09 Wednesday Mar 2011
Posted in Emmjay, Pig Psalms
Tags
It is to you, our Waz, whizz of musicological magic
That we look for inspiration
And a howling reminder of the great tunefulness of the youtube-o-sphere
Thy range is inexhaustible.
Thy tastes hyper-eclectic, tinged with soppiness
But
Counterbalanced with edgy Zappa-like overtones.
And a tendency to lope off into the sunset with a jaunty, sandy-furred carefree gait.
Blessed be you, our Waz for the music is in you and you are in the music.
Amen (Chorus)
01 Tuesday Mar 2011
Posted in Mark
Tags
Australia, cricket, Father O'Way, fiction, humor, humour, Sandy O'Way, science fiction
Pictures by Warrigal
We drop in to the Mire, that’s the planet the Haggins’ live on, on the way to meet Alexrod, convenient hey. Mire revolves around a star called god knows what. God Knows What is around about the size of the sun. Don’t just some things run in your favour when you are out in space, fantastic.
Throwdough Haggins
So Gordon has told me that the Habits, that’s the Haggins tribal name, believe in magic, you know, goblins and sorcerers and all that airy fairy nonsense that we all know ain’t true however some folk, some planets do. The Habits live in Inhobitable. They are always having parties, loud music and of course plenty of ale. Sound like my kinda guys however Habits are smaller then us so things are a bit cramped for us apes on Mire. Gordon suggested I try a 3 wishes deal with the Habits to test the water. You know, one the two then the punch line. So okay lets try.
“So Throwdough, you like the party time hey, must go through a lotta beer?” I ask with great interest, well sort of.
“Lots of beer Sandy” he replies.
See the beer on Mire is called Oink Lager and the name says it all. Tastes like bats piss but hang on what does bats piss actually taste like? Yuck! And what sort of person would drink bats piss? I think I might change the subject, I’m feeling ill and I’m the one writing this.
Sandy O’Paramatta
“Look, on my planet we have this great technology. You just chuck this in here, fill with water and it makes beer, 25c per 375 ml bottle, waddya say?” I pitch like a car salesman on Parramatta Road.
“Just this stuff and water, Sandy is that right?” replies Throwdough. “Well, hmm, well, no, hmm, hmm no, no oh no, hmm, oh no, I’ll have two more of them.”
So with that Throwdough and Dildough handed over their cards. We left minus six home brew kits, oh and enough supplies to last them a century. I’m sure though the Habits will do as much as they can with addictive substances.
Viv having a break, literally
Back onboard the Julian we now start to head for Automaticus Tellericus, reset the password on the One Card and grab the bail. Easy for sure, well not really. Meeting my brother is going to be very interesting.
“I’ve ordered the Vivienne 59 for tea Sandy” chirps Belinda who walks in with Helvi.
“Hi Helvi, kill anyone today?” I quip hoping it’s taken in jest.
“No but if you want me to” grins Helvi.
“Anyhoo, what’s a Vivienne 59?” I request
“Some blokes name Ross Jogan, you know, curry it’s your favourite” says Belinda.
“Ready to fight Sandy or still shaking at the knees?” declares Helvi
Daves jigger
Dave the Guitar Droid goes “Hey, It’s. Shakin All Over”
“When you move in a-right up close to me
That’s when I get the shakes all over me
Quivers down my back bone
I got the shakes in my thigh bone
I got the Quivers in my knee bone
Shakin’ a-all over”
“Well perhaps not Dave” I say rather limply “ but a good rendo.”
“Girls, battle plans okay, lets go.” I float and with that the battle council gathered. They are well armed and well trained. Us’, well, we are just a pack of losers. However we have the Julian, the best spaceship in the galaxy but not necessary in the universe. Lets try and overlook that. This is complex fiction and I don’t want to lose you.
