We blew out of Toronto once again by train, this time to Montreal. I loved Montreal because it was this really cool neo-French city sitting on a continent best known for Big Macs and calling French people “cheese-eating surrender monkeys.” Everything about Montreal seemed cool. The brasseries, cafes, boulangeries and hell, it even had a French style Metro system. The youth hostel was cool, the pool was cool, even the baseball players were cool when they’d belly up to the bar and order beers in French.
Jerry and I spent an afternoon wandering around, adapting to this mini-France and found a brasserie which did really good and cheap “dinner and drink” bargains. You got a decent feed with a vin de jour or a beer for something like two-fiddy.. Step up to the podium and receive your medal Mr Brasserie. We used that bar a lot over the next few days. The first time we walked in we found it to be a cross between an American style bar, a French café and a pub. It had pool tables, sport on TV and a French menu. Okay Mr Brasserie, make that gold, silver and bronze. That night we found that we didn’t even have to break into the hostel because they didn’t give a toss what time we turned up. Shwivilzed.
The morning after we found a café which did both Euro and Canadian breakfasts. Being messy, hungover pissheads we opted for the full strength Canadian option involving a mountain of pancakes, a gallon of maple syrup and more bacon than was produced during the counter revolution on Animal Farm. After that we headed off to the old part of town to the Fine Arts Museum which was exhibiting a truckload of gear by Joan Miro, a Spanish dauber of the (surprise! surprise!) surreal variety. It seems that anyone in Spain who wielded a paintbrush or slung a chisel was tagged Surrealist. Must have been one of Franco’s pet projects. He would have had the Guardia Civil (blokes who wore Devo hats and toted machine guns) scouring the pueblos and cities looking for people with paint stains on their clothes, then whoosh!, off to Surrealist Camp for you!
On the way down there we were talking about how old school European the place looked when in the distance we saw the golden arches. A few seconds later we heard a non-golden mid-western drawl ask a mid-western set of ears ring out the immortal phrase;
“Do ya wanna go to McDonald’s?”. This became a signature reference for us for the future, for those times we heard;
a) something really obvious,
b) something really dumb,
c) something really, really annoying.
The exhibition was fine as far as art goes and I recognised the style from a few pieces I’d seen in Europe. I did notice however how a lot of his sculptures had holes in the middle, and were called things like “man with hole”, or “dog with hole and, oh, I guess another hole”. If you like Kandinsky, give Miro a try. If you don’t like either of them, don’t sweat it, its no big deal. Right, that’s enough of the art stuff, back to basics.
Another feature of Montreal were some really cool bars, themed up in all the (1986) latest fads from post-punk angst to electro-bop Euro disco, jazz fusion (a great catch all for anything which remotely sniffs of jazz) to hard core rock. After an afternoon kip, a swim and a cheap meal at the brasserie we hit the bars. A lot of them had outside seating and it was good, sitting outside on a balmy night downing a few sharpies before hitting on the local wildlife. I must have had a good time because my journal of the time is very hazy, as is my memory. Its basically a blur of bars, dancing, girls, more bars, groping in the dark, cab rides and a late finish. I do remember a Goth bar and being very, very amused and horrified at the same time. There’s only so much of “The Forest”, “M” and “Boys Don’t Cry” which a bloke can stand while mascara runs down sweaty goth faces, thence forming a black, tar-like pool , ready to trap any careless gothosaurs in its unyielding, morbid embrace. Fuck that for a joke, I was outta there!
Two more nights we spent in Montreal before we lit out to Quebec City. This was sort of cool, particularly down in the old city with its rampart walls a legacy of the Frog-Pom wars of the 18th Century. Those ramparts were bugger-all use to keep us ratsackers out so we had a fine old time exploring the bars, cafes and brasseries. The hostel was a bit weird; it was all at once a dictatorship and an anarcho-syndicalist collective. We lasted two nights before ceding victory to the Napoleonists and ventured on to Ottawa, the capital of Canadia Land. Yeah, it was okay but mainly because we lucked into some guy’s 40th birthday and this mob was well cashed up. Beers and whisky all night long and we had to fend off the advances of older, cougarish women. We didn’t want their Mountie-type husbands pummelling the bejaysus out of us so we repelled their drunken advances (well, sort of). The next day we toured the city, checked out the parliament and other buildings of national import then did a night run north east, doubling back on our tracks and ending up in Edmunston.
Edmunston had nothing to go for it. The pub was crap, the town was crap, the chicken for dinner was crap and there was fuck all to do. We got a cheap motel room, ate our chicken, drank a six pack and watched crap TV on a crap TV set before crashing out for a crap night’s sleep. What a waste of time that place was and would definitely be a front runner entry for “Let’s Go Home – The Finalists”.
Next day saw hit a 7.30 bus for Fredericton. We checked out the town, talked a girl from Prince Edward Island, went for a pizza dinner (recurring them, I know) and then hit a couple of bars before getting an early night, around 11.30.
From Fredericton we bussed into St John, the launch pad for Prince Edward Island. (PEI). St John is a port town which had a reasonably clean YMCA where we stayed, making use of the gym and the pool. Naturally this had the desired effect of m aking us thirsty so it was off to the waterfront and a local pizza joint and then into the bars.
