Category: Uncategorized

JACOBS WELL – THE TRUE STORY

It was early winter 2020, the Coronavirus, or Covid 19 as it widely became known, still had Australia under lockdown. There was political talk about relaxing restrictions – with announcements that cafes may soon be opening again for business. In Queensland, the self-righteous premier, Alexandra Pallethead would descend the stairs each morning with a shit-eating grin of pride on her phiz – as she approached the waiting throng for the daily press conference. Once again, she would utter a few words between each reference to Queensland, Queenslander and Queenslanders – all the while taking personal credit for the way our collective hibernation had stymied the forecast deadly spread of the virus.

With a solemn crew of dull-eyed wowsers standing the required one-point-five metres behind in support, and an irritating, worthless and distracting arm-waving Auslan interpreter by her side – she announced that the re-opening of cafes (under new self-distancing limitations), was imminent!

Now, I don’t drink coffee – it’s not out of any type of healthy life choice, or child-labour protest – I just don’t fancy the taste of it. Never have.

So personally, I couldn’t care less if cafés never opened again – they are simply not on my radar.

Pubs, on the other hand, are a welcome escape for the wellbeing of my sanity.

A few beers (whose taste I do fancy), blow a few hard-earned dollars on gambling – and to sit around and shoot-the-shit with mates who tell tall tales and generally do their very best to take you down (in the finest of good humour!). This, I love.

I’d read online about various city establishments taking to selling ‘Growlers’ full of their hand-made crafty beers. This style of pub is usually found around Newtown or Darlinghurst – and frequented by your hairy-faced, bun-headed, yuppie Hipster or Urban Dandy. They have apparently been selling the various craft beer varieties in personal takeaway bottles. Where I come from, we don’t have Growlers – well, not that sort anyway!

I understand that some odd people find coffee an essential life commodity – and some such people may even suggest that Hotels, Clubs, Taverns and various other drinking venues may not be life-sustaining- enterprises whose very existence gives meaning to the lives of fun-loving people.

But seriously – no one really needs to buy a cardboard cup of coffee to have a fun day.

And, so it was that I came to be at Jacobs Well boat ramp, launching my four-point-eight metre centre-console Sea Rod late one afternoon.

The plan was to head out to Tiger Mullet Channel and fish overnight – I’d brought along two bottles of red – a crisp merlot and a hearty Cab Sav, which I’d stuffed in my backpack without reading the labels.

While I’d prefer cold beer – it creates a lot of rubbish in a small boat and you end up needing to hang the wedding tackle over the side half the night. Wine is far less obtrusive and easily dispensed from the bottle-neck straight down the gullet.

With the sun setting behind me – I gunned her full noise toward my destination, though I quickly became distracted by checking the chart-plotter, navigational beacons and my eagerness to anchor up for the night. Against all marine logic (and common sense) – I could see no reason not to cut the corner and drive inside the beaming port channel marker.

By the time my ample gut hit the steering wheel and my face kissed the windscreen – the motor had let out a roar of protest and flung sand, mud and seaweed into the air!

I was quick to recover and kill the motor – look around and realise I had well and truly lodged myself on a what was soon to become an exposed sandbar, on a dropping tide.

I hopped out and tried to man-handle the boat back from whence she came – but the dropping tide got the better of me and I soon conceded defeat.

I accepted my position – stranded for the next six hours, and tried not to punish myself too much psychologically, for yet another stupid life choice.

I switched on my anchor light, threw out a line – cast into the oh-so-close channel, played some music on my IPhone and commenced to drinking some merlot.

I tend to have a decent sense of humour, and without anyone else to blame – I decided to make the most of my situation. By the time Springsteen got round to singing Thunder Road, I re-lit my disgusting Jose L Piedra Cazadores Cuban cigar for my second go-round.

The Merlot had been an empty vessel, once again jammed back, deep within my backpack for some time – and the Cab Sav was also on a falling tide.

When Garth Brooks paid homage to his ‘Friends in Low Places’, I stubbed out the soggy nub of cigar butt, blew out the final breath of wise-guy smoke and took my penultimate swig of alcohol for the hollow-bottomed bottle.

I had long ago given up trying to catch fish – and by now found my eyelids heavy, my movements with just a little-too much momentum and my balance just a fraction compromised.

It was time to finish the vino, take a mouth-cleansing swig of cold, fresh water and seek some shuteye on the deck for a few hours. I had a pillow and blanket – though I am yet to have any type of rewarding sleep staying in this old tub, despite its upgraded conveniences.

I’m not sure how much later it was – but I heard a distant scraping on the slab sides of the boat, and an unfamiliar voice saying ‘Big Bella. Big Bella – you okay? You okay Big Bella?’

What the fuck!!

I sat up, my head spinning – blinking my un-spectacled eyes (I must have stowed my specs in a safe place?).

There were mangrove leaves around my head and a black face, cutting out the stars above – glaring down at me and hissing – ‘You okay Big Bella?’

“Fuck! Yeah – I’m good mate. What the…hang-on. Where the fuck am I?”

‘Who the fuck are you?!’

‘You on Budju. Eden Island. I watched you wash-up. You okay Brother?’

As my mind struggled to catch up and analyse the recent past – I began to stand up, stumbled a bit but held on.

Okay – my boat, going fishing, running aground, drinking and singing – and oh, that damned cigar, I can still taste it! Okay – okay. Shit! I forgot to throw the anchor out after getting beached!

The tide must have come up while I was asleep – and here I am.

‘Yes mate – I’m good, I’m good. My name is Steve. Who are you?’

‘They call me Strike-a-Light. I live em around here’

‘Pleased to meet ya, Strike-a-Light!’

We manoeuvred the boat into a small, sandy opening in the mangroves, and at my new mate’s insistence – I disembarked and followed him on foot to his camp (after first securing a reliable anchorage!).

Sitting around the firelight, I finally had a chance to get a good look at mine host.

He sported the typical native build – from the thick, calloused foot soles, skinny calves and long, slender legs which he crossed with ease, to the wild mop of unkempt hair proud upon his head. He appeared fit for purpose, with tight and strong, sinewy upper extremities and some old, long faded tribal scars sitting bold across his chest.

He had a wide mouth that smiled easily and beaming smile that set one naturally at ease and glad to share his company.

The eyes were dark and deep, surrounded by red blood-vessels that hinted of weariness and worry.

I could not guess his age – though I would doubt he was a day younger than eighty.

He told me his real name was Ngarra – though his parents gave him a white-man’s name, Strike-a-Light.

We laughed about that – ‘Strike-a-Light’ was an old-time white-fella’s term for surprise, similar to todays ‘Fuck-Me!’

Like if they stumbled upon a gold nugget, one might declare ‘Strike-a-light, will you look at that!?’

My mate’s ancestors had obviously heard the white fellas talking and thought it a pretty-cool name to call their child.

He told me that as a younger man, he also had a mate called Tractor and another named Wheelbarrow. Native kids in a new world, named after inanimate objects by parents trying in vain to fit in.

Funny thing is – I’ve heard plenty of celebrities purposely name their children far worse names than that in the last few years.

My mate offered me a brew – something he’d been boiling up on the coals in an old blackened billy.

He filled two old, chipped enamel mugs and set one down at my feet.

I could see it wasn’t just tea – there was some kind of boiled-up, solid vegetable matter in there.

I asked what it was, and he just said ‘You drink him up – he’s a good fulla’

I found it bitter with a mouldy after taste – it could surely have benefited from a spoonful of sugar.

Ngarra asked me where I came from – I told him originally Sydney, but here via Darwin and now lived locally at Jacobs Well.

He looked deep within the fire – the night got deathly quiet and his face lost all expression.

‘Jacobs Well eh, Big Bella? Hmmm’

‘You know about Jacobs Well? You know the story? You know why they call it Jacobs Well?’

I said ‘Well yeah – when I first moved here, I looked it up. The details were pretty sketchy – but something about an old German bloke, I think. He ran a farm and had a son called Jacob – I think he named the local waterhole after him?’

Ngarra nodded, never taking his eyes off the fire – he said, “If you go to Jenolan Caves – you see caves, eh Brother?”

“If you go to Mount Buller – there’s a mountain”

“If you visit The Great Barrier Reef – there’s a bloody great reef there, eh?”

“What about Jacobs Well?”

‘You like living there, in Jacobs Well? You ever notice strange things?’

I started to feel a little uneasy and asked him what he meant by ‘strange things’?

He murmured, ‘The birds, the animals, the dogs?’

I sat up straight and looked him in the eye – and he asked me ‘You want to know the real story about Jacobs Well?’

I told him I would definitely like to know the true story.

He said ‘Us Blackfullas know – we’ve always known – Jacobs Well is badness-country.

You’re right – that young fulla, Jacob – he knew about the Well, but it’s not just a well – it’s a lair!

Bad business lives down there, down that hole.

The young fella went swimming one day – called in for a drink of water on the way home – it was a very hot day.

He hadn’t made it home by sunset. Next day they all went looking for the lost boy – he knew his way around, so nobody believed he could have got lost. They were right.

The well was not a well like you see in the picture books – it was more of a tunnel in the ground, with an over-hanging cave, or burrow, surrounded by grass – the water was just a little way in, there was a hole in the floor.

They found the boy – with a look of terror fixed on his face.

The long bones taken out of his floppy legs.

The ends gnawed off the bones and the bloody marrow eaten out.

One bone speared through the young fullas head, and his brain sucked through it like a white-man eats sweets.

I stared into fire for what seemed like hours – though I can’t be sure.

I listened to horrific tales as Strike-A-Light looked back to his youth and described local atrocities that he seemed finally pleased to share with this Balanda-Boy, who’d drifted precariously ashore to his sandy patch.

I woke up in the morning – uncomfortable, a little cold, with a foggy buzz occupying my brain-space.

Strike-A-Light was gone – no sign of his presence as I blinked into the embers – what the hell happened last night?

My Chipped camp mug was empty and lying on its side – Man, I could do with a drink!

I rubbed my tired eyes and tried to get my shit together.

Having wandered off for my morning constitutional – I began to place together the pieces of the night before.

What was in that cup?

I’ve read of the American Indians getting high on the natural hallucinogens from the peyote plant – could this have been something similar?

Jacobs Well.

Physically, The Well was not a well as we know it.

The Well was indeed the lair of an ungodly, subterranean creature – who preyed upon the bold and boisterous ways of unsuspecting and fearless young lives!

Strike-A-Light’s people had long known of the evil Juju who had stolen the spirit of their children.

I have no idea what was in my mug that night – and though I found it a warming comfort and a soothing panacea – I retained my unjustified and naturally cynical suspicions.

I had a vague recollection of challenging Strike-A-Light regarding his unlikely tale of some ravenous beast living beneath our thriving community!

As my mind cleared – I recalled the most worrisome tale of all.

Upon my challenge of local native superstition regarding missing kids – Strike-A-Light told me this.

Back when the white-fella Franz Reitweller owned the place, and his son Jacob disappeared – his body was found, no leg-bones and a vacuous skull.

Franz lost the spirit to farm this land and decided to return to Munich, in Germany.

He quickly realized that mention of  the bizarre disappearance of his eldest child would likely limit interest in his land-holdings – so, with the courtesy of the corrupt local council and several invested stake-holders, they quietly agreed to fill in the well, cover up the young man’s sordid demise and white-wash the entire episode.

Heavy equipment was sponsored, the entire Well site was filled in, and money was paid to remove state records.

When I called bullshit to Strike-a-Lights tale of terror – he challenged me – and to this day, his words run terror up my spine!

He told me to use my own observations – he had no motivation to trick me, and really didn’t give a flying-fuck if I believed him at all. (Perhaps my doubt is why he left my company during the night?)

He advised me to take notice of the curlews in town, and the plovers.

He told me they run around without purpose, on long spindly legs – they are the ghosts of the missing children – their long leg-bones removed from their mortal bodies – used now as stilts for their spirits, the brain devoured – as they scream in the night, searching for their long-lost parents.

He told me to look at the local dogs in town. He said the dogs will go crazy – barking and running amok for no apparent reason – but they can smell the beast as it rummages beneath the surface – looking for an opening to once again emerge and lick the flesh of the innocent and unwary local children!

He asked if I’d ever noticed the raucous screaming of the local birds as they settle to roost?

Ominously adding that the boat-ramp vicinity bordered on the epicentre of carnage.

He spoke of how the parrots would all suddenly take flight in unison, despite seeming largely settled in. He told me this happened when the beast beneath began chomping through the tree roots, as he scrimmaged beneath the surface – just waiting for that opening to daylight and fresh marrow!

Strike-A-Light challenged me – he said, ‘Did the council ever promised you town-water, sewerage?’

I said – Yes.

“Has it happened?”

No.

That’s another thing – it goes back to the old council agreement – The council know they must not disturb the surface in Jacobs Well!

Though the current councillors may not be aware as to the reasoning – you will never get town water in Jacobs Well.

They tried this many years ago – thought they were equipped now to deal with the ungodly beast. Stupidly they had brought in excavators with an aim to dig out this evil creature and finally put an end to its fiendish threat.

So under the ruse of a ‘Sand Mining’ enterprise, they commenced their hunt.

This was a major project, and their quarry not without animal instinct – so results were not immediate.

By the time the ultrasonic echo scanning equipment managed to locate the beast within the myriad of rambling burrow tunnels, thousands of tonnes of sand had been removed.

With rising anticipation and excitement throughout the crew, they held a party – for tomorrow, having blocked off the only exit with a steel divider, they would break open the final few feet  of earth and trap their quarry in a blind tunnel.

Their hungover heads were awoken just after dawn, by an ungodly, blood-curdling scream!

Sometime throughout the night, the beast had dug through from his side and attacked a young cane-farmer’s daughter as she rode playfully home on her pushbike, taking in the fresh smell of the sweetly sugarcane as she rode by moonlight.

Her distraught mother had found young Jennifer Knight – her body draped over a pile of sand – her legs de-boned and lying flat against the ground, like a couple of discarded rubbers in a lookout carpark. A bloody femur protruded from her temple like an abandoned cocktail on a luxury cruise.

