Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

Ducati 250 Mk 3 Desmo

31 Monday May 2010

Posted by in Emmjay, The Other Side of the Carpark, The Public Bar

≈ 20 Comments

Ducati 250cc Mk III - photos courtesy of Stew Ross

The Pig’s Arms has clocked up its first year and nearly every day we get a person or two coming over to read the piece mentioning perhaps the greatest road bike ever built – the Ducati 900ss.  This was a monster that sorted out the men from the boys simply by having a clutch beyond the power of a wimp to engage.  It was a beautiful, elegant piece of open road mischief, and a mechanics’ dream to keep on the road.  But for any serious motorcyclist of the 1970s and beyond, it was street cred writ large.

I have never owned one and the closest I’ve come to riding one was a more modern, heavier and more brutal Mike Hailwood replica.

But for a year or so I did have the pleasure of riding my girlfriend’s Ducati 250 Mk III Desmo.  At the time I owned and rode a BMW R75/6 –  a sweet as a nut touring bike with a bikini fairing borrowed from the big brother R90/6.

What a contrast !  The Duke weighed about half as much as the BM and was tiny in comparison.  But it was a joy to ride.  And it was reputedly good for 100 mph.  But it was pretty scary over 70 or 80 – probably because I was always short of coin in those days and I used to eke out the last adhesion available in the Pirellis, Michelins, Avons or Metzelers or Continentals – or whatever the last owner had graciously conceded at sale time.

And another small matter was that the gear shift and rear brake were respectively on the right and left – the opposite of just about everything else on two wheels at the time.  Not a good idea to forget this in a decreasing radius corner.

When one piles the miles on one’s own clock, it’s easy to forget the simple pleasures of youth. Every now and again, I feel a hankering for the thrills of my life back then. Last weekend, FM and I ticked one item off our bucket list and went off on a Ferrari drive weekend.  We went in convoy behind a generously-driven Alfa GT and drove from Sydney down to Kiama- via the Royal national Park, along the seabridge and through Jamberoo.  We took turns in a 1988 F328 manual – the best in my view – an F355, F360 and a 2006 F430.  The newish one had 500 horses under the bonnet and acceleration that was beyond belief.   Make no mistake, driving a Ferrari is a blast, but the average number of outings per year undertaken by people who are so indulgent that they buy one – is just 12.  A toy.  And a bloody expensive one at that.  The excess insurance for the weekend was a snip at $10,000 and so we were all rather careful that we didn’t need to call it in.

But cars, are well, just cars and when I was thinking about my old bikes  (most of which had stellar acceleration by car standards ) and eyeball-popping brakes – and some also had handling too, my thoughts returned to one of the greatest little motorcycles ever built.  I was fooling around looking for pictures and videos of the little beast – having little or no chance of finding my own and I discovered over at Youtube a clip of a Ducati 250 (probably an early 70’s Mk III following a Ferrari 328 along a freeway. Go find that for yourself.   But there were better images to be had and there’s  a video for your delight below.

The spectacular Ducati singles were made mostly in the late ’60s and early ’70s.   Ducati started out with the small 250s – and as many manufacturers have done – they upped the ante by hotting up the 250, that later became a 350 and an astonishingly good wheel-standing 450.   Big M said he saw a 450 for sale recently unrestored – asking price ten grand.  And Duke restoration is a heroic undertaking requiring highly specialised and detailed mechanical engineering knowledge – or access to that bloke.

Then Ducati had a little brain explosion and built something ordinary – the 500cc parallel twin.  Redeemed later with the gorgeous SL500 V twin Desmo Pantah in the early 1980s.  One of which is in FM ‘s Dad’s shed waiting for me to cash up.

In the mean time I also found one of a solid band of Australian collectors and restorers and Stewart Ross kindly gave me the use of photographs of his amazing concourse condition 1968 Ducati 250 Mk III.  My girlfriend’s bike was probably one year older and had – of all things, two filler caps on the tank.  Photos of that model are even more rare – many actually being a 350.

Best movie is a bit cheesy and it’s a very modern 250.  But it certainly brings it all back for me.

Enjoy you old road warriors.  Vale Dennis Hopper.

Child-sex tourism legislation: either under-policed or abused.

31 Monday May 2010

Posted by in Susan Merrell

≈ 10 Comments

Julian Moti - photo abc.net.au

Fred Martens - photo by JAKE NOWAKOWSKI cairns.com.au

By Susan Merrell


Between the years 1994 when Australia’s child-sex tourism legislation was adopted and March 2009 when the latest charge under this legislation was laid there have been 30 arrests according to statistics provided by Childwise, Australia’s leading child protection agency.

Only 5 of these offences were committed in the Pacific.  So one every three years. Does this crime hardly ever occur in the Pacific?

Not according to Bernadette McMenamin AO, CEO of Childwise who thinks the explanation lies with the Australian Federal Police (AFP) who are falling down on the job.

Ms. McMenamin believes that most child-sex tourists are not being caught. She believes Police have become reactive instead of pro active, in fact the words she used were “incredibly lazy.”

“Police don’t even go into the bars where most offences are committed,” she said.  “Apparently their protocol doesn’t allow it.”

Yet the AFP’s website claims that: “The Australian Federal Police actively monitors and prosecutes child sex tourists.”

“The Australian government won’t even let Childwise do any preventative work in the Pacific,” said Ms. McMenamin. She doesn’t really know why.

Ms McMenamin was also disappointed with the paltry sums of government money that was given her organization – even when they were conducting national campaigns.

