Tag Archives: humor

Warrigal Drops Into the Pig’s Arms

10 Saturday Jul 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

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By Warrigal

Brickwork cratering, exploding. Shit!! my face, then hear shot!

(Shotty?)

Face stinging, shit, left eye, swallow hard, GOGO GO! Low fool!! Twoshot! Fuck! Torn carpetlefthand and I lit outa there as fast as I could.

“I only came for a fuckin’ beer and some of them wedges.! What’s with this? Myall Creek again?”

Toohard shout and run, BLAMthreeshot TOOclose whizzzzzfzzfzzfzz by my ear and blew a wad outa the dart board as I flew by. If I can just make it into the lounge I stand a chance,  almost there, crashthrough swingingdoors, ??occurring to me?? Is this sport??. Shit! He couldn’t miss me from across the bar, FUUUCK!overbarstool, drinkers look notfussed. “Fuck me!” Who is this guy? What’s with the cannon? Why me?

My mind begins to race. I knew this pub was weird when I saw that bearded guy tie that alpaca up outside. What was that about? And the collection of oil dropping British marques in the car park; and that Black Series III Zephyr 6, (?) Chief Inspector Barlow must be about.

I go down, I hurt bad, in places. I’m goin’ nowhere!! justGOprone…. Armsoutspreadeagle….

“Get up ya bastard!” He kicks my ankle.

Keeping my hands out all the time I roll around, I’m staying on the floor. My ribs hurt where I crashed over the stool. I mean they really hurt, crackedbroken? I can’t see properly outa my left eye and the back of my left hand has a spray of pellet wounds. Shit!!

I go for comedy.

“Ya got me….,” big smile and a happy shrug but he’s not buying any of it.

“Get up ya bastard, I said!”, and not to leave it out, to finish his routine, kicks me again and I get another sharp pain to worry about.

Gingerly, ??noticing?? several aches sprainpains!! Left hand throbbing, slowly stand uuupp…

(You should see this. I mean really; I may be battered and broken but this guy is seriously fucked up. Stick with me right, because this is how it looked as I slowly lifted my head……,

The mad cannoneer has grubbywhite socks under cheapplastic sandals, cheap polycotton pants, beige; white belt. Knitted??, NO! Crocheted!! yellow polo shirt with a “Jaguar Drivers Club” cloth patch over the left tit! Sorry,  saggy tit. Seriously! Who is this guy? Why does no-one but me see this whole thing as seriously twilight zone.

“I really did only come in for one beer and some wedges. Honest mate, I seriously dunno what’s going on here. You coulda killed me!” a little too hysterically, but you’ll forgive me I’m sure.

“If I’d wanted ya dead, y’d be dead already. Quit whining!”

Then I see it! Casually but firmly held, as though it’s just part of his arm, is a hand tooled Purdey, Side by Side, All the Gods of Gunpowder! it’s a beautiful thing, perfectly balanced in his grip, both sinister blue steel gleaming barrels pointed at my guts. He had my full attention.

(No, fuck, there it goes…, )

What’s with that screamin’ pink drink and all the umbrellas in his left hand? I’m mad, must be! No, I’m dead! This is some outer circle of hell. I look him in the eyes.

Whatever…….

He fixes me with those rheumy gimlet eyes, the Purdey doesn’t waver, “Wha’did ya say to that bloke?” the “Best‘n’Less” spectacle indicates the punter I was talking to before the wall exploded.

“All I aid was, “Owning a collectable Jag is like standing up ta ya hips in a bath of used sump oil burning $100 bills one at a time”, it was a simple enough proposition and all too true, “I should know. I’ve had a few in my time.” I tried to extend my left hand, morepain!!! I pick out a pellet and flick it on the floor.

The Purdey wavered, did it droop? YESssjustslightly!!

“What have ya had?” his head drops on one side and he gives a dog like look

“Well over the years, many; but just at the moment I’ve got a 1987 Series III 5.3litre Sovereign, white with red; and a 1976 Series II 4.2L Coupe, red softtop with velour. Though I covered the velour with custom sheepskin.”

“The coup; carbs or injected?”

“Injected”

“That Sov.’s a beautiful thing to drive, (A deep sigh), lovely balance.” suddenly all the bluster’s gone from him. He slumps and breaks the Purdey, takes out the still smoking spent shells. “I’m sorry mate, really I am.” He’s trembling, lookin’ at the floor, “I just get so sick’a people taking the piss all time. I really do! I love me Jag, I love m’ Purdey. So I got this thing for British shit…, so what?”

