Category Archives: Neville Cole

My Finest Hour

19 Tuesday Nov 2013

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finesthour

Story and Photograph by Neville Cole

Here’s a snarky little snippet I wrote many years ago after appearing in an amateur play with a scene-stealing, bit-part player with a single line of dialogue and some baffling concepts of stage blocking who succeeded in his quest to be the most memorable part of the production.

I don’t mean to belittle Mr. Olivier; but widespread praise of his accomplishments should be tempered with the realization that… he was given all the great roles. I should have liked to have seen Olivier tackle some less than perfect material. Frankly put, I should have liked to have seen what he would’ve made of some of the roles I’ve had to contend with!

For example, when I first arrived in this country I took on a minor role in an entirely forgettable play by one of your more mediocre local talents. A role, I might add, that had but a single line of dialogue. Yet, I was able to draw so much from my character that my performance was pivotal to the arc of the rest of the play.

I remember as if it were just yesterday; the tidal wave of anticipation that washed across the audience as I made my entrance, throwing open the door of the diner with an almighty shove of my crutch, striding downstage center with crutch in hand and chilies aloft to mysteriously announce: “I’ve got the chilies for the Chili Special.” I tell you the whole theater was transfixed. Even my fellow thespians could not help but take full stock.

I must note here that it was my choice to play my character as a cripple. No such direction had been written into the rather vague description of my role. Still, I am utterly convinced the moment absolutely made the play…and to think now of the torment I had to endure to ensure that it happened at all!

I had to battle the director tooth and nail throughout the entire rehearsal process. From the first table read I was convinced that the cook was clearly an emotionally crippled individual – what else could explain someone who hangs around on stage for so long and yet has so very little to say? I proposed on a daily basis that this inner subtext cried out for physical representation.

The director did allow me to “try” my ideas during rehearsal but, at the last hour, he tried to sabotage all my creative endeavours.  I shudder to think that the whole performance could have been for naught simply because an inexperienced director was unable to understand some very basic blocking concepts. He claimed to have never heard of the “upstage” rule. I literally spent several hours trying to explain to him that in the theater a cripple always drags his upstage leg. Eventually, when it became clear that I was never going educate this neophyte with mere words, I “agreed” to “do it his way.”

Thankfully for all concerned I had a change of heart moments before I hit the stage on opening night.

Needless to say, my bold choice absolutely made the play. The critics could talk of little else. In fairness, I must say that it was clear from many of the comments that few in attendance that night seemed able to conceptually grasp exactly what they had witnessed; but aren’t all truly great performances just a little ahead of their time?

Looking back, I do view that role, and specifically that particular moment, as my finest hour for the simple reason that against such unfathomable odds I was able to dive deep into my own soul and pull out a moment of pure theater magic.

It is what all true artist live for and, quite frankly, I don’t believe Mr. Olivier could have done any better. Beside, did you ever notice? He has very cold eyes.

Old Notes

09 Saturday Nov 2013

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duranty

Story by Neville Cole

I recently uncovered an old notebook; squirreled away for over thirty years. It contains some fine memories. For one, I was reminded that in my late teens and early twenties I listened to fine art as much as I looked at it. I wandered regularly into galleries and flipped often through Art books in those days. When I did, I usually jotted down things I heard the paintings say.

Here’s one of those ramblings…told to me by Edgar Degas’ Portrait of Duranty.

Edgar Degas' Portrait of Duranty

Edgar Degas’ Portrait of Duranty

There are, I find, now periods of time – on occasion weeks in length – during which I am lost. Melancholy is a most peculiar infirmity: a wellspring of vague doubts that bubble up quietly at first but inevitably threaten to pour forth into an inferno of misery. My head aches. My ears ring incessantly. Tears press up behind my eyes and I rack my brain – my dammed rational brain – for a reason, for a clue, for an excuse.

And here’s the story Mr. Clark told as I listened to Hockney’s Mr. and Mrs. Clark and Percy.

 hockney

Actually, the whole episode was rather painless. I drew up the papers myself; which is ironic as I had written our vows as well – the alpha and omega, as it were. My guess is it was never meant to be. We were too alike. There was no spark. It was all too damn comfortable. But, that’s past life now. Only Percy remains. Christine remarried within a year and, though I will confess I haven’t been a saint, I’ve spent most nights here alone… and most mornings too it’s just me with a cup of tea and Percy on my knee sitting at my window watching the city wake. Percy isn’t bothered all at, of course. My brother was right. He always told me: “Never get rid of a good cat.”

I’m still meandering through my old things – it’s something you do after you turn fifty, I guess – but I’m looking forward to digging up a few more memories. I can only hope I find something (anything) inside that isn’t positively dripping with teen angst.

The Game I Love to Hear

18 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Neville Bomber Cole

Neville Bomber Cole

Forgive me for rhapsodizing a while; it can’t be helped. I was born a torpedo punt from Windy Hill. My whole family bled red and black. My dad was a childhood friend of John Coleman. In our neck of the woods, Coleman is the greatest player to ever play the game. Some might argue that fact; but last time I checked, the goal-kicking title is still known as the Coleman Medal. As you can see, I didn’t really have a choice. I was and am a Bomber.

Aussie Rules, known derisively as aerial ping pong by followers of other codes, is part and parcel of growing up in Melbourne. Even those few who buck tradition and turn their back on the game must eventually choose some affiliation.

The VFL (Victorian Football League) of my youth was Melbourne’s own: eleven teams in one town and one more just around the bay in Geelong.  Every game was played on Saturday afternoon. Stores closed early and by noon the streets, trains, trams and public houses were filled with multi-colored fanatics. It was a glorious rush for a young man; that is, until we passed through the turnstiles. Once inside the fun faded fast. Once inside, I knew that for the next three hours or so I would stand in the wind, rain and cold, dodging drunks and brawlers, craning around umbrellas and ranting adults, to watch my beloved Bombers slowly lose.

The early ‘70s were not great years for the team. We did make the finals twice in ‘72 and ‘73 under the tutelage of Captain/Coach and all round tough guy, Des Tuddenham. That team included the likes of the often suspended “Rugged” Ronnie Andrews, sharp-shooter Alan Noonan and wingman Ken Fletcher; but never made it past the elimination final.

