Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

Harry Potter and the Pensioner of Erina

27 Monday Jul 2009

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

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Cheeses of the British Isles

Cheeses of the British Isles

The waiting line for Harry Potter was long and was not moving.  There she was – just in front.  A redhead with beautiful wild tresses carefully brushed out into a long mane stretching down to her generous hips.

I caught a glimpse of a front veranda that would do a ski lodge proud.  There was a complete cub scout troop (perhaps ‘troupe’ – as in ‘trained – barely-trained monkeys’) sheltering under that verandah: keeping out of the wind.

She pivoted gracefully on her knee-high black boots on 4inch heels, her black split tunic/dress revealing a fine pair of black stockinged legs.

WILL YOU BE QUIET ! she screamed at Damien. FOR THE LAST TIME, I WILL GET YOU ONE ONLY CHOCK TOP.  GOT IT ?

Damien looked shocked by the force of the blast.  Traces of still-drying spittle flecked his eyebrows.

(thought bubble)  Oooh Wah.  That was a bit of a massive let down.  I exchanged meaningful glances with the first mate.  And she exchanged a meaningful glance with the lesser Emmlet.  Her glance said “See !  That could happen to you at the drop of a hat anytime I get an unreasonable whingy request !”  I sensed simulteously a loss of ennui – by me and an awakening in Damien of the dreadful power of a grandmother in full cry.  Not the peaches and cream kind of grandmother.  The ‘take no prisoners’ kind.

In an instant, I could see that this siren was in fact a rather well coiffed and immaculately dressed pensioner grandmother with a face that offered George Piggins or Wally Lewis several yards advantage (for Mexicans – that allowed Ron Barrassi to claim the epithet of ‘fine-boned’).  For some reason I was reminded of Keith Richards.

(burst balloon here ….)

The line moved and we all filed into the Erina 8 cinema conmplex.  For those in distant lands, Erina Fair is the third largest mall in the known universe.  The car parks are so large that there is a mini-bus to take you from your car to the collection point for the large bus.  You park somewhere out near the Crab Nebula and time-warp into the shops and entertainment precinct (more on the Text Mex Ribs ‘n Steak later).

There was some utter tripe with no plotline, familiar (overly familiar) cast doing the same old Harry Potteresque stuff with spells, potions, dastardly black evil spirits, Alan Rickman doing his impression of an Afghan hound, an old white-bearded wizard dude, some teenage witches and wizards showing as much limply frustrated sexual interest in each other as Tess of the d’Urbervilles, some pyrotechnics (did I mention the Quiddich game) and repeated clips of Harry looking into ink drops swirled in the white wizard dude’s toilet bowl and somehow seeing into the past.  When I look into the toilet bowl, it’s not a very interesting past, and Harry was certainly experiencing more of the same shite.

So for a family excursion we paid $38 for a C- grade movie with popcorn and bottled water (apologies to the good people of Bungendore.  That’s it !  The Wizard’s name was Bungendore !) we had the added entertainment – in fact the ONLY entertainment of the day – from the Pensioner of Erina.

1/2 Star.

Cyrus – the Prologue

27 Monday Jul 2009

Posted by in Cyrus the Great: Chronicles

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Cyrus the Great (Persian First XI)

Cyrus the Great (Persian First XI)

by  Theseustoo

Prologue

A Brief Overview of the History of the Median Empire:

The first king of Media was Deioces, who was chosen for his wisdom, honesty and judgment after the Medes revolted from their Assyrian overlords,. He built the city of Agbatana and established himself firmly on his throne, being careful always to display the same kind of wise and impartial judgment in his dealings with the people now that he was king, as he always had.

Deioces was succeeded by his son, Phraortes, who extended the kingdom significantly, conquering first Persia, and then all of Asia east of the River Halys, with the exception of Babylon. Phraortes even laid siege to the Assyrian capital, Nineveh and would most certainly have taken the city, had it not been for the sudden invasion of a horde of nomadic Scythians, who were following a band of Cimmerians whom they had chased out of Europe. These Scythians tyrannized and oppressed Asia for the next twenty-eight years spreading waste and destruction throughout the entire region until finally all of their leaders were slain at a treacherous feast planned by Cyaxares, the son of Phraortes.

