Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

The Adventures of Mongrel and the Runt 9A – Tea and Sympathy

29 Thursday Apr 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

≈ 24 Comments

Caption to a Tea

By Warrigal Mirriyuula

Beryl had boiled the kettle and their tea was now brewing while she made some sandwiches. This morning’s shopping had taken a little longer than they thought and so it would be a light lunch rather than tea and a bun.

Alice had gone quiet since their almost encounter with Doc and Gruber, and Beryl was casting around in her mind for a way to broach the subject anew, perhaps help her friend get to grips with what Beryl now thought of as the “The Doc Problem.”

Alice’s quiet ruminations got there first and out of the blue she began to list the items on the positive side of the ledger.

“I have enormous professional respect for Doc.” She said nodding with that respect, “You know I trained and worked at RPA,” she knew whereof she spoke, “well Doc is a better diagnostician and a better physician than any I met there. Molong is very lucky to have him.” Alice pursed her lips, paused momentarily, as if hooking up the next component of her analysis. “He’s got a generous nature and a terrific bed side manner.” This last attribute though, was somewhat problematic, but she’d deal with that later. “He really does care for his patients, both bodily and spiritually.” Lips pursed again; “Hmmm”, that wasn’t quite right. Doc was known for denying the role of the spirit in human affairs. The care and curing of the body, the defeat of the various ails and ills it’s prone to, a matter of science and skill according to Doc. “Apart from his “godlessness” he’s a good man.”

“Godlessness,” Alice was surprised at the vehemence with which Alice had imbued the word and just had to jump in. “I wouldn’t say Doc was “Godless”. I think he believes in his own way.” but she wasn’t so sure about this. Maybe Doc was agnostic, but she wasn’t about to start the negative ledger with an uncertainty. “It might be that God works through Doc without permission.” Beryl looked over at her friend hoping her little joke might have lightened her mood. It hadn’t, so she continued, “Anyway, isn’t the important thing that he’s a good man and a wonderful doctor? His patients all love him. There are some women in this town that see Doc as some kind of Christ like figure.”

Beryl smiled as she and Alice both pictured Mrs. D, who even now would be putting the finishing touches to a meal fit for a vice regal dinner, let alone a Monday lunch for two doctors.

“I don’t think this has anything whatsoever to do with God Alice. He didn’t make the rules you’re applying to Doc.” Beryl said speculatively. She went on to explain, “When I was a young girl on the farm, even before I went to school, I loved the bible stories Mum and Dad read to me at bedtime. It seemed there was always a lamb in the story and I thought how lucky I was to be surrounded by lambs. To me it was as if Jesus was everywhere.” Beryl smiled inwardly as she remembered those pre-war days filled with sunshine and innocence. “That’s remained the shape of my faith ever since. Jesus is everywhere working with the faithful to do better and helping those who have lost the way, or never found it. Doc isn’t “Godless” Alice. That would mean that God had abandoned him and I can’t believe for a moment that Doc’s skill and knowledge aren’t God given.” It wasn’t usual for Beryl to interrogate her faith like this. She liked the stories, hers was a narrative faith and the more she thought about it the more certain she was that Doc’s story seemed to fit the mould; a good man struggling with life to find meaning and purpose. Besides, she was married to a good man who had trouble with his faith, and with good reason, she’d always thought.

“All sorts of things happen in life. You meet all sorts. The good people you cherish. The bad ones you turn away from.” Beryl began to wonder herself where she might be leading with this. “People can be a bad lot, do terrible things. Compassion and forgiveness seem at the heart of it for me.” Yes, that was it! “Don’t you think you could be a little more forgiving towards Doc? After all, he can’t know the rules you’re failing him on.”

That was the truth of it, Alice thought as she heard again her mother’s vituperative hissing whisper in her ear, “Men are evil thoughtless creatures; manured pasture for the devil to grow discord and division. Drunkards, whoremongers and criminals, the lot of them.” It was painful to remember.

Alice began to cry as she further remembered her father going quietly to an early grave. Having married for love he then failed throughout that marriage to meet his wife’s high standards of Godliness and Christian rectitude; but he never stopped loving her and Alice had never heard him utter a single word of criticism or dissatisfaction. Alice remembered again as she often did in times of trouble, his gently holding her hands in his and telling her of the love he had always felt for her, how proud he was of her accomplishments in nursing; his body emaciated by disease, his face a hollow sepulchral mask animated only by the fire in his eyes as the cancer ate away at him leaving little but pale skin and the bone almost visible beneath that loose papery blue and white sack. He’d been a big man, well liked outside his family, respected even, in that way that quiet, uncomplaining hard workers are in a country town.