After a bacon based breakfast we took the bus to PEI, part of the trip being on a ferry, given that PEI is an island. This place is mainly famous for some kiddies’ book called “Anne of Green Gables”. The Toronto crew had recommended PEI as a great place to potato out, and called it Potato Island. What it did have was a couple of good bars, a cheap hire car place and some nice beaches. We booked into an overcrowded hostel where I had to sleep on a couch. That was okay ‘cos it wasn’t in the dorm room which was full of, I dunno who they were but I’m glad I didn’t have to share sleeping quarters that night. I think they must have been fans of that kiddies’ novel. I also didn’t mind because we’d been well fed and watered at the Dublin Pub and a bar called Avenues until about two in the morning. For breakfast there was no Fruhstuck Express so we hit a local café for the pancake stack and then went and rented a car. It was some sort of Dodge two-door coupe but it went fine along the country roads. It got us to the beach, a few bars on the way back and then into town again for another night at the pubs and bars. Sure, I drove under the influence but I figured that if I was driving on the wrong side of the road, alcohol could only improve my driving. So it did. We checked out the next day, returned the car and then hitched a lift to the ferry. The ferry took us to the mainland where we hitched another ride down to Halifax. This city was an important port during WW2 for convoys going to the UK. A lot of maritime history was on display so we spent some time down at the waterfront, checking it out. We stayed at the local YMCA and ate at a nearby pizza joint. The YMCA had its own gym which we made use of, feeling a bit turgid after not enough physical activity over the past week. Obviously this also built up our thirsts so it was bar hopping time again.
We found one great pub down near the water and played at being drunken ratsacker yobbos with funny accents. The local lasses were a bit wary, not succumbing to my manly wiles. Ah yes, that’s right. I was a gibbering mess after experimenting with shots of Canadian club. Didn’t help by asking if it was the same club which was used to whomp down on fur seals. Poor joke which got the appropriate response. After beating a churlish retreat we figured our invasion of America. We decided to slip in on its north eastern flank and pillage forth from there. But that was a day or so away, we had to get to Yarmouth first for a ferry to Maine..
We hit the hitching trail, bumming rides. We got a ride in the back of a small car filled with fishing gear to some highway junction where we were let off and waited for the next. And waited. There was not a lot of interest in two soapy looking backpackers with their thumbs hanging out trying to bludge a ride. Eventually some preacher guy pulled up and took us in tow, to his manse in Caledonia. He was a single guy in his forties, an honest to God, Holy Rolling preacherman. One of his flock was at his house cooking up a feed of which we were invited to partake. All good and bountiful and we ended up laying Trivial Pursuit (Canadian version) with a few of the Rev’s extended family. We promptly got whupped in the game but as we were also offered lodgings for the night we enjoyed a couple of post prandial libations and things were going well. All in all a good, homey evening. I was fine, I had a nice comfy bed, clean sheets and a wonderful breakfast in the morning. I even made a ten buck donation to the church to show my thanks and as I did so I looked up and said “Thanks Big Fella.” The Rev then gave us a lift to the nearest main highway at Digby and waved us a cheery good-bye. While we were hitchhiking again I remarked that it had been a brilliant piece of hitchhiking, what with being housed, fed and watered ‘n all but Jerry begged to differ. Apparently the preacher guy went into Jerry’s room in the small hours of the morning, sat on the end of his bed and asked if he would like some company. Yon Jerry politely rejected the preacher guy’s advances and spent the next hour or so expecting a more forceful visit, which didn’t eventuate. He asked me if I’d received a similar advance,
“Nup. But then I don’t look like a poof.”
Whilst we were waiting for our next ride we went through the lyrics of PIL’s “Rise”.
Anger is an energy was a theme for Jerry as I continued my remorseless attack on his lack of grace in rejecting the advances of the pastor the previous evening.
This theme was broken when our next ride pulled up. It took a couple of more rides before our final one to Yarmouth swooped us up. It was a sheriff of the court going to St John to serve some legal documents on some miscreant. He was an interesting fella, had a badge, a gun and everything but he was no Boss Hog. He dropped us off at the ferry wharf for the boat to Bar Harbor, Maine, USA. At 4.00 p.m. it took us on, promising a six hour trip to Bar Harbour.
Fuck, did I have any of Uncle Sam’s currency on me? A lonely looking twenty but that’d be enough for a beer in Bar Harbor any town which has a name starting with Bar was always going to be an odds on favourite in my book. And so it turned out to be.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Friday, March 12, 2010
Dog Shit Killers (2nd verse)
I've seen a thousand years of pain
I've got a huindred pounds of trouble running round in my brain
Its a feeling hard to explain
Its getting so bad I think I'm going insane
Hangover gorillas, hangover clowns
They fuck you up, then they fuck you down
Hangover monkeys, hangover chimps
Stand over pain, they're alcohol's pimps
Them fuckin' apes are killing my head
They took all my money and they shat in my bed
They beat me up and cut my skin
They pissed in my mouth, reeking of gin
chorus
Furry mouth needs a number one blade
Headache like Kabul in a Taliban raid
The answer is always the same
A hair of the dog, get back in the game
chorus
first verse reprise
chorus
Dog Shit Killers - "Hangover Gorillas"
Sniper Blake flicked the wah peddle with his foot and strummed an "a minor" on his Ibanez Strat rip off. Jacko shook his head, nursing his genuine Rickenbacker which he'd inherited off a muso friend who'd topped himself six months ago. The use of a dead man's guitar didn't faze him at all, even if the muso had been a friend from high school days back in Newcastle. He shook his head again, looking at Blake.
"I tell you the first chord is 'f' you fucking tardo."
"That's arse talk. Its definitely 'A' minor. Dylan did a lot of that." Blake retorted with his legendary scowl; "Fuck it anyway. Let's just work on "Hangover Gorilla" a bit more. I'm sick of "Watchtower".
