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Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

Ozopoly

15 Wednesday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

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Not Quite Like this ........

Not Quite Like this ........

Welcome to the New Ozopoly.

When Parker Brothers published Monopoly in 1935 – into the teeth of the last Great Depression, little were they to know that it would become the most played board game in history.  Wikipedia says that there are 485 million players worldwide.  Miserable bastards.

But it is, for me the most quintessentially American pursuit, is it not ?  Mercilessly smashing one’s opponents into economic submission, wrecking their lives with a Wall-Street epicentral GFM based on financial instruments so arcane as to be indistinguishable from fraud – driving American hegemony relentlessly forward and crushing third world economies faster than a sports shoe company flogging powdered milk products.

As a lapsed student of business, I have an instinctive fear and loathing of monopoly – as I rightly should – being a law-abiding citizen wedded to free markets and unfettered competition.  Never for a minute would I contemplate running a cardboard cartel for years – and if I ever made a slip up like that, I’d be the first one to cough up say $36 million or so in fines by way of self-flagellation.

Monopoly is a cruel cruel way for kids to be introduced to commerce.  As an Australian child, one was supposed to aspire to something rather unfamiliar in the fibro jungle of the western suburbs – namely a Hotel on Mayfair.  Very unfamiliar – especially in a trade union household – as was the central thrust of the game – far, far from a collectivist world view.  I didn’t appreciate that a Hotel on Mayfair was about expensive accommodation.  I thought hotels were where your dad went on Saturday to get pissed and into blues.

Meanwhile, back in the land of board games was all that fussing and fighting with the luck of the dice running against one and all and the tendency for

a) bankers to be unfamiliar with basic ethical principles (plus ca change, la meme chose),

b) amnesia not distributing cash accruals fairly,

c) tedious counting of money and

d) games that seemed to run for about the same length of time but with a lot more action than an innings by either Boycott or Lawrie.

I think it’s time to recognise the need for a rethink of Monopoly – as is apparently the view of Hasbro – the people who out-monopolised the Parker Brothers.  Wired (June 2009) noted that now it will be possible to do away     with all that messy cash and to use plastic credit cards.  Imagine if the reality stretched out like today – the banker would work up a sweat offering more and more credit to NINJAs (No income, No Job; No Assets) using the assets to secure sub-prime loans.  You could own all the Hotels on Collins Street – and still go out backwards in an unsecured derivatives swap organised out of Bent St.  I think we’re looking at an opportunity to involve shares and other investments as well as property.  “See your Storm unit price vaporise.  Get a margin call from Which Bank ?”

It would be time also to update some of the other game dynamics.  Dice loaded to roll snake eyes (aren’t they always ?).  Imagine chance cards that read “Lie about who was driving when your car went through radar trap and get out of gaol free.”  Or perhaps “Congratulations, you have successfully bonked a town planner.  Your Hotel redevelopment on prime beachfront crown land with heritage artefacts has been approved.  Collect $4 bazillion”.  You could look forward to turning over “Your cousin Bilal lands a job in the Department of Planning. Collect 100 chainsaws”.  Or “You win pre-selection for the seat of Wentworth.  Become Leader of the Opposition”.  Well, not all chance cards are good, are they ?

How about Community Chest cards like “The Public Health System collapses – pay the Health fund half of your money and the bank half of your house”, or “Bad luck, 40% of your compulsory super contributions have headed for a Lehmann account in Lichtenstein, lose many, many turns.”

And the actual real estate ?  Nobody does railways or utilities these days!  New OZopoly would start with every player owning a Telco, a coal-fired power station, a desal plant, old growth forests and a motorway or airport.  The first thing that players would do is sell them off to a Singapore mega investor or Chinese resources giant and invest in funds backed by Detroit real estate and General Motors shares.

The game of Monopoly has virtues not so readily available to the real world.  If things are not going your way, you can always wander off to the toilet and never return, or distract the imminent winner with an offer of going to the shop for a paddle pop.  Less well-tempered losers can always upend the board and refuse to ever play again.  Or until the next rainy day.

Tough that the new Ozopoly won’t be played on boards.  It might continue to be played in boardrooms, but the cut and thrust will be on screen.  Games will last a mere two or three minutes and we will routinely see Muscovite and Nigerian names popping up in Land Titles registers around our fair cyber nation.

But at its core, monopoly has the dead and rotting smell of greed.  No matter how hard you tilt the level playing field, sneaking cash under the table and dropping huge hints – or miscounting so you land on their one street, your littlest kid is always going to get dudded by his or her older siblings.  Fortune, as usual goes to the brave, huge and massively cashed-up.

Monopoly teaches them that life is capricious, unfair, full of dread and loathing and not worth the risk.  It removes all doubt that there might not be enough resources to go around and it totally violates the indigenous reality of Australian life – that the land owns us and not the reverse – and that our prosperity comes through collaboration and fair dealing with others.

Hey – wait a minute – look – the real estate in the local rag is going up !  Excuse me, I’m off to see a hooker.

Ashes – friends, Poms and countrymen, lend me your ashes!

14 Tuesday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in The Sports Bar

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A portent ......

A portent ......

Being the first session on the first day of Atomou’s three day test.

