Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Dog Shit Killers - Coda

The Chamberlain Hotel was unusually crowded for a late Saturday afternoon.  The bar staff had been augmented, a couple of extra kegs ordered and all the reserve glasses stacked in wire trays behind the main bar.  The licensee, Mark McCartney was standing at the side of the bar, ready for action as either barman, bouncer or wrangler of the stage.  Most likely all he'd probably do was down a few schooners of Reschs but give him his due, he was diligent with the beer pouring when it was needed and wasn't averse to using his knuckles to sort out trouble makers.  The fact that he'd never decked Max Jackson spoke volumes for the man's patience.

The "No Smoking Within a Metre Of The Bar" sign served Max Jackson well as an improvised ash tray while he surveyed the back part of the bar where the Dog Shit Killers were about to perform in public for the first time.  He kind of thought it would be the last time as well.  Rehearsing, trying to learn enough songs to play a couple of sets and booking rehearsal space was a lot of farnarkelling around, especially when there were races to bet on, girls to molest and drinks to be had.  The band consisted of himself and Wayne "Sniper" Blake on guitars and vocals, Kerry James on occasional back-up vocals, her boyfriend Ian Reep on bass and Senior Junior on skins. Senior Junior was a ringer, a young bloke studying the art of bashing drums in some sort of rhymical fashion under the tutelage of one of Jacko's work colleagues, Senior.  No-one knew Senior Junior's real name and they couldn't really give a stuff given that he was only a drummer.  Reep and Kerryn were checking mic leads and twiddling with a small sound desk,  Junior was sitting on his drum seat looking through a vintage copy of Viz Magazine, the issue with the Spice Girls Wank Hat.

Sniper Blake was busy trying to tell the bar manager, Margie that their rider included a keg's worth of beer and a bottle of Bundy O.P Rum.  Margie didn't blink but informed Blake that the only rider they had was a clip behind the ear and a long pole up the back passage if they gave her any more cheek.  Blake grabbed a tray of assorted drinks and brought them back to the band members.  He looked at Reep and called out,
"Hey Reepy, don't bother with that crap.  Just make sure its all plugged in and the volumes are right up.  Do one of those sound check things."
Reepy glanced over and replied,
"Check two poofs.  Check check. Jacko and Sniper.  Poofs. Poofs. Check."
As he said that he noticed the curvy form of Jacko's girlfriend, Gayle sneak up behind the guitarist and run her hand down Jacko's spine
"About time to fire up, Max.  Good luck."  She kissed him and stepped back to let Blake's girlfriend, Tina squeeze past.
"Wayne, you sure you know all the songs?" she asked,
"Fucken oath mate.  Its all sweet.  If I get in strife I'll just do some growling and thrash a few bar chords.  Piece of piss."  Blake downed his beer and went over to the stage area.  He tapped Max on the shoulder,
"Hey Jacko.  Didja get those extra plectrums?  I've only got one left."
Jacko shook his head,
"Nah, forgot 'em, but I've still got two."  He then looked at Junior who was chuckling at the Fat Slags episode in his Viz mag.
" The Wank Hat issue?  Its a fucking classic!" Junior nodded as Jacko went on "Fuck, we should have learnt a Spice Girls song.  Margie hates 'Wannabe'. Would have been a pearler."

Ian Reep strapped on his bass and ran a walking blues shuffle up and down the fret board as a warm up Blake played along, making sure his Ibanez was in tune.  Jackson's Rickenbacker looked the goods in Max's hands as he joined in the tune up twiddle by picking out a few bar chords and running the intro riff to "Day Tripper" over the top.  He fiddled with the machine head and played another couple of chords, satisfied with the tuning. "Come on Kez.  We're on."  Kerryn stepped up and moved to the left of Blake, ready to share his mic.  Blake looked around trying to count heads.  A lot of their work colleagues, footy and cricket team mates and other friends had come along for the party, mixing in with the usual crowd of drunks, bar flies and lost tourists.  The place was crowded, stretching around the front bar, along the front and snaking down the side.  The stuffed dingo perched above the centre bar had glass eyes, remarkably like those sported by the lead guitarists. The crowd was big and that was a relief after all the promises they'd made to McCartney, the pub landlord.  He smiled and waved at the overweight and happy figure of his boss hanging at the bar, talking to Margie.  His boss was a few years older and had cut Sniper a few breaks during the first months of their work relationship. He'd even introduced Sniper to the charms of the pub and had spent a few after work sessions splitting beers and occasionally giving helpful advice. From these sessions and owing to his boss' range of contacts Sniper had met the likes of Jacko and Ian Reep.  Sniper was glad his boss, Eric Barton was there to enjoy the festivities. 

Sniper nodded to Junior to count them in to the introductory piece, a ninety second punk piss take of the "Playschool" theme which they called "There's A Fucking Bear In There and Its Rooting Goldilocks."  There was a round of cheering and applause with a few enthusiastic whistles, mainly from their friends and workmates, but it was a promising start.  Jacko looked at Blake, asking,
"Well my sniping friend, what do you think happened to me last night?"
"Dunno Max.  You got pissed I reckon."
"Fuck yeah.  And this morning I realised I'd had a visit."
"And who were these mysterious visitors Jacko?"
"Well, young Sniper, from the amount of crap in my room and the way I felt I reckon they must have been  Hangover Gorillas."  With that Blake launched into the opening riff of the Dog Shit Killers first ever song, "Hangover Gorillas."

Seated at the bar amongst the regular drunks and ne-er do wells was Alan "Owly" Blake and one of his army mates, Benny Hanley, Owly's radio operator.  They'd come to the pub dressed as regular pub pissheads still sporting the beards they'd grown for Afghanistan and using devices such as shoulder pads, glasses and coloured contact lenses to stave off initial recognition.  Owly had a plan.

For their next songs DSK covered the Sunny Boys "Alone With You Tonight" and a couple of Beatles numbers, "Day Tripper" and "Birthday".  Luckily for Blake and Jackson the drummer was good and Reepo proved to be a usuable bass player.  This covered a number of missed chords and muted picking, but eventually the two guitarists started to find some form.  They'd been a bit slow and nervous early on in the innings with ball beating the outside edge and occasionally hitting the pads.  They weathered the early overs and began to hit a few runs.  They warmed into the gig, covering Nirvana and hitting the bullseye with the Stones' classic ""Honky Tonk Women".  Sniper then called for a break as he looked at a broken string which needed replacing.  He also fancied a cold beer and a smoke.

Owly Blake was getting bored with wearing his disguise as was his SAS mate Benny who asked his sergeant,
"So when are we gonna do this? There's sheilas and beer on tap and I'm fucked if I'll keep this crap on for much longer."
Owly nodded and replied,
"Yeah, let's do it now.  You go out the side door and I'll go around from the back bar.  When I pull the plug, do a runner and we"ll meet at the back of the car park, ditch our disguises and come back."
Benny got up from his stool and went out the side door as Owly lurched up and edged his way around to the back bar.  From there he had access to the back of the small stage through a short hallway which led back to the front bar. He waited for a largish bloke to make his way through the same door.  Then he realised he'd met him before during a night at this same pub with his brother.  It was his brother's boss.  Fuck! Would he recognise Owly?
Barton turned around as he made his way from the back bar toilet through to the front bar.  There was something familiar about the bearded, ragged looking bloke he'd just edged past. He'd met him before.  Was he one of his Department's many unemployed, desperate customers?  He sure looked it.  Oh well, he thought, may as well do a bit of PR.
"G'day mate.  Haven't seen you for a while.  How ya going?  Still on the government's tit?"
Blake blanched.  He'd been fucking tumbled despite the subterfuge.  Oh well, the plan to unplug the band was now off.  he pulled out his phone and dialled Benny's number.  After three rings Benny answered and Blake curtly told him,
"Ït's off mate. Back to the bar." He then look at Barton, saying,
"Good to see you again mate." and shook Barton's hand before taking off the shabby coat, glasses and carefully removing his prosthetic nose.
Barton was shocked at first then confused as Blake removed his disguises.  Then he looked carefully at Blake and recognised him,
"Fuck me! Its you.  Geez mate, that's a bit weird all that gear you had on.  Love the beard though.  I thought you were one of our punters from Darlinghurst that I'd recognised."
Blake then realised he hadn't been tumbled at all but mistaken for some welfare recipient.  Barton went on,
"Sniper never said you were coming today."
Benny walked into the back bar, saw what was happening and took off his grubby overalls, cap and glasses and walked over to Owly.
"Thank fuck for that Owly. Now we can enjoy ourselves." he then nodded a "g'day mate" to Barton and headed for the bar.
To assuage Barton's confusion Blake explained how he was going to unplug the band as a joke and then reveal himself to his brother later on.  Barton frowned for half a minute and then said,
"Top idea mate. First song into the next set we'll do it.  Dead easy. I'll suss out the switch cupboard from Mark and let him know so he doesn't blow a gasket.  Margie will love it. She hates Jacko. Grab a beer and wait here out the back."  Barton then headed through the doorway into the front bar and found the publican.  After five minutes he was in the back bar again with a fresh beer and clinking glasses with Owly and Benny.
He raised his glass and said to the two soldiers "Welcome "home boys.  Good to see you back safe."
As he did, the Dogshit Killers banged out a few chords and Sniper Blake spoke to the crowd,

"I reckon its time for some animal sex Sniper. Animal sex."
"That would be with the neighbour's alsation wouldn't it mate." He then launched into the opening chords of"their latest collaboration "Ï Really Love My Neighbour's Alsation". It was an improbable tale of giving a guard dog hand relief to calm it down so one could then  access the next door neighbour's virgin sixteen year old daughter.  As the song seemed to be heading to both of its climaxes Barton led Owly to the power cupboard.  Benny stood guard.  As the final drum beats crashed through, Owly flipped the circuit switch for the stage area.
Then shouting.
Benny, Owly and Barton slipped into the back bar.
On stage Jacko hit a few strings.  Nothing through the amps.
"Fuckety fuck fuck fuck!"
Sniper looked at Junior then at Kerryn, then at Reep.  Then back at Jacko, saying,
"Remember Dog Shit Machine?"
Jacko nodded, then turned around looking at their uselss equipment.  He saw Sniper's Martin acoustic knock-off and pointed to it.
"Tune it up Sniper. We're gpoing soft."
Sniper nodded then turned to the crowd,
"The pub didn't pay its bills so we've been cut off.  But that won't stop us folks."
A few desultory cheers came from the crowd who were now more suddenly interested in getting drinks while the problem was sorted out. Jacko passed the acoustic guitar  to Sniper who fingered a few tuning runs and then nodded his satisfaction. After a quick conference with Kerryn and Jacko he did an introductory shuff;le of "Fairytale of New York." It wasn't best suited to just a single acoustic guitar but Kerrtyn's voice was strong and Jacko's drunken warblings passed muster for the Pogues'classic number.  Their voices were just enough to slowly grab the crowd's attention.

