Itchy Bum Scratched at Darwin Cup (10.8.2007)

I had a big weekend last weekend, with mixed results.

I was invited to a combined birthday party on Saturday night, down at Howard Springs – maybe half an hour south of Darwin, in the rural area. My mate Ben and his lovely wife Justine recently moved down there, onto a few acres, with their two kids.

The place is beautiful – plenty of room for the dog and kids to run around, a nice pool, big shed and a lovely louvre-riddled house. They have a neighbour on one side, the Howard River Reserve on the other……..and a big swamp out the back. I cast my discerning eye over the grounds and pondered the likelihood of crocs enjoying their swamp and what they might think of the new neighbours. See, the plan was, that I’d be sleeping in my swag, on the ground, about 30 metres away from the swamp’s bank – I had a few reservations re the wisdom of this plan. I asked how far up the yard the swamp encroached during the wet season – I was assured it only came halfway up, as there was an emergency overflow spillway on the other side. Hmmmm.

Justine is a hairdresser by trade and with the Darwin Cup Carnival finale and public holiday on the Monday, she’d agreed to fix up the hair of a few friends. The Darwin Cup is the social highlight of the year in Darwin – about the only time the ladies get to really dress up formally. So, obviously hair-dresser appointments are at a premium. In addition, Justine had her aunty and uncle up on a visit, with one of their grown kids – which was exciting – because they would get to enjoy both the Saturday night birthday party as well as the Cup celebrations!

Sixty to eighty people were expected at the party, with many intending to sleep over. Myself and my mate James had volunteered to arrive early and give Ben a hand getting some firewood etc. James had worked nightshift Friday and decided to drive down and come home on Sunday – this suited me fine.

So we finally found our way to Ben’s place, drove around the back and leapt out all ready to get into it. Ben appeared a bit distressed and there was no sign of Justine or the kids, or their visitors. Ben grabbed us a Crownie and explained that Justine was taking her aunty, uncle and cousin to the airport – they’d just got a call – their other daughter had just hanged herself, back in Sydney! Dead at 22, had spoken to her parents the day before all happy, was engaged to be married, was working as a youth counsellor – and never asked for help. Devastating all round.

So that obviously put a bit of a dampener on the festivities, and certainly ruled out any hairdressing. They decided it was probably too hard to cancel the party at such a late hour, and hoped it would take their minds off it for a while – they were gonna keep the story a secret but by the end of the night, everyone seemed to know.

Anyway, Myself, James and Ben headed into the bush at Gunn Point to get some firewood. Ben brought his trusty new chainsaw and we picked a spot where a fire had been through months before. There were dead gum leaves all over the black ground and we were wearing thongs. The terrain looked like an absolute paradise for Death Adder ambushes. There were all manner of little burrows and soft spots under foot, where who knows what kind of spiders, scorpions and assorted other deadly creatures lurked, just awaiting the soft inner arch of a blackened wood hunters foot, to strike. The timber was hard as a rock, red gum, which quickly blunted the chainy – and ninety percent of it was hollow. This would be a prime spot for the getting of didgeridoo stock – the termites manage to eat the heart out of the gum trees, which are rarely any thicker than a man’s leg. The hollow logs also struck me as superb homes for dangerous beasties. I was only wearing thin cammo pants, a tee shirt, thongs and my hat – and though I got covered in charcoal, I was most glad to finally dump the last log into the back of the ute without any apparent neurotoxins coursing through my veins!

The fire turned out to be a great hit, as the temp got pretty cool later on and the party descended upon it. A few brave souls decided to take the kiddie 4-wheeler motorbike for a spin at about 2am. Someone picked up a canetoad – the first (of no doubt millions) that I’ve seen this far north. They whizzed past on the bike and dumped the poisonous, leathery beast into the fire – it didn’t seem much of a way to go to me, but it had to be dispatched somehow I suppose. We took some shots of Butterscotch Schnapps there at one stage – which was different, and then some flavoured vodka was passed around.

We had been warned that the mozzies come out for a while after dark, but then go away. I sprayed myself with Aeroguard, Rid, and some Bushman’s – thinking I’ll be alright in my long dacks and shirt. I did notice a few mozzies around every now and then and just waved them away.

Was this a successful strategy to avoid being bitten on a Howard Springs property, bordering on twenty square kilometres of pristine swamp land?

Absolutely not! Totally inadequate! These determined little blighters drill straight through cotton pants, jocks and tee shirts, at will – and lick up chemical deterrents like a fat kid slurping an ice-cream!

James only had a few beers and ended up driving us home at about 3:30am. I slept in till about 10am and pretty much bludged around for the rest of the day.

Monday, Cup Day, I was awoken at about 9 by my mate Mark calling from Cessnock, NSW with his tips and betting requests for the Cup.

I walked down to the track at midday and my route to the bookies ring, took me straight past the stables. I examined the horses as I walked by and actually stopped and took off my sunnies to check out a beautiful Chestnut. Though not a huge beast, he was in great nick and up on his toes, well muscled with an intelligent look in his eye. While I admired his equine grandeur, he appeared to give me a wink! I looked around and noted his name.

I had narrowed the third race down to three contenders – then I noticed “Our Chequemate”. Hang on there – that’s my little chestnut mate that gave me the wink. I’m on him! I told the guys about the nod and wink and they laughed – so did I when I went to collect my hundred dollars for the win, about ten minutes later!

Further on I laid down a fifty on the favourite and won another 110 smackers (while I was in the toilet, missing the race completely!). And I managed to get the winner of the Cup – ten bucks at thirteens! (which was actually trained by an 18 year old kid!).

So, in the end, along with another eighteen thousand people, I enjoyed many beers, I won some cash, I admired many a young filly, got a touch of sunburn, a pair of aching feet and revelled in the unique ambience which is the Darwin Cup Carnival!

……..Unlike many of the other punters however, I squirmed and scratched intermittently at some of the four hundred plus, mozzie bites that even now speckle my bum, back and legs – complements of Howard bloody Springs Swampland!

