Yesterday I had only a minor hangover and cured it by a swim down at the beach. On the way down there I walked past a campervan. It was one of those cheap jobs favoured by backpackers who then park them in the nearby streets for easy access to the beach and to save on accommodation costs. Its become something of an issue for some people but it doesn't bother me all that much.
This particular campervan had its side door open so as I walked past with my hangover straining at the leash I peeked inside. Lying on the mattress was a young lady who was naked from the waist up. Obviously the occupants had opened the door to let in the sea breeze on a hot night and sometime during the post NYE activities the sheet had slipped off. So I guess this is what some of the Waverley Council residents don't like; half naked girls sleeping in campervans.
The beach was surprsingly uncrowded but the tide was on the low side which didn't make for any awesome surf type action. The water temperature has risen above that of the bitingly cold stuff of a month ago but it was still slightly brisk which to me is the ducks guts for the first stage of killing a hangover. The second stage is the hot walk back up the hill, a shower and breakfast fry up accompanied by a big pot of tea. I needed that because I caught up with some friends in the afternoon for New Years Day drinks. That went on for longer than is recommended by medicos but we had a good time. I ended up crashing at around 2.30 this morning so repeated the hanggover cure again. This time the campervan with its half naked mistress wasn't there. The water was a good start and this time for breakfast I stuck with muesli and tea and toast with home made jam i'd been given at Christmas. Tomorrow I fix a flat car battery and start looking for a Mazda 3. I'm targetting something only 2-3 nyears old with less than 40,000 kms on the clock. Specifically io'd like an SP23. They go well and have really, really cool dashboards which is important given that you look at them quite a bit.
But more importantly Australia takes on England in an effort to square the series and win back some sort of self respect. We have a bloke called Beer in the team and that has to be inspirational. On the down side is having that uselss twat Michael Clarke as Captain of the team. People are being sporting and congratulating England on their performance in Melbourne. I say fuck that for a game of soldiers, don't befriend them, just get out there and smash them.
Also this year I've upped the ante in tech gear so will be posting more frequently. Whether that's good or bad remains to be seen. Its now bourbon time.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
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,
Jacko?"
"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.
Silence.
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."
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,
Jacko?"
"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.
Silence.
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.
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.
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.
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!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3lwmOEFSZBo
"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
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!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3lwmOEFSZBo
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.
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!
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!
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!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)