In the back bar the two soldiers were laughing fit to burst and Sniper's boss wasn't far behind.  Barton fetched another round of beers, chatting to the barmaid longer than was normal for such a transaction.  He brought the beers back explaining,
""We're to switch it back on in ten minutes.  Mark wants to keep the punters here a while longer yet.  Geez that's a fucking ripper you guys thought up.  can't wait to see their faces when they find out."
He then heard the fainter sounds of an acoustic guitar and Kerryn's voice launch into the tale of drunken love, broken dreams and new hope. Owly looked at both of his beer buddies, smiling,
Ï love this song.  Let's go and listen." they went out the rear door and around the side of the pub, around to the front, finding a spot in the crowd behind some taller football friends of Ian Reep's.
As Kerrtyn and Max finished the song the three saboteurs were the loudest with their applause and cheering.
While the crowd's acclamation continued Owly went around the side again and walked into the small hallway to the electrical cupboard.  He flipped the circuit switch back on and heard some horrible feedback which was quickly killed by a desparate Reep. Jacko was divided, both basking in the crowd's acclaim and pissed off by the shenanigans with the power. Eventually displeasure won out and he stormed off the stage,
"Fuck this Sniper.  I'm having a rum!"
Blake put his acoustic guitar back into its case and picked up his Fender rip off. It reminded him of the days when he and his brothers used to thrash away in the garage, trying to mimic his brother Alan's favourites of the punk-postpunk era.  bands like The Jam and The Clash.  He looked at Reep, Junior and Kerryn and hit the opening chords of The Jam's "Going Undergound".

Owly saw Jacko's dummy-spit, the Rickenbacker lying plugged in on the stage and watched to see how his brother would react. When Sniper started in on The Jam, Owly pushed his way onto stage, winked at his brother and strapped on Jacko's guitar. He started fingering the familiar chords, watching his brother, getting the timing. The Rickenbacker felt good, the best he'd ever played and he wondered how Jacko had ever acquired such a marvel.  When he was into the rhythm of the song he nodded to to his younger brother and started playing with venom.

when the fast band plays my feet start to pound, going underground.

Jacko nursed his double Bundy OP rum as he watched the interloper make his guitar sing.  When the band started in on The Clash's "Lost in a Supermarket" he ordered another large rum and went and put his arm around his girlfriend. Gayle wrinkled her nose at the rum and removed his arm,
"Don't be such a fucking sook Max.  Get back up there before this bloke completely shows you up."
Jacko threw down his double rum and lurched towards the stage.  Sniper finished the song and winked to Owly. As Jacko stepped up to the stage he shook Owly's hand, remembering a wild night he'd spent with Owly and his SAS mates over twelve months ago.
"Thanks mate.  I'll take it from here."
As Jacko strapped on his Rickenbacker again Kerryn left the stage to get some drinks for herself and Ian.
Jacko yelled into the mic,
"Well if its Eighties you want its Eighties you'll fucking get." then he hit the crowd with US Forces, giving a jaunty salute to Owly and Benny who had sequestered Margie between them, giving her an army squeeze.
As Sniper looked over the crowd as they performed a reprise of Hangover Gorillas for an encore he saw his brother in the middle of the crowd doing a pogo dance in line with Benny, Barton, Gayle, Tina, Kerryn, Mark and Margie. The Dog Shit Killers repeated the first verse and chorus to keep the vibe going.  jacko yelled out
"Thank you Sydney!  We've been the Dog Shit Killers and you've been great. Farewell!."

Junior's van was packed with borrowed speakers, amps and the Dog Shit Killers gear thanks to some help from Owly and Benny.  Junior was due at a gig at the Caribbean Soul restaurant, filling in for his mentor who had been slammed with a periodic detention order for being an accomplice to petty larceny. Junior drove off wondering how the fuck he copped such shit gigs.  At least they'd given him a hundred bucks in cash.
Back in the pub Sniper was pummelling his brother with shoulder punches while Benny was making time with Margie. Jacko noticed that Barton was still there, talking to Tina and Kerryn and buying drinks. Gayle poked him in the back,
"Thought it would go well.  You shouldn't have stalked off stage like that.  Don't do it next time."
Jacko laughed,
"There's no next time. We're skipping the Difficult Second Album and solo projects that fuck up all bands and we're chucking it in.  Face it, we're crap. We have three or four songs, only one of which just meets the basics and we're not that gifted. No, that's it." He then raised his voice to Sniper,
"Hey Sniper poof.  That's it for DSK, yes?"
Blake responded,
"Fuck yeah. We have ten parts of fuck all.  It's all too hard.  Better off being crap at sport and going broke on the punt."
Kerryn heard this, adding
"Ëven my high school crap band was better.  But we did have our moments today.  Thanks to Alan."
The older Blake looked up from his bar stool,
"Yeah, youse were fucked except for Kerryn.  That Pogues song ripped.".

At Jacko's flat people sprawled on an assortment of chairs, lounges and carpet. Beers, rum, bourbon, champagne and gin were flowing and Jacko put on one of his party mix CD's. Ian Reep led Tina to the spare bedroom. They needed to talk about their impending move to Tasmania and attempt to conceive during her ovulation cycle. Benny succeeded in his attempt to win the attention of Margie and they discretely exited, noticed only by Owly Blake who gave Benny a surreptitious thumbs up as he closed the door. Barton poured himself a tall bourbon while explaining to Sniper the benefits of travel allowance and interstate junkets. Jacko manfully attacked a bottle of O.P. rum while Gayle tended a warming tray of party pies.
Kerryn and Sniper huddled over glasses of champagne and Bourbon talking about Ian and Tina's obvious long term commitment, dancing around their own desires for the future.

Owly Blake looked at the group of friends. They easily could have been hapless loners with only the prospect of booze and crap TV to occupy their time. But through the power of individual and shared circumstances and needs, their own intelligence and characters they'd formed what were obviously long term bonds.  He then thought of the Taliban fighters he'd last seen in Afghanistan and who were destroyed by modern precision munitions under Blake's direction.  One thing he knew for certain and it was a gold medal certainty; thank fuck he'd had the good sense to be born in a country where war making was the preserve of the few, not the majority.  If it meant putting up with crap one-off bands such as the Dog Shit Killers then so be it. Of most importance was the arrival the following morning of his wife and children.  That was something worth fighting for.

Wayne Blake crossed Pitt Street heading to the front door of The Chamberlain Hotel.  as he stepped onto the footpath he saw a dried up dogs turd sitting adjacent to the wall of the pub.  It had that white powdery look which was likely to explode when run over by a lawn mower.  Its appearance reminded him of the night he and his friends had seen Flange Gasket and come up with the idea of the Dog Shit Killers.  It brought a smile to his face as he kicked it into dust and stepped into the pub.
"What are you smiling at Wayne?" was the greeting he faced from his girlfriend Kerryn.
"Track one my, dear heart. Track fucking one."

Monday, December 6, 2010

Dogshit Killers - Interlude

In a paragraph or so you'll see the next instalment of the Dogshit Killers debacle.  In the meantime I'll explain that we had a Chaz Day in Sydney last Thursday.  We ate steak (cooked by ourselves, drank beer and did a mini walking tour (pub crawl) of The Rocks.  Friday was hangover day innit.

To set this DSK chapter I had to take it offshore so that I could put in an explosion.  I needed an explosion seeing as how FKN Havsy has been pretty fucking lame on that score with his fanfic gear and as usual, if it needs to be done do it yourself. The main character is based on a real SAS bloke who I had beers with once and will be catching up with in March.  I just hope that the bugger doesn't read this.  The details of his service are accurate and he actually did come up with the trick of following the small groups of herdsmen as described below.

Dog Shit Killers – Interlude

Alan “Owly” Blake motioned to his signals operator to come further around the rock which was hiding his patrol from a group of goat herders. The herdsmen were two hundred metres to the north of Blake’s hidden forward observation post, heading east across one of the many hills in this area of the Pakistan/Afghan border. As part of Operation Mountain Lion, Alan Blake’s SAS patrol was a key component, engaging in Special Reconnaissance tasks and often coming into contact with enemy forces. One of Blake’s specialties was sorting out which targets were worth following. Quite often a smaller group of “herdsmen” would split off from a larger group, like a bad boy crew wagging from a school excursion. Owly would leave the bigger group to the U.S. Special Forces teams and follow up on the smaller band, a tactic which was often rewarded. In previous missions his team had successfully called in and directed air strikes as well as the insertion of Coalition forces, resulting in the capture of large supplies of weapons and ammunition and the elimination of enemy fighters and leaders. He knew he’d probably never get to put a bead on Bin Laden but his sense of professional pride was constantly rewarded. His men had come through their tour unscathed and his regiment had once again earned the respect of its NATO counterparts.

