24 Wednesday Dec 2014
Posted in Lehan Winifred Ramsay
Story and Painting by Lehan Winifred Ramsay
The cat has taught him how to escape.
He taught the cat how to take walks, him on the leash and the cat darting freely and in return the cat taught him that it is not necessary to have a human with one to do that.
The cat does not know how to open the door but this old dog has now taught himself and I look up to find both of them have silently exited the house and are out on the road wandering freely and holding up the traffic.
24 Wednesday Dec 2014
Posted in Emmjay
Tags
alms, floral tributes, giving, grief, homeless people, hostages, Lindt Siege
Story by Emmjay.
In the last few days, Christmas shopping has found us wandering the Emerald city with the inevitable collision with crowds, seemingly only slightly engaged with the retail imperative this year.
And a trip into the CBD has also the inevitable sombre tone of the massive floral tribute to the two hapless Lindt hostage victims. Earlier in the week we saw, up close the most astonishing outpouring of collective grief in living memory.
Innocent victims, granted. Selfless protectors of their friends and staff. A young mother of three with a stellar academic and legal career. Undoubtedly terribly sad.
Yesterday we saw the volunteer fire-fighters and emergency services folk lovingly collecting the floral tributes and putting them into boxes, destined it is said to be mulched and used in a permanent memorial. The organisers had thoughtfully posted many signs to the effect that bad weather is forecast and in honouring the memory of the victims, leaving the tributes to the vicissitudes of the elements was understood to be in poor taste.
It was strangely moving. But it was also troubling for me personally. I was reflecting on the fact that a bunch of flowers (of which there were literally thousands and thousands) might cost say $25 or more. So the good people of Sydney shelled out a staggering amount of money to say how sad we feel for the loss of two innocent lives. At one level this is fair enough.
At another level it’s a sad indictment of our sense of proportion as far as regrettable events go.
Anyone who has walked through our fair city of late would find the number of filthy street dwelling beggars (meaning no disrespect, but that is what they most often are) truly appalling. They are people of different ages. Men and women. Clearly down on their luck and clearly not through a recent mishap. Many seem to be almost career beggars.
Not proud, but when I walk by, I try to give as many as I can some small amount of change until my pocket cash runs out – as it inevitably does. I receive in return gratitude expressed through grimy-faced, semi-toothless smiles and heartfelt good wishes. Sometimes my walking companions remark on this – usually to the effect that they predict the recipients will rush straight off to get another drink, another cigarette, another hit – in fact any reason that my advisors can muster to justify why they themselves have not given alms. Oooh, awkward discomfort….
I usually reply “Well, yes, that man or woman might have used my cash to further their own affliction – but equally they might not”. And I ask “ Who am I to judge that – based on no knowledge of the person whatsoever ?” The act of giving is a simple thing that returns to me the small pleasure of not feeling guilty that, as a man with a house – well who owns half a house – with a job (mostly), a loving family to look after me when I’m sick, to celebrate with me when I have a win, to give away one tenth of an hour’s wages is trivial beyond belief. It’s a small price to pay for the karma of an afternoon.
And it makes it a little easier to even begin to imagine the mountain of grief of a family and friends who just lost the lives of eight children. No round the clock media circus there. No manufactured media-driven outpourings of tears from hundreds of thousands of citizens of the Emerald city. The tyranny of distance added to the tacit acceptance of the misery of the dispossed.
24 Wednesday Dec 2014
Posted in Algernon
Story by Algernon
Streets of your town – The Go-Betweens
John goes to the letterbox to see if anything is there. He walks out to the kerb looks one way then turns to look the other way. Turns around then goes back inside. John and Jane built their house in the mid ‘50s around the time they got married. They’re now lived in the street the longest. John is about 80 and Jane two years younger. They’re active and belong to a caravan club up the coast. They head off on small trips regularly.
“Algy will you collect our mail for us” they’ll call out often at a time when you’re in a hurry. No problems John, bins as well. He says he’ll be back on Tuesday. Lately it’s just a knowing nod with a quick question how long are you going.
John goes to the letterbox to see if anything is there. This can be repeated 5-6 times a day. John will come and have a chat after all he’s a haveachat. He can talk the legs of a chair. A two hour session with him isn’t uncommon and you’ll come back wondering what he was talking about. The theme could change three times in the one sentence. Jane will often come out and rescue you from the chat.