In the aftermath the beast had managed to dig his way back home after entering a hitherto abandoned tunnel, long discarded of interest by his pursuers.

The ‘Sand Mine’ shortly thereafter announced that it had ‘run out of sand’!

Then commenced the second great cover-up, in two distinct ways. One was figuratively – they did not publish details of the incident, there were once again too many investments at stake. And secondly – they began filling in the holes they had dug in their folly to confront evil.

To this very day, they continue this practice.

The  diabolical consequences of this enterprise are not forgotten by those who were there – and it is they who insist on piling up as much fill and industrial waste as they can manage, in an attempt to bury once and for all, the beast who lurks beneath.

There was an itinerant career criminal who’d been sleeping rough around the town for several weeks. When he realised the workers were all busy drinking to their success that night, this low life opportunist saw an easy score. He waited till dark before breaking into the construction zone with the aim of stealing wallets and any saleable valuables left in the heavy equipment overnight.

While he was rifling through the cabin of an excavator, he heard a ruckus outside – so locked the door and ducked down, fearing he’d been discovered by the crew.

As he peered out of the lower observation window, he witnessed the entire attack!

He described how he saw a creature with large, soulless black eyes, a hardened protrusion like the beak of a crow with an internal jaw full of glistening, sharp and vicious teeth – like the maw of a pike eel.

It had large bulbous shoulders, with muscles rippling in all directions – hirsute on the upper regions with thick wiry bristles – like an Irish wolfhound, yet sparsely covered toward the underbelly and rear of the creature. The hind quarters sloped down to a slender sinewed, canine type lower back and a near hairless tail.

The foremost limbs were also of muscular build culminating in a pair of long hairy claws.

Most frightening of all though, was the extended, bony middle digit – defunct of hair – but a thin, leathery black protrusion which it used with great dexterity to insert into the main bone after the joint nub had been severed – to scratch out the blood-filled marrow.

It took great care to extract the entire bone contents which it licked from the digit with a yellowish, dribbling tongue.

The man thought he was done for when he let out an involuntary squeal, as the beast rammed home the recently hollowed femur, straight through the tender temple region of the young girl’s skull.

After it had eaten its fill of goodness, the beast peered around suspiciously before slinking off on all fours, to dig his way back to the cavernous subterranean sanctuary of its labyrinth tunnel system.

This man – Robert James Long, was found the next day huddled in the foetal position on the floor of the machine, and though he made a full confession and witness statement, he was hushed up permanently when a cellmate mysteriously clubbed him to death with a dumbbell in the early days of his gaol sentence for the stealing offences that night.

As the winter sun rose higher that morning and I struggled to once again board my vessel to return home – a single thought returned to me – through the fog and mist of my mind-numbing hangover:

I recalled, just before I drifted off to slumber, these final ominous, baritone words from the ethereal Ngarra – a grim warning that struck me solid:

The creature will be back.

As soon as he finds an opening in the ground.

And he will feast upon the local children – he will devour the marrow of the log-bones and suck the brain as fixer!

I emerged from my comatose slumber late Saturday morning. I was not in good shape.

A couple of people had recommenced drinking, sipping on beers as their legs dangled in the pool. While joining them would usually appeal to me – this thought was not an option for Post-Party Cossie!

We ate some leftover roast rolls from the party – prepared delightfully by Miss Rachael.

There was a bit of a stock-take and general clean-up, with plenty of beer and wine being left over – though a powerful load had been ploughed through the night before!

James had received quite a distinguished collection of bottles for his birthday – many hand delivered in those special little bottle-bags, that make perfect gift wrapping for the lazy, such as myself.

Most were dutifully thrown out – into the rubbish-trailer, ready for a tip run later that day.

Being an environmentally conscious kind of a bloke, Jimmy decided to do some recycling – and so went out front and retrieved a few of these bags.

This community-mindedness sure paid off on this occasion because one of the thrown-out bottle-bags contained some four-hundred and sixty bucks worth of gift vouchers – mainly RM Williams I believe!

Nobody is quite sure who tossed the bag – obviously with honourable intent in their heart, but I can divulge that Catie Brooks is on a rather short list of suspects….

We forgot to return the chairs and such to the Turf Club – until Old-Mate who organised it, turned up in his ute to collect them. That was a bit embarrassing as he shouted out from behind the locked gate.

It was an uneventful day for me that day – and finally one where I got to have a dry day!

No alcohol was consumed by me – but plenty of fluids went down my throat as I tried in vain to restore my hydration levels.

I believe I crashed at around nine pm that night – once again glad to hit the horizontal.

 

Sunday was State of Origin day – the decider, with the Mighty Blues already one-up in the series. We had an appointment at the Pickers for dinner, drinks and some rowdy cheering of the footy!

(It also happened to be Side-Boob-Sunday again – so Monsoons was also on the list of must-visits!).

Catie Brooks had slept over at Rachael’s place after the party – and helped with the clean-up next day. When her husband Cory, came around to fetch her, he naturally brought the young fella Quinny with him. Quinny is a pretty cool, respectful little kid – but was unfortunately feeling a bit crook on this occasion and not really interested in getting into any mischief. They were scheduled to fly back to Brisbane the next day and said their good byes to us at Rachael’s front gate.

Anyway, back to Sunday – I suspect we indulged in further left-over roast meat rolls for breaky, they were still a pretty popular number, and we were sitting around doing nothing of consequence when Jimbo’s phone rang.

It was Cory – they were at the airport.

Apparently, they had called Qantas before leaving the motel and advised they had a sick child and asked for advice regarding the flight – Qantas suggested it wouldn’t be a significant issue and to proceed to the airport.

Turns out it was indeed a significant issue after all – and they were banned from their flight home!

Hence Cory’s current call ‘James – any chance we can crash at Rachael’s place for a few days, Qantas won’t let us fly home?’

The Pickers being the Pickers said that would be fine – come on over.

Not being one to dwell on misfortune, Brooksy joined the boys as we headed for a few quiet beers at Monsoons, while Catie stayed home and watched over Quinn.

Cory is a fairly big bastard, softly spoken, friendly and willing to do anything to help a bloke out. (I am also assured by his wife, that he is a multi-dan blackbelt kick-arse champion in some kind of Asian martial arts discipline – and so can quite easily tear you a new one if the fancy should strike him!).

While all this makes Cory sound like an all-round great bloke – unfortunately Mr Brooks is also a Queensland supporter.

He was the only Queenslander at the Senior Picker State of Origin gathering – which was great, it added some colour and gave the rest of us a legitimate target!

The Blues won convincingly – to the great delight of the masses, and we all celebrated with love and laughs and friendly banter, a good feed and all washed down with plenty of nice cold drinks.

 

As the night got late, we once again retired to Rachael’s place. Jimbo dragged out his laptop and we showed a few interesting you-tube clips and various funny song videos.

It’s safe to say we were all pretty high on the turps and lack of sleep – and ‘The Sillie’s’ kicked in.

You know that state where you find every little silly thing hilariously funny and giggle over stupid things, like a little school-girl? I find tiredness is usually a major contributor to that state of elation – and its great fun while it lasts.

We were all telling stupid Dad-jokes and laughing way too much at the punchlines, with every person then trying to top the last.

I can’t remember the circumstance, but someone mentioned polar bears and Catie threw in a piece of trivia she’d picked up at who knows where ‘You know – though Polar Bears are white, they actually have black skin’.

Next thing – someone called her a Racist Bear Bitch! And we all burst out laughing again! It made no sense any way you look at it – but was so funny at the time, it was worthy of many repeats that never diminished in hilarity in the wee hours of that post Origin Monday morning!

By two-thirty I’d drunk myself to a standstill, bid adieu to Jimmy and Brooks couple and headed for the sack.

I’m told the others stayed up past five am.

I don’t know – nothing disturbed me till the sun was well and truly high in the sky.

 

Monday – this was my last full day in Darwin. I was scheduled to fly home to Brisbane on Tuesday night (well one thirty am Wednesday morning to be precise).

I actually have no idea what happened that day – I just recall chancing a beer at around four or five in the arvo. I thought I would raise myself up for one last stand – have a few beers in the afternoon, eat the tucker Jimmy had prepared for the barbecue, and then crash for an early night.

James offered me the first beer but didn’t have one himself and Brooksy was looking after a still-sick Quinn. Catie wandered out and felt obliged to join me with a beverage – she simply hates to see someone drinking on their lonesome.

We had quite a few beers and a great feed and by now we were looking for a change of drink – a bottle of red would be nice!

‘Hey Catie – are you up for a glass of red?’

Yes, she was.

The problem was that neither of us had any red.

We discussed the issue and decided to borrow a bottle from among Jimbo’s birthday haul.

‘I’ll buy him another bottle tomorrow to replace it – that’ll be fine. No worries.’

I fetched the bottle and returned to the backyard, a couple of wine glasses in hand.

Before I cracked the lid, I said ‘I think I might Google this shit first, to see if I can afford to replace it!’

So I Googled it and it turned out you could buy it a Dan Murphy’s – six-ninety-nine for a litre!

We both burst out laughing – I was pretty safe to cover that one (and also that some cheap bastard had given him a seven-buck bottle of plonk for a fortieth birthday pressy!).

[I was to find out later that it wasn’t a pressy after all – but a left over ‘table-red’ from the party catering].

Catie is a psychologist and holder of several degrees, I was reliably informed – and we spent some fascinating time discussing the psychology of serial killers and mass murderers (a subject that has long held my macabre interest). We also discussed dreams, odd people we knew, and old nicknames.

By this time, the litre of red was empty, and we switched back to beers – unfortunately we had the drunken whisper thing going, where you think you’re being secretive and speaking in hushed and inaudible tones, yet you can actually be heard by all and sundry three blocks away!

We got the ‘keep it down’ message from upstairs – so made a strategic shift of position, around the corner, away from windows and under the carport.

It was nice to have a captive audience who hadn’t yet heard all my stories.

I found it a rare privilege to be able to select the funniest and most bizarre tales and deliver them in their most humorous form as proven over many years of performing this material. The pause-for-applause, the dramatic build-up to a shocking punchline – all great fun!

Catie too had plenty of amusing and occasionally shocking stories of her own to tell – it was non-stop yakkety, yakkety, yak between the pair of us. No doubt things made more interesting and funny due to the continued exhaustion and subsequent silliness brought on by the extended stretch of hardcore partying over the previous days and nights.

It was after five am when we decided to call it a night and just as we had everything tidied up – Catie knocked over an empty Corona bottle.

The empty DING! DING! DING! echoed around the neighbourhood – as we both froze and looked at each other like two possums caught raiding a kitchen!

We cautiously tip toed off – like a pair of cartoon burglars leaving a crime scene.

By the time I made it inside to Jimmy’s pad – Rachael had descended the stairs fearing someone was breaking in! I lifted my hands and surrendered myself to the mercy of the court as Rachael inquired as to what the hell was going on?!

Sorry Rach.

 

That was to be my last drink for some ten or so days – and while I really enjoyed each one of them, I sure was looking forward to the break!

It was Tuesday – I was leaving Darwin that night.

 

Cory, Catie and Quinny finally got the all-clear to fly home and headed that way.

It was really nice to get to know these genuine good guys over the last few days – and we have some local fishing trips planned together in the near future.

(Sadly though, I haven’t taken my boat out since before my Darwin trip – I’ve been installing a new bow-mounted Minn Kota electric motor in her, and she’s all ready to go now. But that’s a different story).

 

We visited the Senior Pickers and Sumo one last time in the arvo – also said goodbye to Greg and Carol.

Jimbo tried out the new laser-wash car was on the way over – it scared the bejesus outta me on several occasions, much to his delight!

We had a beautiful meal of spaghetti Bolognese and garlic bread with the Pickers, before heading home to wait for the dreaded Airport time.

Lounging around Rachael’s, half asleep, with a four-hour jet trip ahead of me – I just wanted to be home. It was sad and depressing – my brilliant holiday had come to an end, and the nasty flight home was all that beckoned me.

‘Fuck it Jimbo – let’s go mate!’

It was around ten-ish and hours before my flight – but holding out was tortuous and James was clearly tired. So we jumped into the car one last time and he dumped me at Darwin airport.

I read a bit, checked in, stewed in my own depression and exhaustion a bit and then boarded the big bird.

I was blessed to have a row of seats to myself, so I sat in the middle chair.

The rooster in front of me immediately reclined his seat – so I simply spread my out-stretched legs a bit, made sure nothing was protruding into the aisle, put my head back and closed my eyes.

I woke up about twenty minutes out of Brisbane, with the sun rising.

It was freezing when I got out in my shorts and t-shirt, but soon enough the Oldies appeared, and I hopped into the car and we headed for my house.

I was spent.

 

It was a brilliant holiday, though I ran myself ragged with late nights and alcohol abuse.

I’ll be back in Darwin within twelve months for sure – after all, I’ve still got a lot of people to catch up with and places to revisit – besides, I can hear those distant Side-Titty-Temptresses whispering my name from  Monsoons each Sunday afternoon as the sun sets….

 

It took about ten days of sobriety before I could once again face a beer, and my Facebook post from the time sums it up pretty accurately:

Well – we’re having a celebratory drink tonight.
The first since a major falling out over physical abuse at Darwin last week.
My internal organs and I have decided to work as a team once again.

I had my brain complaining of not enough rest – when it was clearly his idea to stay up till 5am shootin’ the shit with fine company, and drinking anything within reach! Yes, it was the best of times – but he needs to consider his work mates!

The liver was on overtime from the minute I hit Brisbane airport and started drinking $11.50 Crownies – and the poor bastard didn’t stop for ten days straight.

My stomach was in all sorts of confusion. Constantly full of grog and randomly joined by – a slap-up, steaming bacon and egg breakfast at 1pm, skip lunch then tuck into chili-meatballs at around midnight. Gourmet lamb cutlets and vegetables, spicy chicken breasts, world class omelettes, Spaghetti Bolognese, all intermittently spaced by left-over-party roast meat dinner rolls. So many roast meat dinner rolls. At any time of the day or night. Washed down with beer, bourbon, rum, red, assorted jelly-shots, Jagermeister , butterscotch Schnapps, Snickers shots and some potent Fairchild concoction involving vodka, Redbull and Jager!