For the best part of the ‘70s, the Bombers were stuck near the bottom of the ladder battling for the Wooden Spoon; but somehow during that long lost decade my devotion only grew. Maybe that was due in part to goggled goal-kicker Geoff Blethyn kicking 107 goals in ‘72, or ex-Sandgroper Graham Moss winning the Brownlow Medal in ‘76, or my favorite player of the era, the left-footed speedster “Nifty” Neville Fields; but I don’t think so.

I see now it was words not deeds that fueled my love for the game and my team.  It was strange often jumbled voices delivering visions over radio waves that have played on in my mind. It was Lou “The Lip” Richards with his endless variety of ways to describe a goal. Balls never went between the goal posts, they went “through the big sticks” or “right down the high diddle diddle.”

What makes Footy so great on the radio is that there is too much is going on in the game for any commentator to accurately describe. There are 36 players running every which way almost non-stop for nearly 3 hours. It’s impossible to keep up; but so much fun to hear them try. A motor-mouth like Lou was bound to slip up; usually sooner than later, especially if there was a close finish. He once famously noted that: “Any time Carlton scores more than 100 points and holds the other team below 100 points they almost always win.”

Another of my favorites was the parched dry, Hemingway sparse, delivery of “Captain Blood” Jack Dyer. He was like listening to your tough-as-nails, perpetually grumpy Aussie uncle.  Once he was told that a player was concussed and did not know who he was. His answer?  “Tell him he’s John Coleman and get him back on the field.” Jack and Lou were my Saturday afternoon Abbot and Costello.

We didn’t win a lot of games but we had plenty of characters in our mob. One of my childhood favorites was Peter “Crackers” Keenan. He was near the end of his career when he signed on with the Bombers but nothing was more fun than Lou Richards describing Crackers pre-game ritual. Lou would laugh out loud and note that, even before the first whistle, Crackers was hunched over at edge of the center circle, snarling and clutching at mud and tossing tufts of turf around like a great ape. Even Jack would be amused. Sure, it was pure pro wrestling bravado but it was also great radio.

Over the radio waves I was introduced to a host of club legends. They still fly easily to mind all these years later. There were Merv Neagle and Tim Watson, the boys from Dimboola, who arrived in ‘76. Tim was just 15 when he played his first senior game and, of course, his success made me and every other young Bomber fan believe that we could do it too.

I had my mother sew a 5 on the back of my first Essendon jumper when Terry Daniher joined the team in ‘78 and briefly led the goal-kicking list. That 5 proved to be a good choice. After Terry retired, another Bomber great, James Hird, started wearing it as well.

There are so many great memories. I can still hear the broadcasted cries of utter amazement whenever “The Flying Dutchman”, Paul Vander Haar, leapt skyward and the reverent tones reserved for big men Simon and Justin Madden whenever they stepped in to take over a game. It wasn’t all pretty, far from it…and worst of all were the constant interruptions for horse racing. Out of nowhere, right in the middle of play, whatever the score or circumstance, a monotone voice would suddenly break in with  “racing at Caulfield” and for two and a half minutes I would be stuck listening to Pretty Penny, Snitch and Gasometer gallop around a track. Still, thinking back, it does seem that all of my best football memories revolve around a radio. All except one.

The only game I ever saw that can compare to what I heard on the radio was Round 20, 1981. I went alone to Princes Park that day to see the Bombers take on Carlton. It started out as a typical clash and with 10 minutes to go we were down by 26 points. The Carlton fans were ecstatic. Even the players were celebrating. Then suddenly, and for no apparent reason, the Bombers came to life. Merv and Timmy seemed to have the ball on a string and Neale Daniher who had moved up to full forward from half back got the better of Carlton legend Bruce Doull twice.

It’s a grainy black and white memory now but I can replay it in my mind like it happened yesterday. I am standing in the crowd behind the goal, there is less than a minute on the clock, and the ball is in the air flying up to the forward line. Out of the corner of my eye, that famous number 6 moves into view, and perfectly framed between the goal posts I see Neale summon up his inner John Coleman, climb up back of Doull, and come down with the ball. Then, with the siren ready to blow, he kicks the oblong bladder right over my head, straight down the high diddle diddle. The Bombers win by a point!  A few weeks later, after we just missed out on the finals for the last time in six years, I headed off to America rarely to return and my Aussie Rules fandom days were over for good.

It’s all different now, of course, isn’t everything? All sport these days, Aussie Rules included, is a television spectacle. Radio is only for those few who can’t afford to watch the games on their iPhones. The VFL became the AFL. South Melbourne became the Sydney Swans. The Fitzroy Lions are now from Brisbane. The Doggies of Footscray are the Western Suburb Bulldogs and these days there are teams in both Perth and Fremantle and two in Adelaide as well. They even started a team on the Gold Coast! Along with the lost teams, those wild and crazy “outers” are gone. The vast, standing room only areas of Windy Hill, Arden Street, Victoria Park and Princes Park are empty. So too are all the Ovals: Moorabbin, Brunswick Street, Glenferrie and Lake. They, like me, are gone but the memories are strong.

This weekend Essendon celebrates its 140th anniversary. Way back on June 7, 1873 the club played its first competitive match against Carlton and this Friday they will face the Blues again. I won’t be there. I won’t be watching on television. But I do plan to settle down by a radio – well, an internet radio – and listen to the game I love to hear once more. I only wish Jack and Lou were making the call.

#strangerparadise3: Sweet Dane

10 Monday Jun 2013

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Story by Neville Cole

Robbie wanders aimlessly thru the 24/7. He has always seen the world from 30,000 feet. Where others see impediments and obstructions he sees the path of least resistance. When others are overwhelmed by the constant immediacy of change he can always see events unfolding beyond the horizon. But for the first time in his short life Robbie Marley is stumped.

“I’ll have a pack of Marlboro Greens, thanks.” Robbie says finally.

“Can I see some ID?”