"Only because you keep on fucking up the fingering on the chorus". Jacko was a hyper critic, blind to his own faults and was good odds to be clinically diagnosed as suffering from narcissism. Blake never conceded a point when duelling with Jacko, never wanting to set up a verbal slog sweep over mid wicket.
"Yeah, right. You can't even get the three chord opening progression going without arsing up the tempo you fucktard. anyway, lets knock off a few more songs, we're almost there."
The two would-be guitarists went through several of their fave tunes, getting their timings right, chord progressions smooth and the leadf licks sorted out. They finsished off with "Hangover Gorillas". They'd played it, re-written it, and were sick of it, but now they realised they'd completed its composition. They went through it another three times and finally were able to boast that they'd done it; written a song, edited and bashed the shit out of it like it was a Gitmo detainee and they were Jack Nicholson andnow had it nailed.. The result was that it sounded the goods. The real deal. They looked at each other, switched off amps and put guitars in cases. Blake jumped up, laughing fit to burst, doing a poor impression of a Revivalist preacher;
"I Believe! I have the Power! Hallefuckenlujah!" he laughed again and thumped Jacko on the back. Jacko grinned and yelled out;
"I genius! I smarts and bright. I be fucking thirsty!"
" Beer time!" Blake proclaimed.
"Chambo?" was Jacko's suggestion, noticing Blake's excitement and feeling overjoyed himself.
"Yep!"
They swarmed out of Jacko's flat like footballers on Mad Monday, All they were missing was Lara Bingle. They landed on Parramatta Road, Leichhardt, on a hot March Saturday afternoon. They were quickly enbussed on a 440, getting off in George Street near the Capitol Theatre, a block away from the Chamberlain Hotel. It was their pub of choice.
Blake checked out the latest Fox Sports news for cricket and F.A. Cup results.
"Fucking Liverpool. Fucking retarded Scousers!" was his angry comment on what he'd seen, as Jacko returned from the bar with schooners in hand. Jacko looked up, looked at Blake, cursing;
"Another fucking year. Should never have taken up with that mob. Craig fucking Johnston has a lot to answer for."
Blake took the opportunity to remind his companion of his roots,
"What do you expect of the little tosser? He's from Newcastle, innit? Has to be tardo. DADS. Dumb as dog shit."
Jacko winced and ground out,
"At least he's not a Balmain wannabe, whining of cold latte and writing letters to the Sydney Morning Herald about Howard's cricket autism. Yeah, I know, you're no longer wanting to move to Balmain but that doesn't stop you sipping on overprcied milk fucking coffee and pontificating on the likelihood of Shoaib Akhtar bowling a bouncer straight at the Prime Minister's temple in an attempt to save the world from any more of Howard's post-Nazi romance with the White Australia Policy. Anyway there's also that drug addled Bosnich we can blame." Blake raised his eyebrows, drained some more beer form his glass, licked his lips and smiled;
"That's all well and good but the point here is that Johnston was the first and that Novocastrians are DADS. You admitted it yourself when banging on about that mate of yours in the cricket team, Scot. You said he was 'a good example of why Newcastle is the DADS capital of Australia, probably the world'. My desire for someone to scone Howard out of existence is born of patriotism and a recognition of our place in the pantheon of human endeavour. Howard does nothing for either except to make the rest of the human race think we're small minded relics of the 1950's, pro-British, rah rah colonial milieu. Fuck him. He's a cunt."
Jacko took the opportunity to drain his beer and motion Blake to get a new round. On Blake's return, Jacko launched again;
"No, you've got it arse about. Sure, Howard's a cunt and needs to be recycled as shark poo but the DADSist nature of Newcastle is a result of the self obsession of Sydney. Its anti-Sydney writ large and stems from the colonial days when the first trains needed coal and they carted off all the DADS miners north to dig out the black stuff. Who were these clowns? The rejects of society. Not even smart enough to commit crimes, they willingly came over to get treated like shite again and again and were thankful to receive a lump of black carbon for their tea. Its all down to you lot here in Sydney drinking milk coffee and wanting to be rid of those smelly people who use picks and shovels every day. Realising this the Novocastrians have cast themselves as being what Sydney isn't; honest, hard working and not interested in fripperies and doing make overs of the balcony pot plants every six months." Blake glanced up at the cricket report on Fox Sports before turning back to Jacko;
"Sure, Sydney can be obsessed with the finer things but that happens with world class cities. People want the best and are willing to ask for them. Like in all other major cities people will whinge about commute times, train delays, street crime, pollution, garbage, parking costs and the passing of favourite haunts. The big thing is that the DADS quotient is lower in Sydney than in Newcastle. " Realising that this argument was becoming too circular Blake turned to another theme;
" What I'm most concerned about is how we get Howard lined up to face an express bowler like Shoaib or Brett Lee. It'd be a fucking pearler if we could make it happen."
Jacko thought for a few seconds;
"Tee up a celebrity cricket match as a Liberal Party fund raiser. He's a cricket nut and would love to be seen dressed in the whites, being all matey with the likes of Punter, Warney and McGrath. We just tell him that the quick bowlers won't bowl at pace and they'll be bowling wides anyway. He'll think he's safe then we get young Binga to launch one into Howard's skull. I'll get done up in the same gear as a team medico and rush onto the pitch, you bring the stretcher and we'll make sure he doesn't breathe again. In the immediate post-Howard confusion we'll drop our disguises and head back here to establish our alibis. Better wear wigs, sunnies, zinc cream and pad out our torsos."