Not much gets past John, he sees things that most other wouldn’t. Charlie next door lay at the side of his bed for a couple of days. John knew something was wrong Charlie never left his car outside the garage after 5:00pm. Little things nobody else would have picked up. Probably saved his life.
Next door to him lives Jill, said to have been a victim of the Granville Train Disaster, I need compensation she’d cry when we first moved in. She’s older now and somehow appears to have moved on. Her son Jed has lost his licence a few times for Drink Driving; he’s grown up a bit too.
Two doors down lives Nana the Greek lady, her husband George died about 10 years ago. George would have given you the shirt of his back, a generous man. Nana is the exact opposite. Appeared to hate children, if they looked at her she’d threaten to report you to DoCS. Needless to say all those with children over the years learnt to ignore her; leaving her to wallow in her own bitterness.
On the other side, lives Chet and his wife Vicky. They’ve got kids the same age. Chet came from a small timber town up the coast and left school in year 10. He’s worked for the government all his life. Vicky on the other hand grew up in a non conformist family at Glebe. They have kids the same age as ours. Vicky would tell you that they never did anything for Christmas or Easter. The oldest Alan was still believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny in year 8. Ours were about 6-7 when they worked it all out. Each year Mrs A would do an Easter Egg hunt for the children and did that until the youngest was 9. Alan thought no different. His Mum and Dad didn’t buy the eggs so the Easter Bunny must be real. He was most upset when Junior told him that Mrs A had been doing this for years.
Next door to them lived Alaric and his wife Sharon, they’re Chinese and both have lived here since their teens. Their parents live a couple of kilometres away. The lied about their address to get their kids into a supposedly better school as do many of the Chinese out of area for that school. Each to their own I suppose. He’s lived in the street about 17 years. Often asks questions about our car as we both drive the same type. We often catch up at home auctions around us. Across the road was a new development three strata units and a pair of two storey houses. The houses are an architectural abomination. Alaric and I went to one of the auctions. The builder was walking around the crowd. The houses are well built. He was looking for a pat on the back, I mentioned that it was a shame they didn’t use an Architect to design the buildings, He quickly walked across the road.
The auction came down to two bidders both Chinese. One was constantly on the phone. The House salesperson was there with the calculator. Alaric reckoned they had the exchange rate wrong. All the new owners are Chinese, which shouldn’t surprise given the area we live in.
John and Jane on a few occasions have had meet the neighbours get togethers to break the ice. Many go along to these occasions. John and Jane hark back to an earlier time when people looked out for one another. They tend to be well attended. Phone numbers are exchanged but you hear nothing more from them.
John and Jane talk of moving up the coast in a few years to a retirement village maybe. They’ll get a bomb for the house but it will get knocked down to build another one of those Architectural wonders I suppose.
John goes to the letterbox to see if anything is there. He walks out to the kerb looks one way then turns to look the other way. Turns around then goes back inside.
Some of the local drivers….
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Merry Christmas to all the Pig’s Arms patrons from the Algernonian tribe…
16 Tuesday Dec 2014
Posted in Lehan Winifred Ramsay
15 Monday Dec 2014
Posted in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms
Story by Emmjay
In late barking news today, the Pig’s Arms cub reporter Manne O’Manne reports this report:
Australia has a new PM !
After months of speculation and rumours, Tony Abbott finally admitted that he and Country Joe and the Fish had no effing clue about how to run the country.
Abbott is reported to have said ” I give up Leigh. You talk to lots of people. You’re a pretty smart chicky babe. What should we do to run this country ?”
Quick as a whip, Leigh hit him with another penetrating question ” Have you ever swum at Portsea , Tone ?”
“No”, replied Tone.
“How about I mind the shop while you iron man a couple of laps ?”
“Can Jumping’ Joe come too ?”, said Tone.
“Sure”, said Leigh. “Tell him to watch out for Japanese harpoons”.
“OK, deal !” said Tone, pulled on his goggles and snorkel and headed off for his big salty adventure.
“Right”, said Leigh. “Get me Credlin. Credlin ? Yes. Yes. No. What part of ‘fuck right off’ don’t you understand ?”
