cyrus drawled, thoughtfully. He could understand Hystaspes’ frustration; his general was eager to get at the enemy; like a hunting-dog, straining at the leash in its keen-ness to chase its prey, he thought. What Hystaspes doesn’t yet understand, Cyrus realized, is that by demonstrating my control over the natural elements like this, I have also just successfully completed my first act as a god. But somehow he felt that for him to say anything of this would still, he felt, have been rather immodest, so instead he simply ignored the implied criticism and changed the subject, “It looks like we shall have to winter here; we can raid the country-side for our supplies through the winter… we’ll attack in spring.”

“Yes your majesty,” Hystaspes said obediently, then, just a little hesitantly, he added, “but the disruption this will cause to the Assyrians’ economy will warn them of our intent to take Babylon.”

For such a great general, Cyrus thought to himself, the prince of the Paretacenae could certainly be obtuse at times. He found himself missing the quick, agile and subtle mind of Harpagus. Harpagus, he thought, would have been most amused by Hystaspes’ obtuseness. Patiently, Cyrus turned towards him, looking Hystaspes right in the eyes, so that he could see the twinkle that sparkled in his own, as the king laughed and said, ”Hystaspes, they know that much already! Their king, Labynetus, will be waiting for us even now, I’m sure.”

Hystaspes frowned; he was a little relieved that at least Cyrus was aware that his attack on Babylon would be no surprise to her current Assyrian occupants. Yet he was a little taken aback by what, to him, looked like Cyrus’ carefree attitude to their expedition. After all, he thought to himself, until Cyrus’ own great-grandfather, Cyaxares had evicted them from their capital city of Nineveh, thus forcing them to retreat to Babylon, the Assyrians had for centuries been the most powerful state in the world; Hystaspes could not help but feel that they were about to grab a tiger by its tail.

“Indeed your majesty;” he responded grimly, “the taking of Babylon will be no easy matter; her walls are of baked brick and they are very high and very strong…“

“Hmmm“ Cyrus hummed thoughtfully; mentally reminding himself that it was his extremely cautious nature which made Hystaspes such an efficient general. And he was right about the Assyrians taking a defensive position behind Babylon’s reputedly invincible walls; he was quite sure that will be exactly what they would do. What neither they nor Hystaspes knew, however, was that Cyrus had already learned of a weak spot in her defences. He had said nothing of this to anyone, fearing that if the enemy should get wind of what he was planning they would simply take steps to circumvent it. But, just to put the poor puzzled Hystaspes out of his misery; at least to some degree; he said enigmatically, “That’s true Hystaspes. But perhaps their very strength may prove to be their undoing!”

Now Hystaspes was genuinely relieved; he had no need to know what Cyrus’ plan was for the taking of Babylon; he merely needed to know that his king actually had a plan. And although he could make little sense of this, his king’s latest utterance, yet he was quite confident that it made perfect sense to Cyrus, at least; and that was all that mattered. Indeed, Hystaspes now thought that his king and emperor certainly seemed to know exactly what he had in mind; and if he said nothing further about it, Hystaspes knew now that this was because of the need for secrecy and not for want of a plan.

***   *****   ***