 Paddy in The Top End (20.3.2007)

Last Friday found me at work till 11:30 am, before heading off for the annual Irish Society’s St Patrick’s Day Golf Tournament at Darwin Golf Course, Marrara. This is an ambrose tournament – each team has 6 players and everyone plays from the spot where the best ball from each team has landed. There is as much emphasis on drinking beer round the course as there is for the playing of golf. We were a player short and none of us are much good, nor are any of us Irish. Due to the amount of players, each team must start from a different hole. Of course, as in previous years, we had to start and finish from the furthest hole from home, which effectively means we had to do 2 laps of the course and walk twice as far as some other (more important) folk.

It was 35 degrees Celsius and running at about ninety percent humidity. We had the advantage of a local lad – lives next to the course – he led the way.

After trudging 900 metres, he realised we’d taken the wrong route and had to backtrack 600 and skirt the estate within the golf course. We did this, then had to walk a further 1200 metres – and ended up about 300 metres from where we’d turned around. Turned out you could actually get through that way! Though I try to exercise on a regular basis, cross-country marches trailing a buggy full of rusty clubs is not my strong suit. My shirt was soaked with sweat down to my guts before I’d swung a club and my shoulders were tight as a drum through leading my buggy over the rain soaked pasture. We commenced a’swinging with little success – I played slightly better on the third hole, after my heart rate dropped below 180.

With two holes (of the nine) to go, and being way out of contention for any prizes, we took a poll – all agreed: Col, Muzzy, Grizzly, Pottsy and myself – we were too close to the clubhouse now to continue swinging clubs! We’d almost finished our stash of beers anyway. So in we went, had more drinks and watched the golfers receive their prizes at the presentation. Though we got none, all were given a hat, stubbie holder, ball and sunscreen by Elders, the major sponsor, before tee-off, so I was content enough. At 6:30 I headed home to catch the last half of the tigers premiership opening game on the telly (I’m tipping Paul Whatuira to have a huge season this year!).

We lost the footy too but I had a few more drinks, when my mate Pauly rang. He lives in Newcastle, so we had a few bourbons and a chat for a couple of hours. I received a cheeky SMS from my old house mate Evea about the footy. I was feeling pretty friendly by this stage so I rang her and asked her round – unfortunately she was just about to hit the town (which was well beyond me). She invited me along to see Kasey Chambers at the entertainment centre on Saturday night – I told her I’d sleep on it and get back to her next day. I finally crashed about 1am – with the intent to sleep till lunchtime.

The phone woke me up at around 10am – Chad. He tells me he’s gonna fulfil a promise he’d made months ago, if I was interested? Run-off Barra fishing in the flooded Adelaide River.

“Too right mate! I’m in. When are we going?”

He said he’d be round in an hour.

Jesus! I’d not eaten the night before and was very foggy minded and not feeling the greatest but jumped up and prepared some brekky. I dropped my knife twice and almost spilled my juice – hand eye coordination was very patchy. I grabbed my fishing gear and had trouble recalling a few knots, as I prepared a new leader for my Barra outfit. Chad showed up and off we took, down the Stuart Highway – my brain felt like it was floating in an otherwise empty chamber, and the cabin of his Ford Explorer seemed to be echoey. We needed boat fuel for the “Barra Beast” and Chad needed some more soft plastic lures, so he pulled in at Eleven Mile, where there’s a BP garage and a tackle store side by side. Chad poured the petrol and I went in to get drinks and sandwiches for the trip. I grabbed two large Poweraids to try and replenish the electrolytes, a large bottle of water and four assorted sanga’s.

I went to pay for it and the woman says “The fuel as well?”

I say “Yeah, okay”.

Chad entered the garage and approached the counter to pay for the petrol but I told him I already had it in hand. He said beauty and he’d meet me next door in the tackle shop. I had a ‘dry-box’ sitting on the floor of the passenger seat, containing my mobile phone, digital camera and keys. With the car all open, I was reluctant to leave it there, so I opened the back door and threw in the sangas and water, then placed the two Poweraids in the console. I looked on the floor and couldn’t find my dry-box, so I bent down and checked under the seats, no luck. He had dragged out a big canvas bag and put it on my seat, so I went through that and found all manner of things but not my dry-box. So I picked up the drinks and went through the console – still no luck. I looked up while I thought about where else he could have put it – then I saw the “Barra Beast” hooked up to a blue Ford Explorer at the next row of pumps! I looked around startled and realised this was a blue Nissan Patrol! I grabbed my stuff, whipped round to the back door and got my sangas out and darted round the front, looking over my shoulder for the irate Patroller to come hunting down the rotund, glassy-eyed car thief that had just rifled through his belongings! Apparently no one saw it – they’re an unobservant bunch down at Eleven Mile.

The rain absolutely hammered down as we flew along the Arnhem Highway toward the Adelaide – straight into my open tackle bag, sitting on the boat floor. The shower had stopped while we launched the boat and off we shot. The downpour recommenced as we gunned along the river at full noise and the drops stung the face and arms – though this would be the last we saw of it. We pulled up and anchored at a nice colour-change creek outflow and began to fling a few lures. One thing you notice about fishing the Adelaide, is the constant heavy scent of cow dung that just hangs in the humid air, from the stock on the surrounding stations. We had a heap of strikes and both lost a few fish at the boat, around 60cm, with plenty of rats. I took a few good camera shots – the best one being of Chad’s 60cm Barra, leaping completely out of the water, you can even see the lure he tossed midair.

We were later joined by Matt Flynn, the local fishing writer, and his fellow Fish Finder Forum member, Dodgy-One, who cast up a storm with his wicked fly-rod.

All up we finished the day without a keeper to fillet but had another memorable day on the Adelaide, one of the Top Ends great rivers.

I got up this morning stiff as a board from swinging golf clubs and flicking lures for hours – it’s one of the fine, painful pleasures of a weekend living in the Far North.

