Becoming a priest turned out to be considerably easier than I had expected.
Staying one was easier still.
This came as something of a relief because, as previously discussed, I had never been burdened by ambition. Ambition requires effort, planning and, in extreme cases, getting up before nine.
St Generic Brand suited me perfectly.
I had a house. I had food. There were people who knew how to cook the food. I had somewhere to sleep and, once a week, I had to stand in front of a group of people and say generally pleasant things about being nice to one another.
God hardly entered into it.
[Author: He’s still an atheist.]
[Sandy: I know.]
[Author: Just checking.]
The church was run by Bishop Veri Bent, universally known as the Bish, although not usually while he was within earshot unless you wanted to spend the following week helping Billy unblock the drains.
Veri was an unusual churchman.
He believed the best way to help poor people was to help poor people.
This radical theology had prevented him from rising much further in the Church.
Every Monday morning at eleven we held the St Generic Brand staff meeting under a large marquee behind the church. Eleven suited Veri because it gave him sufficient time to wake up, read the paper, drink several coffees, apply a nicotine patch, have a bath, eat breakfast and contemplate whether attending his own meeting was absolutely necessary.
Billy, on the other hand, had been awake since dawn.
There was something wrong with Billy.
At one end of the table sat Bishop Veri Bent.
At the other sat Sister Horribleness.
The rest of us sat wherever survival seemed most likely.
Sister Horribleness was a woman of formidable faith, formidable dimensions and formidable hearing. She could detect a whispered obscenity through two brick walls and a lawnmower.
I once suspected she could hear thoughts.
I stopped having them around her.
On this particular Monday I made the mistake of muttering something while she was speaking.
Her head turned slowly.
“Did you have something to say, Father O’Way?”
“No, Sister.”
“You appeared to be speaking.”
“I was praying.”
“You don’t pray.”
Bugger.
She knew me too well.
“Would you care to address the chair?”
I looked at my chair.
The chair offered nothing.
It was wooden, unsympathetic and, judging by previous meetings, probably outranked me.
“No, Sister. Thank you, Sister.”
There. I had stood my ground.
Firmly.
Silently.
While retreating.
It is a skill.
People sometimes mistake cowardice for weakness. This is unfair. Cowardice has kept me alive through situations that bravery would have made considerably worse.
Veri cleared his throat.
“All right, troops. Jobs for the week.”
This was the part of St Generic Brand I actually liked.
We didn’t spend much time saving souls. Souls, as Veri once explained, were difficult to locate and impossible to invoice.
People were easier.
Someone needed food, we found food.
Someone needed somewhere to sleep, we found somewhere to sleep.
Someone was lonely, we visited them.
Someone needed a wheelchair ramp, Billy built one, usually stronger than the building it was attached to.
Proselytising was discouraged.
“You can give a bloke a sandwich,” Veri used to say, “without making him listen to a bloody sermon first.”
For a bishop, he had his moments.
That week Billy had been asked to organise access ramps for a centre helping children with disabilities.
I was given a refugee family who needed somewhere to live.
The money came from the congregation.
No television appeal.
No giant cheque.
No photograph of Veri handing the cheque over while looking concerned.
People put money in. People needed help. The money went out.
It was almost as though religion could work if you removed most of the religion.
[Author: Careful, Sandy.]
[Sandy: What?]
[Author: You’re becoming sincere.]
[Sandy: Sorry.]
Services were held every Sunday, except for two particularly sacred occasions during the year when St Generic Brand closed completely.
One was around New Year.
The other was Good Easter Day.
I never understood why it was called Good Easter Day, but Veri insisted this was because the staff had worked hard all year and deserved a day off.
There may have been a theological explanation as well.
Nobody asked for it.
The rest of the staff were mostly women.
This was another unexpected advantage of my calling.
[Author: Sandy.]
[Sandy: I’m just establishing the cast.]
[Author: You were about to establish something.]
[Sandy: I resent the implication.]
There were eight Citizen sisters: Juanita, Jacinta, Melinda, Rosita, Edwina, Sophia, Cassandra and Belinda.
There was also Glenda, although Glenda had escaped the family business and opened an establishment next door called Glenda’s House of Pain.
I never asked exactly what happened inside.
Billy did.
Billy wouldn’t tell me.
He would only stare into the distance and whisper, “Mate.”
The Citizen sisters did most of the things that caused St Generic Brand to function while the male clergy took credit for having a successful organisation.
I say this with some authority because I was one of the male clergy.
Then there was Belinda.
Belinda Citizen.
I had seen her around the place but had not yet actually spoken to her.
This arrangement suited me.
From a distance I was intelligent, articulate and occasionally charming.
At close range, particularly in the presence of an attractive woman, I had the conversational ability of damp carpet.
Belinda was beautiful.
There. I’ve said it.
[Author: You said it twelve times in the original.]
[Sandy: I was younger.]
[Author: You wrote it years later.]
[Sandy: Get out of my brackets.]
She wasn’t beautiful in the way magazines insist women are beautiful. She wasn’t standing under perfect lighting while someone held a reflector under her chin.
She was just… Belinda.
Dark, intelligent eyes. A smile that seemed to arrive a fraction before she did. The sort of face that made you want to think of something clever to say approximately ten seconds after the opportunity had passed.
I watched her walking across the courtyard.
Not staring.
Observing.
Pastorally.
She came towards me.
This was unexpected.
I considered escape.
Too late.
“Hi, Sandy.”
She knew my name.
This was serious.
“Hello.”
Excellent start.
