11 Thursday Apr 2013
Posted in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms
Story by Manne
The utility of the Pinocchio nose certainly comes in handy !
09 Tuesday Apr 2013
Posted in Emmjay, Ladies Lounge
Tags
Story by Emmjay
How many times do we read the exhortation “Store in a cool, dry place” ? Not a hot dry place. Not a cool wet place. Not a hot wet place. Not in an effing freezing (and therefore dry) place either.
So this rules out most places Earthlings seem to inhabit, and it must pose problems for people who transport stuff around that should rest always in cool dry places.
Not to mention sunlight. Avoid storing things in direct sunlight (except Eucalypts and living cacti). Filtered light could be ok for other green plants.
And be sure not to get too much sun for yourself either, lest you get skin cancers.
Neither get too little sunlight, lest you get too much rickets from a lack of Vitamin D.
Just to be safe, I staunchly refuse to drink beer from bottles that aren’t green or brown. This is supported by direct experience of the tastelessness of so-called “ice beers” that brag about being filtered through ice. Wait a minute, isn’t ice a solid ? How’s that going to work ?
The habitable spaces seem to be closing in. Where is this cool dry space with just right environment for everything ? Are the rents horrendous so that only Gina could afford to live there ? Silly me, Gina probably makes her own environment, but that probably cannot be called a microclimate – more a regional weather pattern.
What if the air-conditioning fails ? Will that be curtains ? Or shade cloth ?
It’s time to accept that the old understanding of “cool and dry” needs a rethink, Now there is a form of usage I find particularly useful.
Sticking with my previous allusion to the imbibement of alcoholic beverages, I can truthfully say that a guaranteed cool and delightful place can be found in the skilful amalgamation of a dry gin and a dry vermouth. Witness the creation of a dry martini.
There is some history to this wonderful beverage. But it’s dull and boring and widely disputed. Suffices to say that it leaps from the imagination of literary giants like Hemingway and lesser luminaries like Fleming, for whose offspring the imperative was that it be shaken and not stirred.
Frank Moorehouse wrote a book called, simply, “Martini”. This is not to suggest you read it, unless you are undisturbed by the juxtaposition of Frank losing his anal virginity with the consumption of alcohol. At that point in the book something more interesting – and pleasant – like cleaning the grease trap came up, so I left off and then forgot which bin place I’d put the book. Some careless person must have picked it up. But I digress…
To stir a martini would be stupid, so Bond’s instruction to tuxedoed barmen must surely have just been an opportunity for Sean Connery to say “sshhhaken” so a million impersonators would have a gag for all time.
Martinis must be cool all right. Chilled glass in the traditional conical shape like a smaller version of Madonna’s brassiere. The gin and vermouth should be poured over a generous number of ice cubes in a stainless steel container. And shaken gently to just chill the liquor and avoid getting too much ice melted into it. Which is to say, a detectable dilution. Strain carefully.
FM prefers a twist of lemon. I prefer three large or four small olives.
Gin ? An affordable drop ? Tanqueray or Gordon’s will do at a pinch. Many folk enjoy a Bombay Sapphire gin; I find it a bit too floral.
The big night out or guaranteed to get lucky drop is Tanqueray Ten and Nouilly Prat dry vermouth mixed 5:1 for a short pair of drinks. This is the “brick in a velvet glove” approach and the optometrist rule applies, namely martinis are like eyes – one gives you some insight, two gives you depth of field, but three – you see too much. Which is lucky because sharing a pair of Tanqueray Ten martinis in a superior bar – one of the few places that sell T Ten, won’t leave much change out of a fifty.
But it’s a drink to be savoured and a leisurely session is a perfect accompaniment to some cool jazz or even some up tempo blues.
The Pig’s Arms encourages responsible drinking and complete abstinence, complete absinthe, hic, complicated absence, competitive absolut, hic, ah, whatever ….
09 Tuesday Apr 2013
Posted in Emmjay, Politics in the Pig's Arms
Borrowed with thanks from Private Eye
Story by Manne
“No, fuck it. She’s far better off dead”, said Jayell.
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it”, Merv replied.
“Come on, she was the complete bastard. She waged war on the working class in Britain. She destroyed the union movement. She cut welfare. She privatised everything that moved and a lot of things that didn’t move” Said Jayell, who was removing a very large volume of bile from his liver and was starting to accelerate into the home stretch.