 

Grizzly, Charlie & Jose  (11.3.2007)

My mate Grizzly (Beare) finished up as my team leader on Friday (I’m doing it from Monday), so I suggested we have a couple of beers after work. The Grizzled One was keen enough.

We declared it a day and took an early mark at 3:45, whence we flitted off to Kitty O’Shea’s. Funnily enough, we ran straight into our boss and his boss – playing pool and drinking pints, that is, they were conducting their standard Friday afternoon 3 O’clock meeting. We all exchanged greetings and nobody mentioned the time. We played about 8 rounds of pool, swapping teams around (as Chopper Copcutt had arrived to join us). There was a bucks night on offer at 6, starting at Hogs Breath – but I was none too keen on that one (another one of the brass). The plan was to move closer to Hoggies and stop at Shennanigans for a top up – these pubs are all in the same street – Mitchell St Darwin, possibly 500 metres apart.

The Super 14’s rugby was on the telly at Kitty’s and when we heard the approaching thunder, the boys got a bit antsy. When I noticed the cable TV drop out, I suggested we get moving – at my place, this usually gives you about five minutes warning before the storm proper belts down upon you!

Big pregnant drops began falling as soon as we hit the footpath – we stepped it up a bit and burst through the door of Shags dripping a bit but with a torrent chasing our backs.

Shag’s was fairly packed with punters, so myself and Grizzly stood out front watching the downpour while we drank. A cab pulled up at the corner and three young-buck Pommy backpacker boys risked the traffic to get a lift. They traversed Mitchell Street, Frogger fashion and tried to wave down the taxi boy. Unfortunately, for the tourist lads, from the pub door perspective, the heavy rain prevented one from noticing that the cab was already full – and of course he went straight past the unlikely lads. So by this time, being fully soaked, they turned their faces south and dawdled back to the pub, still carrying their sense of humour.

A cute little Irish barmaid did the rounds selling raffle tickets – unfortunately I didn’t recognise her at the time. Last time I had met Louise, I was admiring her through a festive season haze at midnight Christmas night, bikini clad and bobbing round my mate’s pool, with a drink in her hand.

Grizzly and I bought ten bucks worth of tickets each for the impending raffle. Now, a lot of pubs round the country have chook and meat raffles in support of footy clubs etc, but Shags’ Friday arvo raffle is a little bit different – this one was for $4,600 cold cash. They start out with 12 envelopes – One of which contains the jackpot – the others have pub t-shirts, caps, a beer ticket, a bag of chips etc. If your ticket gets drawn, you go up on stage, pick an envelope and the MC dude offers to buy it back in a kind of auction. He offers you a hundred say, then if you don’t accept that, he lifts the bid – and stops whenever he likes – then you’re stuck with the envelope and whatever it may contain – or you can sell him the envelope earlier, take the cash and leave. I hadn’t bought tickets in this raffle for years and I was contemplating this exact point. About three years ago, I was with a bunch of the boys – the jackpot had reached $5,800 and it was declared that it would go off on the Friday night before St Patrick’s day, one way or the other. There were 6 envelopes left at that stage. There were 6 of us boys in it (among a pub bursting at the seems with punters) – we decided to all throw in together. Due to it being nigh on six large on offer, they knew no one would take the cash offered, so they didn’t bother offering it – you chose your envelope and opened it – that was it. The first person picked out, drew a bag of chips – to the crowd’s great delight. The second bloke got a pint of beer – the crowd went wild.

The six of us had twenty bucks worth of tickets each and I was hoping one of the blokes would get dragged up next. I was wrong. My number came up. The boys all cheered. I’m not a man that craves the spotlight but I found myself centre stage, with four envelopes left and a crowd of hundreds baying for my blood and wishing me very much bad luck. MC Lambo thrust forth a fist full of splayed envelopes and said “Take One”.

I took the bottom one and he said “Open It”. I opened it on stage and read the little scroll of paper without emotion. A subdued cheer went round as he asked “So what have you won Steve?” I calmly handed him the scroll – he unwound it and read, half laughing “Congratulations, you have won………The JACKPOT?!”

The boys went up as one, hurling the remaining tickets in the air and jumping round with hugs – then near knocked me off the stage! We got just on a grand a piece and I didn’t spend another cent all night – it was a fine old high stepping Irish night.

So last Friday night, I got to thinking – this is almost the anniversary of that win – the week before St Paddy’s all those years ago. I was feeling a bit numbed by this stage and when they called the first number out – and the woman took $350 for the envelope (which contained a Shag’s Cap), they declared they’d call another number. I knew.

“It’s a white ticket (they’re all white), two, nine, eight….”

Yep, here we go – I got my tickets in my sky-rocket.

“……..eight……..”

I know I’ve got all the Eighties.

“……Nine! Do we have a winner?”

I walked up on stage, said hello to Louise and looked at the envelopes (only 7 left). In a shade of de javu I grabbed the bottom envelope. I’d already worked out the odds and unless the offer was over 500, I’d be getting way under the odds. I’m figuring 6 to 1 for $4,600 – taking about $700 makes it worth the risk. He started at 200, went to 350 then to 450 – I said “Nah”

Grizzly’s words were ringing in my ears – “No guts, no glory!”

MC tells me that’s his highest offer – so I got the envelope.

“What did you win?”

I unrolled the scroll, read it and announced to him and the toey crowd “Congratulations you have won two dollars”

The crowd all laughed and cheered and I went back to my beer – with my two bucks.

I was happy enough – I always play the odds and you don’t often get a 6 to1 chance of grabbing four and a half grand.

No guts, no glory……..no money…………but still plenty of beer.

