For the last couple of nights I’ve slept like an absolute log – been dead to the world when the alarm went off in the morning (at about 6:50). It’s been great.
So this morning, I dragged myself out of bed, had the traditional wiz and headed out to meet the day. I turned on the TV and air-conditioner and went to get some Cornies for brekky. I wasn’t surprised to see that the milk was four days beyond the use-by date, which is getting a bit touch and go, so I opted for toast and peanut butter instead (the Kraft smooth kind).
I ate it, watched the news, had a shower, then watched the Pussycat Dolls on Sunrise singing about wanting boobies when they grow up, and then headed off for work.
I got to the garage and found my car bonnet up and recalled I needed some quick maintenance before I took off. For years now, when the weather starts getting real hot, my accelerator cable starts to seize up and stay down – revving the bejesus outta the motor whenever I stop. Or otherwise sending me tearing along at the same speed even after the foot is removed from the accelerator pedal. To remedy this situation, just takes a deft flick of the toe on the pedal and she cuts strait back – but it makes for some fancy footwork between accelerator and brake pedals as you slow down, and becomes annoying.
So for a semi-permanent fix, I spray all the carbi linkages and cable connections with WD40. This usually works for a few months – and it was this trick that I had to do this morning (while the engine was still cold).
This of course sent me running a little late for work, but that’s cool too – we work on flexi time.
So three quarters the way to work, I got stuck on poll position at the lights on the Stuart Highway and Mitchell street, across from the Top End Hotel. I was just sitting, looking down Mitchell street and grooving to a bit of Chilli Peppers ‘Scar Tissue’ ….’young Kentucky girl in a push-up bra….’, when I noticed a young aboriginal chippie moving into the centre of the intersection. This is not so unusual but for the fact that she had no top on, and her ample bosom was bouncing hither and thither! She was quite an attractive girl of about twenty-six years I would speculate, and she sported a rack in the general range of a 12C – give or take a cup-size. She was apparently arguing with her ‘Boyfriend’ – a tattoo riddled white fella of about 46 years, who stood on the side of the road in just a pair of black jeans, but with her shirt in his hands.
She yelled something to the inked-up fella and commenced to take off her pants and swing them over her head, helicopter style.
As the lights changed, she was standing pretty much mid-intersection, in a pair of skewed black panties and nothing else – however, they looked pretty ripe for removal in the near future as well.
I drove on with a slightly incredulous grin and a small headshake and simply thought – ‘Only in Darwin…..’
I’ve recently noticed a growing trend for businesses around Darwin and it seems to be the root cause of some mighty confusion. It appears that the Vietnamese, as a race in general, have discovered that the tropical climate around here is not so different to the homeland, but the conditions are obviously far superior.
For years there have been mad Vietnamese crabbers, living in spindly little shacks erected on remote creek banks, where they share the stifling heat and humidity with countless, ravenous bugs of every kind – not mention crocs, sharks and mudcrabs.
Five years ago, I could go to Parap markets and get five live mudcrabs off the Vietnamese chick with atrocious spelling, for twenty bucks! They weren’t the biggest dib-n-dabs off all time and they weren’t always full, but they were only four bucks each! Now, I was never one to question the origins of her stock – they were green and they were obviously local and they had little beady-eyes on orbital stalks that attested to their freshness.
I grant you I wondered more than once, how she could sell them for about five bucks a kilo, when the shops had them for fourteen bucks each. However, I was usually too busy feeding the beautiful crab-meat into my mouth, to be bothered pointing fingers at anybody! Maybe her husband was one of those skinny little mangrove dwellers, with the tanned hide and too-big shorts, and was simply a very handy crab man, with a special ability to catch more than the rest, with his limited number of licensed pots?
Anyway, spoiled by such an abundance of culinary delights, I grew sick of them and had a break from attending the markets. (Note: these markets are promoted far and wide, as something not to be missed – but outside of the food, all the market sells is handmade soap and hippie trinkets, with an occasional charlatan psychic promising to read your future).
During my absence from said markets, I recall seeing on the front page of the NT News, a semi trailer with a full load of crab-pots – they took up the entire trailer, stacked to about four metres high. Apparently some commercial crabber, from a remote camp had miscounted his registered pots and had in fact mistakenly dropped an extra two hundred traps on top of his legally allocated number. These were being seized and disposed of by Fisheries.
Strangely, my thoughts immediately turned to my sweaty little marketeer and her foam boxes full of crabs……..I wonder?………..
So I had a visit from a few mates from Sydney back in August this year. Pauly, who’d dined upon our fine market-bought crustaceans on previous visits, dragged the Boneman up to the Parap shopping precinct for some supplies. Boney is no great lover (of seafood either) – so Pauly sought out Miss Flesh-Mud-Clab and ordered two of her finest.
“Eighty-fi dollar”
“WHAT?”
“Eighty-fi dollar for mudclab”
“Shit. Thanks”
He brought them home, we cooked them up and they were damn beautiful – but they were now forty-three bucks each!
I’m not one to speculate, but perhaps she needs the extra cash to pay a fine of some kind, I really don’t know – all I do know, is that Pauly got skinned.
Which brings me to my current point – there now seems to be some fairly successful Vietnamese folk around town, who are taking over some of the bigger businesses. And I think, following long held traditions, they employ family and friends to work in such establishments – which I respect and admire – if they can get the job done…
One example is my local pub – it’s been around for nearly a century I believe and, this is pure guesswork on my behalf, but I reckon it has recently been purchased by an Asian businessman. Where there used to be a bunch of Aussie-accented and sometimes shonky Australian barstaff – there now stands a team of Asian personnel. Now I couldn’t care less who serves me beer, so I have no complaint there – what I do have complaint about is someone serving concoctions I didn’t order, because they simply do not speak Australian. People can speak English without ever having a grasp on speaking or understanding Australian – so I’ve been told by several European folk.
The first time I encountered the new staff, I was quite shocked, it was like approaching the counter of the Saigon Hilton. I was with my oldies and Dad had first shout:
“Two schooners of new and a chardonnay thankyou”
The bloke returns with two beers, half a glass of lemonade and a blank look.
“What’s that? I said two beers and a chardonnay – a glass of white wine”
“…OOrrhh – fank you sir”
I think he got chardonnay mixed up with shandy.
Then last week, I ordered:
“A schooner of New thanks mate”
And he walked over to the tap with three glasses in his hand, fills one then starts on the others.
I said “How much is that mate?”
“Just the one?”
I look around – I was clearly on my own – “Yeah, just the one schooner of New”
“Orrhh – four fifty – I thought…..oorrhhh…”
I can take the chardonnay-shandy thing, but I really don’t know why he thought I wanted THREE schooners of New?
Macca’s in Darwin too, I speculate has changed hands in a similar vein – all the workers are now Vietnamese or Chinese or some such thing. And simply for the fact that their English is so bad, I would guess that a Caucasian English speaking businessman would resist hiring these guys as staff. They cannot communicate or make themselves be understood in English.
Today, I ordered “A Quarter-pounder meal thanks mate”
“You war are-car-door?”
“What?”
“You war are-car-door?”
“Sorry mate – what did you say?”
“You have are-car-door?” as he points to some sign above with his head.
“Nah thanks mate, I’ll be fine”
Now – I don’t know what it is that I just opted out of, but I’m sure I can live without it.
I’m looking round the line of signs advertising their wares – for some kind of vehicular shape or reference – wondering WTF this bloke was offering me – something about a car-door.
Then I saw it – this week’s special, is the option of having some freaking
AVOCADO on your quarter-pounder, if you so desire!
I don’t know why anyone would want avocado on anything, but I’d like to know I had the option – especially if they were to put the extra on by default. If I had have got back to the office and found the thing covered in avocado snot, I’d have hit the roof and tossed the thing in the garbo.
It troubles me that this trend seems to be spreading and I understand that a lot of these guys must be having trouble finding other work but the answer is not to hoard them all together. The answer is to learn how to communicate and then get better jobs. It must be very challenging every day, not being able to communicate with customers – when this is the sole purpose of your job! Either that, or mix in some people who DO speak Australian, so you can learn off them.
This is not an anti-Asian bitch, it’s a bitch about bosses who hire people who are manifestly unsuited to the job they are expected to perform. Hospitality requires an ability to communicate in the language of the country in which you practice!
Anyway, enough of that for now……….I think I might have Chinese for tea tonight……..
When I worked for the NT Govt, I heard of a would be country singer who worked for a different section – the lands mob on the Barkly Tableland down round Tennant Creek way. We exchanged a few emails and it turned out she was playing at the Freds Pass Show. I thought I’d check her out and write a review. (At the time I was a moderator for the Country Music Channel forum).
Harmony James – Freds Pass Show
Well I went to see Harmony on Saturday night – it was an outdoor show, with people just sitting on the grass. You could have stood 6 inches from the stage if you wished – and if you could push your way through the little kiddies. She gave away a CD and a hat, so all the kids stood at the stage waiting for free stuff.
I really enjoyed the show – she was a lot ‘rockier’ than I expected and she worked up quite a sweat in the humidity and stage lights, putting everything into her songs.
I liken Harmony to a Willie Nelson or Kasey Chambers – a distinct voice which is unique and unmistakable, however, that tends to polarise opinions – love her or hate her. This can be a great advantage and lead to success like those above, or it can banish you to Independent Land for your entire career. As opposed to guys like George Strait, who can sing anything and sound good, with universal appeal, but not necessarily instil passion – with more of an every-man’s voice. We’ll have to watch and wait to see where Harmony ends up.
Harmony is having great success in song-writing ‘competitions’, and I think it is partly due to her unusual turn of phrase, which I believe comes from living in the remote Barkly region. She seems to me to be very honest and open, in her songs, on stage and to chat with – again, I think, due to her background. While she chats with the audience, sings and sounds fantastic on stage – there is no over-polished hype or fake motivational war-cries, like ‘Come on people, I can’t hear you….!!!!’
She gets up and she performs confidently and she performs well – I certainly hope to see her again.
Harmony James – Freds Pass Show
I was meaning to ask Harmony about a new CD in the works but she said she will selling CD’s after the show – I assumed it was a new, full length item, so obviously didn’t bother asking about it. I had a chat, bought the CD and only realised it was the EP when she asked for 10 bucks. That rattled me a bit because I had 30 in my hand, so I forgot to ask when a full CD would be released.
I ended up doing the scarper before the Sunny Cowgirls came on – I’d been there, on my own for 3 hours and they had Whiskey Creek and Tom Curtain to play before the Sunnies would start. I really only went to check out Harmony anyway but it’s a fair show for 15 bucks. I would love to have stayed all night, if only I had someone to drive me the 35ks home!
A Southern Man’s expectations, versus the reality, of fishing in Darwin – it must be a Territory Thing…
I was born in Sydney 41 years ago and was brought up on fishing. Every holiday we had, we would load up the car and head to the Central Coast with the big, heavy, wooden-poled, green Texas tent. We spent nearly every school holiday possible, camping at a little fishing village called Patonga, at Broken Bay, mouth of the Hawkesbury River!
Upon arrival, the shoes would be left in the car and there they’d stay for six weeks, and the shirt was only worn on formal occasions, like Bingo night at the Progress Hall.
Me Patonga – before I took to wearing pants apparently
We had feet like leather and a tan like a saddle-bag, innumerable cuts and stabs and assorted flesh wounds from oysters, rusty knives and Flathead spikes. A dash of Zinc on the lips and nose was all the sun-protection we’d heard of and the salt water seemed to keep the wounds clean.
Sitting in the 11 foot fibreglass boat for six hours, baking the dried salt patterns onto our brown shoulders and stiffening our briny-thickened hair was an experience we took for granted. As was dragging in good sized flathead at will, and tailor and garfish, and niggers and bream and mullet and blue-swimmer crabs, or what ever other species took our fancy at the time. We were good at it, and it was heaven.