“My name’s Belinda.”
“I know.”
Too enthusiastic.
“I mean, I’ve heard. Your name. Not heard your name speaking. People have said it. Your sisters. Not all at once.”
She smiled.
I considered taking a vow of silence.
“I believe you’ve met most of the family.”
“Yes.”
“Except Glenda?”
I glanced towards the building next door.
A sign in the window read:
GLENDA’S HOUSE OF PAIN BY APPOINTMENT WALK-INS MAY REGRET IT
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
Belinda laughed.
“You might not call it pleasure.”
I liked her immediately.
This was inconvenient.
“Well,” she said, “I’d better get back to work. Nice meeting you, Sandy.”
“Meet to glad you.”
There was a pause.
A very small pause.
But long enough for several civilisations to rise and collapse inside my head.
Then Belinda laughed.
Not at me.
Well, probably at me.
But kindly.
I laughed too.
And just like that, something extraordinary happened.
Nothing.
No choir sang.
No sunlight burst through the clouds.
God did not speak, which was fortunate because I still didn’t believe in Him and the paperwork would have been horrendous.
Belinda simply walked away.
I watched her go.
For pastoral reasons.
[Author: Get on with it.]
[Sandy: I was getting on with it.]
[Author: Very slowly.]
[Sandy: These things take time.]
I didn’t know where it was going.
Not then.
All I knew was that I had somehow become Father Sandy O’Way of St Generic Brand: atheist priest, reluctant social worker, professional coward and, apparently, a man capable of saying “Meet to glad you” to the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
The priesthood had given me a home, three meals a day and very reasonable working hours.
It was now about to complicate my life considerably.
My real name is Alexander Leonard Lyndhurst O’Way, which gives me the initials ALLOW and goes some way towards explaining my lifelong distrust of acronyms.
Not all of it, mind you.
The rest would require several hundred pages, three government inquiries and possibly a diagram.
I was born at the Inner Cyberia Hospital, usually abbreviated to ICH. Children later inserted a T and called it ITCH, on the reasonable grounds that nobody ever went into the place without coming home scratching something.
Inner Cyberia, for those unfamiliar with the geography, lies between Middle Cyberia and Outer Cyberia.
Obviously.
I arrived during change of shift.
This was my first mistake.
Nurses, administrators, doctors and probably air-traffic controllers dislike anything happening during handover because everyone is simultaneously responsible for everything and therefore nobody is responsible for anything.
Somewhere in this delicate administrative interval I was given to the wrong family.
The Wong family.
This distinction would become important.
Walter and Mavis Wong had also been expecting a child and, as far as anyone could determine afterwards, Inner Cyberia Hospital simply issued one baby to each family and called the matter completed.
The Wongs took me home.
The O’Ways took somebody else.
Nobody noticed immediately because babies are hopeless at identification.
I spent the first part of my life as a Wong.
Walter Wong was a watchmaker and a man of ideas, many of which were considered dangerous because they had not already occurred to somebody important.
Across the front of his shop, in letters large enough to be read from Middle Cyberia, were the words:
WALTER WONG’S WATCHES
Below this, in even larger letters:
WWW
Walter was extremely proud of that.
“One day, Nick, this will all be yours.”
Nick was me.
Why I was Nick has been lost to history.
Walter had also developed an interest in computers, although computers in those days were approximately the size of Tasmania and required their own weather system.
One evening over dinner he announced that one day computers would communicate with each other through telephone lines.
People stopped eating.
Walter continued.
The information, he explained, could be broken into little packets, sent separately and reconstructed at the other end.
There was silence.
An uncle eventually put down his chopsticks.
“Walter,” he said gently, “have you considered getting some rest?”
Walter had not.
The following week several serious men visited him and suggested that perhaps he was working too hard.
History later vindicated Walter, although by then somebody else had pinched WWW.
He remained bitter about it.
My life with the Wongs revolved around Walter’s watches, Mavis’s kitchen and food that I would later remember with considerable affection: fish, rice, vegetables, soups and things that tasted of ginger, garlic and ingredients nobody at the O’Way house had ever met.
Then the Pleece arrived.
The Pleece are similar to police except their spelling was determined during an industrial dispute.
A constable stood at the Wong family door with a clipboard.
“Mavis Wong?”
“Yes?”
“There has been an error at Inner Cyberia Hospital. You appear to have brought home the wrong child.”
Mavis frowned.
“The Wong child?”
“No. The wrong child.”
“Yes. Wong.”
“No. Wrong.”
“That what I say.”
“No, Mrs Wong. W-R-O-N-G.”
“W-O-N-G.”
The constable looked at his clipboard.
The clipboard offered no assistance.
A sergeant was called.
Then an inspector.
The inspector eventually determined that the Wongs had the O’Way baby and the O’Ways had the Wong baby, which meant that both families had the wrong baby although only one of them had the Wong baby.
The paperwork became formidable.
[A note for the reader: occasionally the author and I disagree about how this story should be told. Those conversations appear in square brackets. I would prefer they didn’t. — Sandy]
[Author: Sandy, are we going to need a diagram here? Sandy: Probably. Author: We don’t have a diagram. Sandy: Then tell them to concentrate.]
Eventually I was delivered to John and Olive O’Way.
John was a Traffic Control Officer with the Main Roads Department.
A lollipop man.
Olive was a farmer’s daughter.
They were poor, kind and utterly bewildered by the small child who had suddenly arrived with opinions about rice.
Dinner changed.
Fish and rice became lamb and potatoes.