Child-sex tourism is a complex issue revolving around unequal power and poverty. There’s a large element of neo-colonialism. Child-sex tourists often exist in a dissociative state. “They’re different to us, so it’s OK.” The children are poor, they need the money. Poverty is also the explanation why witnesses to the crime are easily bought off.

The same paradigms exist in reverse. It’s also relatively easy to find someone who will make a false allegation of child-sex tourism if enough money is proffered. In the Pacific, throw enough money around (and it doesn’t need to be a lot) and you can get people to say what did happen didn’t, and what didn’t did.

Of the five people charged for child-sex tourism in the Pacific there’s only been one solid conviction. Of the other four, there’s been one acquittal and one withdrawal through lack of evidence.

Then there are the cases of Fred Martens and Julian Moti.

If Ms. McMenamin is correct in her belief that the AFP lack the will to prosecute child-sex cases generally then these two cases are glaring anomalies.

The  AFP tenaciously pursued Fred Martens and obtained a conviction. Martens’ family finally found the evidence that proved his innocence. This was evidence that the AFP had sworn under oath did not exist. Some of this evidence they had wilfully removed. By this time Martens had been in jail for around three years. Martens is suing for $45 million dollars. That’s going to prove an expensive stuff-up by the AFP on the public purse!

In the case of Moti, Tuesday 1 June, will be another chapter in his saga. It’s when the Commonwealth Director of Public Prosecutions (CDPP) will begin an appeal in the Brisbane Supreme Court against the decision of Justice Debra Mullins when she granted Moti a permanent stay of proceedings because the payment to witnesses brought the court into disrepute. (Interpretation: AFP bribed the witnesses for testimony)

So it seems the criminals buy off witnesses in child-sex cases to stop them testifying and the AFP do too but to secure testimony.  It makes it hard to tell the good guys from the bad, doesn’t it?

For Fred Martens also has irrefutable evidence that people were paid by the AFP to bear witness in his case.

It’s bribery, and it’s wrong. Justice Mullins saw that. Blind Freddy can. But the CDPP will expensively argue their case regardless.

Besides, the child-sex tourism laws were meant to function as a back-up for when paedophiles escaped prosecution in the jurisdiction where the crime was allegedly committed. Ms. McMenamin states that the Australian authorities certainly prefer that option, given the costs of a prosecution.

Not in the Moti case. They prosecuted even though the charges had already been heard by a Vanuatu court that found Moti had no case to answer.

For Martens, he was never allowed to go back to Papua New Guinea and face his accuser – he was willing to.  No expense has been spared pursuing these two men.

Why are these two cases so anomalous with the usual uninterested conduct of the AFP in child-sex tourism cases?

Politics motivated the prosecutions. And for that allegation there is overwhelming evidence that is much more than circumstantial. I’ve seen this evidence. It comes straight from official minutes of the AFP and has everything to do with Australia’s political agenda in the Pacific.

To explain a very complex issue in a few words: Moti as attorney general of the Solomon Islands was considered an impediment to Australia’s interests. In the case of Martens, Australia needed to justify –with a successful arrest – its proposed policing role in Papua New Guinea (which was eventually to falter under a PNG court ruling of the illegality of one of its terms.)

Even the family of Moti’s alleged victim – the very family that were having all their expenses paid in order that they be available to testify (and still are despite the December ruling) have stated to the press (The Age May 28) that although the AFP couched their encouragement to prosecute in terms of ‘justice’ in reality it became evident that their motives were political.

This is as much abuse of the alleged victim as is the alleged crime.

Child-sex tourism legislation is good legislation – if only someone would use it well and as intended.

First published at    Open Forum Sunday 30 / 5 / 2010

Geoffrey the Inept II

31 Monday May 2010

Posted by in Big M

≈ 6 Comments

Borrowed from Zazzle.com.au - THE place for humorous gifts for obstetric nurses

By Big M

Geoffrey found his first week in obstetrics to be quite delightful. Obviously management had seen his potential and arranged for the Midwifery Educator, Candida Albercans, to spend an entire week with him. It had only taken him two days to master the application of a cloth nappy. He’d only stuck the pin through his left index finger four times, and had once mistaken the gender of one little girl, as he’d assumed that the cord was a giant penis. He soon learnt that the big plastic clip was a dead give away!

Geoffrey spent the morning of his third day bathing babies, and had managed to do this without dropping a single one. At morning tea time, Candida told him to return the three infants to their mothers, who were still bed bound for various reasons, then go to tea. Geoffrey did so quickly, and then went off to the cafeteria. He poured some thick, acrid coffee, from the machine, and looked around for a seat. A group of nurses from his old ward occupied one table, amongst them, the most alluring Melena Stuhl. His heart skipped a beat. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His reverie was interrupted by the scraping of metal chairs on vinyl flooring, almost in unison. The group of nurses all arose in one accord and left the room, all muttering something about a busy ward, as they pushed passed him.

Geoffrey now had a table all to himself. Just as he sat down, Sister Kent sat down next to him, wrinkling her nose at the stench, which must have been considerable, given that years of smoking had rendered her almost anosmic. “How’s obstets, Geoffrey? Haven’t dropped a kiddy yet, have we?”  He cut quite a figure; she thought, uncombed hair, unshaven, wearing ‘scrubs’ that had clearly been hung up on the bedroom floor.

“Oh, no, as if?” Geoffrey laughed, as he massaged his swollen left index finger. “I’ve already bathed three babies this morning.” He replied, with a hint of pride in his voice.

“So you’ve bathed three kiddies in three and a half hours?” Uva raised her left eyebrow. “You’re as indolent as you are ignorant.”