Cyaxares, the third king of Media, finally drove the Scythian invaders out of Media, thus returning to her the dominion over Asia which had originally been won by his father; and which he saw as his birthright. Cyaxares finally conquered Nineveh, and thus subjected the Assyrians, who had formerly ruled all of Asia, to the dominion of their former subjects, the Medes, with the exception of the remnant of the Assyrian aristocracy, who had fled to Babylon, the final stronghold of the Assyrian Empire, to establish a government in exile.

When Cyaxares died the throne passed to his son, Astyages, who was thus absolutely determined that the fledgling kingdom of Media would never again fall so easily to invading foreigners…

(to be continued)

In the next thrilling instalment of ‘Cyrus’, hear all about the prophetic dream which threatens Astyages’ kingdom and how Astyages decides to deal with it.

Tony Abbott’s New Book Challenges You – To Keep Your Dinner Down

25 Saturday Jul 2009

Posted by in Politics in the Pig's Arms

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Prominent Conservative Politician Researching an Autobiography

Prominent Conservative Politician Researching an Autobiography

I wasn’t going to adorn this piece of found digital mischief, but with the excerpts from Tony’s new book in this Weekend’s Australian,  I just could not bear to let the opportunity go past.

Do yourself a really huge favour.  Read the Australian excerpts (saves going anywhere near the actual book)  – particularly if you need a good purging.  If you thought Peter Costello’s book was the biggest pile of ordure in Christendom, you have not seen even a scintilla of this new ultimate puddle of vomit.

Is it the cheesy photos of Mr Cool in his Oxford boxing team days ?  The doting wife feeding him his mouthguard during a charity boxing match ?  The doting mother of someone else’s baby ?  (Remember the Tony Abbott love child saga ?).  Give me strength.  Has this dude no shame ?  Not that he thought he had knocked up his girlfriend and persuaded her to have it adopted out (Pope 1: abortionists nil).

Tony’s crime is to put it in print and roll around in it under the misapprehension that it’s actually worth reading about.

And the endless equivocation about whether “leadership” was best achieved through the priesthood.  (Ignoring the pre-marital period before marrying God) where there was an implied bit of horizontal folk dancing going on.

... and then she sent me this letter from the maternity ward - Pell was really pissed off

... and then she sent me this letter from the maternity ward - Pell was really pissed off

Is it me, or is it that conservative politicians – particularly those in opposition have nothing better to do than dream up tomes of self-congratulation.  Are they worse than retired Labor politicians ?  Yes ! Because (apart from Mark Latham’s reasonable impression of barking madness, the Neocons are just so fucking pious and full of self regard).

Still, correct me if I’m wrong you scholars, isn’t hubris a mortal sin ?

I’m selling “fly on the wall” tickets for when Tony gets to discuss his overall game with St Peter.

Should be a lot more interesting than some waffle about fixing a busted Federation – without vaporising the States.

Sorry, I’ve had my run.  I can’t hold it down any longer …. I’m off to speak to God on the porcelain telephone.  Thanks a lot Tony.

Remember my advice on your gay marriages blog ?  No matter how much you tinker with the bread, your filling still makes it a basic turd sandwich.

I’m pretty sure Warrigal found this under a rock on the Internet…..  how appropriate.

A Walk in the Park – and it’s Koala Moon !

25 Saturday Jul 2009

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

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Simulated Park

Stimulated Park

by …. Jules

A couple of news items caught my eye this week. Well three actually. And somehow they all muddled together, when I was walking the dogs.

First there was an article in The Courier Mail, headed, “Koalas doomed”, by Brian Williams, Environmental Reporter.

According to Williams, Andrew McNamara, a former sustainability minister, was warning that, Koalas were on the road to extinction, because of their habitat destruction. This destruction of course, was not for fun, but because of the continuous growth of the human population. The article quoted him as saying that, “The more of us there are, the fewer of everything else there is (or will be)”. And he also went on to say how difficult it was to discuss population growth, or get it on the government’s agenda. He said, “It’s a massive blind spot”.

The reporter then referred to a 1994 report by The Australian Academy of Science that envisaged a population of 23 million as being a comfortable limit. Although an eminent Australian Scientist, Tim Flannery has mooted 8-12 million as being this nation’s carrying capacity.

(In the same newspaper were articles promoting the growth of SE Queensland ; and how it will become the fifth largest city, of Australia.)

Well that was one thing that got me thinking; and then driving to the park with dogs in the car, ‘a man came on the radio, telling me more n’ more’, asking listeners where they were when the Apollo Spacecraft landed in 1969 .

