Tag Archives: Trotters Ale

11.7 Sandy Goes Back to Space

09 Thursday Dec 2010

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Church of the Holy Bail – by Warrigal Mirriyuula

I have been invited to the bar at the Pigs Arms to have a meeting with the Bish, oh and a few beers. As we walk in there’s Foodge  with O’Hoo and Merv. Scheming up some deal I’m sure. You know lets make a million, yeah right. Bar fly’s, know what I mean.

The place is lively tonight and doing good trade given that the Trotters is off. The Bish has got our beers and ushers me into a private corner of the bar. “Sandy” utters the Bish in an unusually soft tone for him, he’s worrying about something, I can tell. “Sandy, that credit card that Gordon gave you, you know, the card that works anywhere and every time. Well

The card is carried by a Oneker

can I see it?” Crikey, this is out of left field. I’m starting to feel anxious. Sweat is forming on my brow, I don’t think I want the Bish to see or touch my card, how strange.

I reach for my wallet rather reluctantly. My pulse is racing and the anxiety is washing over me like waves at the beach rendering me virtually neutralised. With lots of difficulty  I retrieve the card and hold it up for the Bish to see. The Bish’s eyes light up light the harbour bridge on new years eve. “Yes” he says “my precious, oops, I mean yes that’s the one Sandy. That’s the One Card. It’s connected to Gordon’s account at the One Bank and is run by Onekers. You see, Gordon owns all of the money in this sector of the universe.” Who cares I’m zarking sweating like a pig here and I don’t even know why. “You see Sandy, the card has special powers. Its able to morph into the local planetary technology so it can utilise the account. It also can be used by the holder to become invisible.” These dope smokers, all this crazy talk about magic, oh and yes my farcical powers, sheez.

The Bish continues his rave “The One Card is connected to three other cards one held by Belinda, and the other two are with Throwdough and Dildough Haggins, they live in the local mire called Inhobitable, they are always pissed and throwing parties.” Hey, sound like my kinda guys. Anyhoo, what’s this got to do with me. “You must enter the card into the

A female Automaticus Tellertorian

Slot of Doom. It’s on the planet Automaticus Tellerius and is found in the heart of Mt TheKerb. The danger is it is guarded by a sect of the ICCB (Intergalactic Cricket Control Board) called The Stumps and they worship the Holy Bail.” Zark, I’m simple but what a crock of sheet. The Bish needs to quit smokin.

The Bish is in full swing now “You must use the farce Luke, er, um, Sandy return the Holy Bail to Gordon, get back the other cards and enter your card in the Slot of Doom. That resets the expiry date.” So back out into space, fighting, gun battles and navigational tactics, silent running the space ship to avoid being killed, sounds boring. “Can you do it?” asks the Bish.

Look I can’t help myself sometimes so I say “When do I start?” when I really mean “Bish I’m sheeting myself at the thought”

“Good man Sandy, Gordon will be pleased. Go the meeting has ended” announces the Bish

“Thanks be to Gordon” I reply

“And with you” says the Bish.

Fine Dining at the Pigs Arms

07 Tuesday Dec 2010

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The Pigs Arms Dining Room

Here is an extract from the Mearld-Hail dated 31st June 2008 after food and wine critic Earl Sandwich and partner Jules Carrot went on a search for the best inner west pub meal. That night, they dined at the Pigs Arms.

Arriving at the hotel is indeed an experience in itself. Tucked away, just of Porcine Ave, the Window Dressers Arms Pig & Whistle, the Pigs Arms to the locals, boasts the most interesting welcome. A sign greets you at the door saying “What lies in front us and what lies behind us are huge irrelevancies to what lies out there…..”, well, what can you say to that Odlaw?

You shuffle via the Ladies Lounge through the bar into the Bistro or as the pink neon light reminds you “The Pigs Arms Bar & Grill” just in case you would forget or in fact if you are ever able to forget.

In the bar a man stares blankly at a wall, humming a tune to himself, so softly in fact that

A version of HOO

no one else could hear it. We find out later on that it was Hung One On, a 70’s rock star who had a one hit wonder with an album that nearly everyone alive brought. “One trip too many” they say.