Helvi and Al Foyle with Catherine and Neville take charge. Ships are launched and deflector shields are activated. We are on silent mode. The ship runs on minimum power. Warrigal, the chief sensor, is flashing his torch at his tranny trying to get some sort of
Silence is Deadly
positive response, under the quilt, late at night, yeah. Noise of any kind a this time is not welcome. I can’t help myself and I take my part in all this very seriously, as you all know, none more dedicated than me, oh yes. So I says, you know, I says, you know, to the command group “Hey listen, I need to fart, but, look, you know silent is deadly” I announce to the delight of the crowd.
The Command group is thrown in to Chaos, “Oh, no, Sandy wants to ffffaaarrrtttttt’……”
Central Computer calling…..
Warning!
Warning again!!
Look I’ve told you, there is a warning of some description. !!!
Look, don’t keep pressing the escape key, it won’t help. !!!!
I’ve issued a bloody warning what else do you want?
I think I’ll shut down.
18 Friday Feb 2011
Posted in Mark
My Fishing Life
Recently the owner of the Pigs Arms asked for some fishing stories so here’s mine. Fishing, I hate fishing. If there is something more boring then cricket it has to be fishing. Bait up, throw your line in and wait, boring. Having said all of that there have been times when I have gone fishing. Usually just to keep the other person company. A good friend of mine is an excellent fisherman and will always barbeque some Tommy Ruffs when Tutu and I go to his place for a meal. Tommy Ruffs you ask? They are like a herring or sardine and having there own oil, lightly crumbed and sautéed on a BBQ plate with a nice white wine or beer they are beautiful.
Now I like eating fish but only when someone else has caught it and did all the cleaning etc., so I can then whip up a nice meal of flathead or Atlantic Salmon. I suppose that crustaceans and mollusc’s don’t count in fishing stories but give me a feed of prawns, crab, lobster, oysters and mussels any day.
Probably my main reason for disliking fishing is a general lack of success. I remember one occasion when my boys where very little I went fishing with my brother in law and his father both of whom where very good fishermen. We hopped in a boat and fished off Crescent Head on the north coast of NSW. Flathead and Squire galore, this was heaven even though I met Errol down the back of the boat. Errol? He’s the bloke you meet when you suffer a wave imbalance of the middle ear that forces you to release the contents of your stomach overboard, you know Eeerrrrroooolll!
Where’s Hung?
The only other success I’ve had is when I was down on my luck and was unable to work due to the Black Dog, that plagues me still to this day, a mate of mine and I would fish in the Port River off Torrens Island and I caught the largest Bream ever seen. Truly a local hero and admired for my feat by the gathering crowd to witness this event. When I put the poor creature back in the water well lets say the throng was in quite some disbelief however I couldn’t do the killing and cleaning bit so back it went.
So that’s my fishing life except for this one tale that I must tell. Tutu told me one day that on all of her fishing adventures she had never actually caught a fish. Others in the group had but never her. Tutu went on the say that it was one of her unfilled ambitions in life to catch a fish so we loaded up the car with the lads, Seek and Destroy, and went to Tooperang. Tooperang you say? Yes Tooperang and the Tooperang Trout Farm.
Tooperang is about 1.5 hrs drive from the Adelaide CBD travelling past the McLaren Vale wine region and the lovely town of Mt Compass turning left up the hill to the farm. Now while there are several different fishing methods the only one we wanted was a go in the “Sure Thing” pond. I know there are lots of analogies at this point of the story however lets not go there.
The Sure Thing pond meant literally that. So you pay to get in and you are issued with some bait, a hand reel and a club. “What’s the club for?” I asked stupidly. “It will all become evident” I was told. Anyway Tutu and the boys were already on their way, they knew. So you bait up and cast in and yes, you catch a fish. No one fails and yes you club the trout to death once you land it. Lots of people were catching trout and then barbequing them in park and rest area at the farm. All very tranquil and peaceful except for the farm dog, a collie, that had great pleasure trying to stalk ducks. Now the catch is, pardon the pun, that you have to buy the fish by weight. It cost me $27 for four rainbow trout when I had $30 left in the bank from my enormous earnings that was to last for the rest of the week. Looks like trout sandwiches!