Geoffrey took this as a great compliment. His father, who he only saw at Christmas and Easter, had once said that Geoffrey’s ignorance knew no bounds and the sooner he got a job with the council, the better the whole family would be. Well, Geoffrey had shown him. Been to uni and everything, he thought to himself.

Sister Kent stood up, and patted her pockets for a box of matches to light the Camel that was sitting in the corner of her mouth, the tell tale rattle from her left thigh signalling the whereabouts of the errant matches. It was now against the law to smoke in hospital, but this didn’t stop her from being ready to smoke. “Well son, I can see a long and tortuous career ahead of you.” She mumbled as she wandered through to the garden to light up.

Geoffrey quickly finished his coffee, eager to get back to bath some more babies. At the nurses station the Nursing Unit Manager and Candida greeted him. “Geoffrey, when we bathed the babies this morning, I did make a point of telling you to keep the armbands on, so that you could take the baby back to its mother. Is this correct?”

“Well, yes, I know you said that, but the armbands weren’t aesthetically pleasing, so I took them off.” Geoffrey thought himself very clever, using words like ‘aesthetically’.

“Aesthetics aside, the armband allows the midwife to correctly identify the baby, and prevent mix-ups. Parents do seem to have a desire to take home the infant they conceived!”  Roared Mrs Dalrymple, the broken capillaries on her nose glowed red. “Fortunately it was easy to place the Chinese baby with the Chinese mother, Indian baby with Indian mother, and so on. In future, KEEP THE BLOODY ARMBANDS ON THE BABIES!” Mrs Dalrymple turned on her heel, marched into her office, and slammed the door.

Candida sat Geoffrey down in one of the offices with a couple of obstetric text books with instructions to learn all he could about labour and delivery whilst she went to do some ‘administrative’ tasks. Geoffrey was keen to learn all he could about vaginas, as he’d never managed to see one in a social context. Unfortunately the texts only had pictures of vaginas during delivery, so the mental image that he was constructing wasn’t entirely accurate, or appealing.

Candida returned just after lunch, looking a little flushed, and smelling of Brut 33. “Ah…oh…Geoffrey.” She stammered. “It might be a good time to get you back into the clinical. I’ll get Simon to spend some time with you this afternoon.”

Simon was a flamboyant, outgoing male nurse who had been moved from the surgical ward because of certain ‘misunderstandings’ with some of the male patients. “Ah, Geoffrey, I’m really pleased to meet you. Where have you worked? You must know Andrew, from South Wing, he’s a honey. Funny place here, all tits and fannies. I suppose you’re like me, getting ready for Madi Gras? It’s the place to go to get laid!”

“Get laid.” Thought Geoffrey, his second New Years resolution may also come to fruition. “Can you get laid at this Madi Gras?”

“Darling, everyone gets laid at Madi Gras” Simon laughed. “So, you coming?” Geoffrey nodded enthusiastically. “We’ll have to get you a costume, and a back, crack, ‘n’ sac wax. Don’t worry, we’ve got a month to sort you out, darling.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a buzzer. “Back to the tits and fannies, darling.”

Meanwhile, Dr James was straightening his polyester tie, and checking that he didn’t have lipstick on his face or collar. These daytime trysts were invigorating. His thoughts quickly turned to his pet project, Geoffrey, who reminded him of a much younger, Dr James. Clearly Geoffrey was management material and should be fast tracked into a health care management job. No sense leaving him languishing in the trenches.

James hurried back to the Executive Suite, where he was greeted with the unmistakable stench of stale urine. He’d gone into admin to get away from this sort of thing. He tracked down the offending chair and pushed into the corridor. Acacia was no-where to be seen. Probably nursing a broken nail. He had a busy afternoon ahead of him. He had to decide on which beds to close to save money. This always had to be balanced against the inevitable ‘bed-block’ in the Emergency Department. “Ha.” He thought. “I could create an Emergency Department overflow ward in one of the empty wards, which had been closed to save money.” He could staff it with casual staff from an agency, which only cost about thirty percent more than permanent staff. All that was needed was a clever sounding acronym.

Planned Emergency Nursing …P.E.N.

Planned Emergency Nursing Scheme…P.E.N.S.

Planned Emergency Nursing Inpatient Scheme…P.E.N.I.S. Perfect!

Anne Boleyn

28 Friday May 2010

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 51 Comments

Anne Boleyn

by

Theseustoo

Anne Boleyn: Artist Unknown

 

Anne Boleyn lost her head

And took King Henery to bed;

But only ’cause her little sister

Bore a son ’cause Henery’d kissed ‘er.

Anne didn’t want the brat, you see

To be the heir of Henery;

And when Henry didn’t want the bub

Mary sorely felt the snub.

Mary and the bub were sent

To Rochford; I think, somewhere in Kent…

Or else somewhere on the Yorkshire dales

Or could it be that little place in Wales…?

But Anne then married Henery

And gave birth to Elizabeth, you see…

But she regretted from the very start

That she’d given Henery her heart.

She wanted to give the king a boy

But a stillborn child gave her no joy.

In desperation to become a mother

Anne had sex with her own brother.

But George’s wife told King Henery

Of his wife’s infidelity;

And so Anne lost her liberty

And to the Tower of London sent was she!

“Not guilty Sire!” then pleaded she

To incest and adultery

But Henry’s anger was plain to see:

“Off with ‘er ‘ead!” says Henery.

Although just as true as that Anne was silly,

It’s true too that Henry could not control his willy.

And though she could have been much smarter,

She was something of a fashion starter!