“She deregulated the financial sector”, Added Emmjay, helpfully.
“She led Britain through the greatest period of post WW II expansion”‘ said Gez.
“Yeah, and she ordered the deaths of how many hundred Argies on the General Belgrano ?” said Jayell. “She was a fuckin’ Mussolini in pearls and twinset”.
“But she did lead Britain out of her doldrums and she created a generation of entrepreneurs out of an unemployed hoard with a belief system of entitlement without contribution or effort” added Gez.
“You know what used to piss me off more than anything else, was her arrogance, inflexibility and smugness – like these were the only qualities a leader needed. She ran the whole country like the fucking corner shop of her childhood. Cash, profit and hang the poor. Sweep up, keep it neat. Keep sweeping up. I made it through sheer hard work so everyone in Britain has to do it my way. She was a countess all right – an effing countess”, said Jayell.
“Baroness, actually” said Merv.
“No, she had a couple of kids” said H.
” I dunno”, said Merv “is there a time to bury the hatchet when a great leader – whether you agreed with them or not – kicks the bucket ?”
“Bury what hatchet ? said Granny, late to the party, but bearing a massive welcome tray of wedges.
“Probably should ask the wife of an unemployed coal miner whose kids went hungry” said Emmjay.
03 Wednesday Apr 2013
Posted in Emmjay
Some Obscure and Pointless Graph
Story by Emmjay
Turbulent mind sets dominate this weeks news. The leading salvation index was up marginally with the celebration of chocolate and the curious exhortation to consume rabbit and more recently bilby !! effigies. Market demand for gratification through polygonally patterned ova of varying sizes was in evidence.
Goodwill was flat this week and international traders reported a steep rise in malice futures with market activity in the Korean Peninsula achieving new record heights daily.
Political disenchantment in the local market shifted with most investors adopting a wait and see approach, with the exception of some steep but isolated selling in the superannuation for the fabulously rich futures.
Greed maintained its strong position in the mindset markets which also saw a parallel rise in naked self-interest.
Concern over the environment was flat with a previously growing shift towards species extinction stalling and investors growing tired of ongoing lack of progress in the cetacean preservation sector.
Market watchers reported a steep rise in the New York Insouciance Index which led the local “I Couldn’t Give a Continental” futures to new post whatever happened yesterday highs.
The local red neck indifference quotient peaked mid week with the opening of the duck hunting season which naturally was preceded by a big rise in the righteous indignation over unjustifiable cruelty sector.
Punters with an emotional investment in technology-led quality of life diminution were active this week and the grumpy old fart leading 500 rose by one point. But it was a huge point. Just one, but really big. Enormous, actually.
Callous disregard was up. Whistle-blowing was flat.
Media cynicism and internal resentment were also well up on yesterday’s highs.
Generosity showed small signs of a recovery this week, possibly in line with a post-Easter resurgence in forgiveness.
Emotional investors were bullish about hatred and bearish about love, so no change there.
And that’s it for this week’s Pig’s Arms Mindset Report.
Don’t forget to join us next week when we talk mining and geology philosophy with the Dalai Lava.
26 Tuesday Mar 2013
Posted in Emmjay
Caught up with my almost long lost cousin, Bill Macnamara last week. And reminisced amongst many other shared passions, our love of riding motorcycles – or in Bill’s case, not any old motorcycle….
For those less experienced in the sport, notice the nowdays never seen gear shift on the left side of the tank
Our thanks to Bill and to Steve at Raceframe for the use of the video.
and something for hph here:
25 Monday Mar 2013
Posted in Emmjay
Borrowed with thanks from the ABC – our 8c is in the mail….
.
The ABC reported today that as the French government lower house passed into law the right for gay people to marry, French police broke up and dispersed an estimated 300,000 people protesting against the passing of the legislation – and demanding a referendum.
The photograph above is interesting in that the protesters (at the front line at least) are all males.
So much for Egalite !
Why is it that French men – apparently – are so vehemently opposed to gay marriage ?
What a contrast it is with a previous French government that passed the anti-burqa laws – which seemed to be a departure from the national motto by the elected representatives of the French people.
Repression and liberation – both apparently unacceptable to the French.