I remember clearly: I watched it on a black and white TV in a bar in Plaza Gomila Mallorca, where I was living at the time. I also remember where I was when I heard about Kennedy’s assassination, but that’s not relevant here. Nor is my location at the time of John Lennon’s shooting or Elvis’s demise.

However, digressing slightly, there was a man interviewed, who was part of the Apollo Mission Ground Team and he was lamenting the fact that there hadn’t been another effort to land on the moon. In fact he blamed it on the safety factor now and the drive to eliminate all risks. There are so many laws and regulations now, that there are virtually no serious attempts made to promulgate a new plan for planet exploration.

Then there were all the comments on the latest ABC Unleashed, religious article, with bloggers going hammer and tongs, without any resolution. In fact getting so befuddled that they were agreeing with each other, from what I could discern. Intelligent people arguing about an invented invisible God! I didn’t have a go. I mean what’s the point? Will I resolve it?

So after I got the dogs out of the back of my CRV and started walking toward the lake, my mind wandered.(By the way there are no Koalas in The Monaco Street Park- and there won’t ever be- so I have stopped looking now. I just think!)

I got to dreaming, that, if we could solve (get over) this nanny hurdle, for deeper exploration- and occupy another world- we could remedy our overpopulation of The Earth- and help the koalas. Not only that but we could start a new life without religion, one of the major stumbling blocks to meaningful discussion on population control.

Another bonus is that we should be able to eliminate terrorism, since it would be hard to smuggle explosives into a spaceship and then on to The Moon.

The problem with religion is that it could be smuggled in, in the mind.

 But, leaving that aside-isn’t it great to be an optimist?

To Guy the Gorilla (In Memoriam)

23 Thursday Jul 2009

Posted by in Poets Corner, The Mens

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Guy the Gorilla, R.I.P.

Guy the Gorilla, R.I.P.

Guy was a good gorilla,

Huge and strong and proud

His chest-pounding was magnificent,

His roar extremely loud…

By day they’d roam the forest,

The wives, the kids and he

And all about was verdant,

Green and pure and free

At night they’d curl up in the tree-top

In beds made of the leafy wands

Of the thinner topmost branches,

By Guy’s strong and clever hands

He’d eat nothing but the best fruit,

Laid by his children at his feet

And occasionally a lemur

When he felt he needed meat…

At the waterhole Guy feared nothing,

Neither ape nor beast nor lion…

Even the mighty crocodile

Wouldn’t even think of trying…

’Twas both dangerous and futile,

However hungry he may be

To stalk Guy or his family members

For breakfast, lunch or tea!

Then one day some men came

And with the great white hunter’s art

Put a limit to Guy’s freedom

With a hypodermic dart

Steel cages now surrounded him

So there was nothing he could do

When they trucked him to the coast

And shipped him off to London Zoo

Strange though ’tis to relate,

‘Twas there in London Zoo

Guy gained a greater reputation;

His fame just grew and grew

For in his red-brick-walled enclosure,

With its cold, hard, concrete floor

He’d cause women serious discomposure

When he’d ‘take himself in paw’

They came from far and near to see it,

Old ladies Guy would mesmerise

Yet they came in droves to see him

And could not believe their eyes

For with nothing else to do

In his small and lonely concrete tank

He’d watch the old ladies watching him,

And as he watched, he’d wank

For those who’d planned his captivity

Had not the wit to see

Gorillas need some kind of activity

And some female company:

But with nothing else to occupy him

And no way to protest, too

Guy did the only thing he could,

While living there in London Zoo…

By  ….       Theseustoo

I feel I must add that the living conditions and treatment of animals in London Zoo has come a long way since those days!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wy52yueBX_s

Third Vatican Council

22 Wednesday Jul 2009

Posted by in Politics in the Pig's Arms, The Public Bar

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'Vin's New Threads

'Vin's New Threads

The front door of the Saloon bar swings wide and in romps Kev, wearing his latest costume.

“Wassup ? Wings swing, shwoo, feng shui cool cats and cooler kitties ?”

“Dig the threads !”

Merv continues polishing a glass.

“I got dis when I wuz rapping with ma opposite number in the Vatican.”  We wuz goin’ artillery.

I sez  “Ratz, my man, Dude, I’m here about the canon”.  He sez “Yo ain’t got no canon, ‘Vin, my man”.

I sez to him ” Thassright, your badass pointed-hatness.”