His diagnosis had prompted his suggestion that Alice attend the Royal Prince Alfred Nursing School. He’d worked right up to his final illness to pay for it; and suddenly, today, as the rain rattled on the iron roof of the pub, she realised why. As her parents’ marriage descended into a siege of attrition and the progress of her father’s disease continued inexorably, her father, in his usual quiet way, had been trying to free his beloved daughter from the malign influence of his demanding wife and the spectacle of a decaying and cankerous marriage. To provide her with an experience of the wider world, different people, to make the place in which Alice might find herself and begin to make her own decisions, free from her mother’s rules and constant criticism. And now here she was, a grown woman, both parents gone, and she was still applying her mother’s malignant rules to the only man she’d ever felt anything for. She couldn’t help her feelings; not her love for Doc or the uncertainty she felt about him. As she had always been she was torn between her parents, between her past and a possible future.

Bee laid a comforting arm over Alice’s shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be like this Alice. Why can’t you just tell him how you feel? It’s nonsense you saying you don’t know. You can’t even think about him without losing your composure.” She offered Alice her hankie to dry the small tears and they both settled to sip their tea and quietly eat their sandwiches.

Riding in Cars with Strangers

29 Thursday Apr 2010

Posted by in The Public Bar

≈ 6 Comments

 

By Emma James

When we are young, one of the first lessons we learn is not to get into cars with strangers. It goes along with don’t take lollies from strangers and look both ways before crossing the road.

When we grow up, that first lesson becomes less important as we jump into cabs and onto buses on an almost daily basis, assuming we will arrive at our intended destination safely, free to carry on our business for the day.

Perhaps though we should take more heed of that primal safety lesson, especially in foreign places. As travellers and tourists we climb into cars trusting these strangers will take us where we ask even though we have no idea where that is.

Imagine being in a foreign city where you don’t speak the language. You’ve just managed to make the cabbie understand where you want to go and have perhaps agreed a price.

You buckle-up (if you have that luxury) and watch out the window as the car veers around corners, up streets and down a dark alley. Is that alley a shortcut or are you being taken in some kind of ritual kidnapping of tourists about to lose all your possessions and left only with your underwear?

Of course when you ask any questions, the cabbie’s limited vocabulary, has suddenly disappeared altogether, just as you might soon as well.

But usually you arrive safely and live to tell the tale of the “scenic” journey you took and the exorbitant amount of money you paid for it; again the driver’s vocabulary disappeared when you tried to negotiate on the rate.

We all so freely place our trust in hundreds of strangers in our everyday lives and often where are personal safety is involved – hairdressers, dentists, doctors and the list goes on.

A recent study out of the University of British Columbia in Canada explains that “large-scale societies in which strangers regularly engage in mutually beneficial transactions are puzzling”.

Yet behavioural experiments show that members of these societies continue to interact in “fair, trusting and cooperative behaviour”.

Looking at the taxi-ride, it is technically a mutually beneficial; you get to where you want (you hope) and the driver receives payment (sometimes more than you would like). So we place our trust in the taxi driver and assume we will be a) alive at the end of the trip and b) in the place we wanted to go.

Is that trust however somewhat mis-guided?

Obviously unless we hire our own mode of transport we must rely on strangers. But in countries with rather lax road rules it is more than just the “scenic” route that can be a problem

Take for instance a recent four hour mini-van ride I took with a friend and 10 locals between Trat and Bangkok in Thailand

Our driver was attempting to break the land-speed record and was only thwarted by a few stubborn drivers refusing to move to the left-hand lane despite our driver’s furious light flashing. Most other drivers had enough sense to dart out of the way at the sight of our van looming in their rear-view mirrors

The swerving skills of our driver were excellent. Left then right with pure precision, he even considered using the right-hand shoulder to overtake a couple of times and only once sent our van head-long towards the concrete barrier in the middle road.

Our record attempting journey was halted only by the gridlock of Bangkok’s traffic where we did arrive safely, albeit with a few internal organs dislodged and some frayed nerves

The locals in the van never once seemed concerned, so it was obviously a common manner of driving in Thailand. Which means perhaps our trust in this particular driver was well placed. If the locals had been concerned, as they were on a mountain taxi ride in Morocco where it seemed certain we were going to park the rickety old Mercedes at the bottom of a 400m ravine, it would have been a different story.

So perhaps it’s not the echoes of our parents words “never get in a car with a stranger” we need to follow, but instead the locals. If they seem comfortable, then relax and trust you’ll be okay. If they’re worried, then it may be time to grab a pen and paper and write your will.

Emmas new web site is……….

www.emmathejourno.wordpress.com

Letter to a Far Away Lover

28 Wednesday Apr 2010

Posted by in Poets Corner

≈ 20 Comments

The Pig’s Arms welcomes Miss Nom de Plume

Am I in your arms – at least in your imagination?