The first plate of roast lamb placed in front of me was regarded by the O’Ways as normal food and by me as evidence that something catastrophic had occurred.
There were peas.
The peas had been boiled long enough to remove any possibility of resistance.
Potatoes came in several forms, although all of them ultimately involved potatoes.
It took time.
Culture does.
The adults regarded the baby exchange as a mistake that had now been corrected.
For the children it was more complicated.
I had already belonged somewhere else.
Fortunately, something rather good came out of the whole mess.
The Wongs and the O’Ways became friends.
Walter and John would sit for hours arguing about politics, technology, roadworks and whether a watch that gained three minutes a week was still technically a watch.
Mavis and Olive exchanged recipes.
So fish and rice returned.
Lamb and potatoes travelled in the opposite direction.
For a while I had two families.
Then Walter was offered a job in Outer Cyberia.
It involved attempting to put an egg back together after it had fallen from a wall.
He said the government money was excellent.
The Wongs moved away.
Outer Cyberia is a long way from Inner Cyberia.
Not merely a long way.
A long way, followed by another long way, and then a bit more long way for administrative purposes.
I missed them.
Children are supposed to adapt.
Adults say this because adults are usually the ones causing whatever children are adapting to.
School began soon afterwards.
Mum broke the news.
“You start Monday.”
“Oh.”
“You’ll like it.”
This turned out to be false.
“What happens Tuesday?”
“You go back.”
That seemed vindictive.
School interfered badly with my education.
I wanted to build things.
Circuit boards fascinated me. Radios fascinated me. Machines fascinated me. I wanted to build a robot in Dad’s shed.
Instead I was required to sit in rows while adults explained things I either already knew or had no intention of ever needing.
Then Billy Bishop arrived.
William Bishop officially.
Billy immediately.
We became mates because neither of us required much convincing that the best use of a summer afternoon was cricket.
We played cricket.
Football.
Soccer.
Anything involving a ball, a patch of ground and the possibility of somebody’s window being broken.
Billy was better at fighting than I was.
This was useful because I had already discovered an important principle which would guide me throughout adult life:
Confrontation should be avoided wherever possible.
Preferably by somebody else confronting it.
I was good at running.
Billy was good at convincing the person chasing us that further pursuit might result in dental expenses.
Between us we formed an efficient social unit.
Around 1966 something strange happened.
I remember a Mintie wrapper.
At least I think I do.
A station wagon went past. Somebody let a wrapper fly from the window and I picked it up.
What followed is less reliable.
There may have been a public meeting.
There may have been a protest.
There may have been signs demanding biodegradable Mintie wrappers.
I have a vague memory of thousands of people, riot police and possibly a tank, which seems excessive for confectionery packaging even by Inner Cyberian standards.
Then there was a cloud.
And a man.
A peculiar man wearing an English flat cap.
“Listen up,” he said.
I remember the name Gordon.
Gordon O’Donnell.
G.O.D.
Another bloody acronym.
His clothes were ordinary, his flat cap was ordinary, and he looked like a man who might have difficulty finding enough change for the bus.
Years later I discovered Gordon could have bought the bus company.
And the bank that financed it.
And, technically, the money.
He told us impossible things.
Computers would become small enough to carry.
They would communicate with each other.
A man would walk on the moon.
Someone would eventually discover the answer to life, the universe and everything but have considerable difficulty establishing what the question was.
Then Gordon said he was going to make us forget the entire incident.
After that my memory stops.
Which rather supports his case.
For years afterwards I occasionally dreamed about a man in a flat cap.
I never thought much about it.
There are some things the human mind sensibly files under Not My Problem.
I have always had a very large folder.
Billy and I survived school until the Orange Incident.
We had decided to steal some oranges from a local orchard.
I wish to emphasise that these were oranges.
Not diamonds.
Not plutonium.
Oranges.
Inner Cyberia, however, has always taken citrus crime seriously.
We climbed the fence and filled our shirts.
The owner appeared carrying what I later learned was an Anti-Orange-Stealing Device.
An AK-47.
He demonstrated its operation.
We ran.
There is an old expression about being caught between a rock and a hard place.
When somebody is firing an AK-47 in your direction, both the rock and the hard place become attractive housing options.
The Pleece arrived.
For once I was delighted to see them.
They prevented the orchardist from improving his aim and arrested Billy and me instead.
Stealing oranges, we discovered, was a serious offence.
Tax evasion merely required a better accountant.
Orange theft meant reform school.
We were sentenced to the Sow End High School for Boys with Criminal Records.
SEHSBCR.
I tried making an acronym from it and suffered a nosebleed.
Sow End contained some frightening people.
There were boys who could solve a Rubik’s Cube in seconds.
Boys who could use calculators without reading the instructions.
One could recite pi to twenty-five decimal places.
Billy knew karate.
I knew where somebody had left a four-by-two.
Eventually a peaceful understanding developed.
School at Sow End was mostly endurance.
Billy and I stayed together.
At first Mum visited.
Then visits became letters.
Then the letters became less frequent.
Eventually I received one that appeared to have been generated by a machine.
Dear {Insert Name Here},
We have had to let your room. Unfortunately you will not be able to return home after completing school. We all miss you {Insert Name Here}.
Mum
I read it twice.
Then a third time in case my name had appeared while I wasn’t looking.
It hadn’t.
Billy sat beside me.
“What are you going to do?”
“Cross them off the Christmas card list.”
“You don’t send Christmas cards.”
“Good. Saves time.”
It hurt.
I’m not going to pretend it didn’t.