“We’s due a canon.  I means, I was seriously put out when you made the first Canadian canon St Dudley Dooright !  He’s filth, man.  You know.   Stuffed AND mountied”

So Ratz sez “Who is you thinkin’ is gotta be yo canon, then bro’ ?  That Mac Killer woman ?”

And I sez “No way, Happy Jack.  I’s talking about me !”.  “No Way !”  “Way !”  “No Way, man.”

And Ratz sez “Look”, wot I can do for ya, is that I can get you one of dees” and he lifts his lid and he gives it me.

I sez “Cool”.  He says “WAY cool”

I sez “’S a miracle, man”

He sez, “No for dat you gets a canon”

Digital mischief c/- Warrigal

Glenda Sees Michael Jackson’s Soul in the Pig’s Legs

22 Wednesday Jul 2009

Posted by in Ladies Lounge

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Pig's Legs Soul Survivor

Pig's Legs Soul Survivor

Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett – gone in one fell swoop!  The passing of Farrah had obvious repercussions in the Pigs Legs Waxing and Beauty Salon – the death of a value-added hairstyle.

Glenda was troubled by her patron’s glee over the indignity of the anal cancer.  Early Monday morning, straight after turning on the sterilizer and the kettle, she pulled out a women’s mag to have another look at near-death Farrah.  She looked like a beautiful woman with a soul – where was the cause for glee in indignity?

Seeing an errant piece of wax she walked to the bin, and stood there pondering the crumpled poster of Farrah within.  She reached in and thoughtfully smoothed it.  Farrah gave her the Instant Flash, and as instantly Glenda Knew – those teeth, that hair.

Women saw Farrah’s Instant Flash and assumed her Instant Competition.  Men saw her Instant Flash and assumed her Instant Rejection.

If only her soul had received the opportunity for public appearance.  Ah well…

“As for Michael Jackson still alive on the next page of the mag” she thought, drinking her starter coffee “his picture says Instant Weird Tainted With Molestation Issues”.

Usually Glenda worked on her regulars but perm girl Loretta couldn’t make it in that morning – some difficulty about her childcare centre shutting down.

“Hi, I’ll be doing your perm today Robyn – Loretta’s off.  How’s your morning been?”

“Not good – childcare centre problems.”

“You too! ABC?”  Glenda asked.

“Yep.”

“So what was Loretta doing for you?”

“An afro.”

Glenda was taken aback, looking at Robyn’s gorgeous sleek hair.  Afro’s hadn’t been In since Michael Jackson went straight – and her client was instantly wary.

“You can do afro’s?” Robyn checked.

“Easy!” said Glenda quickly.   And from somewhere deep within a rhythm formed in her soul… she breathed in and suddenly the soul song slipped out on her breath “Easy as 1-2-3!”

A little giggle came from under the setting hood, and Glenda was embarrassed.

Daphne came out “Is Loretta OK?”  Glenda was grateful for Daphne’s deflection.

“Yes, she just got childcare problems – didn’t I tell you already?”

Daphne prompted “Which centre?”  And Glenda was trapped by a salon of laughter.

She grabbed a hairbrush.

“Watch your bottoms, girls!” Daphne shrieked, but the hairbrush rose to Glenda’s ruby red lips, her left arm rose, palm skyward …

“ABC!

Easy as 1-2-3!

[Mike swap]

Or simple as do re mi!”

[girls join in]

“ABC

1-2-3

Do re mi

Baby you and me girl!”

They laughed in their moment.

“Michael Jackson was so cute when he was little” said Robyn.  “Such a shame where it all went to.

“He gave us that lovely song” said Daphne.

“He should’ve kept the afro.  Look where it got Obama.”  Glenda knew it was all about the hair.

Daphne was thoughtful.  “You know what I think the problem was – he was black.  He had an afro.  He had a wide nose.  What did he do?  He went white, straight hair, little nose.”

“What about if he was sixteen now? – Obama! black, afro, nose.”

“Gorgeous!” said Daphne.

“Michael would be gorgeous” sighed Robyn.

“You were a fan?” asked Glenda

“He rocked me.  All night.  Danced me into day.”

[girls croon]  “Sunlight”

Finishing off, Glenda admired Robyn’s sleek pink silk pants with a glance.  “OK then, Rockin Robyn.  Perm’s in.  You’re free to tweet.  Would you like a tea or coffee?”

“Ha!  Now you’ve done it Glenda” shrieked Daphne as Robyn moved to centre salon.