“Seriously?” Robbie thought. “Of all the nights, this is the last thing I need right now…a convenience clerk with an attitude.”

“I’m just kidding, man,” the clerk laughed. “Pinners or blunts?”

“Blunts,” Robbie replies unsmiling.

“No problemo, hombre.” The clerk reaches for the pack then pauses once more before handing over the merchandise. “Sorry for busting your balls, Robbie. I just didn’t know you were an herbalist.”

“I’m not,” Robbie snaps, grabbing the pack from the moron’s hand and tossing $40 on the counter. “Keep the change, asshole.”

Robbie is more mad at himself than the idiot behind the counter. Ever since weed had become widely legal, he has been surrounded by stumbling grunts and precisely because of stupid twats like that clerk he always keeps his mind focused and busy. But tonight is no usual night. Tonight he would not be popping a Tramadol or an Adderall and staying up until 4am. His father’s life lays in the balance and tonight Robbie Marley is going to follow the path of his namesake and get wasted.

Robbie and his dad have never been close. How could he connect with a man who was either off circling the globe or shut up in his office planning his next adventure? Was he really supposed to feel affection for a man so wrapped up in himself that if he ever did come to Robbie to talk it sounded like nothing more than an all-out attack? Robbie’s dad spent his career traveling the world making documentaries and yet never taught his only son how to edit. Everything Robbie learned he taught himself. As a mentor and guide Dick Marley was less than useless and as a result Robbie felt little but open delight as he watched his father finally fall apart. Because of his father’s emotional rejection, Robbie had gleefully turned his parent’s dissolution into a comic farce for the world’s amusement. Because his parents were so clearly mismatched, he felt no guilt in pushing them past the brink and he secretly scorned them for so easily agreeing to accept their roles in his grand reality experiment; but yet, now, as the possibility of a surprise ending draws near he feels a longing he has never before experienced. Robbie Marley’s heart finally aches.

He takes a long hit of the greenie and closes his eyes. He sees a stage before him not a screen. Robbie is used to viewing his world as a film but this is old school dreaming. The curtain draws back to reveal a castle wall enveloped in fog and a bright full moon set against a dark night sky. He sees himself, dressed all in black, enter from stage right…and then the character on the stage begins to sing:

Stay with me,

Let time pass slow

Stay with me,

They bury you down below

Stay a while,

Hear my call

Stay a while,

This is the very last night of all

From far above the proscenium, Dick Marley floats into view and staring off at a distant horizon he joins his son in song.

The westward star far burns so bright

It stays with me throughout the night

The moon too soon will stalk away

And fade from white to blackest grey

I am shipwright frozen to the ice

On a sea of fire called paradise

The earth is hard, the air hangs cold

The world was made for men more bold

Robbie sings more urgently now, desperate to draw his father’s attention.

Stay with me

Why must you go?

Stay with me

There’s so much more to know

Stay a while,

Hear my call

Stay a while,

This is the very last night of all

Dick drifts slowly off stage left never once averting his gaze.

The morn I see is clad in red

The sun will rise to find me dead

My life is gone I stand alone

Nor wife nor child nor happy home

I must leave now for the eastward hill

My heart has stopped I’ve had my fill

I am too old to fight too weak to run

Where are you now, my sometime son?

Robbie leaps to his feet and rushes stage left, calling out sorrowfully after his dearly departed dad.

Speak to me

Ease my woe

Speak to me

See how my tears now flow?

Stay a while

Hear my call

Stay a while

This is the very last night of all.

At the last chord, Robbie collapses to the stage cries out: “Father! No further!”

“Hey,” Robbie chuckles. “Hamlet: the Musical. Not a bad idea.”

 

 

 

 

 

Life, etc.

04 Tuesday Jun 2013

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Mum and Dad await the arrival of their new daughter.

Mum and Dad await the arrival of their new daughter.

Story by Neville Cole

Chapter One: Genesis

In which I expound on my birth among other things.

This is the story of my life to the best of my recollection; which, to be perfectly honest, is foggy at best. I aim to recount this all for you as accurately as I can but to do so I will have to rely heavily on my own memory because very few people who know the truth about me are still around; but what is any history but a collected tale of facts mixed with a healthy dose of legend?

I do know for certain that I was born on October 19, 1963; which according to the Internet was a Saturday. I don’t remember it being a Saturday. Frankly, I don’t remember it being October 19th or 1963 either. These are all things I was told later. That said, it makes sense that I born on a Saturday as Saturday is and always has been far and away my favorite day of the week. No other day is even close. Sunday pales by comparison and Sunday has fine memories of soccer matches, rounds of golf, sublime, extended lunches and, more recently, a new passion, American football; but the Sundays of my youth all began with church which I never could abide and even today Sunday night means Monday is on the horizon and I despise Mondays. Tuesdays aren’t much better. It’s no wonder they say that Tuesday’s child is full of woe. Wednesdays too are never as good as you hope they will be. Thursdays I don’t mind. Any day named after Thor is okay in my book. Fridays I am also quite fond of; but Saturday is king. Saturday still means movies and Aussie Rules and parties. Saturday is freedom.

Being born on October 19, I am a Libra and the fact that I turned up in 1963 makes me a Water Rabbit. I don’t know much about any of this except I am told this indicates I am lucky, horny, and I think too much. I don’t really believe in astrology but in my case this is pretty spot on.

A ten minute Google search also tells me that I was born on the exact same day and year as Prince Laurent of Belgium and Jim Dombrowski, of the New Orleans Saints. That’s not much of a list. On the bright side, it means there is still a small chance that I could one day become the most famous person ever born on October 19th, 1963. I will naturally have to step it up over the next twenty years or so; but at least I’m not trying to compete with John Lennon or Gandhi or someone. I still have a shot.

Speaking of John Lennon, the most famous event that I can find that happened on October 19, 1963 was that the Beatles recorded I Want to Hold Your Hand on that day. This could explain why I ended up a Beatle fan and not a Rolling Stone like my brother.

When I expand my search to include any October 19th in history the list of events gets much more interesting.

October 19, 1216 King John of England dies and is succeeded by his nine-year-old son Henry. Could this explain my love of Shakespeare?