But humour is useful when there isn’t much else available.
In our final year at Sow End, Father Veritas Bent came to speak to us.
Veri Bent.
Of course he was.
He represented the Church of St Generic Brand.
Attendance was compulsory.
The alternative was afternoon work detail, so naturally the auditorium was packed with deeply committed young theologians.
Father Veri explained that St Generic Brand was unusual.
All were welcome.
People could believe in God.
Or not.
They could belong to different religions.
Or none.
There was one important rule.
No proselytising.
“What’s proselytising?” Billy whispered.
“No idea.”
“Sounds painful.”
Father Veri continued.
The church’s work was simple.
Feed people.
Help people.
Provide shelter where possible.
Try not to be a bastard.
I looked at Billy.
Billy looked at me.
Neither of us believed in God.
That had never been particularly complicated.
If God existed, I reasoned, my football team would have won more often.
Case closed.
After the lecture Billy was thoughtful.
“I might do that.”
“Do what?”
“Become a priest.”
I laughed.
Billy didn’t.
“Think about it. They give you somewhere to live.”
I stopped laughing.
“Go on.”
“Food.”
“Interesting.”
“Regular meals.”
“Very interesting.”
“You wear a funny outfit and listen to people’s problems.”
“Any heavy lifting?”
“Probably not.”
Billy Bishop had found religion.
Not God.
Religion.
There is a difference.
A few weeks later Billy left for St Generic Brand.
I didn’t.
When Sow End finally released me into society, society immediately demanded to know what skills I possessed.
I could play cricket.
I could solder.
I had some unfinished ideas about robots.
I could run remarkably fast when being shot at.
None of these were currently advertised.
Eventually I obtained employment in a wing-nut factory.
The work demanded peak physical fitness, high intelligence and exceptional dexterity.
Fortunately none of these were actually checked.
The process consisted of putting a wing together with a nut and pressing a button.
A wing nut emerged.
Civilisation continued.
I boarded at Madame La SpaghettiBolognaise’s Commorancy, not far from the Window Dresser’s Arms Pig and Whistle, generally known as the Pig’s Arms because nobody could be bothered saying the rest.
Madame was magnificent.
You could tell the day of the week from the sauce.
Monday might be garlic.
Tuesday chilli.
Wednesday mushroom.
Sunday was roast chicken.
She took our wages and returned a small portion as spending money, an arrangement she described as teaching financial responsibility.
Looking back, I think it mostly taught Madame La SpaghettiBolognaise financial responsibility.
Still, I had a bed.
I had food.
I had work.
And I was miserable.
In the afternoons I would kick a football around the park and think about the robot I had never finished.
One afternoon a priest walked towards me.
I prepared to escape.
Then he grinned.
Billy.
He looked healthy.
More than healthy.
He looked well fed.
This made a considerable impression.
“Sandy!”
“Billy!”
We hugged.
I stood back and examined him.
The cassock looked ridiculous.
The grin did not.
“You look happy.”
“I am.”
This was suspicious.
Billy invited me to St Generic Brand the following Sunday.
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Neither do I.”
“You’re a priest.”
“Yes.”
“That seems like a significant administrative error.”
“You’ll fit right in.”
On Sunday morning I walked towards St Generic Brand expecting stained glass, threats of eternal damnation and possibly a collection plate.
The building surprised me.
It was old but beautifully restored.
People were arriving from everywhere.
Different clothes.
Different ages.
Different backgrounds.
Some entered one room.
Others another.
There were spaces set aside for different faiths and quiet spaces for people who simply wanted somewhere to sit and think.
Nobody seemed interested in converting anybody.
I found Billy at the gate.
“So what exactly do you people believe?”
Billy shrugged.
“Depends who you ask.”
“That doesn’t sound very organised.”
“That’s why it works.”
He showed me around.
Later everyone gathered beneath a large marquee.
Tables filled with food.
For one glorious moment I thought this was the priesthood’s famous catering package.
Then buses arrived from St Porcine Nursing Home.
Another vehicle had been driving the streets offering homeless people a shower, clean clothes and a meal.
They ate first.
We served them.
An old bloke wanted tea.
A woman from the nursing home wanted another slice of cake and informed me that at her age dietary advice could go to hell.
A man who had been sleeping rough asked whether there was any more roast lamb.
There was.
I gave him plenty.
For some reason I thought about fish and rice.
Then lamb and potatoes.
Mavis and Olive exchanging recipes.
Two families arguing over a baby until eventually deciding there was enough room for everybody.
Something clicked.
Not God.
Let’s not get carried away.
But something.
[Author: Sandy, this is getting dangerously sincere. Sandy: I know. Author: Want me to put in a fart joke? Sandy: Give it another paragraph.]
Billy found me stacking plates.
“You enjoyed today.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Don’t get excited.”
“You did.”
“All right. Yes.”
“Veri wants to meet you.”
Father Veritas Bent had recently been promoted.
That created a vacancy.
Apparently St Generic Brand required another kind-hearted young man.
There had obviously been a shortage of applicants.
Veri explained the position.
Accommodation.
Meals.
A small allowance.
Community work.
Listening to people.
Helping where possible.
There was even a housekeeper.
I considered the theological implications very carefully.
“How firm is the God requirement?”
Veri smiled.
“Believe whatever you like. Just don’t force it on anyone else.”
“And the job?”
“Feed people who are hungry. Help people who need help. Try to leave things a little better than you found them.”
This seemed dangerously reasonable.
“What about sermons?”
“Keep them short.”
“I think I may have a calling.”