Grizzly had organised to meet a girl and a few friends at the Ducks Nutts, just up the road and dragged me along. We had a few drinks then his friends went home and left me and Grizzly with the girl he was trying for, Charlie. Ducks had a new pre-mixed promotion going – Jose Cuervo tequila mixed with lemon and lime or some such thing. We had a few and chatted to Charlie – who was a bit of a wild girl, as it turned out. I dropped a few lines, through habit, like saying she looked 27, when I knew that was way below the genuine mark, and some sly thing referring to her natural beauty. The promotions dude gave us a special Cuervo stubbie older each to keep our drinks cold. I was having a good time and she was getting friendly – then I noticed grizzly trying to slip an arm around her. I remembered that tonight, I was his wing-man and she was his target. I declared I was leaving but she physically dragged me back by the arm and bought me another drink – Grizzly tried to convince me to stay too – what else could he do? I finished my Wild Turkey, went for a wiz and slipped quietly through the crowd, outside and into a cab. I messaged Grizzly half way home and told him I’d done a runner and good luck with Charlie.

What else could a good wing-man do?

 

My Old Stompin’ Ground  (12.2.2007)

I had a great holiday – caught up with a lot of friends and visited some nice places. The Boneman had organised my first Friday night in Sydney – a visit to the old stompin’ ground of Mounties. Boney’s the go-to man for such outtings. I turned up early at Mounties (Mt Pritchard Community Club), as is my custom – I’ve maintained this habit for some twenty years, get in early and settle in to await the arrival of my drinkin’ mates. This Friday night, I was about 25 mins ahead of schedule – I decided to give the pokies a rattle (I used to blow five or ten bucks every Friday night with my co-loser, The Bis)

I rarely gamble these days – just don’t seem to frequent the venues that encourage such anti-social behaviour. Anyway, by the time the boys arrived, I was two hundred smackers up, which I stuck in my wallet, with a satisfied grin (Though not before informing all, of my skilful windfall!).

Most of the old crowd turned up again – I’m told that my infrequent visits back home are the only times many can find a valid excuse for their spouses, to warrant a big night of stepping high – like the old days. Though, to be honest, it’s a far cry from the antics of the old days – it’s like Toby Keith says – ‘I ain’t as good as I once was….’

So, while we still give it a nudge, it’s nowhere near as hard and fast as years ago. With schooner sculls, Cointreau & ‘Buca shots on the toss of a card, and various other self-destructive rituals, that simply punctuated the continuous flow of Resches and Jimmy. Till the early hours kick-out call, at which point one just changed venues and continued, though usually a bit closer to a dance floor.

These days however, I do still enjoy catching up with the old crew – especially the girls – Linda, Nicky, Kerrie, Kerrie, Sharon, Leesa and others at times – they’re still all beautiful girls, making the most of their thirties. I usually keep in regular contact with most of the blokes throughout the year anyway – and they’re ugly – so they’re not so much of a thrill.

For a bloke that spent a good percentage of his younger days (and more than one fortune) within the (then) hallowed walls of Mounties, it’s rather amusing (and more so, kind of sad) to see the same old faces doing the same old things after twenty years. The old grey-haired bloke still singing “A White Sports Coat” at the karaoke every Friday night – he was never any good on his best day. Every Friday arvo for twenty years, he hops out of the shower, hitches up his RM moleskins and warms up his voice, grabs the old-girl and down they go, to get plastered and ‘entertain’ the crowd at his standing Friday night gig. Then there’s the long-haired, lengthy-bearded stalwart of the snooker club’s chicken run. This dude still wears his girl-jeans, hoisted a little too high up the abdomen, and skilfully steers his way round the premises, guided by the magical schooner of Resches held directly in front, like a fighter-pilots joystick. I’d confidently postulate that Grant has nary missed a days attendance at Mounties for nigh on twenty-five years. This man must be forty-five years old and has never, ever held a job – though his schooner remains half full – he must be a very, very optimistic man indeed!

While I find this all amusing as I try to revisit my youth, one could easily be excused these days, for believing the non-English speaking cabbie had indeed delivered the unwary passenger to a Ho-Chi-Min City gambling den. Whilst dodging one’s way through the pokie room, there appears an endless sea of bobbing black heads, through a smoky haze and a raucous natter of alien voices. I feel like an unwelcome invader in a foreign land – I don’t speak the language, I don’t understand the customs – and the looks directed my way are clearly hostile. Welcome home, Son.

 

Patonga – Hangin’ Loose Like A Longneck Goose or Lookin’ Fine In Calvin Klein  (15.2.2007)

 

Well the kids hit the deck a-runnin when we arrived at Patonga. Taliah, Bailey and Nat took Indy down for a swim. Donk hopped around, shouting orders like Joey Johns in an Origin match, while Johnny and I commenced on putting the big new, three bedroom tent up. It was one pm on the 6^th January and it was a scorcher. It had been less than twelve hours since I’d been downing schooners at Mounties and the sweat was busting out of me at a rate of knots! After about the second hour of hard labour, my head started to tingle and I was looking down the barrel of heat stroke, dehydration and exhaustion (it is simply not a lazy man’s place to be under harness and hungover in the blistering summer sun!). With a little work remaining, I was sympathetically cut loose. I went immediately down for a swim with the kids – it was beautiful! (Johnny continued working till the brink of projectile vomit, before calling it a day, some sixty minutes later).

 

The next few days were very enjoyable. I’d usually be up fairly early – around sevenish, when I’d crawl out of the tent and find Johnny, Indyanah and Bailey lingering around the tent. We’d walk over to the park on Indy’s insistence and she’d run amok. After several heart-stopping incidents on the playground equipment with an adventurous two-year old (who thinks she’s sixteen!), I realised that Johnny and Donk must have thought me far more responsible than I considered myself! Initially, upon Indy clumsily climbing a ladder for the big slippery-dip, I’d be swinging my head in a desperate attempt to beckon support from her parents, only to find Johnny over yonder, watching Bailey swinging far too high! I realised I was on my own and totally responsible for Indy’s well being (and that her parents trusted me with this!). To the uninitiated, the weight of this responsibility sits very heavily upon your shoulders, though you quickly get used to the duty. In fact, I loved it. In the end, we’d go to the park and play in the morning, then head down to the water and play in the sand together. It can be a very slow and interesting walk, holding an observant and chatty little two-year-old’s hand, marching through a camping ground, heading for the beach.