October 19, 1453 The French recapture of Bordeaux and bring the Hundred Years’ War to a close. Of interest because of my English and French roots. Neville is a very English name but means “New City” in Old French. Besides, a hundred years is a long time to have a war.

October 19, 1469 Ferdinand II of Aragon marries Isabella I of Castile and Spain is born. My link to the Age of Exploration and besides, come on, who doesn’t love Ferdinand and Isabella?

October 19, 1781 Cornwallis surrenders at Yorktown; American Revolutionary War ends.  Foreshadowing of my emigration to the United States, perhaps?

October 19, 1856 James Kelly & Jack Smith fight bareknuckle for 6h15m in Melbourne As a larrikin lad from Melbourne town I can relate.

October 19, 1873 Yale, Princeton, Columbia, and Rutgers universities draft the first code of American football rules.  A game I have grown to love.

October 19, 1914 The First Battle of Ypres begins. Could this explain my historical fondness for all things WWI?

October 19, 1977 Supersonic Concorde’s first landing in NYC. Only a few short months after my own first landing in NYC.

October 19, 1987 (Black Monday) Dow Jones Industrial Average falls by 22%, 508 points. 4 times previous record. This was the first of many times in my adult life that I believed a full-blown depression was just around the corner.

More than likely none of these moments in history have any connection with me at all. The point is all of these October 19th events mean as much to me as the day of my birth. I’m clearly not a big birthday person. Possibly because I am pretty certain that I was never really meant to be. My parents never directly said so, but I had to be a mistake. My two brothers were born two years apart; then, after a break of seven years, along comes Neville. I arrived at the worst possible time too. My parents had just opened a business together which had not yet begun to grow. They were way too busy to have another child. Their excuse was that my mother always wanted a daughter; but I have a feeling that idea came along after they realized she was knocked up.

Shortly before I was born my mother was introduced to Christian Science. This one event would influence my life well into my late twenties. It explains my haphazard approach to health care and both my tendency to overthink everything and my eventual total resignation to the whims of fate. I will explain all this in graphic detail in later episodes but for now the important take away is that as a new Christian Scientist my mother was quite determined to link every daily occurrence to something she was thinking.

I am sure when she found out she was going to have a baby she turned to God in prayer and was given the answer that she deserved a daughter to go along with the blessing of two sons. She soon had a name picked out for me. I was to be Cheryl.

On more than one occasion my mother told me the story of my birth and always made a point of noting that my umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck in the birth canal. This she attributed this unhappy accident to the fact that deep down she didn’t really want to have another baby. Her resistance to God’s plan nearly killed me. That is until she fully accepted that his will be done. When I survived strangulation and finally arrived it immediately became quite clear to all and sundry that I was not a girl. My father was so worried about my mother’s reaction that he apologized to her. Of course, my mother’s account of the story always ended with the line: “Darling! He’s the most beautiful baby in the whole world.”  But after the sixth or eighth telling of the tale one gets the sense that she was mostly just happy to be done with the whole thing.

All this is not to say that my parents weren’t very loving in their own way or that my childhood was not a mostly happy one; but I relate this all to you because I am convinced that time and place and happenstance are only ever part of the story. Many times the most important thing of all is what goes unsaid.

#strangerparadise2: Content Dreams

14 Tuesday May 2013

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Neville cole content

Continuing Story by Nevile Cole

Marley was vaguely aware that he was dreaming someone else’s tale. He and a tiger alone on tiny iceberg adrift in an endless ocean…it was all too familiar. Of course, he hadn’t had an original thought in so long that everything seemed vaguely familiar all the time. Every book he read had been made into a movie he had already seen. Every movie he saw was based on a book, or another movie, or a TV show, or a video game, or an historical event or just a basic plot with which he was very familiar. Everything that happened to him on a day to day basis seemed oddly similar to something else that had already happened. It was as if he was stuck in an endless déjà vu.

He dreams now that he is sitting with some shaman smoking peyote. He vaguely remembers a similar scene in the Oliver Stone movie about Jim Morrison. He is relating to the shaman the story of how he ended up on the iceberg with the tiger and the shaman says: Oh, wow! Life of Pi I loved that movie. You tell me. How did that not get best picture?  Seriously? Argo? Argo fuck yourself, indeed!”

“You think too much,” the tiger says munching happily on a meal of flying fish. So you are stuck on an iceberg with a tiger. So it is melting. Is your lot that bad? The fish literally fly into our mouths. The rain it raineth every day. We are clearly going somewhere. Why do you have such very little faith?”

“I get this is all a metaphor,” Marley says. “But what am I supposed to learn? How am I supposed to feel?”

“Every story you ever heard or will ever hear is a metaphor,” the tiger laughs. Your life is a story and that makes you a metaphor too. The sooner you realize that reality and metaphor are the same thing, the better off you will be. Why don’t you just feel happy? I for one am perfectly content being a metaphorical tiger.”

“You are content being the content of someone else’s dream?”

“Semantics is a slippery slope. Besides, who says I am in your dream? You may be content in my dream.” With that, the tiger grunts and rips the guts out of another fish.

Back in his World News Central bunker, Don Williams is thinking too much too. “News, news everywhere…” he smiles while swishing the ice around and around his whiskey glass. “but not a lot who think.” Don has been around. He knows a thing or two about news. He remembers when WNC was a city on a hill, a shining light, the answer to the world’s woes. One World, One News. Don made his way in this business during the heady days of the 24 hour news cycle. In those days newscasters were still called anchors. Anchors! When there was a storm, when seas were rough, when all seemed lost we held on to our anchors for dear life. Once upon a time we trusted the news to see us through; but now Don knew he was just a newscaster like everyone else. He threw his line into the news waters just like A.J. Clemente, just like all of them; but, and this is an important but, Don Williams isn’t about to go after bottom feeders. He still dreams he can mean something; he just doesn’t know what exactly. After all, clearly there is no longer time for news. There is an unwritten law in the news biz: news plus time equals old news and nobody is interested in old news. Time is the enemy of modern man and the news has been boiled down to an endless streaming ticker tape of tragedy, bombast, and lies. Don blamed twitter. At some point the world decided that anything that had to be said had to be said in 160 characters or less. Who made up that rule anyway? Who decided to set the bar so low? Don Williams freely admits he doesn’t know much anymore; but he knows enough to know that the end, or glory, is near.