“Get behind me girls – we’re doing this one together – give me the hairbrush – come in on the chorus.”

“He rocks in the tree tops all day long
Hoppin’ and a-boppin’ and singing his song
All the little birdies on Jaybird Street
Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet

Rockin’ robin, tweet tweet tweet
Rockin’ robin’ tweet tweetly-tweet
Blow rockin’ robin
‘Cause we’re really gonna rock tonight

“You know” said Glenda.  “You’re really very good Robyn – you could almost do a show.”

“I could do fifty shows” said Robyn.  “I love it.  I need a tan though – bit pale – have you got a solarium?”

“She does” said Daphne, “But she shouldn’t put you in there – they’re dangerous.”

“They’re not dangerous.  It’s the sun that’s the problem.”

“Oh sister…” said Robyn,

“Don’t blame it on the sunshine

Don’t blame it on the moonlight

Don’t blame it on the good times

Blame it on the boogie”

“WAAaaaoroh!”

Glenda saw Merv looking through the window.  He was just looking.  Glenda was so freed by the moment she gave him a full smile, but he didn’t notice her.  She thought about her teeth, and smiled again but with her lips shut.  He looked at her, sort of worried, and Glenda dashed out of the salon.  It only took an inquiring glance into Merv’s eyes.

“That’s Michael Jackson”

“What?”

“That’s Michael Jackson, in your salon.”

“What?”

“In the shiny pants”

Glenda got it.  “That’s Robyn.  She’s come in for a perm.”

Merv looked in again.  He didn’t look back at Glenda.  “I’ve gotta get back to the pub.”

Glenda left the singing to others, as she pondered Merv’s madness

“You went quiet Glenda” said Daphne at the end of the day.

“Did you notice anything about Robyn?”

“What?”

“You know when my curling wand accidentally flew at her crutch?  Did you see the way she grabbed it?”

“Strange moment” Daphne admitted.  “I’ve never had a curling wand accident like that before.”

“Well I’m off” she said, leaving Glenda alone.

Glenda rang her friend, Crystal Ball, clairvoyant to the Pigs Legs Salon. “Crystal?  Is Michael Jackson really dead?”

Crystal consulted the heavens.

“His soul lives” she replied.

Glenda knew what to do and scanned her walls.  She pulled down the poster of Brad Pitt and put it face down on the floor.  She sponged the white background with auburn henna tones, and penned with her ruby red lipstick, outlined in khol black eyeliner…

Michael Jackson seen in this Salon!

And on the back of the smoothed poster of Farrah she wrote

Confirmed by Clairvoyant.

She went outside and brought in the sandwich board.  With some wax she stuck on the posters.  She pulled on her coat, picked up her keys and took a last glance back at the board, satisfied with what she’d organized tomorrow to bring.  She heaved her end-of-work sigh and smiled, turned off the lights, shut the door, and turned left towards the Pigs Arms pub.

Walking through the door of the crowded bar she screamed across to Merv “You were absolutely right Merv, it was Michael Jackson in the Salon!”

What’s Been Happening at the Pig’s Arms ?

19 Sunday Jul 2009

Posted by in Emmjay

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Seen in the Pig's Arms Car Park.........

Seen in the Pig's Arms Car Park.........

Hi folks.

Just a quick note to say thanks for your fine efforts and support through the renovations.  Last week was pretty active at the Pig’s.  We had two of our three busiest days – with a top of 468 views and five days in a row over three hundred views.  Comments have gone over 1,300 and Jason tells me that this is an excellent effort for a blog that isn’t flogging anything or running with red-hot items like Therese Rein’s crash diet (what’s with that piece of marketing ?)

I’d like to congratulate Glenda for racking up 82 views yesterday with a lot of interest from actual and potential customers in her Farrah Fawcett coiff piece.  Clearly big hair is more compelling than a Brazilian guide to shaping mono brows.

Let’s hear more from the ladies lounge as a balance to our escalating recent and classically violent series on death and destruction.  I’m up for review contributions in the new Category of Critics, Critics, Everyone’s a Critic and things have been too quiet in the Music space.  And while I have learnt everything I know about Cricket from Voice, I’m sure the Ashes will be a persistent topic in the Sports Bar.

I would be delighted if we could have a review of Tony Abbott’s new book – particularly before it’s released.  In fact a raft of reviews would be excellent.  Perhaps  our headline next week will be “Michael Jackson spotted on a Glenelg tram, reading a pre-release copy of Tony Abbott’s new book ‘I Did It John, Brendan and Malcolm’s Way'”.  I can feel some Warrigal digital mischief in the pipeline.