Ahhhhh , the Ashes! THE Ashes! THE reason for holding our collective breath all year until this time – every year! An ever-renewing celebration of death!

Now, NOW, we’re getting into the serious stuff. The true adoration of ashes! No longer the celebration of the life of an entertainer who died “youngish” but something far more important! This is a celebration that affects the very valves of Oz’ thumping heart!

Kerrrthump! Kerrrrthump! Hear that? That’s not the sound of the bat hitting the little red stone; no, it is the sound of every aussie’s heart every time they hear the word “ashes” and every time the aussie warriors come out of their bunkers to do battle with those pommie bastards! These valves, the valves of their belligerent hearts – they open and they shut and in their opening and in their shutting, they spurt out ever thicker venom, ever more poisonous hatred for THOSE horrible creatures who brought us down here, down to the antipodes, to Oz, an act they did not for tourism and entertainment purposes but as a form of vile punishment. Horrendous punishment for diminutive crimes. A crust of bread tucked under the apron of a starving woman with a dosen starving fledglings!

I ask you!

Vengeance, then is all the more urgent and victory over THOSE Pommie Bastards is always ever sweeter!

The hatred is so powerful all the more because it so undeniably valid. The history between our nation and THEIRS is clogged with THEIR disdain and hatred for US! Us, the real men! Us, the real women! Us, the pioneers of a race of mortals who… in turn will themselves behave just like those pommie bastards (but let’s not allow real history get in the way of a good myth here, ey?)

“Pommie Bastards,” we yell, as we throw our plastic cups full of sparkling Moet at them, our enemy! Pommie Bastards, they shout at the Barmy Army, the Pommie cheer squad, who must, by law, sit on the benches across the opposite side of the field.

The cricket played for the urn is not cricket. It is a brutal war that echoes its mother war, the ten-year war between the Greeks and the Trojans!

There’s a reason why we call Warnie a hero and it isn’t his prowess on the Garfield of cricket, formidable though that might be. No it is because of the first three letters of his name for one and then, for added grunt, the letter following them. War! Warn! The stuff that myths are made of!

But ashes are tricky things!

When real, they are the end matter of all mortal and creatures and things. But they don’t have to be real. They can be imaginary, symbolic, mysterious, mythological.

In fact, so far as the cricket trophy is concerned, they are pure myth and, so far as myths go, it is an uninteresting myth, at that! A bloody and gruesome rivalry over a mere myth, a nothing! Or over something that may or may not exist inside a funereal jug! “Bah… humbug!” as the good doc, on Unleashed once remarked.

Orestes’ ashes, though! Ah, there’s a myth! A real myth, so far as myths go. A myth and a half! It’s a myth full of passion, a myth of two brutal murders, of filial love and filial hatred, of a tear-jerking recognition scene, of a shocking scene where a mother pleads with her son for her life. A myth in which the unsteady and ever-altering will of the gods plays havoc with the lives of a house. The whole house, from its first seed to its last………………

Damn those Frogs

12 Sunday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in The Sports Bar

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Holy Shit !

Holy Shit !

I was shocked yesterday to see in one of those newspapers that they give away at railway stations a photograph of a member of a precious protected species – the Wallabies – with one eye staring at the camera and the other eye having a little holiday somewhere in the back of the chap’s head.

He had some interesting facial embroidery accompanying his wandering orbit.

The story (sorry, I’m too slack to go find it – you can dig it out and I’ll post it) went on to say that THIS French rugby squad was terrifically well behaved and had almost weaned themselves off using the Christmas hold (a handful of nuts) as a primary part of their normative tactics.

But it is clear that they are certainly clinging to their other old chestnut – the digital eye massage.

One of these has got to be Os

One of these has got to be Os

I think that this is one part of the Australian defence sorely lacking – the reprisal – and I am hoping that the Wallabies can enlist the services of my favourite game play persuader Os du Randt, (through sheer force of personality) to persuade the French (who, after all, have a chicken as their mascot) to cease and desist in playing with our boys’ wedding tackle and encouraging the Frogs to leave their opponents eyes comfortably ensconced in their sockets.

I’d like to send a personal thank you to Voice for the Aardvark joke. Killed me.

If you missed it, you’ve either got a long search mission or you can send me an Email stapled to a tenner and I’ll explain it…..

The problem with the renos, Voice, is stopping the car to change the flat tyre – or just putting up with the flapping until we get to the party.

A Dark Horse, A Dance Floor, An Exciting Conclusion

11 Saturday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Entertainment Upstairs

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Pig's Arms Talent Night Heats Up

Pig's Arms Talent Night Heats Up

….. the story so far ………

Baggely sidled around the edge of the room to get to the podium, brushing past the great Womble of Warrigal, the most fearsome of all the judges…..

He handed in his completed form; together with his chosen piece on a CD single and explained to Mugla how he intended to use the floor so that they could work in unison, because one of Mugla’s jobs was shining the spotlight where it mattered. Mugla also promised to switch the strobe light on, when Baggely gave him a secret sign, nodding and seeming to say, “Yes, I can do it- I can use the strobe appropriately- I’m up to the task- trust me!” ……..