His radio operator moved up beside him and Owly said,

“Once those blokes get up the hill call in their co-ordinates. I confirm twelve of them and I reckon they’re off to go and have a cuppa with their boss. We’ll stay on site.”

The radio man went back to his post and started working his set, checking the aerial and frequency before dialling up the operating base. Owly kept peering at the herdsmen until they slipped behind an outcrop, most likely into a cave.

His radio operator sidled up,

“The Yanks have two 18’s with JDAMS and 500 pounders on board, and another two set up for ground attack support. That’s all they had immediately available. The cunts asked for credit card details before confirming delivery of the order.”

“Smart arse Seppos. Didja ask for garlic bread and coke?"  Blake looked at the rest of his team,

 "Dopey cunts. Fucking JDAMS are a bit over the top for this one aren’t they?”. Owly hitched his pack,

“ Ah well, who gives a fuck eh Sparks? Hope they don’t want us to count all the bits and pieces afterwards. It’d be like doing over the Kiwis batting averages. Best off getting downtown a bit and start pointing the bone.”

‘Pointing the bone’ was Blake’s description of activating laser designators on a target, ensuring that air dropped munitions would arrive accurately and provide the most efficacy to his ongoing problems with bearded nutjobs. He named his two “bone-pointers” Kurdaitche One and Kurdaitche Two, (K1 and K2), after the traditional Australian Aboriginal “witch doctors” who used human bones in their rituals to sing sickness and death to miscreants.

Blake slowly and carefully withdrew his team two hundred metres further along the valley and waited for the U,S. Navy FA 18’s. Fifteen minutes later they arrived, two flying cover and two strikers. From his vantage point Blake observed, felt and heard the blasts. His team stuck fingers in their ears to compensate for overpressure from the munitions, a combination of 500 lb bombs and JDAMS. The JDAMS landed, penetrating the north side of the outcrop dislodging tonnes of earth and rocks as they bored through the subsurface strata of the rock formation. Once they had penetrated twenty metres the warheads ignited, causing immense eruptions of earth, rock, body parts and mangled jihadi caveman artefacts. Plumes of smoke and dust and a virtual hail storm of rocks cascaded with drumbeat thuds onto the injured land. The secondary pattern of 500lb munitions worked the tortured piece of earth into an even more catastrophic state.  It never failed to impress Blake just how destructive people could be if they really applied themselves to the task.

After a couple of minutes of scoping out the results Blake sighed,

“Fuck me, there’s nothing left. OBL could be there and we’d never know it. He’d be like that strawberry jam K1 keeps on nicking from the mess tent.” Blake then asked Sparks to call up the operating base and grabbed the headset.

K2 turned to his fellow bone pointer,

“How about that K1? Fancy going over and grabbing some Talijam?”  K1 gave a rueful smile,

“ Why the fuck JDAMS as well as 500’s ? Yank navy been to a clearance sale?” K1 shook his head again and rifled through his pack for zip lock plastic bags, waving them at K2.

“Got some baggies here bro’. Maybe they left some hash behind."

Owly removed the radio headset after completing a preliminary report. His bone pointer had a smile on his face, asking on the results of the bombing runs,

“Hey boss, you fix him?”

Blake didn’t let him down replying in his best Marrickville Greek Aussie,

“I fix him fuckee bastard the Taliban bloody!” Owly then retreated into normal speech mode,

“The Yanks’ll be sending in a couple of their own crews for clean up and to tally the results. We’re to move in fifty metres and keep an eye out for jaywalkers. Lets take it slowly, quietly and by the book. K1, you can field at deep fine leg. K2, you take lead, Sparks stay up my arse.”

Noiselessly and constantly alert the four troopers worked their way around the valley, keeping an eye out for curious onlookers and Taliban bench players. One hundred metres away from the blast zone K2 took up a position behind some boulders. Blake crawled his way forward, bringing out his glasses to get a closer look at the wounded earth. His radioman followed behind him with K1 taking a few more minutes to join the patrol.

What Blake saw was a series of rents in the earth with burnt scrub, debris and what looked like a cave-in on the side of the facing hill. Nothing moved and there was no sign of life. What possibly were red smears on the rubble were the only possible clue that anyone had been in the area. He shook his head. He looked at “Sparks” and asked him to call up his headquarters. Once they were connected the radio operator handed the headset to Blake. His C.O. was already talking.

Blake reported that all that was left was “rubble, dust and stains” and that there was no enemy movement. His boss told him to wait for the American patrols then return to the Forward Operating Base for the mission debrief. Fifteen minutes later a squadron of Blackhawks supported by Cobra gunships advertised the arrival of the U.S. Ranger group. A quick exchange of radio chatter released the Australians to head home.

“Okay boys, time to go catch a cab. The Yanks can clean up.”

K2 took another look at the devastated hillside and seemed about to say something. He turned his head once then checked his weapon and the team moved out, heading to their vehicle secreted in camouflage a four hour hike away.

Eight hours later Blake and his team were relaxing at their base after debriefing, showering and cleaning their equipment. The debrief included an update from the U.S. Ranger teams which had searched the bombed hillside. They’d estimated twenty four dead and collected DNA samples. They’d also found the remains of enough destroyed weaponry to conclude that the bombs had wiped out a major staging point. Blake found the whole idea of a reliable count improbable given the destruction he’d witnessed but was willing to go along with it. From his experience the numbers lay in the “maybe possible” column and he couldn’t be bothered arguing the toss. If the Yanks wanted to beef up body count numbers, that was up to them.  To him it didn't really matter as long as there were more fighters to replace the dead.

Blake’s team were slurping away at some Miller Draught which K1 had obtained.

Sparks was appreciative of the illegal beer bounty and looked the model of a contented radioman. He watched his sergeant open up a letter, and asked who it was from.

“My brother, Wayne.”

K2 looked up, laughing, “You mean Sniper? He’s a funny sort of bloke. That night we had beers with him and his mate was a real fucking hoot. What’s he up to?” Blake looked up from the letter,

“Yeah, it was wasn’t it? Him and his feral mate Jacko have apparently put some sort of band together. They call themselves ‘The Dogshit Killers’. Wayne reckons it won’t last but they’re planning on doing a gig. By fuck I’d love to be there to boo the dopey cunts off the stage.”

A shadow appeared at the doorway rapidly followed by a voice,

“Well Sergeant, your wish just might be coming true.” Captain Morrow, Blake’s immediate boss was standing with a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Seems as though you blokes are needed elsewhere. You’re training on the RIBS means you’ll be getting to play water sports again on Sydney Harbour. Here’s the G.O.”

Morrow sat down and explained how the need for an additional counter-terrorist unit covering Sydney’s maritime gateway was severely itching the Defence Force Chief's skin and Blake’s team was going to be the salve. Blake thought back to the preparations for the Sydney Olympics and tearing around Sydney Harbour in the rigid inflatables, rehearsing tactics for anti-terrorist activities on the water. His team had enjoyed the whole experience. More importantly he thought of his wife and two children. He’d actually be seeing them again very soon and that was a major plus.

Aside from Afghanistan his army service had seen him in both Gulf Wars, chasing Kopassus around the East Timor/West Timor border, serving as bodyguard to Xanana Gusmao in the immediate aftermath of East Timor’s independence and a posting as a trainer with the U.S. Marines. His current deployment was almost three months old and even though he’d enjoyed success against the Taliban he wouldn’t miss their attention. He’d be reunited once again with his family and that lit up a whole wave of smiley face icons in his mind. It also meant he’d find some time to annoy the bejesus out of his brothers, particularly that wannabe musician piece of crap, Sniper.  Fucking Dogshit Killers eh?  Oh yeah, he sorely wanted to see what sort of bullshit that was all about.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

He's Gotta Go - No Love For Pup

Go now, get outta here.  Yes you, the grimacing twat just below.  Before you leave, introduce yourself.

"Hi. I'm Pup.  I like being a crap captain, losing,  fashion, crap tattoos, hair product and not sticking up for my team mates.  But most of all I really enjoy spitting dummies and being a shallow prima donna with an overblown sense of self importance.  I don't like Simon Katich because he picks on me.  Now piss off, I have an appointment with my ear wax sculptor."

Michael Clark aka "Pup". 'Nuff said really.  For those who don't know who he is just think of a cricketer who's basing his life on David Beckham but with none of the talent,  Spice Girls or galactic scale paychecks.  I also think Alan Jones likes him which for me is the clincher.

He might like Michael Clarke

 His depth of character is measured in microns.  As a leader he's useless, as a tactician he's worse than DADS Ponting and as a team mate he gets his head smacked against the change room wall.  Funny thing is though that before he started his fashion shoots and stopped hanging out with Warnie he was made a project by Cricket Australia to be the heir apparent to Ponting's captaincy and by jingies that's starting to look like a "Let's Invade Russia" decision.  I reckon the sooner he becomes a crack whore in a trailer park outside of Dubbo the better.  I spent half of last night ranting at the plasma screens down at The Office pub and the other half drinking to forget that Clarke's in the team and is in charge a lot of the time.  This morning I had the Thousand Yard Stare.  Well that's bollocks really, it was just a fuck-off hangover and I blame Clarke.  He's the arse sitting on top of the biggest arse mountain in the Arse Mountain Range on Planet Arse, in the Arse Galaxy of the Arse Universe. Someone please tell him to go to Lichtenstein and sell stamps for the rest of his life.  But enough about him.

If you don't wanna read about something pretty fucking icky involving a man and a dog then hit the escape key right now.

You're still looking.  Oh well, here you go.

Now for the second bit of "pup" love.  For those who didn't know, a Rugby League player has been caught out having his dog, um, how do I put this?  (blunt is good Therbs),  provide some oral relief on the footy player's cock. Joel Monaghan is the chap's name, Canberra Raiders is the team he plays for and I'd suggest he's in the biggest world of shame right now. Probably bigger than Michael Clarke's Arse Mountain. Thing is I just hope he doesn't opt out in a permanent way 'cos that would just add to the hurt already there.