🙂

Foodge 12 – Foodge’s War Part V

24 Monday May 2010

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 13 Comments

By Big M.

Foodge looked at the ancient Cuckoo clock over the bar. The clock always said half past eleven but just now that meant that it was about four p.m. Janet had done her ritual screaming at the local kids. One mum had turned up, giving Janet an earful. She’d come back inside, downcast. Her one good eye following the carpet in front of her feet, the other swinging wildly, as if trying to take in everything. Merv filled another canoe with Granny’s new Pale Ale. Granny was intending to try to keep this new cellar-floor underpants yeast alive. It had really invigorated her brewing.

Foodge took a long pull at the canoe, then settled back to Barrister’s Weekly. He’d always tried to maintain his knowledge of legal matters. He loved the Barrister’s Word Finder, most of all, except, it had him stumped, which wasn’t unusual.

Last night had been a disaster. Instead of meeting Ms Thropy for a midnight tryst, he found himself negotiating towing fees with young Nic Stavros of ‘Stavros & Stavros Towing Services’, then, half the morning discussing engine rebuild options with Fern’s brother, Reg, who was keen to drop a 427 Chev motor into the chassis, as, this was cheaper than a full rebuild.

The usual barflys hung around. Rosie and BB had been in to collect their guns. Rosie continued to wink at him every time she saw him and mumbled something about the strength of the dragon. The bowling ladies had been back, except Beryl, to ensure that the urn and teapot had been stored away properly, then left.

The main door opened. O’Hoo stepped aside to let DI Rouge in, then stepped through, allowing the door to slam on the young plain clothes copper, on secondment from uniform.  “Gerald, your manners should extend to our young friend”. Rouge simpered, obviously still in love’s thrall. “Ah, Foodge, questions for you.” Vinh’s speech had taken on a weird, lilting, poetic quality. “You must excuse me, Mr Foodge, for, I am in Love!: she exhaled.

O’Hoo looked bashful, but, better for being in ‘Love’. He’d already had a shave and haircut, with streaks! He was wearing a clean suit and shirt, and carried a new Mont Blanc pen in his pocket.

Well, O’Hoo, you look like you’ve got beaver fever.” Said Foodge, as straight a face as he’d ever pulled, although he was bursting with laughter on the inside. O’Hoo, dud root extraordinaire, with bloody trouser wearing Rouge. Still, he thought, O’Hoo looked better for it, in spite of the love bites up his neck.

“Mr Foodge, we meet again.” Rouge’s small fingers were interlaced with O’Hoo’s sausage-like equivalents. “I have a few questions for you.”

“Am I under arrest, or, just a police caution?” Foodge was applying some legal jargon in the hope of throwing Rouge off the scent. There was a scent, the scent, or, rather stench of the blocked urinal in the men’s intermingled with burnt sausage roll and goat-shit.

The mixture of sights and smells, plus, a night of wild love-making left O’Hoo’s stomach complaining. He nodded at Merv who scratched his skinny arse with the tongs, then tossed a couple of sausage rolls onto a plate. O’Hoo was in heaven, side by side with his love, his best mate next to them and a fist-full of oily sausage roll and sauce. MMMMMM..extra crunchy!!!

“Dyouahvanalibiforlastnite?”

“Sorry?” Foodge shook his head a couple of times like an epileptic.

“Alibi, you, last night” Rouge was clearly jiggy with the young people-speak.

“Dwineedwun?” Foodge replied, he’d watched ‘Countdown’, before.

“Yep.” Sounded more like the way he was used to speaking. “de Sastri’s been shot, with your 0.38. Grinned Rouge. “Prima facie case.

Foodge was confused. He assumed de Sastri was till on the Southern Tablelands, plus, the only latin he knew was  ‘cunni lingus,’ the Irish airline. “Ugh?”

“Sorry mate, we’ve got the head with a bullet from your snub nosed 38, and, your gun at Thropy’s place. Looks like you’ve hooked up with her, been discovered, shot the bugger, then chopped him, and his scooter up, then chucked it in wheelie bins throughout Leichardt.” Explained O’Hoo.

“Foodge aint the ‘Wheelie Bin Killer!” exclaimed Merv. “Been here mosuv the night!” The body of de Sastri had been discovered by a garbo, who, counter to the garbo creed, had got out of his truck to reposition a wheelie bin, then made the discovery of a severed arm with the tattoo ‘Lambrettas forever’, plus a scooter motor. This had shut down garbage collection for most of Leichardt whilst the Coronor’s lads combed through the remaining wheelie bins. There hadn’t been much left in the compactor, as bits of de Sastri mixed with bits of motor scooter, mixed with refuse.

Rouge put her hand up.”I agree, Merv, Foodge aint, or, isn’t the ‘Wheelie Bin Killer’. Why, you may ask? One, We know he was here last night, as he was still under police surveillance, two, he’s a good friend and mentor to my beautiful Gerald, and three, I believe he was framed!”

“Commiserations on the Zephyr.” Chimed in O’Hoo, looking around desperately for a napkin or tissue to wipe his greasy fingers.” Merv refused to provide napkins on the premise that, if he did so, people would use them.

“Looks like a big end bearing came apart, tearing open the crankcase.” Foodge was upset, not only because of the damage to his favourite car, but it was going to cost so much to fix. “Anyway, why d’you think I’m being framed?”

Rouge was wiping O’Hoos’s face with a tissue she’d found in her Louis Vitton handbag. “Your finger prints weren’t on the gun, as you have a pathological fear of guns. Thropy had retained you, as a PI in order to access your weapon and, at the same time assessed security in your office, which is never locked properly as your secretary can’t manipulate keys properly with those acrylic nails.”