Baggely returned to the bar for another double tot- but this time reciprocated Vanya’s gaze, with a knowing smirk- revelling in the thought of the sensational impression that he was going to make. She looked puzzled-and he could understand that. They had never spoken- only swapped furtive, flirtatious looks over the last few weeks. But it would be different tonight! And Maybelline had tipped him off in any case, thus ‘marking his card’, as to her fancy.

The large rectangular room was ¾ full now and the atmosphere was humming, like a bee hive, especially as the DJ had turned up the volume to compensate for the acoustical challenge of the crowd.

He was on fifth, which meant that one more snifter was in order. And Maybelline, the barmaid from the bush, duly obliged, flashing her unmodified teeth , and wishing him well, in her irrepressible, quantitative way.

Everything was temporal now. The planning and dreaming was all gone. Now is the hour came into his head. But of course the sentiment was different- he was staying not leaving. The rum was having an effect and he looked around, taking in the multitude, noticing new people- here for the contest, of course. Many of them taking advantage of the $5.00 bar snacks, thoughtfully subsidized by Merv. Stuffing themselves – oblivious to the ‘competition surcharge’, that he had bunged on the liquor prices, in lieu of an entrance fee.

He heard the applause and moved to the edge of the dance floor to watch the end of MJ’s version of MJ’s moonwalk. Baggely had to admit some admiration here, as he was an avid thriller fan- and the site of MJ gliding effortlessly around, acknowledging everyone and being feted, seemed apt for this magnanimous, compassionate, virtuoso.

He swallowed the last of the rum, put the Glass on the small shelf by the mirrored pillar, took off his tie and jacket and undid the top three buttons on his vermillion, Jaggeresque, paisley shirt- to let Johnny out.

He heard Mugla calling him now. Bagglely!..Baggallee…Baagaully Shoreditch please.

He was Johnny now –the dancer — so he quickly moved across to the makeshift stage- and winked at DJ Mugla, hoping for acknowledgement of his flamboyant alter ego. He placed his jacket and tie over the back of the vacant chair and took a deep breath, then turned, to be sure to catch the tom- tom and maracas- as the music started.

Yes, it started and Johnny was shaking his hands now, clutching the two pairs of maracas; just like Brian Jones in the video he had studied, listening for Keith to pluck and Nicky to tinkle, in unison with Charlie’s rimshots and Bill’s solid bass.

Johnny was moving now, keeping with the maracas, concentrating on the deep notes from Keith’s 1957 Les Paul, sadly without the benefit of the original Vox Supreme, but nonetheless; gravelly, strong and soulful. He knew that Johnny danced better with the maracas- so he ignored the singing intro: Upstaging Mick in the process.

“Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth and taste.”

Yes he was…. he twirled so that the crowd could admire his shirt, tucked in, girt by the patent leather belt that came from Paddington Markets.

“I’ve been around for a long, long year, Stole many a man’s soul and fate I was around when Jesus Christ had his moment of doubt and pain. I made damn sure that the Pilate washed his hand and sealed his fate.”

Johnny did a pirouette and whirled again, shaking his feet, in a cross between the hokey-cokey and a line dance..He felt exhilarated, sanctified and excited and could see that the crowd was now an audience, with shiny, earnest, faces and swaying torsos. Electrified, he thought!

Johnny moved around the floor trying to emulate MJ,s rapport.

The music got louder. Mugla must have sensed the mood of the venue’s crowd.

Then: Suddenly it started…The backing chorus after “Tell me baby what’s my name. I tell you one time you’re to blame …Ooo who Ooo who.

The strobe came on the music pounded…. Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo.

The crowd was singing now Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo. Everything seemed frozen in the light of the strobe. Johnny was at one with the music…the crowd. The dance floor was his. Everybody was caught up and the strobe became an opiate, hypnotizing them. A bolero leading to a crescendo, where he could show Johnny off, the Baggely no one knew.

He briefly spied Cobber The Larrikin next to him- which struck him as peculiar- as Cobber was a loner and had always hung back. It was hard in the strobe light to orientate his body and he felt that he was spinning. Cobber seemed to glide into him and they both fell toward the stage.

Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo!! ….Everyone was chanting now and throwing their arms about. “Tell me sweetie, what’s my name. ..Hoo Hoo,Hoo hoo”.

Miraculously Merv appeared and leant over to help Johnny up – but he too tripped and knocked over the stand with the strobe, causing Mugla to get on his hands and knees, to look for it.

Well it was pandemonium now, especially as all the houselights had been extinguished to exaggerate the effect of the strobe Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo; the chorus was going, echoed by a few stalwarts, chanting at the back of the room, oblivious to the mayhem on the stage and enjoying the darkness, except for the glow from the low voltage downlights, shining on the optics at the back. They all felt Jaggeresque in the dark.

Merv, Mugla, Cobber and Johnny were all tangled in wires now and this pulled the DJ console off the stage, causing the music to stop and sparks to jump around, with the result that some of the Pigs’ patrons fell over. This mass of writhing bodies took on a life of its own now, with everyone looking for the edge of the floor in the dark and not being sure of the direction!

Suddenly the lights came back on! Maybelline of course knew where the switches were and realizing that things had gotten out of hand, enlisted Vanya and Mrs. Brabantia’s help to flick them all and illuminate the room, including the dartboard spotlight and ex- Central Station chandelier.