He lifts his head and is just stood there, sobbing silently, shaking a bit. The old woman from behind the food bar comes out and puts an arm over his shoulder. Taking the empty, broken gun she hands it to this other dude who’s been standing around like some kinda factotem. First I’ve really noticed him.

The old woman turns to me and says, like this whole thing, it’s my fault!?!, “Merve didn’t mean no harm. Why’d ya gotta go and say them things in ‘ere? That’s just spiteful that is.” She takes “Merve”, apparently, out through the doors that say “Staff Only”

And I’m thinkin, I’m lucky to be alive, and lookin’ around the bar I see that all these other people are just lookin’ at me, like they think it’s my fault too. Well fuck that for a game of fuckin’ soldiers, “That bastard just shot at me!” I shout at no-one in particular, “Three fucking times for chrisake!”, I’m really mad now.

This grey haired guy stands and says, in a very final tone too, “Sit the fuck down you whining nonce, finish ya wedges and beer,. He didn’t hit ya did ‘e? (show him left hand), “Naaarh, that’s nothin’. Fuckin’ scratches” and he gives me his hankie to wrap round my wounded hand. My blood redly oozes through the pressed white linen, obscuring the monogrammed MJ in the corner. (So he’s MJ) “Thanks MJ” I say without really enough thanks. I go and sit down.

I need to put my poo in a pile. I take a long pull on my beer. Relaxing, my heart rate dropping as the adrenalin washes away, I look around. There’s a guy at the end of the bar reading Sophocles while he’s fillin’ ‘is face w’ wedges. So I stuff a few wedges in me gob for good measure.

“The’ wezzes are goo, weawy goo.” I say, mostly to myself through a mouthful of half chewed wedges,. More beer and wedges. “These wedges are fanfuckingtastic!” I spray at the same guy I’d warned about Jag’s. “I mean, they’re really great!” He smiles slowly and nods like the penny shoulda dropped by now, but I’m too busy yaffling more wedges.

I swallow my last wedge and go over to the food bar. The old woman’s there and I say, “Can ya tell, Merve, is it?, yeah? Merve, that I’m really sorry. It was all my fault. I was a fool. Will he ever forgive me? Will ya tell him that?” (She smiles knowingly. She’s obviously played this scene before.)

“And can I have another plate of them wedges?”

“Of course you can dear, and I’m sure Merve won’t hold it against you.” She smiles that winner’s smile, hands me my wedges, “You can call me Granny when you come again.” She winked at me, the old biddy winked at me.

But she’s right, Granny is. I’ll be back and probably soon too. Merve could ride a warthog round the lounge in the nude singing “Friday on My Mind” shooting every second drinker in the place so long as none of ‘em was me and Granny kept makin’ those wedges.

(I swear, seriously, she winked at me.)

Now I gotta go and find outa ‘bout that Alpaca.

About Middle and Off – Hung’s Wide World of Sport

02 Friday Jul 2010

Posted by in Mark

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At 5 for 348 over to the commentary box….Hung?

“Lillie approaches from the Vulture Street End, Boycott pads up, its bowled him, Boycott’s off stump knocked out of the ground, no shot offered……”, the lounge room roars into action, grown men cry, dogs bark, people flood the street tossing hats in the air rejoicing, backs are slapped, beers are poured, this is summer this is cricket, this is heaven, their best batsman bowled without offering a shot, life doesn’t get any better than this, ah yes, cricket where the only thing better than cricket is more cricket.

Yes cricket, the one true national game.  Forget your football codes cricket is life and life is cricket.  Understanding cricket is easy. Get more runs then they do, simple.  Nothin’ too hard bout that. And yes the culture, the joy, the atmosphere, its quasi-religious and coming from an atheist that’s saying something.

As a kid growing up in Wollongong all my mates played cricket and for me batting, bowling or fielding I couldn’t care less, just playing the game was all I needed.  Weekends were cricket in the juniors Saturday morning, Grade in the afternoon.  Sunday morning surf then when the nor’easter came in cricket in the park with me mates.  Mum had to come and get me for tea as the sun had set ages ago. She’d call out from the street “Hung, get home, it’s as black as, tea’s on the table, how can you see that ball anyhow?”, “But Mum, a century beckons”, I always wondered why mum called me Hung when my name’s Xavier, anyway some things are a mystery.