Billy coughed.
“You have a housing problem.”
“Sometimes the Lord moves in practical ways.”
“You don’t believe in the Lord.”
“Then he’s exceeded expectations.”
And that, more or less, is how Alexander Leonard Lyndhurst O’Way — Sandy to his friends — became Father O’Way of the Church of St Generic Brand, Inner Cyberia.
I still didn’t believe in God.
I did believe in lunch.
I believed that homeless people should be fed.
I believed old people deserved another slice of cake if they bloody well wanted one.
I believed that nobody should be bullied into believing anything.
And I believed that a job providing a house, meals and a housekeeper was considerably better than making wing nuts.
It wasn’t much of a theology.
But it was a start.
Years later Billy Bishop would climb the ecclesiastical ladder and become Bishop Bishop.
I would remain where I was perfectly comfortable.
Until the Bish discovered that the Pig’s Arms needed a foreign correspondent.
And somebody remembered I owned a passport.
My first assignment was Kerobokan.
That was when things really began to go wrong.
Although somewhere, in a part of my memory I could never quite reach, a peculiar man in a flat cap was already waiting for me.
Okay. So I have had this plot running through my head for a while however I am going through writer’s block again, so I asked Chatbot to write a short story given this framework. I asked it to write a short humorous story with less than 1500 words.
Okay. There is a guy sipping beers in a pub, the Pigs Arms. His name is Sandy. Sandy is feeling reflective about life when another man called Gordon approaches him to state that the toilet is broken. The barman is Merv. Merv cannot find a toilet fixer in the phone book, so they decide to form a committee. The committee recommends a Royal Commission. The Royal Commission concludes that they need a plumber. The time frame is around 2 years.
This is the result.
Sandy was sitting in the Pigs Arms pub, sipping on a cold beer and feeling a little bit reflective about life. He was pondering the choices he had made and the paths that he had taken.
Just as he was getting lost in thought, a man approached him and interrupted his solitude. The man introduced himself as Gordon and stated that there was a problem with the toilet in the pub.
Sandy was momentarily taken aback. He had never considered the possibility that the toilet in the pub could be broken. He looked around the bar and saw that no one else seemed to be too concerned, so he decided to take matters into his own hands.
He walked over to the barman, Merv, and asked if there was anything that could be done about the broken toilet. Merv looked at Sandy as if he were crazy and explained that he couldn’t just wave a magic wand and make the toilet work again.
Sandy suggested that they form a committee to address the problem, and Merv reluctantly agreed. They gathered a group of patrons from the bar and formed a committee to discuss the best course of action.
After much discussion, the committee came to the conclusion that a Royal Commission was needed to address the broken toilet issue. Merv was skeptical, but the rest of the patrons seemed to think it was a good idea, so he agreed.
The Royal Commission was formed and meetings were held on a weekly basis to discuss the progress of the investigation. After several months of meetings, the Commission finally came to a conclusion: they needed to find a plumber.
Merv tried to find a plumber in the phone book but to no avail. He tried searching online, but all of the plumbers seemed to be fully booked. The Commission was at a loss.
Just when they thought all hope was lost, a plumber walked into the pub and offered his services. He had heard about the Royal Commission and wanted to help.
The plumber fixed the toilet in a matter of minutes, and everyone in the pub was overjoyed. Merv breathed a sigh of relief and Sandy felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
The Commission disbanded, and everyone went back to their regular lives. Sandy continued to sip on his beer, but now he was feeling a little bit more content with life. He had been part of something bigger than himself, and it felt good.
Two years later, Sandy was back in the Pigs Arms, sipping on a beer and feeling reflective once again. He looked around the bar and saw that the toilet was still working, and he couldn’t help but smile. He had been part of a team that had solved a problem and brought happiness to the community. And that was a feeling that he would never forget.
Foodge’s nightmares continued unabated. Every night, between three and four Granny would be woken by his thrashing and groaning. It was always the same dream; Foodge’s disembodied head in a box. Every time Granny gleaned little bits of additional information before Foodge slipped back to a slumber punctuated by snores, coughs, obstructive episodes and loud farts. Sometimes Foodge replied in Spanish. Occasionally he’d stand up and try to micturate behind the tall boy. One time he was as randy as all hell, but every time he had no memory the next morning. Granny spent the hours between Foodge’s dream and dawn pondering the meaning of these dreams.
……………………………………………….
Foodge has a dream…
Foodge has experienced a reasonable day, that is, until Father O’Way arrived in a pretty summer dress with his hair tumbling over his shoulders and his old navy tattoos on display for all to see. “Call me Mother O’Way!” He gushed.
“Mother O’Way!” Merv erupted. “Mother Fucking O’Way…how about Get Outta the Fucking Way?”
“When did this change occur?” Ventured Foodge.
“Yesterday’s episode.” O’Way was coquettishly twirling his longish grey hair between her fingers.
“Christ, talk about one dimensional characters, what about Mrs O’Way?” Merv quickly poured a second glass of Crème de Menthe.
“It’s over, she’s an extreme heterosexual, a homophobe of the highest degree!”
“So she’s available?” Merv rubbed his hands together.
“I don’t care what happens to her.” O’Way sounded quite melodramatic.
“What is the Church’s position on all of this?” Foodge had managed to pry his eyes away from the train wreck known as Mother O’Way, and pour himself a South Seas Island rum.
“The Bishop is way cool with this.” O’Way had located a compact in his purse and was busily caking powder on her nose. “He thinks this turn of events to be rather modern.
“What about Gordon O’Donnell?”