Blake smiled, nodded and contributed to the plan;
"We needn't even bother with all that disguise shit. We just impregnate his batting gloves and the cricket ball with fast acting toxins, say from a box jelly fish. Have so much of it that he won't last the time it takes for an ambo to get him to hospital. Fuck yeah, Howard's Demise. We should write a song about it."
Jacko nodded;
"Fair enough. Kill him off quick. Speaking of songs, we have Rasta lining up a drummer, one of his students, and some rehearsal time in a studio. Reckon Reepo's still on for playing bass?"
"Rasta" was a colleague of Jacko's who also played drums in a jazz fusion-reggae band. His family was from India, of Tamil blood, but that didn't stop him from wanting to be West Indian. He even supporeted their now-ailing cricket team. He also earned extra dollars by tutoring wannabe drummers.
"Yeah, Reepo's still got his old bass from high school garage band days. Reckons he knows how to use it. We'd better ace it up ourselves and get our playing in order. I'd hate to think this band thing is just piss and wind."
Both men looked up at the TV screen as the bar manager changed channels to the live cricket telecast of South Africa versus Australia. Ponting out LBW to Kallis for the best part of fuck all.
Blake swore, muttering,
"Fucking Yaapies! I hate that Kallis prick. Better get Binga to sort him out as well."
Jacko looked at Blake, nodding.
"Box Jelly Fish poison. 'Nuff said."
Blake's response was a defining one, that is if fantasy can ever define anything,
"That's single number two, right there. "Jelly Death". It will be a cautionary tale about the dangers of being a dickhead 50's retro Prime Minister or a cunting Yaapie all-rounder,"
Jacko looked at Margie, the angry red-headed barmaid and added,
"Better include surly ranga bar wenches in that." then went and ordered some fresh beers.
"Two thanks Margie. On the house, we're gonna be rock stars." he grabbed a pen off the bar and signed a beer coaster, handing it to the frowning Margie,
"There ya go Margie. A genuine autograph from a Dog Shit Killer, It'll be worth millions in ten years."
Margie shook her head,
"Well its worth bugger all now Jacko so save it for next decade. In the meantime that'll be six-eighty."
Jacko handed over the cash and returned to the table, to find that the latest experiment by Australia's cricket selector's, Shane Watson, had just skied a miss hit pull shot to Ntini ten metres in from the boundary at mid wicket.
"Tardo fucking Watson. Waste of space. They should just dump him and forget him, he'll never amount to much." was Blake's comment. Jacko agreed,
"They're obsessed with trying to find a Flintoff. It smacks of single-minded desparation. He can't play at this level, they may as well select six batsmen and four specialist bowlers. Its worked well so far."
Blake peered out the window across to Belmore Park, then back to the TV. He looked at Jacko and stated with a clear voice loaded with conviction,
"Just like a band. Drummers are drummers and that's all they'll ever be. Wouldn't do to have them getting all uppity. Certainly won't happen with the DSK's."
As he said this Jacko let out a curse.
"Who the fuck is this Hussey character anyway? Meant to be a gun bat. Looks more like a retarded fruit bat."
Blake smiled, drained his beer and went to the bar.
"Two more thanks Margie. Two more."
I've got a huindred pounds of trouble running round in my brain
Its a feeling hard to explain
Its getting so bad I think I'm going insane
Hangover gorillas, hangover clowns
They fuck you up, then they fuck you down
Hangover monkeys, hangover chimps
Stand over pain, they're alcohol's pimps
Them fuckin' apes are killing my head
They took all my money and they shat in my bed
They beat me up and cut my skin
They pissed in my mouth, reeking of gin
chorus
Furry mouth needs a number one blade
Headache like Kabul in a Taliban raid
The answer is always the same
A hair of the dog, get back in the game
chorus
first verse reprise
chorus
Dog Shit Killers - "Hangover Gorillas"
Sniper Blake flicked the wah peddle with his foot and strummed an "a minor" on his Ibanez Strat rip off. Jacko shook his head, nursing his genuine Rickenbacker which he'd inherited off a muso friend who'd topped himself six months ago. The use of a dead man's guitar didn't faze him at all, even if the muso had been a friend from high school days back in Newcastle. He shook his head again, looking at Blake.
"I tell you the first chord is 'f' you fucking tardo."
"That's arse talk. Its definitely 'A' minor. Dylan did a lot of that." Blake retorted with his legendary scowl; "Fuck it anyway. Let's just work on "Hangover Gorilla" a bit more. I'm sick of "Watchtower".
"Only because you keep on fucking up the fingering on the chorus". Jacko was a hyper critic, blind to his own faults and was good odds to be clinically diagnosed as suffering from narcissism. Blake never conceded a point when duelling with Jacko, never wanting to set up a verbal slog sweep over mid wicket.
"Yeah, right. You can't even get the three chord opening progression going without arsing up the tempo you fucktard. anyway, lets knock off a few more songs, we're almost there."
The two would-be guitarists went through several of their fave tunes, getting their timings right, chord progressions smooth and the leadf licks sorted out. They finsished off with "Hangover Gorillas". They'd played it, re-written it, and were sick of it, but now they realised they'd completed its composition. They went through it another three times and finally were able to boast that they'd done it; written a song, edited and bashed the shit out of it like it was a Gitmo detainee and they were Jack Nicholson andnow had it nailed.. The result was that it sounded the goods. The real deal. They looked at each other, switched off amps and put guitars in cases. Blake jumped up, laughing fit to burst, doing a poor impression of a Revivalist preacher;
"I Believe! I have the Power! Hallefuckenlujah!" he laughed again and thumped Jacko on the back. Jacko grinned and yelled out;
"I genius! I smarts and bright. I be fucking thirsty!"