Me & Uncle Pete – Hat Head beach
Then the holidays would end and we’d have to go back to Liverpool and back to school – this is the time you really appreciate the freedom of long days, sprawled under the sun, with a line in your hand.
My brother Al and I were fishing mad, we’d read all the old books and magazines articles by legends like Vic McCrystal and his mates, and we’d tend to our tackle and gear in the off-season. We were 40kms from the coast and the closest water to our place was the Georges River – at a weir that separated the salt from the fresh. Both were filthy and contaminated from the countless factories that lined the banks. Only the toughest of all fish could survive in that cesspool – and we wanted to get ‘em!
Nothing seemed to bite on any bait we tried (I guess even the fish were weary of eating locally), so we resorted to jagging. We’d string along five or six huge suicide hooks and tie a ball sinker to the end, then cast out and rip it back! Wind up the slack and rip again. We became absolute experts, though it was very tough on gear and body.
We raked out whopping bull-nose mullet hand over fist and every now and then, you’d latch on to a thumping big Carp. We never did manage to land one but from my recollection and observation, I would have sworn some would weigh thirty pounds! While that sounds unlikely, I can still picture watching these huge fish, basking in the soupy-water – maybe it was the chemicals that made them so big?
We were tempted to shoot one from the bank, with a spear-gun one time, just for proof, but Dad talked us out of it.
We wasted nothing – had a Malaysian lady across the road, who used to eat all the mullet we could give her!
When we couldn’t get to ‘The Georges’, we’d go down the bottom of the street to Green Valley Creek – which had bush on one side, a park and houses on the other. It had a constant flow but was full of rubbish until a storm hit. At certain times of the year, you could drag eels out of some of the ‘spots’ – we caught a dozen one day, slimy little suckers they were too.
They went down a treat across the road though – something different to mullet I suppose.
In the desperate times, when there weren’t even eels to catch, we’d resort to guppies. We’d find a stick about 4 feet long, tie on some light line and a hook, and bait up a piece of worm. The trick was to pinch the tail of the worm with your finger-nails, so as to make a dangling piece, small enough for the guppies to fit in their mouths. Then you’d drag ‘em up into a bucket, under their own greedy suction.
My grandfather had a pond in his backyard and had generations of these things breeding in there for 25 years – it would have been an interesting experiment to see if they had adapted in any way from the old creek!
On one occasion, we even forged a crude hook out of copper wire, tied it to some string and hooked the Grandfather’s prized gold fish. We struck trouble when we couldn’t get him out through the top of the tank, so we just dropped him, still attached, back into the water.
We struck even more trouble when Pop found him distressed and told Mum what we’d done – then we too, became rather distressed!
Rainbow Trout – CarcoarFishing the Channel Country Qld
So as I said, we were mad, keen fishermen and would wet a line at any opportunity, with the majority of my experience being in estuaries, rivers, beaches, rocks and a little off-shore stuff. Though, just before I moved up north, I took to inland fishing – discovered the beauty of bush camping and fishing in unlikely places. There’s no bigger thrill than dragging out a big rainbow trout from a little narrow, shallow river in the bush – the ocean, you expect big fish, but bush rivers, it’s just a different kind of thrill. Same stands for jigging Redfin in local dams, that used to be cow paddocks – it was great.
Carcoar Dam RedfinPauly & I catching yellowbelly on the Barcoo RiverGot a light? Yabby from Byrock Rockhole
So it was with great enthusiasm eight years ago, that I loaded up my Landcruiser and headed for the Big Top End!
Darwin, the Mecca of all fishing spots – and I was moving there! I was wondering just how big a chest freezer I would need to hold all my barra fillets, then I realised that I wouldn’t need a huge freezer at all – I’d just go out and catch some more fresh ones! How easy was this gonna be? How much fun was I gonna be having? I made a mental list of people I would send posing-photos to and just how I’d guide the rellos round, when they came in search of the metery barra I’d been bragging about.
In fact, the first message I left on my answering machine, was “This is Steve – I’m probably out dragging in another massive Barra. Leave your name and I might get back to ya!”
It turned out that things were not quite so easy as I had expected. I moved into a two bedroom unit at Fannie Bay and began to socialise with some of the boys from work.
Tex asked if I’d be interested in joining his boat crew and doing a fishing trip in the harbour? “You bet your life buddy, I’m in!” That was Thursday, he was gonna pick me up 5:30 Saturday morning, down on the corner. I was there on time, with a load of fishing gear and a belly full of excitement. Tex was not. After half an hour, I rang him – woke him up – he’d “got on the booze the night before and forgot about the fishin’, but would be there in twenty!”
Tex wheeled around the big swooper at Fannie Bay, with the hefty Green-Machine 5 metre fibre-glass monster on the back. I jumped in and we grabbed Andy – Tex had to stop at the Shell garage to pick up a copy of Northern Australia Fish Finder, some bait and a sausage roll.
It struck me as unusual that a local lad would require such a guide, and didn’t seem to already have any specific plan of attack. We launched at Dinah Beach and I was being careful to cover my lures, for fear the barra would leap into the boat before I was quite prepared.
We had a massive storm and everyone got soaked as we headed out into the harbour. I asked if that was the open ocean over there – it turned out to be Mandorah – you just couldn’t see the land through the rain!
Tex asked where we’d like to go, as he began to consult the trusty guidebook. I had no idea and Andy wasn’t much better, so we headed toward Channel Island. Andy and Tex stood up at the windscreen, so I sat back toward the rear, somewhat puzzled at the apparent lack of preparation and direction on show thus far.
I looked up and noticed Andy, who is a tallish, slender young chap, with an easy going nature and a keen wit, was this day wearing cotton boardshorts. They had a tear in them about halfway down, stretching from mid-thigh to the bum-crack seem! I said “Hey Andy – you know your arse is hanging out of your pants there?” He replied “Oh yeah – I’m free-bagging it today”, and just turned back around. I looked around and conceded that it must just be a Territory-thing.
They commenced throwing lures at what, at the time, seemed to me the most unlikely of spots – tiny little run-off drains etc. I quickly realised that I was under-gunned, with my little 8lb mono bream rod and inch long craw-daddy lure, compared to their 30lb braid, 45lb leader and 6 inch bomber lures.
Luckily, my gear was never tested that day – but nor were the bombers! We had been out for about four and a half hours when Tex began to complain about getting sunburnt.
It turns out that in his hangover-inspired, foggy minded rush to pick me up, he forgot to pull on a shirt. Now I had a long sleeve shirt, hanging loosely undone over the top of a singlet, so being the generous bloke that I am, I offered it to Tex – we probably wouldn’t be out there much longer anyway.
We stumbled upon a croc trap, sitting up a small creek, with a dead chicken calling to the reptilians like an ancient siren. This was the first hard evidence that really reinforced to me the dangers of crocs up here.
After another hour, we conceded defeat and decided to head back. Though I was becoming a little disillusioned with my skipper’s local knowledge re the Hot-Spots, I was glad to be going home, as I too was now succumbing to the sunburn.
Though we had fresh drinking water on board, we’d brought nothing to eat, so after six hours of throwing lures, I had worked me up a powerful hunger. I was looking forward to a big lunch – I realised by now however, that it was not to be that golden-fried barra I’d expected in the morning. I figured that sometimes, what we expect is not necessarily what we always get.
And so it was with Tex and his limited comprehension of Top End tidal movements. We rounded the bend and approached the ramp, only to find the tide had receded and left us stuck high and dry, and about three hours short of being able to drag the boat out! At this stage I really began rethinking my generous offer to El Capitan, of the long sleave shirt – as I slowly began to blister in the sun.
Thankfully, I tan easily….
However, even at that early stage of my Top End life, I’d already learned to roll with the punches, so once again I calmly conceded – yep, it must just be a Territory-thing….
I took a trip down to the Eleven Mile tackle shop, strangely, in search of a pencil float. I returned with $370 worth of Top End barra gear!
I had the Ugly Stick rod, the Abu baitcaster real (which I’d never used before), braid, leader, hooks and swivels, replacement triple-strength trebles and a fist full of assorted lures……oh, and one pencil float.
Pip was the salesman and a fine job he did too – obviously saw me coming a mile off! Though granted, he did take time to teach me a few local knots.
Next trip I took was with my mate Mickey, out of Buffalo Creek – we got a heap of crabs but all were about two millimetres too small. Mickey caught a nice salmon on the troll and then, as we made our way back to the ramp, I finally got my first Territory fish – a flathead! Of all things, a flathead – I’d caught a million before that, so it was hardly exotic or impressive. At least it confirmed that one of my costly, hard-bodied lures actually worked.
My first Territory fish – a Flathead!
I tried all my gear out with several trips to Buffalo Creek – only ever caught a few catties. I found that each trip would cost me about two twelve buck lures – learning now that I needed to be in amongst the cover or not bother fishing at all.
I honed my baitcaster casting skills via the fine art of casting my hastily attached flouro-green popper at my disappearing, snapped off lure as it floated away with the tide. In the end, I retrieved, via the popper, as many lures as I lost to snags – though to this day I am yet to catch a live fish on that popper (thanks Pip!).
Mickey called up and asked if I was interested in heading out of Buffalo in his 14 foot tinny – “Too right Mate – book me in”. He told me to meet at his place at Cullen Bay and we’d leave from there, which I thought strange, as we’d drive past my place on the way. I’m not saying that I’m particularly suspicious or cynical by nature – but I decided to pull the pin, disconnect and leave my Hayman-Reece towbar at home that day.
I got to Mickey’s, we loaded the boat up and then he suggested it would probably be easier to use my car, since it was already out and all. I commended him on a worthy suggestion but explained how unfortunate we were that I had in fact left my towbar at home. He muttered a few swear words and said something about the high likelihood of having his car broken into at the ramp and goods stolen. I suggested she’d most likely be right – I’m starting to warm to this Territory Thing.
Well we launched the boat and sat a hundred metres away from the ramp for two and a half hours, till the water became deep enough to move. We had a few beers and laughs and fed some of our crab bait to the kites and Sea Eagle. I’m beginning to expect such delays by now – but still think a little more planning could be very helpful and may have some bearing on our success rate.
We were catching nothing much and the sun was going down – Mickey wanted to head out 6k’s off shore and go for Jewies. My survival instinct hinted that this may not be the best of ideas, given our recent form, so we headed back. The car was still in one piece.
A few weeks later, I got a late call from a very excited Mickey – our mate Col, had been out in the harbour and cleaned up on Jewies the night before. He wanted to know if I was interested in fishing the Mauna Loa?
Though I was severely hungover, I said “Giddyup buddy – what time do we leave?”
We made the wreck as the sun was setting and after three attempts at anchoring, with myself on rope duty, we found the mark. I sat down at the pointy end and began sucking in the big breaths – I was crook – the water rushes in my mouth were seconds away and I had cleared a spot to reach my head over the side. Mickey was still jumping out of his skin in anticipation and asking me to tell him jokes or sing him a song – I muttered ‘Maybe later’ and kept working on my recovery. Mickey commenced with “I’m just a gigolo, and everywhere I go…..”. Did I mention that Mickey is a Pakistani? Well he is, and a very funny one at that! His accent really added character to the old David Lee Roth classic. He’s a very entertaining man, young Mickey and is always a pleasure to fish with.
After a few hours, I caught a decent sized estuary cod (5lb) but wasn’t sure what it was – Mickey told me they were no good to eat and tossed it back (which is at odds with the advice I later discovered in the Fish Finder). We also got a few Snapper but no jewies that night.
The night of The Golden Slipper, I got a call up from Col – one of his crew had dropped out and he asked me to come and target the Jews on the Mauna Loa that night, with himself and his brother Mick – “Oh yeah – I’m there!”