My eyes felt like someone had thrown a fist-full of chicken salt at them.

My bowel was about to throw in the towel and refused to process anything solid for the final two days – and this gave me quite a scare while descending the airline steps to the tarmac back in Brisbane!

But I finally made it home in one piece and we’ve been in negotiations ever since.
I think my conceding a full week off duty, with the occasional fruity treat thrown in has gone a long way to pacifying the various factions.

So, on behalf of the Organ-team and myself, I am now proud to say – ‘Cheers Ladies and Gentlemen – drink up!’

 

 

 

 

Friday finally rocked around, and I still hadn’t had a day off the grog.

I had full intentions of doing so – especially the night before the party. But it was Darwin, and these things tend to happen.

We had a bunch of eskies – from across the Top End and a trailer load of tables and chairs, borrowed from a connection at the Darwin Turf Club.

James was once again running missions all over town – a trip to the tip, back to the oldies for more supplies, off to the shop and bottlo for more grog and ice and then back again.

He directed me in his absence to fill a few eskies with specific beers – Corona in this esky, Ashanti in that, Great Northern in the yellow esky etc.

 

Just as I set to work, I was joined by the timeless beauty of Rachael – who suggested I in fact fill the blue esky with soft drinks and juice. Sure Honey – it’s your Do, you’re the boss.

So that’s what I did.

James returns with the ice – checks the blue esky and says: ‘What’s this?’

‘That’s soft drink and Juice – Rachael said to put in there’

He shakes his head and says ‘Oh FFS – you had one job…..’

Hey Man – I can’t work for two bosses!

 

Ben came over after work to assist in the setup.

We scattered the tables around the yard at random intervals and spread some chairs in strategic chatting formations.

 

We had to keep the rear right quarter clear for the Muso to set up – and room for dancing, should anyone feel so inspired.

Somebody had a packet of balloons, a big shiny, blue four and zero – and a tank of helium gas with which to fill them. Being thoroughly capable men – Ben, James and myself all refused to read any instructions and proceeded to work on instinct. A couple of minutes and a few false starts and we had a smooth production line in action.

Somehow, I ended up with a fistful of floating balloons, struggling ever upward against their strangling blue strings. I felt a little like Pennywise, the scary clown from Stephen King’s ‘IT’ – though the boys reckoned I looked more like a happy paedophile (which concerned me some).

Anyway, before too long the strings were tied and weighted down to colourful and hefty lumps of something wrapped in blue cellophane, made just for this purpose. We placed them on each of the tables, though the big blue numbers were refusing to behave in the wind.

In a stroke of genius, Ben dumped the numbers in the pool!

And while it took some discussion and various iterations of his original idea – the numbers eventually floated above the pool water in a serendipitous, yet eye-catching manner – alerting all to the motivation behind tonight’s gathering!

Ben went home for a short time and then returned with his new RM’s, beautiful Missus and a full esky in tow. Here’s another bloke who was punching above his weight – and I was looking forward to having a chat with Ben’s partner Jody, but she didn’t stay long.

The place was starting to hop as more and more people arrived.

I had an interesting chat with James’ Uncle and cousin – aviation guys the pair of ‘em. The elder a Qantas pilot and holder of several domestic long-distance aviation records (In smaller craft) – and the young fella working on new Air Force Prowlers at the local airport – ahead of Operation Pitch Black (which is the code name for combined international war-game scenario that roars above Darwin every couple of years and generally sends the inhabitants more batshit-crazy than they already are!).

 

A generous young couple joined the fray, Linh? and her man – Who’s name I can no longer recall – but they brought with them a host of spring-rolls, the like of which I had never had the pleasure of tasting. They proceeded to hand them out to the willing punters who all appeared pretty keen to oblige.

Unfortunately, my mind is much like a country rodeo – riddled with rum and filled with wild beasts and beautiful girls. These days – if I can remember someone’s name for more than eight seconds, I’m pretty proud of myself and looking for a prize!

Pottsy showed up relatively early – which I admired, as it was a brave step for young Michael and well outside his comfort zone – Monsoons.

Pottsy praying for salvation

 

My Final night out in Darwin 2008 – Scotty, James & Me

 

Scotty McNeill was also among the early arrivals – he is an old school-mate of James and a top bloke. I’ve known him for a long time myself and shared a few adventures and good times – one of the most memorable being the night I won $5,800 at Shennanigans, which we had agreed to split six ways! I recall it was a crew including Scotty, his old man – Ian, James, myself and possibly Jade and Justo? – it was a long time ago but we were all pretty damned happy about it (even though it was mostly blown at Fannie Bay Race Course [Shennanigans St Patricks Day Race Day] the following afternoon).

It was great to catch up with Scott again. Unfortunately, his wife Nicole was unable to make it on this occasion, due to a prior engagement.

 

Looks like Scotty has made some new friends since I left…

The Blöhm sisters were there in all their glory – Kara and Bianca. I had great time catching up and reminiscing with these two lovelies.

My last night out in Darwin 2008 – Kara and I

 

Kara reminded me of the time a decade ago, when we were having a drinks night at my place and one of her friends who’d tagged along arrived pretty wasted. After a few more drinks on a humid NT night – James decided to shave his hair off with my clippers. So I grabbed an extension cord, plugged in the clippers and directed him the centre of my yard – where he stood, shirtlessly defoliating his scalp (I didn’t want the mess in the house). He did a pretty dodgy job – and when he was finished, Kara’s mate decided she’d use my kit to trim up her nether region. No shame here – she just upped her skirt, dropped her knickers and proceeded with the job! (To everyone’s amazement but no one’s protest).

 

 

Quite a few of the blokes and sheilas were married now, with children – which you would think would have refined their behaviour accordingly. Apparently not. They all still enjoyed a good time when it was on offer (and this venue was a strictly no-kids affair, to allow just for that).

I ran into Jade and Caoimhe (pronounced Keeva, I was advised some twenty years ago), on my way to get a fresh beer. This pair were married now and had barely changed since the day I met them – well, maybe one a little more than the other. Anyway – Caoimhe amused me by noting she hadn’t seen me round town for a while.

I said: “No. I moved to Queensland ten years ago, hehehe”.

She didn’t believe me, and it took quite some convincing to turn her!

It’s remarkable how the brain interacts with time.

A big familiar face, standing tall among the lads purposefully caught my eye and, with a big grin and extended arm – gave my hand a firm shake ‘Cory’.

Ahh yes – I remember Cory Brooks and recognised his face – though I would possibly not have aligned the name and face had he not re-introduced himself.

Two ‘headlines’ I recall about Cory from my old Darwin Days – ‘Cory Joined the Navy’, and ‘Cory Married Cathryn’.

They were still married – with a young fella called Quinn.

Cory was a long-time mate for James – and Cathryn, or Catie as she is now known, is a long-term friend of my old mate, Kirstin!

I remember meeting Cathryn in passing a few times – drunken nights out on the town. Introduced by Kirstin – I just recall a hot, young blonde chick, who was part of Kirstin’s crew. Basically, the whole group was just hot, young, drunk chicks having a good time – including Kirstin.

I remember clearly however, Kirstin commenting to James one time about the likelihood of one of her best friends marrying one of James’ best friends. So I remembered them as Cory the Navy-Bloke and Cathryn the Kirstin-Friend.

 

There was a young bloke playing guitar and singing up a storm – everything from Kenny Rogers and David Bowie to John Mayer and a few other modern artists of whom I am no particular fan, but others loved. Jordan Ravi was his name. He’s a talented young lad, only eighteen years of age – I’m told, the son of a famous NT Gynaecologist? He plays guitar well and puts on a very entertaining show – it’s pretty ballsy calling for requests from thirty-seventy-year-olds, when you’re only eighteen! Kenny Rogers for example, had come and gone well before this kid was born – yet he still had a crack at playing ‘The Gambler’. A few of the verses were a big dodgy – but he sold it well and sounded genuine.

 

I was doing the rounds – chatting to Shane ‘Harro’ Harrison again, who’d turned up with his much better half, Kylie.

 

 

Nicky Musgrave joined the convo, with that perpetually-piss-taking husband of hers, Liam ‘Muzzy’ Musgrave. Plenty of stories were told and laughs had.

 

Rachael and a few helpers appeared with trays full of jelly-shots which were spread around and devoured with great enthusiasm – I accounted for four or five of them myself.

 

It was around this time that Ben Fairchild recognised that I had not had enough to drink and proceeded to make me some kind of concoction involving Vodka, Red Bull and Jägermeister!

Thanks Ben – I really needed that!

Returning from fetching a new beer, I was once again collared by James’ Uncle. I took a seat and we had a very interesting chat about flying – I mentioned the ‘Jet Stream’ and he seemed glad to realise I had some minimal understanding of the physics of flying. He ended up showing me how to plan an aerial route/flight plan – from Darwin to Brisbane, via Mount Isa, Cloncurry and Longreach – on a rather impressive and professional looking Phone App! That was tres cool.

The place was pretty much skippin’ and a jumpin’ by now. There were different groups clustered at every turn of the yard – some I recognised, some I’d never seen before. But it struck me that this is why people who attended the same party, can often chat later and it seems like the other guys were at an entirely separate affair!

 

I was beginning to get that ‘blinkered’ effect – where the alcohol narrows your peripheral vision, so you only see what’s directly in front of you, like a horse wearing blinkers. You remain aware of the white noise and blurry shadows surrounding the focal point – but like driving a car dangerously fast, you dare not dilute your concentration on what’s directly ahead of you!

A couple of times throughout the night, I retrieved my camera and did rounds taking candid shots of everybody. While the camera is capable of some very impressive photographic trickery – I was certainly not. I simply hoped that there would be enough clear shots at the end of the night, that James would have some kind of permanent record of what went down during his Fortieth Birthday party.

Somebody called for a shot of all the boys together – the wrangling of drunken men for the eventual photo composition was much akin to rounding-up a herd of cats from a restaurant back alley!

Several shots were taken from various angles and cameras – but this was always gonna be a near-enough-is-good-enough affair, with all thirty of us seemingly looking in a different direction at each flash of a camera!

In the end it did as photos often seem to do – it captured the crowd as we appeared. Perhaps not as neatly organised, groomed and spruced-up as we’d preferred – but a true reflection of a mongrel mob, a little off-balanced and unfocused but having a shit-hot time in old D-Town!

Jordan had completed his three-hour gig, but the party was still swinging – so Ben approached me on the quiet and asked to borrow two hundred bucks to pay the lad for an extra hour! (He knew I had the cash on-hand after an earlier exchange). I gave him the cash but said I’d pay for it (it felt good to give something back to the Pickers – I was very happy with the idea!).

Ben stuffed a fistful of cash in the young guitarists hand, had a few words – and Mr Jordan Ravi struck up his six-string once more, to the delight of all.

(Ben insisted on paying half of the extra-hour fee – but I managed to scarper from the Top End without reminding him to front his cash. I’m much happier with that outcome. But full credit goes to Ben for the idea and inspiration – he’d have made it happen somehow. An Ideas-Man is Ben, with all the determination of hungry Honey Badger!).

I did another round with the camera – snapping random shots here and there, and when I returned to put the camera away, there were two blokes lurking about James’ pad. It looked like Cat Stevens and one of the Monkees – perhaps Micky Dolenz – had escaped the Sixties and arrived in a Darwin kitchen with a pocket full of ganja. I’ve no idea if they were stoned or just drunk – but they were listening to music, and draping themselves all over the furniture and floor, with silly don’t-give-a-toss grins plastered across their dials. In fact – they had that glassy-eyed, contented smiley-look that you often encounter on house geckos. These lads seemed harmless and relaxed, totally devoid of sinister intent – and probably also incapable of it even if they’d harboured such thoughts.

I heard later that someone had poured vodka into Jimbo’s fifteen-hundred-dollar coffee maker, in an attempt to make some kind of coffee martini!

But that was just conjecture and I am told the machine thankfully produced a decent coffee the next day.

 

 

It was after midnight and I spent some time chatting to Simon Kidson, or Kiddo as he is more affectionately known. Kiddo is a charismatic kind of a bloke with a ready smile and an affection for ‘the game they play in Heaven’.

 

My memory gets very patchy here – not because I’m recalling this three months after the occasion, but because my mind was in an alcoholic haze by this time. Inside my head was like one of those stale, smoky old bars that you see in movies – at kick-out time, with a die-hard local, slouched on a stool and a reckless, drunk chick dancing round the juke box.

A memory – which I didn’t recall at all until James mentioned it the following day, is broken up into snap-shots of an encounter. It’s actually quite frightening that you can experience an entire incident, interact with people – and then not recall it ever happening, eight hours later, just through drinking too much.

It was late, and it seemed a whole bunch of new guests had arrived at the party. Through my ever-diminishing tunnel vision, I spotted Maria Billias – an old friend, journo, political media advisor and all round nice girl! I was pretty excited and went up and gave her a big hug hello.

I inquired of her cousin – another Maria, who was an extremely close friend of mine for many years, and of whom I have lost track. I can’t quite remember her answer – but I think she may be up in Nhulunbuy somewhere. She is a beautiful girl my Blossom and I’d love to catch up with her again someday – but she has always treasured her freedom and I can only hope she is happy and living a good life.

(PS: If you ever happen to read this Bloss, give old Gringo a call 😉 ).

I can’t remember past that point.

I have a vague recollection of Maria turning her back and walking away? Certainly, my paranoia the next day gave me a regretful shudder down my spine – and a fear that I may have said something to offend. I have nothing bad to say about the girl – so I can only assume it was possibly some embarrassing, drunken blabber which she’d heard enough of. I prefer not to dwell on it – though I regret I didn’t see Maria much earlier in the night.

From there, my memory jumps to standing around the ‘Oldies Table’ with a few stragglers.

There was another mob lingering over the eskies – James declared he’d had enough and was heading to bed as soon as he let them know the party was now drawing to a close.

It was around three thirty am – so I finished my last drink and headed for my much-loved bed, leaving mine host to bounce the malingerers….

He ended up drinking with those he intended to show the door – hung in there till after five am before finally drawing curtains on the Fortieth Birthday Party of Mr James Picker Esquire.