" Beer time!" Blake proclaimed.
"Chambo?" was Jacko's suggestion, noticing Blake's excitement and feeling overjoyed himself.
"Yep!"
They swarmed out of Jacko's flat like footballers on Mad Monday, All they were missing was Lara Bingle. They landed on Parramatta Road, Leichhardt, on a hot March Saturday afternoon. They were quickly enbussed on a 440, getting off in George Street near the Capitol Theatre, a block away from the Chamberlain Hotel. It was their pub of choice.
Blake checked out the latest Fox Sports news for cricket and F.A. Cup results.
"Fucking Liverpool. Fucking retarded Scousers!" was his angry comment on what he'd seen, as Jacko returned from the bar with schooners in hand. Jacko looked up, looked at Blake, cursing;
"Another fucking year. Should never have taken up with that mob. Craig fucking Johnston has a lot to answer for."
Blake took the opportunity to remind his companion of his roots,
"What do you expect of the little tosser? He's from Newcastle, innit? Has to be tardo. DADS. Dumb as dog shit."
Jacko winced and ground out,
"At least he's not a Balmain wannabe, whining of cold latte and writing letters to the Sydney Morning Herald about Howard's cricket autism. Yeah, I know, you're no longer wanting to move to Balmain but that doesn't stop you sipping on overprcied milk fucking coffee and pontificating on the likelihood of Shoaib Akhtar bowling a bouncer straight at the Prime Minister's temple in an attempt to save the world from any more of Howard's post-Nazi romance with the White Australia Policy. Anyway there's also that drug addled Bosnich we can blame." Blake raised his eyebrows, drained some more beer form his glass, licked his lips and smiled;
"That's all well and good but the point here is that Johnston was the first and that Novocastrians are DADS. You admitted it yourself when banging on about that mate of yours in the cricket team, Scot. You said he was 'a good example of why Newcastle is the DADS capital of Australia, probably the world'. My desire for someone to scone Howard out of existence is born of patriotism and a recognition of our place in the pantheon of human endeavour. Howard does nothing for either except to make the rest of the human race think we're small minded relics of the 1950's, pro-British, rah rah colonial milieu. Fuck him. He's a cunt."
Jacko took the opportunity to drain his beer and motion Blake to get a new round. On Blake's return, Jacko launched again;
"No, you've got it arse about. Sure, Howard's a cunt and needs to be recycled as shark poo but the DADSist nature of Newcastle is a result of the self obsession of Sydney. Its anti-Sydney writ large and stems from the colonial days when the first trains needed coal and they carted off all the DADS miners north to dig out the black stuff. Who were these clowns? The rejects of society. Not even smart enough to commit crimes, they willingly came over to get treated like shite again and again and were thankful to receive a lump of black carbon for their tea. Its all down to you lot here in Sydney drinking milk coffee and wanting to be rid of those smelly people who use picks and shovels every day. Realising this the Novocastrians have cast themselves as being what Sydney isn't; honest, hard working and not interested in fripperies and doing make overs of the balcony pot plants every six months." Blake glanced up at the cricket report on Fox Sports before turning back to Jacko;
"Sure, Sydney can be obsessed with the finer things but that happens with world class cities. People want the best and are willing to ask for them. Like in all other major cities people will whinge about commute times, train delays, street crime, pollution, garbage, parking costs and the passing of favourite haunts. The big thing is that the DADS quotient is lower in Sydney than in Newcastle. " Realising that this argument was becoming too circular Blake turned to another theme;
" What I'm most concerned about is how we get Howard lined up to face an express bowler like Shoaib or Brett Lee. It'd be a fucking pearler if we could make it happen."
Jacko thought for a few seconds;
"Tee up a celebrity cricket match as a Liberal Party fund raiser. He's a cricket nut and would love to be seen dressed in the whites, being all matey with the likes of Punter, Warney and McGrath. We just tell him that the quick bowlers won't bowl at pace and they'll be bowling wides anyway. He'll think he's safe then we get young Binga to launch one into Howard's skull. I'll get done up in the same gear as a team medico and rush onto the pitch, you bring the stretcher and we'll make sure he doesn't breathe again. In the immediate post-Howard confusion we'll drop our disguises and head back here to establish our alibis. Better wear wigs, sunnies, zinc cream and pad out our torsos."
Blake smiled, nodded and contributed to the plan;
"We needn't even bother with all that disguise shit. We just impregnate his batting gloves and the cricket ball with fast acting toxins, say from a box jelly fish. Have so much of it that he won't last the time it takes for an ambo to get him to hospital. Fuck yeah, Howard's Demise. We should write a song about it."
Jacko nodded;
"Fair enough. Kill him off quick. Speaking of songs, we have Rasta lining up a drummer, one of his students, and some rehearsal time in a studio. Reckon Reepo's still on for playing bass?"
"Rasta" was a colleague of Jacko's who also played drums in a jazz fusion-reggae band. His family was from India, of Tamil blood, but that didn't stop him from wanting to be West Indian. He even supporeted their now-ailing cricket team. He also earned extra dollars by tutoring wannabe drummers.
"Yeah, Reepo's still got his old bass from high school garage band days. Reckons he knows how to use it. We'd better ace it up ourselves and get our playing in order. I'd hate to think this band thing is just piss and wind."