#strangerparadise

07 Tuesday May 2013

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Episode One: What Dreams May Come

Thoroughly modern pulp fiction from Neville Cole

“Fucking shit,” foul-mouthed newscaster A.J. Clemente intones during his weekly wrap up show What The Fuck, Yo! “Remember our good friend, @midlifecrisisguy? Well, it appears his 15 minutes is up. Sources from Bieber Memorial Hospital confirmed that for all intensive purposes, Richard Marley, AKA @midlifecrisisguy, is dead. His TwitObit reads:

@twitobit @midlifecrisisguy Dick Marley is dead. Dead as a doorknob. He is survived by his estranged wife @hotcougarmom  and his teenaged son @fuckallyallpimp

“@fuckallyallpimp as you may remember,” Clemente continued, “is the brilliant mind behind the highly successful Mid Life Crisis channel on YouTube. It pretty much blows my skull, but, less than two years ago, what we now know as the mega million dollar MLC Empire was little more than a collection of videos documenting the fracturing of @midlifecrisisguy and @hotcougarmom’s eighteen year marriage. Now, it appears, the MLC shining star is no more. Well friends, as I often note in my blog 50 Shades of Shit, reality ain’t always as it seems. I have just received an instagram from an attending physician at Bieber Memorial. The image shows what appears to be the body of @midlifecrisisguy in state tis; but check out what @bieberphyz says:

@bieberphyz WTFY! @midlifecrisisguy aint dead yet. Hes just almost vry nrly dead, yo. But priest is comin 2 read last rights. So prolly vry soon #wtfy!

More on this strange ass story as it unfolds; but if I know you fuckers as good as I think I do, you’re about to ditch me and check out those old @midlifecrisisguy videos on MLC. Well, sit your ass down and chill, yo! I got a brand new, never seen before, montage already shredded for you. You won’t want to miss this! Fucking hilarious! Up next, the very best of @midlifecrisisguy and @hotcougarmom…and we will have it for you, right after these important messages!”

At Bieber Memorial they are taking things a little more seriously; but only a little. Marley’s soon-to-be widow, Debra, is at the virtually deceased’s bedside, looking stunning in sleek black sheath partially covering a hot pink pushup bra. Marley’s almost fatherless son, Robbie, is recording the events for an upcoming MLC memorial.

“Mom,” Robbie whispers quietly enough that the World News cameras can’t pick up the audio. “When the priest gets here you might want think about shedding a tear or two. I’m going to break so hard I’m dropping the phone, FYI. Our audience eats up that emotional shit.”

At World News Central Don Williams reports the events with all the gravitas he can muster; but even he nearly cracks while announcing the arrival of Father Yung Boy Phuc

“Holy shit,” Robbie snickers, “the priest is a gook. Classic.”

Father Phuc mumbles in latin and every phone in the room records the event for posterity.

@bieberphyz amen @midlifecrisisguy rip brah. #wtfy!

The instant after @bieberphyz posts his last rights image to instragram, the first real miracle of Marley’s pitiful life occurs: the thumb, index, ring and little fingers of his left hand all constrict simultaneously.

@bieberphyz Fuck off! Father Phuc! Lmfao! #wtfy!

“Dead man flips priest the bird. What the fuck, yo?” Clemente screams in breathy ecstasy. “@midlifecrisisguy may have to change his handle to @notdeadmiracleman if this shit keeps up.”

Inside Marley’s cracked skull all is calm. A blond vision hovers above him and kisses his fevered brow. Around about all is soft and snowy. He is bathed in bright, warm sunlight. He floats on a cloud of bliss. Back at Beiber Memorial he is bathed in fluorescent light and soaks in a pool of piss. His final answer to Father Phuc remains a middle finger salute.

“His eyes!” Robbie points and zooms in his camera phone. “They’re doing the REM flicker thing. He’s not dead. He’s not dead.”

“What’s going on?” Debra wails at @bieberphyz. “You said he was almost very nearly dead!” Not waiting for a reply she throws herself into a chair and weeps true tears of confusion. @bieberphyz immediately rushes to her side but his sudden show of concern is cold comfort.

Meanwhile, World News Central is positively giddy about their latest scoop.

“Dick Marley, the mid-life crisis guy, is suddenly the not dead miracle man! As the world waits for Marley to open his eyes and speak, news is circulating that police are looking to question a woman seen at the scene of Marley’s near demise. She has been described as “a woman with blonde hair” and is known to authorities only as “the sexy blonde.” However, sources have told World News that this so-called sexy blonde may, in fact, be a leading member of the infamous Tech Separatist Group who go by the name Paradise. Paradise is loose-knit band of rural terrorists who refuse to carry smart phones and have been known to toss televisions and computers out of high rise buildings. Any persons with information regarding the whereabouts of the sexy Paradise blonde, seen here in surveillance footage taken just seconds after the Marley incident are urged to immediately tweet any and all leads to @therealfbi #findthesexyblonde.”

nev blond walk away survillance“The problem we have,” FBI Commissioner Gordan Gotham finally responded some twenty minutes later after unprecedented public pressure, “is that the sexy blonde whom some have dubbed the paradise blonde does not use a cell phone or a credit card and has thus far managed to avoid any and all of our extensive surveillance areas. In fact, we haven’t had a single image of video provided to us since incident. All we know is what we have all witnessed. The blonde in question appears shortly after the explosion, removes her coat, places it under Mr. Marley’s head and kisses him on the forehead. After that she walks slowly away. The camera on the scene remained on the body as it is programmed to do; but what we don’t understand in why no other cameras in the immediate vicinity managed to track the sexy blonde’s escape. Frankly, we are stumped and not sure how much longer we can continue to use up the department’s resources to chase down all these wild gooses. As we have already determined there are a lot of sexy blondes out there. Or, at least, there are a lot of blondes out there who think they are sexy.”

