Rumoured to be screening late nights in the Nathan Rees Memorial Cinema (upstairs in the Pig’s Arms) ……..

It looks like they’ve cut the image of Kristina Keneally in a hard hat – delivering on core promises …….

Merv’s been having reception problems with the TV in the public bar again.

This time, according to Manne, the Pig’s Arms is channelling the 1960s.

Manne put on the VCR and captured this gem…..

Stick with it and see an evil scientist with  a South African accent and  Lorraine Bayly doing calisthenics !

Scene One: The Mothers all sit watching TV.

Script and Stills bu Neville Cole
MOTHER 1: Ssshhh! Quiet everyone! The show’s about to start. 
MOTHER 2: I always knew my boy would be on tv! 
MOTHER 3: I always knew my boy was a boy…you know, because of his thing.
MOTHER 4: Yes, that’s a dead give away. 
MOTHER 1: Ssshhh! Something’s about to happen. (PAUSE) It looked like something was about to happen. 
MOTHER 2: I certainly hope they don’t embarrass us… 
MOTHER 1: Oh no! I told my boy. No jokes about mothers and no jokes about debilitating diseases. People just don’t find those things funny. 
MOTHER 2: Tourette’s Syndrome is not funny. 
MOTHER 3: Dirty ass wipe snot bugger! 
MOTHER 2: What? 
MOTHER 3: No. Not funny at all…and neither is narcolepsy. 
MOTHER 2: What? 
MOTHER 3 HAS FALLEN ASLEEP. 
MOTHER 4: I’m sure they won’t have any of that in the show. 

'Em some do have mothers

Hare today, goon tomorrow.

MOTHER 4: I think they should do some jokes about those people in the airports. 
MOTHER 2: …with the shaved heads and nose rings and tambourines? 
MOTHER 4: No. those people who put your luggage in the airplane. What are they called? 
MOTHER 1: Oh, they better not make fun of baggage handlers. Those people are fanatics! 
MOTHER 2: Cysts! 
MOTHER 1: What?    
MOTHER 2: Cysts and tumors! Cysts and tumors are not funny! 
MOTHER 1: We’re finished with diseases. 
MOTHER 2: Oh. Sorry. 
MOTHER 3: Puke. 
MOTHER 2: What? 
MOTHER 3: Puke is a very unfunny word. 
MOTHER 2: Oh, no… Not funny at all and neither is nipple. 
MOTHER 4: …nor scrotum, bulbous, buttcheek, nor knockers… 
MOTHER 3: …nor bedpan, booger, bog, nor fisherman…  
MOTHER 2: Fisherman isn’t a funny word at all.  
MOTHER 3: Exactly my point! 
MOTHER 1: Our sons are all good boys. I don’t think we have a thing to worry about.  
MOTHER 2:  Just as long as they never, ever, ever, ever, ever do anything involving full frontal nudity. 
CUT TO: TV SCREEN. SON 2 WALKS ONSCREEN COMPLETELY NAKED AND TRIES DESPERATELY TO TURN FULL FRONTAL TO THE CAMERA WHICH ALWAYS MOVES AT THE LAST MOMENT TO AN ANGLE WHICH OBSCURES THE OBJECT OF MOST INTEREST. 
CUT TO: LIVING ROOM. 
MOTHER 2: Phew! That was close. Oh! Look some thing is finally about to happen! 
CUT TO: THE SONS, AS MOTHERS, PUTTING ON MAKE-UP IN DRESSING ROOM. Son 1 is fluffing hair. Son 2 is applying lipstick. Son 3 is plucking nose hairs. Son 4 hammers a nail into her head – she starts to bleed. 
MOTHER 4: Oh no! I don’t like the looks of this! 
MOTHER 1: I told my son… no jokes about mothers! 
CUT TO: SON 4 notices blood and faints. 
MOTHER 1: This is a terrible show. What else is on? 
MOTHER 2 CHANGES CHANNEL. 
CUT TO: THREE SONS, AS MOTHERS, DRAGGING SON 4/MOTHER 4 OUT OF HOUSE AND STUFFING HIM/HER INTO AN LITTLE OLD CAR. 
CUT TO: DRIVING OFF DOWN THE STREET ALL TALKING AND LAUGHING. SON 4 IS SLUMPED BY WINDOW. 
CUT TO: DRIVING INTO A MEDICAL CENTER TRYING TO FIND OFFICE. ALL YELLING AND POINTING. 
CUT TO DOCTORS OFFICE. DOCTOR LOOKS AT PATIENT. TAKES HER PULSE. TURNS PATIENT OVER. BLOWS ON A RECTAL THERMOMETER. WE HEAR A SQUEAKING SOUND AS THE THERMOMETER IS INSERTED. 
CUT TO SHOTS OF ALL SONS, AS MOTHERS, WAITING ANXIOUSLY… TRYING NOT TO LOOK. 