Both men looked up at the TV screen as the bar manager changed channels to the live cricket telecast of South Africa versus Australia. Ponting out LBW to Kallis for the best part of fuck all.
Blake swore, muttering,
"Fucking Yaapies! I hate that Kallis prick. Better get Binga to sort him out as well."
Jacko looked at Blake, nodding.
"Box Jelly Fish poison. 'Nuff said."
Blake's response was a defining one, that is if fantasy can ever define anything,
"That's single number two, right there. "Jelly Death". It will be a cautionary tale about the dangers of being a dickhead 50's retro Prime Minister or a cunting Yaapie all-rounder,"
Jacko looked at Margie, the angry red-headed barmaid and added,
"Better include surly ranga bar wenches in that." then went and ordered some fresh beers.
"Two thanks Margie. On the house, we're gonna be rock stars." he grabbed a pen off the bar and signed a beer coaster, handing it to the frowning Margie,
"There ya go Margie. A genuine autograph from a Dog Shit Killer, It'll be worth millions in ten years."
Margie shook her head,
"Well its worth bugger all now Jacko so save it for next decade. In the meantime that'll be six-eighty."
Jacko handed over the cash and returned to the table, to find that the latest experiment by Australia's cricket selector's, Shane Watson, had just skied a miss hit pull shot to Ntini ten metres in from the boundary at mid wicket.
"Tardo fucking Watson. Waste of space. They should just dump him and forget him, he'll never amount to much." was Blake's comment. Jacko agreed,
"They're obsessed with trying to find a Flintoff. It smacks of single-minded desparation. He can't play at this level, they may as well select six batsmen and four specialist bowlers. Its worked well so far."
Blake peered out the window across to Belmore Park, then back to the TV. He looked at Jacko and stated with a clear voice loaded with conviction,
"Just like a band. Drummers are drummers and that's all they'll ever be. Wouldn't do to have them getting all uppity. Certainly won't happen with the DSK's."
As he said this Jacko let out a curse.
"Who the fuck is this Hussey character anyway? Meant to be a gun bat. Looks more like a retarded fruit bat."
Blake smiled, drained his beer and went to the bar.
"Two more thanks Margie. Two more."
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Holiday!
From nine till five I have to spend my time at work
The job is very boring, I'm an office clerk
The only thing that helps pass the time away
Is knowing I'll be back at Echo Beach some day
Martha and the Muffins "Echo Beach".
I took a couple of weeks off and went here for a part of it. My sister's place was full up with other family members for a birthday party bash thing which extended over a couple of nights. So Flynn's Beach, Port Macquaire, mid North Coast NSW was my Echo Beach for 5 days. I've stayed in a couple of places around Flynn's before (including my sister's various bits of real estate) and it ranks highly in the Therbs stakes for Top Beaches. My routine is to wake up reasonably early and walk down to the beach and do some body surfing before breakfast. Given my bulk the waves have to be pretty fucking good to cart me around and a lot of the time they are. Then I head back and shower, have breakfast and consider what time to head back to the beach. I like the beach, me, and that's why I live close to one. But a beach out of town has that magical allure of being at an away game and devoid of the usual responsibilities which flap around us every day, squaking for attention like those one-legged seagulls you see down at Bondi Beach scrapping with Brit ratsackers over some end bits of fish ' n chips. I dunno what's worse, the gulls or the ratsackers but each time I see "Bondi Rescue" I feel like firing off letters of complaint about the lifeguards' behaviour. Imagine saving those soapy, VB-fuelled Brits. Be a lot better off just holding their heads under water for a few minutes.
Now I'm back at work but only for a couple of weeks. I'm going to Hobart at Easter to check up on a newborn and wet its head. That will also be a fine time 'cos I love Tassie, me. (insert map ' o Tassie joke here). It'llbe another four days of living it large, albeit in a cold climate. But that's what warm clothes, walking, hot food and pubs are designed for, innit.
I'll be doing another instalment of my 80's travel thing within the next few days.
The job is very boring, I'm an office clerk
The only thing that helps pass the time away
Is knowing I'll be back at Echo Beach some day
Martha and the Muffins "Echo Beach".
I took a couple of weeks off and went here for a part of it. My sister's place was full up with other family members for a birthday party bash thing which extended over a couple of nights. So Flynn's Beach, Port Macquaire, mid North Coast NSW was my Echo Beach for 5 days. I've stayed in a couple of places around Flynn's before (including my sister's various bits of real estate) and it ranks highly in the Therbs stakes for Top Beaches. My routine is to wake up reasonably early and walk down to the beach and do some body surfing before breakfast. Given my bulk the waves have to be pretty fucking good to cart me around and a lot of the time they are. Then I head back and shower, have breakfast and consider what time to head back to the beach. I like the beach, me, and that's why I live close to one. But a beach out of town has that magical allure of being at an away game and devoid of the usual responsibilities which flap around us every day, squaking for attention like those one-legged seagulls you see down at Bondi Beach scrapping with Brit ratsackers over some end bits of fish ' n chips. I dunno what's worse, the gulls or the ratsackers but each time I see "Bondi Rescue" I feel like firing off letters of complaint about the lifeguards' behaviour. Imagine saving those soapy, VB-fuelled Brits. Be a lot better off just holding their heads under water for a few minutes.
