A Place For Us—A melancholy musical episodic intro to the Father O’Way Chronicles
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.
A Place For Us—A melancholy musical episodic intro to the Father O’Way Chronicles
My name is Sandy.
Well, sort of.
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.
Merv and Granny discuss life, the universe and everything.
Written by Big M
“Can I getcher anything, love?” Granny carefully approached Merv who was spread out on the Chesterfield doing leg raises with his crook leg.
“Nah, oh, yeah, some Panadol Osteo, and top up me South Sea Island Scotch, thanks, love” Merv had been doing leg raises religiously, twenty every hour.
“Here you go.” Granny had the capsules in her grubby hand. “Here. Flush it down with this.” As she proffered a generous tumbler of scotch. “Do you think we need to talk about the elephant in the room?”
“Hell yeah, why do you think that dwarves don’t exist?”
“I was wondering about yer interest in dwarves, you seem to know a hell of a lot more
about them than a grown man should!” The old girl was already getting heated up.
We might be small but we still count…
Merv swivelled around and plonked his leg on an Ottoman. “You first, Granny, why don’t you believe in them?”
“Well, they’re like fairies and elves, no one has ever seen them!” Granny stood her ground.
“Yeah, no one’s ever seen fairies and elves, but there’s dwarves everywhere.” Merv took a generous sip. “ There’s an achondroplastic dwarf down the road.”
“What, that little bloke?”
“Yes, he’s an actual dwarf!”
“Yer jokin’!”
“No, he’s married to the florist.”
“What, the big tall streak of misery?”
“Yep.”
“Imagine them in the fart sack!” Granny started to giggle. “Well, what about you bein’ the expert on dwarves?”
“I’m not an expert, I got talking to a few of them when I was a copper. A big bastard was bullying them all, so some of us coppers used casually drop into the café they hung out in, and, we used to chat and learned a bit about them.”
“Is that all? Here was I thinkin’ you had some sort of weird fetish.”
Can’t you see I’m busy…
Merv’s phone rang. “O’Way here, we’re fucked, absolutely fucked. It turns out that DFAT is completely unaware that we’ve left the country, and, as we are acting as agents for a foreign power, we could be charged under foreign incursion legislation.”
“Hold on, hold on, you mean yer there illegally?”
“Yep, we left Australia on a Papal plane, never went through customs or filed a visa. England can regard us as foreign combatants. The MI5 bloke twigged to it. He reckons it was deliberate, to get us to perform some sort of act of aggression on English soil, so become mercenaries.”
“So are the Tykes gonna fly you back?”
“Nah, can’t trust ‘em. We’re boarding a container ship that will get us to Sydney in about forty days. Paid in cash. No questions asked.”
“Where’d you get the reddies?”
“Had ‘em in my briefcase. I never travel anywhere with less than twenty thou
Did you say readies…
American. Been stuck before. American cash does wonders! We’ll be ditching our mobiles, might be able to make a radio call, or something…”
“But what about the paedos?” Merv was hoping for a refill, but Granny didn’t get the hint.
“You wouldn’t believe this. The Tykes were sending us to protect ‘em, not arrest ‘em. I never would have thought in a million years. Is Granny there? Tell her I’ll get Foodge to call her before we ditch these phones.”
Granny was visibly shaken, but still climbed the stairs so she could have one last conversation with her Foodge before the blackout.
“So, Wes, how are you settlin’ into the Old Dart?” Merv drained the glass and motioned to Manne for a refill. “This bloody knee’s still givin’ me curry.”
“Well, I think I’m settling in OK. Walked straight into a job in paediatrics at the local NHS. Of course, havin’ a Federal Pleece paedo check on file didn’t hurt.” Wes polished off the rest of his Yorkshire Pudd, while a very buxom barmaid pushed another pint across the bar.
“Paedo check? If the Federal Pleece can check to see if you’re a paedo, then why don’t they do it for everyone, then round up the paedos and shoot ‘em?” Merv had never heard of such a thing.