The waitress introduces herself as Belinda, “Glenda’s little sister”. It would seem Glenda is important. I comment that my sister also has that name but often complains that she is never allowed to sit near a window.  How odd?

We are seated a table that has a picturesque view over the railway yard. Belinda gives us the menus. We order some drinks, Trotters Ale, as it’s a local brew. Served cold, it emitted a strange misty vapor and an aroma that burns imprints on your brain that are difficult to erase. Drinking this ale became a two way process. As I sipped it, it sipped me. Stranger than strange.

The menu was small however eclectic. It contained all the usual villains, prawn cocktail, grapefruits onto pasta, steak, cake and ice cream. The words “Granny’s wedges are a must for all beer drinkers” emblazoned on the front cover however the curious thing was the way the menu was written.

Prawn cocktail was described as “…innocent little Dendrobrachiata, boiled alive , stripped to the nut,  served in a sauce made of the unborn children of Gallus gallus domesticus for some fat git with high cholesterol”, get the picture!

The last know version of Merv

We asked for the wine list. A man approached calling himself “Merv”. A list is produced, listing 34 varieties of Shiraz. “Gez’s” favorite we are told, whoever Gez is. I ask for a merlot, “Mate, this pub is for locals, you know, the unleashed”, absolutely no idea what he means so we pick a bottle and I order another Trotter’s and wait. Jules and I read the menu, Mains. Wow, after the entrées, geeps, I’m afraid to look. Let’s see, Lamb Rack – “The rib of a defenseless young Ovis aries brutally murdered and marinated in the oil of Olea europaea, ascorbic acid, Allium sativum and rubbed in sodium chloride baked in a <>187.7 degree oven. Served with pan fried Solanum tuberosum and steamed piccoli bracci”, Crusted Flathead – “a portion of sample from an ill-fated platycephaliade, obtained by slicing parallel to the spine producing a fillet, pan fried in the oil of Olea europae in a coating of  sodium chloride, Piper nigrum and the dried crumbed remains of baked Triticum spp. . Served with deep fried elongated pieces of Solanum tuberosum and a salad of Lactuca sativa, Solanum lycopersicum and Cucumis sativus”, whoa.

Dessert well lets not go there. By this time the Trotters Ale was staring to have an effect. Someone came past, counting everything, “37: John Howard, 38: The GST….”, I see a Dutch couple in the corner playing euchre and drinking Shiraz and arguing in Flemish about Wagner and his Ring Cycle.

Belinda arrives, we order but to her shock and dismay, we didn’t want any of granny’s

Belinda gets dessert

wedges. The wine comes and a handsome Greek couple enters and sits in the corner reciting poetry and encouraging the DJ to play Stella Konitopoulou. From my days of researching restaurants if the local’s visit then you know it’s going to be good.

A giant orange arrived at the door shouting,  “ Is anyone going to squeeze me?” , the paint on the walls start to peel turning into butterflies, SAS soldiers break through the doors shooting randomly and yelling at everyone to get on the floor, Jules hand mergers with the shiraz bottle and she has snakes coming out of her eyes, a man enters wearing a dinner jacket with monogrammed hankerchief’s, “MJ”, his name is Mike Jones, how I know that I have no idea, Glenda approaches, I hear her say to Belinda “Didn’t order granny’s wedges, what have I told you, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousands times the antidote to Trotters is in granny’s wedges, sheez”, a lion with a black eye walks up and puts his paw on my shoulder and says ”Here mate have some of this”, I look down and see a bowl of wedges, the lion says “The’ wezzes are goo, weawy goo, eat”. I shove wedges in my mouth and chew, I’m sweating, the lion is looking annoyed, a man approaches, its Jayell, “Quick”, he cries, “Get Hung to reprogram him”, I need my nappy changed and where’s  mum  I’m hungry, some one is shaking me “Sir! Sir! Sir!”