“Why would she want to murder her ex-husband? She was shot of him, and managed to get more than half of his substantial property.” Foodge was bewildered.

“I believe I can answer that!” In strode Gez, who had obviously just ridden down on his Charlie, his long fingers still stained with paint. He nodded to Merv who poured a glass of shiraz, while Janet, who had recovered from her bollocking, went down to the cellar to get a jar of pickled herrings. Merv and Janet enjoyed having a famous painter as a patron, so, uncharacteristically, tried to look after him.

Gez settled onto a stool next to Foodge. “But first, how is your painting, my friend?”

“Haven’t had much time, been…ah…busy…er…sorry.” Foodge was embarrassed to talk about his artistic exploits. Keen to change the subject. “ What motive did Anne have for murdering Rocky?”

“Cast your mind back, how did this start?” Gez sounded slightly mystical.

“The tattooed arse, no, the Professor’s thesis rejected, no…”  Rouge prevented Merv from giving O’Hoo another clip around the ear.

Foodge’s brow furrowed. “It was Lou, started the vendetta, and…” Foodge struggled for something at the back of his brain. No. The more he struggled to remember, the more confused he became. He may as well try to remember Poiseuille’s Equation, or the capital of Brazil.

“Rocky divorced Anne, because she had an affair with his brother Lou. This affair has continued. They both wanted to take over the Lambrettists. The vendetta was a trial to see to whom the members were loyal. When the vendetta was called off so easily then Rocky was killed. Simple!” Said Gez, as he ate the last of his herring, followed by the rest of the shiraz.

Rouge was already dragging O’Hoo through the doors, she was thinking SWAT teams, big arrest, perhaps even tip off the press. Gez gave Merv a generous tip, then left, promising to take Foodge out to the country for some painting, mumbling something about the quality of the light, the colours, the textures.

Foodge was once again alone with Merv, who filled another canoe and handed it to Foodge, “On the house, son.”

The Pigs Arms was finally back to the way it was.

We are all in the Cargo Cult

20 Thursday May 2010

Posted by in Emmjay

≈ 2 Comments

Raconteur par Excellence - Mike Daisey

Last October I wrote a piece about an American storyteller – Mike Daisey …..  As Fresh as Mike Daisey.

He visited Australia last year but only some backwater city whose name escapes me.  But this week, he’s performing in Sydney – a shining light in the Sydney Writer’s Festival.

It’s not often when you go to see and hear a performance that the usher hands you money.  But that’s what happened when the First Mate and I took ourselves to spend an evening with Mike Daisey at the Studio at the Sydney Opera House.

For the record, I received a well-used $10 and FM – a similarly disposed $5, although some people allegedly received a $20 or a $50 bill and the very smug few (one gathers) a crisp $100.  We clung to these the whole performance, but the cash  money – although money was the central theme, was no distraction to what I found to be a rivetting and hilarious two hours.

Mike Daisey is a larger than life story teller.  He sat – as animated as one could possibly be while remaining seated, took us to distant places from his native Maine to Tonga and Vanuatu.  From a car crash to a near fatal landing on a polynesian airstrip.  We tasted wild pig, native style and we recoiled at the thought of fermented yam paste – and were relieved when Mike finally let us off the hook.

Some of the stories, so intricately woven into the fabric of the monologue had FM wiping tears of pure mirth from her eyes.  Mike’s reference to his pre-occupation with IKEA furniture had us in stitches.  He reminded us that although it’s made of tissue paper and cannot withstand sunlight, every piece of IKEA furniture has a name in  a language opaque to all.  “Where’s my socks ?”  “Have you looked in the Finneskoog ?”

The spine of the performance centred around a post World War II cargo cult society that celebrates all things American – in a kind of bizarre way that surfaces most obviously on their festival day – John Frum day when the village is festooned in American flags and the celebrations and dance go all night.  It’s an interesting society sustained not by material wealth, but by “custom”, and Mike has some fascinating – and hilarious observations of this society standing against the tide of materialism and the distrust of the modern financial world – epitomised by “the DERIVATIVE”.

Recounting any of Mike’s stories or letting you in on the fate of the cash handouts would do none of us any good.

But Mike Daisey is performing for a few more evenings at the OH – and if you have any chance of making it to one of the shows, GO !

Like Mike, It’s a larger than life experience.

Cyrus: Chapter 16, part 4

20 Thursday May 2010

Posted by in Uncategorized

≈ 11 Comments

Lydian Softies

As Cyrus and his escort pulled up at a staging post just outside Suza, a rider approached them from their rear at a gallop. As he reached them he quickly dismounted in front of Cyrus. Harpagus and Croesus were alarmed by the speed with which the rider had caught up with them, but Cyrus seemed unsurprised, and even unconcerned, as the man quickly and breathlessly gave his report.

“My Lord, I have just come from Sardis; the Lydians are in revolt; Pactyas has stolen your treasure and used it to hire mercenaries; Tabalus is besieged within the citadel!”

When he heard this, Cyrus turned to Croesus and, with great sadness in his voice, said, “Croesus where do you think this will end? It seems that these Lydians will not cease causing trouble to themselves and others! I wonder if it isn’t best to sell them all for slaves! I think what I have done is as if I’d ‘killed the father and then spared the child.’ You, who were something more than a father to your people, I have seized and carried off, and to those same people I have entrusted their city. Can I then feel surprised at their rebellion?”