My Dad, an Englishman tolerating us colonials, would get the bus to the bottom of Bulli Pass and hold up a sign “SCG”, someone would always pull over and give him a lift. I was too young to go along at first but then my initiation came, the SCG, the hallowed turf, the smell of the freshly cut grass, the crowd, the banter between the Poms and the Aussies, always witty, never violent or abusive and supporters of both sides could sit together and barrack for their team.  Mum would pack ham and mustard sandwiches and Dad would shout an ice cream, bliss.

Then as a young man going to the test with my mates, eskies full of beer, pies and hotdogs, hot chips and seagulls.  Doug Walters would stride out and the crowd would erupt, “Douggie, Douggie” we’d chant.  If he got a boundary the noise was deafening, all of us would rise as one, “You bewdy”.  Then tragedy, Douggie caught in the covers, “Poms can’t field, how’d they catch that “.

Then as I aged a bit more and the Hill disappeared and my brother-in-law, Brad, and I would sit in the stands. One birthday, which falls in January, somewhere between the 4th and the 6th, hint hint, we went to the SCG and watched India play, Azzarudin, mate, me and Brad wanted to make him an honorary Aussie, he was brilliant.  But it was against the Poms that was best, the old dart, the mother country, those were the days.

Tutu and I moved to Adelaide in the eighties and loved it. 15 minutes to the oval, no rain, 5 days of heaven.  Saw the mighty West Indies, Adam Gilchrist, V.V.S Laxman,  Wasim Akram and the graceful Brian Lara.  In the first few years here, Tutu would bring books to the game  to read but it gets hot in summer, 40 plus, so now she drops me at the Oval and goes on a spending spree on my credit card, I mean am I a winner or what ?

Andrew Strauss not getting it either

So for those that don’t understand cricket, don’t worry.  Just pretend you like it or compromise like Tutu and read a book, enjoy the fresh air, the sun, the community, being as one with total strangers, applauding your opponent for good play, all of these things are cricket and oh yes check the scoreboard occasionally.
Now available at: http://hungoneon.wordpress.com/2010/06/12/about-middle-and-off-hungs-wide-world-of-sport/

Ashes to Ashes

23 Wednesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Warrigal Mirriyuula

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By Warrigal

“Tired of endless defeat, the MCC calls in the big guns to bolster the selection committee. We find them assembled in their private box above the SCG where they hope to get some pointers watching the colonials.

Nelson, dispirited that Hardy’s fate is to be 12th man again, has devolved into a brown study and will not be cheered. Elizabeth, on the other hand, enigmatically remembers Darnley’s powerful leg spin technique. Doctor Grace, proving that even death can’t keep a good man down, is padded up and practising a few blocking strokes; while Bond thinks that maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to shoot the lot of them and start again.”

Warrigal Mischief

ABC of Cricket – the Voice from the Hill

23 Wednesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Voice

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On the way to the MCG, at the MCG and on the way home from the MCG

by Voice

As a young woman, the realization that in order to prosper in the workforce I needed to be able to talk about cricket came as a huge relief.

If you knew the extent of my lack of interest in the sport of cricket spectating, you might find this puzzling.  It’s hard to pinpoint the cause of this militant lack of interest. It might be a female thing; it might be a reaction to my father’s seasonal lack of availability, or to his one-eyed barracking. My father was your archetypal one-sided sports fanatic.  It was quite late in my childhood that I fully understood the role of the other team on the ground. Until then, listening to my father’s exclamations during the endless TV broadcasts, I thought the members of his team were the only actual players, battling blind umpires, unfavourable weather, or worse, the occasional unforced error, in an effort to claim their rightful title of match winner.

In any case, this early disaffection with the game of cricket was only reinforced as a University student, where endless discussion of cricket scores was lumped together in my mind with endless discussions about cars as uncouth “engineer’s talk”.

Fast forward a few years, and the burning ambition to be able to pay for food and rent found me working for a manufacturing company in a largely engineer dominated IT department.  As the cricket season commenced I reflexively turned off whenever the inevitable discussions started. But I couldn’t help noticing that I was spending a lot of time talking to myself, and this was highlighted during a period of relative inactivity for my group, when half the day was spent arguing  about cricket (and the other half perfecting the giant paper ball). It became painfully obvious at a farewell for one of our group, where the others bonded with management over a cricket discussion while I found myself a lonely outsider, that something needed to be done.