 

 

So most of the next few days were spent lounging in the shade of the coral trees watching the kids fish, swim and play in the sand. A few cold brews appeared in the afternoon, along with some Southern Comfort and the odd bottle of Jump-about (Red wine). It was all so very relaxing and enjoyable.

Patonga for the most part, is a safe and friendly little fishing village, where hard working families tend to look out for each other. (Though Steve Waugh is a recent addition to the local home-owners club – not sure how hard he works these days?). So there is no concern when Bailey runs around to various fishing spots, like a rabid kelpie marking his territory. The girls however, Taliah and Natalie, are a different kettle of fish.

Being fourteen and eighteen years old and having avoided the dreaded Ugly-Stick, they tend to attract a certain amount of attention. It is here that my experience allows me to cast a protective eye and observe (and keep at bay) the sneaky little sons-of-hard-workers who may aim to share the shade of our coral trees for a spell!

Now I’ve never claimed to be a fashion guru, in fact I still see nothing wrong with the clothes we were wearing in the 80’s…….and further, if they still fit, I’d likely still be wearing them today! Though I am aware that certain sections of today’s community may not subscribe to legitimacy of this thought. I see people wearing stupid things all the time that I just don’t get – including those stupid earrings through the eyebrow. Also, the middle-aged women who think they are either artistic or powerfully modern and try to prove this by matching a short, ugly bob-type haircut, with some kind of outlandishly colourful, thick framed, elongated oblong shaped eye-glasses. The actual lens in these ridiculous things is about the size of a coin-slot. I think the image they are striving to project must be “Look at me everyone – I’m ugly and I can’t see shit, but I don’t care, ’cause I’m artistic and femininely powerful!” Newsflash Tegan – you look stupid!

 

For me personally though, the all-time winner in the retarded fashion stakes, is a little ensemble, proudly carted about by the current crop of up-and-coming young bucks.

I’ve watched them with much contempt as I ponder how this trend could ever possibly have become acceptable in public. That is, these skinny young whippersnappers that hoick their fifty dollar Calvin Klein under-dungers halfway up their guts and then proceed to drag their all-too baggy dacks way down, round their scrawny little arses, to within an angry pimple of falling completely off! “Hey Dane, I got news for you too – you look stupid!”

 

I’ve watched them dragging their jocks up and checking themselves out to make sure the band sits just so. In fact, I watched one such clown stop on the road upon which he’d been walking (about 20 metres from the coral trees), run his thumbs round the inner circuit of his CK’s, then ever-so purposefully, drag the back of his denim shorts down. He then scrutinised the result like Darrell Hair considering a Pakistani wicket appeal. In the end he was satisfied and recommenced his careless strut past the girls (and the big bloke in the shade, shooting daggers).

Another young cove who’d ridden his BMX bike down to the boat ramp, must have been new to the young-stud game. For while he arrived with his arse hanging out by about the accepted proportion (which appears approximately two thirds of the way down the crack), several times I saw him fight the natural urge to pull them back up, to a more comfortable height. He posed on his bike for the girls, shirtless and tanned but was obviously entrenched in an internal psycho-physical battle between comfort and projected studliness. Goose.

I’m sure many of us can relate to the vulnerability of this young man’s position – I’ve had the elastic go in my tracky dacks on more than one occasion. It’s never easy to maintain your cool when you’re teetering on the edge of indecent exposure and causing a public mischief.

When I was a young fella, the minute someone caught a glimpse of your Bonds reluctantly peeking above your jeans (seriously, who’s gonna lay down a fifty for a pair of CK jocks when you can get a 7 pack for 7 bucks?!), they’d be set upon with all the agility of a peregrine falcon. They’d then be hoisted up that hard, your feet would leave the ground – and everyone would laugh – “Look at the spaz with his undies hanging out, hahaha!”

I don’t know when this look ever became cool? Though, always being one to embrace new trends, I’ve come up with an idea to look cool and be comfortable at the same time! I’m gonna buy a pair of Calvin’s – I’m gonna cut ’em off at about stalk height – and I’m gonna have them sewn onto the rim of my pants. That way, with an all in one garment, I will not only look just as hot and trendy, but I will avoid the insecure feeling of my dacks slipping right off the back of my arse and looking like an idiot!

Anyway, I’m sure Nat and Taliah were never impressed by BMX-Goose and his Road-Runner mate – probably never even noticed them………..

 

One night Donk (Kerrie) and Natnee (Natalie) got a-little-bit-longway drunk and decided to go for a walk down the creek. It was early am on a run-in tide and they discovered the magical natural luminescence of the freshly arrived plankton, known as phosforescence. In their heightened state of awareness, they thought it might be some kind of dangerous radiation polluting the area. All was settled in the morning, though I do agree, seeing the sand and water light up on a pitch black night really is a sight to behold and a phenomenon that will continue to impress men and women through the ages – though probably not nearly as much as a good pair of undies escaping baggy pants………….

 

Patonga – Preparations And International Cuisine  (15.2.2007)

So, I left Mounties at around two thirty am, on my first Friday back in the bigsmoke – a good time was had by all. In keeping with ancient tradition, I was compelled to stop by and say hello to Ahmed, as he prepared my ‘Chicken one with no onions, cheese and barbeque sauce’. The little fella was still there, sweating away in his little steaming kebab shack – not sure of the hygiene implications of this habit? Perhaps it is this very phenomenon that gives his kebabs their unique flavour? If the truth be known, the occupant of the little kebab van has probably changed twenty times in as many years – hell, I only named him Ahmed two decades ago, as a generic reference to his ethnicity. Whoever they are, in my experience, which was always hammered, at best, those little kebab-men seem a friendly bunch. Their breed do however, have an uncanny predisposition to fancy facial hair grooming. I have observed more permutations of side-burn, eyebrow and moustache combinations on these enigmatic entrepreneurs than one could poke a stick at!