Are your fingers undoing my buttons as your lips caress my neck?

Can you feel my hands under your shirt – caressing your body as they travel downward?

Can you feel me stiffen under your touch as you remove the final barriers?

Can you hear me groan as our bodies become one?

Will the surrounding hills echo S T E P H A N I E?

Well, will they?

Five Things I Learned in a Week

27 Tuesday Apr 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

≈ 43 Comments

By Gregor Stronach
One – It’s the advertisements that make TV really stupid.

I love television – it’s the world’s greatest form of entertainment for deadbeats and stoners and the perennially drug-fucked amongst us who can’t be bothered using their useless arms to hold up a newspaper or book because they’re a) too stupid, b) too stoned or c) their arms keep growing into long, waving strands of kelp. (I must remember to take the blue pills first, and then the red ones. Mama.)

But watching TV brings with it certain responsibilities, and one of those responsibilities is that we must, in order for the networks to continue to provide us with free movement and colour every day, pay attention to advertisements.

Like the one where the guy ambushes a lonely housewife, follows her home and goes through the dirty laundry – on order to show her how good his laundry detergent is. Honestly!

The way I see it, the guy’s either he’s a psychopath (probable), a paid actor pretending to be a panty-sniffing stalker (more probable) or the TV audience is too inured to the banality of the situation to realise that he’s not really an expert on stains… he’s just pretending.

It makes me wonder – why don’t we ever see people’s underpants on these commercials. Imagine it, if you will…

[Scene one – the laundry]

Stain Expert: “Look at those stains! They’re terrible! What have you been eating?”

[the housewife looks horribly embarrassed]

Stain Expert: “Here’s how to fix the problem, you filthy beast. Mix a little of our product with water to make a paste, put a little on the stain, and use the rest of it to clean your arse!”

Problem solved.

Two – Anyone who votes is clearly an idiot

What is with the people of the developed world? I’ve watched in staggering disbelief as both Australia (my home) and the US (where all the stuff that makes my home the way it is comes from) vote in conservative governments that seem hell-bent on blowing up as much of Iraq as they can within the next four years. It’s like watching two kids in a sandpit, armed with claymore mines and chewing on detonator caps.

What was Florida thinking? Surely the raft of hurricanes that threatened to move all of the retirees offshore (presumably to find their assets) was enough of a warning from God Himself that the state had better think twice before putting Bush back into the Whitehouse.

Here in Australia, we have had to endure the simpering, giggling return of the world’s least-attractive Prime Minister (and that list includes Helen Clark, Ariel Sharon and – of course – Margaret Thatcher). Worse still, he got in with a landslide.

It means, in a nutshell, that the voting public appears to be happy with conservative, right-leaning governments. Governments with a penchant for destroying other countries in the name of peace. Governments who demand that their electoral processes not be interfered with, unless it’s them doing the interfering.

Governments run by men with phallocentric agendas and no idea of how to plan further than a couple of months in advance, to whom every new development is a surprise (a challenge to be overcome), and to whom the ideals of compassion, fairness and equality are as foreign as Poodle Chow Mein.

It saddens me to see this developing the way that it has – a global swing to the right in developed nations means a lot to me.

Sure, I’ll be more afraid at night because of global security concerns. Sure, the rich will get their tax cuts while the poor drop through the safety nets.

Sure, the fetid stench of corruption will continue to blow through the halls of power.

But it’s all good news for me – it’s much easier to make fun of those guys than it is to make fun of the left.

Three – Staying up all night is bad for you.

Saturday was a lost day this week. This could have something to do with Friday night. Actually, it has everything to do with Friday night. While the going out part of Friday nights is almost always fun (with the notable exception of that extra-special Friday night trip to the 24-hour dentist to have a broken tooth removed), the staying up until dawn can have serious side effects.

This week, those included a sudden urge to watch TV (see point one) and a most unfortunate incident with my housemate, Pablo Escobar (with whom some of you may already be familiar… if not, I suggest a quick leaf through some of my earlier ravings. She’s in there somewhere. Anyway – more about her in point four).

The upshot of staying up all night is that the next day everyone who took part in the marathon effort of ‘seeing the break of day’ ends up looking, and for the most part behaving, like an extra from Shaun of the Dead. Indeed, it took a hefty blow to the back of the head with a cricket bat to get me to understand that it was time to sleep.

I miss being able to stay awake for three or four days at a time. I used to be able to do it, but as my body approaches its 32nd year on the planet, I have begun to realise that all is not as it once was.

I choose to blame the government.

Four – A vomiting cat is not a friendly cat.