So I decided to bite the bullet and follow the cricket. I shamelessly enlisted the aid of a co-worker who had both demonstrated some knowledge of cricket and shown some interest in my company (no doubt confirming in the mind of many engineers reading this piece the dastardly use of feminine wiles by their female colleagues.) Over a coffee break I confessed the reluctance of my resignation to spending endless weekend hours watching cricket on the tele, half-expecting him to recoil in horror. It took me a while to realize the significance of his counter-confession that some weekends he himself had to miss the cricket and that on those occasions he just checked the score intermittently, but was still able to hold his own at work on Monday. Imagine my relief and delight when I realized it wasn’t strictly necessary to know about the cricket. All I needed to be able to do was to talk about it.

Riffing together we came up with the phrase “at one stage there…” as in “at one stage there Australia was 3 for 103” or “at one stage there Warne was 54 not out”. All that was needed was to check the scoreboard once during the cricket broadcast!

The day before the next lunchtime gathering I searched the newspaper for the cricket news. I arrived at work the next day with a few facts printed on the palm of my hand. After everybody had eaten enough to satisfy hunger, and the conversation turned to cricket, I surreptitiously glanced at my hand and announced “At one stage there Australia was 2 for 75.” This was greeted by a number of wise comments, and I was part of the group. Emboldened by this success, I further announced “At one stage there Steve Waugh was 75 not out.” This was met by a puzzled silence and I found myself on the outside once again. Later my ally explained to me that the correct pronunciation of  Waugh is “Waw”. Never having really listened to a cricket broadcast, I had somehow come up with the idea that it was pronounced “woe”. Since at that time Steve (or  Mark?) Waugh was captain of the Australian cricket team, this was a major blunder.

My second big effort was Christmas drinks at the pub, where I arrived unprepared but was thrilled to hear the cricket news being announced on TV, and immediately memorized the first piece of information. Later I proudly announced my hastily memorized factoid, and once again it was well received. Then somebody asked me “Who won?”  Unfortunately I had been so engrossed in memorizing that I had omitted to note this apparently important detail, and my face fell. An employee with all the social grace of, well, a young engineer working in IT, piped up “You can’t be very interested in the cricket if you don’t know who won.” The members of my immediate group, who by this time were in on the joke, were in stitches. I decided to own up rather than look a total moron, and by that time everybody had drunk enough to take it well.

Boxing Day 2008, and a couple I haven’t met yet are the hosts for the post-Christmas neighbours gathering.  The husband greets us at the door with “I was just watching the cricket”.  I have a moment’s panic; since I’ve been working at a small non-cricket oriented company the start of the cricket season has passed unnoticed. But through those earlier years of intensive training in cricket conversation I manage to avoid the crimes of appearing uninterested or asking who’s winning.  I settle on asking the score, and the moment passes safely.

Thankful for this reminder, and with job interviews pending, I search the web and find the ABC.Net cricket page. There I discover an invaluable innovation, the Live Game Log.  The first log entry is a summary of the state of play at the commencement of the day, and the follow-up entries are brief over by over summaries logged in real time. All the information needed to contribute to a cricket conversation available at your fingertips. At one stage there Kallis was not out for 26.

with thanks to Voice – for establishing  the perfect level of involvement …. and anticipating a rejoinder from Hung …..

Lost and Found in Transit

20 Sunday Jun 2010

Posted by in Helvi Oosterman

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Helvi Oosterman

Moving from a big place to a smaller home is not easy. You are attached to your life-long collection of things; to your furniture’, books, paintings, to your “sendogu”, Japanese for beautiful but not necessary objects. We were given only five weeks to decide what to keep and what not. We came to the clever idea of renting something two weeks earlier than we had to, and decided to pack in a hurry and unpack slowly. This way we were giving away things at both ends; tipping and burning on the farm, and taking to charity shops discarded items from the new place.

The most delightful loss of all was the shedding of three kilos of my weight, through stress and hard physical work. The second best was ‘accidently’ misplacing hubby’s humble underwear collection into the new recycling bin. May I explain here that I gave up buying his underwear years ago. This was my way of keeping abreast with any possible extra marital happenings; you know what they say about men suddenly shopping for Calvin Kleins…

Being busy and too tired to cook we got into a habit of grabbing some take away food; Mc Donald’s, Korean noodles, Italian style fettuccine (is there any other kind), soggy fish and chips, and more horrors.  Opening the white box of noodles made me puke, and even Milo refused to touch my hamburger left-over’s. The tasteless pasta was swimming in tomato sauce, Italian Style is not the expression to use here. I always thought that take-out makes you fat, the reverse was happening with me. Better lose the urge to shop for convenience food, rather than lose the will to live.