Or perhaps we should look at this from another perspective – is this another expression of the re-emergence of the far right in an economically hammered Europe ? Not a lot of long hairs in the picture either.
16 Saturday Mar 2013
Posted in Emmjay
Grandmother and Grandchild (1990)
13 Wednesday Mar 2013
Posted in Emmjay
Tags
I’m not saying that that state and Federal Labor are wonderful trusty, ethical upholders of good government and I’m not exhorting everyone to vote for them.
But the prospect of returning to another decade of Howardesque misery, xenophobia, environmental ignorance and mean-spiritedness is a shitty alternative.
And the thought of having a retro-coalition government – this time led by a halfwit retard sexist pig in speedos is just too far beyond the pale.
So, in response to that disastrous idea, here’s the Australian Pussy Riot Team. They dropped into the Pig’s Arms and dished it out – reminding us of the calibre of the challenger to the throne.
Most Pig’s Arms patrons can cope with a bit of rough language – even abuse – if you’re not one of them, don’t listen to this clip (but it DOES raise the tone of the debate)
05 Tuesday Mar 2013
Posted in Emmjay
Tags
Bishop Bishop, Father O'Way, George Pell, Goddess of Destruction, Kali, papal conclave, Pope, Shar Pei, St Generic Brand Church
Kali – ironically named after the Indian goddess of destruction
Story by Emmjay
The 3:15 to Ashfield was, unusually, right on time and a familiar face ambled into Lintoffs – dry cleaners to the clergy. The face, born on two spindly pins, looked expectantly at Granny who was moonlighting in her lunch break, serving behind the faded laminex counter at the dry cleaners.
“G’day, your grandmaternity”, he said.
“Father O’Way !
What brings you and your bolognese-stained cassock to our doorstep, meddlesome priest?” said Granny.
“I’ve got this dirty habit”, said Sandy O’Way.
“It’s all through your church, padre”, said Granny.
“Not the kiddie fiddling, Gran, THIS habit he said pointing to his investments.
“Would you like fries with that, friar?” she laughed and made a mental note to have the Tempe Council health inspector around to St Generic Brand’s church with the Lysol and carbolic spray.
“I’ve an important trip to make and I need to look sharp”, said Sandy.
“We’re dry cleaners, your wordship”, said Granny “Not miracle workers – that’s your job”.
Sandy O’Way was long on forgiveness and longer on patience. The Bish had said so many times. And he was a long long way from Rome, which is why the Bish had called him.
“Father, they know not what they are doing” said the Bish.
“That’s oblivious, your more impressive ringness” said Sandy. “It’s <i>obvious</i>” said the Bish. “Yes”, said Sandy.
“I’ll get right to the point”, said the Bish. “All right” said Sandy who was on a roll with this ekkerleasiastical conversation type talk”.
“Rome has asked me to instruct you to proceed there forthwith and with all haste. Since His Holiness has decided to take early retirement and go away and think it over for a very long time, the Vats have sought the wisdom of one of the shepherds of the flock of Rome far removed, from this sordid business of improper behaviour while under the influence of other improper behaviour” said the Bish. “Are you with me Sandy ?” “Yes, your middle order clericalness”, Sandy lied.
“In a couple of weeks the Cardinals, including P1..” “Mr Stinkypants ?” interrupted Sandy. “Yes, including P1” continued the Bish… “are going to meet in the Vatican, scrum it up, snort a few lines and seek divine confirmation of a foregone conclusion designed to kiss off the captains of the only semi-true flocks of Asia, Africa and South America. And they’re looking for a scapegoat, sorry I meant to say inspired contribution from the whiter members of the New World, more specifically a malleable type of distractible like you, or more specifically than that, precisely you. Are you with me Father ?”
“Are you saying that I’m going to be Pope Ular the First?” asked Sandy.
“No”, said the Bish “You’re going to reveal to the Vats who should be going to win the draw for the Friday Conclavical Meat Tray. You know how it’s always rigged at the Pig’s Arms ?”, said the Bish. “Yeah, sometime’s it’s not Emmjay’s brother-in-law”, said Sandy. “Well, I’m not saying that you’ll be the rigger for the Pope Draw, Sandy, but ….let’s say ….. good sources close to the trainer are putting money on you to come up with the right answer”.