Later that night the FBI would officially put The Case of the Sexy Paradise Blonde on hold at least until @notdeadmiracleman awoke and did something to once again capture the public attention.

Marley’s bliss ends with an ear-shattering crack. His snowy bed becomes a drifting iceberg. All around is nothing but empty ocean. Suddenly a zebra drops out of the sky and hits the berg with great velocity. Clearly the zebra is injured. All of its legs appear to be broken. From out of nowhere a hyena is swimming furiously toward the iceberg. At the same time an orangutan floats in to view on big bunch of bananas. The hyena and the orangutan get on the iceberg and the hyena starts eating the zebra which really seems to bother the orangutan. After the hyena eats the zebra he fights, then eats, the orangutan. Then, to Marley’s great surprise, a tiger, that had apparently been on the iceberg the whole time, eats the hyena. It is just Marley and full-grown Bengal tiger left on the iceberg.  “Take a chill pill, kid” the tiger says lazily. “It’s going to be a long, strange, trip.”

@hotcougarmom Plz wake up @notdeadmiracleman. Ur fam lvz U #wakeupmiracleman

“What’s this all about?” Robbie hisses and shoves his phone in his mother’s face. “You really think they will fall for this?”

“What are you talking about? I’m just trying to show support. I don’t want him to die, for god’s sake.”

“It didn’t seem to bother you all that much when we thought he was dead.”

“We all have different ways of dealing with stress. Besides, I am still in shock.”

“So what are you thinking? You’ve seen the light? It’s redemption time? We can save this family? I think not. You want to know what to do next? You come to me. There is a lot of money riding on how this all plays out. I can’t afford you messing it up by trying to figure things out on your own.”

“What are you saying?” Debra says with real shock in her voice.

“I’m saying,” say Robbie suddenly quite matter-of-fact: “If you try to run this show one more time and I will cut you out. In less than a month no one will even remember who @hotcougarmom is.”

“You would cut me out?”

“Ancient history. Count on it. So, Debra. What do you say? Shall we play be my rules from now on?”

“You’re the boss, Robbie.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind if I keep your phone for a while. You have some important tweets to send.”

Thanks in part to Robbie’s machinations, the non-stop @notdeadmiracleman media barrage continues on unabated. No story since the baby go boom bomber has captured the world zeitgeist like this one. Even males 12 to 18 are paying attention. Well, between video games. Every demographic it seems is looking for answers. Will the @notdeadmiracle man wake up? If so, when? If not, should doctors pull the plug? If they pull the plug will it be on pay per view? Is @midlifecrisisguy really dreaming? What about? What dreams may come as @notdeadmiracleman flirts with shuffling off this mortal coil? Will God save @notdeadmiracleman? Will God save any of us? Was @midlifecrisisguy really giving the finger to the priest? Is this a CIA plot? What should one wear to a spring wake? Is this whole thing just a brilliant publicity stunt? Can you believe how hot the paradise blonde is? Oh, and by the way, what’s up with @hotcougarmom and @bieberphyz? Are they an item?

Back at her paradise by the sea the sexy paradise blonde is oblivious to the @notdeadmiracleman’s great comatose adventure. She sits quietly on her front porch staring at a bold full moon hovering over a still, dark empty ocean. While, in his room, finger still raised, only his eyeballs moving, @notdeadmiracleman continues to dream.

A MATCH.COM APOLOGY

27 Friday Jul 2012

Posted by in Neville Cole, Warrigal Mirriyuula

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Poem by Neville Cole, Digital Wizardry by Warrigal Mirriyuula

I’m sorry for lying about my height

I know adding three inches was simply not right

I’m sorry for saying that I was divorced

I’ll be signing the papers in due course

I’m sorry for pretending I was much younger

Posting all those old photos was a major blunder

I’m sorry I no longer have that much hair

But honestly most women don’t seem to care

And maybe I don’t exercise 5 days a week

I hardly would say I’m a big, fat freak

Still, I hate to imagine what you must think of me

Don’t you see my profile is what I would like to be?

All I did was try to be someone I knew

Who would stand a chance with a girl like you

Having said that, are you really just a social drinker

Who says “no way” to smoking and is a spiritual thinker?

Because I couldn’t help notice how you slammed down the booze

And slurred “get me another” as you kicked off your shoes

In retrospect it wasn’t the perfect first date

Kissing your feet at the bar was a big mistake

I’ve sure learned my lesson. It won’t happen again

Is there even a chance you could still be a friend?

From now on I will follow all the old dating courtesies

Oh, and I’m sorry about giving you genital herpes.

The Next Episode

14 Saturday Jul 2012

Posted by in Mark, Neville Cole

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The Usual Suspects

Story by the New Hung One On and Digital Mischief by Warrigal Mirriyuula

Hi, Sandy here. You know me, the local parish priest from Inner Cyberia at the church of St Generic Brand. Well yes, I’m on another assignment thanks to the Bish, you know Bishop Bishop. Here’s what happened.

“Sandy, it’s the Bish” says the voice on the phone.

“Hey Bish, I mean, I wasn’t even asleep or having an erotic dream and you rang me just like a normal person would do.” I inform never knowing what mood the Bish will actually be in.

“Like my erections Sandy, I’m getting soft with age” Oh, yuck, too much information.

“How interesting Bish. I’m sure someone out there must care” I reply rather nonchalantly.

“Now look Sandy” states the Bish, “There is something wrong in the good old USA and I want you to check with our North American correspondent, Neville Coal, about what in the hell, pardon Gordon, is going on, comprehende?” affirms the Bish.

“What’s going on about what?” I ask both stupidly and dumbly.

“Zarking Austro-Americans Sandy, get the picture, something has happened to Austro-Americans, get to Neville and find out otherwise you’re fired” barks the Bish.

So I hop a plane to LA and get a cab to the Lizard Bar and Grill, one of Neville’s favourite hideouts. So here is the interview in my usual format.

FOW: So Neville, the Bish tells me something has gone wrong with Austro- American relations. I mean have you guys run out of ghetto blasters or what?