“Order, order”, Womble yelled, trying to instill some sanity..Hoo Hoo, Hoo Hoo called out The Printer, mimicking the song, in a pansyish parody of Johnny’s Jagger interpretation.” Shut up” the Moderator cried. “ Shutuppa yourself”, shouted a loutish looking Arms regular, with a tattoo on his forearm, which proclaimed, ‘Workers of the world Unite’..And with that he punched the Moderator on the nose, which felled him like a Gunns’s sawn rainforest.

Somehow Baggely untangled himself, feeling distraught that the competition appeared to have ended, without Johnny having a fair go and making his speech! He stood up and heard a loud click and a whistle of feedback from the speakers. Mugla had managed to get the microphone plugged in and the amp switched on.

“Drinks on the house!” He could hear Mugla calling. “Free drinks for all. Share out the liquor! Fair measures all round! Drinks at the bar!”

Well of course everyone thronged toward the bar and that was it!

Poor old Johnny never got a look in after that!

But, Baggely vowed, in his mind; he would be back for the Karaoke, in November.

……………… Jayell

About An Old Mate – The Pig’s Welcomes T2

11 Saturday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in The Other Side of the Carpark

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Russian Monument to Bikies

Russian Monument to Bikers

Whew! Well, that was a close shave… if I hadn’t turned a headlong dive into a combat roll, I’d have gone face first into the tarmac and that, as they say, would have been that. “It would have been ‘Goodnight’ from me; and it would have been ‘Goodnight’ from him!”

Two and a half weeks in hospital, three operations on the foot, nearly $10,000 worth of surgical scrap metal rods, plates and screws holding my foot and ankle bones together, and another couple of weeks of home-recuperation later (and with more operationls to come… “Oh, joy!”) I’m still unable to do much, but I’ve finally recovered enough energy to keep my promise to make a contribution to Poet’s Corner.

To that end, it seems appropriate at the present moment in time to offer you, “Dave, the Mad Biker from Hell”, which I’d like to dedicate to the Bruised and Battered Bikers’ Brigade, and to all the nurses and staff at the RAH, especially the nurses on Ward R3/Orthopaedics.

Dave, the Mad Biker from Hell

1: You may keep your tales of glory
Of wealth and power and fame
And I’ll tell you the story
Of one who wouldn’t play that game:
A hard-riding crazy Irishman
Who, so I’ve heard tell,
Is known by the name,
And it’s earned him some fame –
As ‘Dave, the Mad Biker from Hell’

2: From the cold Streets of London
Young David had come,
To Australia’s sunny shores.
His busker’s life he’d leave behind;
It’s hardships he’d deplored.
A New Start he’d work hard to make,
And he’d succeed for sure…
Until one day fate laid his path
To the Uni’s hallowed door…

3: Now, Dave had but one ambition,
And all he sought was knowledge,
So he studied really hard
At Elizabeth Community College…
Then to Uni off he went,
As proud as proud could be
To study Anthropology
And earn him a degree.

4: He passed with flying colors;
To do honors was invited.
But then they made him student rep
And his career was sorely blighted
When they disestablished the department
Of Anthropology
And he was made to fight his teachers
And the whole Arts Faculty.

5: He knew it was no accident,
The situation had been crafted:
Volunteered, real ‘Army-Style’;
He knew that he’d been shafted…
Now the winding road it calls him,
For he knows that he must find
A different kind of future
To the one he left behind.

6: Now he rides the lonely road
In silence, and solitude serene
While he ponders on the irony
Of all he’d heard and seen.
Even those who had supported him
Could now all kiss his ass
For those he’d represented, (of course),
Had been mostly middle-class.

7: Like his life, Dave’s ancient bike reflects
Cruel hardship and poverty
The clutch worn through, the brakes near gone
The tyres as bald as he;
But he doesn’t care for he knows full well
He’s more chance now than then,
Of survival, as he rides this wreck,
As ‘Dave the mad biker from Hell’.

Hope you like it!

………………… Theseustoo

A Dark Horse, A Karaoke, A Pub on Edge

10 Friday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Entertainment Upstairs

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karaokelogo

Baggely Shoreditch felt good this evening, as he walked with a swing to his gait instead of the usual shuffle. His chest was puffed as he thought of what he had to say; and how important it would make him look. He was wearing the new tie that Merv had presented to him for winning the Pig’s Arms limerick contest and he felt good and in charge.

He knew that now was the time to reveal Johnny. Oh yes, Johnny whom he had kept hidden all these years.

He stopped outside of Brockleberries antique shop and pondered his Carnabetion image in the window, in the faded light of the lamp post. His wide lapelled jacket complimented his shirt, but kept it under wraps, for the moment.

The old commode and the sewing machine with the crazed varnish were still there, he noted, with the dusty labels turned sideways to obscure the price. Baggely loved the Willcox and Gibbs sewing machine and once again marvelled at the small shiny brass connectors and the new rubber tyres on the bobbin winders. He was glad that they found the original black rubbers. It made the contraption look preserved in time.

Oh how he loved the machines and artefacts of yesteryear.

Anyway, he mused; he looked dapper-ready for the contest; charged and mysterious. Johnny had said earlier that he should look impressive. And he thought that he did!