A relaxing post prandial Hung

I wake up. I’m in hospital, St Boars. A doctor and nurse are in the cubicle with the curtains around, they tell me this happens all the time to people not used to the mild hallucinogenic effects of Trotters Ale “You need to order some of granny’s wedges, didn’t Belinda tell you” he says, they smile at me in a peculiar way, they call Jules. As we leave St Boars a giant orange is sitting on the side on the road, crying, “Won’t someone squeeze me?”……..

11. Sandy Returns – From where, not sure?

23 Saturday Oct 2010

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Hi. Sandy here. For the new I’m Father Alexander “Sandy” O’Way. I’m the parish priest at the St Generic Brand Church in Inner Cyberia in the Western suburbs. The parish covers the Pigs Arms and I am often down there, sinking a glass canoe of Trotter’s Ale and debating science with Emmjay, or in other words talking bullshit. Oh, and I have recently been in space, travelling several galaxies researching baked beans for the creator of the Universe, Gordon O’Donnell, an astrophysicist from another dimension. Anyway, that’s another story.

Anyhoo, they let me out of the local psychiatric unit after the Bish, you know, my boss, Bishop Bishop came and bailed me out. Now I’m back with my Bel, you know Belinda, Glenda’s little sister, whom I married and then Gordon tells me he wants me to go back into space. Yeah right!

So I have to find out what happen between Picky Runting and Shame Worn, you know, they are cricketers, the most boring game in the universe. A good saying would be “I’ve seen grass grow, paint dry and a cricket game”, know what I mean. Personally I couldn’t give a rat’s toss bag, what ever that means, but the Bish had a bet with Pastor Sauce that they will replace Runting with Michael Fark. I mean, tie me down and spank my bottom, Gees arse.

I visit Picky at his rural Tasmanian home that he had completely relocated to the Sydney outskirts. Convenient hey. “Picky, dude, what’s this spat with you and Worny?” I ask showing my severe interest by yawning half way through the question.

“Ah, nothing Father. Look me and Worny is mates and nothing can come between us. He has his views and I have mine but unfortunately his views are all wrong and mine are always right and so I am going to belt the zark out of him, oops, Sorry Father, I seek means of a redemption through negotiation rather than senseless violence, ugh”. “What about Fark for captain?” I enquire. “Well Sandy yes, no, maybe”

Hmmm, now lets see what Worny has got to say for himself. I visit Shame in the majestic mansion that he built for himself by being able to bowl spin, telling lots of other people to zark off and how great he is, yeah right. “Shame, dude, what’s this spat with you and Runting?” I ask showing my severe interest by yawning half way through the question. “Ah, nothing Father. Look me and Picky is mates and nothing can come between us. He has his views and I have mine but unfortunately his views are all wrong and mine are always right and so I am going to belt the zark out of him, oops, Sorry Father, I seek means of a redemption through negotiation rather than senseless violence, ugh”. “What about Fark for captain?” I enquire. “Well Sandy yes, no, maybe”

Gee did you get a de jevu or what?  I mean are these guys similar. So I rings my good mate and colleague in India. The former test player now journalist Asif Iwood. “Asif mate, did Runting or Horrorwitch set bad fields in the last series?” I ask totally uninterested in the answer. “Well Sandy yes, no, maybe.” Hmm, deep. We’re getting somewhere here. “So Asif should they have played two spinners?” I ask as it’s written on a piece a paper for me by some cricket nut job to ask. “Well Sandy yes, no, maybe.”  Wow, mystical stuff.

So I rings the Bish “Hey Bish, it’s Sandy” I announce rather bravely. “Your money is as safe as the American banking system collapsing, Bish, Bish, are you okay?”

Foodge 16 – A Dry Argument

21 Tuesday Sep 2010

Posted by in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

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Make Mine Expresso

By Big M

The Zephyr ground to a halt across the road from the Pigs Arms. Foodge had to park across the road, as a beer truck proudly displaying the sign ‘Wretches Pilsener’, was disgorging it’s load of kegs straight down through the steel doors in the footpath. Granny was supervising, hopping up onto the truck, then diving down into the cellar to man (or woman) handle the heavy aluminium kegs into some sense of order.  She was leaping, chimpanzee-like back onto the flat bed of the truck when she spied him. “Up early, son?”