Will we see Kevin Rudd, Steve Smith and Simon Crean despatch Father O’Way to sort out Hu’s in a Shanghai clink ?  No, Who’s on first.  If you think this is fishy, so do I.  Stay tuna.

Of course you are more than welcome to get off your backsides and suggest / create the news of the week.  How could it be less accurate than the mainstream media ?  It’ll surely arrive sooner, be fresher and be far more readable.

Manne, can you please bring the car keys in to work ?  There’s a rumour that Bunter has been seen over in the Unleashed paddock !

Cheers to everyone.

Emm

STC does the War of the Roses – to death, unfortunately

19 Sunday Jul 2009

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

≈ 1 Comment

A Hearse !  My Kingdom for a Hearse.

The Play – or Doing Shakespeare in 21 Words

“The Sent-I-mental Bloke

Takes ‘is Doreen to a play,

Ee’d rather flit an’ smooge a bit

But kulcher

Makes ‘im stay.”*

Murderous Horticulture – or Doing Shakespeare in 571 Words

The scene is a major theatrical production – a concatenation of eight of Shakespeare’s nine history plays, spanning the various multi-part plays Richard II, Henries IV, V and VI and Richard III.  A massive and curiously disturbing jewel.  The play is set within a festival, itself facing the sudden unanticipated need to assuage the fears and concerns of a city under economic siege.  Joy and amusement are in short supply. A sense of imminent doom looms large over the city, the play and the soon-to-be long-suffering audience.

Like the interior of a castle, the set is bare. The company is facing hard times and has dispensed with costumes in favour of at-home casual wear, locating the time as twenty-first century K-Mart.

The company has enlisted the services of a major cinematic star very familiar to the audience who will bring stentorian gravitas playing Richard II in the first act.  As Dorothy Parker once said of Katherine Hepburn “She displays all the emotions – from A to B”. She will be eclipsed by a magnificent performance from a company member playing a particularly nasty troll Richard III in the last act.

Falstaff will lose about 80% of his traditional bodyweight despite a lack of production sponsorship from Jenny Craig, becoming rather more portable than portly.

Killer or Murderer

Killer or Murderer

The parts of the Duke of Norfolk, Suffolk, a killer and a murderer (? difference ) will be played by the company bouncer.

There will be death.  There will be much death. More death than the audience can possibly imagine.  In fact, there will be ONLY death.  A marathon slaughter in two parts, each with two acts.

In the third act, the company will (thoughtfully) provide an electronic scoreboard showing the name of the current victim so that the audience will not lose the plot and will have a chance to see whether York or Lancaster are in front – going into the final quarter.

There will be a recipe.

Dramatic Art:

  • Begin by taking a golden shower of raining foil strips – standing completely still.
  • Take a Wiltshire Stainless shiv and a victim.
  • Autograph the victim’s liver with the shiv from behind or in front.
  • Take 3,000 litres of fake blood and 800kg of flour.
  • Draw a mouthful of fake blood and spit it all over the victim
  • Slink around doing those kooky stage-walking movements placing the foot flatly and silently on the floor (not the bouncer who must remain boofy at all times).
  • Take a handful of flour and coat the victim with the flour
  • Repeat until there are no more victims.
  • Baste the audience for about 8 hours, or until there is no more audience.

End with a grey “winter of discontent” snowstorm gently draping a children’s playground for about 2 hours.

Punctuate the violence with short intermissions.

Provide barely-drinkable coffee to help keep the patrons awake.

Coda:

Note:  For patrons averse to infanticide, the princes have walk on parts and drag off parts, and are mercifully (for the audience at least) murdered silently out of sight in the monkey bars.  So, to let only one cat out of the bag; the bouncer did it in the monkey bars with the Wiltshire Stainless.

RIII will call for transport.

Victim 37

Victim 37

“My kingdom for a horse” although, given the liberally-scattered corpses on stage, calling for a hearse, might be more appropriate.

The audience part is whispered: “A taxi, my kingdom for a taxi” rehearsed often throughout the play.

*  Apologies to C.J. Dennis

The Case Against School Reunions

17 Friday Jul 2009

Posted by in The Other Side of the Carpark

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Simulated Good Time Reunion

Simulated Good Time Reunion

It’s far easier to accept that the world is totally wired but completely disconnected than it is to rail against the failure of personal history and the loss of community.