“What about Gordon O’Donnell?” Everyone turned to behold Gordon’s wonderful visage (actually he looked like an old derro).
“Oh, well, your majesty, ah, I mean your honour, um, what are your thoughts on Father O’Way becoming Mother O’Way?’ Foodge stammered.
“I’m the sort of chap who wouldn’t care one way or another, but, when he’s got such a beautiful looking sheila, and, bear in mind, that it took me months to get this pair together, and, the fact that he’s only doing this for dramatic effect…I don’t approve!”
O’Way was crestfallen. “What do I do now?”
Gordon put a comforting arm around the Father’s broad shoulders. “The missus hasn’t seen you like this?”
O’Way shook his head.
“Let’s keep it our little secret. Perhaps you can frock up when she’s on a weekend away?” Gordon looked around the bar. “It is our little secret! Know what I mean.”
Merv and Foodge nodded enthusiastically, not wanting a bolt of lightning through their skulls.
“I’ll have a word with the Bishop, if he’ll listen to me.” Gordon had a twinkle in his eye.
The Bish arrived with attitude. The good Bish (there are some very bad Bishes) had been a supplicant for a semester at a mind re-training boot camp conducted in the Southern Highlands by the Society for the Restoration of All Bishops of Any Sin. FOW*, still. after all these years resident in the Manse over the road from the Pig’s Arms** carpark had some advantages as a host of his, or her, re-emergence. More important to the Bish than anything was no longer being of a fixed mindset about his, or her, personal gender or about anything at all. If anything, FOW was the perfect host. He was laid back.
The Bish greeted his friend, Sandy O’Way with gushing warmth.
“Mother O’Way, away wit’ y’ lookin’ so bonny.”
Sandy, or as we like to address him on formal occasions, FOW, hesitated.
“I’ll need to put down the suitcases, Bish.’
The suitcases dispensed with at the bottom of the staircase, FOW waited for the onrush of shock into his consciousness to subside. Being seized and hugged in an instant by the Bish was unexpected, nay unaccustomed. He picked up the suitcases again, his two hands firmly gripped on them as if on reality. The Bish filled him in as they walked up the staircase to the upper storey side by side
The Bish had seen where inconsistencies in the mortal and moral fabric tethered him, or her to the old ways in entire indifference to caring. In bondage, the Bish explicated. He waved his hands free of imagined shackles.
“We’re all good then.”
FOW wanted it to be inferred he would be Mother O’Way, MOW if necessary were it required of him. What’s in a name.
“Never been better,” the Bish punched with his fists into the very air.
“I’ll check your prescriptions. Seen Gordy*** lately?”
“Don’t forget Gord, Sandy.” Tears of beatitude and plenitude, rectitude I suspect, gratitude rolled down the face of the Bish. They splashed onto the gold heraldic design on the carpet on the staircase.
*Father O’Way
**Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle
***Gordy O’Donnell, nuclear and unplugged physicist of all things indeterminable in the Cyberverse.
The Bish is excited. The Bish is having an episode. The good Father O’Way is excited. The staff at Glenda’s Waxing are excited. The Bish has not attended one of FOW’s At Homes for a good while so we are all excited his Uber turned up at the Manse front gate. One of FOW’s specialties is a rousing ‘At Home’.
FOW’s not above inviting a good dance troupe to perform either on the Manse lawn. He has asked the PA’s Morris Dancers. They have showed good form over the years.
Myself I have never heard of any of them. When I suggest I think they have danced off and away to Morris Dancers’ Dance Heaven in the sky (perhaps that is a bit long winded ha! ha! ha! hiccup!), the Bish scoffs.
“Bollocks, Christina!”
I am of a mind to write him out of this one. I keep a cap on it. I see the juxtaposition as well of the sweary word and my name, my real name, sounds with unexpected resonance.
“This is an opportunity sent from…”
“Shut up,” the Bish demands, interrupts says it mildly, “Shut up.”
He’s not happy I think the Morris Dancers are no more.
Someone dropped their hanky
“No more, the derry-o,” I sing to keep things on the up and up, cheerful.
“We never know who anybody really is,” the Bish opines.
FOW* is mopping the porch. No-one pays him attention. Nobody there.
“I’ll say it anyway.”
Nobody knows what it was. A raucous noise of a band in the Pig’s Arms Sylvia Plath Memorial ballroom sets up. It disappears like a wisp of a fanfare of a concerto.
On the other side of the car park, Merv walking through the Sports Bar is himself in explication with himself.
“She’s not here.”
Where ‘she’ isn’t or wasn’t depends on where in time you want to go with this, let me interrupt and explicate. I’ll do that sometimes. It’s knowing everything that causes everything. Merv was in the cellar of this infamous address, destination of drinkers and jokers all, place of the people, the Window Dresser’s Arms, Pig and Whistle. He’s risen up the cellar stairs to walk through the Sports Bar. FOW is mopping the floor of the entrance hall of the Manse, but not out of mind. Out of frame.
“I know perfectly well she’s not here.”
Merv is confident. Granny had left the building. Merv had watched Granny’s curvaceous arse gyrate and manipulate its way around and between the Sports Bar tables and chairs and it exit.
Emmjay is calling down into the stair well. It’s his pub. He does as he chooses. Merv careens out of reverie.
“Yes? What do you want, Emm?” Merv calls back from the Sports Bar.
“Merv, did you tell the Flamin’ Crows they could practice in the Ballroom this morning?”
“Don’t know anything about that.”