Ahh, my dear, sweet Pablo. She’s still a little angel of death, living safe and sound in my apartment. It was her birthday a little while ago – she turned one. I know, I know… how the time has flown.

This week, we discovered that she has an allergy to kangaroo meat.

I should probably explain that kangaroos, while they are the national emblem of Australia, are a pest in plague proportions in the bush. They are also made of an extremely tasty meat, one which I happen to love.

Pablo loves the taste of it too – however, it makes her sick. She gets like a geysers at both ends when she eats roo meat, which makes for interesting evening’s entertainment, as we play games like ‘Find out what’s causing that terrible smell’, and ‘Oh God No Don’t Vomit In My Lap Oh Shit Oh Shit Oh Shit Get Off Me’. While they’re both great games that represent hours of fun for the family, they make Pablo a little unhappy. They also make me a little nauseous. But that’s OK – it’s good training for when I eventually become a parent, and have to deal with small children that are incapable of going more than three hours without soiling their trousers. Or, should I miss out on having kids, it’ll prepare me for old age. Either way, it’s all good.

Five – The war is coming too close to home.

I had a great weekend – a weekend blessedly free of the distractions of the internet and it’s evils, excesses and humourless statistics.

I logged in this morning, to be greeted with the news that an online friend had perished at the hands of ‘the enemy’ in Iraq.

He was a good guy – quick-witted, intelligent and funny when the right moment arose. He also agreed with me a lot in the discussions we had… make of that what you will.

But Pete won’t be sharing his mind with the world anymore. He was killed in the Babil Provence of Iraq as a result of enemy action. Consolations, such as the fact that he was there because he wanted to be, and that he died doing what he loved, don’t make me feel much better. And even though he wasn’t close enough to me to make me cry myself to sleep over the loss, it still burns that someone whose input into my life I truly enjoyed is now gone.

Cpl. Peter J. (Jav03) Giannopoulos, – thank you, and goodbye.

Foodge 12 – Lunch Becomes Foodge’s War

26 Monday Apr 2010

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 9 Comments

Rocky Di Sasatra - President of the Lewisham-Leichhardt Lambretta Club - before the accident.

Emmjay welcomes this Guest Episode by Big M !

O’Hoo leant across the table, “You gunna eat that?’ His hand hovering over the last day-old sausage roll, fresh from Merv’s ancient pie warmer.

Foodge shook his head, and drained the warm remnants from his glass canoe. The warm beer gently soothed away the fire in his gut, which would be revealed, at autopsy, to be due to a gastric ulcer. He shifted his gaze towards Merv, who took the hint and started to pour two more canoes of trotter’s best.

“Granny,” roared Merv, “Drop that bloody broom and get down under to see what’s wrong with that keg.” Merv held a canoe in his great fist with beery foam streaming down the side, running off his elbow. “Sorry gentlemen, Granny’ll have it fixed in a jiffy.”

A hint of a smile crinkled the corner of Foodge’s mouth. Yeah, Granny would fix it. There was nothing that the old girl didn’t know about kegs and taps, and pipes, as well as cooking, cleaning, and the general administration of the Pig’s Arms. It was a pity she new nothing about keeping beer cool, he reflected.

It was ten o’clock on a fine morning, and the place was humming along, mainly due to the presence of the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle Ladies Bowling Club. They held their weekly meeting every Tuesday morning, in spite of the fact that their green had been demolished to make way for Aldo’s Shopping Emporium.

Foodge’s ruminations were disturbed by the sound of a crash against the front door, as Hedgie’s distorted face pushed up against the glass. He had never been able to work out that the entrance doors opened outwards, to facilitate the egress of patrons at closing time. The door was wrenched open and Hedgie appeared, sobbing so fiercely that his entire frame shook.

Foodge moved to Hedgie’s side, expertly navigating the big, blubbering giant through the assorted stools and gasping bowling ladies (some, inexplicably held flames for poor old Hedgie, but that’s not for here). Merv placed a glass of JW on the bar, “On the house, son.”

O’Hoo had wiped the sausage roll oil from his maw, and had taken up position on a stool next to Hedgie, his best Police Association pen and police notebook in hand.

“It was bloody Gez, wanting dual club membership”

Foodge was befuddled, “What club?”

“Gez has been a member of both the Hell’s Angles, and the Lewisham-Leichhardt Lambretta Club.” Moaned Hedgie, “He’s been riding his Charlie Fat-Boy by day, and a bloody bright yellow Lambretta Serveta, by night. You know how one –eyed those Lambretta riders are? When they found out they went berserk. They declared a Lambretta vendetta”

“Settle down lad,” soothed O’Hoo, wishing he hadn’t eaten that second sausage roll, which seemed to be having a war with Granny’s beans and toast, “What did they do?”