“I see”, lied Sandy again, totting up a few dozen more Hail Maries. “If I was going to mark the card”, said Sandy….”Yes”, said the Bish …. “Would I be getting any heavenly guidance ?” inquired Sandy”
“I should say so !” said the Bish in a fairly emphatic kind of way that did not go unnoticed (but did go uncomprehended).
“It is written”, said the Bish “In this Email…… that the annointmented Holy Father will be pure of heart, loyal, faithful, cheerful, open, caring, tolerant, wise, humble, intelligent, of good humour and above all untainted by the sins of the flesh. There’s something crossed out here, Father. I think it said ‘safe with kiddies – stet’. Mature, but not of an age where vigorous activity is out of the question, above reproach, able to understand basic English and able to drive a bullet-proof golf cart. Hours flexible, but will have to work weekends. Previous spiritual experience a definite advantage. References required.”
“I bought you a premium economy ticket from Rosie’s Crucial Fiction Travel and Penta Coastal Surfing Adventure Tours and it’s waiting for you at the Pig’s Arms. Get yourself cleaned up and be on QF-666 leaving at 10:45 tonight for Rome.”
“Roger, Bish”, said Sandy. “And Sandy…”Yes Bish ?” “Try not to stuff it up like last time. No former Hitler Youth, no paedo-buriers, no ultra-conservatives, no gay supporters, no wealth redistributors, none of this ‘man-of-the-people” stuff, no radical lefties, no pro-shiela buffoons, none of those contraceptives or HIV talkers, no hardline economists, no climate denialists. We want a Pope that looks busy, is admired by everyone, has no copies of ‘Studs and Glory-holes Monthly’ in his locker, who can fake a bit of nomineae partridge and who excels at being loved while not doing much. He could look like he’s got a few miles on the clock, but not be one of those bloodless, pasty old Euros who looks asleep at the wheel. Clear on all that ?” said the Bish.
“Crystal decanter”, said Sandy.
“So who’ve you got in mind ?” asked Granny. “I’ve got a call to make first”, said Sandy. “Can you free me of my dirty habit in an hour ?” said Sandy. “Certainly” said Granny, unfussed by the image of Sandy standing before her in his sub-cassock Leichhardt Wanderers’ strip, replete with his Pig-tel dayglow crucifix, knobby spindly legs and hoop socks of different hues. “Have a couple of quiet Trotter’s Ales and come back in an hour” said Granny. “I’ll walk you to the pub, I’m coming off my break now”.
Granny and Sandy O’Way ambled across the Pig’s Arms car park, and stepping over Merv’s trusty old, and frighteningly deaf Shar Pei, patting her velvet soft head. She smiled in an amiably innocent and accepting way. And wagged her tail. They assumed the position at the bar and awaited their just rewards. Then Granny remembered that she was doing her cook impression and not her patron cameo role and quietly headed for the kitchen and the mountain of soon-to-be-wedges potatoes.
“Father”, nodded Merv, serving up a glass canoe of the pub’s finest foamy amber delight. “Ah, Moive, my sooon” said Sandy, already practicing his brogue for his Roman escapade. “I’ll be being off to Rome this very evenin”, he attempted.
“What would that be bein’ for, Father” replied Merv, sucked into a sudden Jamison’s moment.
“I’m off to ‘shape’ the Paypal Conclave’s deliberations, moi sooon”, he smiled, leprechaun-like.
“Do you be havin’ any especial preferences, Father ?” asked Moive. “Aye moit”, said Sandy. “I’ll be makin’ a quick call, if you dornt be mindin'”, said Sandy, extending his arm and hand towards Moiv’s phone.
“Hello, is dat de Bishop?” said Sandy. “Knock it off, Sandy”, said the Bish. “Listen”, said Sandy ” I was thinking about what you said earlier”. “Yes”. “About honest, loyal, friendly, lovable, safe with kiddies and that…” “Yes”. “And not a pasty Euro”. “Yes”. “Well, would it be out of the question, if the nominee was a little bit tinted, maybe with a touch of the Asiatic, a little wrinkled, but wise looking as well as loyal, friendly and definitely safe with kiddies ?” said Sandy.
“Is this nominee ….. an Australian ?” asked the Bish.
“Born and bred”, said Sandy. ‘And you’re absolutely sure about all their good qualities, Sandy ?” “Cross my heart and spit my death, Bish” said Sandy. “Then go ahead, the Vatican needs a Pope with those qualities, Sandy ….. and an Australian to boot.”