When we got home I did the cleaning thing and cooked up the trout. Well they were bloody awful, muddy and not much texture. I probably didn’t cook it right as I had had no experience in cooking this type of fish. Even our cat wouldn’t eat it. I went and got a pizza on credit for tea and threw the lot out. However Tutu had got her wish and had caught a fish all by herself. We still laugh about that day and we drove past the farm recently on our way to the Murray mouth. It brought back all of those rich memories of family life, raising children and paying mortgages, all the good and the bad and how I would have it all back again tomorrow, if only I could.
14 Monday Feb 2011
Posted in Mark
Tags
Australia, cricket, Father O'Way, fiction, humor, humour, science fiction
I have a meeting with Gordon about the mission. “So Gordon, more baked beans? And what about the ICCB (Intergalactic Cricket Control Board)?” I’m asking this from my previous encounter with the last experiment that I had unwittingly become part of.
“No beans this time Sandy and don’t worry about the ICCB since you knocked out both of their Death Balls you could say that they’re neutered.”
“So Gordon are you saying that the ICCB hasn’t got any balls?”
“Yes Sandy, the ICCB is ball – less however the Stumponians are well armed. Nothing the Helvi-tastic can’t handle and oh, yes, your farcical powers” says Gordon with that mischievous grin and a chuckle that freezes your blood.
“Reset the expiry date on the card and that’s it. Oh, and get the Holy Bail. Oh and get the cards back from those Haggin’s, oh and say gidday to Axelrod the Marauder. Hmm, I think that’s it. The navcom has been programmed, take the wavetable after Pluto” rambles Gordon.
“Who is Axelrod the Marauder?” I ask stupidly knowing it will be something horrible. I mean the name is a dead give away. Should I call myself Sandy the Nice Bloke, hmm, don’t think so.
“He’s the keeper of the Bails. You will have to fight him I suppose” Gordon answers rather nonchalantly. Gee great, thanks Gordon. This is a joke, a farce. Just as that thought pops into my head the glass of water on the table in front me smashes to smithereens, oh no, the farce.
“Yes Sandy you must use the farce, may the farce be with you”
“And with you”
“Go the farce has ended”
“Thanks be to Gordon”
*******************************************
I teleport aboard using my SPIT(Small Personal Interplanetary Teleporter) and meet up with the crew who are all in the local, The Bats Droppings, for a reunion drink. The navcom who we call Neville has come as his dog form but all the regulars are here. Michael the publican pours me a pint of Trotters. Al Foyle, the Garrison Commander is in deep discussion with Helvi, about killing Stumponians probably.
Dave the guitar droid is playing some Muddy Waters and George is betting on the dish lickers. Belinda grasps my arm “Strange being back in space Sandy, isn’t this exciting” Well, yes, no, maybe.
“Yes, exciting” I hear myself say. “Where’s this planet, Automaticus Terllericus?”
“Orbits a star called Aldebaran, only 65 light years away, shouldn’t take long” replies Belinda with the excitement rising in her voice. “And don’t worry, me and Helvi will deal with axle grease or what ever his name is. We are a bit of a team us two.” What’s this now, warrior droid plus warrior woman? Scary stuff.
Now let me tell you, space is big, I mean, it’s bigger than big, it’s huge. Isn’t it amazing, big and huge are such small words to describe such a big thing as space. Anyhoo the ships engine doesn’t have a known top speed. It just keeps accelerating till the navcom tells it to stop and so by the time I have finished writing this sentence I will be thousands of kilometres away from where I was when I started.
So the Stumponians, who are they? Belinda and I head to the Cruel Room to get briefed on who we are up against. Oh, the Cruel Room is a four dimensional multimedia centre where the walls and floor all go one colour, invisible. It makes you think you are sitting on the outside of the ship, the S.S Julian II, or the Jules for short.