 And I'm not going to pimp the photo either.  Its 'orrible.  More gut churning than the other two I've put in here. So for "Pup" Clarke and Joel Monaghan, and what the hell, for Alan Jones too,  this had to be the one.  Ladies and gennulmen, live here in Therbs Bar, the one and only Mr Paul Anka.  Good night and enjoy your evenings and remember, it may have been a dog of a day but for someone else it was a real bitch. Take it away Paul!


Monday, October 25, 2010

Pomcopaylpso Blues

Here in the eastern bit of Sydney and more specifrically around Bondi we've started to experience the oncoming tide of the seasonal Irish/Brit ratsacker infestation.  "Hit 'em high, hit 'em low, hit with the old elbow" doesn't quell what is a tidal force.  Its gonna be bad this season because of The Ashes.  The Barmy fucking Army are coming back and they are a right fucking bunch of pommy tourist bastards.  Any national group on tour is best avoided, just look at what happens when a Contiki bus rumbles through Rome.  The Caribineri lock and load and wield their machine guns with suitable menace when they that bus full of aussies and Kiwis rock into town.  The Barmy Army is if anything, slightly more organised and more mature but more loud and obnoxious 'cos they know its the last hurrah of youth.  After an Ashes tour its settle down with kids time so its no bends, straight on it and stay on it.  The silly fuckers drink VB.  Just shows you how fucked they really are. Now the problem is we don't have gun-toting crazy wogs in uniform like the Caribineri to scare the poms.  The only gun toting wogs we have are too busy shooting up houses in the south western suburbs of Sydney or playing at being hitmen in places like Rushcutters Bay and Hornsby.  Well, not really Hornsby, just sort of threw it in because I like that name.  Horsnby. Sounds trustworthy, sort of solid.  Anyways our lot are either doing those things or are already serving time for drug and weapons related offences. And the only uniforms they wear are taken straight off the shelf of Athletes Foot. So what to do about summer?  Go to the beach in non peak hour periods, get used to stereo battles and make sure I'm well stocked in beer and whiskey.  And maybe play a couple of away games.  I just hope that Michael Clark gets adopted by England and they take him home with them.  The dozey tosser.
Okay, fuck the spell check, straight to publish.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Sweet Whisky

Okay, this starts with whisky and ends with whisky.  Last night after boozing up in grand style I decided to do a taste test to decide which is best, Jamesons or Bushmills.  For the life of me I can't really remember which of the liquids came up trumps but I'll take a wild stab at this and go Jamesons.  It was the last one I had and by jingies I'm still drooling 15 hours after the fact.

Backtrack a bit to a couple of week-ends ago when the old family home went up for auction.  We smashed the reserve and did really fucking well so my bro and my sisters were very fucking pleased and I was so chuffed I went and bought a bottle of an old fave, Makers Mark.  Its since disappeared.  Lovely stuff.  So last week-end was a public holiday week-end in Sydney and we ordered a big fuck-off rubbish skip for the old house and did some major trashing of the old contents.  It was hard at times as my sis, my bro, my bro-in-law and I went through everything we hadn't previously dispersed.  I'd grown up there and was still going there once a week until the furniture was taken by the Salvos, bless their Red Shield hearts.  I found all sorts of crap under the house.  My bro had this big sledge hammer and by fuck it was fun smnashing shit up.  Really taking big hard swings and releasing all this balled up emotional angst.  It was a hard day both physically and emotionally so on the way back to my shoebox I stopped off and bought a bottle of McKenna bourbon.  Most of that has since disappeared.  This fucking bourbon I buy doesn't last the fight.

So on my way home tonight I'm fixing to buy another bottle to go with beers to go with the Bathurst 1000.  Fuck yeah!  This year as always I'll be supporting Holden.  What does Ford stand for?  Found On Rubbish Dump.  Backwards it means Driver Returning On Foot.  Unfortunately for the blue boys they're running out of half decent pilots ever since Craig Lowndes and his homies went back to Holden.  Fuck Ford anyway, go Holden!
Before I forget, props to Dr Yobbo for wanting to tease out the best testicle jokes, given that he's doing a Lance Armstrong over the next couple of days.  Best wishes Doc, recover well!  And we'll definitely crack on about it next time you're in town, down at The Rocks,
Did everyone know that Spy Nat has taken up Scientology?  She's a funny one that chick.
Now its time to go and replenish the bourbon.  Gotta love shopping.  Hooroo!

Monday, September 20, 2010

Burgering in Sydney

Remember that old Readers Digest stuff,  I am Joe's Adenoid, I am Joe's Skeletal Disfigurement, I Am Joe's Hypothalamus, I am Joe's Squashed Testicles?  You can't?  Well, here's the etsts I put to my brain cells and liver.
Wednesday.  You Am I played at the Oxford Art Factory with the gig being "Exile On Main Street" played from beginning to end.  Featured guests were Venetta Fields (sang backing vocals on the original album), Tex Perkins, Nic Cetser (Jet), Adalita and others including some bloke who looked like Rob Schneider.  Timmy Rogers rocked!  The whole gig was a slammin' affair from beginning to end with Tex Perkins adding his Rock God act to the whole thing.  Spotted in the audience was a Wiggle which begged the question were The Cockroaches gonna get up for a surprise special guest appearance?  Nup.  The beers flowed swiftly and we left the venue well satisfied.  On the way home I had to stop in at the side bar of the Teagardens hotel for a quick bourbon settler.
Thursday.  This was the day of the Russian Spy Invasion so I arranged to meet young Natski at the Metropolitan Hotel around 6.00.  I arrived early hoping to catch up with the publican and his wife but they weren't in.  I was hungover  like a bastard, and a couple of boney schooeys later I received a call from the Russian Spy She was somewhere near Jersey Boys or something so I gave her further directions.  She ended up down The Rocks almost at the Harbour Bridge and called again.  After redirecting her I walked down to perform a rescue mission.  Next call was from Natski and she was on teh roof bar of the pub and I was walking along George St looking for spies.  As I walked back I saw her leaning over the railing of the Roof Bar, waving.  We met up and had some drinks, catching up, shooting the breeze and marvelling at the wonders of electronic gaming.  The smoking deck was in the poker machine area.  Nifty huh?  And no, I didn't gamble.  Nat was jet lagged and I was topping up the fuel tanks from the night before and slowed right down. Yep, I admit I was probably struggling a bit.
On the way home I dropped in to the side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Friday.  I was feeling fuzzy after a couple of days on the sauce but still up for another night.  This time we met up at the Edinburgh Castle Hotel.  I walked in to find Nat and Abe Frellman at the bar getting a round of drinks.  Great timing, so we set in for a few settlers awaiting the arrival of Doc Yobbo.   Unfortunately Mr Lermontov was unable to join us due to changed travel arrangements. We sat at an outside table for a while debating his likely arrival as he'd been off to Newtown the night before to have beers with some old friends.  Abe went on a mission to do some internet/email/twitter searching to no avail.  We had a final drink and headed off to Diethnes restaurant for some Greek chow.  Just outside we ran into our fave Doc and ventured inside.  The meal was fine, my roast lamb was suitably tender and mouth watering, the others had lamb stew (that right Abe?), a mixed platter for the Doc and Nat went for the Haloumi.  We tried some god awful Greek beer before settling into a more local and palatable brew. We saw The.Best.Combover.Evahh!  Man, it was classy in its ambition and FKN funny in its effect. The second funny bit was that at one stage they had the bloke's dunnies blocked by a chair and some bloke acting like a bouncer.  There'd been some unpleasantness inside, unpleasantness on a large scale it seems, but the antics of the staff gave us some comedy gold.
Our resident Smallgoods Providore, the Hon. Abe Frellman took carte of the bill.  What a man. Many thanks for that Abe, much appreciated.  (Remember to email me the address to send that shirt.).
 Then we went wandered off to a pub.  It was Friday night, they had some loud music, beers poured in plastic cups and an unwelcoming atmosphere, as did the pub across the street which didn't want to let me in.  We turfed that and cabbed it down to the Lord Nelson hotel which brews its own beers.  Ahhh, yes.  Nice choice Abe!
The Lord Nelson closed its doors and we scattered.  On the way home I dropped into teh side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Saturday.  A free day, no work, no commitments, sleep in.  Yep, did that, some chores then got a beer call.
Some blokes get booty calls, I get beer calls.  I answered this one, watched football on TV, shot the shit and on the way home stopped in at the side bar of the Teagardens for a quick bourbon settler.
Sunday.  Had to make Avalon beach for lunch at the Starfish.  Beers, bubbly, wine, beers and a walk around teh northend of Avalon to fling flowers in the ocean to remember my dad.  Its where his ashes had been cast a few years ago.  Noice.
On the way home I didn't stop in at the side bar of the Teagardens hotel for a quick bourbon settler.
Monday.  Went to work and am now on my wayyfor a birthday drink, a steak and some red wine, most likely a shiraz.  The beat goes on.
Tuesday will be nothing.  Zilch, zero, blot.  Wednesday we have a bar voucher to work through from a previous pub trivia win.  Oh well, I should be fine by then
One more thing, I'm getting fucking pissed off with this persistent cold weather,  Usually by now we'd have some warm days and mild nights but noooooo.  Someone do a fucking sun dance please and get rid that crap Tasmanian weather which insists on hanging around, sort of like a stinking ratsacker who's camped on your lounge and doesn't like the concept of deodorant.
Fuck the spell check, this is going out live.
Nat, Abe, Doc Y, -  it was really FKN tops meeting you and hopefully it won't be too long before it happens again. Burger get togethers FTW!