“Now get me Matthias Kormann. Matty, boy ? No, it’s about the ABC. That’s right, I said TRIPLE the ABC budget, and while you’re at it, send ten bucks to the CSIRO – we need more of that sciency stuff”.
“Uhlmann ? No, I definitely think we need to strengthen the ABC office in Baghdad. Of course ! You the man, Uhlmann. Why wait until tomorrow ? Right. Right. Bye “
aside to camera: “Piece of cake.”
23 Sunday Nov 2014
Posted in Emmjay, Pig-Tel Products
This month’s special for the young at heat and not so young at heat – dried monkey glands. Yours for a snip at just $19.99. Send us anmarked $20 and we’ll send you a garishly labelled embarrassment that’s sure to amuse your postman and set tongues wagging up your alley.
To reserve your free sample of Mo Far Kor monkey glands, just leave your name, address and telephone number in the comments section below.
…and remember, discretion is our buy-word, Pig-Tel won’t tell !
21 Friday Nov 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Our thanks to THANKS TO FIONA KATAUSKAS – over at New Matilda. Check them out and consider a donation or a subscription.
16 Sunday Nov 2014
Posted in Emmjay
“I said to Vlad, ‘I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours and it was a dead heat – they were both this big !”*
Manne Overboard at the G20.
Pig’s Arms correspondenty waxes lyrical at the well-dressed-only gig in Brisvegas.
Well, it was a careering highlight for the Abbottmeister – hosting the G20. It was AAA listers only including the Zimbabwean Deputy Assistant to the Third Under Secretary for Forest and Mine. He was quoted as saying “I was very impressed when Mr Abort took out his banjo and played “Black Mountain Breakdown”. I think that was before he took out his wedding photograph – with his lovely sister wife Jebeen. And what a talent – donkey breeding, cooking’ chitlins and grits, cussin’ and spitting’ – all at the one time. He had a still photograph too”.
German Chancellor (and patron of the Pig’s Arms resident bikie gang) Angle Murky warmed the hearts of local Brisvegans with her down home humour, sensible tracky dacks and funny stories about former East German weight lifters and invading Poland.
British PM David Cameroon… no, wait, that’s a country …. oh, confusion ! Silly me, expressed relief at not having to put on “one of those fucking ridiculous batik shirts AGAIN and retired to his suite to entertain Muffy – a beagle sniffer dog with whom he had struck a special relationship at the airport – and her well-connected handler, Des R.M. Phetamines.
US Pres. Borat Obama hailed his meeting with the Australian PM as a grate success although he felt that the chewin’ tobacco spitting’, crawdad eating and hog wrastlin’ triathlon was probably better understood by his predecessor.
“Most of the steamed guests were hurriedly packing up when I got there” said a thin, pale and spotty version of the Australian Treasurer, “I think they were saying they had to get to somewhere important in a hurry”.
* Clarification – Mr Abort was talking diameter, not length….
15 Saturday Nov 2014
Posted in Big M, Foodge Private Dick
Tags
Story by Big M
Foodge’s visit to the ‘medic’ had given him pause to think. Think about his relationship with O’Hoo, think about where those dragon tattoos came from, and think about what had happened between him and Granny. He was perched uncomfortably on a bar stool, with the, recently injected, butt cheek, hanging orff for comfort. He tried to stand up, but his leg had fallen asleep so stumbled, his hand thrust forward, spilling a pint of Pigs Arms Pink Drink across the bar. O’Hoo was immediately at his side. “Are you OK there, Foodge, old mate?”
O’Hoo had dragged Foodge back up onto the stool, then started wiping the pink fluid with Merv’s best dirty rag. “Thanks, O’Hoo, just stop that for a minute, er…mate. We’ve been friends for a long time…I…er thought I should apologise.”
O’Hoo cut him off. “It’s me who should apologise, Foodge, I shouldna told the patrons about you ‘n’ Granny, but, I have to admit, I’ve always been a bit jealous of you, with your career, your expensive suits, and shoes, always bin able to pull a bird, then, here you are with Granny…I mean, she’s so hot, and those taught abs…”
“Yes, she’s pretty taught.” Foodge remarked. “Probably self taught!” Foodge was hoping for another Pink Drink, or, perhaps a Trotter’s Best. “Anyway, O’Hoo, how did I end up in her boudoir?”