The AFP…
“Nah, they just check to see if you’re on any state or Federal pleece data base for anything related to kiddy fiddling. All health care workers, ambos, teachers, volunteers and such forth have to get one.” Wes was wondering what sort of technology was being used to retain so much barmaid bosom in so little blouse.
“Orright, clear as mud.” Merv was thinking that in his day they’d take ‘em out to the bush and shoot ‘em, not put ‘em in a database. “Excellent thinking regarding the paediatric job. I guess that’s where they’d target. Have you had any dealings with Foodge?”
“No, Foodge thought he was onto a paedo ring, so went to Belgium to infiltrate the European Paediatric Society meeting. I think he’s getting paediatricians and paedophiles mixed up.” Wes was getting some promising signals from the buxom one.
“I’ve bloody well explained the differences to ‘im a ‘undred times”. Whoda thought Foodge had been to uni? Merv was propped up on some pillows on the battered old Chesterfield in the Gentleman’s bar. “Any more wedges, Manne?” Manne nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. “What about O’Way?
“O’Way has taken to it like a real private eye. He’s diarised every meeting, catalogued
O’way grows in stature
information, surveillance photos pinned up everywhere, computer logs of recordings. He’s actually having dinner with some high up tyke, a bishop or cardinal or summit.” Now the buxom one was pushing a note across the bar. “How’s everything else going?”
“An agency sent a bloke around because they’d heard that we needed a new character. Dunno his name. Viv reckons Wilma, Hung One On sort of agrees and Big M thought Wilmer sounded more masculine, not that anyone would presume anyone’s gender in this modern world. Granny is pining for Foodge and worried that he might root some European sheila. Manne and O’Hoo are the only one’s workin’, but it’s worrying having a serial masticater or like, Manne in both the kitchen and bar. It’s put me off havin’ sour cream with me wedges.”
Wes couldn’t believe what was in the note. “Ah, oh, we’re breakin’ up…losing the satellite link, feckin’ mobile phone…”
Hello, Merv here or hear, whatever you like. Never been one for correctness. Anyhoo this geeza walks into the bar the other day. This is what happened.
“Gidday mate” replied in my normal friendly but neutral composure.
“Yeah mate, I’m here for the job” says this geeza.
“So what job was that?”
“An exciting new character at the Pigs Arms Hotel. Here, I was sent by the agency, the Fictional Characters Union, all the paper work is here.”
“So, what’s your name then?” being always on the lookout for a scam.
“Um, dunno. They didn’t tell me”
“So you don’t know your name, your from the agency, hmm, so what can you do that’s exciting and new ?”
Never get between Merv and a pie…
“Well, I can play chess, sort of and the ukulele, sort of , oh yes and I once had a piano lesson.”
Things were starting to go downhill.
I decided to ramp up the atmosphere.
“No skydiving, no rodeos, so how exciting does it get. So if you have no name then the Pigs Arms will have to name you” Merv is now ruining a good story.
[Merv we didn’t want that till later. I frigging hate you sometimes]
“How about Neville or Baxter?” says the man with no name.
“Fuck off, something spicy for the viewers like Gonzales or Geoffrey.” Funny thing was that I hate both of those names.
“So, Merv, what is your last name?” says Gonzales or Geoffrey or Neville or Baxter.
I wished I looked this good…
“I don’t have one” says hypocrite Merv. “Wot’s yours?”
“Smith actually”
“So no first name Smith, lets call you Abba Zoodoo” Merv ponderously states.
“Okay from now on my name is Abba Zoodoo Gonzales Geoffrey Smith Neville Baxter ” says Abba. “Fuckin’ happy now.” Gez I hate authors.