I also gained useful skills these last few weeks. For example how to get in and out Kennard’s rental truck; you put your left foot on some pedestal and swing the right one inside the cabin whilst hanging onto some kind of railing inside. The nice manager, Richard, had cleaned the truck just for me. All very nice but the seat was so slippery I was afraid of sliding out. Some fat lady has sat there before and the seat kind of sloped towards the door …As husband was struggling with the multitude of gears and other truck paraphernalia, I kept quiet and gained some of my usual calmness by Buddhist meditations. All the Christian prayers ,learnt at Sunday school, came in handy when the driver accidently reversed instead of going forward at a busy intersection…

Now to the gains: no more muck for lunch, but quick shop for sourdough bread and some nice cheese, and after unpacking the car, the trailer or the truck, it was to our newly found  real pub and fantastic twelve dollar steak for dinner. The usual Shiraz was not quite right here, so a big schooner of beer it was. We haven’t been to a pub for years, nor have drunk beer anywhere. Steak and beer was a good combo and we have now become regulars at the Bowral Royal. The nice barman, Hugh comes to chat to us and we even have our pub-loyalty-cards.

Among the plusses is the safely moved Persian Delight; Milo did not crush it at the back of the car. My Kalanchoe was not so lucky.

The books are stacked in the garage in their milk crates; I left some out even there wasn’t much time for reading. I had saved all John Updike’s books when packing. I’m now so pleased to re-read  his wonderful early memoir ‘Self-Consciousness’, and I love it.

This is what Guardian says about it on the back page: ‘If he (Updike) has an unmelting splinter of ice at the heart, that is our good fortune. Who wants words as good as these with water?’

A Dark Horse, A Dance Floor, An Exciting Conclusion

18 Friday Jun 2010

Posted by in Julian London

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By Julian London

….. the story so far ………

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor old Johnny never got a look in after that!

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

………………        Jayell

A Dark Horse, A Karaoke, A Pub on Edge

14 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by in Julian London

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By Julian

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

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

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

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

Oh how he loved the machines and artefacts of yesteryear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So it was all set then: …………

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

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

Seven Golden Rules for the Writing of Satire

08 Tuesday Jun 2010

Posted by in Gregor Stronach

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..... oh, I thought you said satyr

By Gregor Stronach

My name is Gregor Stronach, and I am a satirist. It’s not a full time occupation – I doubt that anyone, aside from George Carlin and perhaps George Bush, is making a living out of full time satire in the world today.

But that doesn’t mean that you, gentle reader, should baulk at the idea of becoming a satirist yourself. I’ve decided to help you in this endeavour, should the mood ever take you and your desire to make fun of other people from behind a shield of smug conceit overwhelm what is otherwise a personality based on good taste and pleasant humour.

For the ease of remembrance, I will divide this lesson into seven easy sections – rules to live by, should you become a satirist, or just simply rules by which you can see the ‘magic’ of the satirist explained.

1. Making fun of individual people. This is perhaps the easiest of all satire, and is usually the least rewarding, unless done very, very well. There are two ways of approaching this, and the method through which it is achieved depends on the nature of the person you’re attacking – I mean, lampooning. Should the person upon whom you have decided to heap your scorn be quite clearly a total buffoon, ie Michael Jackson, George Bush (Sr or Jr, it matters not for the purposes of the exercise) or a woeful sportsperson such as Eddie ‘The Eagle’ Edwards, the methodology is simple. Merely quote them, or describe their exploits, and wonder to your readers in phrases such as “How on earth am I supposed to sleep at night?”, or “It’s little wonder children are afraid of birthday clowns.”

The harder targets are the smarter ones, people such as Colin Powell, Margaret Thatcher or The Pope. In cases like this, it’s often best to descend into puerile or infantile ramblings: “Colin Powell likes to eat his own snot!!!” or “The Pope tried to touch me. In a special place.”