CUT TO DOCTOR LOOKING AT WATCH. A BEEPING SOUND. WE HEAR A POPPING SOUND AS THE THERMOMETER IS REMOVED. DOCTOR SAYS “AH HA!” PASSES AROUND THERMOMETER WHICH EACH HOLDS GINGERLY AND PASSES ON CONFUSED. DOCTOR GOES TO BAG, PULLS OUT VARIOUS TOOLS OF THE TRADE – FOLLOWED BY A HAMMER. HE TRIES TO PULL OUT THE NAIL UNSUCCESSFULLY. PUTS KNEE ON PATIENT. STILL NO SUCCESS. ENLISTS HELP OF CAST. THEY ALL PUSH, PULL AND STRAIN – SQUEAKING SOUND THEN POP. PATIENT SITS UP QUICKLY.
 
SON 4: (DRESSED AS MOTHER 4) Oh my…I feel like a million bucks 
DOCTOR: That’s good, because you now owe me a million bucks! 
CUT TO: LIVING ROOM.  MOTHERS ALL LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY. 
MOTHER 1: That’s what people want. Good, clean, fun. 
MOTHER 4: …and sing-alongs. 
MOTHER 3: Ooohhh… Sing-alongs are lovely… snatchcrapcrackfartspew! (SHE FALLS ASLEEP AGAIN) 
MOTHER 1: I think I need to go and powder my nose. 

CUT TO MOTHER 1 entering bathroom. She looks around at the various Knick-Knacks, soaps, potpourris, etc. She inspects them intently with great disdain. She opens the medicine cabinet and starts peeking at labels on the jars. We hear her muttering tsk-tsk, etc. and randomly sampling pills. She starts rifling through the vanity and draws inspecting everything. 
MOTHER 2: Are you alright in there, dear? 
CUT TO BATHROOM DOOR FROM OUTSIDE – WE HEAR A TOILET FLUSHING FOLLOWED BY AIR FRESHENER SPRAYING. 
MOTHER 1: Oh yes, I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me. 
CUT TO: INSIDE BATHROOM. MORE AND MORE AND MORE AIR FRESHENER SPRAYED INTO EVERY CONCIEVABLE NOOK AND CRANNY. 
CUT TO: OUTSIDE. MORE SPRAYING. DOOR OPENS MOTHER 1 WALKS OUT SURROUNDED BY A HUGE PLUME OF AIR FRESHIONER. 
CUT TO: MOTHER 1 REENTERING LIVING ROOM. 
MOTHER 1: Have I missed anything? 
MOTHER 2: No. They’re just sitting there again.. 
MOTHER 4: I just hope they don’t stoop to toilet humor… 
MOTHER 1: No. Or dress up in women’s clothing… 
MOTHER 2: Oh, they would do that! That’s disgusting! Is Laurence Welk on, by any chance? 
MOTHER 3: Oh, I do love Laurence Welk. 
MOTHER 4: He can park his accordion under my bed anytime… 
MOTHER 1: I do believe he’s dead, dear. 
MOTHER 4: Oh, I don’t mind about all that! 
MOTHER 2: Ssshhh! I think something is happening. 
MOTHER 3: dirtywipesnot 

The End

Sometimes a mate will send you a little surprise.

I’m happy to pass it on … a different take on an old standard

Stand By Me

Which led me to the Chieftains with Ry Cooder

Hope you enjoy these clips.

Cheers

A sharp joke with a solid ring of truth

With thanks to Crikey for another good chuckle – DO subscribe to their fine E-publications.

Yule come back now

..... Make like an Apeman......

Ladies and Gemmums, for one lifetime only, the Pig’s Arms is proud to present to you,

Theseustoo, with his rendition of  “I’m an Apeman”

DLR Solo I’m an Apeman

Pig's Arms Talent Night Heats Up

….. the story so far ………

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor old Johnny never got a look in after that!

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

……………… Jayell

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

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

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

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

Oh how he loved the machines and artefacts of yesteryear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So it was all set then: …………

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

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