 

….Anyway – here are some of the clearer photos from the evening:

 

 

 

Well I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt…Oh no – that was Johnny Cash.

I woke up feeling pretty dusty myself, had a cuppa tea and a shower – content that the first big night was over and I didn’t have to drink tonight.

James arranged to pick me up at the reception and take me back to his place, where I’d be staying for the duration.

James’ place is actually Rachael’s place.

Rachael is James’ much hotter, older sister and has owned this double-story delight at Parap for over ten years. I had visited once before – late, after a night out – possibly a New Year’s Eve or Christmas? Back when I used to live a few blocks away at Parap Grove. My memory is hazy but I recall swimming in the pool with a bunch of girls – I have no idea who they were, but I think an Irish chick from Shennanigan’s pub – Louise I believe, was among them.

Regardless – this is a superb setup now, Rachael lives upstairs and James has his own space downstairs – fully equipped.

(And they have three sausage dogs to stand security and keep them safe – one of which is a spritely seventeen years old!).

Jimbo provided no clue as to the type of vehicle he would collect me in – so when I checked out of the reception and saw a little red, tinted-windowed hatch-back waiting in the driveway, I put my head down and towed my suitcase toward the passenger door. When I was a couple of feet away, with a hungover grin flashing across my dial – I noticed the driver had a beard and dark tan!

That’s not James.

The bloke looked at me and moved off into the street.

I pretended I was just walking that way – with no intention of ever hopping into some stranger’s car.

I finally came to rest on a bench and waited – before a silvery, Toyotarish type, medium sized car pulls up alongside me – and this time I can clearly recognise young Jimmy Picker’s phiz.

I dumped my hefty case in his boot and slid into the passenger seat – the air conditioner was working marvellously.

We had to pick up a family friend, Greg – from the Picker’s place at Larrakeyah and drop him off at Hidden Valley for the Super Cars. Greg was a top, friendly and helpful kind of bloke – Vietnam Vet, from Cowra, who spent a few months each year caravanning in the Picker’s backyard with his lovely wife Carol. They turned out to be excellent company on several occasions in the ensuing weeks.

The trip to Hidden Valley was interesting for me – taking in all the changes and familiar old scenery as we went. I’d forgotten just how good the roads are in the NT – very wide lanes, in fine condition.

In fact – it scared me again when I arrived home in Brisbane and realised how close one needs to travel to roaring B-Double trucks in the next lane! It’s a wonder there are not more accidents than already occur.

It could have been about then that James announced: “I don’t think I’ve told Steve yet – but we’re going to Monsoons for a few beers this arvo and then we’ll probably call into Mum’s place to say hello and have a drink with ya’s”.

More drinking? Lord have Mercy.

 

We called into Parap Bakery as we finally approached home, for a local mushroom pie for breakfast, a couple of rolls for some ham & tomato a little later, and a nice cold drink.

Rachael’s place was great – I had my own air conditioned, quiet room – with a recently erected double bed and lockable door. The orientation of the structure is such that, at this time of the year, a prevailing cool breeze flows right through unhindered – from front to back.

I dumped my bag off inside and we proceeded out the back into the entertainment area, around the pool.

James lounged back in a cloth-seated chair and I chose, what appeared to be a more robust, white plastic, outdoor type common to every backyard. I trust these – I know they’re sturdy, been using them for years.

Crikey – I wouldn’t want the embarrassment of my big arse ripping the bottom out of one of his cloth-seated chairs! That would make for an unbearably uncomfortable situation for me, having just arrived – and with ten days yet to spend there!!

I would postulate I’d been seated for some five minutes, chatting about the previous night, when – SNAP!!! My sturdy white chair goes suddenly wonky.

FUCK! I leapt straight up. The four legs remained true – but the side armrest had busted out due to the girth of my arrse!

(Now – that unbearably uncomfortable and embarrassing feeling I alluded to earlier – yes, this was it. In spades).

James sympathetically blamed the chair’s age and exposure to the sun’s UV rays for having weakened the internal structure – and I appreciated that sentiment greatly – but I knew it was my oversized, wide-load arse that was to blame.

So after that, I either stood up or sat on the pool’s edge with my legs dangling in the water – somewhere I could do no further damage.

I also became paranoid about the possibility of somehow damaging The Picker’s other possessions. Drinking-glasses, fridge, computer, bed, shower. I wasn’t game to take up his offer to borrow his car anytime I liked (he would in turn borrow his Mum’s). Early on I had visions of driving around a little more – visiting old haunts. I was even thinking about heading down to Cooinda, in Kakadu overnight and taking in the sunrise cruise on Yellow Water the next day.

James asked one day if I had any plans – and I suggested heading down to Humpty Doo pub for a beer (something I’ve done many times over the years) – it’s about thirty-five K’s each way. But I’d forgotten about the Berrimah Line!

The Berrimah Line is a mythical line passing through one of the southern suburbs of Darwin – which Darwinites like to avoid crossing! Beyond the Berrimah Line is like Never Never land – locals only head that far on extended holidays and such – and then, only when absolutely necessary!

So when I saw the reaction on his face as I suggested Humpty Doo, I decided I’d best keep the Kakadu idea to myself.

(Rachael invited me up to attend James’ 40^th birthday – James told me I was welcome to stay there any time – so I said, Pisser! And booked myself in for twelve days or so.

It wasn’t till sometime later that I actually realised I perhaps should have discussed the extended stay with James, before I booked myself in!

When I lived in Darwin – I told everyone they were welcome to stay at my place for as long as they wanted. And I meant that completely. But not everyone does.

My instinct at the time of booking though, told me that this would be fine – and I felt extremely comfortable around James, despite not seeing him for ten years.

He’s a cool bloke, speaks the truth, I trust him implicitly, and he is among the most honourable men I have ever met.

Anyway – next time I visit, I’ll have a plan and discuss it with mine host before I leave home).

I was sitting with my feet dangling in the pool and was oh so tempted to dive in.

This was the middle of June mind you – winter and freezing down south, but I bravely took the plunge regardless. The water was still about 25 degrees Celsius and the outside air temp a brilliant 32.

 

 

James headed off somewhere and did some shopping for supplies to feed his unexpected new freeloader for the next fortnight – while I bobbed around the pool, chatting to Rachael as she waved princess-like from high on her balcony.

We made it to Monsoons in the late afternoon – to my great delight James was treating me to one of the Top End’s unique yet quirky little liquor promotions: Side Boob Sunday!

Well, that’s not the official title – but it probably should be.

When I lived there, they had a thing called ‘Tits-Out Tuesday’ – which is another splendid example of the local cutting-edge liquor promotion strategy. This however, was banned for apparently being uncouth and classless – bloody wowsers!

Here we ran into Pottsy, perched upon a stool at the bar – he tends to favour this particular watering hole above all others in Darwin. In fact, so much so, that he told me he was nearing the end of a two-month stretch of long service leave – and he’d spent every day of it at this very spot!

Pottsy is a well-educated and articulate young fellow with a diverse and sometimes bizarre array of interests – he is well read and quite the film aficionado. This seems incongruous with his passion for the deathly burn or Fireball shots, which he downs as a partner to each glass of scotch he consumes.

It seems he is known and well-liked by all who frequent this establishment – both customer and staff alike, and on this particular day he was drinking with a young Irishman who is at other times, employed by the venue.

At first I mistook his mate for a possible child of Pottsy – for he is naturally young in appearance and slight of stature. I wouldn’t have thought him old enough to enter licenced premises, let alone work there!

It turned out that the young Irish fellow, whom I’ll call Sean, was a really nice bloke. We all had drinks and a few laughs and a friendly chat – before Pottsy called it a day and left.

Sometime later, as James and I headed for a cab to his parent’s place for a catch-up, we came upon Sean lingering out front of the hotel, quite under the weather. He was in a pickle because he had spent all his money on booze but still needed to get home – which was gonna be forty-five bucks in a cab!

He was hoping to cadge the required cash off any acquaintance that may be able to render assistance, but it appeared no one was coming to the fore.

It was here that James once again displayed his character – by taking Sean by the shoulder, guiding him across the road to the taxi rank and organising a lift home for him, handing the driver his last fifty bucks with strict instructions to make sure Sean got home alright and to give him the change.

James knew he’d never see the fifty again.

Sean would wake up sometime later and wonder how the hell he got home – so James wouldn’t even get a ‘thank you’, or even a silent appreciation for his good deed.

No one would ever know – but that is his nature, he stands among the finest of men.

This is due in no small part to the exemplary job his parents have done in raising both James and Rachael. I’d like to see James have kids at some point – he’d be an outstanding role-model and I believe he’d make an excellent Dad.

(On a different occasion, many years before – James and I were drinking at Lizards bar in the Top End Hotel. Just sitting there drinking beer, shootin’ the shit and listening to music. There was a bloke and sheila sitting a few tables away – the bloke appeared to be chancing his hand. I wasn’t paying much attention but guess they would have been there for about forty-five minutes, when the chick sat forward and bitch-slapped the dude across the face!

He took exception to that and slapped her cheek right back!

Next thing I know – James is up and dragging the dude out by his throat, before handing him over to an approaching bouncer!

Then he simply returns to his seat and says ‘Ya don’t fucken hit girls’, and he continued on with the previous conversation. Didn’t miss a beat.

I just sat there like a stunned mullet – thinking, ‘Shit! That was pretty impressive’.

But once again, that’s his nature).

Speaking of the senior Pickers – this is where we headed to after Monsoons, for a fried-up seafood extravaganza!

Dave Picker, the father, is a big man – a retired Territory cop.

He was the gun ballistics expert of the Top End before his eyes began giving him grief and loss of vision forced him into an early exit from the force. He remains a man of many talents though – with limited sight, I suspect he just ‘thinks’ his way around the place like an ancient master wizard! He is the backyard catering king and can barbecue, or roast any beast to perfection. I’m not sure if he summons some kind of mystical, magical instinct – or he was born with an innate sense of timing, but you can rest assured, once Dave declares it done – it’s time to grab your knife and fork.

Dave is also a brewer and purveyor of fine spirituous liquors. Once again – I cannot determine what kind of sorcery a legally blind man uses to conjure up such tasteful delights, but he certainly knows his shit!

I had the pleasure of sampling one of his rums (mixed with coke), and enjoyed a couple of straight Butterscotch Schnapps which went down a treat – though I was warned they may kick my arse!

Nola Picker is a beautiful woman with a happy disposition and kind heart. She seems to keep everyone else pretty much in line, which I imagine can be quite the challenge at times. There is nothing Nola wouldn’t do for her family. I love the way this family all help each other out – at the drop of a hat, and without hesitation. Simple things like giving a lift to town, lending a car, trailer, esky or bed, picking someone up – cooking for each other and pretty much anything else one might name. My family do the same – but it’s a pretty rare and beautiful thing!

It doesn’t stop there. On several occasions, when I was stuck in Darwin for Christmas – devastated, despondent and depressed about not being with my family for this most special of days, the Pickers invited me to join them as one of the family to celebrate with a beautiful Christmas dinner and even better company. No great fuss was made – but I appreciate those invitations more than they’ll ever know and will carry those memories and good will forever. I’d love to repay them in some small way some time.

Sumo. Sumo is a big sooky dog who runs everyone’s lives.

He is an enormous Bull Mastiff, with a head like an African lion – but he still gets excited and loses his shit like a baby goat when his Master arrives to take him for a walk! He has uncanny timing and will let you know if when it’s Dinner Time (not drink-finishing time!). Sumo tips the scales at sixty-five kilos and could tear you limb from limb if the fancy took him. But for the most part he seems content to just lean on you, or rest his big black jowls on your leg.

He is extremely well disciplined and placid of nature for such an intimidating beast – though I wouldn’t recommend jumping the fence unannounced.

So we enjoyed our dinner with the Pickers, as well as the entertaining company of the backyard caravaners from Cowra, Greg and Carol.

We finally headed for home (Racheal’s place) for a few more drinks, before crashing for the night.

Next day we did a tip-run – I was glad to see a second plastic garden chair, which had similar side damage to the one I destroyed, sitting in the trailer with the rest of the rubbish.

I think we had brekky about lunch time, bobbed around the pool for a while before ending up back to Monsoons for drinks.

By this time in my recollection, several days seem to run into each other – though I do recall we drank to excess each and every day.

We visited the Waterfront precinct, which I’d not seen before – and I found that to be an eye-opener. Though I could really have settled in there, the Fat Yaks going down nicely. Incidentally – since I arrived and Jimmy and I commenced the old ‘Shout’ routine with our drinks, it seemed that I always finished mine first – leaving James with an inch of warm beer in the bottom of his glass as I served up a fresh new schooner.

Sometimes I’d try to slow down and wait – but the Territory is a hot place and I was thirsty.

So when this occurred at the Waterfront pub, I offered to have a second shout – James insisted he get them and disappeared into the bar.

Thinking outside the square, as Jimbo is apt to do – he returned, placed a pint of Fat Yak in front of me and a schooner of mid-strength before himself. Nodding contently, he muttered that we should now be in sync!

Curiously, the roles were reversed when consuming a meal.

James would serve me up a plate full of awesomeness from the barbie and then retreat to finish off cooking and fetch his own. I’d be well into mine by the time he returned – not letting good tucker go cold and all, yet he would without exception, finish before me.

So apparently I drink like a fish and eat slowly, while inversely – James drinks slowly and eats like an Irish Wolf Hound.

Though most things he does, he does with energy – so it must just be beer that he has an issue with?

We dined at the Pickers several times – on one occasion I was presented with a most exquisite looking slice of dragon fruit. It was an intense reddy-crimson coloured juicy morsel – with little taste compared to its impressive appearance. It is certainly not objectionable by any means, and tastes like nothing else I’ve eaten previously – certainly worth checking out if the opportunity presents itself.

Nola happened to mention that they used to frequent the Darwin RSL Club – enjoy a meal and play the pokies for a bit, but lately it seemed that the old Rissole had lost its way. The club was in dire financial peril, with whispers of being forced into the hands of receivership in the near future.

Lo and behold – the next day the Darwin RSL Club burnt to the ground!