“Home late, stake-out.” Foodge nodded to the aging Pentax, SLR in his hand. Stake out was a slight expansion of the truth, it was more like, trying to get the dirt on a stray husband at the Leichardt Ridges Hotel. The pristine Zephyr was hardly an inconspicuous observation post. “Grill on?”

“I’ll be five minutes, if this goat can pull his finger out. Already dropped one keg, for which I refuse to pay!” Granny glared at the driver.

Foodge ambled through the main doors, to find himself inside, what could only be described as a sauna. “Hello, anyone home?”

“In the back bar.” Roared the voice of Merv. “Tryin’ to make one of them ‘Cups-of-Chino!”

Granny bustled past Foodge, nearly knocking him off his feet. “I told you to leave the bloody thing until we’d read the instructions.” Shrieked Granny, as she flung the doors and windows open, to vent the steam, then tore through to disconnect the new coffee machine before any more aging wallpaper was threatened by the steam.

Merv looked helpless. “Tryin’ to go more upmarket.” He shrugged.

Foodge smiled the insipid, simpering smile of the night worker. “Breakfast?” He settled onto a stool as far from the coffee machine as possible, then flicked open ‘Barrister’s Weekly’, vigorously attacking into the Word-finder.  Merv pushed a glass canoe of Wretches Pilsener across the bar. Foodge knew by the absence of scent (smell would be a better word) and paleness that it wasn’t Trotter’s Best. “What’s this?”

“Best and Bitter are off.” Explained Merv. “Yeast died. Probably for the best.”

“For the best, for the bloody best?” Foodge was standing. “Best beer in the bloody world, and it’s extinction’s for the best!”

“Keep your voice down mate, Janet’s bin poorly.”

“Sorry.” Foodge had forgotten Janet’s delicate state, what with being in the pudding club, and grieving now that ‘Master Cook’ was finished. He leaned toward Merv, his tie draping itself through runny egg yolk and beans. “This is a disaster.” He whispered. “I can’t drink any other beer.”

“There’ll be no more PA beers until we can get new yeast, then there’ll be a trial period.” Granny had her back to them, trying to vent the excess pressure in the ‘Cup-of-Chino’ machine into a safe place, such as the sink. There was a great thump, followed by a second thump, which, inturn, was followed by the sound of the doors opening, which was accompanied by a  tuneless whistle, then, through the mist emerged the most distorted face Foodge had ever seen.

“Gidday, mates. Nice sauna” O’Hoo enthusiastically shook everyone’s hand, wrinkling his nose. “Breakfast?” Granny dashed off to the cellar for more beans and eggs. “Wizeyoo up so early?”

“Surveillance” Foodge bent his head forward and pushed his battered fedora back.

“Me, too.” O’Hoo grinned. “Big drug bust. Some bad bastards have been illegally making paracetamol, selling ‘em to old people, cheap. Very dangerous. By the way, why doesn’t it smell in here, I mean, aside from us fixing the dunnies?” This wasn’t entirely true, as O’Hoo himself carried a distinctive odour, but, like a sewage worker was completely inured to it.

“Tannery shut down, makin’ leather in Chine.” Merv shook his head, as sad at the loss of local jobs as he was for the loss of local drinkers.

“Bad news, O’Hoo.” Foodge struggled to keep a tear from rolling down his cheek. “Bitter ‘n’ Best are off!”

“No, tell me it isn’t true.” O’Hoo had Merv by the lapels, which was a pretty dangerous thing to do, what with his size and disposition. Merv expertly removed O’Hoo’s hands.

“Settle down, son, no-one’s died, it’s only beer” Merv stated, fairly unconvincingly. He started absent-mindedly fiddling with the ‘Best’ tap, looking about to make sure that Granny was out of earshot. “Look, yuz two are the cornerstone of this place, so I’ll level with yuz. It’s not so much the yeast, it’s Granny.  I know, she’s still sprightly, in and out, up and down, and she’s been happy as a dolphin since yuz two fixed the Gents, which, by the way, we’re all bloody grateful, but, ‘er arts not in brewin’.  I’m buggered, dunno what to do with ‘er.”