Port Mac was good even though I'd had to spend a goodly part of a months' wages bringing the VS Commodore up to registration scratch and insure the damn thing. But geeze that V6 engine is a fucking little ripper, heaps sprightly and likes a road trip. When I arrived I did some shopping, part of which was for beer. I chose one of my fave's, James Boags Premium Lager.
What I didn't count on was after placing all the beers in the fridge that the shelf in the door would dollapse when I closed said fridge causing three of the beers to fall to the floor and slightly dislodge the bottle tops, causing opnly minor leakage of beer but major leakage of the magical beer gas, meaning the beer would become flat and lifeless in short order. So I took the only sensible option. The first went down pretty quickly given I'd just driven half the day and was still on road trip pace. The second took slightly longer as I flipped on the teev and watched some t-20 highlights od Oz beating down on NZ. The 3rd had me in a suitably relaxed state as my brother and his partner arrived. Holdiay, foricng down a nice chilled beer and t-20 cricket on the tube with five days of sun 'n fun to look forward to. Absolutely fucking brilliant!
One highlight of my stay was having a feed of fish down near the water in the main part of Port. As the sun hung up its boots for the day there was a swarm of flying foxes flying from the south to the north east. There were two streams of them clouding the sky for about twenty minutes. Millions of the mad little buggers but by jingies it looked spectacular.
The party went well, the whole family was there and we ripped it up in good style. I had a fine, fine time.
I'll be doing another instalment of my 80's travel thing within the next few days.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Winnipeg - Soo - Toronto
Once again I've been slack about this blog stuff but that's teh way I am. Anyways, thanks for popping in and I hope you enjoy the last few episodes of my travels in North America. Last time we were together I'd just finished playing cricket in Winnipeg and was heading off on the Greyhound heading east.
I'd spent my last night in Winni over a few beers and a game of German Bacgammon. Can't remember really how it went but at one stage I had to give Schultz a strudel so he wouldn't do anything about Newkirk dressing up as a General and me using Klink's car for a trip to the Hammelburg Beerfest with young Hilda in tow. Next morning I was off again with my green mate Gumby perched on the window and the promiuse of Ontario in the wind. But it was still a way off so I stopped at St Sault Marie (Soo), near the edge of those big bits of water which straddle Canada and Yankeedogland I had a sore foot again and needed to rest up for a couple of days. The area is pretty much a winter tourist place but while I was tehre I went on a boat trip around the Sault locks which link a couple of the aforersaid big bits of water (Lake Superior being one of them). It was impressive enough and kept me off my sore foot for half a day. The youth hostel inlcuded a small library where I swapped books, I was going through them at a great rate on the long bus trips. I left behind a Heinlein and a Kerouac and took on board Micheners' "The Drifters", a rollicking tale of ratsackers in Europe in the late 60's. Hmmm, been there, done that.
In Soo I was down at the shops getting some tucker when a bloke from Bankstwon (south-west Sydney) heard my accent and introduced himself. He was a Canterbury Bulldogs supporter and to celebrate we held an impromptu meeting of The Bulldogs Overseas Supporters Squad at the first bar we came across. This lasted most of the night and Dave and I were in fine form as we attempted top paint the town blue and white. I remember getting rejected twice, slapped once and developing a tsate for Canadian Club (not the one used for hitting seals). I must have developed a few other things because next morning I was feeling pretty rancid. Those Hangover Gorillas had struck again with vengeance. I put off continuing my bus trip and stayed another day in Soo, looking at the water, looking at the sky and wishing to fuck that I hadn't met Dave. Dave by the way had somehow insinuated himself into the arms of a local dress shop worker and it was mid afternoon before I saw him again. I congratulated him on his success and wished him all the best for his trip over to Vancouver. The late afternoon saw me at a local museum checking out the artifacts (indigenous, historical and lake type stuff) and felt like a refreshing beverage to steer me through the evening. As with all good museums there was a pub nearby, so lickety-split to the Victoria Inn. Cold beer, a good steak dinner and another beer lifted my spirits considerably and I started chatting to a few people watching a baseball game. There were two girls and a guy so I my thinking was that I could even up the odds a bit. Then I noticed the damned wedding rings on all of them. Still, we sat around and talked and drank and were joined by another two of their friends. I started putting in some spade work on one of the new girls, Katie. I also made sure she wasn't going to get thirsty in a hurry. The evening was great, the Canadians were fine party company and Katie became the most beautiful girl in the world, so I told her that.
By jingies, it worked! We did all that cute holding of hands and sly frotting stuff before I discretely asked her if she'd ever seen the Soo submarine races. So we went off to see them.
When I woke up at around 7.00 refreshed and pumped I didn't know where the hell I was but Katie soon let me know. Should I stay or should I go? Well, faint heart and all that and Katie was keen so I delayed my departure for half an hour to take care of business. We went to a cafe near her place for breakfast and she gave me a lift back to the hostel. She even waited while I packed my gear and then gave me a quick tour around town before dropping me off at the greyhound terminal. I don't know what Katie Did Next but I'm sure she did it with style and generosity. Thanks K!
The 12.15 took me to Sudbury, within spitting distance of Toronto. I stayed at Sudbury overnight wondering why I'd left such a find as Katie in my wake. Wasn't the first time, probably not the last either but it did make me think a bit about such quick liaisons. The bus journey was made more tedious by these unbidden ponderances on the emotional life of a traveller. Fuck it, time to get sorted. In Sudbury it was shitfight from the Greyhound depot to the hostel where I sat watching the Copmmonwealth Games and cheering for Oz, Canada and even the Kiwis ( I was eyeing off a lass from Christchurch seated at the same table). Thehostel manager didn't agree with my thinking that drinking was okay in thehostel common room. Something about kids being present. Must have been worried that they'd nick my beer. Our tabel left to pursue our alcoholic needs outside, but it was a poor substitute for a comfy room and TV sport. sudbury sucked, so it was with great joy that I left the prison the next morning and soon after midday was on board a Greyhound, destination Toronto. I wondered if Doug had received my letters and postcards but then I'd already booked a hostel bed in case he'd suddenly developed common sense and put me on the unwated list.