“ So Abba Zoodoo Gonzales Geoffrey Smith Neville Baxter getting the word count up with you new name is invaluable, but in your view given this is comedy should have I said knew instead of new? And if I had a last name I would call myself …”
Merv had endured a torrid time with his ‘blown out’ knee. He’d been to the GP, orthopaedic surgeon, MRI, and then physio. He’d hoped that a quick arthroscopy of the knee would fix it, but, no, now it’s all knee brace and physio exercises. Maybe he’d have an arthroscopy when all this fails, he pondered. Just then the phone rang. “Hello Mr Merv.”
“Ah, Foodge, we’re all wondering ‘ow you an’ O’Way were getting’ on in the Old Dart?” Merv bent down to adjust the Velcro on his knee brace.
“Well, it’s all plain sailing over here. I doubt they’ve ever had a paedo here in England, well, except Jimmy Saville and Rolf Harris, and Eric Gill, but he was a famous artist so doesn’t count.” Foodge enthused. “How’s the knee?”
“Painful and tedious. Can’t run or lift. Have to wear a kneebrace and do stupid feckin’
I see the problem with your knee…
exercises. How’s O’Way settling in?” Merv sat heavily into the old Chesterfield.
“I’ll put him on.”
“It’s O’Way here. Can’t talk. Too much going on. Have managed to infiltrate the tykes. They’re a tight bunch. Can’t get a word out of them. Foodge has joined a Gentleman’s Club. He’s hopeless. He’s lapped up all of the usual guff because they have free Scotch and cigars for new members. I’ll pop him back on.”
“Did you hear that? Free Scotch and cigars. How could these folk be harbouring paedos?” Foodge took a drag on a stogie.
“Mate, you don’t think they’re trying to bribe you with cheap booze and tobacco?” Merv took a sip of South Sea Islands Scotch (it seemed to enhance the pain killers).
“No, no-one escapes eagle eyed Foodge. O’Way wants to say something.”
“Merv, O’Way here, Foodge has no idea of what he’s doing. Way out of his depth.The
Oh, book him Danno…
only thing protecting him is his complete ignorance and ineptitude. I think I’m pretty safe, because I haven’t really managed to get anywhere, but Foodge wanders around talking about paedos at the top of his voice. I’m not sure, but I think we’ve been followed a couple of times.” O’Way was nervously twitching the Venetians. “We either need to withdraw or get backup.”
“There’s no-one here we can send.” Merv was secretly pleased that his knee prevented him from helping. “Hey, what about me nephew Wes? He’s built like a brick shit-house, he can fight like a threshing machine, and hasn’t even had a cameo in an episode for years.”
O’Way ruminated for a few minutes. “Yes, Wes, I met him once. Unforgettable. He’s a nurse, isn’t he?”
“Yes, male nurse, can drive just about any vehicle. Used to work in an abattoir, so he’s good with a knife. He’s been to Bali, once, so he’s an international traveller.”
Okay then…
“He sounds like he possesses useful skills, plus we can get him to snoop around some of these London hospitals. Merv, so you feel comfortable with recruitment? Usual deal, Leer jet from Sydney to London. Five thousand pounds a week, plus board. We also provide a very generous hosiery allowance!”
“Granny won’t be what?” Granny (obviously) roared from the landing of the Mary McKillop Memorial Staircase (somehow the naming of things has gone all Catholic).
Foodge looked up and started wringing his plump little hands.” Err, um, ah, um…happy?” Which was hardly a revelation as Granny was rarely happy.
“It was rhetorical!” Granny waved a bony finger at our hero. “Why won’t I be happy?”
“Oh, Christ, I mean, God, I mean Crikey, I’m going to vomit.” Foodge lurched forward, managing to spray his entire stomach contents into the fireplace, which didn’t really help. It’s not like you can burn the stuff.
This time Father O’Way spoke up. “The London trip is being financed by the Vatican, highly sensitive, and they specifically require a single male for the job. When the personal characteristics of the agent were forwarded to me I immediately thought of Foodge. I mean, he’s highly educated, has an encyclopaedic knowledge of criminal law with detective skills that put Holmes to shame. This comes from the Pope himself, with Extreme Unction.” O’Way had no idea what unction was, ordinary or extreme, but thought it added gravitas when working for the tykes.