“But she won that award, for Granny’s Boutique Bitter, you remember, with the yeast from the underpants?” O’Hoo, avered. “What the hell is wrong with her?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’, I dunno. Thought she waz tired so offered her an all expenses paid ‘olidie to me cousin’s place in Woy Woy, but, no, wouldn’t go. Truth is she ‘ad a cuppla dud batches of  Best, then one of Bitter, then she said she’d never brew again. I think she’s lost it, she’s already made space in the cellar for Vee Bee an’ Toolies Old!”

The three screwed up their faces at the thought. Foodge thoughtfully let an eructation escape his lips, which took a bit of pressure off the ulcer. “Well lads, we all need to take it gently, you know, ‘touchy, touchy, feely, monkey’, as they say.” His head was bowed forward with his right index finger tapping the side of his nose. “My current case is a dead end, your’s is closed, O’Hoo?” O’Hoo nodded. “We both need sleep. Shall we reconvene at, say, seventeen hundred o’clock?

“You mean seventeen hours?” O’Hoo was jiggy with military time.

“No, what about five, then?

“Yep, we’ll make it five!”

The two men rose, collected their equipment, and left, leaving their glass canoes untouched. It was a sad day for Merv, his shoulders slumped as he tossed the amber fluid down the sink.

10. Ur, um, the end bit

19 Monday Jul 2010

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The Joyous couple

Sandy here, back here on Earth and married to the beautiful Belinda, March 19, ouch, 21, okay, sheez! No need to be so touchy!  After a stay in the Regen-O-Bubble on Missen, Helvi and Belinda got rid of the little rodent Howard by blowing the zark out of him with a Waughhead [Thanks Waz,] The girls then did a pub crawl from Andromeda back to the Milky Way. Well, I must say, girls will be girls. Well I sort of wanted to stay on Missen. I had become used  to the way of life and  well, you know, shiraz, steaks and lots of things that now escape my mammary, er, um, oops, memory.

Anyhoo, Gordon has paid off the ICCB to go and zark off, the S.S. Julian II has rounded up a mighty cast and returned to Earth, yes that’s right Earth home now for Sandy and Belinda, no more space roaming for me. I’m a new man. It was an adventure being out there in space but give me the quiet parish life any day. See priests in my religion can get married. At our church you just insert the name of your God into out text sheet and away you go. No one cares about your views and everyone accepts each others rights to which fictional creature you want to talk to, everyone’s a winner.

Bishop Bishop performed the ceremony at the parish church of St Generic Brand. The post wedding party is at the Pigs Arms. Merve along with Granny and the two Vivienne’s, oh, yes, look the crew have come down for the wedding so we have the situation where like is meeting like, I mean its zarking freaky man, like imagine Voice meeting Catherine!

I look around the crowd and lots of people have turned up. Big M and Pussy Couscous have travelled from Missen. Zig and Zag have come from Zog.  Zig wants to begin tours to Earth  as Earth men are so easy, if you know what I mean.

It’s funny watching the crew from the S.S Julian II meet the locals at the Pigs Arms. The Vivienne’s don’t seem to be able to agree about cups. Astyages and Dave, the guitar droid, are working on a song list ready to play after the food has gone down. Helvi and the Helvi-tastic are agreeing on everything and everything while GO and Gerard are discussing Van Gough and Wagner. Emmjay and the first mate are swapping brewing techniques with Michael Jones, the publican of the Bats Droppings. Yes there all here. Even Mr and Mrs A are here, looking resplendid as usual and in deep conversation with Geo.r.ge.

I gaze at Belinda. She is beautiful beyond reproach. I am the lucky guy, I’ve won my lotto. Belinda has all her sisters for bridesmaids, Glenda, Juanita, Jacinta, Melinda, Rosita, Edwina , Sophia and Cassandra. Boy, am I going to have some birthday parties to go to, well, someone’s gotta do it.