I grabbed the heaviest rod I owned, loaded up with brand new Platypus 30lb pre-test mono – they laughed at me. I was way under-gunned again! Col threw me a 100lb handline and a Mr Barra squid – said just put the big circle-hook once through his pointy tube and away you go. The brothers advised me that these things pull pretty hard and if they get to the wreck, then they’re home. You have to stop them dead in their tracks, right from the get go!
They also said it was a rule that everyone had to catch their first jewie on a handline, with no gloves allowed. All this sounded pretty fair and I believed them – I put it down to just another Territory Thing. That was until I felt a bit of a tug on the old handline – I said “Ohh – here’s a go!’ I thought it might have been a jewie taking a bite – but quickly realised that in fact I had hooked myself a Collins Class submarine that was charging forth at full throttle, straight for the wreck!
This thing ripped line through my hands and cut the bejesus out of them – I had no chance in the world of pulling him up before the wreck. Col and Mick laughed their heads off – ‘Told ya the jewies pull pretty hard’.
Mick hooked one and gripped the line like an anchor-man in a tug-o-war – which was fine for him, he was a road worker with tough, man’s hands. I, on the other hand, had pussy little, soft, computer operator fingers!
I ended up catching three that night, between 12 and 16kg, and we got 6 all up (though Col used a rod for his). My fingers on both hands were torn to shreds and for the first time ever, I threw my line out, truly hoping I didn’t get another bite! It was the best night’s fishing I’d ever had and for a long time, I had the scars to prove it!
I thought I’d try the much fabled Shady Camp next – Mickey was going that way and taking his girlfriend, so I decided to hire a boat and join them. I read up in the Fish Finder book and there were many warnings about the dangers of crocs in the Mary River system – I believe one quote said “Wading in these waters is suicidal”.
My hired tinny was tiny and only had a15Hp Johnson – the Shady hire bloke had just put the boat in the water, because the ramp was flooded and there was a boiling torrent of brown water and logs, barrelling over the barrage. I put my gear in and took off downstream.
About 200 metres down I noticed the boat was filling up with water – he’d left the bungs out!
I swung it round and headed against the torrent. With my weight and that of the water, the stern was getting heavier and lower and I was looking at all my gear about to be washed away, as well as the ringing in my ears “wading in these waters is suicidal!” I would have ended up 700 metres down stream, had the boat actually gone down, but in a stressed and cranky state, I finally made it back to the ramp.
I hopped straight out and began walking round the boat – next second I was up to my chest in the water, with some bloke advising me to “Watch out mate – there’s a big hole there”. Wading in these waters is suicidal….. So with wet clothes, wallet etc I approached Hire-Guy “How ya goin’ mate – you wouldn’t happen to have any FKN BUNGS FOR THAT BOAT THERE WOULD YA?”
“Ahh yeah – I’ve got a couple in my top pocket here – I wondered what they were doing there. Here, we’ll knock twenty bucks off your hire fee”
No apologies given, nor care shown – I took the bungs, shook my head and walked back to the boat, thinking – that definitely must be a Territory Thing!
I didn’t catch any fish but saw a few crocs, got rained upon and searched by the Fisheries Inspector. On the drive home, I actually watched three 80cm plus barra feeding in a causeway that ran across the road – I considered throwing a soft plastic at them. Then I figured there would probably be some obscure law about catching barramundi on a public thoroughfare, so I hopped back in my car and shot through.
I had to dodge a snake on the road, a dingo and a buffalo – now that is surely a Territory Thing.
They ran a raffle at work, for the Darwin Darts Club – an overnight trip on a charter boat. I bought my tickets but lost. In the end, some poor bloke couldn’t make it, so I was offered his ticket “You ripper mate – love to!”
I had visions of an esky full of Coral trout and red emperor.
Darwin Fishing Charter – ‘Andros’ with Capt Bunjee
We went out on the Andros, caught a few sharks, one bloke got a nice cod and that was it for the arvo. A few of the girls got sick, so we moved to Bynoe Harbour – I slept in one of the little ‘iron-lung’ bunks while we travelled. Then stayed up all night and caught nada.
One bloke got a decent mackerel on the way home next day but the skipper Bunjee declared it the ‘second worst trip they had ever had’. I guess a bloke can’t win all the time! It was a great time, good boat and excellent service though – I’d recommend them to anyone – we were just unlucky. However, a word of warning to the unwary – if you’re not used to the rocking motion of a boat and you stay over night and drink lots of beer, be prepared to endure that same rocking once you return home. I almost fell off my toilet when I got back!
Darwin Harbour Mud Crab
At different times I hired boats and took out my visitors around the harbour – never really scored big, but certainly enough to encourage another trip, through crabs or fish or just a good time. The first barra I actually caught measured out to 54cm (the limit being 55cm) – he was a beautiful looking silvery thing too – I chucked him back. A few people later suggested that they grow at least another centimetre if you cut the throat and stretch the spine. Though it was hard to let him go, I still feel morally content with the decision I made.
Dad & Me fishing Darwin Harbour
I had a great thrill one time, played a monster for 20 minutes – only to discover a six foot shovel nose shark emerge from the murky depths! Bummer.
I took some southern non-fishing mates out one day – they were uncharacteristically enthusiastic and strangely under the impression that fishing was easy up here. I quickly realised the light mono-line I had on one of their rigs was rotten – I was confident they’d catch nothing, so I tied the Rapala clear lure on anyway (which incidentally looks exactly like a small whiting!) and said nothing.
While I was rigging up the second bloke, the first one casts back over his shoulder then yells out “I got one!”
I looked up and he was hooked up on a Spanish Mackerel! I couldn’t believe it. Now I was starting to feel pretty edgy, waiting for the line to snap like cotton, as it did in my hand when I first tied the lure on. No one else in the vessel was wise to our predicament.
To my astonishment, he landed the fish and though it was small, it was definitely a Spaniard. I double checked the ID in the Fish Finder mag – didn’t believe you’d catch them in Catalina Creek.
Yummy Top End MuddiesSouth Alligator River Culvert
Eventually, I teamed up with Chad, master of the Barra Beast and he took me on a few trips to the Adelaide River, where I finally had a bit of luck with the Barramundi.
One trip saw Chad, Matt Flynn and myself casting a variety of lures at a small floating weedy cover, adjacent to a creek outlet – we were hooking up on rats nigh on every cast! It was good fun to test a few different lures, both hard and soft and in every colour and size.
A bit of trolling and casting at different well known spots saw a few decent fish come aboard – 60 – 85cm. So on occasion I have actually taken a few wild barra home to eat – though after cleaning and filleting them in my kitchen, the place strongly resembled a slaughterhouse.
Adelaide River Barra
Note – home butchering and fish-monger business are art-forms best avoided if your domicile is shared with a woman!
These days I have developed the instinct to recognise where the barra may be hiding, whether it be colour changes, runoffs, barrages or timber cover – though it certainly didn’t come naturally, or easily.
Blokes like ET, Rex Hunt and a host of other ‘fishing gurus’ have a lot to answer for – perpetuating the myth that you need only turn up and throw a lure if you want to wrestle with forty pounds of leaping, thrashing barramundi.
No doubt, the professional guides can put you in a prime spot in minimum time, but for the true fisherman, who respects his quarry and takes pleasure in the constant the battle of wits with his adversary, it’s a challenging path to tread and a very rewarding trip.
Me with my 92cm, 14lb Flatty – caught on the Gold Coast
Well it’s been just over a month now, since Maria moved in to my joint and it’s been interesting, to say the least. She’s a great girl and we still get-on magnificently – though so far, our opinions only match on two subjects – abortion and the fact that neither of us like to watch wrestling! These two subjects were cause for high-fives, as we usually debate every other social, political, religious or moral issue. Maria is not altogether against enjoying an occasional alcoholic beverage and since, for the time being, she is unemployed and not too overwhelmed with uni work, she sometimes cracks a cold one late in the afternoon. I sometimes join her, though usually not on school-nights, and we sit out the back and discuss important global issues. Maria, it seems, has a huge social conscience, partly due to her political and aboriginal studies at University, and partly due to her bohemian-hippie spiritual slant. I, on the other hand, have a very practical mind and often depend on simple analysis such as motive, purpose and payoff. I realise I cannot change the world, so I simply refuse to spend any emotion on such matters. Mostly, this results in me remaining calm and presenting my case in a steady and direct voice, while Maria gets very excited and emotional, lecturing me in an Adolf Hitler type performance complete with commitment and physical gestures. I’m not sure if this has anything to do with her Greek heritage, but she is easily wound-up – which leads to another little quirky and unexpected result. Whenever Maria gets excited or emotional, the little sausage-dog, Annie, starts licking my feet! I think it is her attempt to calm things down and while I appreciate the sentiment, it really is quite a revolting response.
Maria
Maria’s care for the world and all the people in it is certainly something to admire and respect – but in all practicality, she’s wasting a lot of time and emotion for unachievable aims. One recent debate I recall was regarding cows and their production of methane gas. Now, when she does eat, Maria is a vegetarian – not because she believes this is the healthiest way to live, but because she feels too sorry for the animals to eat meat. Chicken soup remains a controversial menu item and fish is okay thus far, but beef, lamb and especially pork (as they are closest to humans – she often quotes the DNA percentage we have in common), are definitely off limits.
I’m a carnivore who occasionally eats some green and orange stuff, though I love fruit. She doesn’t like fruit but loves vegetables.
Anyway, she correctly claims that hard-hoofed animals such as beef cattle (we live in the Northern Territory, who supply half the world with beef) harm the natural environment and change the landscape – not to mention the excessive methane gas created by great herds of cattle! Which I am enthusiastically advised, is one of the worst culprits currently contributing to the global warming phenomenon! She claims we should get rid of all the cattle in Australia and treat the land like the Aborigines did – with sustainable respect! My argument is that this style of living was only possible due to their small numbers and nomadic habits. If we did kill all Australian cattle, half the world’s population would perish due to starvation – we have long been committed to this path and there are far too many people in the world now, to so radically change direction. This logically leads to the next subject which heartless carnivores such as myself seem to support and promote – international exporting of live cattle….on disgusting, cramped, unhygienic, inhumane livestock ships!
It makes for great entertainment, winding her up and letting her go over a couple of beers.
Like the time I mentioned the eggs, just for kicks.
I said – “I see in the fridge you bought half a dozen free-range eggs? I’ve got some eggs there too…..”
Before I could finish, as I expected, she was lecturing me on buying only free-range eggs, they taste better, they’re not full of hormones – how would I like to be stuck in a cage with a broken beak and never let out and pumped full of hormones all day and not be able to move? She offered to pay the difference if I was still so committed to buying the cheaper eggs – ‘cause you can’t do that to chickens and they’re much better anyway!
When she finished, I said “As I was saying, I get my eggs straight from the farm, where the chickens run wild all day – so feel free to eat them if you like”.
I often offer her half of my steak for tea and she offers me half of her Lentil-slop. We get on so well together, I love having Maria around – but alas, she’s looking for her own place. Willing to pay up to $750 a week rent, so she shouldn’t have too much trouble. I could rent her my place and I’ll move into a $200 a week unit!
Maria also offered me an interest free loan, to be paid back whenever – so I could go on holidays down south with the rest of my family at Easter. I’d love to go and I really appreciate her offer, but I had to turn it down. She got the shits with me – something about stupid male pride….
Los Amigos – Me, Maria, Kirstin
Maria went out with her cousin and friends last Saturday night and Kirstin came round for a visit with her little baby, Rocky, and a sack full of Chinese food. We polished off a couple of bottles of wine (she brought a portable cot and monitor for the young fella). Unfortunately, Rocky’s routine is all mixed up and he’s running on nocturnal hours for the most part. However, he was asleep on Kirstin in the early hours of the morning, when his mother spotted a cane toad hopping round my back yard.