By this stage Granny had descended the stairs, and stood in front of the Good Father. “So yer sayin’ that this is gonna be a priestly type of excursion, vow a chastity and all that?”
You are kidding me right!
“Err, yep, that kinda sums it up.” O’Way mopped his brow with a linen hanky that the Pope had given him. “We need someone with intelligence and decorum. Someone who can rub shoulders with the common man, chat about current affairs in a Gentleman’s Club, then enjoy theological discussions with the Bishop.” O’Way felt like he was losing his way. For all he knew Foodge could be a Freemason.
“So what youz are sayin’ is that I’m not goin’, but neither are any other sheilas?”
“Absolutely!” O’Way almost heaved a sigh of relief. “No sheilas, I mean birds, I mean ladies at all.”
“So who’s goin’ with him, Merv?”
“I just ruptured an anterio-posterior crucio-menisceal ligament.” Merv gestured for someone, anyone to get another bag of ice.
Granny nodded to Foodge who ambled off sullenly to the ice machine. “Well, we couldn’t send Manne, on the basis of him being a sexual deviant.”
“It was only internet porn, Granny!” A voice came from the kitchen.
“What about O’Hoo, he’s always lookin’ for extra work, unlike the rest of youz, plus he really is a detective.” Granny’s face lit up. “That way youz can try and work out where yer dragon tattoos come from.”
This was an excellent idea, as Big M had forgotten about the tattoos, and, for that matter, O’Hoo!
“The problem with O’Hoo is that he isn’t allowed into England, or, should I say, back into England.” Foodge piped up.
“That’s true, Granny, I can never set foot in England ever again.” O’Hoo was pulling a Piglet Pale Ale. “Well, not since the incident.”
Big M was uncomfortable with the way this episode was heading. Well, more of a
Big M seems upset…
collection of paragraphs, than an episode. Anyhoo.
“What incident?” Granny gasped.
O’Hoo tapped the side of his nose. “Need to know basis.” Enough said.
“Enough said.” Replied Granny, suddenly experiencing déjà vu, or whatever they say in France. “What about you, O’Way?”
“Well, agh, err, um, look there’s a dwarf!” O’Way tried to sprint towards the exit, only to find himself face down on the putrid carpet, thanks to Granny’s almost imperceptible foot work.
“Ah, the jokes on you O’Way, because there’s no such thing as a dwarf!” Granny looked triumphant.
“Actually there is, and plenty of different types; achondroplastic, hypochondroplastic, Laron, Hypophophataemic rickets, there’s a long list…” Merv was warming to his favourite topic.
Anyone for cricket…
O’Way hadn’t realised that Merv had a penchant for dwarfs, or had chosen to forget. Regardless, he’d been hoisted by his own petard, so to speak (Actually he hadn’t but Big M like to get this into conversations, along with ‘damp squib’, and ‘chance would be a fine thing’, which he didn’t understand, either). Petard or not, O’Way sat there rubbing his shin. “I couldn’t go, I’ve got Church business to attend.”
“I thought that this was a mission for, and on behalf of the Pope, hence the Mother Church Herself.” Granny smiled. “No, that’s it, yer goin’”
“Yer goin’ where?” Granny pointed a gnarled finger in Foodge’s face.
“Lunn Donne.” Foodge retorted.
“Lunn Fucking Donne!”
“No, London England.” Foodge wasn’t comfortable with this sort of swearing before lunch, or at least before a few beverages.
“London Fucking England!”
“No, just London in England. I don’t think London copulates with England.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Boyoh!”
“I’m not being smart, or even half smart.” Foodge replied, which was true, Foodge was neither smart nor half smart. Half measures worried Foodge. One could be a wit, which was thought to be a great thing, whereas a half-wit was a pejorative word for idiot. Describing someone as smart was high praise, but half smart implied cheekiness, not half wittery.