2. Making fun of groups of people. This is slightly more difficult than making fun of a smart person, and there are several pitfalls to be avoided. First of all, before you rush out and begin making gags based on racial stereotypes, make sure you can claim some sort of connection to the group you’re talking about, however tangential that connection might be. The only people who can get up on stage, or put pen to paper and talk about how all Italians are like the Sopranos, or how all Asian folks know Kung Fu but can’t drive, are members of those communities. For a middle class white man, such as myself, to make those remarks, it’s racism. But if you’re a member of a minority, it ceases to be racism, and becomes ‘holding up a mirror to the world’, or ‘telling it like it is. In the ‘hood. Yo.’ Important stuff indeed.

3. Lampooning Politics. It’s easy to do so from a right wing position, and beyond difficult from anywhere left of moderate. PJ O’Rourke, lifelong Republican and one of the greatest living satirists has it easy. Making a gag that has a reader laughing guiltily, blushing furiously and thinking quietly to themselves ‘if my pseudo-intellectual friends catch me laughing about the plight of the Haitian people, I’ll never sip chardonnay with them again’ is very easy. But approaching the same problem (using Haiti as an example again) from the leftist view, it verges on the impossible to complete the task without resorting to iconoclastic ramblings. Of course, you’ll need to add the occasional ‘but it’s OK, because I gave Reuben, my guide, every penny I earned for writing this story’ feel good phrase thrown in for good measure. It’s funny, because we all know that there isn’t a leftist on the planet who likes paying for anything, let alone the $25 they generally get paid per article in their limp little newsletters. Plus, leftists tend to be dope fiends or drunks, and as a rule they have no money.

4. The Facts. How you treat the ‘facts’ of any matter is vitally important, and there’s a scale that needs to be memorised. When dealing with ‘facts’, it’s obviously best to have your facts 100% correct. Next best, surprisingly, is to have them 100% wrong, in case you ever get called on what you’ve written, and need to fall back on the satirist’s best retort: ‘It’s satire, you moron, and I didn’t mean a word of it’. Any mix of facts, right and wrong, means disaster. You’re better off claiming that George Bush has personally drowned better than 160 kittens in the White House swimming pool than suggesting he’s responsible for thousands of innocent Iraqi citizens losing their lives through his attempts to ‘liberate’ them. The former example is ludicrous, and bound to raise a wry chuckle at the very least. The latter smacks of effort and earnestness – two things to be avoided at all costs. The satirist should always appear aloof and sophisticated, saving angry rants for polite dinner conversation and ensuring that the reader feels included in the writer’s air of callous conceit.

5. Making fun of a tragic event. This is a tricky one, but there’s a rule of thumb that I have developed that makes the art of lampooning bad news, without fear of overtly offending large slabs of the population. A satirist should skate close to the edge, but never, ever cross the line into truly tasteless humour.

So when assessing a calamitous event to see whether it is fit to be lampooned, one must simply look to the last word in the title of that event. Anything that ends in ‘Tragedy’ is verboten, such as ‘The Diana Spencer Tragedy’. Anything that ends with ‘Disaster’ is fair game, for example ‘The Challenger Disaster’. Anything that ends with ‘Bombing’ or ‘Attack’ should be left alone for at least three months, before testing the waters with a few genteel, sombre jokes. ‘Killings’ should never be touched, but ‘Slayings’ or ‘Shootings’ are generally ripe for the satirists attention within a week of the final burial. Naturally, ‘Scandal’ should be leapt upon within seconds and devoured like ice cream on a scalding hot day, except for anything that ends in ‘-gate’, in which case the satire should best be left to the mainstream press and their hamfisted attempts to ‘expose the truth’.

6. Religion. It’s the modern satirist’s minefield, so beware – the laughs could land you some serious karmic retribution, in jail, on the wrong end of a Holy War or an eternity in a fiery afterlife, depending on who you manage to annoy. It’s best, when attempting religious satire, to go all out on your own ‘people’ first, paving the way for some bone-crushingly insensitive comments concerning other people’s beliefs. A few religions are quite tolerant of satire – the Moonees know how silly they are, the Amish will never, ever hit you, no matter what you do and Catholics have shown uncharacteristic kindness towards Mel Gibson’s latest satirical efforts, so they have clearly stopped caring. Middle Eastern religions are generally easy going, except for a fringe element that is notoriously intolerant of ridicule – unless you covet the notion of waking up one morning strapped to a bomb, it’s best to steer clear altogether. Avoid conflict with the Scientologists too – they, along with the Jehovah’s Witnesses and Mormons, will subscribe you to every mailing list known to man, and will visit you, at home, at six in the morning, every day for the rest of your life. Leave satirising the Jewish people to the Jews – no one does it better, and you’ll just end up looking foolish. Of course, for those that have tried and failed and are feeling down upon themselves, you could always look to the pseudo-spiritual teachings of cult leader Anthony Robbins. Even though the idea of ‘Awakening the Giant Within’ actually sounds pretty painful, I’m assured by Anthony himself that whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