“You don’t remember? Buying her champagne, slow dancing until midnight, escorting her upstairs after, ‘Time, please gentlemen’?” O’Hoo threw the rag into the sink.
“Not exactly, and, by the way, how did you end up in there?” Foodge took a sip from his replacement Pink Drink that was provided by a very surly Merv.
“Shit, I dunno, had a few schooies, then a coupla Scotches after ‘Time Gentlemen’, then musta stumbled in there!”
Granny’s discordant humming could be heard in close proximity. She had been reading about computer viruses and decided that no one was about to get sick at the Arms, so had begun a virus eradication programme that involved aggressive cleaning of all computers and accessories with alcohol wipes.
Foodge leant forward. “Quick change of subject, mate. Where did we get these tatt….”
“Feckin’ terrorist bastards.” Ejaculated Merv, as he thumped on the bar, suddenly interrupting the tete e tete. He had been reading the Inner Western Cyberia Standard, looking through the funeral notices to make sure that Granny wasn’t dead. “Listen to this, ‘The Church of Isis invites all to our inaugural service to thank the Goddess in the traditional Egyptian manner.’ Feckin’ Gippoes!” He had the ancient Bakelite handset on the bar and had dialled the Pleece. “’allo, pleece, ‘ave you seen the paper, Gippoes under yer noses buildin’ up a terrorist cell…what..no…I’m feckin serious….” “Bastards ‘ung up”
Merv turned his attention to the assembled patrons. “Time to be alarmed, not alerted, boys an’ girls. Terror cells just up the road, an’ Russian ships orff the coast. Time to get some weapons ready. Granny, what have you got?”
Granny pulled a small; snub nosed, 38 from her pocket. “This is all I’ve got since you gave me shotty to the pleece.”
“Manne, you carryin’?”
“Just this little Walther PPK, to frighten raffle thieves.” Which is ironic, as Manne himself used to dip his hand into the raffle winnings.
“Hedgie, anything?”
“Just me snake killin’ shotty.” Hedgie replied. “It’s in the ute.”
“O’Hoo, you must have your pleece pistol?”
O’Hoo pulled a nine millimetre Glock from his shoulder holster, and a 32 from his ankle holster.
“Foodge, I don’t s’pose you’re carryin’?”
“Well Mr Merv, even though the life of a Very Private Dick is a dangerous one, I don’t usually carry a heater,, but today I’ve got these,” Foodge removed a 45 calibre Smith and Wesson from his shoulder holster, a 357 Magnum from the back of his bellt, and a snub nosed 32 from his jacket pocket.
“What’s all this for, Foodge?”
“In case I see that bloody doctor!” Foodge’s face was red with rage. “Oh, and a hunting rifle in the car, with telescopic sight!”
“Merv clapped his hands together with delight. “Alright friends, let’s get ready for war!”
14 Friday Nov 2014
Posted in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms
Late Barking News
Our Pig’s Arms “Over the Horizon” news scout, Manne le Trenches, reports today that in an atmosphere of rising tension with former super power and general tough bastard Russia, following the Putanians sending warships to Australia (for the kind of military exercises America likes to do around places they might want to invade any minute now), fearless Australian minnow leader Tony “feel my pecs” Abbott has instructed the Minister for Deference to re-arm Fort Denison.
The ADF is reportedly saving up the ferry fare to ship tonnes of sticks and stones to the fort in readiness for a protracted siege.
In other developments, negotiations are reportedly underway with Great Britain to put pressure on Moscow by releasing Rolf Harris into Muscovite care – on his own cognisance.
Sources close to the Kremlin (in the actual Kremlin, truth told) said “Oh NO ! not the fucking wobble board, anything but the wobble board !”
The UN Security Council has been called to address an urgent motion to ban wobble-boarding. The motion was apparently called by …. Russia. And the Secretary of the Security Council ……. Australia …. was quoted as saying “Sorry, I was on holidays and I must have missed the Email. I’ll get onto it when I get back in the office”.
A “Bay of Pig’s Arms” capitulation is anticipated at any moment.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 