Trotters Ale cures all ills…
Emmjay, Hung and M hadn’t accounted for Granny’s reaction when they’d decided to send Foodge to Britain to be Special Envoy, or Chief Photographer or whatever the fuck they’d planned.
“Well, it’s by special request, from…you know, certain people, well connected people.” This wasn’t completely true, but the invite involved a firm of solicitors.
“Special Fucking People! Royal Fucking People. What about our relationship?” Granny had let go of her aggressive tone and had moved into the looking crest fallen, just about to cry stage of the argument.
Foodge started to panic. Are we going to have a long chat about our relationship? Is she going to expect me to talk about my feelings? He suddenly realised that Granny couldn’t have a passport because she’d never travelled further than Milson’s Point. “Granny, I may have failed to convey all of the, err, ah, implications of the invitation, I mean, as my, err, partner, I mean, love of my life, you are, um, my plus one, my, other half…”
“Oh, Foodge, that’s a different matter.” Granny was suddenly coquettish. “When’s this trip takin’ place?”
“Soon, my love, very soon.” Foodge’s voice had taken on a soothing quality. “It may be difficult to organise during the Lock Down, but there are always strings that one can pull.”
Just the two of us…
“Oh, goody, I’ll have to get all new underwear and nighties. Shoes..no, leave room for purchases. I guess I can always use the empty space in Foodge’s port. Oh, and I better get my passport out of the safe…”
“Passport?” Foodge gulped and had become noticeably pale. “Won’t it need to be renewed?”
“No, I’ve always kept it up to date, just in case. Don’t you?”
Foodge thought for a second. His passport did need renewal. He was well and truly hoisted by his own petard. Granny had already raced up to her room. Merv’s disgusting visage suddenly appeared across the bar. “Sounds like you need a drink, old son.”
Make it a double!” Foodge collapsed onto a stool. “You won’t believe what I’ve done.”
“I do believe what you’ve done, you was ‘opin’ that Granny wouldn’t have a passport an’ you’d get away to the Old Dart for an ‘olidee.” Merv was already sounding like a Cockney Publican.
“Was it that obvious?”
“I don’t think she knew, but you was ‘oisted by yer own petard.” Merv was unaware that the narrator had just said that on account of him not being part of the last scene.
“What will I do?” Read a few lines ahead sounds good.
“Well, aside from killing yerself…”Merv was already pushing a second canoe across the filthy, stained bar. “Nah, only jokin”, I reckon you’ll ‘ave a hard time getting’ outta the country at the moment, plus the Poms won’t be real welcomin’.”
“No, Mr Merv, it’s official business, you know, top people involved, movers and shakers.” Foodge drained the second pint of Trotters Best. “ This will involve intelligence, planning and courage.” All three were on short supply at the Pigs Arms. “There is one urgent matter to attend.”
Merv and the boys having a few Trotters at the front bar
Merv goes Solar.
Story by Mark.
Merv is a bit worried at the moment as he has received a power bill for the pub from the WheezeGunnaRipYouOff power company. Apparently the power bill for the Pigs Arms has gone up from $4 a year to $5 dollars a year. And if you take 4 away from 5 you get, um, well a really big number, maybe even binary.
“Granny, get ear” yells Merv, “Somefinks wrong with Bill”.
“Who the hell is Bill, anyway I’m to busy making wedgies with my famous herring and
Granny gets on top
Vegemite sauce” replies Granny in a fit of rage.
“No its electricity Bill, the one that the honest straight up government that never told a lie said it wouldn’t happen” says Merv.
“But days a pack of poofters Merv, days as bent as Alan Jones” gruffs Granny.
“But if you take 4 away from 5 you get an awful increase in our power bills. Wheeze need to talk to the pub owner” implores Merv. “However wheeze don’t know who that is.”
Gordon materialises at the bar. Geez, I wish he wouldn’t do that as he may scare kiddies.