“What didn’t the bastards do?”  Wailed Hedgie, “desecrated Highbury, that’s what they did. Broke in, cracked the slide on our Napier’s Memorial Slide Rule, broken all of the set squares and, T-squares, then they’ve torn up the only remaining sine, cosine and tangent tables left in Australia. Anything to do with Angles has been destroyed.”

Foodge, O’Hoo and Merv looked at each other. They all knew what this meant. Gang war, here, a bee’s dick away from the Pigs. Only swift, direct action could divert total disaster.

Foodge 11b – Miss Anne Thropy

24 Saturday Apr 2010

Posted by in Foodge Private Dick

≈ 13 Comments

There was an air of acetone in Foodge’s office as the remaining wetness evaporated from Fern’s immaculately sculpted nails.  She opened the window to the point where she could make the judgment that the air outside was far less breathable than a boil-over in a cosmetic foundry.  Fern closed the window and turned the overhead fan up to “2”.  This made no difference.

Fern opened the door just before the doorbell rang.  Offscreen, Emmjay frowned at the sound effects operator, then realised that Fern was ad-libbing fresh air.

Standing in the doorway was a ravishing, tall and slender woman, impeccably attired in Eurojaponais fashion.  Fern knew she was looking at a woman of wealth, discernment and considerable taste.  The shoes were Anne Demeulemeester, the dress was a Comme de Garcon spring collection number in black, red and white.  The Fern was a tiny bit envious.  Emmjay realised that the ABC wardrobe man had created a fashion statement that would appear forty years in the future.  He scribbled one word on a piece of paper, handed it to his assistant, he always called “The First Mate”.  She handed it to the ABC wardrobe man.  It said “Centrelink”.

“Come in, Miss …..” Fern dangled an introductory opportunity.  “Thank you” replied the mysterious fashionista, declining the nominative insertion potential of the exchange.

“Mr Foodge is expected momentarily”, said Fern. “Do you mean that he is anticipated for a fleeting period of time in the sense of the literal English, or do you mean that after a short period he will no longer be expected to arrive – because he HAS arrived – as the Americans mangle the English ?” inquired the vision of style and grace.

“I mean, he is supposed to be here soon” came Fern’s increasingly testy response.  “Would you like a cup of coffee, some tea or perhaps a glass of water ?”   The water cooler made an obligingly authentic imitation of a dog unloading its breakfast in the alley outside, by way of answer and the woman opted for the offer of a seat in preference.

She sat with the elegance of a swan.  Tall, composed, straight and self-contained.  She was a woman of substance and Fern could tell that this was no mere wealthy dame riding the coattails of some merchant or a rapper’s moll.  No this dame had substance all right, and a well-worn season ticket to a gym.  She had the look of a woman who had lost a lot of puppy fat, had grown lean and hard, but still managed to keep the kind of curves a man might find irresistible.  Fern was standing back and letting her admiration struggle with her sense of envy.  Envy seemed comfortably in front for the long haul.  The gap was widening under the influence of about $200 worth of French perfume.

Both women heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway.  The door opened with a remarkably synchronised unlocking sound and Foodge strode in and tossed his fedora onto the hatstand in half of the corners of the room.

“Ah, good morning Miss ….Thropy” “Thropy” she echoed, needlessly, but usefully as emphasis and cadence – much like one of the Kransky sisters.  “I’m well, thank you Mr….. Foodge””Foodge” he responded, by way of making an embarrassing moment a little more embarrassing.

Foodge retired to the Aeron chair and Miss Thropy arranged herself on Foodge’s lap Chesterfield.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Mr Foodge” said Miss T, much to a rapidly-tiring Emmjay’s relief.  “We are having some concern over a small matter of a possible contract”.

Foodge suspected that it was a “royal we”, but thought it wise to seek clarification at the first break in the traffic.

“My ex-husband, Mr Foodge, has received death threats”.  “Yes, so ?” And he hasn’t returned from a business trip to Colombia.  He was due back three days ago.”  And what was he doing in Colombia, Miss Thropy ?”.  “He runs an import / export business, Mr Foodge.  He exports Ugg boots and surf apparel and imports washing powder.”

“And how can I help you Miss Thropy?” asked Foodge, suppressing jokes about a whitewash and shear fantasy.  He was quickly coming to the conclusion that this was a messy and possibly dangerous expedition up a blind alley and a perfect opportunity if not exactly getting rained on with his own .38, of finding out how inferior his gat was to an AK-47.

“ I want you to find him and bring him back, Mr Foodge”. “Miss……””Thropy”, she filled in. “Thropy, Yes….. Miss Anne Thropy, I recall” said Foodge.  “I’m a little tied up with a few cases at present”.  Fern had a sudden coughing fit.