Monday, September 13, 2010

This Week In Sydee

Two posts inside a week?  I'm just down at a kwikee-mart with internet gear to ask those coming in later this week to pop in and confirm that we'll be going to a pub which serves food, for those wanting to eat.  I have a couple of venues in mind - The Edinburgh Castle and The Metropolitan.  The big thing for me being drinkiness and both pubs fit the bill, the Metro probably has the better steaks, the EC has beer in jugs if you're that way inclined and for Doc Y they have Uncle Ted on tap.

Nat - I'll let you know the Thursday venue tomorrow.

Wednesday night I'm going to You Am I's recreation of Exile On Main Street at the Oxford Art Factory starring guests such as Nic Cester (Jet), Tex Perkins and others.  Should be tops as long as the tickets came through.

That's all for now, cop yez later.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Slackness and Being

Well folks, I know I'm slack.  Basically I'm fracked for getting into some blogs, commenting on others and doing fun stuff but that's all down to work computers.  Its also because I'm a neglectful and lazy fucker whose motivation centres on having a laugh, a drink and farnarkelling around.

So what's happening?  Doc Yobbo, Abe Frellman and maybe the Lermontovity will be catching up in my hometown of Sydee next week.  We'll have a couple of beers, maybe even with each other and then see who's best at tweeting the results.  Rules me out 'cos I don't be tweetin'.

Now that I've rediscovered this blog stuff I may even post something a tad more substantial.  And ya gotta know that the motivation for this reanimation of Therbs on line is due to the aforementioned pissup.  Hats off to Doc Y and Abe Frellman.

And Nat if you're lurking, hope you got my email.

Now if anyone wants to stir up Hav leave him be  I just sent him an email, part of which took the piss out of his cricketingness and wonky deck.

Shouts out to those mentioned above and also to Yankee Dog whose page I visit but can't lodge comments, similarly with Moko, Nat Spy, Doc Y, Mr Barnes, Bangar, GBob, NBob, Jennicki, Big Bad Al, and a heap of others.  If yez are in Sydney next Fridee come and have a beer with us.   Should be fuckin' tops, ay!

That's it, I'm off to the boozer to practice for next week.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Catch Up, World Cup, Tax, Bicycles and Booze

I'llget the booze and catch upstuff over with first.  Booze mainly because at JB'sgig in Sydney last Tuesday we started off at the 3 Weeds in Paddo, across the road from Ariel Books where the book gig played out.  There was beer at the book gig!  Fucking tops.  Then we had beer with plates of grilled bits of meat at The Balkan.  Then more beer at The Beauchamp Hotel back down the road.  I finished with a large straight up Makers Mark and that was me done.  It was a fine evening where I caught up with other Cheeseburger Gothic followers, namely Savo, AgeingGamer, Darkman and BondiBoy.  I'd met Darkman once but not the others.  Its funny how we managed to click at least at that superficial "hail fellow and well met" level.  I've previously split beers with Lermontov, Nautilus, Chaz (and Mrs Chaz), JB, Unicorn (where the fuck has he gone?) and Bedes.  It all ends up pretty well.  On Tuesday it was also good to see the merge of Burgers and Tweeters.  By the time JB puts out another book I don't think it will be groups of less than fifty coming along.  Wouldn't surprise me if his gigs become unmanageable in terms of doing the smaller scale feed'n'pub happenings.  That's what happens when someone's popularity starts hitting that next level.
Oh yeah, back at The Beauchamp Hotel I was when I realised it was the same pub in which David Ireland wrote "The Glass Canoe", his Miles Franklin Award winner about a bloke who drinks at a pub.  I read it years ago and found it again back at my mum's place when we weredoing some cleaning out.  Its a good read, giving what are now  echoes of a late 60's-70's life in a semi-industrial suburb of a big city in Oz.  Its mainly a series of vignettes but warms up to some good narrative.  And a lot of it happens in a pub which to my mind is sheer fucking genius.  Mind you The Beachamp these days is not really a pub having been well and truly renovated to cope with the pink dollar then more recently the boom of the Noughties.

World Cup.  Fuck it was a poor one.  Vuvufuckenzelas are The. Worst. Things. Evvaahh!  Santo Sam and Ed however were pure gold.  I seriously want the DVD to come out. Les and Foz were fucked.  They stink, big time.  They are so fucking insular it ain't funny.  I watched five minutes of the arseclowns before giving up on them.

Bicycles.  Tour de France.  Fuck it annoys me.  Its that thing of yeah, I'll watch a half hour and then go to bed.  Fucking bullshit.  End up watching a couple of hours and getting in a nice warm fug in front of the heater with a glass of something tasty by my right arm and daydreams of sick leave running through my mind.  So Cadel has the yellow guernsey today and this is his Big Chance.  It could be Cadel's Year.
Those fucking cobblestone bits early on were a laugh.  Well, I laughed anyways, especially when a large part of the Peloton went arse over tit.  You just gotta laugh at cyclists falling over and then wanting to go the biff.  Must be roid rage.

Tax.  Did it in record time.  Took me one hour to download it, fill it out on line and send it back via the interwbez to Mr Tax Refund Man. Did it just now as a matter of fact in this interwebz cafe.  If Mr Tax  doesn't argue with my reasonable deductions then its whoopee time!  Cigars and single malt plus a new bit of sound gear for the car. And maybe some new shoes.  Really, just threw that in for any chicks who may drop in.  Its really about the whisky and cigars and maybe  DVDs of the Cricket World Cups back in Seth Efrika (2003 when Punter went ballistic) and the West Indies (2007 when Haydos went crazy and Bob Woolmer tragically died of a heart attack in his hotel room). Maybe.  But its really about the whisky and cigars, hopefully in time to celebrate Cadel getting the winner'scheque in Paris.
Speaking of drinks, I'll be on me way now.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Ariel Gig

If anyone's going to JB's Ariel gig on Tuesday next week the plan is to meet at the 3 Weeds (Rose Shamrock and Thistle - the Paddo one, not the Balmain one).  I'll be there around 6.00, depending on bus times from the CBD most likely watching whatever sport they have on the plasma.  I'll be the one booing either Manly, Collingwood or Germany, depending on what's showing.  Ariel Bookshop is just across the road from The Weeds and JB's gig goes from 7.00 until 8.00.  No need to book a seat, just show up.  We will however need to book The Balkan for the post gig feed and I'll need numbers asap. The Balkan is this Croatian grill restaurant where you get chunks of meat, cooked Balkan style.  They also do a seafood grill which is very tasty. My advice is to skip lunch that day.

And remember that its Dry July so no drinkees 'nkay? Yeah, right. Poor joke I know but if you do get all self righteous about giving up the sauce for no other reason than some c-list git is trying to get numbers for their wanking attempt to expand their fading celebritiness then you can buy me drinks. Lots of them 'cos I'm the best fucking charity ever conceived.

 Doc Yobbo has done a good job on this nonsense  here.


Wednesday, June 16, 2010

Tahu's List

Just a quick observation on tonight's SOO.  I just noticed that going up against the State of Origin tonight is Schindler's List on Channel Seven.  Anyone see what I see here?  Okay then, on one channel we have the story of Herr Schindler who made good on his conscience by rescuing a number of Jews from the Nazi murder machine, the most extreme exponent of killing based on race hate..  On the other channel we have a premier Rugby League match set against the backdrop of racism espoused by Andrew Johns, the (now ex) New South Wales assistant coach.  Apparently he'd been calling players "black cunt", "coon", "nigger" for a while now and Tahu said "Enough!" and walked out of the team in protest. Timmy didn't wait  to be rescued from the well of bigotry by someone else, he clambered out of it himself.  He wasn't doing it because Johns slurred him, he did it to back other players of various backgrounds whose skin colour afforded the ignorant and bigotted Johns the opportunity on a number of occasions to bring out his nasty racist streak. And Tahu named those who had been targetted by Johns. Basically he'd had enough of it and drew a huge fuck-off line in the sand by withdrawing himself from the NSW team for tonight's match.  Johns subsequently resigned from the coaching role and has also been sacked from club coaching roles and his media gigs with News Ltd.  Channel Nine, you there?  Something going here which you may need to address in one big fuckingg hurry or are you too caught up in the blokey atmosphere of the Footy Show coterie?
Will this change anything? Most likely the NRL will implement an education program along similar lines to that which tries to teach footballers how to deal with women as human beings and won't that be a long drawn out process, trying to teach 18 year old blockheads some values and morals which their parents thought weren't necessary.

For those who don't know what NRL or State of Origin is, here we go.  The NRL is the current body which runs the highest level of Rugby League in Australia, similar to the NFL.  State of Origin is a yearly three-match series played between the two Rugby League states, New South Wales and Queensland.  It came about because in previous years the New South Wales team consisted of the best players from the Sydney rugby league competition (the big money league) regardless of from where they originall hailed.  It used to burn the Queenslanders something fierce that their players would be a part of the inevitable whitewash of Queensland.  So the Queenslanders got their wish and now select players who first played rugby league in Queensland.  The spirit of the Queenslanders embodies a typical Australian attitude of "we been done wrong", an attitude which never diminisihes, becuase if it did, so would the driving force of Queensland State of Origin Rugby League and most likely the series would fade away.

So tonight its gonna be a traditional footy night.  Meat pies, beer and whatever other booze I have lying around.  Unfortunatley Roy and HG don't do the commentary anymore since they switched to thebig bucks of commerical radio so I have to put up with people who take their sommentary seriously, and that's a big shame.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Popping Back In

Well, its been a while since I wrote here, over a month.  I've been sorting out the mum stuff and its been hard.  We're all in it and I'm glad of the family. Its a strong and close group of siblings and it makes a difference.  I also seem to have run out of blogsteam.  Aside from jumping in at JB's blog and his BT blogs I've basically become a lurker.  Ain't that fucking creepy?   Now that I'm actually bashing these keys here I'll be popping in and leaving a pile of doos at some other places.