“Gordon, do you own the Pigs Arms?” asks Merv.
“Nah, not me mate I voted Labor. So lets work this through, fictional characters wont, so Granny, Merv, Hedgie, Fern and Foodge are out. Now pass me the phone book. I’ll dial the Pigs Arms and see who answers” says Gordon.
What was that phone number again
Ring, ring, ring ring ring etc., as we all know it would only be woman to answer the fone, the men are too busy scratching their nuts and boasting about how good they was on the footy field. “Hello, The Window Dressers Arms Pig and Whistle, Granny speaking”
“Granny I’d like to speak to Dee Owner” says Gordon using his best British accent.
Granny announces “Phone call for Dee, Dee Owner, phone call for Dee Owner.”
The crew look perplexed and say nothing as Emmjay appears out of the men’s with urine stain intact on the front of his pants, forgot to shake that last drop and takes the call.
“Yes, Emmjay hear, to whom is I speaking” replies the only educated one in the room, well except for the girls.
“My name is Goldenrod Longeron” replies Gordon using his quick wit and a gizmo he got from Spaceworld on special for $9.99 to make him appear godly. “It’s to do with your electricity Bill that has gone up by a $1 per year and your staff are concerned about how this bill will be paid seeing no one pays their extensive bar tabs at your establishment. Are you the owner?”
“Oh no” says Emmjay “ Therese Trouserzoff is the owner you would have to speak to
“Therese!” “Trouserzoff!” Lovely to meet you
him or her.”
“Well is he or she there?” asks Gordon.
“Um no, but give me your name, number, breast size and penis length and I’ll get him or her to call you” dodges Emmjay.
“Okay, my name is Dendron Dongle Rondo and my number is 555-5555 and eyes from the WheezeGunnaRipYouOff company, 44DD and 30 cm ” replies Gordon.
Emmjay is starting to shit himself at this stage and thinks well at least that matches the urine stain on his $500 Levi’s. One front one rear.
Wadda ya think about going renewable?
“Hey, I’ve got an idea” chips in Merv “Lets go solar and piss this wanker off. I remember at skoll learning so la fark tea dough, wadda ya reckon.”
The Inner Cyberia Pleece Force in the car park after one to many Trotters
The Sociology of A Place To Call Home Part 2
by Sandshoe (Honshades)
We need to know a lot to build a house that is a home.
We moved to New Zealand in 1983 with 5 children as the family was grown as planned. My husband had completed a Ph. D.. He accepted a position of employment in Auckland.
We had one month accommodation provided us.
Our housing was a motel next street in from a suburban beach the motelier told us was the best beach in New Zealand, only a step from the heart of our beautiful city. Our first view of it fixed on the largest and dirtiest rat I have seen ever scuttle out of
An Auckland rat…
a storm water drainage pipe onto a foreshore. The tide was in as well lapping at a narrow strip of sandy beach so that naive and homesick, we were well confused this was the best beach in New Zealand.
I did not want to immediately buy at the end of one month. I wanted to rent. I foresaw we needed a period to orient ourselves. Forewarned is forearmed. My husband considered we could not afford a rental to house our family of seven. We did not discuss options. I accepted we could not afford to rent.
Mind, we faced a raft of other underlying reasons why to proceed was looking no go at all. At one later stage we discussed suggestion my husband raised that to stay was looking financially impossible. Neither had we anticipated that raising a loan on the down payment
Tits sell
secured from the sale of the house in Australia was not a walk in the park in the NZ office of the major bank we had the previous mortgage with in Australia. First benchmark learned about borrowing money no matter how confident and successful a home buyer has been, no matter how many previous mortgages, how major the bank, no matter how upwardly mobile. You think you are home and hosed or housed. Check what is going on in any other country you migrate to and never suppose reliable employment and sound credit rating means an iota in translation.
Your bank in Australia is nothing to do with us and the decisions we make.
Get your hand off my clit and hand over the money
We were able to raise the mortgage from another bank, fortunate.