Me & Rocky
This is the first such sighting in my backyard – though they’ve been marching North by West from Queensland for many years now – the noxious little mongrels! So we ran outside and she pointed the scurrying little rascal out and I chased him down, like only the ultimate predator to which we’ve evolved, could do. I grabbed him and studied his phiz, just to confirm his specie before terminating him, but Kirstin requested I not do him any harm in her presence. Not wanting a poison-secreting abomination bouncing round among my frozen steak and chicken, I simply lobbed him over the fence and into next-door’s saltwater pool. I figured since these monstrosities are unable to climb vertical walls, he would either end up in their filter or they’d catch him in the morning and dispatch him in an appropriate manner.
Kirstin & Rocky
Kirstin decided to stay till Maria got home – but by 4am I was pretty much sozzled and ready for the sack and since Kirstin had dropped back below the legal alcohol limit, she decided it was probably best that she take Rocky home.
I’ve no idea what time Maria finally got home, but I arose at 12:30, much the worse for wear and she emerged about an hour later. She’d apparently been woken by her friend Molly, who happens to be a doctor, she’d called to check on her wellbeing. Maria answered that she must be still drunk because she felt like a beer – Molly said “Beauty, I’ll be round in 20 minutes!”
Maria & Molly
So they sat out the back, drinking beer and wine and smoking cigarettes all afternoon – I was beginning to get tempted when I was called in to work for 3 hours. So that was the sad end to my weekend – I got home and the place was dark and quiet, so I nuked some cold Chinese and watched telly.
I finish work at lunchtime this Friday – it’s the annual St Patrick’s Day Golf Tournament, which means returning home plastered at around 6pm to watch the opening round of the 2008 Rugby League Footy competition……Bring it on, I say……..
For some reason I feel compelled to write something – though I have nothing in particular in mind about which I wanna bitch. I usually hit the keyboard only when I can no longer refrain from commenting on something that is really shitting me – and while there are still plenty of those things around, it would likely prove detrimental to my person, to begin listing them here! So such subjects shall remain unmentionable, until I am confident of incurring no harmful repercussions.
So, having cleared that up, and having no idea where this might lead, I shall commence. I am currently drinking bourbon and listening to country music. Granted, that may seem to some, like a cliché – but it actually works – the two really do fit together so damn well!
Me behind my bar
Though tonight things are a little different, I must confess. I have always mixed my Jimmy with coke and ice (though admittedly, there was that dry-ginger-ale stage – on questionable advice from a foreignly qualified doctor – I dunno? He was a sparkie’s labourer but claimed to be a doctor of medicine in his native country?)
Regardless – I’ve strongly stuck to the old ‘Bourbon’n’coke’, that I first discovered when I was 18years old – back when I knew all the answers. I’ve marvelled at the acquaintances (mainly family) who have compromised their enjoyment and, in recent years, opted for the lower energy Pepsi Max or Diet Coke. Wooses. Give me coke anytime! Though I understand where they’re coming from – they have families and stuff and you don’t want kids to be drinking straight soft-drinks all the time. But me – I was okay – I only drink cold water all week, never touch the softies – unless I have a bourbon or rum on the weekend. Turns out that I’m a big fat bastard and my siblings are not. Now I thought that strange – I’ve purposely cut down on the beer – and opted for a spirit or two instead. This has been going on for years – and I’ve sweated my arse off in the Darwin heat, exercising to get fit – which has only worked to a minimum degree and all up has been most disappointing.
Cheers!
Just this last week, I happened to stack the empty bottles from the fridge, on the bench (before they go into the garbo). To my surprise, besides the 10 empty beer stubbies, there was about 5 litres of straight coke!………and 2 litres of ‘Slim” milk.
I really can’t believe the damage all that Slim milk has been doing to my body all these years!
But just in case, I decided if anyone should be drinking the low calorie softies, I guess it should be me. Truly, this thought has never struck me before! So tonight, I’m drinking bourbon and Coke Zero. It seems to leave an unwelcome residue on the palate, but compared to the ten thousand calories of straight coke, I guess that should be something I could embrace?
Once again, at this stage, I find myself stuck for subject matter – I have a friend, whom I’ve never met, but who inspires me regularly with her thoughts.
I first ‘met’ Linda as ‘Lush’ on a country music website forum (CMC infact) – turns out that she hails from a country region I used to frequent and still love to this day – around Blayney way, in western New South Wales. She first caught my attention with a blog that explained how she was told, as a young lass, that she could be anything she wanted to be, when she grew up. Unfortunately, she wanted to be a monkey, when she grew up – and she had some issues coming to grips with the reality of what she’d been promised! I just loved the honesty and the randomness of her confession and really admired her openness. She continues to write a blog most weeks and I look forward to each episode of the very rare gift she continues to share – a self-deprecating but HONEST review of a most natural and attractive young Aussie girl. I find it comforting to see that I’m not alone in apparently having never grown up – yet still being old enough where I am expected to now have all the answers.
There are many things I now know for sure, yet there remain many vague and hopeful opportunities that are yet to present themselves to me. I find myself far more open to new ideas than I have been in the past. I appreciate the irony of my considering myself “The Knower Of All Things” ten years ago, but now finding myself searching for answers in the most unlikely of places.
Last Friday night, I had a good friend come round for a visit – Kirstin. She’s a top chick, has a young 8 month old little fella who came along as well. She turned up a little later than expected – which I actually consider standard, when your life depends upon the whims of a small child. So, since she showed up late, she stayed late and left late. Now, I loved the company but I had commenced my weekend relaxation ritual at 4:30pm, and Kirstin and Rocky didn’t fire up the homing-vehicle, until a little after 2am. So, by this time I was relatively legless – must have been the Slim milk – or all that straight coke!
Kirstin & Rocky
Now I guess there are some people who might consider my behaviour a touch uncouth or disrespectful for a grown man, when expecting a visit from a 27 year old, female caller. I can’t deny there maybe some credence to such a theory, but we’ve been friends for a long time and we’re pretty cool with most things. And so it was that I was able to look Kirstin in the eye and ignore the expanding wet spot upon her singlet top, due to her leaking nipples (and her apparently forgetting to insert a ‘nursing pad’ – whatever the fuck they might be?).
So, this Saturday arvo I have an old friend moving in to live with me – Maria. She currently resides in Adelaide – but has had an absolute gutful of the place, so she’s coming back home (after 5 years). I now have an extra 200 bucks a week coming my way – and a whole load of drama. I have known Maria for nearly 8 years – she’s 30 years old, of Greek extraction and was born in Darwin, raised by her grandmother.
We have a natural understanding between us that requires no normal means of communication – My understanding of her thoughts and hers or mine, without discussion are uncanny! However – I’m a “live and let live” kind of bloke and rarely encounter dramas, whereas Maria thrives on the stuff! I’m not sure if it follows her, or she creates it – but it’s ever-present when she’s around!
Myself and Maria
Before she left, I recall a blurry picture of her Ex, threatening me with an axe-handle just before the cops arrived, in the early hours of the morning, after we’d spent a splendid night on the town!
I understand that the psycho has since left town, but have not yet ruled out similar threats. I vaguely recall one night on the town, when we were invited to a ‘Party’ in Coconut Grove. Myself and Maria showed up at the address – which turned out to be a chop-shop car-repair joint, complete with the pigdog guarding the place, and the friendly occupants were keen and most generous to share their goodies! Turns out the bloke she knew, who had invited us – had just finished his jail sentence for rape – and a few months later, went back in for murder! Anyway – I was pleased and grateful to accept a can of Jimmy and coke – I tried not to be offensive when I turned down the lines of white powder on the upturned mirror. Fair dinkum! Besides TV, I’d never actually seen people snorting ‘stuff’ up a rolled-up note, on the back of a mirror!
We ended up getting out relatively unscathed – however – at one stage, I was considering the following scenario:
I know no one here, except the girl I’m with. I am in an illegal chop-shop, in the early hours of the morning, I’m guarded by a fucking pig-dog, I’m drinking their drinks yet avoiding their drugs. No one has a clue where I am.
My advice in such circumstances – play it cool, but make sure you’re acknowledged as tough as the next bloke and used to the situation. Declare your intentions with ample determination and make no apologies.
Well that worked for me that night – maybe in other circumstances it might get you killed? Who knows?
So, it turns out that Maria and Kirstin are good friends too – so I may come home shortly to two girls, a baby boy and a bloody sausage dog, all having a tea party at my place!
Kirstin & Maria at Darwin Ski Club
Gotta be better than spending every night on my lonesome, wandering round an otherwise unoccupied 5 bedroom house, I guess?!
If you stay tuned, I’ll keep ya updated………………Cheers!
I have no children of my own. I do however have nieces and nephews and a few close friends’ kids that I love. Though outside of that, I find I don’t particularly care for kids – especially ugly ones. That includes your ugly babies, or “Yicky-Bubba’s”, as they are sometimes referred to. That may sound harsh but I don’t think I’m alone. Surely I’m not the only one who is sick to death of people trying to force their beloved kiddies down my throat!
When I was a kid – (and possibly even I wasn’t as lovable back then, as I am now), I had sporting heroes, like Wayne Pearce, David Boon and Blocker Roach. Like many kids, I had posters of such stars adorning my school folders and bedroom walls and such. Back then, this was considered cool enough and acceptable behaviour, to have Pearcey in a staged pose with full Balmain footy gear, smiling at me from the front cover of my Tech Drawing folder. I got my ‘Junior’ poster from the centre of the Big League – but there are only so many issues and if your favourite player doesn’t make the cut, then you may have to go with the team poster. The best one’s were the celebration photos, when your team had just won a competition or important game, when everyone is clearly elated and proud of their team effort! With dirty, scarred and bandaged, muscled arms raised in triumph, the team posed as one – beaming sometimes toothless grins and obviously feeling the pride of victory that only dedicated camaraderie can bring!
These days however, such victory photos resemble a meet-the-teacher night down at the local public school. Sports stars insist on dragging out a swag of kids under every available limb! I’ll give you a tip – no one is bloody interested in 3 year old Liam, 5 year old Socrates and 7 year old Aleisha (from a previous marriage)! We understand that you love your kids – we don’t. We don’t want to see them. We paid good money to get to this match to see elite athletes – and while representing the local school-zone in shot-put is commendable, waiting till they make the Olympic team will be sufficient notice for me. Unless you’re playing first grade, today, go back to your bloody lego blocks and Bratz dolls and leave the sporting arena to the athletes.
I don’t need to see Matthew Hayden’s kid struggling to drag a cricket bat, nor Glenn McGrath’s kid inspecting the SCG pitch. They’re kids, let them play – they’ve done nothing to warrant TV coverage. I don’t want a NSW Blues, State Of Origin screen-saver with three victorious, sweaty combatants, alongside Isabelle, Tyrone, Little-Maddie, Trevor, Rock, Katie, Mani and Ebony!
The sports stars should stick to playing sport, not promoting their offspring. By all means, love your kids – that is far more important than anything they could ever possibly achieve on any sporting field. Looking after and loving your children is what life is all about, and there is no greater calling – especially since the rest of us really don’t give a shit about ’em.
Even worse than sports stars trying to ‘share the moment’ with their kids, are the business owners who insist on sticking their ugly offspring in advertising campaigns! Tip – you think they’re cute, ’cause they look like your wife – we all think they’re ugly and annoying! We don’t wanna see their freckled little faces, with eyes just a bit too close together, nor hear their whiny little voices trying to flog us shit that is obviously not a bargain in anyone’s language! Next time, listen to the professional advertising execs – they know they’re ugly – they don’t like ’em either, so pay someone to do a proper job and spare your repulsive little spawn the public humiliation.