7. Yourself. The most important weapon in the arsenal of the satirist is a rifle made entirely of self-deprecation. The knack is to beat the reader – and, more importantly, the object of your satire – to the punch. “Mother Theresa was an old whore with no morals! But I have a small dick – how funny is that?’ is a shining example. Be prepared to debase yourself on a million levels, and in the instance of satirising yourself, comical overstatement is paramount. Not only will it provide your audience with an instant sense of relief should you inadvertently offend them, but it’s also a relatively cheap form of therapy. You can also use this arena to admit your ‘sins’ before the eyes of God, safe from the long arm of the law – after all, it’s satire, isn’t it? None of it, no matter how truthful, will stand up in court.

I trust that this document will assist you in your efforts to bring your own warped view of the world into the public arena. (I should note that during the typing of that sentence, my scrotum was attacked and, apparently, punctured by my pet kitten. It’s this sort of emotional availability that separates the wheat from the satirical chaff.) I am available for private tuition in the art of satire, should you feel that these lessons aren’t enough. The fees are steep, but remember – the mark of a good satirist is someone who knows where to start. The mark of a brilliant satirist is someone who knows when to stop.    So I’ll stop. Now.

First published by http://www.Rumandmonkey.com

Now is the Discontent of our Winter

07 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by in Emmjay, The Dining Room

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Persimmons - the offal fruit

There’s a time of year that I for one have traditionally come to dread.   It’s marked out for all to see in the fruit and veg in the local greengrocers.

I’m talking about the arrival of truckloads of persimmons.

Persimmons have no reason to resist extinction.  No more reason do they have to exist, than do chokoes.  Yes, they are cheerfully orange at a grey time of year and yes, they have a squishy texture. But they have a dreadful mouth feel – not unlike something hacked up from a lower lobe of a diseased lung.  And they have a more-or-less total lack of flavour.  Sorry, I meant to say that they have a very delicate perfume, quite reminiscent of Clag glue – that favourite staple of my early school years.

Not far behind the persimmons we notice the mandarins.  I personally have no axe to grind with mandarins.  Except the ones that have a seed content approaching 87%.  I quite like the mandarin zest that accumulates under the fingernails, the sticky fingers and the bucket load of skin one needs to dispose as part of the after-lunchtime ritual.  Or not.

There are of course pomegranates to widen the choice of inedible fruit during the colder months.   Pomegranates remind us that we are a culturally diverse nation, doffing our hats to Persia, North Africa and the Middle East.  And like the inhabitants of those climes, they bring colour and texture to our otherwise bland Anglo fare.  But they bring seeds.  Man oh man, they are a seed-rich experience

And quinces – that intriguing cross between apples and rocks.  Thirty cents and the greengrocer will fill up the boot of your car with quinces – because they are a such a sought-after delicacy.  As an alternative, you might consider drying them and using them as a carbon-neutral source of bio-fuel.  Or road base.  Strangely, quince paste is sometimes flogged as an antidote to blue cheese.  The idea being that one smears some on a cracker, followed by blue cheese and then (incredibly) it’s supposed to be OK to eat.  In my experience, quince paste makes an excellent emergency alternative to axle grease and should be part of every caravanner’s kit.  Particularly if the tub is inexplicably lost interstate.

So what do these phoney pretenders to green-grocer shelf-space have in common ?  Answer:  they need to have the absolute bejesus stewed out of them with the addition of two thirds of the Bundaberg sugar crop to be made into the kind of preserves that jostle for space up the back of the fridge behind the coleslaw.  And compete, unsuccessfully with the rock of the school fete – Lemon Butter.

In recent years we’ve seen the arrival of new exotic fruit.  I’m mindful of the dragon fruit – with lovely red, triffid-like skin and fruit with the flavour and texture of jellied sand with black sesame seeds thrown in by way of contrast.

What to do ?  It’s depressing to wander the aisles of the green grocer in the months lacking an “r”.  Best to stay away for a while.  I prefer to go for mainstream preserves during the discontent of our winter.  I eke out a meagre existence on Poire William or Calvados, maybe Slivovitz, and Kirsch – at a pinch, Vodka citron.  Sometimes I even resort to eating Californian pesticides harvested and imported as heavily disguised navel oranges or ruby red grapefruit.