While I'm here I'd like to have a small rant about the whole World Cup brouhaha.  Hi everyone, I'm Therbs and I played soccer as a young 'un. I also gave Rugby League and, surprise surprise, Aussie Rules a go.  My fave to play was League.  It incorporated most of the skills and more anticipation than soccer and had the added bonus of affording me the opportunity of going in hard.  Aussie Rules seemed softer, they really hated full on tackling.  Soccer was soccer, basically a kicking and running game with a ball which would generally travel in a predictable way.  That's my opinion and you won't change it, but feel free to flame.

The World Cup is basically politics writ large.  It was expanded to 32 teams as a tip of the cap to "3rd World" soccer nations (e.g. Asia, the U.S., Africa and Oz) and a realisation that politicking for the right to host the World Cup was reaching an Olympic standard.  More countries who feel involved, the better chance of being able to manipulate the votes.  Politics is what counts in world soccer with the money a recognised constant.

So back to the games.  I watched the U.S. - England and Oz-Germany matches and will probably watch the Kiwis tonight unless I really want to see what Gibbs is up to in NCIS. After that I'll be sticking to watching the Oz matches, maybe the semi-finals and final and occasionally a match starting at 9.00 p.m.  But I'm not really into it this time around, didn't go into a tipping comp nor did I buy the SBS guide.  Its partly due to an aging cynical outlook but also a realisation that the best quality soccer matches are generally found in the EUFA competitions.  National teams rarely provide the concentration of talent seen in Man Utd, Milan, Barcelona, Chelsea etc.  So basically I'll be keeping an eye on Straya and cherry picking a few other games.  Hell, I may not even bother with the final if Brazil don't make it.  When's the cricket start again?

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Hey Schultz, There's No Strudel On The Eastern Front

Hiya folks, back in 2006 I did a comment article over at the Bulldogs Debate Page about the Warriors getting sanctioned over salary cap indescretions in the National Rugby League.  Below is the rejigged article bringing it up to date.  The italics are the major additions to the original.

In 2002 the Bulldogs were investigated for serious breaches of the NRL salary cap. After being found guilty they suffered a significant monetary fine and the loss of all of the competition points they had amassed that season (37). This killed them off for 2002; drove sponsors away and the drama fed the electronic and print media for months. This all was spurred on by a ‘dob-in’. The Bulldogs had previously been cleared after an audit of their salary cap expenditure by the NRL auditor.

In 2006 the NZ Warriors were investigated for serious breaches of the salary cap. They were found guilty and suffered a significant monetary fine and the loss of four competition points. This affected their Final 8 chances as they missed out by 4 points on reaching the mark. They would have slipped in on a better for and against point’s record ahead of Parramatta. They may have possibly won the Premiership; not likely but they were still a chance. Media interest was very light in this case over which none of the hungry scribblers of 2002 raised a smidgin of blotted sweat. This case was spurred on by the executives of the Warriors notifying the NRL that something was awry in the Warriors handling of their Salary Cap. It is speculation to suggest this was the result of a ‘tip off’ but it certainly wasn’t the result of some great sleuthing by the Salary Cap Auditor, Ian Schubert.

In 2010 the Melbourne Storm were found to have systematically rorted the salary cap over a five year period. Their penalty was to be stripped of two NRL Premierships, 3 Minor Premierships, 8 competition points, the possibility of gaining competition points in 2010, a fine of $500,000 and being forced to repay $1.1 million dollars in prize money.

There is a large disparity between the ‘crimes’ committed and the sanctions imposed. A 33 point disparity may seem too large. Fans will dispute the severity or otherwise of each club’s penalties and this will go on for years. A more reasonable penalty for the Warriors would have been 10 competition points which would allow the Warriors to avoid the wooden spoon and all but rule them out of Finals contention. Allowing them the chance (however unlikely) to win the competition after being found guilty just didn’t gel with some people. Also what doesn’t gel with Melbourne Storm's penalty is the farcical nature of teams having to compete against a team made up of players receiving illegal payments. Common thinking is that they should have been told to become immediately compliant under the salary cap taking whatever measures were necessary, lose the points accumulated up to the point they do become compliant and then be able to compete for competition points. The severity of the penalties will be a constant source of debate and will use up a lot of newsprint for the remainder of the NRL season.

In the wash up of the Warriors’ case another club was accused by one of its ex players of behaviour similar to that which led to the Warriors being penalised; offering post-retirement sinecures. Was that club investigated? Given its wealth of representative players were there any post – retirement deals made with any of its stars to circumvent the salary cap? Did Sergeant Schubert know? Not bloody likely, but that is a debatable point.

What isn’t in dispute however is that all three major breaches were not detected by the salary cap auditor, Ian Schubert.

Here I will use the comparison with Sergeant Schultz in Hogan’s Heroes who needs to be vigorously shaken by a prisoner and often prodded with his own rifle before waking up to the likes of Lebeau or Carter demanding his attention.  The offer of strudel always wins him over.  What he fears most is a transfer to the Russian Front.  Whilst I really like Schultz, the manifestation of his incompetence in real life makes me shudder.

Who’s to know how many tunnels have been dug by the wily Hogan under the sleepy eyes of Sergeant Schultz. How many supply trains have been blown up and how many bombs dropped on that ball bearing plant conveniently located just outside of Hammelburg and within striking distance of Stalag 13? How many nice German motor vehicles have been appropriated from the motor pool? Does Sergeant Schultz know? Ask him and see what he says. You remember his catch phrase. Shout it out loud and strong and within earshot of any NRL fan.

So here we have three very serious salary cap breaches and another alleged breach not uncovered by the auditor. So what purpose does this bloke serve? Sorry, it’s a rhetorical question so I won’t accept any nasty swearing in response. Schubert has to go. As does Gallop. While we’re at it lets clean out News Ltd from any management or executive roles within the NRL. They've screwed up NRL TV deals, are incapabl;e of managing a football code and should stick to "man bites dog" stories and taking photos of celebrity breasts. In the words of Havock, cap the fkn muppets!

Kinch, get on the radio to HQ and tell them Goldilocks has a plan.

Friday, April 30, 2010

Dog Shit Killers Breakfast Club

Kerryn James softly cursed as she saw her boyfriend's phone vibrate with a low thrum, bouncing ever so slightly on the table on the opposite side of her bed. A lot less slightly in fact than the two of them had been bouncing earlier. Ian Reep groaned, having almost drifted to sleep after a heavy session of post dinner bedroom gymnastics. He winced as he looked at the caller i.d. on his phone, noting the time as 10.00.  It was one of those fucking private numbers which meant anything from a call centre in India offering hot new deals on jam tin phone plans, a call from one of his drunk mates (red hot fave, ten bucks on the nose thanks), or a wrong number (hope and pray, like Beckham from the spot in a World Cup shoot-out).  He grabbed the vibrating Nokia and hit the green button; "Hello.  Reep." his voice was a bad croak.
"Reepy!"  An excited voice blared, "Its Jacko."
"Fuck off Max! What the fuck do you want?" Reep turned over, cradling the phone, trying to protect Kerryn from Jacko's idiocy.
"I'm down at Central lock-up.  Two hundred bucks bail until Monday.  Any chance of a hand?  I tried Sniper but his phone's not working.  Sorry mate, I know its fucked but I'm stuck."
Reep shook his head and cleared his throat while doing mental checks of his blood alcohol reading and bank balance.
"I'll be there in twenty.  Stay cool."
"Thanks mate.  That's a gold medal effort."
"See ya", then Reep hit the red button.  By this stage Kerryn was all inquisitive as well as being annoyed so Reep turned around and answered her arched eyebrows.
"Its Jacko.  He needs bailing out down at Central.  Wanna come?"
Kerryn rolled back over, pondering the incongruity of having hooked up with a decent man who lead a normal life but was bedevilled by a couple of drunken gambling friends who frequently dragged him off on misadventures.  Maybe not so much since she'd fallen for him, distracting him with coupledom but the potential was always there, lingering like one of those cartoon devils camped on Fred Flinstone's shoulder offering all sorts of nasty advice.  Still, they were funny bastards and meant well.  It would also be something to write about in her "Creative Writing" class.  The instructor was always looking for some grit; well here be a pile of the stuff ready for sifting.
"Yep.  Its only one-thirty.  May as well go and save the idiot.  Did he say why he's in gaol?"
She watched as Reep climbed into his jeans and threw on his crumpled "NSW Blues" t-shirt.  He still had a tight body, the memory of its intertwined with hers bringing a happy smile to her face.
"No.  Have to be some pissed idiot antic though.   Hey, you coming half naked.  I'm sure the dykes on bikes will love that." As he slid on his sandals he took in the sight of her curves again.  Kerryn flicked back a smile and she padded out to the bathroom.  A few minutes later she was back. She grabbed her green dress from a clothes rack and drew it over her well proportioned body.  Reep made a silent prayer, blessing his cotton socks (not currently being worn) that he'd fallen in with such a girl.