“What are your fees, Mr Foodge ?”

Before Foodge had time to answer ‘five hundred a day plus expenses’, Anne Thropy said “I’ll pay you $1,000 a day.”  “Plus expenses”, added Foodge helpfully, but non-specifically. “Then we have an arrangement, Mr Foodge, she said and took a plain envelope from her bag, rose and placed it on the desk in front of Foodge and allowed Fern the time and space to open the door for her.

“We’ll be in touch, Mr Foodge”, she said over her shoulder. “Undoubtedly, Miss Anne Thropy”, he replied.

ANZAC Day Memories

24 Saturday Apr 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole

≈ 10 Comments

Story and Photographs – Neville Cole.

Anzac Day has always been special for me. Not because I knew any diggers, not because of the annual Anzac Day clash at the MCG, and not because I have any real interest in the military. The reason Anzac Day has always been special is that my dad was born on Anzac Day, 1929.

Back in ’29, my dad’s parents Valerent and Mable, in a fit of patriotic ferver, named Dad’s older fraternal twin Anzac Victorius Cole. Later they changed it to Victor Cornelius. I always knew him as plain old Uncle Vic. Dad and Uncle Vic were sixteen going on seventeen when World War II ended. I’m sure they both considered it a strong possibility that the war would go on and they would be called up. I know my dad lost  family members in Gallipoli and he had friends who fought and died during the Pacific campaign; but dad never really talked to me about war and fighting. I think in a way he felt guilty that he did not have to sacrifice. I think when heroes he knew came home and bragged about their adventures he was a little jealous. I’m sure he felt like the returning Anzacs were getting all the good jobs and all the pretty girls. I’m sure he sometimes felt like if the war had gone on just a little longer he might be seeing the world instead of working as an apprentice bookbinder in Kensington.
Dad’s parents didn’t have any money. Valerent and Mable pulled both boys out of school right after the war began and put them to work. Dad spent his weekdays in various factories around inner-city Melbourne and his weekends sneaking into the racetrack to watch the horses. By fifteen he had saved enough money to pay for piano lessons. Dad as young man loved music, girls, beer, gambling and sport. He wasn’t much of an athlete himself but he did once play on the same football team as John Coleman.

My brother Rob tells the story of going to his first ever game at Windy Hill. While he and dad were waiting outside to buy tickets, John Coleman walked up and shook dad’s hand and called him by name and then John Coleman shook my brother’s hand and said “G’day, young Robbie” and then the man whose name is on the award given to the league’s leading goal scorer, said “See ya later, Bill” and walked away like any other man. But dad knew better. “That man there” he said as Coleman disappeared through the club entrance “Is the greatest player to ever lace up a footy boot.

He never said so outright, but I suspect deep down my dad was a pacifist. He respected what his friends, family and others went through over there; but he never felt compelled revel in the glory of it. We didn’t go to war movies. He didn’t take us to the parades. He never took me to the Shrine of Remembrance or the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Anzac day was Dad’s birthday not a day to think about the sacrifices of war.

Happy days after the war. Dad and mum are behind the big bloke in the middle. Uncle Vic and mum's twin sister Gladys are behind to the left.

Dad was, like most of his generation, deeply patriotic. He loved to watch Rod Laver and Roy Emerson dominate world tennis. He loved seeing Don Bradman destroy England to win the Ashes. He lived to see the Australian swim team win Olympic gold. The 56 Olympics were probably the best three weeks of his life. But dad preferred victories on the field of play over victories on the battlefield. Like the majority of the human race he didn’t have the hate in him to want to see other men dead. He was, it’s true, protected from the atrocities of Auschwitz and Burma. No one ever forced a gun into his hand and commanded him to shoot it. No one ever fired bullets at him. He was never imprisoned for his beliefs, his race or his religion. He was never beaten or starved or brainwashed. He was lucky man in a lucky country…and he knew it.

My brother Gary was the eldest son of a lucky man. When he turned 17 the Vietnam War was at its height. Gary saw boys not much older than himself on TV every night fighting and getting shot and coming home in body bags. Gary passed his HSC in 1970 and went on to ANU. Gary and his friends regularly hid out on campus, to avoid being drafted. Gary was a big supporter of Gough Whitlam. One big reason was Gough’s promise to end the draft. In late December ’72 when Gough made good on his promise, Gary dropped out of Uni, got in his Combi van and headed straight to the beach to spend the rest of the decade living the carefree life of a hippie surf bum.

If my dad saw the irony of he and his eldest son both missing the draft by a whisker he never talked about it. Neither did Gary. It must be like that feeling you have when a car screeches to a halt behind you and just misses plowing into you. If you are lucky enough not to be hit but smart enough to know how close you were to trouble…well, you’d prefer to just forget it ever happened. That seemed to be the way both my dad and my brother dealt with nearly having to go to war.