Stumponians love balls we are told. Throughout their year they have Red Balls that last for five days and White Balls that just go for a day. And there’s a rumour going round that they are going to have a new ball that just lasts three hours or so, I mean can you believe that? I can’t and I’m the author. Imagine anything that goes for five days, boring.
There’s singing, dancing, classical music, fine food and wine and art displays. Apart from that they are highly militarised and love fighting. Strange hey. They protect The Stumps that holds the Holy Bail which belongs to Gordon.
“Look Belinda, there’s just one thing I’d like to know” I ask rather meekly.
“What’s that Sandy?”
“Well, you know in the earlier part of this story I found out that you weren’t my sister, thank Gordon, but the evil Lord Deaf Vision was my father. So am I going to find out that I’m related to a Stumponian or what, I mean my nerves are killing me?”
“Yes Sandy” Belinda informs “Alexrod is your brother who in a previous life went by the name, David”
“Oh zark, me fight David, never! He’ll kill me”
11 Friday Feb 2011
Posted in Emmjay
Speculation was rife at the Pig’s Arms last night when Merv spent an inordinate amount of time in the Pig’s Legs having Glenda attend to his dial. The word in the front bar is that Merv intends to throw his hat into the ring as the new head of the APF and that he’s preparing for an interview.
His old mate Clarrie (Claret to Merv) from the now disbanded Division 21 (Liquor Licensing) team dropped a bombshell when he pointed out the unusually large number of former members of the force currently sheltering in the comparatively placid pool of licensed publicans.
Punters at the Pig’s have understandably started to join the dots and are coming to appreciate the nature of the cosy relationship that Merv has with the Pig’s resident bikie gang of geometricians – the Hells Angles.
Merv, on the other hand has started to wear his sunnies inside and on rainy days at night, claiming he has conjunctivitis, but Manne has sprung him doing little speeches into the mirror about strategic initiatives in the war on terriers (Helvi take note) and importation of boogie bags.
Danny said that he saw Tom Peterson – former ABC morning anchorman sipping a pink drink and leafing through a presentation copy of “How to Win Friends and Avoid Dropping Important People in the Shit” with Merv. Merv was nodding quite a lot and looking surprised with his new-found knowledge. Clearly Merv is banking on being able to emulate Keelty – wrangling the press corp and enjoying the kind of control that only expert spinners like Peterson can bring to a turning pitch.
Nobody is buying the story Merv put to Danny – that his urgent demand to have the Jag serviced and tanked up – was for a pressing need to visit to the national Gallery to see the new soft scuplture exhibition.
The consensus in the Pig’s Arms was that Merv would be really a great candidate for Keelty’s job, considering his vast experience watering down things at the Pig’s and because his inadhesive qualities rival granny’s Teflon wedge pans.
Our thanks to Indonesian Press for the loan of their photo of Keelty
08 Saturday Jan 2011
Posted in Pig Psalms
08 Wednesday Dec 2010
Posted in Gregor Stronach
Tags
By Gregor Stronach
What the fuck is wrong with you? Seriously… I need to know.
“Adult to the city today, thanks mate… Yep… $3.40? It’s gone up again? Wow…”
I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me, if you like. Maybe it’ll help you open up. Maybe my telling you what’s bothering me will assist you in getting in touch with your inner gripe. Awaken the Muppet within – quit being such a Kermit. Fire Miss Piggy for sexual harassment. Let Rolf know that you can tell he’s not really playing the piano when he sings.
“Is anyone sitting here? No? Do you mind? You do? Oh… okay… I’ll stand then.”
So… what’s wrong with me? I’ll tell you. I’ll need to move closer to you… my voice is husky. I have been shouting. Lying face down on the bed and screaming into my pillow until all hours of the night, muffling my tortured sobs and hiding the rictus of pain from the world at large. I’m trying to think. Be quiet – I’m trying to think here. Cease your wriggling, quiet your moaning. I’ll loosen your bonds when you understand. You’ll be free to go, the instant you agree. Nod once. Let me know…. And hush. You’re here to learn. Relax and let me in.