Father O’Way said his goodbye to the Bish, put down the phone and mumbled something about a photograph to Merv. “Sure, Father” said Merv returning to his familiar accent, turning around and taking a Polaroid down from the corner of the bar mirror. “Safe trip, Sandy”, said Merv. “See you soon. Thanks for the Trotter’s, Merv”.
The hour wasn’t quite up, but Paula Lintoff had already cleaned and pressed Father O’Way’s cassock and handed it to him over the counter. He put the photo on the counter and slipped into his old habit. “Nice photo, Father. That’s Merv’s dog Kali, isn’t it ?”
“It is. She’s a lovely old thing, restores one’s faith”, said Sandy. “Desexed, too.”
26 Tuesday Feb 2013
Posted in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick
Tags
Mickey Dolenz Braddock as “Corky” Circus Boy, 1958.
Story by Emmjay
Vinh Ordinaire Rouge was generally a level-headed detective, careful and with a rat-like cunning that had been sharpened over two decades of rubbing shoulders – and sometimes other bits, with criminal elephants and lesser pachyderms. She had given birth to a cub reporter after a fleeting affair with a lion tamer who had stretched the truth by telling her that he was a chairman and a crack shot. But it was rumored that he had a way with whips and looked impressive in jodhpurs and leather riding boots.
Vinh was a natural mother and raised the boy as her own son – which was handy, considering he actually was her son. However life took a turn for the worse when the boy was still unfurred. His Dad encountered a technical difficulty in a work-related OH&S dispute that ended with a decision that gave him paws to consider.
Things had gone right off the rails when the young cub ran off with the circus. But the police arrested him for impersonating a ring master and loitering within tent and returned him, marked “not at this address”.
Doubtless, Vinh was shocked when they started using whips and chairs at the cubs for discipline. And when school kicked off for the day with a starting pistol, rather than a bell and the strains of “God Save Our grey shoe Squeen”, Vinh Rouge thought it was time for veterinary intervention.
A miss-dialled number to Veteran’s Affairs was all it took to remove five degrees of separation and in next to no time, the call was answered. “This is the FBI, Foodge Bureau of Investigations, Fern speaking”.
“Investigation?” said Vinh Rouge. “Yes”, said Fern.
“I’m a bloody police inspector, why would I want to call Foodge ?” said VOR. ” I want to speak with Veterinary Affairs”. “Beats me” said Fern, “OK, I give in, why would you want to speak with a vet ? ”
A perceptive receptionist would have heard the faint sound of VOR rolling her eyes and also would have steeled herself for the inevitable “DER!”, but Fern heard only the pregnant paws. “Speak up, what’s the matter ? Cat got your tongue ?” she said.
“Put me though to Foodge”.
“You said …”
“I know what I effing said” said VOR. “I changed my mind”.
“It’s a woman’s pejorative to change her mind”, said Fern, helpfully.
“Look, for Pete’s sake….”
“Just a moment, I’ll see if Mr Foodge is available” said Fern. This was Fern’s little joke to herself, since the office was barely large enough to hold two desks, two chairs, a chesterfield lounge for clients which sometimes doubled as Foodge’s overnight accommodation,a filing cabinet, a fan and a venetian blind to cast the kind of shadows that gave a texture to the sunlight in the daytime and let the annoying red glare of the neon sign across the road that flashed “Rosie’s Tattoo Emporium and House of Pain, after dark. While Fern was doing the asset reconciliation in her head, VOR’s fuse was rapidly running out”.
“I’m sorry, he’s not available just now” said Fern. “Would you like to leave a message ?”
“Thank you, yes. Can you please tell Mr Foodge how sad I am to hear that his receptionist was killed in that drive-by shooting from a stolen unmarked police car ?”
“Really ?!” Said Fern. “Ok. No, wait a minute, I’m his receptionist. That’s not true !”
“It will be by the time he gets the effing message”, said Rouge, pausing to let Fern catch up. “Please tell Mr Foodge that Inspector Rouge will meet him at 5:00 at the Pig’s Arms. Tell him, I’ll be waiting for him in the car park in the unmarked stolen police car with the bullet riddled carcass of a halfwit receptionist in the boot”.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 