There was no draft as I came of age. I hardly thought about war at all. I was more concerned that there would be no jobs left when I got out of school. We figured if there was a war it would pretty much be over in an afternoon anyway. There would be a hailstorm of nuclear missiles and we would spend the next few months slowly dying of radiation poisoning. The idea that the army would draft us to actually go fight a war seemed about as insane as sending a bunch of Aussie and Kiwi kids to spend eight months trying to capture a beach in Turkey.

My youthful ideas about war and soldiering were colored by literature. I was drawn to distinctly anti-war voices of Maugham, Hemingway, Vonnegut and Spike Milligan. These men knew what war was really like and they really didn’t like it. I imagined somehow that should I ever be drafted I would declare myself a conscientious objector and go to jail for my beliefs; but deep down I knew that I would do what so many million others of my kind have done through the ages. I would grudgingly join the march and do what I could to survive.

My son will soon be old enough to go to war. I don’t think he will ever have to go – not the way wars are fought today – but I worry that he and others like him think of war as some kind of live action video game. I see them spend countless hours killing and maiming each other on TV screens every day. I want to be sure he has a healthy disgust for war. Maybe literature will show him the way as well.

And so it appears that at least four generations of us Coles will not have to go to war. I’d say we have been lucky; but merely avoiding war does not guarantee a long life. Dad might have missed out on the fighting in the Pacific; but he didn’t manage to miss that pothole that ended his life on the Hume Highway in ’83. Gary got to drop out of Uni and spend a good part of a decade on a surfboard; but those long days in the sun, no doubt, helped bring on the aggressive skin cancer that he lost the ultimate battle to in ’94.

That’s why, as Anzac Day 2010 draws ever closer I think about dad. He would have turned 81 on Sunday. I think about Gary riding the waves at Phillip Island. I think about Mum and my brother Rob gathering in Glen Iris to watch the Bombers together and share a few quiet memories of absent loved ones, me included.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Hang loose, Gary.

Cheers, Mum and Rob.

God bless, diggers all.

Little People in the City

24 Saturday Apr 2010

Posted by in Cricics, Critics, Everyone's a Critic

≈ 8 Comments

Subtitled – The Street Art of Slinkachu – Will Self.

Bin Day by Will Self. Look at this Carefully. Apols for the scan quality.

Some of us may have encountered the miraculous super-realist mannequins of Ron Mueck on display at the NGV or at the MCA in Sydney.

Some of Ron’s work is HUGE – in the Sydney Exhibition there was a heavily pregnant woman who must have been over ten feet high and a half of Ron’s head was taller than a man.  The detail is incredible with whiskers as thick as your finger and perfectly in scale with everything else.

On the other end of the scale was an old woman under a blanket.  She was about 18 inches in length, but she was so realistic I saw two children standing and watching her for minutes on end – debating whether or not they could see her breathing.  They were debating whether she was alive.  Not whether she was real – whether she was alive.

Convincing ?  Eerie ?  You bet !

Now, yesterday I found in a bookstore  an expensive but brilliant counterpoint by Will Self – “Little People in the City – The Street art of Slinkachu” (2008) Boxtree – an imprint of Pan Macmillan ISBN 978-0-7552-2664-4.

I’m sure they wont mind us borrowing two pieces – you should buy the book.  It’s amazing.

And you can see some other interesting street art here

Lear Most Strange, Part Deux.

23 Friday Apr 2010

Posted by in Neville Cole

≈ 6 Comments

Edmund being a complete and utter bastard.