Of course he doesn’t. He didn’t know I was going to write them in. Viewpoint is everything. The soundscape is deafening. The crescendo is only bettered by the rate of debris falling from the rafters. Chook waste. Dried chook excreta. Chook feathers.
Merv and Emmjay step out into the car park for a breath of morning air unadulterated with reminder the rafters were never mucked out after the last chook was despatched to the WDAPW** Sports Bar counter menu. The sun is risen in a blaze of glory. FOW is at the gate of the Manse directly opposite. A Cyberverse taxi driver is at the Manse gate emptying luggage out of the boot of a Cyberverse taxi. The Bish is back in town.
Foodge was stood at his station behind the coffee machine. He was in a pensive mood (No he wasn’t, he was just plain embarrassed). Sorry, (Thanks Mark) he was just plain embarrassed after having to piss in the sluice behind the bar. Of course, Foodge’s idea if micturating in the sluice involved piss going everywhere, especially with an over-distended bladder. “Thanks, Father O’Way, for cleaning up yesterday.”
“No worries, I suppose you mentally lapsed back to those days of micturating through the ship’s railing.” FOW, as he liked to be called, was struggling with a leaking tap. It seemed like a cellarman’s job. “O’Hoo, are you there?”
“Yeah.” Came a muffled voice from the cellar.
“Leaking tap on Bitter, can you have a look?”
“Yep.” O’Hoo was trying to keep a low profile in view of the mad rooting in the store room incident.
“What ship?” Foodge had some vague idea about being on a ship but somehow his brain was stopping him from remembering. “Not the Wasted Seamen?”
“Where did you hear that name?” It was FOW’s turn to be pensive, or was it wary?
“It went down last week with three passengers missing, three Australian blokes.”
FOW realised that he had said too much. “Perhaps I heard it on the news. How about a pint?” FOW pushed a canoe in Foodge’s direction.
………………………………..
Merv needs to get dressed…
Merv realised that he had slept in. He tried to get up but his balls ached and his arm seemed to be trapped. He was spooning the most delightful creature he’d ever seen. Like a fitness model she had delts like boulders, traps like the hind leg of an ox and muscular striations that Mr Schwarzenegger would die for. He gently nuzzled her ear. “Mon Cheri.”
…………………………….
Janet puts on the death stare…
Foodge heard the back door slam. Looking around he was face to face with Merv’s ex, Janet. Where is he?” She spluttered.
“Who would that be?” Foodge answered.
“Who dya think!”
FOW stepped in. “Now there’s no need to get excited dear.” In his most ministerial voice.
“Shuddup Padre. Where is he?”
FOW and O’Hoo avoided looking at her. Foodge couldn’t help himself and nervously glanced up at the ceiling.
“Still in bed, the lazy great oaf.” Janet sprinted up the Memorial Kristina Kennealy staircase.
Foodge tried to ring Merv, suddenly realising that Merv didn’t own a mobile. It was too late; the sound of thumping on Merv’s bedroom door resonated through the building.
Janet burst through the door. “Get up you lazy…what, I’ve been gone five days and you’re already playing hide the salami…whoozat?”
Mervette awkwardly tried to cover all of her bits. “Merv, you told me you were well and truly divorced. Five days? Separated five days. That’s barely a holiday!”
“So, who’s this, Merv, yer twin sister?” Janet was shaking with anger.
“No, wait…why…we’re nothing alike.” Now Merv was discombobulated.
“She looks like you with a sex change.” Granny, Foodge, FOW and O’Hoo all nodded in agreement. Gordon only knows what they were all doing in there.
Mervette spoke up. “I think I can explain it. Merv, did you ever donate tissue for cloning experiments?”
“Well, Advanced Hair paid me a thousand bucks for some hair follicles to clone for baldy headed blokes, but that was over thirty years ago.”
“What do you think happened to that tissue?”
“I assumed they made hair out of it!”
“Well, they did, but they also made me.”
“Hang on, if they made a human, why didn’t they publish, or sell the technology to make human organs and medical treatments.” Big M interjected. He’d been sleeping in the bar since the last episode.
“Shut up, Big M.” Yelled Mark. How he got into the story, no one knows. “Let ‘em tell the story.
“You’re female, you can’t be a clone!” Merv’s head hurt.
“They developed a technique to convert the cells into female cells by substituting X for Y, because women are less likely to become bald. They left some cells dividing and they became me. I am your female clone!”
“So you’ve been having an affair with yourself. I’ve heard of dedicated Onanists, but you absolutely take the cake” Janet seemed to make sense. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you go and fuck yourself?”
It had been a busy morning, what with the Night Nurses enjoying their first post lock down get together. It all went swimmingly until Big M knocked over a bottle of Shiraz, which managed to contaminate everybody’s uniforms. He had no excuse for the sudden lack of balance; he was only five pints in. Mark managed to steer him towards the door. “It’s orright, I’m ketchin’ the 3801” Big M slurred.
“That’s right, buddy, just wait for that big steam engine to pull up, then you’ll be on yer way.” Mark soothed as he dumped Big M onto the bus stop seat.
Foodge had been at the coffee machine all morning. He was desperate for a piss, I mean, micturition, so turned to ask Merv or Mervette to man the coffees. He suddenly realised he was alone, with a group of thirsty concreters bearing down on the bar. “Manne, Granny, O’Hoo, anybody??”
“O’Hoo popped his head around the corner. “What’s all of the yelling about?”
“Mate, I’ve been abandoned with a phalanx of thirsty tradesmen bearing down on me.”