I see Gordon, you know Gordon O’Donnell the creator of the universe, he has been busy having a few pints of Trotter’s Ale and approaches me. “Sandy, you old dog, got the pick of the bunch with young Miss Belinda” proffers Gordon, pulling back on a Café Crème “Yes, she’s a dish for sure Gordon” I answer rather distractedly as Gordon’s eyes have narrowed and he has grabbed me around the shoulder and pulled me in close to him. Is he batting for the other team? I think to myself “Sandy, look old chum there’s just one thing. I enrolled in uni next year and I need some help……”

[Authors note: Sandy was last seen in the back of an ambulance, in a white coat heading for the funny farm, yelling at the top of his lungs “PPPPPPPPPPPPPPiiiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggggsssssss in ssssssspppppppppaaaaaaaaaaacccceeeeee.]

Is Vic Bitter over Trotters Ale

12 Saturday Jun 2010

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Busy sampling Trotter’s Ale all day …. but then someone’s gotta do it..

Thumbing through Vic Bitter’s “Essential Guide to Beer Drinking, Australia – Vol 375” this article appeared in the chapter called “Boutique Brews” and reviews Trotters Ale – the beer that’s queer.

The Pigs Arms offers a unique experience with beer drinking. Brewed on the premises by the owner/publican “Merv”, Trotters Ale is a life changing experience.

I meet Merv who is a tall thin man with a pot belly wearing pink shorts and a t-shirt with “I didn’t see YOU in Vietnam 73” emblazoned on the front. Merv had black boots on with the words “Manne 1” on the right and “Manne 2” on the left written in white-out across the toes, how strange? Merv tells me Manne likes to have a kick around sometimes. On his arm he has a tattoo, a heart with the words “I love Blenda” curved around one side, when pressed Merv tells me he was dating Belinda but half way through getting the tattoo Belinda broke it off, so he started dating Glenda, “Had to have something there” he says. Some patrons are sitting in the courtyard around a wood oven, Merv informs me that they’re the “unleashed” and assures me they will speak about Trotters Ale.

A sign hangs over the bar that reads “If you order Trotters Ale leave your health insurance details with the barmaid”. I’m both puzzled and nervous. Belinda, the barmaid, pulls two glasses. She’s wearing a soggy sombrero and looks nervously at the window. The beer itself has a red glow and is served cold in a curvilinear glass. It has a small but notable vapour. My heart is racing. The glass is saying “drink me, drink me”. The ale has a unique aroma that is a cross between dead fish and the durian fruit. I take a deep sip. My mouth wants to cave in. In my head I hear a piercing scream of some wild creature in pain.

The mouthfeel is somewhat chewy and I was unsure as to whether I would live or die. I smile feebly however Merv is looking at me, grinning, “Bootiful idn’t it”. I try to drink more to impress Merv, I mean I’ve sampled thousands of beers this one wasn’t going to beat me. I feel as though some form of exchange is happening between me and the beer and Merv orders some wedges. Flashes of colour seem to be bouncing off the walls and the floor starts to shift. The wedges arrive and I eat some. “Their granny’s hot chilli” I’m told.  My chest is pounding now and waves of nausea are crashing over me. I’m swallowing the beer like nothing on earth. More wedges, yes more wedges.  The nausea starts to recede and my heart rate slows, the room returns to focus and I’m finished my drink. I’m starting to feel better but I’m incapable of speech. My lips move and the words “My round” stroll out of my mouth and across the bar and into Belinda’s ear. Two more beers are poured and we consume more wedges.