The News had vision of a blackened old snooker table, burnt chairs and bar – I sure hope they were insured!

We drove past in the arvo – there were still a few Firey-Inspector looking coves milling around the entrance, with danger tape keeping the punters at bay. Perhaps they found something suspicious?

 

There was more swimming in the pool, some local site-seeing – including my old house (which I strongly felt like entering and walking around), more late nights and sleep-in mornings, and James seemed to have no end of domestic chores to do before the Big Day – party day, on Friday.

I didn’t sleep as well as I might have that first night.

The bed was plenty comfortable and I switched around between the aircon with blankets, and fan with a sheet – but never quite managed to find my sleeping mojo.

Still – I finally rose proper at around nine o’clock.

With no official plans for the day – I made a cuppa tea (the only thing in the room) and sat out on my balcony, overlooking the palm trees.

I watched the whistling kites gliding and swooping on the thermals and suddenly it delighted me that this exact combination of temperature, humidity and breeze, is a purely Darwin thing!

It had been ten years since I’d felt it – and I’ve been around a bit in that time, but that particular feeling was exclusive, and the realisation brought a smile to my face.

I watched some local TV and chuckled at the amateur-hour ads – like Arnie’s Fencing, with some clown (probably the owner of said company), doing a very poor Schwarzenegger impersonation throughout, flogging off fences and gates.

I had a shower and another cuppa then headed for a walk down the Mall.

I noticed Kitty O’Shea’s pub was now the Hotel Darwin (which backed onto the motel I was staying at), and further down – the old Commonwealth Bank building is now Rorke’s Drift pub.

I wandered through a few back alleys I’d been known to frequent – but couldn’t quite recall exactly where they led. I was slightly annoyed that my mind was betraying me like this and decided to just proceed on instinct. Things slowly began falling into place.

I was glad to see ‘Melissa’s Café’ was still going – though shut at this particular hour. It used to be a convenient favourite, on my walks between the Chan building near parliament house, and Darwin Plaza, further up the mall.

A few shops had either changed names or shut down completely – and a few new ones had arisen.

The Victoria Hotel (The Vic) – which is well over a hundred years old and withstood the Japanese bombing of Darwin, as well as Cyclone Tracy, had shut its doors to trade. Apparently the strain of trading against so many close competitors was eventually more than the old girl could handle – which is a great shame, in my eyes.

I called into a busy café and secured myself a bacon and egg roll and a strawberry milk for breakfast (I’ve never succumbed to the lure of the beloved NT Iced Coffee obsession, despite living there for nine years). The tucker and cold milk really hit the spot.

I was sitting on a Mall seat, setting my mental bearings and watching the tourists (a cruise ship was obviously in town) when James rang, looking to organise some kind of plan for the evening. Apparently there were a few blokes pretty keen on a beer and a catch-up.

We settled on the Hotel Darwin, simply because it had a nice beer garden – plenty of room for a bunch of blokes to blow the froth off a couple and reminisce about days gone by.

Though I was super keen to get into it – James wisely suggested we hold off till five, I agreed and that was the plan we ran with.

As I wandered back to my room, I decided to call into the Hotel Darwin for a schooner of coke – I was still thirsty and sick of drinking tea.

So I purchased a coke and sat out front on the veranda.

I was thinking how a lot has changed about Darwin.

I got chatting to a bloke from Jabiru – he was in town for a wedding or something, and there were a bunch of rowdy people behind us.

A police wagon drove down Mitchell Street and a young, local lady seated behind me yells out:

‘Hey – there goes my Fkn lift home! Eh, Officer ya C*#t – gimme a lift!
I called triple-oh eh, and no f*cker answers me! F*cken @resholes!!’

….apparently not everything has changed.

I retired to my room and waited till about four thirty, when I decided it was time to stake my claim on a prime spot at the table in the beer garden.

So I entered the pub and ordered a schooner – Carlton Draft.

They no longer sell Tooheys New on tap in Darwin pubs.

This too was the case when I first arrived at Darwin in 1999 – no Tooheys on tap.

VB and Melbourne Bitter (of all things!) were popular back then – but after a year or two, Tooheys had a push and big promotional campaign and New became available on tap in most pubs.

I walked out to the beer garden – there was a bloke playing guitar and singing songs. He had a unique style, for his songs were unfamiliar to my ear – I guessed originals (or spawn of some obscure artist of which he was a fan).

Upon closer listening – some tunes were in fact popular songs, just sung in his own, personal, unrecognisable style.

The beer garden had very recently been done up – and I struggled to recall how it used to look. The main facilities remained unchanged – I knew where the toilets and various bars were to be found, but the paint and concrete floor had been spruced up and the over-all appearance seemed brighter and fresh.

There were only about six to eight people there besides myself, yet the singer of songs appeared quite content entertaining himself with little jokes in between tunes, and laughing at his own remarks.

 

I noticed quite a few large tables with ‘Reserved’ notes declaring them off-limits, and then a big white screen up front.

After some thought, I realised that this was the evening of Australia’s first Soccer World Cup game against France! We could get a few people here tonight.

The first schooie hardly touched the sides, so I went and bought myself another.

I sat at the side of the stage, where I could see both the singer and the big screen – with my stool on a forward, slightly downward graded slope, so as not to cut off the blood to my lower extremities should I perch there too long.

Shortly thereafter I recognise the familiar relaxed gait of my old mate Jimbo strolling through the doors, with that ear to ear Picker grin on his face and hand outstretched.

He looked as though he’d lost a few kilos (that I’d managed to find), but all in all the last decade had been pretty kind to him.

Ben Fairchild climbed aboard the stool to my left – sporting a flash new pair of RM boots, shining spotlessly tonight on their maiden outing. A recent bargain, at four hundred and fifty bucks.

Ben’s a funny bloke who calls a spade a spade and is a gun builder who can turn his adept hand to just about anything in the game.

I still have a bookcase and a massively-strong, overkill outdoor table setting that Ben built for me some fifteen years ago.

 

My memory tends to blur a little after this point and I can’t recall with any degree of accuracy, the order of things as they went down.

Next thing I know, I’m laughing with Liam ‘Muzzy’ Musgrave and Phil Bartlett, two blokes I used to work with. I notice a tall, thin, rangy looking fella heading our way so I give a cursory nod and continue with our banter.

I look up again as a big arm wraps round my neck – Shane ‘Harro’ Harrison!

The rangy fella looks a little older now (married with a couple of kids), and has clearly lost quite a few kilos since last I saw him! (Which again, I’d managed to find).

Harro is the perfect height to wrap his arm around your head while his elbow rests comfortably upon your shoulder.

He too is a humorous, piss-taking, affectionate, fun-loving son of a bitch!

 

Amongst the witty banter and jovial repartee, I realised that my old mate Micky had missed the memo regarding this impromptu gathering!

I sent Micky an SMS suggesting he come join us.

Micky, or more correctly Kaleem, was once a computer operator with the rest of us but had since moved on to become one of the Top Ends most accomplished (and entertaining), fishing guides! If you wanna catch Barra, Jewies or any number of reefies – give Micky a call at Springtide Safaris – he’ll put you on the spot!

Anyway – Micky was originally a little reluctant to come, as he’d planned to watch the Soccer at home. I told him we had it on the big screen and he should come along into town.

He relented after very little pressure and was soon cutting through the growing crowd with a jug of Great Northern.

We were still waiting for Michael ‘Pottsie’ Potts to put in an appearance – but some feared he may be tethered to the bar at Monsoons, his haunt of preference in Mitchell Street.

James ordered a couple of pizzas – to fill empty gut bags currently sloshing with beer and froth. They were some breed of meat-lovers, with a load of mayo blown across the top.

They went down a treat and saved more than one of us from a likely uncomfortable night/morning driving the porcelain bus.

Muz was hitting Micky up on my behalf for a complimentary seat on his next fishing expedition, but that happened to be a Mother-Ship excursion of some six days duration.

Maybe next time.

By the time the World Cup match kicked off, the place was a seething mass of Froggie fans – with a small, though rowdy bunch of Aussies thrown in!

The supporters of Les Bleu were sporting French flags, berets and even waving bread-sticks in the air – it all combined to create a good natured, party atmosphere.

Songs were sung, chants were called and dances done – it was quite the spectacle!

We all had plenty of laughs, relived old stories and told a few new ones.

I think everyone had a good time – I know I had a ball and loved every minute of it. Well except the minute where the Aussies got beaten by the French.

But even that was short-lived, you couldn’t help but respect the enthusiasm and patriotism of the French supporters, they were over the moon at their win – and while they celebrated hard, they didn’t look to cause any trouble.

At some stage Muz simply disappeared – the theory being he went looking for Pottsie, never to return – but who knows?

People left in dribs and drabs until I found myself having a final couple of quiet schooners with Phil. We had a nice chat about all manner of things – work, marriage, kids, retirement and drinking.

I had one final schooner and had hit the wall. It was around midnight and I was done.

I bid Phil farewell and stumbled home – amazingly once again finding my way directly to my room without reference to the map (which I’d left on my bedside table).

I took a long swig from the cold-water jug in the fridge (still no mini-bar), and just before I laid down and passed out, I posted the following on Facebook, which summed up my feelings:

“Well – my trip has been worth it already. Had a pisser of a night – caught up with some great mates!”

 

So I arrived at Brisbane airport three hours before my flight was due to leave.

I read my book for a while (Matthew Flinders Cat – Bryce Courtney, which I’d grabbed on the way out the door), before conceding to have a beer.

I ordered a Crownie from the very limited beer list, in a café on the ground floor.

“That’ll be $11.50 for a Crownie thanks”

Now that’s good value, I thought – I might just buy a carton of it – for $276!

So I necked that beer while reading more of my book – which had started to get interesting by now.

I decided I should try another, so I approached the same counter and said:

‘Another Crownie please’

“That’ll be nine-dollars thanks”

I look confused – the last one cost me eleven fifty.

She gets a plate out and says “The chocolate one?”

I glare at her – WTF you talking ‘bout?
‘A Crownie’.

“Oh – I’m sorry – I thought you wanted a Brownie!”

The lady embarrassingly put away her plate and moist chocolate offering, and handed me another Crown Lager.

I resumed my seat at a tiny little table – still waiting for the Tiger Airlines check-in to open.

I was looking around the airport at the passing parade, as one does – and wondering about the stories that saw people arrive here at this point.

There was a smoking-hot young chickie who walked past in tight jeans, reading her I-phone and dragging a bag behind her like a Shih Tzu on a leash.

Then there was a big solid looking bloke, about thirty years old, six foot-three – with tatts all over, including his thick bull-neck and rugged head. A smaller, mostly clean-skinned bloke of similar age met up with him and they decided to sit at the table adjacent to me. The big bloke bought two beers.

We were sitting pretty close and the little fella asks me about my book:

‘Good book is it mate?’

“Yeah mate – not too bad. It’s Bryce Courtney – he’s an Aussie dude”

(He didn’t immediately strike me as the bookworm type).

‘Oh really? You ever read any of that other bloke? His Aussie too. He’s funny as fuck!’

(The way he described it, I figured he was alluding to Robert G Barrett and his character Les Norton).

I said – yeah, I know the bloke – he’s pretty good.

And the big bloke says – ‘Watto can’t read’.

I assumed he was taking the piss – but ‘Watto’ says – ‘Yeah, I can’t read. But a mate used to read them out to me – I love those books!’

I felt a bit sorry for the bloke at this point – it must be a real struggle in this day and age if you can’t read.

I didn’t show it – I’m sure he would have been offended if I had – and in my mind, there wouldn’t be too many occasions where you’re sitting round together with a mate, long enough for him to read a book to you.

There is only one situation that comes to mind where that might occur – and it’s a place I don’t want to go, but wasn’t surprised he’d spent some time there.

They were talking about blowing this place and going to a pub – so I said my goodbyes and went to check in. They seemed nice enough fellas – but had already been banned from a few venues on the Gold Coast for rowdy behaviour. That’s not really my scene – though I’d rather have these two on my side than agin me, should a stink erupt!

 

The flight to Darwin was unremarkable – Tiger Airlines were fine, nice staff and friendly hostesses.

I had two of those little bourbon bottles with coke, throughout the four hour and twenty-minute flight. You see, heading in that direction, you face a roaring headwind up in the Jetstream (coming home was three hours ten-minutes or so – ripping along with the tailwind).

I was very curious when I finally got out at Darwin – had anything changed? Had everything changed?

I was considering catching an Uber (which I’ve never done before). People keep telling me it’s much cheaper than a taxi. However – there were three flights who all landed together, at about 12:50am, and everyone was hoping their bag would be next on the conveyer belt – facilitating a hasty exit.

But it was my bulky, black & red portmanteau who next burst through the plastic curtains, like a middle-aged actress running late for an encore!

It was among the first, so I grabbed my bag and headed for the doors – there were only about ten people in the cab line, and some fifteen cabs lined up.

Now was not the time to be messing round with my new Uber-Ap!

(It turns out that Darwin does not have Ubers anyway – they have a thing called ‘Thanks Oscar’ or some such title. Similar thing to Uber – but my Ap would have had me waiting forever till one arrived for my convenience that night).

So I stood in line and waited for my cab to approach.

I hopped into the cab at around 1am.
Some young Indian dude with a knot in his hair.

I say ‘G’day mate – the Palms City Motel’

He stuffs around a bit and says ‘Ess Planet?’

I say ‘What?’

“Ess Planet?”

I look at him ‘Eh?’

He’s pointing at the cash meter and says once again “Ess Planet?”

I’m about to put my specs on to see what he’s pointing out – then it dawns on me.

‘Esplanade! Yes mate – it’s on the Esplanade’.

‘So – you been driving cabs long?

“Cabs? Yes”

‘Really – how long?

“Me? No, only new – maybe two months. But I get you to your destination’

‘Good mate – that’s all I care about’.

We didn’t talk much after that.

We took the sneaky federal backroad out of the airport – which I’d forgotten about.

But passed a couple of massive new constructions – like a flash new bowling alley and it’s twin, neon-signed establishment, which I didn’t recognise.