Croesus lowered his eyes for a few moments, in shame for the treachery of his people. Then he looked up, gazing straight into Cyrus’ eyes as he pleaded, “Oh! My king, your words are reasonable; but, I beseech you, please do not give full vent to your anger, nor doom to destruction an ancient city, guiltless of both the past and the present trouble.”

Cyrus raised his eyebrows in surprise at this claim, but Croesus rapidly continued, explaining to him, “I caused the one, and in my own person I now pay the penalty. Pactyas has caused the other; let him bear the punishment. Grant forgiveness to the Lydians then, and to make sure that they never rebel against you, or cause you any further alarm, forbid them to keep any weapons of war; command them to wear tunics under their cloaks and to put buskins upon their feet; make them bring up their sons to play the lyre and the harp, and to keep shop. Soon you will see them become women instead of men and there will be no more fear of their rebelling against you.”

Once again Croesus had managed to surprise Cyrus with the wisdom of his plan.

“Croesus,” he said, “again I am impressed by your great wisdom; I shall do as you suggest.”

Cyrus then turned to the rider and asked, “You heard these words herald?”

The herald nodded once.

“Good!” Cyrus exclaimed, “Now take a fresh mount from the staging post and ride to my general, Mazares in Sinope: he is to take a detachment immediately to relieve Sardis; when he has taken the city from the rebels he is to issue orders to the Lydians exactly according to the terms that Croesus’ has suggested… you remember them all?” The rider nodded again, “Good!” Cyrus continued, “Further, he is to sell for slaves all those who joined the Lydians in their attack upon Sardis. And above all he is to make sure that he brings Pactyas with him alive on his return to Agbatana.”

“As you command Sire!” The rider said obediently, as he snapped a smart salute to his king before he took the saddle off the exhausted mount he had ridden in on, and put it on a fresh mount from the station’s corral. Then he mounted the fresh horse and rode off at an even faster gallop to find Mazares; whom Cyrus had left in charge in Sinope, with a large force of both cavalrymen and infantry. He had also privately forewarned him that he may be called upon to suppress a rebellion in Sardis. From this position, Cyrus had anticipated, he will have little trouble doing so, especially as Sardis would not now be able to expect any help from her strongest allies.

*** ***** ***

Cyrus was in a staff conference with Croesus, Harpagus and Hystaspes, the Prince of the Arizanti, when the door of the war-room suddenly burst open loudly and a messenger entered; closely escorted by two guards who manhandled another, rather dishevelled figure wearing heavy iron fetters on his wrists and ankles. As they approached the monarch they threw their prisoner to his knees in front of him. Before the guards could properly announce them, the herald bowed and proudly said to Cyrus,

“Your majesty I have brought you the captive rebel leader, Pactyas. I also bring you news of Mazares; he successfully put down the revolt in Sardis and then sold the rebellious inhabitants of Priene into slavery; he also conquered the whole plain of the Maeander and the district of Magnesia! But my lord, after doing all this he suddenly fell sick and died.”

Cyrus was very pleased at the capture of the rebel leader, Pactyas, and also at Mazares’ successful suppression of the rebellion in Sardis. He was even more pleased at the bonus of his newly acquired territory in Magnesia, and the broad valley of the Maeander, but Cyrus’ face fell instantly when he heard of the final sad demise of the faithful Mazares. Turning to Harpagus, in a low voice which reflected his deep sorrow, he said, “Harpagus, you must go to the coast at once and replace Mazares; I want no trouble from that quarter while my forces concentrate on taking Babylon. Take Phocaea and use it as a base to subdue Ionia and Aeolia.”

Harpagus nodded obediently and was just about to leave to carry out his king’s orders when Cyrus caught him by the elbow and spoke again, his tone gentle and more intimate than he had ever heard him using before, “You are my most trusted officer;” he said quietly, “you put me on the throne when you were in a position to claim it for yourself; with you to guard my rear, at least I know that my back is safe!”

Harpagus felt deeply honoured by his king’s confidence in him, and he could not help but smile darkly at the similarity between Cyrus’ manner of thinking and his own; as the monarch added, in darker tones, “But make sure you take your own cook…”

Harpagus laughed; Cyrus, he knew, was suspicious about Mazares’ sudden demise; but the advice was unnecessary; for Harpagus had personally cooked all his own meals ever since the fateful supper when Astyages had tricked him into eating his only son. He bowed deeply, then turned on his heels and left immediately to make arrangements for moving to his new post; as Cyrus turned now to the dejected rebel leader, Pactyas and said, “Pactyas! When we first met, I was assured that you were an honest man. And although you are a Lydian, I entrusted you with all the wealth of my captured city of Sardis, whose people, instead of putting them to the sword or selling them off for slaves, I treated fairly; and whose king I have taken into my own household as my honoured guest and friend; yet you rebelled against me… And I hear you led my officers a merry chase among the islands when they attempted to bring you to me…”

Pactyas however, was unrepentant; angrily he stared at Cyrus right in the eyes, as he snarled his response, “Everything I have done was in loyalty to my country and my king. If you see that as a crime then here I am; ready to endure whatever punishment you deem fit…”

Cyrus was strangely affected by the similarity of this man’s speech to his own words on that fateful day that he had been arrested and taken to be interviewed by Astyages and when his real identity had been discovered. Some instinct he could not explain told him that it would be wrong to kill this man; Cyrus’ sense of balance, as much perhaps as his sense of justice warned him against such a vindictive response. The man’s actions had been noble and daringly executed; and he had believed himself to be acting on behalf of his king. Cyrus thoughtfully regarded the still impenitent Pactyas for several long and very intense moments; eventually he said, “Your country is now mine, Pactyas; and your king is now my friend and servant; if you were truly loyal to him you would do as he wishes, wouldn’t you? Yet Croesus is here, and if I were to ask him what I should do with you he would undoubtedly say, ‘Slay him’!”