Anyway, among the many things that Darwin does not have, is a Kebab stand – which I think is an open opportunity for an enterprising young man (with exotically styled facial hair, an over-active perspiration system and a caravan), to make an absolute killing – given all the drinkers up here! So every time I go back to Livo, I head to Mounties, get drunk and buy a kebab from Ahmed on the way home – and just like every other time (barring the time that Boneman shouted me one, soaked in chilli sauce!), this one too was beautiful. So’s not to awaken the sleeping Oldies, I snuck in at home, being super quiet (in that drunken, racket-making sort of way), and sat at the table till I polished it off. I grabbed a big bottle of water from the fridge (the Pump kind – so you can drink it without spilling too much, while you are still lying down and half- asleep), and headed for the cot.

I was awoken at about ten am – Mum knocking on the door saying something like “Kerrie says you have to get up now and go to Patonga with them, to help Johnny set up. Natalie’s going too but she has to be back on Tuesday to work. We’re gonna drive up on Tuesday to pick up you and Nat – she said to hop in the shower – you’ve got twenty minutes – she’ll have some nice pizza ready for your brekky when you get to her place!”

I had always planned to visit them at their camping spot at Patonga on the Central Coast of NSW, but in a couple of days time, when they’d settled in (I hadn’t planned on volunteering for the tent-erecting gang on a screaming hot summer’s day). I’ve never been able to say ‘no’ to girls (it’s a long-standing weakness I have) and Nat would make it even more interesting. Natalie’s a young eighteen-year-old chippie who lives next door to Donk – she’s a great girl (most of the time). So I had my shower, grabbed my bag (which was still pretty well packed from my trip down) and headed round for a breakfast of champions.

Next thing I know, after some re-vamped pizza, a bit of internal bickering and stress among the contenders, I was in the old man’s truck and heading to Patonga with young Johnny-Boy behind the wheel, as we ripped along the M7 and listened to JD’s INXS, The Chilli Peppers and the Fooey boys! Donk, Nat and the kids followed behind in the trusty Ford Falcon…..

CMC used to run competitions to win CD’s, Shirts, Stubbie Holders, Concert Tickets, Guitars and all manner of Country Music related gear.

I won about 30 CD’s, multiple shirts, tickets and various other prizes – the ultimate being the CMC Rocks The Hunter hand made Al Tomkins Guitar.

My theory being – you need to be original! Think outside the square – don’t just say what a big fan you are! (Some stipulated – under 25 words, which is hard).

Here are a few of my entries, in response to the relevant question I was challenged with:

“Home.

The sight and warble of a Currawong (magpie looking bird), reminds me of home. It takes me back to the creek and farmland on a cold and misty winters morning, stalking through the bush with my brother, home-made sling-shot in hand, chasing these birds! If there was bad weather up the mountains, the currawongs would move down to the flatlands in big groups, and we’d stalk through the dewey grass, steamy-breathed and eagle-eyed in hot pursuit. Ahh – the joys of being a kid!”

“Doin’ Alright

Though my bloodshot eyes still sting, the splitting-headache has now subsided, the stomach-cramps have mostly settled, the cold-sweats have thankfully deserted my person and the Delirium Tremens have waned to a steady shake!

So – compared to when I woke up yesterday, after a night of Wild Turkey and Beer, I’m now doin’ alright, you bet I am – and I’ll continue to do so for some time…..”

“Hard Living Life

I don’t necessarily have a hard life – I have a hard-living life, and at this stage I’d like to pay homage to those that have contributed to my success in this area. Firstly, my thanks goes out to Mr Jack Daniels and his close friend, James Beam. Then there’s John Walker, Jose Cuervo and Bundy Bear. Special mention of course, goes to the Brothers Toohey, Mr Resch and the Winfield twins. Also the invaluable assistance of that ever popular Russian trio – Karloff, Smirnoff and Stolichnaya…..”

“CMC

Watching the music on CMC, an odd show spawned by MTV,Good lord she’s hot, now who is she, there’s more to this than just old Lee.

There’s Shea and Ran and Taylor Swift, they’re hot as hell and got the giftSure made my nether regions lift, too turned on now to make a shift.

Now leather pants and here comes Dwight, he did a dance I thought he might,He does the same both day and night, man those leather pants are tight!

And on we go with Brooks and Dunn, them good ol’ boys sure have some fun,The bearded one now he’s a gun, though not without the other one.

So now I love my music show, to all I say give it a go

Its country man you ought to know, it’s a different breed than long ago!”

“Family – what do you consider as the perfect family and why?

I consider my family to be the perfect family! Though I have envied other people’s wealth and coveted their possessions, I have never wished to be in any family but my own. No doubt we have struggled through our share of challenges, but we do it together, and in the end we can still laugh together and the bonds of love have never wilted. Everyone should be so lucky to have a family like mine.”

“To win a seat on the Steve Forde tour bus:

(Got 2nd prize in this one)

I’ve long said that, his talent aside, Steve could easily fit into one of our Boys-weekends-away and no one would notice. I am fully conversant with the rules of the road and realise that what happens on tour, stays on tour. I supply my own beer, bourbon and panadol and suffer hangovers in self contained silence. I bring an entertaining brand humour and a wealth of information on roadside curiosities, weather true or made-up. And I believe the fun is not in the destination, it’s in the experience”

25 Words or less:

“I cannot live without country music – infact I’d rather be blind than not be able to hear it, so occasionally I get blind whilst listening!”

And to win the guitar – ‘In 25 words or less, tell us what you would give up to win this guitar:’

My winning response: ‘I’d give up my mistress. This guitar has a better body, longer neck and comes with no strings attached, should I so desire!’

Signed by:

TIM MCGRAW , FAITH HILL ,  DIERKS BENTLEY,  TRACY LAWRENCE,            CRAIG CAMPBELL, SHERIE AUSTIN , ELI YOUNG BAND, JIM LAUDERDALE ,            WYNONNA JUDD, LEE KERNAGHAN, JAMES BLUNDELL 2012, BECCY COLE XX   JETTY ROAD,  JAYNE DENHAM, FELICITY URQUHART, SUNNY COWGIRLS,           BUDDY GOODE, DREW MCALISTER,  TROY KEMP 2012, CATHERINE BRITT, THE MCLYMONTS (Brooke, Sam, Mollie), MORGAN EVANS,  STEVE FORDE 2012, MARK O’SHEA , JAY O’SHEA

And an attempt to win a new 4WD from John Laws –

“My Land Cruiser is so tough because it is the ultimate legend.