NC: (with panic in his eye) We really shouldn’t be talking here out in the open like this. Quick! Follow me! I know a place where we won’t be recognized. (They run next door to Queen Lateesha Bar and Salon.)

FOW: Look, one thing that has always intrigued me is why all the fuzzy hair?

NC: Oh man! You jump right to the tough questions, don’t you? Wow! I have no idea. Hey Queen! This guy wants to know why all the fuzzy hair?

QL: What you talkin’ bout? Fuzzy hair? I don do no fuzzy hair. The only do I do is strong, black, firm African hair. Fuzzy? You crazy. That’s what you is!

FOW: So is it true that Michael Jackson wanted to be white and had his cock shortened?

NC: Are you asking me or the Queen?

FOW: You.

NC:Hmmm… Well this does happen to be a topic I am well versed in. I have a PPLBJ in Afro-American-Australian studies from the University of the Internet.

FOW: A PPLBJ?

NC: Yes. It’s an online degree. 4 days of intensive study – Google searches, Wikipedia, Facebook…the works.

FOW: Sounds challenging.

NC: Brutal. But it only cost me $49.99 plus tax, which I think is a bargain.

FOW: So the Michael Jackson question…

NC: He was the fifth Jackson, right? Sang that song Do Re Me, 1 2 3?

FOW: Let’s move on…

NC: Good idea. Your braids look great by the way. Queen, what does he owe you?

QL: That be only twenty dollar. You practically got no hair at all, Father Sandy…and it’s all weak and limp like…you sure you not using too much shampoo?

FOW: Can we get out of here?

NC: Let’s go to Devito’s, the dirty diner next door. The chicken and waffle pie there is to die for… (They run next door)

FOW:  So Neville, is it true that Danny Devito is really black?

NC: That’s the rumor, yes.  I heard he was blacklisted in the 60s.

FOW: I heard the other day that OJ Simpson regrets being a glass of orange juice. Is this true?

NC: I don’t think so… He called me up recently to sing a heartfelt rendition of “My Way” Regarding regrets, he said he had a few but did not mention anything about orange juice.

FOW: Is Mel Gibson a new wave intellectual or simply a tool?

NC: Oh God! Get down! (They duck under the table – NC whispers) Mel just walked in the door… I’m not sure if he heard you call him a tool but he looked ready for one of his infamous outbursts…and that’s not all…

FOW: (waiting) well…

NC: What?

FOW: You said…and that’s not all… What else is going on?

NC: Mel is with… friends. The whole ratbag pack!

FOW: Who is that?

NC: Father! Have you ever read a gossip column in your life? Every People reader knows who the ratbag pack is… Mel Gibson, Nick Noltie, Randy Plaid, Crispy Glover, Jokein Phoenix, Garee Busee…and, oh Jesus and saints, they’ve added a new ratbag!

FOW: Who?

NC: Actpoorly Sulkin. He’s one crazy-ass muther…excuse the French, father. Wait! I have an idea. Let’s sit up slowly then loudly ask me a question about tools and/or tool use. We have to pretend we are two hardworking handymen. That bunch of ratbags will admire two men talking about hardware. (they sit up slowly) Go ahead. Say something…but act natural f’christsake or we will both leave here with one less testicle…or worse, they’ll want to join us for lunch. Say something, quickly. Mel is giving us the hairy eyeball.

FOW: (loudly) Speaking of tools, can you hand a man a better spanner than a K-Mart special?

Mel Gibson: (butting in drunkenly) Good question, mate! I say you can’t go past a tool from Bunning’s…and I will kick the arse of any bastard who says otherwise! (He pants loudly like a charging bull).

Nick Noltie: Bugger off, Mel! I’m an Ace Hardware man! Ace is the place!

Garee Busee: You guys are busting the one nut I have left! You know Jack Squat Shit about tools. Let’s get even drunker and fight!

Actpoorly Sulkin: (lying on floor) I’m already too drunk to stand but I’ll fight you all night. I just wish I had a five gallon can of paint on a string with me.

Crispy Glover: Here. You can borrow mine.

Actpoorly Sulkin: Thanks Crispy! I don’t care what they say, you are a real pal. (They all start to fight each other.)

NC: Oh Christ, father… You’ve really set them off now. Quick let’s go to the Quik-E Mart. I need some cheese wiz.

FOW: (puffing loudly as they run to Quik-E Mart) Is Olivia Newton-John the best Austro-American singer of all time or should that honour go to Ella Fitzgerald?

NC: Hmm…for my money you can’t go past Dame Dolly Melba-Parton. What a pair of lungs that woman had.

FOW: (in the Quik-E Mart searching for Cheese Wiz) In the movie the Blues Brothers, the white folk wanted cheese wiz, fried chicken and dry white toast. Do you think they were really vegans?

NC: Don’t quote me on this…but I believe that fried chicken in this country now has so little identifiable meat in it that it is considered a vegan meal.

FOW: I rest my case.

The Late Great Aussie Moore – Chapter 3 Eureka Days

28 Thursday Jun 2012

Posted by in Neville Cole

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The Diggings

By Neville Cole

The beautiful English home on the hill that had been my grandfather’s pride and joy was gone. All that remained was the stone hearth and chimney that my father rebuilt and tended to as if it were my mother’s earthly tomb. The years that followed, my brothers recalled, were unrelentingly difficult without a hint of a woman’s touch. Although my father still had money remaining from his father’s glorious golden days, we, his kin, lived as feral outcasts in a one-room miner’s shack by the tapped out stream at the bottom of the hill. My father brought a goat to replace the mother’s milk my colicky lungs cried out for and later he purchased a few hundred head of sheep and turned my brothers into unwilling shepherds. The parties, gaiety, and gatherings of neighbours ceased and we became known collectively as the “wild Moores of Ballarat.”

My father turned quickly to drink as his only consolation. His chief bursts of productivity coming once a year at shearing time when he worked almost around the clock until all the wool had been clipped and bagged. Then he would be gone, sometimes for weeks at a time, to Melbourne to sell his measly wares for the best price he could muster. But later, on quiet evenings in the shack, before the spirits turned his heart as dark and cold as a mid-winter storm, he would tell us stories of his father Samuel, the lucky Moore from Kilmarnock.