“No, sorry – I don’t have any spare change. However, I do have the employment section from today’s paper. You can have that instead. I don’t care what you do with it… I know you can’t eat it. But you can use it to find a job, can’t you?”
I didn’t mean to cut you, you know. I didn’t mean to let my blade slip as I used it to caress your face – your alabaster face, glistening with sweat. I can smell the fear coming off you in waves. I can hear your ragged breathing around the gag I placed in your mouth.
“Morning Julie! How are you today?… Good! Me? I feel fine… No really… I’m okay. I didn’t get much sleep last night. But I’m okay…”
Stop crying. I don’t want to see tears. I want you to know. That’s all… I just want you to know. You hurt me once, you know… I don’t think you remember. It was 30 years ago, now. I was so small. So innocent. Defenceless. And you took advantage of that. You took something of mine that I can never have back.
“Hello?… Yes… Yes… well, I’d be delighted to attend, thank you, Simon. When’s it on?… let me check my diary and get back to you, but I think we’re off deadline then. Sure… I’ll email you and let you know. Thanks mate! Bye. Yep, Bye.”
So you could probably fathom that I’m a bit angry about that. I know, I know… it was a long time ago. And you probably felt some guilt after you raped me. Who knows… did you? Nod if you did. You did? Really? So how about now? Do you remember who I am now? You do? Excellent… I expect that what I’m about to do will hurt quite a bit… you may want to prepare yourself…
“I’m off to lunch now – anybody want anything while I’m downstairs? No?… I dunno what I’m having. Probably a salad or something. I’ll see what’s there. Back soon!”
There it is! Please – stop shouting. I can’t understand you when you scream. By golly, that does look painful, doesn’t it? And I certainly didn’t expect it to bleed that much. Do you want to hold it? Cradle your manhood in your hands and mourn its loss? Here… press it against your torn flesh, staunch the bleeding a bit. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll wake up soon. See that this is all a dream. But dreams aren’t supposed to hurt, are they? Dreams aren’t supposed to bleed. But my dreams do… my dreams bleed, red like the setting sun. Awash with shades of crimson.
“Yeah, mate… that’s nearly done. I’ll put it on the server once it’s finished and you can have a read. Let me know what you think.”
So what do you think now? Do you think what you did is okay? Did you ever expect that I’d find you one day? Because I’ve been looking for you, you know. Every day, I look for you – and I find you – and I truss you up like a prisoner of war, and every day I think of new and darkly exciting things to do to you. But you don’t remember: so let me remind you. Yesterday, I raped you the way you raped me, but I used a knife. Today, I took your manhood. Tomorrow, I’ll feed you your own kidneys. The day after that, I’ll take a soldering iron to your eyes. After that, I’ll snap your bones, one by one, until you’re a helpless bag of worthless meat.
“I’m off home, now… I don’t think, so mate – if I have one beer now, I won’t stop until bed time, and I’ve got some work to do when I get home. But thanks – I’ll come to the pub with you another time. Sure thing… see you in the morning.”
Oh look at you… cowering there, all blood and shit and tears. How does that feel? Do you feel good? I do. I feel power. I feel the power you took from me 30 years ago. I feel it like you felt it when you had me. When you dragged me kicking and screaming from my childhood. I can see it in your eyes – you understand it now. So, I’ll keep my promise. I’ll let you go – just like I did yesterday, and tomorrow I will hunt you down again. You cannot hide from me. You have no power over me. I will kill you. One day. But not today. Not yet.