After exiting onto Bagot road, near Bunnings I was in familiar territory – though there seemed to be a few new Quick Mart service stations around the place. I was surprised when we approached the overpass to the city – where I used to do a quick little U-ey and sneakily cut through the BP garage to head to my house. The British Petroleum service station is now some type of jungle cat. A Cougar, or Jaguar or Puma. A slick new moniker for a fuel dispensing beast likely to skin you alive – which is rather apt given the price of petrol in the Top End!

Further on to the city and I noticed The Top End Hotel and Lizards bar had been all but demolished and replaced by a shiny new multi-story monstrosity that I didn’t much care for. I am a traditionalist at heart and appreciate the history of older towns and their landmarks.

Then it was south, along the Esplanade to my hotel.

I realised early that this was not the type of motel where you hop in an elevator, turn right and enter you room. The Counter-Chick started drawing a map with a highlighter pen – ‘Okay, you are here at reception. Head through those doors, turn left – go straight for thirty metres then turn right. Twenty metres further on you can climb the stairs to the second floor, then follow the balcony, turn right again until you reach room 265.

Surprisingly, I made my way directly to my room.

There were three blokes sitting on the balcony of the neighbouring room – discussing micrometre adjustments, stud patterns and Johnson Rods – obviously up for the V8 Supercars who were racing at Hidden Valley that weekend.

I gave them a wave, was disappointed by the non-existence of a mini-bar in my room, sat out the front for ten minutes, then headed in to crash at about 2am.

The hard part was over.

I was back.

I’m finally heading back to Darwin, after nigh on ten years away – returning home.

When I left, I told everybody I’d likely be back in about six months.

I meant it too. But maybe it was just my subconscious way of avoiding the pain of saying goodbye – I had a seed of suspicion about that at the time.

‘Yeah mate – now worries, I’ll probably be back in a couple of months anyway’, a quick handshake and brush it off as a matter of course.

 

I was always gonna return – I love the place, and I have some great mates there.

But over time it mysteriously transformed into a sacred place in heart and mind – I have no bad memories of Darwin.

I left a good job in that city – woikin’ for the man every night and day….Oh no, sorry – that was John Fogerty.

The reason I left was complex yet basic.

When I first headed up North, I did so with the intent of one-day returning.

Returning to my family, who I knew I’d miss and couldn’t live without.

After ten years, and writing this down right now – it just dawned on me that I did the same thing back then. ‘See ya later – I’m moving to Darwin! But I’ll be back’.

I never once considered living there forever – perhaps this too was simply my subconscious mind protecting me from painful emotions? Hmmm.

 

Anyway, when I finally decided to move to the Gold Coast, my NT mortgage was costing me about 70% of my weekly wage, and I couldn’t see things improving.

Funnily enough, once I resigned from work – interest rates began their all-time record plummet!

So when I left, I loved Darwin town, it’s people, my house, the weather, my friends, the NT vibe and I even liked my job!

I wasn’t running away from anything or escaping from somewhere I hated – I just had the need, a yearning if you will, to ride off into the sunset and see what fate awaited me.

 

I was looking forward to living much closer to my family and getting to know my nieces and nephew much better. And I’d always liked the Queensland weather – not as rugged and impressive as the Top End’s extremes, but a lot more comfortable to live in.

Somewhere along the line, returning to Darwin became more than just going back to a place I’d been before. It’s hard to put my finger on it – kind of like traveling back in time.

Maybe best explained by Doc Emmet Brown and his warning to not interrupt the space-time continuum, for fear the repercussions will affect all aspects of later life.

I’ve often daydreamed of returning – surprising the boys by popping up Karaoke night and singing ‘The Gambler’, or some such thing, then getting on the grog.

I’ve countless realistic dreams of being back there – only to wake up all deflated.

Yet in my head there was a persistent reluctance to go back.

 

Down here I’ve got a great house (I’ve finally paid off), a better car, a rip-snorting boat, live in a happy little village and have excellent relationships with all my family, which I truly treasure. I’ve certainly grown up some as well.

So I decided one night at the pub, that I’d return for my mate James’ fortieth birthday, in June 2018.

I had attended his thirtieth not long before I left the NT, and thought this worthy justification to finally fulfil my promise.

My plan was to organise a surprise visit with his sister Rachael.

But James and I got drunken-chatting one night on the dog’n’bone and I told him I was coming to Darwin in June!

So that was it.

I’m booked in to fly up there with Tiger airlines on Friday night.

I’m edgy. Not just because it’s Tiger Airlines – but because it’s been ten years. What if the magic has gone? What if everything has changed so much that I no longer feel at home?

I sometimes take a mental tour – recalling the normal things: footpaths, fences, favourite pub tables, various signs on the wall, steps, puddles, cabs, a letterbox, certain trees and cracks in the concrete, an overgrown frangipani tree here and an Oldman Mango over there…

 

They say time and tide wait for no man, and I expect no such favours – but I sure hope the old town returns my love when I step out into the balmy, tropical night in three days’ time and once again inhale the heady, floral aroma of the Great Top End!

 

This time tomorrow night I’ll be commencing my decent into Darwin airport – and I’m pretty damned excited about the prospect!

 

 

 

I bought myself three little chicks – a black Australorp called Linda, a Platinum Sussex called Nicky and a black and white stripy Plymouth Rock, I named Leesa.

 

I’d thought about it for ages – I don’t quite have the commitment to get a dog, what with the walking them every day, running them around and feeding them and everything. I work twelve hour days and nights – up at 5am and return at about 8pm.

Or wake up at 5pm, eat tea and return home about 8am.

I don’t feel like strapping on the collar and taking a dog for a brisk walk, after a long day – and to do otherwise would be a bit cruel.

 

You see, if I got a dog – I’d get a proper dog. I’m not a fan of those stout nosed, pug faced things with a wicked underbite and cocaine cough. Forever snorting and dribbling because their screwed up inbred, malformed snout is physically incapable of supplying enough oxygen to the poor bugger’s respiratory system.

And I certainly don’t want a Staffy.

For some reason this is the fashion dog these days. Everybody has a staffy.

Staffy’s are like the .22 rifle of dogs.

People seem to want something that’s a little bit dangerous, but not so much so that it’s likely to kill someone if mishandled.

“What do you think of my Staffy? He looks a bit like a Pit Bull but he probably won’t eat your baby”

 

Nor do I want a beast who weighs more than I do and can swallow an un-husked coconut and not blink.

 

I see dogs as outdoor animals – and I certainly don’t want to share my bed with one.

So that also rules out some of the smaller, more fragile types.

 

I like working dogs. Things like your Kelpies, Koolies, Border Collies and even Jack Russell’s.

But they’re all full of energy and running – and I’m not – so that’d be a bad fit.

 

I suppose I could get a basset hound or something – but it’s no use having two lazy bastards sitting around the house doing nothing.

 

So I went with chickens.

I find their antics quite amusing and their interactions entertaining.

 

You can feed them for a few days at a time, and they are let in and out by a special timer clock that opens and closes at whatever time you choose to set them free.

So they are self sufficient for the most part. They also clean up all the bugs and bities in the backyard, which is a bonus.

 

Be warned though – they do shit.

They shit on the grass, they shit out their arse,

They shit on the chair, they shit while you stare,

The shit on the table, they shit where they’re able,

They shit in their nest, they shit in the west,

They shit on the veranda, they’d shit on a panda

They shit in their bed, they shit when they’re fed

They shit on the lawn, they shit in their corn,

They shit in a tree, they shit more than me,

They shit in their nest – it’s what they do best!

They shit in their tucker, they shit like a Fucker

They shit on the dirt, they shit with a squirt,

They shit in great lumps, they love taking dumps!

 

So if it’s shitting machine you seek – arm yourself with a few chickens my friend!

 

It’s been interesting to watch the individual personalities develop.

 

Nicky, the big platinum Sussex is a beautiful specimen who has always been confident in herself, with no concern for what her friends are up to. She doesn’t like internal gossip and avoids politics altogether. She is also dumb as a post! Six months later and she still does fifty-seven laps of the small coop trying to find her way out every morning – completely bamboozled as to how the others managed to escape into the yard!

 

 

Linda, the black Australorp likes to gossip and must know everyone’s business. She is not particularly aggressive – but if one of the others finds a tasty morsel, she’ll run full tilt across the yard to claim a share, or at the very least, see firsthand what she’s missing out on.

 

 

From a young age, Leesa the Plymouth Rock was the most dominant. She kept the others in check and led the pack around. It was only after about five months that Leesa became aggressive and super dominant and started crowing and eyeballing me when I entered the yard.

With big, thick legs and proud, puffed out breast, head held high and ‘fuck you’ attitude – it became clear that Leesa was, in fact, a rooster!

 

The constant crowing and hogging of all the food became too much – so one of us had to go.

Shortly thereafter, Leesa the Rooster decided to leave Jacobs Well for greener pastures – he hitched are ride in a cardboard box with a visitor, ‘Bill’ from Gumtree.

‘Bill’ seemed fairly au fait with the troublesome mannerisms of rampant roosters – so I’m not sure if he has a lovely green paddock full of rowdy bachelor roosters getting drunk together, smoking cigarettes, playing snooker and trying to pick up the local chicks, or if Leesa became someone’s halal meal shortly after hitching a ride?

 

Leesa the rooster was soon after replaced by Leesa the Light Sussex – a bird of similar age and size, She is a mostly white hen, with an exotic shot of black hair and tail feathers.

 

 

I was warned about introducing a single new chicken member to an established flock. They were bound to pick on the newcomer and give her a hard time for invading their space. But I figured mine were relatively placid and the yard was big enough for them to retire to a neutral corner, should the need arise.

 

I let the all new and improved Leesa sleep in the coop, separated from the others the first night. They all looked at each other with curiosity, through the wire – but there appeared to be no malicious intent from any party. So I let them all loose to share the yard the next day.

 

With the rooster gone, it turned out that Linda was the new leader of the pack – even though she is somewhat smaller in stature than her cohorts. So Linda and Nicky chased Leesa around the yard for a bit – they never seemed to get too close and really didn’t appear too committed to confrontation. I suspect they realised it was expected of them, so they put in a token effort to show they owned this patch.

For her part, Leesa didn’t seem too concerned either – she did run away when the others came chasing but never appeared to consider them a genuine threat.

Leesa had just come from a chicken farm where she shared a cage with about twenty assorted birds of various species – and she had thrived. I doubt she regarded her two new yard mates as dangerous. She did however pay them the respect of running away when they chased.

 

After about two weeks the chasing ceased altogether and they all flock together for the most part – though Nicky occasionally puts on a show by shirtfronting Leesa, who stands her ground while they eyeball each other like two boxers at a weigh-in. Neither genuinely want to have a go – it’s just a bit of neck-flaring bravado, probably to impress Linda, the boss.

 

 

I suspect Leesa would kick Nicky’s arse if it ever came to fisticuffs. She hunts other birds out of the yard – and this she does with intent (and it’s obvious). Nicky will run at a feeding lorikeet with intimidation on her mind – but the parrot need only bob his head and Nicky steps back, saying ‘Yeah – I’ll let ya eat this time. But next time – look out, you stupid Hook-Beaked Paint Palette!’

 

For the first fortnight in her new home, Leesa couldn’t work out the auto-door on the coop and would not put herself to bed before lockout. She preferred to roost on the headrest of the antique chaise lounge sitting on the back veranda. This was not acceptable for a number of reasons – including her own safety and not least of all, her propensity to shit at frequent intervals, even in her sleep! So the Old Man would brave the cold every night, pick her up and stuff Leesa under his arm and then physically tuck her into her nesting box for the evening, all safe and sound.

 

Occasionally I sit out the back with a beer and watch their silly chicken living. As soon as the back doors slide open, the chickens come a-running. At first I thought it was in hope of a treat – but they follow you around the yard gossiping among themselves – or perhaps they’re giving me an update on the week’s proceedings, I’m not sure. They are very friendly and seem to enjoy human company – and they don’t bark.

 

Eggs will be a bonus, and to date they’ve only laid one between the three of them. But in the coming months I’m expecting to be inundated with fresh, free range chicken eggs and I anticipate my lawn will launch into a thick, luscious green bumper crop as soon as the summer sun hits that growing layer of nutrient packed chicken shit!

 

Chicks….they’re a funny breed….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The back-story: My IPhone6 battery only lasts 6hrs, after approx. 14 months – as part of Telstra’s ‘New Phone Feeling’, I can pay a one-off $149 and receive a new IPhone7 for the same monthly cost. I did this – however, the new 7-handset that Telstra sent me (within 3 days), was faulty and refused to recognise any SIM cards. They told me they’d send me a new handset – which should take 3-5 days. I have heard nothing after 13 days, so I contacted Telstra again.

 

I cannot believe that they now refuse, point blank, to replace the shit box they sent me, until I return the busted one……

 

Transcript of 24×7 Chat

A transcript of this secure Chat is retained and may be monitored for coaching purposes. You can view our Privacy Statement at telstra.com.

Please select ‘End chat’ if you do not wish to proceed.

MARK ANTHONY

You’re connected with MARK ANTHONY

MARK ANTHONY

Hi! You’ve reached Mobile Assurance Support

STEPHEN

Great – I’d simply like to know where my new phone is?

MARK ANTHONY

No worries, Let me help you in tracking the status of your phone

STEPHEN

I had a lengthy online chat on the 7.12.2016 and was promised it would be delivered within 3-5 working days

MARK ANTHONY

Can I please have the following information to pull up your account?

1. Phone Number/ Account Number

2. Full Name

3. Date of Birth

4. Email Address (we will also send you a link to get back to us for future enquiries)

STEPHEN

0403 XXX 391

STEPHEN

Stephen Mark Coskerie

STEPHEN

24.4.67

STEPHEN

aussiecossiedarwin@hotmail.com

MARK ANTHONY

Thanks Stephen, let me verify your account

MARK ANTHONY

Do you also have a reference number?