At this point Cyrus paused and looked towards Croesus for confirmation; Croesus gravely nodded assent to what Cyrus had just said, and Pactyas lowered his gaze to the floor to hide the blush of shame which this, his former king’s condemnation, brought to his face, as Cyrus continued, “Yet I am moved with admiration for your courage; so I offer you one last chance to live. I have need of brave and clever officers for my assault on Babylon. Will you help me and live?”

Instantly realizing that his life was being given back to him, Pactyas pulled himself up to his full height so he could look Cyrus in the eyes; his own eyes now no longer dull, lifeless and emptied by defeat, but bright and full of a quick and lively intelligence. In these eyes too, Cyrus saw gratitude and admiration for their benefactor as he replied, “Aye, my lord! That I will! When I rebelled in Sardis, I did not know that Croesus was now your friend; nor did I realise how irresistible your forces truly are! Truly, you are the Son of Heaven and all your enemies will fall before you! I swear by the all-seeing Zeus, that from this day forwards I am your faithful servant!”

With that Pactyas seized hold of Cyrus’ hand and, holding it up to his lips, kissed it to seal his pledge.

More Lydian Softies

*** ***** ***

Insert Pussy Joke Here

19 Wednesday May 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

≈ 16 Comments

Mrs Slocum - Are You Being Served ?

by Gregor Stronach

I recently turned 31. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as I thought it would, mainly because I figured out that in three years I will have lived longer than Jesus. That’s quite an achievement, I think.

But birthdays being what they are, I received gifts. I got some cool things this birthday – books, DVDs, food and cake, but by far the best bit of my birthday was this: I was adopted by a cat.

Her name is Pablo Escobar, and she’s a violent little plaything. Pablo arrived in my life when we went to the pound to rescue her. Seeing as though the cat was a gift from Renee, I think perhaps that there was an ulterior motive behind the gift. I fear that she has presented me with this cat to figure out whether or not my new-found age has brought with it a corresponding increase in personal responsibility.

Pablo, it seems, might be like the caged canaries carried by coal miners in years gone by to detect noxious gasses. When the canaries were discovered dead, it was time for the miners to get out into the fresh air. I’m guessing that if Pablo is discovered dead, Renee will realise that I am, indeed, hopelessly and irredeemably irresponsible.

But owning a cat has taught me a few things, which I’d like to share with you now.

Cat shit stinks. The only thing that will stop cat shit from stinking up a tiny apartment is an operation to remove my adenoids. I’m not entirely sure which particular chemical compound it is in cat shit that gives it it’s own unique scent, but it’s a pervasive little bugger, getting into the curtains and carpet. I was lucky – Pablo came housetrained, which means she only ever shits in the house.

Every part of me is now a target. The tiniest twitch is enough to get Pablo excited beyond belief, meaning that trivial actions that used to be performed on the couch, like smoking a cigarette or scratching myself in that ‘special’ place, now need to be done behind locked doors – preferably at least two of them.

Watch where you walk. Walking through any doorway in the house means taking an enormous risk. You can rest assured that there’ll be a small furry bullet, armed to the teeth with claws and… teeth, I guess… ready to attach itself to your lower limbs in a primal frenzy of pain and death. I have taken to wearing trout-fishing waders around the house. These oversized rubber pants offer the perfect protection from Pablo’s insistent gnawing and clawing. They have the added benefit of being silent, which means that I can occasionally get up from the couch without being set upon. As a downside, they’re rather hot and unwieldy, being difficult to remove in a hurry. I can, however, pee in them and no one but me would ever know, save for a faint sloshing sound as I walk.

Cats complain. In fact, cats complain more than little kids. But they complain about really weird stuff. Pablo complains about her food, which is the best stuff money can buy. Her bowl will be loaded with 30 grams of chickeny or beefy goodness, but she’ll sit there and stare at it, yowling mournfully, leaving it untouched. Then, when she thinks I’m not looking, she’ll eat a cockroach or lick her own butt. I don’t get it – surely 60 cents worth of chicken meat tastes better than bugs or cat rectum.

Cats love to sleep. Sadly, it’s mostly in really inconvenient places, such as my lap when I need to pee, or on my face when I need to breathe. Somehow, in the two weeks that Pablo has been living at my place, we’ve managed to get our sleep patterns diametrically opposed to each other. When it’s bedtime for me, it’s playtime for Pablo, which means that whenever my toes poke out from the end of my quilt, they get eaten. Aside from a low-grade perpetual fear that I will, eventually, run out of toes and never play soccer again, it means that I’m not getting enough sleep. Which is why it galls me so much when I see Pablo asleep in the middle of the afternoon. I’ve taken to waking her up whenever I can, in the vague hope that she’ll sleep through the night. It’s a hopeless cause, though – cats mostly come out at night… mostly.

Cats can be spiteful. I hate to anthropomorphise, I really do, but cats have long memories. I accidentally trod on Pablo’s tail just a couple of hours after she came home with us, but she seemed fine with that at the time. It was only yesterday, two full weeks since the incident, that payback arrived in the form of a hairball on my favourite seat. She looked so smug when I sat on it, and even more smug when it took me fifteen minutes to realise that something below the seat of my pants was badly awry. I’ve presented her with the dry cleaning bill, but so far she’s refusing to pay it. I think I’m going to need to call my lawyer.