If I purchase a CD, I do so to hear the artist listed on the cover – not cute little mutterings and back-up vocals from when their kids were playing in the home studio. Please feel free to keep these crappy out-takes for the amusement of aunties at the family slide-nights. I don’t wanna hear a rock legend doing some sappy duet with his plain-faced, wailing daughter, just so he can give her a leg-up in the music business. If you insist on doing a duet, please include someone of equal standing and musical reputation, not the tone-deaf produce from a sweaty night with a slutty groupie, some 16 years prior, at a non-descript South Coast venue, long since demolished.
Like I said, I appreciate that all these people love their kids and I understand their motivation, but I love bourbon too and yet I don’t try to hold them down and pour gallons of Jimmy down their throats. So I’m simply asking for the same respect in return.
I too like to share amusing little tales about kids, with my friends, for example – it seems everyone who meets my eldest niece Taliah, comments on what a beautiful and caring nature she has. I feel proud as punch, though it has very little to do with my influence. Then there’s my brother’s daughter Jenna, who absolutely thrives on hearing old stories of her Dad and I getting into trouble when we were kids. Her eyes light up and she giggles like mad at the thought of us getting whacked at school or punished by her grandparents – I suspect she’d pay good money to actually witness this! She’s a great girl too and loves nothing better than getting up at some ungodly hour to go fishing with her Dad. Her school recently awarded Jenna a ‘Good Citizenship’ award, for her continuous good treatment of her fellow students. Put simply, she is a nice person to know.
Then there’s Bailey, just turned eleven and he’s a real boy! Rough as guts with his mates, playing footy and soccer and tackling and wrestling around. He has an absolute will of his own and will always be a leader – but every now and then, he’ll stop and hug you and say “I love you Uncle Stevie”. It’s priceless and he doesn’t give a crap who’s around – his confidence within himself permits him to do such things without embarrassment – and I think all kids should feel like this. I took Bailey fishing a couple of days ago – we drove about half an hour, from Patonga to Woy Woy. We were there about 25 minutes when he says he was busting to go to the toilet. I said ‘A wizz?’
He shrugs “Nah”
So we packed up and drove back to Patonga – it turns out he’d tried to go before we left but the cleaner was in there! So, rather than wait for 10 minutes for the cleaner to finish, he thought he just try to hang in there till we got back from fishin’.
He’s a funny little bloke, gentle as a lamb with his little sister and yet still great fun as a fishing partner – I love him.
Madison is my brother’s seven year old and she’s a little performer – she loves the spotlight as much as her elder sister despises it. She sings funny songs that she makes up and creates all manner of crafty things, which she often gives away to the family. Maddy recently won an art award at school for her painting of her super-hero “Super-Jenna”, the girl who can do anything! It’s beautiful to see that she really thinks her big sister can do anything! Just last week, I received a phone video-message of Mad playing around, quoting what sounded like some old Californian Miner Forty-Niner movie – she was saying in a strained American cowboy accent – ‘She’s a-gonna blow, she’s a-gonna blow! Fire in the hole!’. Nobody has a clue where she got this saying, but she was having a ball and was very entertaining and amusing. She has a gentle nature and loves playing with other kids and her little doggies.
Last, is little three year old Indyanah. I sometimes look into her innocent, big, blue eyes and can scarcely believe how beautiful she is! We were playing the other day and she said she found a special kiss for me, behind her ear. I had to pluck it out and put it on her lips and then she’d give me a kiss. We played that game for a while, then went across to the park. The unrestrained love that little kids have for their families is one of the most special things on earth – and I haven’t written off having a few of my own either, just yet!
But as much as I love these kids, I don’t expect the bloke next door, nor the MCG curator, nor the Governor General, nor even my good friends, to feel the same way. I don’t feel the compulsion to drag them into work and force their presence upon all of my colleagues. We do our own thing and that’s good enough for us – and I believe it should be good enough for everyone else also.
Having said all that, I recently witnessed a more disturbing class of parent. Camping at Patonga for several days, I spent many an hour relaxing in the shade, watching my sister’s kids playing in the water down at the river. This has long been a favourite pastime and many families drag their chairs down under the coral trees and watch the kids play and swim. Among the families this year, was a long haired, lanky Aussie bloke, who resembled that bloke supposedly shot by the Khmer Rouge over in Cambodia a few years ago, and his Asian wife. They had 4 kids – three boys and a little girl, who’d be lucky to be 2 years old. The unfortunate boys were all lanky like their old man but had Asian faces – and while they ranged from about 9 to 4 years old, they wandered round the whole township unsupervised, as they pleased. The idiot parents perched in chairs overlooking the river and read newspapers and did puzzles – as the little girl wandered 300 metres away, up the road (with my 15 year old niece in hot pursuit, ensuring her safety). It was ages before they started looking round for their missing daughter – then my sister told them she was up the street. They fetched her back, plonked her on the sand and recommenced their puzzles! The kid was stealing other kids toys, playing in the water (with other parents dragging her away) and generally doing as she pleased – yet still the retarded parents had no idea.
Eventually, two of her older brothers started swimming across the river and the old man called out to stop, because the little one would no doubt follow. They didn’t stop and the old long-haired dickhead was right – she followed, over her head coughing and spluttering and waving her arms as she bobbed under again and again! She was drowning. Longhair screams at the boys to come back and get her before finally, getting off his careless, boney arse and making a move to save his daughter.
Had this been anyone else’s kid, I would have been down there before she entered the water. But saving this kid from drowning is like grabbing a baby zebra half way across the croc infested Mara River and replacing him on the wrong side, to try his luck again. Unfortunately, this kid will be lucky to make 3 years old – and there’ll be another headline ‘Toddler Drowns In Tragic Accident’. Only it won’t be an accident – it’ll be fairly and squarely the negligent parents fault, and those filthy scumbags should be locked up forever and their kids taken away!
I also took my little niece Indy, across to the park to play on the equipment. Climbing ropes and ladders and slippery dips and swings etc. I’d follow her around making sure she didn’t fall or get into strife, then push her on the swing – she loved it (and so did I). At one stage though, there was a six foot Rusky woman with a little kid about 7 years old who was running amok and a little kid who could hardly walk – only about twelve months old (he was definitely a Yicky-Bubba – very ugly, with wide eyes and a big mouth). She stood back and watched him climb the stairs to the big slippery-dip, without a move of concern or support for the little blighter. I watched on in amazement at the disregard or lack of acknowledgement of the imminent danger facing her son. She looked on, unperturbed as her offspring risked life and limb in pursuit of a good time.
Several days later the kids were back again, one step away from tragedy, as the parents enjoyed a barbequed picnic lunch, some hundred and fifty metres away at the picnic table. The older boy fell hard and screamed his head off, until my brother-in-law Johnny, saw to his health and comforted the little bastard. His parents raised their heads from the dinner, then resumed the banquet. The one-year old was teetering on the edge of the slippery-dip, and pointing and muttering toward me. I pointed back and waved – I know his parents approve of him being there. A few little ten year old girls enquired accusingly of me, whether that was my son? I said I don’t know the kid and looked back toward the distant picnic table.
Outside of blatant physical abuse of children, I have never observed such ill treatment – these people have no business raising kids!
Down at the river, Indy made friends with two little Italian girls – one older, one younger, and they played famously! They also had an Italian cousin/brother, who’s looks alone reminded me of a wanker I went to school with – Sapienza. The older girl kept wanting to go out deeper and swim under water, which Indy can’t really do, but she was cute and helpful and friendly, just like her mother. The younger girl was under three and had a voluminous full head of jet-black hair and most peculiarly, a full set of adult chompers! She’d give a cheesy Eric Estrada would be proud of – it was most bizarre. But she too was friendly as the day is long.
On the other hand, my little mate Sapienza, kept pushing Indy away and refused to share his toys or play with the other kids. I watched them all for several days and the little bastard didn’t change a bit. He acted like a spoilt first son of some major Italian dynasty – and I felt like pushing him back on his arse, like he did to the other smaller kids, repeatedly. His mother and auntie chastised him time and again, to no avail. He’s destined to grow up to be a prick, while his sisters/cousins, will be lovely young ladies (with a lot of hair and teeth!).
So I guess, in the end, I do care for kids – just please don’t try to force them upon me – I think it may be these parents, not the kids, that I don’t like…..
This year’s venue was the freshly refurbished and recently renamed “Monsoons” on Mitchell Street, Darwin. I’ve only ever known this place as Rorkes Drift – it was a pommy pub named after the famous battle where a couple of hundred determined British soldiers stonewalled their small fort and held off a couple of thousand committed Zulu warriors. I always found this an odd, though appealing name for a pub in Darwin. I suspect they stumbled upon the name because there was always a force at least three deep, holding one back from the bar, and it was often a battle to get to the toilet. I was never a huge fan – I’m a little more mature now and have outgrown the thrill of playing elbow-tittie in over-crowded bars – I now prefer a little more space when I socialise.
So it was with some trepidation that I entered Monsoons – we were early, just after 5pm. Since we’d walked from the Vic Hotel, and had already worked up a considerable sweat, I declined the offer of the free Santa hat. I was tempted by the antlers but they looked a bit feeble this year – many had spines folded down through poor packaging. I might suggest to the Chinese Antler workshop overseer, that perhaps next year, he keep a closer eye on the packaging technique of some of his two-dollar a day packing staff. To be completely honest, they hardly resemble antlers at all anyway, I’m not quite sure what beast they based their template upon, but it sure as hell wasn’t a reindeer. I fancy I may head south during the deer-hunting season and shoot me a big, majestic twelve point stag and show up next year with a genuine antler rack fixed to my skull – now that’d turn some heads, though ceiling fans could be a problem.
We secured a table and sat around on stools – the Fantales and Redskins were a nice touch. Though I’m surprised in this day and age, that Redskins haven’t gone the same way as those old lolly cigarettes, known in my childhood, as Fags. Apparently the do-gooders of this world found something wrong with encouraging young children to smoke an imitation tobacco product named after a derogatory term for homosexuals?
We had a few “free beers” – the ticket for the party cost $25, but that included 5 free drinks. This meant of course, that after you’d finished your five free drinks, you had to pay for them. Then the drinks cost you five bucks each!?
I took a wander and was most impressed with the new layout of the pub – it was quite spacious and well designed.
So we were sitting round making small talk and generally taking the mickey out of each other as more people began to file in. As is often the case, I discovered that my prized seat was in fact obstructing a main thoroughfare to the bar and eventually, under protest, I had to surrender my post. I decided to mingle and headed toward the rear, with this in mind.
I was chatting to a few of the guys, as we hovered on the edge of the dance floor, which by now had music going and was showing video clips on several large screens. There were a couple of songs by some mob called the Basement Jaxx, there was the career defining classic by the bloke that only ever had one song, that went “Boom, boom, boom, come back to my room” and there was the Sneaky Sound System, which projected a dark skinned, afro haired woman complaining that she’d seen a UFO but nobody believed her. And quite frankly, I don’t believe her either.
Then they got on a run of what sounded like the same song, but had different, though very similar video clips. The cameraman for all these videos obviously spent considerable time on his back – because all the angles were straight up the rear end of beautiful women, in skimpy dresses, bikinis or hot-pants. First was the one with the marching band, then there came the one where the bikini girls play volley ball. Next was the aerobics, tiny leotard one and finally, there was one I’d not seen before – where a bunch of generously endowed but scantily clad stunners were using pneumatic power tools – mostly jack-hammers and various other thumping, digging tools. Though I hated the song, I did consider for a while, arranging to have my driveway excavated – mind you it’s in fine repair, but some of those ladies…….woof!