I’m feeling really good now, yeah, this is good beer. A peculiar smile appears on Merv’s face and he shows me into the courtyard where the “unleashed” are eating mushroom pizza’s and wedges. “This is Vic” Merv says “He wants to talk about Trotters”. I ask the group about what they think of Trotters Ale. A man called Emmjay says “Look old chap, the by-product of maltose, sacchyomyces and H2O is always welcome in my digestive tract”, hmmm, a scientist. The man next to him called Hung, thrusts out his glass and pleads “More?” Another, Warrigal, tells me “The’ beers are goo man, weawy goo”. The comments are coming now, the unleashed are off the hook. “Beware the DNA of Medea”, says atomou as his voice evaporates and his eyes narrow, “It’s okay but its not shiraz, anyone seen my chasseur? From Doncherry you know, cost a fortune” declares Gez, “You don’t think a stunning looking woman like me would drink beer do you?” replies Helvi, “I’m too busy cleaning up shit from child care” utters Glenda, “I think it illustrates that Lenin had a point in delivering the Goelro plan as part of the communist manifesto” states Voice. A voluptuous looking woman enters and sits next to Hung, it’s Tutu “Pink drinks for me, although since Merv has started putting tomato juice in the brew it’s good on a hot day”, tomato juice in beer, surely no one puts tomato juice in beer! The last one in the group is Jayell. I ask him about Trotter’s, “Well Yes, what a Wag, nah, not for me”

My phone rings, it’s Danny, “Hey Vic, I got you that ute”, ah yes Trotters Ale, very queer indeed. In the background I hear the faint sound of a guitar and a tune floats across the air just like rocks don’t, “Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay , Si, Si, Signora , My sister Belinda  She pissed out her window on top of my new sombrero”

8.4 Time Out

17 Saturday Apr 2010

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GO’s painting of Sun Mountain. Anyone who thinks its bullshit doesn’t know what they are talking about

We arrive at the snowfields bio after an overnight ride in the Nimmow. The port is absolutely stunning. A wide open deck that leads to a number of small chalets and a restaurant/café and a handful of shops. We are really spoiled. A female crew member approaches “Hi, I’m Vivienne, I will be looking after you while you stay here at Sun Mountain”. Well there’s not much sun at the moment, it’s cold and light snow is falling. Luckily the G. King nanobot clothing I’m wearing adjusts to keep me warm but my face is as cold as a Trotters Ale at the Pigs Arms.

Vivienne leads us to one of the chalets and like everything on the S.S. Julian II it’s all high quality and incredibly comfortable. GO, the artist droid, appears in his overalls with some brushes, rollers and a tin of paint. “GO” I ask “I thought when you said you wanted to paint the mountain that you meant a portrait?” “Ha, ha Sandy, you joker, I’m just doing some touch up work in one of the chalets first then in the morning I will head up the mountain to do some painting” replies GO. Whew, thought something weird was happening as in space nothing ceases to amaze me.

Belinda and I head for the restaurant. A jazz band is playing called the Gregor Stonach Trio and they are doing some Chick Chorea, great stuff. Vivienne serves us a fillet steak with sautéed mushrooms and fried potato, washed down with a Redman’s Cabernet Sauvignon, beautiful, it doesn’t get any better that this.

Next morning Belinda heads off to the snow fields to ski while I wander around the small village looking at antiques and art galleries when Helvi approaches. “Sandy, come with me, I need to show you something” Helvi states. Now if Helvi asks you to do something you do it, I’ve seen her in full battle mode and it’s both magnificent and scary. “Sure Helvi, what’s up?” I ask with an air of uncomfortableness “Come into the meeting room and I’ll explain” advises Helvi.

We enter the meeting room and Helvi and I sit at the table. Out of her right eye she beams a picture on the wall. Is a giant golden ball and its travelling very fast through space. “What’s that?” I enquire. “This is how the S.S. Julian is seen by other space travellers. The golden sheen is the force field and see in the centre you can see the body of the ship with its ring of bios.” Informs Helvi. Yes, I can see the ship but it looks like a giant penis. “Yes” says Helvi “Exactly”. Zark now she’s a mind reader, better keep it clean. “So Helvi is that what you wanted to show me?” I ask and as usual I won’t want to hear the answer. “Wait, there’s more” says Helvi. Oh, zark, not the steak knives I think to myself. Helvi continues “Sandy do you believe in BULLSHIT?” asks Helvi. “But Helvi bullshit is bullshit, you know crap, lies, made up stuff” I reply innocently. “No Sandy BULLSHIT stands for Binary Unit Locater Link Shifting Heuristically in Time”. Well zark me, space an acronyms must go hand in hand. “Never heard that bullshit before Helvi?” I answer as best as possible under the circumstances. “See Sandy, when we return to Earth you will arrive just days after you left using BULLSHIT” relates Helvi. “So Helvi are you telling me this whole thing is based around BULLSHIT?” “Exactly Sandy, egg zacally……”