STEPHEN

INT 1-999340454XXX

MARK ANTHONY

Checking now

MARK ANTHONY

Please bear with me as we would need to review the transaction

STEPHEN

Here is an excerpt from my previous conversation on 7.12.16:

STEPHEN

Regina Mary

Alright, They will process the return order and you will be able to received the new phone within 3-5 business days and the return satchel for the old phone will be arrive within 5-7 business days, for the maximum days for the completion will be 10-15 business days. 🙂

Regina Mary

Would there be anything else that I can make you feel resolved? : )

STEPHEN

These are two separate issues. Firstly – I have ordered a phone in good faith, last Thursday. It has now been one week – and I have not received a functioning phone. Waiting for me to return this useless, broken slab before sending out a new, functioning phone, is really unacceptable.

Regina Mary

Nope, the new phone will be delivered to you first, Stephen.

Regina Mary

Nothing to worry.

STEPHEN

You sure about that?

Regina Mary

YES! Because the return satchel for the old phone will be delivered to you after you received the new phone.

STEPHEN

Your colleague promised my new handset would be delivered within 3-5 working days. It has now been 13 days all up.

MARK ANTHONY

No worries Stephen we will track this for you and make sure that you receive your handset, Please stay online as we will get our specialist to assist you

STEPHEN

So – what has been the problem so far – and why have I heard nothing from Telstra

MARK ANTHONY

Yes please stay online as we will provide you the details

STEPHEN

Are you experiencing difficulties in determining the cause of this delay?

STEPHEN

Personally, I cannot fathom why it would take 2 weeks to arrive at my house – given the order was confirmed on 7.12.16 and you had all my correct address details

MARK ANTHONY

Alright connecting you now

MARK ANTHONY has disconnected.

We are currently transferring your chat to another consultant who will be able to assist you with your enquiry. Please stay online while the new consultant joins.

Junie has joined.

Junie

Hi Stephen! I am more than glad to assist you with your order enquiry

Junie

Give me 3 minutes to check this for you

STEPHEN

Okay. Answering the above questions would be a very helpful start. Thanks

STEPHEN

Incidentally – why have I been wasting my time chatting to Mark Anthony, when he is not capable of lending assistance, or answering simple questions?

Junie

Thanks for the wait. Based on my investigation the order was processed on 01/12/2016 and we cannot determine if the delivery team was successfully send the phone to you. In this case, you need to contact our specialized team at this number: 1800800019.

Junie

Please provide this order number: 1-994194326XXX

STEPHEN

NO NO NO!!!!!

Junie

We can only assist you for any billing related concern. That’s the right team that can further help you to trace the order

STEPHEN

I will give you the conversation I had on the 7.12.16

STEPHEN

I have already waited 20 days – this is entirely unacceptable!

STEPHEN

I’m sure the record will reflect it

STEPHEN

You sent me out a handset on 1.12.2016 – it was faulty and you need to send me a new one. Which was ordered on 7.12.2016

STEPHEN

Regina Mary

All perfect here, Stephen. I have successfully created a request, here’s the reference number for your 100% assurance ( INT 1-999340454XXX)

Junie

I see. Let me connect you now to our specialized team

Junie has disconnected.

STEPHEN

I was told that YOU ARE THE SPECIALISED TEAM!

We are currently transferring your chat to another consultant who will be able to assist you with your enquiry. Please stay online while the new consultant joins.

Nyka has joined.

STEPHEN

Please connect me with the supervisor – who is able to assist me!

Nyka

Sorry that you are experiencing this inconvenience. Please give me a minute to read your previous chat in that way you don’t have to repeat yourself.

STEPHEN

Are you a supervisor?

STEPHEN

I need to speak with a supervisor. You are the 5th person so far – the other 4 are apparently unable to help me in the slightest

Nyka

I am not. Just reading the chat to make sure we have a full understanding of the situation.

Nyka

Okay just give me a minute.

STEPHEN

It’s really not that difficult to understand – you confirmed you ordered me a new handset on 7.12.2016, and promised it would be here in 3-5 working days. I have heard nothing since. I want to know where my phone is and an explanation as to why it has not arrived as promised?

Nyka

To confirm this is for 0403 XXX 391. Correct?

STEPHEN

YES. ONCE AGAIN – THAT IS THE CORRECT NUMBER.

STEPHEN

Is there something inherently tricky about this combination of digits?

Nyka

Stay online.

Nyka

I’ll be connecting you with my Supervisor now, please stay online.

STEPHEN

Lord have mercy!

Nyka has disconnected.

JIM BRYAN has joined.

JIM BRYAN

Hi, this is Jim, one of the supervisors.

JIM BRYAN

Please stay online while I read through the conversation.

STEPHEN

Excellent. Are you able to answer simple questions Jim?

JIM BRYAN

Yes but I need to check first on the account so I can provide accurate answers.

JIM BRYAN

I am still reading the conversation and checking your account Stephen.

JIM BRYAN

Thanks for waiting. I pulled the account up using the number you provided to the first consultant you chatted with here today.

STEPHEN

Yes?

JIM BRYAN

I want to be honest with you and I know this is not what you want to hear but from what I can see on the records, no order was processed to send you a new phone.

STEPHEN

Why not?

JIM BRYAN

I am still checking the interaction notes so I can get more details.

STEPHEN

Was that reference number made up by the operator?

STEPHEN

Have your colleagues been lying to me?

JIM BRYAN

You’re referring to the interaction you had on the 7th, correct?

STEPHEN

Yes

STEPHEN

Is there no record of that conversation on Telstra’s files?

JIM BRYAN

There is a record on the 7th. It states that she’s requesting from the agent who initially processed the order to process a request to have the faulty handset returned so that we can process a new one.

STEPHEN

And when was that likely to be done?

STEPHEN

Surely Telstra standard practice does not include making written promises and never fulfilling or reviewing such promises/requests?

JIM BRYAN

We’ll be the one to process the return order for you so you can return the faulty handset back to us.

JIM BRYAN

Just to confirm Stephen, you don’t have any other account with Telstra. I just want to make sure that I am not missing anything.

STEPHEN

Fiona Hayes sure had no problem remembering to request my praise for the supposed help I’d received on that occasion. She sent me an email 3 days later.

STEPHEN

I have a home phone, internet and mobile

JIM BRYAN

And these are all under one billing account number, correct?

STEPHEN

I cannot understand how this can be so complicated? Do you have any explanation?

STEPHEN

Yes – all together

JIM BRYAN

I am really sorry about this Stephen but from what I can see, the disconnect happened when the consultant you chatted with on the 7th relayed the information to the person who initiated the initial order.

STEPHEN

You sent me out a faulty handset on 1.12.2016 – which took 3 days to get to my doorstep. I called on 7.12.2016 – you were to send me a new one – which again should have taken 3 days. I am flabbergasted that Telstra has no record of this. (Not to mention the hours I have had to spend online, both waiting to chat and indeed chatting to half the staff in whatever offshore haven Telstra lives in these days)

STEPHEN

Ok. So now – can you please have a new handset delivered to my door within three working days?

JIM BRYAN

I understand and I am really sorry. I cannot really guarantee that. I know you have received a lot of information from us and I don’t want to overcommit again.

JIM BRYAN

What needs to happen is for you to post the faulty device back to us using this address.

JIM BRYAN

Reply Paid 6047

Chullora

NSW 1405

JIM BRYAN

Once we have confirmed the receipt of the faulty device, that’s the only time we can process a request to send the new device.

STEPHEN

What do you see as the problem? Is it with the postal system and the heavy burden on Australia Post during the Christmas period – or is it more likely further Telstra incompetence that could cause a delay?

JIM BRYAN

We recommend customers register the inventory to return to us as a registered parcel so it can be tracked by Australia Post.

STEPHEN

No. We are beyond that. I need you to send a new handset out immediately. Could you please put me through to somebody with the authority to do this? I will be overseas during January and I do not intend on waiting 2 months for problems and stress cause by Telstra’s ineptitude.

STEPHEN

I am more than happy to discuss it with the CEO, Social media or the media in general

JIM BRYAN

Again, I am really about this. Let me check if my manager is available.

STEPHEN

You guys cause the problem – it is your responsibility to fix it.

JIM BRYAN

I acknowledge that Stephen.

STEPHEN

Then – how hard is it, in the whole Telstra scheme of things to send one man one functioning telephone?

JIM BRYAN

My manager is still engaged on a call right now. Will it be okay if we arrange a callback instead?

STEPHEN

No thanks – I do not want a call back. I have a great fear I will hear nothing further and this conversation too will have been erased and I’ll be back to square one.

JIM BRYAN

Okay. Just a second while I reach out for help.

JIM BRYAN

I will also call our resolution support for this one. Please stay online.

STEPHEN

I simply cannot understand how posting a phone can really be this difficult?

JIM BRYAN

I understand and it really looks very simple but we are following processes regarding this. But as I have mentioned, I will call our resolution support so I can ask their recommendations.

JIM BRYAN

I am currently waiting on the queue. Please stay online.

STEPHEN

I get that, but clearly the process is flawed. So to avoid an infinite repeat of a the same faulty process – should we not solve this problem ASAP and then review the previous issues?

JIM BRYAN

I really want this issue fixed ASAP for you but I need their intervention on this so I can give you the best solution.

STEPHEN

Places I’ve worked tend to resolve the issue as soon as possible and then have a problem investigation and review – to determine the initial cause and work out a strategy to proceed, so as not to have a repeat of the same issue.

JIM BRYAN

I will take note of that Stephen and my goal is to really resolve your issue.

STEPHEN

I’m quite surprised that I have to go through at least five levels of expertise before I reach someone with enough authority to post a phone.

STEPHEN

How is that manager coming along?

JIM BRYAN

I am talking with the resolution support right now.

JIM BRYAN

I am still checking if my manager is available now

STEPHEN

I’ve been chatting on here for at least 2hrs of aggravation again today – are we actually any closer to getting a new phone in the post?

JIM BRYAN

I am really sorry Stephen. I am doing my best to get you the resolution.

JIM BRYAN

Stephen, I have my manager now and I will connect you to him. Please stay online

JIM BRYAN has disconnected.

STEPHEN

Is he authorised to send out a new handset?

Joven has joined.

Joven

Hi Stephen, this is Joven, please allow me few minutes to read through your previous chat session with Jim.

STEPHEN

Sure

Joven

Thanks, please stay online.

STEPHEN

To summarise my last 3hrs or aggravated chat – Could you please send me out a new handset ASAP, to replace the faulty unit you sent previously? That one arrived in 3 working days – so I see no reason why that cannot be repeated (with a functioning handset).?

Joven

I appreciate your patience, Stephen. Apologies for the mix up.

STEPHEN

Are you still reading the previous messages?

Joven

Thank you so much for waiting, Stephen.

Joven

I acknowledge that you were advised by one of our agents that a new handset will be delivered to you in 3-5 business days, and I sincerely apologise. As a manager, it is my job to correct things and information that is being advised to our customers.

Joven

I know that sending you a handset when you originally placed an order only took within 3-5 business days. However, we have a different process when it comes to return.

Joven

For return process, we will need to send you first a return satchel that you will be getting within 3-5 business days. Once received, you will send us back the handset which will be delivered to our warehouse within another 3-5 business days. Once we have received it on our warehouse, that would be the time that we can process a new order for you.

STEPHEN

I am not interested in return – or your policy. This problem was caused by you, it needs to be fixed by you

Joven

We will need to make sure that we receive first the old handset before sending you a new one.

STEPHEN

Why?

Joven

My deepest apologies, but we will have to follow the process.

STEPHEN

You sent out a faulty unit – why is it now my problem?

Joven

The handset to be returned is the handset associated on your account right now. We need to receive it first to make sure that we can waive any fees associated to that handset before processing a new one.

STEPHEN

No. Telstra do not have to follow the process

Joven

We are not saying that it is your problem. I am trying to explain to you how this will be resolved.

Joven

I am sorry, Stephen but that is the only way to get this matter resolved, and I have explained it well to you.

STEPHEN

Ok. Who is inconvenienced besides me – if it is not my problem?

STEPHEN

You have no issues with me publishing this transcript in the media through a journalist friend?

STEPHEN

Please transfer me to someone who is authorised to post me a new phone immediately

Joven

As much as I would love to deliver the handset for you in 3-5 business days, however my hands are tied as well and we will always have to follow our business rules. From our end, there’s nothing that we can from this point, aside from following the return process.

STEPHEN

I realise this is your normal process. Your normal processes are not working. I am greatly inconvenienced by the incompetence of Telstra employees.

Joven

Unfortunately, I will be the last person that you can speak via chat. If you would like to further escalate this, we can by escalating this to our Case Managers who will investigate this case and will call you back within 3-5 business days.

STEPHEN

I don’t accept that to be the case – and would like to chat with someone with greater authority than yourself. I will be publishing this transcript as well as attaching a copy in an email directly to your CEO.

STEPHEN

Please explain why you cannot send me a new handset. Besides that is our process.

STEPHEN

Is this a common occurrence with Telstra? Where you send out faulty goods then punish long-term customers?

Joven

Stephen, I completely understand where you are coming from right now.

STEPHEN

You have offered nothing to assist me. Surely this is not the accepted standard of service throughout Telstra?

STEPHEN

I don’t believe you have any idea where I’m coming from.

STEPHEN

So far I’ve spoken to 9 of you guys – and not one has done a single thing to assist me or solve the problem that you created.

Joven

We’ll try to look for a person who can get this issue rectified for you. I won’t be able to promise anything, but we’ll work on this offline and we’ll give you update until tomorrow.

STEPHEN

I don’t believe I will ever hear back from any of you guys.

STEPHEN

Why would I have any confidence that if I did send back the faulty phone – that you would then send me a new handset? Nobody seems to know anything about my previous issues?

Joven

You will surely hear it from us, Stephen. In fact, we have raised this already with the reference number SR 1-1012223078XXX as an assurance that we are working on this matter for you.

STEPHEN

I would really, really, really appreciate you saving this transcript for coaching purposes – to show people exactly what NOT to do to satisfy a customer or resolve an issue.

Joven

We’ll work on the matter now and we will give you feedback tomorrow morning.

STEPHEN

Yes – that is exactly what they told me last time. When they looked it up – no one could find any evidence of this transaction!

Joven

I have provided you a reference number that you can save for your reference which is SR1-1012223078XXX.

Joven

We can send that as well via email. This chat session is being lodged and saved on our system for reference too.