Kilmarnock

 “Your grandfather came from the land of Robert Burns and Walker’s Kilmarnock Whisky,” he would always start as if the jug in his hand was drawing the story from the depths of his soul. He was the luckiest man who ever lived,” he would add with the bitterest of smiles. “He turned his back on the land of the true Moores and laid plans to come to this godforsaken plot as soon word of Edward Hargraves’ find at Ophir spread across the globe. Of course, by the time he made it to these shores, Ballarat was the center of the universe and the lure of golden riches drew him here as surely as the sun holds us all in orbit. He was barely twenty years at the time with little education and no discernable skills but he soon learned he had a nose for gold to go along with his limitless yearning for adventure. He was also the unsung hero of the Eureka stockade, lost to history, but were it not for your grandfather we may not be now be living in a free Australia. For you see, it was your grandfather who saved the life of one Peter Lalor.”

How my grandfather Samuel came to the rescue of the first outlaw to make it to parliament is a story of reckless bravery and frankly impossible luck. It all began soon after his arrival when he fell in, quite literally, with another young Scottish miner named James Scobie. The two met, as most miners do, at a hotel when Samuel stepped between James and the hotel’s proprietor, a Mr. Bentley, during a confrontation over an apparently unpaid tab. Samuel was knocked unconscious and woke up later outside in the dirt being tended to by a grateful James Scobie. Now you may think that was a rather unlucky beginning to what I proposed was a story of remarkable luck; but taking a billy club for a stranger can tend to forge a quick friendship and James and Samuel became mining partners shortly thereafter and thus my grandfather began his trek down the often hazardous path of the gold miner in earnest.

James Scobie was a fine miner but as pig-headed as the day is long. He and Samuel continued to frequent the Eureka despite the constant threat of bodily harm from Mr. Bentley. As the months and years passed, Samuel began to suspect that the reason for their almost nightly visits to the Eureka was due to more than just a taste for whiskey and rum; he noted that James attentions often fell upon the proprietor’s comely wife, Catherine. These attentions, Samuel recognized most likely accounted for Mr. Bentley’s simmering fury every time this usually free spending and frankly mostly trouble-free customer walked through his doors.

Lucky for him, Samuel was not with James as he wandered past the Eureka hotel during the early morning of October 6, 1854. If he did it is quite possible he too would have been found face down in the dirt with a fatal battleaxe wound to his head. Samuel attended the hasty trial that took place that very afternoon when the local magistrate acquitted Mr. Bentley for lack of evidence, even though witnesses saw Mr. Bentley on the street with three other men and a woman at the time of the murder. It was noted that a woman, believed to be Catherine, was heard to exclaim “how dare you break my window.” It would not be until many years later that Samuel would wonder just what caused James Scobie to break Catherine Bentley’s window at two o’clock in the morning. At the time of the trial all he could think of was revenging his good friend’s death.

It was Samuel that took the lead ten days later when a reported 10,000 miners took to the streets and burned down the Eureka hotel while James and Catherine Bentley fled for their lives. Again, due mostly to luck and partly to his quiet, unassuming nature, Samuel was not among the nine miners arrested over the next few days for starting the fire.

The miner’s anger turn quickly to political revolt and Samuel too was present at Bakery Hill to vote in the resolution “that it is the inalienable right of every citizen to have a voice in making the laws he is called on to obey, that taxation without representation is tyranny“. The group also resolved that day to secede from the United Kingdom if the situation did not improve.

The mood of the Ballarat miners reached its feverous peak on 16 November 1854 when Governor Hotham appointed a Royal Commission on goldfields problems and grievances. But as history has shown us, authority rarely bows out of a bad situation gracefully and Commissioner Rede’s response the governor was to ignore the grievances and instead increase the police presence in the gold fields and summon reinforcements from Melbourne.

The Oath

How Samuel avoided arrest and death during those revolutionary days can only be attributed to pure luck. After all, he was one of the first of the miner’s to pledge open rebellion and burn his mining license and he was among the mob that surrounded arresting officers conducting a license search the very next day. He was present at the unfurling of the rebel Eureka Flag and part of the mob who swore the oath of allegiance to it. “We swear,” they spoke as one, “by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other and fight to defend our rights and liberties.”

Eureka Stockade

The tragic events of the battle of the stockade have been well documented; it is now known how what had at one time been a force of 1700 men dwindled to a mere 150 miners on December 3rd, 1854 when most of the miners at the stockade returned to their tents under the assumption that the Queen’s military forces would not be sent to attack on the Sabbath.

Samuel was one of the 150 who remained when a party of 276 police and military personnel under the command of Captain J.W. Thomas approached the Eureka Stockade and a battle ensued. The ramshackle army of miners was hopelessly outclassed by the well-trained military regiment and was routed in about 10 minutes. But it is his actions during that 10 minute battle for which Samuel ought to be legend; for it was he who hid Lalor, arm shattered by musketshot, under a pile of timbers. Samuel then somehow managed to stay nearby undetected while the victors removed the dead from the stockade. He could see blood trickling from beneath the pile of slabs where he had Lalor hid; but while soldiers, keen to capture Lalor were still in the stockade, Samuel dared not make a move. That is, until the last of soldiers had left. Then he quickly stepped back into the fray and smuggled Lalor away, put him on a horse, and sent him off to eventual safety.

Now, I’m not here to pretend that it was an easy escape for Lalor. We all know well that over the following weeks he had to survive several near captures and undergo two amputations before he would be truly free; but the fact remains that, without my grandfather, Samuel Moore, he never would have survived the stockade. Without my grandfather, Samuel Moore, the near 50 year trudge to independence that followed would have surely been without one of its most passionate and influential leaders. For the lucky Moore from Kilmarnock it was just one of a hundred such times during which he tempted fate and won. If only my own father had just one tenth of his father’s good fortune my early life would have been quite different indeed. Then again, perhaps luck, like many other genetic traits, tends from time to time to skip a generation.