Why then do we see and acquiesce to an alarming internet-driven proliferation of the most bizarre (and desperately sad) pieces of social engineering  – the school reunion ?

My partner has thankfully resisted the persistent badgering of a couple of former classmates to attend their class’ 30 year re-union.  What a relief to see the date pass.  We discussed it and she found my experience decisive.

Much water had passed under the bridge when I foolishly decided to give in and attend my class’ 16 year reunion.  I had no idea who organised it, but I wanted to find out what the hell had happened to the old crew – not one of whom had I been in contact with since first year uni.

It was a westy boys’ high and in those days the only ones who went to Uni were the few scholarship winners – five out of fifty; no two studied in the same faculty.  So we were a disconnected lot.

The reunion was in a local riverside park where a lot of the teenage pregnancies were launched – in collaboration with the girls’ school (across the road), of course.  I imagined that it would be a good idea to leave my “born and raised elsewhere” missus at home because there can be nothing more boring than playing “do you remember so-and-so” when you weren’t even there.  I also left the good car at home – just in case -because I didn’t want to look like one of those ponces who wants to show off his humongous wealth – which would have added “lying with intent to impress” to the charge sheet.  But outward display of wealth proved to be a relative thing, itself a concern amongst very few of our school.

Both of these ideas (leaving the good car and the missus at home) proved to be good moves.  When I got to the event there were maybe four score and ten adults and about ten score and four children.  As one half of a childless couple at that stage, I was appalled by the noise and inconvenience of this swarm of snotty urchins, hell-bent on trashing any opportunity for adults to chew the fat.

So many of the old crew were unrecognisable.  White hair.  No hair.  Beards somewhat like the Hell’s Angles.  Tatts.  And partners who looked like they had come straight off the Dogger Bank.  Think fishwives.  Think voices like a chainsaw cutting corrugated iron.  Think conversation about what was on the menu at the club (reassuring that the prawn cocktails in pink sauce and steak and chips were still mainstays, chicken Maryland had been replaced by the exotic excitement of chicken Marengo, and sweet and sour whatever, was still the mystery dish).  Expansive ?  No, not really.  I imagined Gibbo (the world’s best English Teacher and a lapsed Jesuit to boot) crying into his port over the fate of his “sons”.

“Holy shit !  It’s YOU, Fitzy !”  “Who’s asking ?”  I remembered Fitzgerald as having what Goose described as a “bum cut”  – meaning that it was parted in the middle and stood up, forming a rounded letter “M” in cross section.  It was auburn.  Back then.  It was short, spiky and grey, 16 years later.  “So what are you up to these days ?”  Storeman and packer.  “What about you ?”  “Computer stuff”.  “Good job ?”  “Yeah, not too bad”.

But seeing that the state of play amongst our school cohort was as it had been – but with wrinkles, massive weight gain and adverse changes to hair and economic well-being, was to miss the fact that a lot of water had gone under many many bridges.  It was a mistake, for example to assume that the fishwife and screaming brats that Turner showed up with was the same set that he pulled together just out of school.

I guess the thing that hit me the hardest was learning that Nokka was dead.  The scuttlebutt was that our best and brightest – by a long shot – had died in mysterious circumstances during second year at uni.  There was unsubstantiated talk about doing hard drugs.  I think this was way out of character since Nokka was very conservative about substance abuse – a perspective shaped by an abusive alcoholic father.  And there was a competing (and far more likely) story about a heart attack.  Either way, it doesn’t do a lot of good for morale to learn that the guy most likely to drag himself out of working class poverty hadn’t made it past go; hadn’t collected $200.

And Toombsie.  A tall gangly red head, Toombsie was all knees and no co-ordination.  The nicest bloke, he was a good mate – hilarious, generous and loyal.  A keen but hopeless sportsman.  Died in a car accident on the Henderson Rd.  Aged 20, two years out of school.

After an hour or so of embarrassed and halting attempts to fill in sixteen years of blanks, we drifted off, taking a leisurely and sad stroll along the river for a bit, looking mostly at our shoes and avoiding the conclusion that the aspirations of our school years for many of us were largely unfulfilled.

Listening to the thunking of car boots.  Promising to stay in touch.  Climbing into the car and driving off.  Not looking back.

“How was it ?”  “It was OK”.  “Really ?”  “No, it was shit.  I need a cuddle”.