If Lasseter had my ‘cruiser, he’d be rich instead of dead.

Burke and Wills ‘Dig Tree’ would’ve been winched out for firewood.

If Ned had my cruiser, he wouldn’t have needed the armour and he’s neck would be shorter.

The Man From Snowy River? I’d have passed him in my cruiser, with the brumbies, going up the hill!

If Toyota made it, it wouldn’t be Vegemite, it’d be VegeWILL!

Oh what a feelin’”

Big W – For Worthless! (17.8.2007)

I hate shopping!

I left work early yesterday – had to get my car registered. So I took off, paid my 600 bucks and stuck my sticker on the window, in the car park. I thought, since I was still early, I might as well go to Casuarina to pick up a few things. I’ve been looking for a DVD version of The Man From Snowy River for years, that being my favourite movie and all. I noticed in a Big W catalogue, which they insist on stuffing into my letterbox every second day, that they had a double DVD set – Snowy River I and II for under 20 bucks! I thought – I’ll grab me one of them.

Last time I’d planned to buy a few DVD’s was when Target had a big sale on – I lobbed down there and all they had left, was the cheap, crap, seventy year old movies! They told me all the others were sold out – I said “Yes – No doubt! That’d be because you only ever buy one friggin item each, of the good movies, which you advertise to suck in all the punters, then hope that they will buy the shit left over, so as not to waste their trip altogether!”

So, in my extra time, I decided I would also buy the new Harry Potter book and an expandable file for all my bills and important documents etc. So, needing 3 different items, pretty much justified the trip out there.

I’m hurtling along Baggot road heading toward Casuarina, at around 80 clicks and I hear a beep-beep coming up next to me. I look around and see my friend Kirstin driving along with Chad in the passenger’s seat – we flashed each other a smile and a wave. I moved to the left hand, gutter lane and Kirstin went to the middle lane, on my right. I had my left arm stretched across the back of the seat and was happily singing along with James Blundell. I had passed Kirstin and was about one third of the way past the silver car in front of her – when this tosser decides to change lanes. He just starts wizzing across into my lane, jamming me up against the gutter – I belt the brakes on and swing the wheel, as my stretching-arm quickly joins the fray. I locked up the brakes and skidded at an angle for about six feet before Tosser-Boy got past and in front of me. I let off the brake and kept driving. Unfortunately, my car horn is inoperable (which really teaches a man patience!), so I couldn’t blast the still oblivious, Tosser-Boy, to hell!

We stopped at a set of lights with Kirstin cruising up and stopping next to the Silver-car’d Tosser – Chad winds his window down and gives the bloke a mouthful, on my behalf. It was pretty funny, as close calls go. I was thinking – Jesus, I’m on my way from paying for another 12 months rego, and nearly wrecked the whole bloody thing within minutes!

So I park the car and get out – a little bit shaky after the traffic incident. Walk my way to Big W – which, of course, is huddled at the furthest corner away from the car park, and head for the DVD section. Once again, I can’t detect any sign of the package I want. I approach the counter and open up their new catalogue, a copy of which was sitting on the bench. I say to the young chippie “How ya goin’? I want one of these”, pointing at the advertised item.

She flicks through a special ‘under-the-counter’ copy of the catalogue – which has big blue crosses through ninety percent of the items, including mine. She says “Yes. See, they’re not available just yet. You’ll have to come back in a few days or something”

I say “But it’s advertised here that you have them – that’s what I came for”.

“Hmmm – yes I know that, but the sale goes for two weeks”

I say “Well, when does it start?”

She says “Today”.

I spread my arms so as to say “Well, I’m here today, the sale is on today, you advertised you will have these things in today, now what’s the freakin problem?!”

“Oh – we actually have them out the back – but there’s half a dozen big pallet loads out there. We haven’t unpacked them yet. You’ll have to come back in a few days”

I said “Last time I tried coming in a few days later, there was only shit left! All the good stuff had been sold out”

“Really? That’s strange”

“Well can you put one aside for me, under the counter or something?”

So she took my details and recorded them, and the item and price, in a little book. It seems I’ll have to go back at some later date.

I was feeling pretty cranky by now, so I decided to head for the book section, pick up my copy and head for home. I did three laps of the book section, with the only Harry Potter story being one on special, from six years ago. I sought out the stringy haired young whippersnapper with a Big W badge, who was lurking around the general section. I said “How ya goin? Do you guys happen to have the latest Harry Potter book?”

He looked around, covered the same ground I’d already been over, and said “I know there was one copy floating around here somewhere. Nah – it looks like we’re sold out.”

I said “Did you guys not think this book might be popular?”

“Oh no – we bought thousands, it’s just that there’s none left”

“Do you not think you should have got some more?”

“Nah – we bought all we could, there were three thousand or something”

I said “Yeah – and there’s none left”

I walked away shaking my head and muttering obscenities.

Then, out of the blue, far, far away from young Stringy-Hair and his book section, there was a big display full of the latest Harry Potter book! Just what the hell it was doing among the undergarments and stationery is beyond me! The book staff are completely unaware of this stash – I don’t know how the hell they expect the shoppers to find it?

Then I went looking for the expandable file – Nil Stock! They have boxes, and ring folders, and lever-arch folders, and manila folders, and coloured files, and hanging files, and filing cabinets, and plastic desk stackers and alphabetised drawers – but not one bloody expandable file!

So I paid for my book and the checkout chick threw in a free copy of a Peter Fitzsimon book, about Les Darcy (The Aussie boxing champ who died of a tooth ache in America when he was only 19).