Central Police was just down the road from the railway station and a good two shot navigation to the pin known as the Chamberlain Hotel, outside which Reep parked his Lancer coupe.  The pub happened to be open so he went inside and found the bar manager, Shaun serving a few of the crew from the latest musical being staged at The Capitol Theatre twenty metres down the road.
"When are you closing up, Shaun?"
"Prob'ly late.  The crew's thirsty and we're doing good tonight.  Mark told me to keep it going as long as it was humming.  You want a beer?" then he noticed Kerryn in the doorway and smiled in a leery sort of way, arched eyebrows, the works.
 "Hi Kez." he said in a singsong voice,
 Reepo decided to put some direction to unfolding events,
"No, just going over to the cop shop to bail out Jacko.  Don't ask 'cos I don't know.  We'll be back in shortly."
With that the couple exited the Chambo and walked across the parking lot, then Belmore Park, skipping across Eddy Avenue to the police station.  As they entered they saw a couple of detective types exit, leaving a clear path to the desk.  They fronted up,
"We're here to bail out Max Jackson."
The desk sergeant nodded, handing some forms to Reep while checking out Kerryn's figure.  She smiled, flicking her hair slightly as she looked over Reep's shoulder.  The cop explained the procedure then picked up his phone, punching in a number.
"Get Prisoner Jackson out here.  He's got bail."
As Reep filled out the forms Kerryn smiled at the sergeant.
"Busy tonight? Many drunk idiots causing strife?"  The sergeant shook his head.
"Not really.  Your mate's only the third and his wasn't a big deal.Plenty on over at Newtown though." As he spoke a junior constable escorted a cuffed Jacko to near the access door to freedom.  Reep handed over the completed forms to the sergeant along with four fifty dollar notes. The sergeant took the forms and the cash and then explained Jacko's responsibilities in terms of fronting up to the court and the range of penalties a no-show would trigger. In spite of his situation Jacko didn't appear too ruffled. He held up his hands for the cop to unlock the cuffs and then he signed the forms.  The constable opened the "freedom" door and Jacko exited. The desk sergeant handed him back a receipt, a copy of the bail papers and a bag of possessions from which Jacko promptly extracted his wallet.  It was stuffed with fifty and hundred dollar notes.  He slipped the wallet into his front pocket, nodded to the two police officers and said;
"Thanks boys.  Sorry about the hassle tonight but I'll sort it out.  I'll let yez know how it goes.  Oh yeah, remember that trotter's name too.  Probably run on Wednesday night in Brisbane.  Felton Mully."
The young cop laughed,
"Okay mate, just don't let us see you here again in handcuffs.  Good luck."
The three friends walked out of the police station and headed across the park.  Jacko looked at Kerryn,
"By Jeez you're looking decidedly shagworthy tonight.  Surprised to see you come out after eight but I'm glad you made the effort."  he then looked at Reep,
"Thanks poof.  I'll settle with you in the car."  He then noticed the Chambo had its lights on and doors open.
"Fuck that, I'll settle up in the pub and tell you a tale.  I could murder a beer!"

They walked into the Chamberlain Hotel a few minutes later.  Jacko went straight up to Margie, the red headed barmaid,
"Three thanks Margaret.  Got any sangers left over from the roasts?"
Margie shook her head,
"No but we've got some pies still going.  Beef or chicken?"
"Beef thanks."
He handed over a twenty dollar note, carrying the beers over to the bemused couple.  He went back to the bar, collected his change, his pie on a plate plus a squeeze bottle of tomato sauce.
"Duck me fed I need this!"  With that he downed half of his beer then guped down a huge bite of the meat pie.  The others stared at him, their eyes drilling into his, demanding answers.
"Okay, here's the story."  He then explained how he'd spent the previous morning breakfasting at Gayle's place after a night of passion.  At this Kerryn interrupted,
"A full-blown item now, you and Gayle?"
"S'pose so, but that's not the point." he quickly changed the subject not wanting to turn the story into a romantic comedy. "I left her place and went and caught the bus over to Leichhardt."  Jacko then explained how he'd stopped at his local pub and started putting a few bets on the races in Melbourne.
He managed to get a few wins, then lost most it chasing the big punt.  He ended up putting fifty each way on a 12-1 shot, Tina's Joy, which took an outside run on the home straight and bolted in by half a length over the favourite.  He then backed in a few favourites with hundred dollar bets and followed up with some greyhound wins, scattered amongst a series of losses.
"So I end up two grand in front and start celebrating.  Gayle's off at her sister's place preparing some family gig and Sniper's gone missing so I'm on my own, with you two doing your Ikea thing or whatever the fuck gayness it was..three more thanks Margie...so I headed up to Newtown, to the Sandringham to see who was playing." Jacko walked over to the bar and grabbed the three fresh beers.  Then he remembered they were meant to be driving.
"You wanna put your car in the car park?  This may take some drinking, this tale of mine."  Ian nodded,
"Best idea ever.  We'll cab it home eh Kez?"  Kez agreed, fascintaed where this was leading and determined to turn it into a story for her next class assigment. Reep walked out to his car, got in and drove it across to the car park, then handed over the ten dollar flat fee to the attendant.  While he was gone Kerryn pressed Jacko on how he was going with Gayle;
"Well Kerryn, she's good.  She makes me laugh a lot and we got on well in bed.  Taking it easy at the moment but its going along nicely."  he took a long pull on his beer, " What the fuck did you expect me to say anyway?  That she's a raving case and into bat blood?  I know about her ex, her exploits and all that shite but all it means to me is that she's lived a bit more than some and a bit less than others. God knows I couldn't go pointing any fingers in that direction."  Kerryn arched her brows, inviting an explanation which wasn't coming.  Not coming yet anyway, it was still at the domestic terminal waiting for a standby to get on the next flight.  She knew Jacko had lived fast and loose with the usual rules of engagement but hadn't heard all the stories.  Ian was letting them out on a slow trickle feed and she couldn't get near the tap to increase the flow rate.  All it needed was patience and beer and she'd be able to tap the well.  She made a mental note to quiz Gayle the next day.
"So Gayle's at her family's place tonight?  Poor old lonely Jacko.  Desparate, lonely Jacko."
"Fuck yeah, that's right.  You don't feel like a proper shag I s'pose?"
"Reepo does me well thanks.  You should get some tips from him.  Speaking of whom..."
Ian Reep walked back into the pub and grabbed his beer,
"Thirsty work indeed.  Now what are you two up to?  Did we get to the crime scene yet?"

Jacko smiled and continued to relate the evening's events.  After going to Newtown, flush with his gambling wins he walked into the Sandringham to check out who was playing.  Unfortunately for him he recognised one of the bouncers from the night he and Sniper had killed Dog Shit Machine (deusexmachina or some such shite).  The bouncer didn't quite recognise him but neither did he like the cut of Max's jib and promptly bounced him out of the pub.  Cursing, Jacko bounced back up ready to shape up in a drunken act of bravado but the sudden appearance of two more monstrous Maori bouncers settled the issue so he turned tail and strolled off.  He cut down to Enmore Road and wandered up to the RSL club.  After signing in he wandered into the main lounge area and noticed another ghost from the past, the lead guitarist from Dog Shit Machine.  He was in company with a sleazy looking manager type and another guy who looked like the keyboard player from Flange Gasket.  Smelling something afoot in the world of indie rock he went and ordered a beer from the bar and took up an obesrvational position close to the DSM guitarist's coterie of ill-met friends.  Jacko overhead snippets of conversation as he kept an eye on the TAB monitors in the adjacent bar.  It was mainly about studios, rights, "advance earns" and recording albums.  He went and placed a bet on "Rex Retlub" in Cannington and resumed his seat.  Rex Retlub came in as favourite, paying a buck-fifty which meant that the hunnert he'd put on gave Jacko a fiddy buck profit.  He was happy with that and decided to leave.  On the way out he also decided to leave his mark behind.  As he got up he leaned over to the DSM guitarist and said,
"Saw your crap band Dog Shit Machine at the Sando a while back.  Remember how you lost your worse-than-shite sound?  Deusexmachine?  Fuckin' Dog Shit Machine!"
As his tirade went on Marty buried his head in his hands, remembering the night at The Annandale Hotel when the Gasket had applauded Jacko's efforts.  The DSM guitarist didn't know what to do.  His sense of artistic integrity was mixed with a full-blooded Melbournish feeling of 'Sydney done us wrong again'.
He got up and promptly swung a slow looping right at Jacko's beer-infused face.  Jacko was anticipating this and backed away, laughing.  The follow up left was not anticipated that well by the drunk punter and he  only managed to bow his head, copping the blow on the top of his skull.  In his effort to over hit the guitarist slipped over his chair and fell to the ground and that's what the bouncers saw.  They looked at Jacko, grabbed him and frogmarched him to the foyer, followed by the angry guitarist who insisted on laying assault charges. Jacko's response was,
"Blow it out your arse ya big poof."

"So that's how I ended up in the clink.  Newtown cop shop was full so they had to bring me here.  The cops got statements from the bouncers and the guitarist but that bloke from Gasket and the manager guy apparently saw nothing.  So its basically a 'he-said, he-said' case.  The bouncers didn't see that dickhead throw a punch but they're going to get the security footage on Monday.  I rest my case."

Kerryn and Ian shook their heads, laughing.
Reepo asked,
"So what's with you and Sniper's band.  My bass is ready, got a drummer?"
"Senior's organising a Junior from his drum classes.  We've got rehearsal time next Wednesday arvo at five in Surry Hills.  Kerryn, are you keen on adding some vocals?"
Kerryn thought back to her own high school days of singing at school dances in front of a band doing Cheryl Crowe, Blondie and Madonna covers.
"As long as its just once or twice I'll do it.  Have you got any songs?"
"We've written four and been practicing the guitar bits of a heap of covers.  Pogues, Gurus, Oils, Nirvana, spiderbait, even some Beatles, Stones, Who and Easybeats.  I reckon we'll end up being able to last two hours.  Sniper's done well with his guitar work.  Never picked him for a muso but he's picked it up okay for a retarded peddo."

Kerryn cocked her head, "Pogues, eh?" then she started singing part of their Christmas song;
'You're a bum, you're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip on that bed
You scumbag, you maggott
You cheap lousy faggott
Happy Christmas your arse
I hope its our last
The boys of NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay,
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas Day'
(The Pogues - "Fairytale of New York)

Jacko looked at her in disbelief.  Sniper would love it.  Her voice was strong and true and that was exactly the sort of song he wanted to include in a set. He said "again",  but this time he sang the bloke's parts.  Reepo did a polite 'golf clap' and winked at Kerryn explaining,
"She's got that album.  Sings to it quite often."  Kerryn tilted her head, looking at Max,
"Okay, I'll sit in for a couple of tunes as long as you get us another drink."
Jacko complied and went to the bar.