“Well, you know that I can’t pull a pint!” O’Hoo tried to stand his ground but the concreters had made it to the bar. “Oh, fuck.” O’Hoo started pulling Trotters Best, all half beer and half foam.
A fresh beer Merv and make it snappy as a crocodile sandwich!
“We aint payin’ for this shit.”
“All on the house.” Mumbled O’Hoo.
Thankfully Granny arrived on the scene. “What in the name of Gordon O’Donnell are you doing?”
“Tryin’ to help.” Muttered O’Hoo as he passed another half arsed pint across the bar.
Granny slipped behind the bar to expertly pour a couple of pints. “Okay youz blokes, happy hour is over so there’s no more free piss.” She quickly checked each tap. “O’Hoo, IPA and Stout need to be replaced, oh, and by the way, thanks for stepping in.”
O’Hoo raced to the cellar, where he was most at home. Foodge tugged on Granny’s sleave. “I’m desperate for a wee wee.”
“Hold onto yer water works for a minute. Where the bloody hell is that barmaid I’m payin’”
“Well, um, you can probably hear her.” Foodge was either going to have to hold onto his knob or micturated in the sluice.”
From the back of the pub. “Merv!”
“Merv!”
“Merv!”
“Merv!”
“Merv!”
“Merv!”
“Merv!”
“Merv!”
Granny located the source of the noise and tore open the storeroom door. She was horrified by the sight of a shaved, four legged, gorilla. She suddenly realised it was Merv and Mervette butt naked enjoying a conjugal visit. She was so angry she could barely speak. “Pull yer fuckin’ pants up and get outta my sight!”
Granny wandered back to the bar. “Are you still desperate for a Jimmy Riddle, Darling?” The sight of her lover had calmed her somewhat.
“Not now.” Foodge answered guiltily.
“Oh, Gordon O’Donnell help me.” Pleaded Granny.
“What can I do, dear?” Gordon appeared in the doorway of the Gents, busily trying to pull up his fly.
Wanking is fun…I’m a big wanker
Granny’s eyes misted over as she tried to put her arms around Gordon, but finding nothing but air. “Now, Granny, you know that us supernatural beings don’t like to be touched. I’m aware of the problem and I’ve summoned my best man for the job.
Father O’Way suddenly appeared. “Where shall I start Granny, oh, perhaps I should deal with the smell of piss behind the bar?”
Foodge’s Kerouac ‘Stream of Consciousness’ inspired Container Ship Travel Blog.
05:37 Awoken by distended bladder. Tripped over doorstep and hit head simultaneously. Disorientated so micturated through railing into Mother Ocean. Managed to urinate over dressing gown hem. Returned to bed.
07:00 Ship’s horn announces change of shift. O’Way, Wes and myself tumble out of our bunks, ready for a hearty seamen’s breakfast. We hang back a bit to allow the night shift to eat first.
07:48 The ship’s cook invites us to clear the tables and help with the washing up. These chaps are wonderfully generous with sharing the workload.
08:12 Us three perambulate around the passenger deck. The feel of the ship rolling over the swell is marvellous, especially now that I’ve stopped vomiting!
08:28 Met some other passengers. All colourful characters, replete with tattoos. One even has an eye patch. I asked him if he was a pirate, to which he replied. “Do you want me to cut you?” Such wit, such humour.
10:12 Wandered down to the galley for morning tea. A little disappointed that there was just an urn with tea bags, instant coffee, sugar and no milk!
Some of the crew…
10:37 As we walked back to our cabin we noticed that a smaller ship was quite close, perhaps half a nautical mile away (yes, it’s all nautical miles, knots and fathoms here). A small boat had been lowered into the water and sped towards us. A sailor dropped a rope and the fellows in the small boat tied a large package to it, and sped off. It must have been a surprise for the Captain because the sailor quickly hauled it up and stowed it in a lifeboat. These chaps are full of shenanigans.
11:03 O’Way tells us that he has a migraine and needs to lie down in a darkened room for a few hours. I offered to sit with him, but he claims that my constant talking is causing the headache. Ungrateful!
12:37 Just finished lunch, and again the kitchen team were keen for us to help clean
Turn left, no right…
up. Wes was allowed to use the dish washing machine, while I scoured pots and pans. The Filipino cook kept calling me ‘tulala’, which I take to be a term of affection. He didn’t look very happy when I started calling him tulala!
13:04 Wes and I managed to find the recreation room. The library shelves have very few books in English and the video library seems to be full of romantic comedies, such as, ‘Dallas does Debbie’ and ‘Two Girls, One Cup’. Such silly titles.
14:05 Wes and I were confronted by the same sailor who we had watched stow the package in the lifeboat. He was very excited and shouted in some sort of foreign language. Must have been hard of hearing so I shouted back. “Don’t worry, we won’t say anything about the Captain’s surprise!” He turned and took off towards the prow, or bow, or whatever the sharp end is called. Foreigners do seem to understand much better when one shouts.
16:23 O’Way staggered back out onto the deck. He seemed to look better and put this down to a visit from Gordon O’Donnell, who had blessed him. Wes suggested that if Gordon was such a great bloke, why doesn’t he get us home. “He is! Was the short answer from O’Way.
20:35 After another meal and the galley, and another session of me being called ‘tulala’, we’d decided to take to our bunks early doing crossword and the like until lights out.
Day Two
05:43 Awoken by distended bladder. Tripped over doorstep and hit head simultaneously. Disorientated so micturated through railing into Mother Ocean. Managed to urinate over dressing gown hem. Returned to bed….
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 