I was gonna suggest to the DJ that he just be done with it – get rid of this and just whack on a fully blown porno. The sleazy acid-jazz soundtrack could be no worse than the thumping rubbish he was playing at the time!
So with a fresh new five dollar drink in my hand, I recommenced the age-old traditions of the staff Christmas party, world wide.
I introduced myself and made jokes with the guys who I work with every day of the year, who sit fifteen feet away and yet I never speak to, accept at Christmas parties and the like. Good fellas, one and all – can’t wait to see them next year!
Looking around the room, there were your usual suspects. The older bloke, who looks and sounds like he started at the early-opener and hasn’t stopped drinking all day. He tends to use you as a hitching post and secures his balance with an unsteady, one handed grip on your shoulder, which invariably leaves him too close for comfort within your personal space. He is very enthusiastic and animated about something – you just can’t quite work out what? It’s like you walked in halfway through the conversation.
There’s the little blonde-haired, blue-eyed cutie, flitting round in a tiny red satin slip, with white faux-fur rimming the top and bottom. She’s glassy eyed and oh-so friendly and leaves many unsuspecting men fondly staring after her with a lecherous leer, as she lightly bounces away through the crowd.
There was the cute little shy girl from another section who was bubbly and sweet, just like the vodka and raspberry she was drinking. She’d convinced her partner to tag along and he was doing a grand job of pretending he actually wanted to be there. Handshakes, smiles and jokes all round and I really admired the bloke – he’s so obviously in love with the girl. A room full of drunks that he doesn’t know and yet he showed great spirit and enthusiasm in his greetings, simply to make his lady happy. A good man indeed.
I noted a few of the brass milling about the bar – and just like those pommy brothers from several years ago, these blokes were a bit too sexy for their hats! Perhaps they perceive it as not becoming their station, to be caught in public sporting unflattering head-ware? I’m not sure because a few seemed to actually have a hat in their possession – either the hand or the pocket. Maybe they thought this an appropriate opportunity to obtain a free hat for the kids – for they’ve been known to be quite frugal, these management types.
At some stage, the social club organisers mounted the stage and announced that there were prizes to be had. Earlier in the night, after I’d finished my five free drinks, the friendly barman tried to keep my spent ticket – I said ‘No thankyou friend, that there is my raffle ticket. I’ll be needing that a bit later’
So when they announced the lucky door prize was about to be drawn – half the punters had already tossed their tickets and were becoming agitated. Luckily, the clever social club staff had records on hand regarding who owned which ticket. There were two prizes drawn, I was seven off the first and nineteen off the second. Bitch!
The DJ started playing music again (albeit tracks that no one had ever heard before) and the lights went back down. Here, I feel the need to declare a long held belief of mine (which I just made up!). A good party takes three things – a good crowd, grog and thirdly, and possibly most importantly, good music!
Now on personal observation, I reckon the average age of party-goers in Monsoons that night would be around 37years. So, while I too am flattered,
I’m really not sure what made the pea-brained DJ think everyone was Eighteen! The weekend teenyboppers may think he’s cool and hip playing this stuff that was released in the past fortnight – but there were none present in the house. The only time I saw the crowd stir, was when he gave The Proclaimers a spin, with 500 Miles! He needs to learn how to cater to the crowd. Enough said on idiots.
The lights going down, in no way signalled the end of the Social Club giveaway bonanza for the night! They were distributing hats and beach balls and thongs etc. They began just lobbing them into the crowd, so random attendees could feel lucky by catching a prize. One of the girls-of-officialdom, however, had an arm like Brett Lee returning a cricket ball sizzler from deep third-man. She shot out missiles like Saddam and his scuds – they travelled far and fast but had zero degree of accuracy. Beware the unattentive punter – for several were accosted by flying merchandise, from they knew not where.
It was quite the spectacle. At one stage a baseball type cap hissed out my direction and the big fella in front of me, who’d been calling for it, missed the catch. Luckily, my panther-like reflexes allowed me to snap it out of the air with a flashing left handed swipe!
I put my new hat on, for I had no antlers to hinder me, and I felt pretty smug.
The hat was a khaki number with a Boag’s insignia stuck on the front.
A few drinks later and I looked around and the place was fairly full – I’m not sure about the 430 they expected, but I reckoned it’d be about 350.
I heard a “How are you?” and turned round to see an ex-girlfriend, who I’d managed to avoid for the past 18 months, emerging from the throng! Things had not ended particularly well – in fact, I’m not sure they really ended at all. I walked out of her place late one night and never spoke to her again. Yes, I know – that’s very brave.
I gave her a kiss and muttered something in my astonishment and she said she’d see me later and held on to my hand just a little too long and dragged her hand down my fingers as she left. I shook my head and finished my drink.
Shortly thereafter, I headed to the Gents. I did my business and while I washed my hands, and before I made use of the new turbo-blast hand dryers, checked my look in the mirror. I realised that my newly acquired hat looked more like a North Korean army cap, than a swish and trendy baseball cap.
So I took the thing off my head and ruffled my hair to disperse myself of the hat-head syndrome. I then folded the cap and put it in the back pocket of my jeans – a-la Springsteen on the album cover of Born In The USA! I was wearing jeans, boots and a black tee-shirt and I felt immediately very cool and confident in the knowledge that I now looked just like Bruce. Well – just like Bruce would look today – if he was 10 years younger and 45 kilos heavier, lacked the famous Boss charisma, walked with a cumbersome gait and spoke with a distinctly Australian accent!
So I strutted back out among the crowd and chatted to a few more semi-familiar faces and had a few more drinks. The music wasn’t really improving and it was approaching open slather time, where the public would stream in and pack the joint with untouchable young chippies and self obsessed young bucks (though still without proper antlers!). I turned back to the bar but it was packed and my free-drink ticket was still valid at Steve’s Bar back home – then I spied an empty cab waiting just down the road.
I declared it a night and on the whole, a good night it was.
So this time, rather than bitch about the music and such, perhaps I should join the social club committee and contribute to the cause?
Look out next Christmas for MC ‘Stag-Master Steve’ manning the DJ’s box, with a full set of antlers and howling along to Springsteen’s ‘Glory Days’!!!!!
“………..they’ll pass you by, glory days. In the wink of a young girl’s eye, glory days………..!!!!!”
Byrock NSW, on the Mitchell highway, between Nyngan and Bourke will always hold a special place in my heart. Twenty years ago, back when I was 20, the brother Al and I stumbled upon the little town quite by accident, on a hunting trip. It was actually a nightmare trip, with a whole load of car trouble and empty wallets, but the people we met on that trip were inspirational.
We went back with a few mates the following October long weekend and after becoming lost and spending a torturously thirsty night in the bush, we headed to the pub to check out the ‘Bogeye Races’, which we’d read about the previous day at the Coolabah hotel.
Lloydy, Me & Pauly Byrock ’89?
As we were to discover, a Bogeye is in fact a Shingleback Lizard – they’re very lazy and slow moving and their ‘races’ would scarcely challenge even a stuttering race-caller. But they had bookies and live music and two or three hundred bush folk from all directions, had converged on the pub. The subsequent cloud of bulldust was washed from the throat with copious amounts of beer and we had one of the best times of our lives.
Bogeye Race Byrock
So every October long weekend, for the next 13 years, a bunch of us would make the 9hr trip out to The Rock. The roster of the gang would shift around a bit from year to year, but there were about 5 hardcore participants who’d make it every time – including myself, Mark and Dean. We’d begin the countdown to each event, on the long trip home from the previous.
Unfortunately, after about 10 years, the greenies and do-gooders of the world got a whiff that a few people in a remote community were actually having a bit of fun and enjoying natures gifts, so quite obviously, this had to be stopped! First off, they declared our camping spot, The Rockhole, an aboriginal sacred site and banned all camping by whitefellas. Though I am still yet to see an aborigine within 200 metres of this spot, we always held it in our hearts as the most sacred spot in the country, and treated it and the surrounding area, with all the respect due such a place!
Then some propeller-headed knob, declared that Shingleback lizards mate for life and can no longer be caught and released. I dispute this claim and fancy that any bogeye’s that manage to run into each other out in the gidgee scrub, will have a sneaky poke, though they may indeed keep this secret from their spouse. I think Dr Propeller-head is as naïve about the sexual habits of reptiles, as he is about how to have fun in life. Regardless, he got his way, and probably his PhD and had the races shutdown for eternity. Wanker!
We persisted for a few more years, throwing in a stopover at Nevertire pub on the way home, for a bit more variety, but eventually we went our own ways and the annual migration out west came to a disappointing end.
Last year, however, Mark tried to revive the trip and took a handful of his copper mates, and a few bikies, with him on the pilgrimage and they all seemed to have a good time. I gave the prospect of going along very little consideration – now living in Darwin and all, but a few messages and calls to the boys as they headed west, churned my guts somewhere way down deep and I started to toss around the idea of a return the following year.
I think it was around July this year that I made a call from the car park at Humpty Doo pub, I left a message on Mark’s mobile – in a voice that started slow and reached a crescendo with the declaration that “I’ll be there with shit in me hair! Bring on Byrock Brother!”
I was most excited and counting down the weeks – Dean had promised Mark earlier that he’d go if I went (feeling content that there was nil chance of this occurring!). So now he was tied in as well, with Pauly Biscoe uttering encouraging signs for another old boy’s presence! It was shaping up pretty good from my perspective. Mark had a list of some 16 or so prospective pilgrims, including Scotty Lasker and a crew of his mates, a few cops and some in-law family members!
I expected at least half to drop out, because this is simply what happens. However, much to my surprise, come the day, there were still 14 starters. Mark and his brother Craig, his mate Dave, the father-and-brother-in-law, along with a few other Navy mates, all left Cessnock. Scotty Lasker and three mates left Sydney and I was in Dean’s car with him and Pauly, as we departed West Hoxton.
Mark had to pick up his country detective mate Scott, from Dubbo and Lasker pulled in to Bathurst for his mate to re-acquaint himself with an old lady friend.
We left late, around 9:30, and headed straight west, over the Blue Mountains.
The plan was for all to meet up at Trangie pub, the big one on the corner, and then head to Nevertire for the night.
Myself, Boney and Bis (Dean n Pauly), had a good catch-up chat, sang a few country songs and shared a few laughs but found we were getting a bit peckish as we approached Orange. We agreed to hit a pub for a counter lunch and a beer – I was fairly tounguing for a schooner by then! Unfortunately, we couldn’t find a parking spot within 200 yards of a decent pub in Orange and thus found ourselves out the other side of town and still starving!
Molong was next in line and I was beginning to get a bit edgy about the vicinity of a beer and feed should this place not measure up. Luckily, the pub on the corner seemed open for business – the Café Pub or some such thing. We parked across the road and found our way in, via the rear entry somehow. It seemed like the place had only just re-opened after renovations. It was apparently being run by a bunch of ladies and, after observing the trouble with pouring a beer and taking our lunch order, I suggested McLeod’s Daughters had finally left Drover’s Run and taken up residence in Molong’s Café Hotel!
Trouble and fumbling aside, the piping hot chicken schnitzel, chips and gravy along with a couple of cold schooners of Resch’s , really hit the spot! Next stop Trangie.