I then headed for Kmart – looking for the allusive expandable file. Not one on the shelves. I asked an unlikely looking staff member if they had any – and to my great surprise and delight, she knew what I was talking about and even darted out the back and retrieved the very last item of this line that Kmart had in stock! So I grabbed it, paid my six bucks and headed for the car.

…………have I ever mentioned that I HATE SHOPPING!!!!????

 

On Target To Be Ripped Off (4.6.2007)

Every day I find my letterbox stuffed to the rafters with junk mail, which I usually remove and deposit straight into the garbo, where it belongs. The other day, though, I actually read through the piles of brochures from the usual suspects, including Kmart, Big W, WOW Sight & Sound, Prouds, Dominoes, and Target.

Of interest to me was a special of “25% off men’s pants” advertised in the Target catalogue. I needed a couple of pair of shorts and thought I may as well take advantage of this opportunity.

So on Sunday, I decided to drive the 25k’s down to Palmerston, which is home to my nearest Target store. I looked around a bit, then grabbed my gear and headed to the counter. This included 3 pairs of socks, two pairs of shorts and a pair of jocks. The jocks were a longer-legged variety I’ve not tried before – there were a heap there, so I deduced that there must be quite some demand for the style. I usually just grab a six-pack of briefs and that’ll do me for ages (except last time when some smart-arse swapped a rolled up pair of my size halfway down the pack, for a little kids – which I failed to recognise till I went to wear them!).

I chatted to the checkout chick as she ran my gear through, then she surprised me with the sub-total of seventy four bucks! I took it away and examined the docket – no discount on the shorts and the bloody jocks cost me eighteen bucks! Feeling I’d been ripped, I returned to the Men’s Wear section to check things out – the jocks were indeed eighteen smackers a shot, which is just ridiculous in itself (and they better be bloody comfortable!). Also the ticket price on the shorts was 18 bucks straight up, so they definitely had not given me the discount!

I approached the chippie at the lay-by counter and said – “Hey, I just bought these shorts and they should be 25% off. They charged me full price”

She says she’ll get the bloke that works in the section. So the nineteen year old section-bloke comes over and tells me that the discount is only on long dacks! I say, “No – the add says ‘25% off Men’s Pants’. These are quite obviously pants”.

He says “Um, okay – I’ll get the manager”.

Little Miss Manager is 22years old and tries to tell me that “No – ‘Pants’ means long trousers, not shorts. They’re called ‘shorts’”.

I say – “Okay – look, I’m sure if I wasn’t wearing any pants, I wouldn’t be allowed in your shop! I’m wearing shorts and obviously, I am considered to be wearing pants!”

She argues that “No, you are wearing shorts – if you have a look on the little ticket, it will distinguish between Pants and shorts”

I reply “Well If say to you ‘look at that bloke over there, he’s not wearing any pants!’, you don’t turn around and expect to see some rooster wearing shorts – you expect to see a bloke half dressed!”

She says “Well that’s how we distinguish them in our catalogues, we call them ‘Pants’, so people know it’s long pants and ‘Shorts’ when we have shorts on special”

I said “No – that’s bullshit! You call them ‘Pants’ in your catalogue, so you can rip people off and have them drive 25k’s under false pretences – otherwise, you’d call the trousers, like everyone else in the English speaking world! You know very well that this is misleading and confusing and that is clearly your aim – hoping that once people are here, they’ll buy stuff anyway. We both know it’s a friggin rort and a rip off, pants are pants, and you’re a friggin disgrace!”

With that, I walked away, fuming – I needed the dacks and it cost me time and petrol to drive the 50k round trip, so there was no point in getting my money back and leaving the stuff there, the damage was already done. I’ll be a lot more bloody careful next time though, and Target will remain the last choice for me!

 

Okay, this is not celebrity related, but still amusing and embarrassing.

One Friday night about 10 years ago, I was waiting for my mate Leesa to pick me up from home – a gang of us were going to the local club (Mounties), as we did every weekend. Leesa always drank and rarely drove. So I’m standing round the lounge room, all dressed and ready to go, when the car pulls up out the front, across the road. She’s just about got a car-full, so I dart across and give a wave as I approach, rip open the back door and hop in: “Hey – how’s it going Ladies?”, as I’m clipping in my seatbelt. Now Leesa is a very popular girl with heaps of friends from all over the place – and they’re all looking at me, checking me out. I’m smiling and nodding at the new girls. I eventually look at the house opposite mine and see the young chick who lives there, heading out the front door toward this car – I swing my head back toward my place – just as Leesa pulls up out the front and honks the horn!

WRONG CAR!

I just slipped out the door of this unknown car, with an “Ahh Shit, see ya ladies” and jumped in Leesa’s front seat – she said “Christ – where the hell did you come from?!”

“Don’t worry about it – lets go”……….

 

Years ago my brother brought his then, new girlfriend (now wife) around for lunch with the family for the first time. Candace was a pretty shy and easily embarrassed young girl – had a tendency to glow red when under pressure (in fact, she still does).

Mum, wanting to create a good impression also, laid out her best lacy white tablecloth and all the fancy salad and such. The Oldman has always been a great stirrer of us boys and we give back twice as much.

Anyway, all was going well until Candy mistook the handle of the beetroot strainer, for the handle of the beetroot container. She reached across and tried to left the beetroot container closer to her, the strainer came up from inside the container and little red beetroot balls rolled all over the fancy white tablecloth. Candy turned the colour of the beetroot, Mum turned the colour of the tablecloth and the stains continued to spread out!

The Oldman lets out with an “Oh no, what have you done? That’s Joan’s best tablecloth too!”

So we joined in “Jesus Candy, if you wanted a bit of beetroot, someone would have passed you some – you didn’t have to go throwing it all round the room!”

Mum saved her and told us all to shutup – we had all been laughing throughout and actually feeling very sorry for the poor girl – but you just can’t let a chance like that go by!

Welcome to the family Candace – it can only get better from here.

And it did, and she’s still with us, with two beautiful daughters, and we still laugh about the beetroot incident to this day – and she still goes red!