“Dear God. Please look over me while I sleep. I pray, dear Lord, that one day you let me find the man I am looking for. And I pray that you grant me the wisdom to forgive. But to never forget. Just once, God… just once I want to look into his eyes and ask him “why?”. I promise I won’t hurt him. I promise you that. I couldn’t hurt anyone. I ask this in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
First Published by http://rumandmonkey.com/ before most of their contributors were toliet trained
22 Tuesday Jun 2010
Posted in Gerard Oosterman
Is it not amazing that certain people are deemed to be beyond being human and possess a quality that not even the purest of cherubic angels could possibly ever own? Not just most times, but twenty four hours seven days, and over their entire lives. There was Justice Einfeld being caught speeding and telling a porky that most of us are more than capable of and probably doing most of the time. Yet, he was jailed for being what we all are, fallible human beings. The fact of being a retired superior High Court Judge, a former President of the Human Rights and Equal Opportunities Commission and a Unicef Ambassador for children did not stand in the way of his punishment. In fact, that was precisely why he was given such a harsh sentence.
There we are all cheerfully filling in our tax forms telling lies that will probably give us a nice little earner in refunds, hiding a few grand here and there in dodgy trusts or splitting income with our friendly stumpy Cattle dog ‘Bitem’. All very legit, as they say.
Good onya mate, Bob’s your uncle. But for a mere bagatelle of a porky, poor Marcus in jail, hopefully with enough wisdom in contemplating the irony of it all.
Lately there has been remarkable diligence on the part of a blood hounding mob of do-gooders sniffing out scents in the discarded underpants of ethics, never of just ordinary folks like us, but only of those in the public eye.
Some time ago, the minister for Defence, having enjoyed a paid trip to China, compliments of a friend, apologizing for his lapse of memory or simply having forgotten it all, was being pursued by batteries of video cameras raised and aimed for his face from journalists with the well practised sensitivities of belt sanders.
Where do the expectations come from that people in the limelight or of high position are somehow better or above the rest of us? There is the French President, divorcing his wife in full flight, taking a new one and being rewarded by a surge in popularity. At the G8 Summit Conference he was allegedly filmed drunk. Such panache! Are the French so much more sophisticated and tolerant and we in Australia so hypocritical? Could a prime minister have gotten away with the’ flair and nous’ what the French President Nicolas Sarkozy seems to have managed so far? Remember the uproar about young Kevin at the nightclub incident in the US? Where was our pride in our PM being one of us?
Is it also perhaps a fact that others elsewhere are more capable than us, of allowing even people in high places still to be human? The French President, after all, divorcing, taking another partner and sometimes getting pissed is what most of us intrinsically do as well. Why the hypocrisy here when it involves only people in the limelight?
Those that get caught with child porn on their computers are also invariably ‘normal’ as well. From ABC employees to judges and magistrates, police officers, priests and prosecutors, and even ‘stranger danger’ educators. They all line up, worldwide, being charged, with having downloaded and/or spreading child porn. Now, if ‘normal ‘people are all so feeble and weak to fall prey to doing bad things at times, why are we always pretending those things are being done by others? Is it not true that we are all capable by just a hair’s breadth of doing unacceptable things? We can’t say that people caught are all seemingly respectable pillars of society and absolutely ‘normal’ and condemning them, without also allowing and accepting that we are all capable of doing those bad things as well.
In the period of Queen Victoria, there were estimated to be over a hundred thousand child prostitutes in London alone. It is a fair bet, that those that abused children then were the judges, teachers, religious clergy, cabinet ministers, and regarded then as ‘normal’ as those now that are now caught with kiddie porn on their computers. Not that long ago, we stood by with terrible things being done to refugees, for years on end. The indefinite detention without trial of one of ours for many years, D.Hicks. The humiliation of Dr.Haneef and Cornelia Rau. Basic and blatant breaches of human rights. All evil things done under our noses and with the apparent approval of most of us ‘normal’ people, without as much as a single prosecution so far. Where were the bloodhounds then?
Next time we hear or read about bad things, small or large, it is more likely to be ’us’ rather than ‘them’. We are ‘normal’.
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 