He checked his gait to stride up to the Pub’s front door- a beautiful piece of joinery, with its Lucien Henry influence and 2007 XXXX tattoo, in the corner. The latter carved by one of Adz’s Maroon Supporter mates.

He felt ten feet tall when he paused in the Arms’ foyer (scene of many a chunder), to inhale the stale perfume from the ladies’ lounge- masked slightly by Merv’s vanilla fly spray. Straight off the back of a Brissie ute- so rumour had it.

Baggely decided a heart starter would be the thing and headed toward the saloon bar, where the competition was to begin in 25 minutes, according to the old Cobb & Co clock, which Merv had fished out of Harbour, down by The Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron. He loved the way it complimented the 1972 faded photograph of The Arm’s first XI, with all the team in borrowed kit, except for Malcolm who sported a cravat, from the Sydney Grammar School topping off his immaculate cricket whites.

Ensconced at the bar, with an officer’s ration of Jamaica’s finest, Baggely lent back, to survey the scene. Seemingly oblivious to Vanya from Salem, the Swedish dermal therapist- despite her brazen attempt to distract him from his mental limbering up- by thrusting her modified, traditional, bodice into his view. Her grandmother’s old pewter broach, barely up to its allotted task.

The DJ was nowhere to be seen, but his pre-contest compilation was grinding away, playing, “Holding back the years…..Nothing had the chance to be good…Nothing ever could, yeah”. It sounded OK. .Familiar. Comfortable.

Laidlaw Brabantia was also here tonight, leaning against snooker trophy case, clutching his choice. Probably an instrumental, thought Baggely- since Laidlaw’s language wasn’t conducive to flowing modern songs, with that awful, guttural noise, hampering the cadence. A Dutch folk dance was Brabantia’s choice, judging by the clog shaped outline, in his Woollies’ plastic supermarket bag. And, standing next to him was the Printer’s Chapel’s mouthpiece, obviously going over his Pan-Hellenic music-fingers clicking and head trembling – in anticipation of the opening notes from the baglama, in his chosen piece. He could be the dark horse Baggely mused…But no matter; Johnny would show him a thing or two.

The rum had hit the spot now and he felt more assured- convinced that when his turn came, Johnny would surprise them all.

What was that? He suddenly heard his name called and looked across to the podium, where the DJ Mugla Madoff was back on deck holding the Shure microphone with one hand and fingering the mixer on his Pioneer console with the other. His crocheted yarmulke partially showing some of the mantra Na Nach Nachma Nachman Neuman, as it was tipped at an irreverent, jaunty, angle, giving the slogan an appearance of Nordic runes…(Probably decipherable by Laidlaw’s spouse, thought Baggely.)

He heard it clearly now…..All music for the routines please!!… Any one not registered now will not be allowed to compete!..And; just a reminder- Soloists only tonight please!!

Baggely sidled around the edge of the room to get to the podium, brushing past the great Womble of Warrigal, the most fearsome of all the judges,- a stickler for the traditional moves. He didn’t want any unnecessary attention now, as he felt that it would detract from his eventual triumph, his finale?? So he kept his head down, not wanting to make eye contact.

He handed in his completed form; together with his chosen piece on a CD single and explained to Mugla how he intended to use the floor so that they could work in unison, because one of Mugla’s jobs was shining the spotlight where it mattered. Mugla also promised to switch the strobe light on, when Baggely gave him a secret sign, nodding and seeming to say, “Yes, I can do it- I can use the strobe appropriately- I’m up to the task- trust me!” It was an MTB Monster Strobe and Baggely had noticed it, when he first walked in. It was on a stand and obviously part of Mugla’s equipment.

So it was all set then: …………

………………. for the exciting conclusion see you tomorrow night ………………..

When The Pig’s Arms welcomes the return of ………… Jayell !

About the Real Birthplace of Trotter’s Flu

08 Wednesday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

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Rupert (they're not laughing now) Grint

Rupert (they're not laughing now) Grint

The Newsflash from the BBC was most alarming:

4/07/09 BBC

Harry Potter star ‘had swine flu’

Harry Potter actor Rupert Grint is recovering from a “mild bout” of swine flu, his publicist has said.

(http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/8134632.stm)

Well, we’re truly stuffed now! Obviously, we can’t even go to the movies any more and, unless we wear a burka, we certainly can’t go and see our most beloved film. Not now that its beloved star has succumbed to the ravages of this insidious malady! The Atomou household is most distressed at the moment and lives in tremulous trepidation. Lest we, too, get snatched by this ever-spreading contagion, we won’t even borrow videos until this cataclysm of sneezing and splattering ends and we won’t know when that happens until the white dove we’ve sent out of our ark returns alive, free of sneezes and with an olive branch in its beak.

We will play scrabble for a while longer.

But the world’s health authorities have it all wrong. The origin of the flu, I mean. And the appropriate medication. Sure, they’re right about it bouncing off pigs but they’re not right about Mexico. Nor the medication. Mexico wasn’t the birthplace of this pulmonary curse.