I basked later in praise newly-met friends and colleagues lavished on us. They would never have been courageous enough to buy where we did. Previous to our example they imagined, implied foolishly, they would never have considered it.
Who knows if we said it was the only property we could afford to move out of the motel on desperately straitened means.
My husband and I were as individuals and a couple entirely burdened with stress. To arrive in New Zealand as a family of seven on the day before Christmas Eve, 1983, we thought we knew what we were talking about when my husband and I discussed the move. We knew squat. We were as naive as the other. We subsequently found ourselves without income because my husband’s pay was not immediately accessible. The accounts office was closed for the summer holiday period. We had to cash in a lone investment remaining in Australia that was our one source of small means to survive, potentially no home other than the motel, potentially no transport having not anticipated Customs demands we pay a substantial amount of money to secure our
Law abiding officers
vehicle out of the depot where it sat in storage for weeks after it was unloaded at the wharf. Our transport was a rough hire van which was supplied for the first month. The first of two vans was so rough it remains a mystery to me how an employer could establish a least justification to supply it under the terms of a contract of employment. We saw danger everywhere. New Zealand had no safety belt laws. We watched out of the windows of our van in horror a cavalcade of unsecured passengers and unrestrained animals in passing vehicles. Least of our immediate worries that we did not know much that was practical about a culture and a national economy in transition we needed to come to terms with and understand, neither could have imagined.
I, my turn for a shock and on my own, attended to open a bank account at a branch of the Bank of New Zealand I chose local to the house we bought. I offered my passport as an item of identity with requisite proof of the new address. I had never had a passport before. It was a source of original joy unconfined, shiny in a protective plastic cover and one stamp only that was entry into New Zealand. The teller
She was a teller…
emerged from taking it to be reviewed by a manager in a back office. He tossed it by way of a spin onto the counter. The passport slid towards me. I was gripped by a sense of saturated disbelief watching the passport come to rest. I believe all colour drained out of my face. The teller’s had transformed to a rampant bully’s. His lip curled.
“Come back when you’ve got something decent to show for yourself,” he agressed and turned his back on me to underline contempt.
I stepped back to make a space in the middle of a crowd of customers where I demonstrated with a raised voice and vehement passion. A better recourse than turning on my heel and walking out after would have been to stay and even get perhaps arrested. I had a family to return home to. Staff at the National Bank of New Zealand I walked to across the mall regrouped, found a chair and brought a cup of tea to soothe me when I started to tell a duty officer at a customer service desk I
Did you say wank or bank…
wanted to open a bank account, but suffered a flood of tortured tears. The bank account was duly opened without question. Later I could not recall if the passport was taken out of its cover and opened. I knew neither staff or the manager who was called read letters of identity I offered. What they thought they knew of neighbourhood was perhaps torn into the tiniest pieces as mine was.
An incident at a stop at road works on a blazing hot day went to the heart of all frustrations. A road worker ambled across the road in front of our van as we slowed to crawl past a site of a road repair. He picked up a witch’s hat from the lane where it was as we approached and set it down before us in the lane we had changed into. No road repair was in process. There was no other traffic in any direction. The action appeared to be unwarranted mischief. I put my head out of the passenger window and called it we wanted to be allowed to pass. The worker slowly ambled towards the van with an expression of insolence. He leaned forward and leered in the window.
A cartoon sketched exclusively out of her own imagination by one of my two older daughters shows the mum and dad kangaroo seated in the driver and front passenger seats respectively. Clustered behind them is an assortment of joeys, one of which is a girl … as the youngest baby in nappies was … defined by femme bows tied around
Sargent Sulfate here, my friends call me Copper
her ears. Out of the mouth of the mum kangaroo in the front passenger seat is the speech bubble ‘Let us through’ and out of the beak of a shaggy hulk of a kiwi visible through the front passenger window flows the classic denunciation as it happened ‘Why don’t you go home where you came from’.