Mark had made some stupid suggestion that everyone should grow some kind of facial hair for the weekend. As we pulled up outside of Trangie pub, an old baldy looking bloke with a grey, Ivan Milat moustache wondered across to greet us – it was Mark! He stuck out his hand in the normal challenge of finger-strength and I think I got the better of him in the hand-crushing stakes on this occasion. We entered the pub to be confronted by a ring of faces I didn’t recognise and they were all glaring at us. I didn’t know if they were locals, travellers or mates of Mark – until he began with the introductions. Some had facial hair, some not – so the blokes I had actually met before, who were now wearing fancy beards, I didn’t recognise either. After hearing a list of names as long as your arm, I could only recall one – Bruce. He was a long, lanky young buck from the navy. I had known the Bruvver Craig for years and noted he was looking well – clean, sober and clear of eye! The brother-in-law at times looked frighteningly like Mark’s girlfriend, and his own sister, Heidi, it made me shudder, ‘cause she’s a pretty girl. The oldman I knew, as he’d once driven us to Cessnock races. It took a while before I sorted the remaining blokes out, including Dave, the old neighbour, who I’d met more than a few times over the years.
Trangie Pub
Lasker and his boys were hours behind – and they’d left the Lady-killer back in Bathurst, ‘catching up’ with the old flame, so he was destined to be real late.
We had two beers, a round of catch-up and piss-take, and left for Nevertire.
Nevertire Pub
He was known as ‘Skin’, or so boasted his too-tight staff polo shirt. He was an unlikely looking fellow who loomed large behind the Nevertire bar.
“Where are you boys headed then?”
Our trusty pal, Constable Care, currently sporting the serial killer whiskers, had organised tonight’s accommodation months in advance, with the resident publican – who was now AWOL. He had booked three rooms which we were obviously relying upon to sleep in – however, this little detail came as a newsflash to Skin!
Mark also advised the Skinned One that he was contracted to cook us a big breakfast in the morning, after our fine night’s kipper in the aforementioned rooms! This also struck the big boy as a surprise but to his credit, he agreed and began organising everything in earnest.
Me – Nevertire Pub
We were in full swing when Lasker and his crew bowled through the door – all except The Pants-Man, who’d been further delayed in Bathurst. We were all getting to know each other over beers – Scotty Lasker was Dean’s brother-in-law – a fun-loving, cheeky little bastard, built like a skinned rabbit. I’d known Scott for ages – once went to see him make his comeback as an amateur boxer. He’s the coolest bloke I’ve ever met but goes like the clappers when the bell rings – he won the bout with very little trouble.
He’d brought with him an old mate Shannon I’d seen before but didn’t at first recognise, and another couple of guys I’d not met.
Mark’s bush detective mate, another Scotty, revealed himself to be a true character! He is an entertaining bloke, both funny and vocally talented – with a penchant for acting the fool. That being said, I suspect the same bloke could be pretty intimidating as a cop under different circumstances. There were a couple of “Troy’s” in the mix and possibly a few others, whose names momentarily escape me.
The Boys in Nevertire Pub
It was a good night, drinking and chatting and laughing and stirring. The guitars made an appearance at one stage and most of us Mark-Knopfler wannabe’s, were proven a little large on the confidence but short on the skill – and eventually all marvelled at the Bruvver Craig’s genuine talent with the six-string.
Nevertire Pub
It was fairly late in the night when The Pants-Man finally joined the fray – apparently the price you pay for sowing wild oats round Bathurst way, is a hefty speeding fine and 6 points off your license! Though granted, the grin on his face hinted he’d found it a fair deal.
At one stage, there was a little bit of argie-bargie between Lasker and the Heidi-Clone – who, much to his credit, finally heeded his brother-in-law’s advice and let the issue slip. He was the bigger lad but his pugilistic talents were unknown among the bystanders – while there were few present who had any doubts regarding Lasker’s abilities
We were booted out at around midnight, when the pub shut and Dean, Pauly and myself retired to our lovely rooms. The other blokes either crashed on the pub veranda or in hastily chosen swag-spots, scattered around the back yard.
Surprisingly, everyone woke up feeling fine – except for Sugar Ray Rettig, the middleweight brother-in-law, who took several times, to heaving up his innards! The poor fella – this feeling was to last him most of the day. We’d all been there before and he had everyone’s sympathy, but not so’s you’d notice.
A game of cricket, a shower, juice and a big feed of bacon and eggs, and we were all ready to head for Byrock. All except for poor old Sugar Ray – he just had the swaggy’s breakfast – a scratch of the balls and a look around.
I had long feared that with 14 blokes, largely unknown to each other, there would have to be a few wankers among them – but once again, I was gladly proven wrong – they were good blokes, each and every one of them.
Coolabah pub, the next town before Byrock and the young barmaid looked familiar – she was in her early twenties and had recently taken over the hotel. She was pretty chirpy and claimed to have been a Byrock local years before, which would have made her a kid when we were there. I’m sure I have her in an old video and will check that out one day – if ever I get around to reliving the grand old days of magic and hope!
Coolabah Pub
A few of us had a couple of schooners at Coolabah, while shooting the shit with said barmaid. Pauly, initially resistant to partake of the brewer’s juice so early in the day, had a sudden epiphany and knocked down two schooners of ‘Old’ in quick succession. Dean ‘The Boneman’ Mitchell on the other hand, has never been a beer drinker – his poison comes in a clear bottle and is usually mixed with some kind of soft drink additive. Boney is somewhat of an enigma when it comes to bush trips – he has rarely found himself at one with nature, yet to his credit, he backs up time and time again, to join these journeys. I recall many years ago when a bunch of us went camping on a property at Carcoar – the rain belted down relentlessly all weekend. Some of us were equipped with Drizabone’s and Akubra’s, along with thick canvas swags – we stood around the fire in the rain drinking and dancing and generally whooping it up. Dean however, had erected a little nylon 3 man tent for himself and his wife, which quickly became waterlogged and flooded. He sat in his fancy car and slammed the door in disgust and only got worse when his missus joined in the rain dance! Strangely, he doesn’t swear either – though I bet he wished he did that day – he was filthy on the world! At the end of the weekend, he packed up his gear and headed home.
Amazingly, and much to his credit, he joined us again at the same spot about 4 months later – he went to erect the same tent, unrolled it and the top half blew away up the hill with the wind. It literally had disintegrated and disappeared – after being put away wet. Once again the tenacious little bastard stuck out the weekend – sleeping in the rear of my Landcruiser.
He’s a man who really does enjoy his comforts and luxuries yet still compromises these things for a wild weekend – except that, as long as I’ve known him, he has avoided the ‘Bush-Crapper’! He will happily drive 20 minutes to town if he can avoid the lonely dunny-roll march into the scrub – and has done so on countless occasions. Keeping in mind that this in itself, is a mighty compromise to his preference, for he loathes to use the public porcelain at any time.
So it is with amusement that I recall the following observation. On the way from Nevertire to Coolabah, we had to pass through Nyngan – so with Dean driving, he says – ‘I’ll tell what, well pull over in Nyngan and I’ll shout you a big chocky-milk!’
‘Beauty’
He pulls over and kills the engine, directly across the road from the park, in the main street. I look over and see the public toilet block and it dawns on me what he’s really up to. He bought the chocky milks and then declares “I’m gonna go for a crap”
And so he heads off for the park. Since it’s the first time we had mobile phone coverage for some time, I sent my brother Al an SMS saying “We’re just stopped in Nyngan – Boney’s having a crap”
Al replied “Wot dickhead stopped for him?!’ – Ahh, he’s always been a mongrel, that brother of mine.
So we’re having beers in Coolabah, only an hour or so later, and Dean’s in the dunny again. Like I said – he feels very uncomfortable and vulnerable in such circumstances – so I said to the boys out in the bar “Watch this – I’ll go and hammer on his door and he’ll shit himself”
So I quietly walked in and bashed on the cubicle door with the back of my hand – and he did. Then I said “You just about ready to go Stinky? – they’re all getting ready to leave!”
“Yeah – I’ll be there in a minute!”
I walked out sniggering to myself, as a few of the boys started heading for Byrock.
Dean didn’t take too long and we were back up to a hundred and cruising along sweetly – I was even nodding off. Then all of a sudden, with about 10ks to go before Byrock, the brakes slammed on and we swerved into the table drain, as Dean reached for the glove box.
“I need a bush-crap!” he said as he dissolved into the mulga, dunny roll in hand, half hunched over, legs pumping and buttocks clamped!
All I can say is that he must have been within seconds of dumping some unholy mess right there in the driver’s chair, for such a man to act like he did on that occasion.
He returned not only relieved but quite proud he’d finally lost his bush-crapper virginity after all these years of abstinence!
Pete, the new publican at the Mulga Creek Hotel, thought he recognised me – he may well have, ‘cause I’ve met a lot of people over the years – but I didn’t recall him. We had a few beers then Dean suggested we should go set up our tents. As soon as we exited the car at our likely looking camping spot, the little bush-flies buzzed into action! There were thousands of the little bastards, buzzing round your face, up your nose and in your ears – enough to drive a man insane. The three of us, Pauly, Dean and myself, set up our tents – a courteous 50 metres apart – in case someone snored. Dean swallowed a fly and we blew up our air-mattresses (of which I have never been a fan) and threw in our pillows and blanket gear. We headed back to the pub, to get away from the damn flies!
Byrock Camp – Pauly’s, Dean’s, Mine
The Aussie Rules grand final was on – Port Adelaide and someone – and a few of the boys had a slight interest, though it was all over by quarter time and we moved outside – apparently with the intent of ganging up and taking the mickey out of my good self for an hour or so. Something about me being a Cranky Bastard, was the main theme, though it was water off a duck’s back and I laughed as much as anyone. We drank all afternoon and had a few good feeds throughout the day, from the kitchen. At one stage Mark and Det Scotty were having the lasagne and I told them it wasn’t beef – it was actually made with wild goat mustered from the surrounding stations. They looked at it, shrugged their shoulders and recommenced spooning it into their mouths – they reckoned it tasted every bit as good as beef anyway. In fact, Mark was intending to let the publican know how much he enjoyed the goat-lasagne – which would have been amusing, because I’d just made that shit up – it was beef!
Mulga Creek Hotel Byrock – Lasker, Dean, Mark
They had some new cabins out in the bush at Byrock – kind of demountable things with beds and tellys etc – they were looking real good to us blokes who’d just wrestled with our tents and the myriad of flies. Months before though, Mark had kicked up a huge stink about staying ‘in-doors’ on a camping trip and how only a certain minority section of the populous would even consider such a thing – and those blokes would have their big day dancing on a float, in some kind of parade down William Street in The Cross, in a few months time! Not that there’s anything wrong with that – but I agreed with him and was genuinely keen on sitting round the fire under the billion stars and enjoying the wonders of nature. Until the flies.
Anyway, Pauly declared he was gonna try for a cabin – and Dean and I backed him up and said we’d join him if there was one available.
So Pauly approached the barmaid Belinda, and said – just as all the noise died down ‘Excuse me – are there any cabins available?’
I was standing behind him and Mark appeared next to me – as she replied that all the cabins were booked. Mark burst out laughing, as he felt this had been a personal assault on him, after he had organised the camping and all.
Pauly spun round, a bit embarrassed by the whole scene, so I immediately turned on him “Were you gonna get a cabin, you big poof?!”
I thought this pretty hilarious – absolutely a disgraceful abandonment of a friend under pressure, but hilarious just the same.
He didn’t think so – in fact, I don’t think he has forgiven me to this day about that one.
/Publican Pete took the Saturday afternoon off and was busily trying to drum up business for the Karaoke night they were gonna run that evening. So that left two workers behind the bar – Belinda, the young chippie and about the only woman in town, and Leroy, a big hairy bloke with a generous sense of humour. The laws of natural attraction most often led one to order from Belinda – however, I worked something out pretty quickly – and that was the fact that she charged more for drinks than did Leroy!
Or should I say Five Buck Leroy? ‘Cause whatever you order from The Baddest Man in the Whole Damn Town, costs you five bucks.
‘A can of JD and coke thanks Leroy’
‘That’ll be five bucks mate’
‘A seven ounce glass of Bundy and Coke please mate’
‘Yep – five bucks’
‘A can of Jimmy thanks mate’
‘Comin up. That’s a fiver’
The young girlie would charge anything between 6 and 8 bucks, depending upon what you ordered. I stuck with my man Leroy.