No, its birthplace was a place called Aeaea. Two letters put in sequence two and a half times. The first two vowels of the alphabet. If you say it out loud enough it’ll sound like you’re in unbearable pain; and that’s why it’s called that. Aeaea was an island. Might well still be an island but Roman writers reckoned it’s the modern Mount Circeo, or Cape Circaeum, in Italy, on the west coast. “Circeo,” they thought, “from Circe, the witch goddess who lived there.” They were probably right.

It was a sad island, inhabited by a sad goddess.

And the medication is a little root. Moly, the gods call it. It’s a black thing that has a milk-white flower emerge from bits of it.

Aeaea was the fifth place that Odysseus and his men visited on their way home from Troy. In the end, out of all of them only Odysseus will make it home. The rest will be either slaughtered, or eaten by Cyclops, or by beasts of the sea or drowned in the vast, salty, wine-red waters of Poseidon. That god, brother of Zeus, was furious with that lot of Greeks and with Odysseus in particular, who had, not only blinded one of Poseidon’s sons, his handsome giant, the one-eyed, the wheel-eyed, the Cyclops Polyphemus, but he had also boasted about it and taunted Polyphemus with unbearable insults. That was hubris! Unforgivable stuff for a mortal! So what if Polyphemus had killed and eaten six of Odysseus’ men? Divine creatures can do as they please.

So, Poseidon’s anger was implacable and it would take all of Athena’s charm and ten years of wandering by Odysseus to convince the other gods –while Poseidon was away feasting in Ethiopia- to grant Odysseus his home-return. Nothing is more valuable to a mortal than his home-return. The gaze at his homeland as he approaches it, after a long absence arouses the greatest delight in all mortals.

Athena loved the resourceful scallywag.

“Tell me, Muse, of that man of many resources, who wandered far and wide, after sacking the holy citadel of Troy. Many the men whose cities he saw, whose ways he learned. Many the sorrows he suffered at sea, while trying to bring himself and his friends back alive. Yet despite his wishes he failed to save them, because of their own un-wisdom, foolishly eating the cattle of Helios, the Sun, so the god denied them their return. Tell us of these things, beginning where you will, Goddess, Daughter of Zeus.”[1]

So begins Homer’s “Odyssey.” Odysseus’ men, though brave and brutal on the battle field with hearts full of raging blood, away from the blood-soaked ground were simply stupid. Heads full of straw. So they were deprived of their home-return.

Odysseus and his men had already endured much hardship and adventure before they got to Aeaea. They had just left the island of the god of the Winds. What a billowing stuff up! Before that, they were on the island of the Cyclopes. Six of the men were grabbed by the giant, hurled against the wall of his cave like unwanted pups, and eaten. Some thrown onto the fire of his hearth, others boiled and yet others eaten raw.

Before that they were on the land of the lotus eaters. Odysseus nearly lost all his men and himself there because that fruit made the eaters happy and care free. Useless, in other words. Unwilling to move from under the tree.

And before that, the first port of call after Troy, they had a war with the Cicones. There, his men showed just how stupid they were and how the ten-year war in Troy had completely replaced the compassion in their hearts, with bellicose brutality.

Odysseus and his ship entered the Aeaea’s harbour slowly, carefully, anxiously. Their past adventures had sharpened their wariness. Who lived there? What sort of mortals, what sort of gods? All they could see from their ship was a thick forest. Odysseus decided to send down Eurylochus with a scouting party. These men walked up and into the dense forest and, after a while, found in the centre of a clearing, an enormous palace made out of cut stone. Lions and wolves roamed about around it but they seemed to be tame. As they say in the classics, little did they know! The animals were, of course, drugged with a powerful and sinister potion concocted by the owner of the palace.

Eurylochus pricked his ears and peeled his eyes.

Still panting from the run back to the ship and trembling with fear, he tells Odysseus later.

“Someone inside, a woman or a goddess, was singing in a clear voice as she walked to and fro, in front of a huge tapestry. The men shouted and called to her, and she came to open the shining doors, and invited them to enter: and so they innocently followed her inside. But I, suspecting it was a trap, stayed behind. Then they all disappeared, and no one emerged again, though I sat a long time watching.”[2]

Odysseus flung his bow and a quiver full of arrows over one shoulder, strapped his great bronze, silver-embossed sword over the other and stepped ashore. He had almost reached the palace when he was stopped by Hermes, the messenger of the gods.

“Wretched man, where are you off to?” He asks Odysseus. “Wandering the hills of an unknown island all alone? Your friends are penned in Circe’s house, pigs in close-set sties… You must take a powerful herb with you, and go to Circe’s house, and it will ward off the day of evil. I will tell you all Circe’s fatal wiles…”

Then Hermes tore out a herb from the ground and handed it to Odysseus.

Odysseus obeyed the god. As well as the goddess with the lovely tresses, who was quite taken aback by this new phenomenon. She has never come across such obstinate recalcitrance. No other mortal had withstood the potency of her potion. But then she remembered. Hermes had warned her that Odysseus would arrive and that she had to look after him before she let him go. She calms down and tells him to, “Come, sheathe your sword, and let us two go to my bed, so we may learn to trust one another by twining in love.”

And so (cutting a long story short) after Circe gave back his men their human features, she and Odysseus went to her fine bed.

The Moly root worked.