8.2 Pigs In Space

28 Sunday Mar 2010

Posted by in Mark

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Warning: This picture has been Warrigalised

Sandy here. Had a strange dream last night. Belinda and I had some curried scallop pies washed down with some creamy apple cider so I think that’s what brought it on. Yes, well, I dreamt I was in a canoe on a lake in Africa with my mate Evil Car Knee Ville. Knee Ville and I were fishing. Anyway we started drinking beer, eating boiled eggs and smoking this strange substance from a pipe. So I cast out and along comes this magnificent looking fish and the fish says “Hey mate, got anything to eat, I’m hungry?” “I’ve got some bait if your interested, fish are supposed to love it” I reply in a casual semi-interested sort of tone. “Hmmm” says the fish “is there a catch, no pun intended?” “Well yes” I reply rather hesitantly  “See I attach the bait to this hook. When you bite it the hook pierces your palate causing terrible pain and suffering. Then we haul you ashore, cut you up into little pieces, pan fry and eat you along with chips and lemon juice and salt.” “I don’t think I like that idea much” says the fish and leaves. “Hey Knee Ville , did you see that fish I almost caught?” “Sandy, that’s the oldest line in the book and by the way that’s Hemingway with one M” says Knee Ville. Then I wake up thinking about baked beans on toast, weird.

Helvi hasn’t been able to establish eye contact with me since my body altered however she is doing her best to help us understand the morphing process that has taken place. The village bio is much bigger as a garrison has been added and so an auto-pilot electric car is needed to get me to the Bats Droppings for a few Trotters, I mean you wouldn’t what to drink and drive would you, I mean that would be really bad and only evil dickheads would do that. The farm bio is now run by Mr and Mrs Douglas with their farm hand Eb. We also have a snowfield/chalet bio for holidays, a tropical island bio for Jilligan, who by the way, lives out there alone now the Kipper was killed. We now also have an outback station bio. The pics on the computer of it look great.

I ring Gordon, you know Gordon O’Donnell the creator of the universe. Gordon currently on Earth in the Pigs Arms drinking Trotters Ale all day every day as he does. “Gordon, Sandy here how the zark are you?” I press knowing it’s always good to get on the front foot with Gordon. “Bloody good mate, it’s all good” answers Gordon in an unusually good Australian accent “Now Sandy old boy” he continues “I believe you hit a POTHOLE, nasty things, will have to get onto the Council, anyway glad you rang mate, want you to head to Missen, the score in the first innings must be between 320 and 350, got that, it MUST be” asserts Gordon. “Gordon how can anyone head to missing?” I ask rather naively knowing I won’t like the answer. “No Missen, it’s a planet that orbits Capricorn in the Andromeda Galaxy, Neville will know the way, it’s only a couple of million light years away. You must get there before the rodent, you know he will zark the whole thing up, you know bribes, kids overboard. This is a very important part of my thesis.”

“On the subject of your thesis Gordon, what is it you are actually studying, I mean it’s not the cricket is it?” I barge in rather hot under the collar. “This is war Sandy” Gordon replies “And war is hell, and hell is beans Sandy, baked beans on toast. Forget this low glycemic index crap or the high fibre bullshit, this is about beans, baked beans and how they rule life the universe and everything” Gordon voice tapers to a final whisper, a man possessed by some demonic spirit or just really pissed on Trotters Ale, this has become scary stuff. “So why has the score in the first inning got to be between 320 and 350 Gordon?” I wade in foolishly. “Well Sandy, that’s the estimated number of beans in a 420 gram can of course!…..”