In a desperate attempt to make it through to the first mango of the season, I sometimes revert to purchasing chestnuts – a relative newcomer to the Australian green grocery.  These can sit in the pantry for months until the first mango of the new season arrives, pristine, in its orangey-red hugeness direct from the mango fields of the Northern Territory.  Like the first swallow returning to Capistrano, this mango is not for eating.  The five dollar price tag covers just the transport cost.  Flavour and texture are not included in the price.  Colour, yes, but flavour and texture, no way.

But the chestnuts are divine.  Not for eating, for reminding one of the romance of roast chestnuts in the snow on the Champs Elysees.  I recommend that you do remember them this way – even if you have never been to Paris, I can faithfully report that winter fruit does not get better than this.

Purchase enough chestnuts to pan roast for two people.  That would be two chestnuts.  Then leave them in the pantry until the first stone fruit of the new season appears – and – throw the chestnuts out – saving you the trouble of third degree lacerations from trying to peel them, or third degree burns in the unlikely event that you CAN peel them and inadvertently put one in your mouth.  Oh, and if you’ve made it this far with the chestnuts, they will have a texture and a taste not unlike pencil erasers – completing (with the persimmon-Clag combination) the daily double of infants’ school taste reminiscences.

Not a good memory, but a memory, none-the-less.  Glad to have one.

This was first Published by the ABC at Unleashed – Christ knows why – they disappeared it totally – after just three days …..

This version has the spelling mistakes fixed and a better photo.

9.1 Belinda got a gun, Belinda’s having fun

07 Monday Jun 2010

Posted by in Mark

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The boys have landed on a deserted ICCB planet to get a little practice in before the main game against the Deathball

Pics by Warrigal

Belinda here. Helvi and I have taken the S.S. Julian II out into space while Sandy is having rehabilitation after hitting, well head butting, the winning runs in the one day final on Missen for the Male Nurses United. Our enemy, Lord John “The Rat” Howard had threatened to take military action against the Flongians so we decided to lure him away. We left behind 500 elite Helvi trained troops to protect Sandy just in case, at the advice of our garrison commander Al, Al Foyle. Al’s sort of spooky, he has these deep blue eyes, just like Sandy when he hasn’t been on the shiraz, and he doesn’t say much but seems to able to figure things out brilliantly.

The Julian has the fire power to match the Rats death ball. The big problem is the Death Ball’s defence shield which, like ours, protects the ship from space debris to laser cannon fire. Helvi and I call a meeting with Al, GO, Catherine and Warrigal. “Okay everyone” I start “anyone got any ideas on how we are going to get them to turn off the defence shield?” “How about we tell them I want to paint it?” says GO as he writes the words ‘cark it’ on a piece of paper and ponders off into the distance. “I know” says Warrigal “why don’t we just ask them to turn it off for a bit” Hmm, We are getting no where fast and without any farcical powers I can see I’m going to need a piece of complex fiction to solve this quandary. Al just sits and smiles however Catherine pipes in “I have an idea, lets ask Julian, he will know being a ship himself?” “Great idea “ says Helvi “And tell him we will fight and die heroes and martyrs” Do you get the idea Helvi has a death wish?

So as usual it takes a while for Catherine to get the answer back from Julian so we head for the pub. Dave the guitar droid is playing some Bill Withers and Michael the publican is doing a crossword. “Tonic water thanks Michael” as I settle in my chair. Of course all the guys get pints of Trotters, terrible stuff, makes you a bit trippy. I’m listening to the music when Catherine strolls in, in her cat mode and jumps up on the bar. “Well Julian has a solution” Catherine informs “See Howard is a cricket freak so Julian says to send the two cricket droids we picked up in the last junk sale, you know, Mark War and Shame Worn”. The bar goes deadly quiet, this is complex fiction at its best. “So I call Howard and tell him the droids want to come over for a chat and present him with the ball that took Mike Gatting’s wicket that went on to be called the ball of the century”. Yes I remember Sandy raving on forever and a day about that ball “But Catherine how will that get rid of Howard?” I ask. “Well” replies Catherine “in the Mark War droid will be a B.O.M.B.” An acronym, lucky Sandy’s not here “An acronym Catherine?” “No not an acronym young Bel, a real bomb, a WaughHead.”