Odysseus and his men were looked after for a whole year. The softest beds, the sweetest wine, the tastiest of morsels, the most beautiful minister’s of Aphrodite’s rites. When the year was up, when all the seasons rolled the one after the other, the men approached Odysseus and told him to remember Ithaca.

Odysseus remembers,

“My proud heart yielded to their words… but I went to Circe’s lovely bed, and clasped her knees, and the goddess listened as I spoke winged words: ‘Circe, keep the promise you gave and send me on my way, since my spirit is eager for home, and so too are my friends’, who weary me with their grief whenever you happen to be absent.”

To this the lovely goddess replied swiftly:

“Odysseus, man of many resources, scion of Zeus, son of Laertes, don’t stay here a moment longer against your will, but before you head for home you must make another journey.”

That journey, of course, was to Hades. Circe guided him through its portals and there Odysseus saw his mother, whom he tried to embrace three times but failed, where he saw Achilles who said he’d rather be a slave among the living than a king among the dead, where he saw the great general Agamemnon, who, the moment he arrived home, was slaughtered by his wife, Klytaimestra and her lover, Aigisthus and where he saw –the shock nearly killed him also- one of his mates, Elpenor, the youngest of them, who was alive only minutes earlier!

“…not one of the cleverest or bravest in battle. Heavy with wine he had climbed to the roof of Circe’s sacred house, seeking the cool night air, and had slept apart from his friends. Hearing the stir and noise of their departure, he leapt up suddenly, and forgetting the way down by the long ladder, he fell headlong from the roof. His neck was shattered where it joins the spine: his ghost descended, to the House of Hades.”

But that journey is another loooong story.

Not Mexico, then and not Tamiflu but Aeaea and Moly, taken with a shot of ouzo at the Pig’s Arms with all of the mortal mates one can get.

….. another fabulous piece from ……. Atomou


[1] Translation by Tony Kline http://tkline.pgcc.net/PITBR/Greek/Odyssey1.htm

[2] http://tkline.pgcc.net/PITBR/Greek/Odyssey10.htm

Ashes to Ashes

07 Tuesday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in The Sports Bar

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England selectors contemplating the task

England selectors contemplating the task

“Tired of endless defeat, the MCC calls in the big guns to bolster the selection committee. We find them assembled in their private box above the SCG where they hope to get some pointers watching the colonials.

Nelson, dispirited that Hardy’s fate is to be 12th man again, has devolved into a brown study and will not be cheered. Elizabeth, on the other hand, enigmatically remembers Darnley’s powerful leg spin technique. Doctor Grace, proving that even death can’t keep a good man down, is padded up and practicing a few blocking strokes; while Bond thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to shoot the lot of them and start again.”

Warrigal Mischief

A Rugby League Player Not Charged by Police Today

07 Tuesday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in The Sports Bar

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Possibly Traquin Tough

Possibly Tarquin Tough

In a shock announcement , Tarquin Tough, the new head of the NRL said that no player has been apprehended and charged by police today for:

  • Drunken and disorderly behaviour;
  • Possession of drugs (pharmaceutical or recreational);
  • Possession of a firearm, licensed or unlicensed;
  • Assault (common or sexual or aggravated);
  • Grievous bodily harm;
  • Possession of child pornography;
  • Rape (actual or attempted);
  • Murder;
  • Manslaughter;
  • Or showing up late for training.

Mr Tough said that several players were facing the judiciary for unspecified misdemeanours like sponsorship violations and the League was likely to impose heavy fines just to impress on fans how poor they are in comparison with their idols – the ridiculously overpaid buffoons with poor self discipline and bad attitudes towards women.

He then mumbled something about a minor ram raid on an ATM, and a holday home on the Gold Coast.

Football journos are currently checking to see whether the season is on, or off or whether it’s April 1. Bat Masterson of the Daily Telepathy was quoted as saying “Give them a fair go, it’s not even lunchtime yet”.

Politics in the Pub – Reuben Brand from the Middle East

06 Monday Jul 2009

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Politics in the Pig's Arms, Reuben Brand

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Reuben Brand - Pakistan, March 2009
Reuben Brand – Pakistan, March 2009

All good cyber pubs need a foreign correspondent to keep the patrons well-informed and up to date. Our man in the Middle East is Reuben Brand.

Reuben’s following article, “Pakistan’s dirty laundry” was first published in Online Opinion – Australia’s leading journal for social and political debate:

And you can see his portfolio at

http://www.reubenbrand.com/?cat=13

The ongoing war with the Taliban has nothing to do with freedom and democracy: it is a distraction. Look beyond the curtain and you will find a lot of dirty laundry.

The war for civilisation, the war on terror, the war for oil, natural resources, control, freedom, whatever you want to call it, it is here and it has made itself quite comfortable in the minds, media and lounge rooms of the world.

Pakistan is now public enemy number one and the US are making no attempts at hiding the fact that they want to bring this nuclear armed Islamic Republic to its knees. The war with the belligerent Taliban has become a joke, a proxy, and a distraction. And of course, as always, it is the innocent civilians caught, quite literally, in the crossfire who suffer most.

Thanks to US pressure, and the basic ultimatum of “either you fix the problem, or we’ll do it for you – Iraq style,” more than two million people are now refugees, baking in the oppressive summer heat in makeshift camps. With no proper amenities, little to no medical services and living in appalling conditions, it won’t take long before serious disease and sickness sets in. Not such happy campers.