Learing by Neville Cole

SCENE TWO: THE EARL OF GLOUCESTER’S CASTLE.
Enter Edmund the Bastard.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
By god, you are a good looking son of a bitch. Look at you! Just look at me! Do I look like a bastard to you? I’m smart. A mensa, thanks very much. I’m incredibly good looking too… better looking than my brother, that’s for damn sure. But they call me the bastard! Edmund the bastard. Here’s my bastard son! Knocked up his mother, the maid. There was good sport in his making. Nudge, nudge, wink wink. Say no more… I’ll bet there was, I’ll bet there was… I’m sure my mother was great in the sack: best lay old Gloucester ever had, I don’t doubt! Have you seen his wife? Nothing to write home about…very plain, and a little, well… I think maybe there was some in-breeding in her family. No wonder Edgar ended up like he did. He’s a bit…funny, is Edgar. But… he’s the legitimate heir. He’s the real son! He’ll get everything. I get jack shit ‘cause I’m a dirty bastard. We’ll don’t you worry about me. I won’t be the good little bastard and wait around for my dim brother’s scraps. I’ve got a plan. I’m going to set things straight. I’ve got…a letter! That’s right…a letter! Brilliant! Isn’t it! And if this letter speed and my invention thrive, Edmund the Bastard will top the legitimate. I grow; I prosper: Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Well, you know…it should work out fine. Because…I’ve got a letter. Don’t forget that. It’s an important plot point.
GLOUCESTER
Edmond…
EDMUND THE BASTARD
It’s a letter!
GLOUCESTER
What?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
In my hand. You caught me. I was trying to hide it away. But you caught me fair and square.
GLOUCESTER
What? Oh, yes I see…
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Take it if you must even though I would if I could hide its contents from you till the day I die.
GLOUCESTER
If you feel that way about it. I don’t want to pry.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
No, no… you must. Take it. Though I wish to god you never had to see such horrors as there lie writ.
GLOUCESTER
If it’s bad news I don’t think I want to see it. It’s been a bad day already. Did you here the King tried to kill Kent?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Just read the bloody letter!
GLOUCESTER
Alright. Give it here… (he reads)
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Read it…aloud, kind sir.
GLOUCESTER
Didn’t you read it already?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Humor me.
GLOUCESTER
Very well. “This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them.” (pauses)
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Go on…if you can contain you direst emotions, dear father.
GLOUCESTER
Alright. “I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny; who sways, not as it hath it were his; but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not.” Well…
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Indeed.
GLOUCESTER
It’s utter gibberish.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
No, sire. It is written in Edgar’s own hand.
GLOUCESTER
Well, that explains a lot. Edgar’s a nutter.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Read on…there at the end.
GLOUCESTER
Why don’t you tell me what it says… I can’t make heads of tails of it. It’s all greek to me.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
See here, good sir, in the villian’s own evil scrawl: “If our father should sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother.”
GLOUCESTER
Yes?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
He wants me to help him kill you and divide your lands and wealth.
GLOUCESTER
That’s what is says? “Sleep till I waked him” Are you sure that means kill me? Sounds much nicer than that to me. I think he wants me to take a nap.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
He is plotting to kill you.
GLOUCESTER
Well, you’re the college boy. But…I don’t know. Edgar’s never been like that. He’s been like a lot of things…but never that.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
I prove it to you. Tonight.
GLOUCESTER
How?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
I shall place where you shall hear us confer of this, and by auricular assurance have your satisfaction… (pause) I’ll get him to confess.
GLOUCESTER
Oh right. Good plan. Tonight you say?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Tonight.
GLOUCESTER
Well… best be off then. Until tonight, then…
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Yes.
GLOUCESTER
Yes. Are you hungry at all? I was just off to the pub…
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Tonight.
GLOUCESTER
Right.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Idiot.
GLOUCESTER
What was that?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Nothing…
GLOUCESTER
Oh, good. Bye then…I’ll just head off in this direction.
Gloucester exits stage left. Edgar enters at the same time stage right.
EDGAR
Who was that?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Where did you come from?
EDGAR
I just walked in from that other direction.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Did you just get here?
EDGAR
This very moment.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Thank god for that.
EDGAR
Was that Dad that just left?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
What? Oh, yes… Yes it was…
EDGAR
What positively amazing timing. Well, love to stay and chat but I want to catch up to dear old dad. I have something most humorous to tell him.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
No, wait. Stop. You better not…
EDGAR
Why? Is he being a grumpy pants again? I’ll soon fix that…
EDMUND THE BASTARD
No! He was here, right you you now stand, on this very floor, in such a rage as never before…I ever saw. He swore to Hades that he would make war fourscore and kill you the moment he next laid eyes on you.
EDGAR
Oh… Has he been drinking?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Yes.
EDGAR
Thanks for warning me. I will be… sure to stay out of this way then.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
You should do more than that… You should… go on a holiday.
EDGAR
A holiday?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Yes. A long, long holiday. Morocco or Tangiers, perhaps.
EDGAR
Ooohh… I hear Tangiers is lovely.
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Very lovely.
EDGAR
Father’s awfully mad, isn’t  he?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
He is.
EDGAR
Well…you know what they say: What happens in Tangiers…
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Stays in Tangiers. Yes, that is what they say… Now hurry, brother, away. Flee! The last boat of autumn sails this day. Soon all will be wintery and not so fair with…a terrible chill in the air and keeping that tan will be next to impossible.
EDGAR
Yuck. Alright, then… Guess I’ll be off. So, I should go, this way?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
Yes. I think it best.
EDGAR
Shall I hear from you anon?
EDMUND THE BASTARD
I’ll write you anon and on… and tell you when the coast is clear. Now, go time and tide waits for no man.
Edgar exits in a terrible hurry.