Wayne Blake looked at his phone and noticed a couple of messages were waiting demanding attention. Sitting in the driver's seat of the welfare department's fleet car was one of their property projects staff, Scott Booth.  Both men were glad that their shift had presented no problems.  The fitout work at the department's Darlinghurst office was ahead of schedule and the first stage of the public contact area refit would now be finished by midday Sunday, allowing the office staff to prep the area for opening time on Monday morning.  Blake had been seconded to the project after being onvolved in a committee to redeisgn part of the Area Office in Pitt Street, adjacent to Belmore Park. He didn't know it but the Property Manager had been impressed with his input and ability to get staff on side.  He also got on well the Property Team blokes and seemed a likely recruit for an upcoming vacancy. Booth had been briefed to observe how Blake handled the pressure and had been please with Sniper's performance so far. He mused on this as he drove. He turned left from Goulburn Street into Pitt and as they approached Campbell St Blake noticed that the Chamberlain Hotel was open. He looked at Scott Booth and asked,
"Feel like a beer Scotty?"
"No mate, I want to get home.  The missus is expecting me to be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow.  Gotta finish off that cubby house. By Christ that's been a nightmare project.  Worse than that fucking Darlo fitout anyway."  He pulled the car over to the kerb, adding,
"Get a skinful mate, you've earned it.  That was a good effort today.  I'll catch up with you on Monday when we debrief the boss on site."
"Cheers Scotty." with that he waved at Booth as the "Z car" moved off, heading south.
Bake walked into the festive pub atmosphere and as he did he heard the end of Kerryn's singing and stood back, unnoticed by his friends.  He saw Jacko walk to the bar then decided to announce his presence by yelling out,
"And another one you rancid poof!"
Jacko turned around, shook his head, calling out,
"Fuck off and get your own.  What the fuck have you been up to anyway?"
"Working.  Got that overtime gig working with the Property blokes on that fitout of your manky workplace.  Built you a new dunny and everything." Blake walked over to help his friend carry the drinks.
"A long day, I need this." Blake then swallowed a third of the schooner in one long draught.
Jackson said, "Ohh mate, you haven't heard the best of it."
After swapping their stories Blake fetched a final round of drinks.  They conferred on their next movements with Jackson insisting they go back to his "palace" in Leichhardt and carry on the party.

Kerryn nudged Ian awake at around ten thirty in the morning.  He looked a mess, just like she felt.  Fuck!  They had to go back to the car park and get his car.  They'd still be well over the limit for driving. Shit! Oh well, they'd sort that shit out later. She scrabbled at Reep's hair as his eyes slowly opened.  His voice was a poor croak of its usual self,
"Thank Christ that was you and not Sniper or Jacko.  I'm busting. I need a snakes'."  He got up and staggered into the bathroom from where his ablution noises were loud and strong.  Then he started singing,
"I like to go swimming with bow legged women and swim between their legs." to drown out the splashing noises.
From the kitchen Kerryn heard Jackson talking to someone.  She got up, putting on her dress to stop Max getting an eyeful and walked into the kitchen.  Jackson continued his conversation,
"Kezza's here now.  Want a word?"
He then whispered to Kerryn, "Its the blond prossie looking for some HLA". Kerryn snatched the phone and spoke into it,
"Hiya darling!  How was the family gig?" she smiled into the phone as Jackson grabbed a steaming mug from the counter and handed it to Kerryn.  He then grabbed a half-full coffee pot and poured himself a mug and headed out to the lounge room.  On one side Blake was fast asleep on a foam mattress.  The lounge was still folded out in its service as emergency kip spot for Reep and Kerryn.  There were three guitars lying on the floor in the dining area but he noticed that the amps had been turned off.  As he did, Reepo exited the bathroom and walked into the lounge.
"Feel like a cuppa?  I'll make a pot of tea."
Jacko shook his head, pointing out the coffee pot in the kitchen, so Reep went and poured a cup.  Kerryn hit the red button on Jacko's phone and walked over, handing it back to him.
"Gayle's going to pick up the car.  I told her the keys are behind the bar.  Better ring Mark and make sure of that."  Reep pulled out his own phone and called the Chamberlain and confirmed that his keys were n fact there.
"Sweet.  That's nice of Gayle.  Don't know what she sees in a hopeless prick like you Jackson, she needs to wake up to herself."  Jacko's only response was that "All chicks dig me."
Noticing the recumbent Blake, Kerryn shuffled over and started to flick her hair into his face, triggering a fly swat response from the Dog Shit Killer guitarist.  She repeated this a few times before Reep and Jacko got into the act, eventually rough housing him awake.  He growled himself awake, took his turn in the bathroom, then grabbed a coffee from the nearly empty pot after rummaging through Jacko's fridge. Looking around the busily messy flat he addressed his friends,
"Ladies and Gentleman, good morning and welcome to the Dog Shit Killers Breakfast Club.  I'm proud to announce that in his fridge Max has stashed a truckload of bacon and a carton of eggs which are about to become breakfast.  If someone would kindly ring our press agent and let them know, I'd hate to miss out on a photo op of Jacko's apparent turn to domesticity."
Kerryn chuckled, "And he's got a multi roll pack of toilet paper in the bathroom plus a pot plant in there."
She reaised her coffee cup, toasting her friend Gayle,
"Here's to Gayle, taming a new frontier."
As she did she noticed Jacko, stretched back on a lounge chair taking an unhealthy slurp from a large glass full of coke.  Then she noticed the nearly depleted Jim Beam bottle at his side and "tsked" at him.
Jacko swivelled his head in her direction, bloodshot eyes beaming out his own truth in stereoscope.  Noticing the nearly empty bourbon  bottle Blake swiftly stepped over and opened it, smelled it and then tilted the bottle to his mouth, commenting,
"By fuck ya gotta be quick around here.  He'd almost finished that off without even offering any around. The prick."
After taking another swig from his glass Jacko summed up his true feelings, belching, then asking,
"Did someone mention bacon?  I could murder a feed."

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Facing Up

Seems like a long time, a life time you could say since I wrote here.  I went to Hobart, like I said in my last post and wetted a baby's head.  To a typically extreme extent but it was a blast.  Damn!  Missed the Lark distillery.  That leaves me with an excuse to revisit the city later this year.

 I was back at work for a week when slam, the following Saturday morning I got one of those horrible phone calls telling me my mum had just had a bad fall.  Wrong info. Short version is she died and it wasn't a fall.  The aorta crapped out down in her abdomen. One of those nasty aneurisms which an 86 year old is unlikely to survive.

So I'm working through this and all of the subsequent crap which is to come but by jingies we gave her a damn fine send off.  A nice sunny day, crematorium, church then wake.  We kicked it big time amongst  a fine gathering of family and friends.  Makes me proud of the rest of the clan, they're a fine mob.  For once my drinkingness came into its own and by fuck there was some laughter amongst the tears.  More laughter and it keeps us going above the bad stuff below.

Sorry that this is not the most uplifting of posts but I needed to share.  I've yet to complete that Canadian/American trip and there's another Dog Shit Killers episode sitting ready to go.

I must ask what the fuck is David Gallop doing?  That bloke needs to go and fuck something else up.  Why can't he go and sort out the Greek accountants and leave football alone the silly fucker.  Or plug that volcano over in Iceland with his big fat head.  He definitely shits me no end the little turd.  To paraphrase General Havock, the muppet needs cappin'.

Oh yeah, reminds me of a post I did somewhere comparing the NRL salary cap auditor with Sergeant Schultz.  I might find it, update it and post it again.

Anyways, I'm off to Bedes' place and see how the footy tips are going.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

Getting Wet

I'll be off to Hobart in a coupla days to indulge in wetting a baby's head and catching up with old friends (the ones with the new bub).  I know I've been slack on this blogging front having stalled myself in the travel thing at the U.S. border.  I'll finish that travel tale when I get back.  I've drafted another Dogshit Killers instalment, in fact its probably a bit long so I'll break it up and turn it into two.  I figured out the end bit but getting there is taking a while.  I always seem to set a lot of the scenes in the pub.  In fact its really fucking hard dragging me away from the place, I half expect a bouncer muse to come along and heave me out onto the street. I might even edit it before publishing so that it reads a bit better than usual.  But that takes effort and if you haven't noticed it written in fourty foot high sparkly neon letters, I am a lazy bugger.

One of the things to do in Hobart is go to the distillery and indulge in their tasting platter.  This has to be one of the best concepts since free beers at the Tuborg and Carlsberg breweries, which I did in one day. Shit yeah!  For those who don't know anything about Tasmania its sort of like New Zealand except it doesn't have boiling mud or truncated vowels.  Its cricket team is also better than the Kiwis having given birth to the current Australian captain and the immortal David Boon (52 cans), the International Drinking Man of Cricket.  Boonie is known for setting the record for the most beers downed on a flight between Australia and the UK. He took the record off another cricket legend, Rod Marsh (45 cans) who set the record after failing in his attempt several years earlier when that other legend, Doug Walters set the 44 can record.

Boonie signing a beer coaster before doing the "Boon Walk"

Rod Marsh looking thirsty

Doug Walters - fkn legend

Marsh and Boonie hit the turps - top shot!

So that's it.  Once again what was meant to be a minor update turned out to be beer talk.  I guess that's what this interweb stuff is mainly about, for me anyway.   And Doc if you're still out there, the Dogs are gonna eat your mangy Wabbits.  Here's a song you can sing when they go down.

Dogs love to eat dem Bunnies
Bunnies great to eat
Bite their floppy ears off
Chew their bunny feet.

Time to stop talking about beer and go and  enjoy some.  Have great Easters!