So what exactly is this indigenous Pakistani Taliban that we are so obsessed about? The reality is they are nothing more than an excuse, used by both East and West to justify more violence. Sure they have committed some heinous and barbaric crimes, but at this point in “the war” they are now seen as means to an end. Nothing more than pawns in a larger chess match for control.

“We are not fanatics! We want what everyone wants. We want to be able to live our lives in peace!” said Omar, a local Pathan businessman, as we sit in his office in the heart of Peshawar.

“The Americans continuously terrorise us with their constant drone attacks in the tribal agencies, the Taliban don’t make it any easier for us to live in peace and the media portray us all as terrorists! We are not terrorists!” he said with frustrated passion.

Another man then spoke up, telling me in broken English that most of what the West see are the actions of common criminals: “most of these men are not even Taliban,” he said, “they are criminals and miscreants who are bought by external agencies like the CIA and India’s RAW agents to further destabilise Pakistan”.

Later that evening Omar kindly offered to take me into the centre of the Swat Valley, a Taliban stronghold. I assured him that my fair Aussie complexion and somewhat pathetic excuse for a beard was no match for the trained eyes of Taliban spies.

“I like my head firmly attached to my body” I said jokingly. He laughed, “You will be perfectly safe when you’re with me. You don’t have to worry about security, this is our insurance plan” he said, handing me his Kalashnikov. “I drive into some very remote parts of the tribal belt and sometimes into Afghanistan as part of my job, so I need this (weapon) for my protection,” he explained.

Later we heard a huge explosion as we sat drinking sweet buffalo milk tea – a music shop had been blown up, it was just up the road from his office – the media reported it the next day as an act of terrorism and, of course, the Taliban were responsible. But Omar believed it was nothing more than the jealousy of a competitor who wanted to generate more business for himself. Who needs an expensive media campaign when all you need to do is blow up the competition and blame it on the Taliban?

So the Taliban have become scapegoats. One such incident came as no surprise as only a few days ago a friend told me about a mulvi (religious leader) from his village, who had been discovered as a Hindu agent working for India. The man had been posing as a religious leader; he taught Islamic scripture and led the prayers in the local mosque; but it wasn’t until the inquisitive minds of the local children began to probe that his elaborate ruse became undone.

They saw him dancing and listening to pop music in the mosque. On telling their parents they were quickly scolded and called liars, but as time passed and the so called mulvi began asking for food enough for 20-plus men each night, the villagers became suspicious.

When asked who the food was for he would reply “guests” but no one was seen entering or leaving the mosque, until one morning the villagers found a group of Taliban fighters’ asleep inside. So again, it begs the question: who are the indigenous Taliban if some of them are not even Pakistani? These faux Taliban fighters’ are an excuse; they are the perfect playing field for the political motives of external agencies bent on further destabilising an already unstable country.

(Cultural note to self: When posing as a religious leader in a village in Pakistan do not be so stupid as to have a Bollywood dance-off in the mosque!)

So why destabilise this third world country? What does it have that the rest of the world so desperately craves? It sure isn’t its open sewers and copious piles of garbage. You don’t think it has something to do with Pakistan being the geographic doorway to Asia and the Middle East do you? Unlike Iraq, Pakistan has nukes. Unlike Afghanistan it has Osama bin Laden. And of course, it has an oil and gas route that the US wants for its Trans-Afghan pipeline. Did I mention the nukes? Lucky Pakistan.

If left to its own devices Pakistan has the potential to become a very powerful and prosperous country. Agriculture would blossom in its extremely fertile soil; it has its own oil reserves, nuclear capabilities, strategic trade routes, and natural resources galore. But who are we kidding? The first world lives on the back of the third world. They carry us. Perish the thought of living in a world without sweatshops and soccer balls, fake Reeboks, child labour and bootleg DVDs. Without the third world we would have no first world.

To make matters worse, there are also whispers for the need to break Pakistan up into smaller nation states. If you take away the sovereignty of a country and it makes it a lot easier to control.

A good friend of mine recently had a gun held to his head and was robbed of all his personal possessions in Lahore, one of Pakistan’s major cities. A senior government official later told me that “when the crime rate dramatically increases in certain areas, it is usually a sign that the Taliban are on the move … They send out gangs of thieves to steal what they can as a means of funding their operations.”

Just like my friend in Lahore, Pakistan also regularly falls victim to the rule of the gun. But you have to ask yourself; what is the difference between a military dictatorship which oppresses its citizens and rapes the country via greed, power and fear, to that of another militant force that comes under the guise of religion? Both regimes share fundamentally flawed objectives. Pakistan cannot afford either if it wants to survive.

The sad reality now is that democracy has become a beggar in Pakistan: it lives, starving, in the minds of many while greed and corruption remain fat and opulent. The fanatical religious factions and corrupt politicians, who routinely bend to the will of external influence, are dividing the country and tearing shreds off any hope of Pakistan moving forwards.

Keep an entire country occupied with an internal threat and you’re well on your way to imposing pseudo democracy. Or maybe with President Zardari’s track record he has better credentials as a dictator. Either way, fear is a great medium for control.

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