Mark started the Karaoke and pretty much took to being volunteer master of ceremonies for the night. There were scarcely three other people in the pub, besides our mob, and a few of the blokes sang a few songs with varying degrees of ability. I was keen for a go but hadn’t quite reached the intoxicated peak I need to scale before I sing through amplification devices. I was close, and suggested we get a shot of sambucca each – Mark suggested we chuck in 20 bucks each and get 16 shots! One would have done it for me, four would have killed me at that stage. The show went on.
Mark – Byrock Karaoke
At about 10:30 I made a second suggestion regarding sambucca shots – but realised, when I could no longer actually pronounce sambucca, that it was probably not a good idea to commence drinking it.
Soon after, the Boner-Mobile was heading back to the tents, so Biscoe and I bummed a ride.
I usually sleep in a swag when out in the bush – but that was still up in Darwin – it’s an almighty, big, thick mother, that I designed and Pauly made for me about 15 years ago – it’s a beauty.
Not so, these little 3 man dome tents, with blow-up mattresses.
I unzipped him, bent down and fell through the door, rolling onto my back on the 8 inch think surf mat. Through lack of experience, I don’t think I pumped it up enough, but my back, when I laid out flat, was off the ground – so I dragged all my sheets and blankets over the top of me. Now let me tell you – it’s a real bitch to roll over on them things, and keep all your coverings in tact.
Which is something I really needed to do because it was freezing that night – I think it was coming up through the ground and getting in through my back. Nothing I could do seemed to make it any warmer, so I just tried to ignore the discomfort and sleep.
I can’t be sure of the hour, but it was before 3, when a drunken and fired up Lasker did the rounds, with his mate in tow. They wanted some company round their fire and when they found no takers, he decided he’d like to hop in someone’s tent and spoon them. They found this request unequalled in hilarity and proceeded from tent to tent, insisting we could have a good time, if only we would get up out of bed. We, on the other hand, found these midnight jokers to be a pain in the freezing arse! After a lot of bellowed swearing, they eventually slinked back off into the night, to enjoy their fire.
Now that I’d been awoken, I realised I needed to take a wizz – lucky they woke me up! I got up on all fours and crawled out of the tent – straight into a pile of burrs sitting in the bulldust. I had my wiz and tumbled back into my lair. I had burrs in my hands and a few between my toes. I was rolling round on my back, sunken into this half inflated bag of wind, trying to reach my toes, to remove the offending burrs. I was like a flipped-up turtle, I had four seemingly uncoordinated limbs waving in the air and my neck stretching out to find some purchase from my pillow to provide an anchor. I was a hopeless case and in the end, tried rubbing my feet on the blanket, which removed most of the more painful beasties, but held them fast in the wool to harass me throughout the night.
I believe it was at this point – tired, freezing, uncomfortable and burr infested, that I agreed with Dean, as he yelled the proposal about getting the hell out of Dodge the next day and staying in a pub room, with a comfy bed somewhere! Pauly confirmed it as a plan of substance when he boomed his approval from his silvery dome in the far bush.
In the morning, I went to crawl out of my arctic burrow, respectful of the burrs and, due to the air displacement within my mattress, my knees were hitting the ground, yet my feet were flipped and supported as I began my exit. Unfortunately, my right calf muscle is not a fan of this pointed-toe position and swiftly knotted-up into a wicked cramp, forcing me to dive back inside and try to crank my foot back up to a normal standing position and thus stretch the rebellious muscle out of its painful spasm.
I went for a shower and passed the mob of Mark’s mates – they warned me that the showers were like ice and they wouldn’t advise diving under one. I took this on board and waved to them as I continued toward the ablutions.
I dumped my wastage and then entered a shower cubicle. I’m a Byrock veteran with many years experience, so the first thing I did, was turn on the hot tap, before I put my gear down and began to disrobe. See – the hot water system is 300 yards away, at the pub – the water is hot as Hades, but not the stuff that’s been in the freezing pipes all night!
It was the first time I’d been warm for hours and when I was done, I felt like a new man. I headed back to enjoy a superb breakfast, complements of the Father-in-law and his expertise on the camp stove with the bacon, eggs and savoury mince!
I walked back to our tents and was chatting with the Boneman – we were discussing the prospect of leaving today or waiting till tomorrow with the rest of the boys, when Pauly woke up. He got out of his tent and Dean called over with the same question – ‘Hey Pauly – are you still keen to leave today?’
He turned around, looked at us with that expression you see on huge Cape Buffalo in Africa just before they charge, and, blowing flies off his face, proceeded to pull down his tent!
Right. That was it then. Us three were gonna head to Blayney and stay in the pub that night. We were all content with that thought – but there was an ominous task lying just ahead, that no one was keen to approach.
Letting the other blokes know that we were leaving.
We packed the car and headed to the ‘Breakfast Camp’ where the boys had been milling about, playing with guitars and cricket bats. We told those present of our intentions and they seemed a little disappointed but understood. Next, Scotty Lasker showed up and we let him know we were off – he wasn’t happy but didn’t say much. I felt like a dog.
Mark, Det Scotty and another bloke had disappeared into the scrub like Ludwig Leichhardt, gone looking for the old Rockhole and bush cemetery. They’d been gone for over an hour – so we drove around looking for them, to no avail. We came back to camp and waited – there’s no way we could leave without saying farewell. It was getting later and the time we wasted sitting around, was beginning to eat into the time we could spend at the other end, watching the Footy grand final. We took one more drive around and came upon the boys, on the dirt road to Cobar.
Our declaration was met at first with disbelief from Mark, then bitter disappointment. We tried to explain the reasons, but he’d have none of it and just offered a farewell hand. No one tried for the power play this time – and this may have subconsciously added to the emotion of the moment – I felt like I’d killed his puppy. We all said see ya and hopped back into the car. No one spoke for a few minutes, but then we began to cheer up a bit and discuss the previous days. Having been on the grog for a few days, with great company and not having a lot of sleep, seemed to bring on “The Sillies”. And so us three deserters began to find extreme humour in everything. There were several occasions we had tears in our eyes and were cackling like little school girls, such was the fun we were having.
We finally rolled into the car park of the big old Blayney pub in time to see the second half of Parramatta vs The Bears in reserve grade, before the big Manly-Storm game. We were downing beers at a rate of knots, after the late hour of Beer O’clock this day and we had some take away tucker from the milk bar across the road. The pub is run by an old bloke and his missus – pushing their late 70’s, I would imagine, and working far too hard for their age.
Pauly & Dean watching the 2007 NRL Grand Final at Blayney pub
The beds and room furniture pre-date the publicans, from what I’ve learnt on the Antiques Road Show, by decades. The bed was low to the ground, extremely soft and excessively springy – but my word, when I finally laid down to crash that night, it was the most comfortable place in the world.
Just before I nodded off, I got an SMS from Boney in the room across the hall – he’d sent a picture of him laying in bed, with the silliest of all grins on his face and it simply said – ‘I love bed sleepin…….’
Well, I think we had covered about 65 metres out front of the airport before I started arguing with Dad – he’s a natural born stirrer and knows all the buttons to push. As annoying as we seem to be to each other, I’m guessing he misses such senseless banter as much as I do, when I ‘m away – so it’s all in good fun!
We lobbed to my sister Donk’s place at around 7:30am – I was on the sponge for a bit of brekky but more importantly, to see the kids before they went to school. There was hugs and kisses all round and much excitement – mostly from me! I wasn’t in the door ten seconds before little 2 year old Indy dragged me inside to see her new Big-Girls’ Dora-The-Explorer bed. You wouldn’t believe how impressed I was with the three-quarter sized, pink painted rack, complete with a transfer of some little girl with an over-size head and outlandishly large eyeballs! I made more of a fuss over that bed, than I would a new Ferrari. Indy was justifiably proud of herself, so we went out to have a cuppa and a bite. Donk made me a couple of ham, tomato and cheese toasted sandwiches, which were very nice, though I suspect she cut the block of cheese with an axe!
I volunteered to join the crew, as we dropped Bailey and Taliah off at school, which is about an hour’s round trip – so we had a good chat on the way. Johnny-Boy (Donk’s husband) advised me that Macaroni Family Fun night was gonna be in full swing that night, what with this being Friday and all, and I was very much looking forward to having a few drinks with the mob.
In the end, after about lunch time, the lack of sleep got the better of me and I succumbed to a Nanny Nap. I think it went for about 3 hours but it seemed to do the trick.
I found myself back round Donk’s early in the evening, with a bottle of Wild Turkey and thirst for Johnny’s beer. I must say that we hit the deck a runnin’ that night and had all sorts of visitors drop by as well. The strangest of which, were the new guys next door. See, the long-term residents next door were a fantastic, friendly and enthusiastically social mob, who’d regularly slip over the fence for a beer and a yarn. They had two beautiful daughters who’d also grace the place with their presence and all in all, they were a joy to be around.
Sadly, a few months before I got there, they’d pulled up stumps and headed for Ballina – all except for Mandy, who stayed in Sydney.
Now, as it turned out, the new guys that bought the place next door happened to be old neighbours of mine from ten years before, in an adjacent suburb – who also used to drop into my old place for an occasional beer – Bob Down & family. They’d bought this new place for their son, Corey – who I hadn’t seen for years – and now had a girlfriend and a swag of tin-lids.
Anyway, I discovered myself most excited that night, because on top of all the family and surprise guests, Mandy too had come for a visit. She’s been in-like with a young buck, Steve, for some time now and, I imagine under much sufferance, she managed to drag him along to our little celebration as well.
Corey, new-guy from next door, introduced himself to an unsuspecting Mandy:
“Hi – I’m Corey, I live next door”
So I replied “This is Mandy – she used to”
Corey was then struck by the irony of using such a line to one of the legendary, original “Next-Doors”. It was a quite an amusing little interlude.
So later in the night, I lost the plot and was drinking both Wild Turkey and beer at the same time – which I inexplicably referred to as Snake-Eyes. Then Johnny’s parents showed up and joined the fray, after a night at the Golf club.
At one stage I recall trying to take a photo with my digital camera of myself and Taliah, my 15 year old sober niece. I couldn’t quite work out why the flash didn’t go off (until a few days later, when I realised I’d taken a video instead, and caught the whole slurring, mumbling confusion about the flash!).
By the time I left and headed to the oldies for a sleep, I was too far gone to even consider a sobering Kebab – so I just hopped in the cab and went home.
Something was buzzing, there was some weird tune screaming in my head – The Great Escape Theme!
“What the? Where the hell am I? Is that the phone? What’s going on?”
Then my mind kicked into gear – it was daylight, my phone was ringing, so I picked it up “Hello?”
“How ya garn? Where are ya?”
“In bloody bed mate! Where are you?”
“Out the front of your place – I’ve been knocking on the door for 10 minutes. Are ya gettin’ up?”
“Yeah – I s’pose so. Hang on”
It was the Boneman, with his wife and kids come to visit.
Mum had taken the old fella shopping, so I was alone in the house.
I was wrecked. My brain was screaming, my eyes revolving on stems and my body shaking.
I let them in.
I couldn’t find where mum hid the aspros.
I sat chatting, blinking and rubbing my head, trying to get the dehydrated molasses-thick blood to recommence circulation round my person.
It didn’t work.
I knew I must have finished that bottle of Turkey last night – which really scared me.
……….About a week later, I was back in Johnny’s garage and found the remnants of the ‘Turkey – there was only about 3 inches from the top missing!
I’d hardly had any! I was absolutely astounded! It must have just been the lack of sleep, good company and excitement of the occasion that led to my downfall. I can live with that!