STEPHEN

Oh – you mean like the reference number they gave me last time?

STEPHEN

Regina Mary

All perfect here, Stephen. I have successfully created a request, here’s the reference number for

your 100% assurance ( INT 1-999340454XXX )

STEPHEN

That no one today was able to find any record of?

Joven

Nope, Stephen. This reference number is different.

STEPHEN

How so?

Joven

So I hope you can keep it for now as we work on this matter offline together with our team as we figure out the way on how we can meet your request. Tomorrow morning, you will hear it from us, just keep your lines open.

STEPHEN

Once again – I would just like one simple question answered: Why can you not just post me a new handset today?

STEPHEN

That is a very simple question, to a simple problem, with a very simple resolution.

Joven

Stephen, that would be the same answer that I have mentioned a while ago. Before sending a new handset, we will need to receive the old one.

STEPHEN

I don’t need to be involved in your incident review committee – just give me my phone and I’ll be happy

Joven

That is to ensure that you will not be billed with multiple handsets.

STEPHEN

Are you saying that there is no record at Telstra indicating that you sent me a faulty handset?

STEPHEN

Have we not advanced anywhere in the last three and half hours?

STEPHEN

As I advised one of the many people I spoke to earlier – I will be overseas for the month of January, so this incredible inconvenience will endure for at least another month.

Joven

We have Stephen, however, to advance further we need to seek assistance offline from other teams as this is not possible from our end.

STEPHEN

That ‘New Phone Feeling’ you guys like to promote is making me want to vomit!

Joven

That’s why a reference number for an escalation has been raised (SR 1-1012223078XXX) to ensure that all options will be utilised to get this sorted out the soonest time we can.

STEPHEN

Do you require assistance of the Post Boy – to drop a new phone in the mail?

STEPHEN

How about we escalate it now and get it resolved a lot quicker? I’ve already wasted half my day here – lets go for the whole hog?

Joven

Yes, that’s what we’re going to do now. Can I have the best number where we can reach you back so we can give you a call for updates.

STEPHEN

You already have my number – I’ve given it to several people today. It’s the number that has caused me so much grief over the last month – 0403 XXX 391

Joven

Got it, thanks Stephen. Please expect a call from us until tomorrow for updates regarding this matter.

STEPHEN

I no longer expect anything from Telstra besides grief and hardship – as that has been my experience with each and every one of the 9 individual Telstra employees I have dealt with in the last month.

Joven

Hope you can give me a change to make this a better experience for you. Rest assured we’ll get back to you for updates until tomorrow.

STEPHEN

I reiterate – This is a very simple issue, with a very simple resolution.

STEPHEN

Unless you can give me a new handset, which will remain bill-free for the next 12 months, I harbour grave reservations.

Joven

It goes through different phases Stephen which makes it not easy, as explained earlier. We acknowledge that there was a huge mistake with the expectation that was initially set but we commit to make it right this time.

STEPHEN

Why does a MULTI-BILLION DOLLAR COMPANY, require a single faulty handset (which is your fault), to be returned before it can send a replacement? It does not make any sense – business wise or general logic.

Joven has disconnected.

STEPHEN has disconnected.

 

The Price You Pay                                         29.3.2016

I am a Scorpion

Human Nature is a funny thing.

I don’t mean the five piece boy band from Miller – they’re just a bunch of crooners and are rarely ever funny, if at all.

I mean the natural behaviour of people.

I think it is extremely hard to change your natural way of being.

If you had an innate sense of justice and fair play in games and sports as a kid – I believe there is a good chance you will display that characteristic throughout your life.

If you can justify to yourself that cheating on your partner is acceptable on one occasion – there is a strong likelihood you will do it again sometime.

If you like to gamble and play games of chance –then you probably always will.

I think that is why you get so may repeat offenders in court and gaol – they are naturally d1ckheads who can’t help themselves.

I’m not saying it’s impossible to change – if there is enough incentive, anything is possible. And for me personally, the thought of sharing a dingy cell with Bubba, leader of the hairy-unwashed, is incentive enough to stay out of gaol (if ever I was likely to go there).

Through my own decisions, I have spent quite a lot of time living on my own (I was gonna say ‘by my own hand’ – but that just sounds gross and misleading).

I don’t mind my own company and I’m confident I can take care of myself under any circumstance – so I find this type of life easy. Make all your own decisions, answerable to no one – when your decisions blow up in your face, as they often do, well – you cop it on the chin and try to learn from it.

On your own, you are able to change plans at any stage – go home, stay late, blow all your cash in a single boozy night of drinking, gambling and bullsh1tting. This is all great fun at different times – though you will pay for the last one with a lingering hangover from the grog. And often what is even worse – enduring the psychological torture of trying to accept your own stupidity for blowing a fistful of cash on nothing!

Despite all this – you can justify pretty much anything to yourself in quite a short time and life goes on.

I have at times been accused of being a cold hearted b@stard – that I don’t care about anyone, however, that is not the case – in fact, I am probably the opposite.

There is the old story about the scorpion and the frog, which always appealed to me. If you are unfamiliar with it, it goes something like this:

‘There is a frog and a scorpion sitting on the side of a river and the scorpion says “Hey Frog – how about you let me climb on your back and you can swim us both across the river?”

The frog says “No way Scorpion – you’re a scorpion and you’ll sting me!”

Then the scorpion counters “But if I stung you Frog – then we would both drown, that would be crazy!”

The frog considers this for a while before telling the scorpion to climb on his back – he then starts swimming them both across the river.

Halfway across, the scorpion stings the frog and before they both drown – the frog says ‘Why the hell did you do that? Now we’ll both die!’

And the scorpion replies simply – “I am a scorpion – it’s in my nature”.’

And your nature is something that’s hard to change.

So it may come as a surprise that I actually have a very caring nature – which is not always good – but its blo0dy hard to change!

I still clearly remember in primary school, cracking some blonde kid in the head for picking on my little sister during the day (I recall he punched her during the lunch break) – so I jacked his jaw as we walked home from school that day. (I think she appreciated it that one time).

Fast forward fifteen years – we all used to frequent Mounties on weekends and drink way too much and party way too hard for a life conducive to longevity!

I started out with school mates from my year and then mates of mates and a bunch of girls etc. It was great fun – I didn’t miss a Friday night at Mounties for about 12 years! (Nor did I pass a solid sh1t for about 8 years due to drinking – but that’s another story!).

The oldies would give me a lift to the Club – I’d drink all night, get plastered and then walk home. We’re talking BKM here – Before the Kebab Man ever thought of pitching his steamy little van at Gamac’s spare parts on Elizabeth Drive.

So we all had great fun every week – at a cheap venue, close to home.

Then my sister started coming to Mounties – I hated it!

I loved my sister – just hated when she’d come out with me.

I was never able to ignore the feeling of responsibility and need to protect her.

She’d be having a ball and some half drunk dick would come sniffing around. Some I knew, many I didn’t – though they all had one thing in common -I didn’t like any of them and I made it quite clear!

So I’d chase them away, she’d get the sh1ts – even though I was pointing out their inadequacies, and then soon enough – no one was having fun.

I did the same thing with my female cousins too – for some reason, no matter how hard I tried to point it out – they just couldn’t see that all these blokes were d1ckheads and were not to be given any attention.

You see – I knew what those drunken young bucks were like – hell, I was one of them! (And I guess when I look back now – the girls had a fair idea what they were like too!).

An early event in our lives also instilled in me an unfortunate commitment to look after my older brother too.

This started one weekend in our teens, when the Oldies went away and a few of us ripped into cheap scotch whiskey (and not enough coke).

My big Bro leading the way – squeezing the sides of the plastic coke bottle (half full of scotch), to get his fair share, as he guzzled each mouthful. We were all blind drunk and running amok – as young idiots do on the turps and everyone had a great night, until the inevitable.

He could well have gone the same way as Bon Scott that night – passed out and vomiting like a defective bubbler. But I rolled him over and cleaned him up as best I could.

Incidentally – he still hasn’t touched scotch since that night thirty something years ago!

Following that episode he has rarely required my supervision – though occasionally he needs someone to let him know the tank is approaching overflow. He goes hard whooping and hollering until CLANG!! It’s like he’s been hit in the head with a skillet – the eyes and face drop, the colour disappears and it seems like someone has removed a great bony rack from across his normally square shoulders. Then he’s in Sh1tsville will all kind of demons for the next three days!

Another thing which has always affected me far more than it should – and in fact continues to right up to this day – if a couple are arguing at the table, I find it puts a downer on everything. Even though I tell myself it has nothing to do with me – and they’ll be over it shortly – I feel cr@p until everyone is friends again.

I am not a fan of needless drama.

An old mate and his girlfriend used to argue every Saturday night – and make up shortly thereafter – it didn’t seem to bother them at all, yet put a downer on me.

(Except the time she stormed out of Terrigal pub with the car keys at closing time and left us standing around with no transport or money to get home – that didn’t put a downer on me – that one actually sh1t me to tears! Leave him behind – not me, FFS!)

As I said, I always knew that I’d be okay out on the town – was never worried about that. There were certainly times that I woke up with no idea where I was – mostly I was at home with no recollection of having travelled there.

Sometimes I’d wake up in the back of a cab heading somewhere obscure – only to re-assess and have them take me home to where I actually lived.

Occasionally, in my creative brilliance, I would decide to pay someone a surprise visit during the early hours of the morning.

Like the time I was returning from a wedding at The Croatian Club – had my mate drive straight past my house and drop me off at my Uncle Bill’s at Bradbury at around 2am instead. Thought it’d be a nice surprise for him.

Indeed it was – when he came out the back yard at 7:30am and found me snoring, sprawled across a park bench on his back verandah!

(And then had to get my old man to come and pick me up later that arvo – after my joy filled visit!).

Then there was the time I decided to walk to my mate Nik’s place near the old Livo cemetery – straight from Alexander’s nightclub in Macquarie Street.

I knocked on his door at 3am and some bloke answered – he says ‘Who are you?’

I said ‘I’m Steve. I’m a mate of Nik’s. Who are you?’

He said ‘I’m Sam – I’m a mate of Nik’s too’

Well – can I come in?

It turned out that Nik wasn’t home – but I stayed there anyway.

So when the Mounties crew eventually began to disperse – and or even worse, marry each other – I packed my car and headed to Darwin.

While Darwin is physically a harsh place to live – high humidity, massive storms, 7m+ tides, crocs, stingers, death adders etc, it is actually quite stress free.

The people are relaxed and mostly friendly (though often more than a little eccentric), the laws are relaxed (unless you’re a re-offending pr1ck), and the whole vibe is more reggae than rock.

They say NT stands for Not Today, Not Tomorrow, Not Tuesday, Not Thursday – it’s an appealing and relaxed attitude – until you need to get something done!

Anyhow, while I was up there I had lots of fun with lots of friends and heaps and heaps of drinks with very few real worries.

My family were all three to four thousand kilometres away and a few would visit every now and then – but for the main part, I just did my own thing.

After I got serious and built a five bedroom house – followed shortly thereafter by a wage cut, I found myself all but tied down to 50 May Street, Parap Grove.

 

So my house became the party house with all sorts of boys and girls coming round and drinking and smoking and laughing etc.

I built a bar – people used to come round, leave thirty bucks on the bench and then drink from my bar. I made no money but got enough to replenish the stocks. Some stayed over, some didn’t.

 

I began to specialise in certain drinks on genuine party nights – like Margaritas and some kind of Mango Midori white rum spectacular that I’d whip up from mango pulp, pineapple juice, Midori, vodka, gin, barcardi, cointreau etc .

 

I’d also barbecue a special blend of marinated king prawns and cook up Oysters Kilpatrick/Mornay in the oven. Though I was put to shame with the Kilpatrick one night when a qualified chef joined us for drinks and offered to take over the molluscs while I tended the prawns!

I spent a hundred and fifty bucks to purchase a blender powerful enough to rip through Ice – just to make Margaritas. And since we were drinking Margaritas, we ended up having Mexican nights – with bandanas, pinata’s, a bit of Raul Malo and the Mavericks (Okay – Cuban Tex/Mex music is the closest I had to a Mariachi Band) – but the dozen or so tequila crazed party goers didn’t seem to mind.

Some strange things happened – getting the hair-clippers out for a spontaneous haircut was not uncommon – though the trick one chick followed it up with one night, sure was! (I haven’t used the clippers since!).

I had doctors, lawyers, chefs, strippers, journalists, political advisors, a marine biologist – and a whole bunch of normal folk there at one stage or another.

The time eventually came though, for me to move back to the fambam.

The brother had been on the Gold Coast for fifteen years or so and my sister was moving up with her family – and I’d always intended moving there one day myself, so that’s what we did.

Now our “Do’s” consist mostly of the family all sitting around someone’s backyard entertainment area, drinking beer and wine and generally taking the p1ss out of each other.

Though, I do still try to keep my hand in the game, by having the occasional bender with the locals at the Jacobs Well Tavern.

It took me about twenty years to feel comfortable enough to finally hand over the reins to their respective partners – and both chose exceedingly well in the end.

It’s up to my old mate Johnny now to look after my sister – though I am as fiercely loyal to him now as I ever was to her and I’d back his any play to the hilt, any time!

And I am quite happy to let my Bro’s beautiful wife Candy clean up his mess after his occasional summer blowout!

Let’s not get started on the young nieces now!!!

Being close to loved ones though, comes at a price.

The currency for that familiarity is stress.

All of a sudden you are made aware of everyone’s life issues, such as health concerns, study, employment, money, and relationship problems.

With the physical closeness, comes responsibility – things I’d been all but immune to living in the Top End.

Mostly, I didn’t even hear about these problems – much less need to personally address them and seek a resolution.

These situations become increasingly frequent, especially with aging parents in the mix – and at certain times, seem like a never-ending merry-go-round of hospitals, specialists and general checkups. Tension building at every turn.

It makes the Northern Territory resort-style living appear all the more appealing.

However, for those tempted by the Siren’s lure of the easy life, keep this in mind: though the Lone Wolf walks a fun and careless path, roaming his domain at will and howling at the moon – surely on the cold, dark night, when it is he who is lame – he pines in earnest for his long lost pack….