Cats love to plot. Occasionally, you’ll catch a cat plotting – it’ll look for all intents and purposes like it’s asleep, but one eye will lazily open half a millimetre and that frightening hunter’s glint will shine through. When I see Pablo like this, I am sure I can hear her thoughts: “As soon as you’re asleep, I’m going to eat your eyes. They’re soft, like jubes.” The trick is, of course, to stay one step ahead. That’s why I’ve poked out my eyes already, and hidden them. I’d tell you where, but I caught Pablo using my computer this morning…

You’ll be pleased to know that Pablo and I are working out our issues – of course, I’m happy to let Pablo think that she’s the boss of the house, when I know clearly that I’m in charge. Of course, she’s no doubt thinking precisely the same thing about me.

Gregor Stronach has yet to discover the joys of de-worming.  This was first published at http://www.rumandmonkey.com

Geoffrey the Inept

18 Tuesday May 2010

Posted by in Big M

≈ 7 Comments

Geoffrey was learning to play the Panjo ....

By Big M

Geoffrey’s name had come up at yet another hospital meeting.

“Woodenuv got into his general training in the old days.” Grumbled Uva Kent, as she lit another camel from the, still glowing, butt of the last one. She still liked to be called ‘Sister’ even though she wasn’t a nun, and never understood the nervous giggles from new applicants as she introduced herself, with her Kiwi accent. “Now that nursing training, or education, is at college (she didn’t like to call them, ‘universities’) anyone can get in. This poor bastard can barely write, and his mathematics is at a third grade level.”

“That’s enough thank you, er, Uva, I mean er Sister.” Retorted Dr James, as he straightened his new polyester tie, he’d bought from K-mart last night. He wasn’t a medical doctor, but had a doctorate in nursing. The basis of his thesis had been the attitudes of male nurses towards bedpans, and pan-room hygiene. “We can’t do much with him, if we sack him we’ll get done for sexism, you know what those male nurses are like.” Forgetting that he, himself was a male nurse.

“We’ll have a little look in the ‘Geoffrey File’, then, Luvvy”. Said Uva, with the cigarette mashed in the corner of her mouth, a long column of ash threatening to fall into the file. “Last week, tried to sterilise thirty two digital thermometers by soaking in Milton solution. This Monday, went to lunch leaving Mrs Guttman sitting on a pan to be discovered by the afternoon staff. Had to go to the Operating Theatre to have her rolls of fat extracted from the pan under a general. Wednesday tried to sterilise thirty digital thermometers by boiling them for ten minutes. Need I go on?” The ash floated onto the open page.

“Well, the lad hasn’t been given much of a go.” Dr James started.

“Much of a bloody go!” Uva exclaimed, as she aspirated the cigarette butt into her pharynx, which caused a coughing fit, which lasted for eight full minutes. It finally resolved with a gulp of hospital brandy, which was always on hand. “Much of a mother fudging go! The little bastard woulduv been out on his arse in the first eight weeks in the good old days.”

“These aren’t the ‘good old days’ as you so quaintly describe them.” James looked around the room for a clue that someone thought his little joke may have been funny. A couple of people laughed, but only because Uva was poking her tongue at James as he looked the other way.

“I know what we can do with Geoffrey.” Added Mrs Tickle. She never introduced herself by her Christian name, ‘Tess’, for obvious reasons. “We’ll transfer him to obstetrics. The patients aren’t really sick, and there are some male nurses over there who may straighten him out!” she grinned at her own cleverness.

“Silly bastard might drop a kid on its head, then we’d be sued.” Uva blew smoke out the side of her mouth to avoid blowing it in the direction of her colleges. Yes, she’d already recovered and lit another durry.

“Happens all the time.” Laughed Mrs Tickle. “Nature’s way of stopping kids from being smarter than their parents.” She roared with laughter, spilling hot tea onto the table, and into Dr James’ lap. Quick as a flash, Uva tossed some iced water from a glass jug, into his lap. It certainly cooled the burning sensation in his privates, but now he looked like he’d been incontinent.

It was Uva’s turn to laugh. “Christ, James, can’t take you anywhere!” She refused to call him ‘Dr’ James, as she, well, thought it was bullshit.

James was still dancing from foot to foot, attempting to dry his crutchal region with a paper napkin. “Let the minutes reflect that we recommend Nurse Geoffrey Riley be transferred to Obstetrics to further his clinical experience.” His gaze was direct at his secretary, Acacia, who was examining her torn acrylic nail. “Have you got that?”

“Why, yes Doctor, I will need some time off to see the beautician.”

James shook his head. Acacia was the sister of a girl he had once dated, ‘Fern’, but,  like the romance with Fern, Acacia’s employment wasn’t the issue today. “OK, meeting closed at sixteen twenty hours.” He rushed from the meeting room to change his clothes.

Tess and Uva sat around laughing. In fact, they laughed so much that Tess wet her pants, which wasn’t unusual. “Well, Uva, looks like you better let the lad know,”

Geoffrey was completely gob smacked that Assistant Director of Nursing; Sister Kent had come down from the Ivory Tower, as the Nursing Office was known, to tell him about the transfer. He’d made two New Years Resolutions, this year. One was to work much less; the other was to lose his virginity. It seemed to him that the former was about to happen. Clearly Sister Kent held him in high regard. She’d told him that, if bedside nursing didn’t work out, that he could always get a job lecturing at the uni, and had grumbled something about,”…them that can’t, teach.” Then giggled as she walked away.