So it was late afternoon when I phoned Doug from the hostel in downtown Toronto and an hour later he walked in grinning his grin and howling with laughter at Gumby, perched half out of my pack, waving his tiny green arm.
We spent the night boozing it up with Doug's room mates. He and a couple of other blokes (Yug and Rob),were buying a house in one of the traditional working suburbs and it was their home. Three young blokes sharing a house. It was known bythe rest of their crew as The Clubhouse. The reunion with Doug was a blast. We laughed at some of our antics in Europe and I pretty much eased into this circle of young Torontonians. The second day we went to The Beaches, hung in a couple of bars and the guys showed me around Toronto. The next week pretty much blends into a blur of parties, pubs and sightseeing. I also met up with Phil, an acquaintance from Sydney who'd worked in teh same governemnt department as me. I'd met him once during a weekly Squash tournament a few other colleagues and I indulged in. I liked the game because it was a balance to soccer training and was a good mid-week muscle stretcher and thirst builder. Phil was married to a Torontonian and we were due to hook up with Jerry. Jerry was one of the blokes who missed a rendezvous in Basel which led to my meeting up with Doug 'n Dave with whom I launched into some amusing adventures in Europe. So a couple of years later and we'd finally get our shit together, this time in Canada. Jerry was living in London on a 2 year break from Oz, working in a hotel frequented by B list celebrities. He was due in Toronto at the end of my first week there.
A day later Doug took me to a home game of his baseball team. He was the captain and seemed pretty serious about it to me, especially when I offered to bat clean up. His team mates were mostly from where he worked so it was good for company morale that Doug led them to a good victory without my help. We ended up at The Unicorn, an English style pub, drinking Blue and mucnhing on ribs 'n wings. We organised to get to a Blue Jays game at some stage. The following day I went to Phil's place and met up with Jerry. The silly bugger actually made it! Phile and Adele supplied a splendid dinner and I supplied wine and beer
Jerry and I reviewed our plans, thinking that NYC and places south would be good. Doug resuced me from sensible talk by coming around and picking me up then driving me back to the clubhouse where I rooled up some hash I'd procured. The deal had been that I'd meet this guy, lined up by one of Doug's friends in a bar a mile or so away from Doug's place. We didn't know each other so to put a stop to any confusion and mystery I simpl wore an Australia t shirt. Took about ten minutes, thirty bucks and a beer. Easy. Back at Dougs we launched into the hash, a few beers and laughed uproariously at Letterman.
The following day Phil, Adele, Jerry and I ended up in Centre Isle where we rode bicycles (anything to build up a thirst) and then went to Harbourfront for a few beers. Back at Doug's the boys had a bbq parrty lined up so I went and bought some more Labbatts Blue and a bottle of Jack. Then we cooked burgers and dogs, drank Labbatts, smoked hash and I attempted to talk to a few of the girls. I had no hope. They'd been told all sorts of bad things and didn't want to know. All I did notice was Doug and the boys laughing uproariously whenever I received the cold shoulder. Nothing elese to do but join the dance and party on!
The next day I cooked up the breakfast and in the afternoon ws taken to Chick'N' deli for beers, wings and a blues band. I was reeally enjoying Toronto but eventually you have to do something so Jerry and I hit the road the following day. This time it was on the train and we went to Niagara to see what all the fuss was about and to see if any of the honeymooning brides needed help. The Falls were spectacular, The Maid of the Mist tour was okay and near the youth hostel we found a cheap bar which was showing a Blue Jays game live, all in all, an excellent. The return to Toronto was filled with discussion about where to go next. We decided on Quebec, Montreal, P.E.I. and whatever else we found on the way then Boston and New York. Back in Toronto it was time for another bbq party at the Clubhouse on a Saturday night. Sweet.
It was a major blow out with beers, Jack, hash, burgers, dogs and even more bullshit than last time. at least the girls didn't freeze me out totally this time as my natural charm and manly attraction started to impose themselves. Okay, so it was the booze, but at least I was dancing with them and getting hints of future action. Thaty action would have to wait a while becasue the next day we went with phil and Adele to Ontario Place and then back to their place for dinner. I even celebrated the final night in Toronto by taking along a dozen Carlbergs. It must have been imporessive because I wrote it in my journal. Doug popped around to say bye-bye and help us demolish the beers. He tried to get Phil and Adele to adopt Rob's cat but they wouldn't be in it. He even said the cat would die if it wasn't adopted. They thought he was kidding but I wasn't sure so I told them he was most likely serious. Luckily that was the lsat night I was with Phil and Adele, they weren't impressed with the thought of a cat being euthanased. Its okay though folks, the cat was fine last time I saw it. But all this meant that I was going to have another hungover departure for the next morning we were heading to Montreal. On a train.
I'd spent my last night in Winni over a few beers and a game of German Bacgammon. Can't remember really how it went but at one stage I had to give Schultz a strudel so he wouldn't do anything about Newkirk dressing up as a General and me using Klink's car for a trip to the Hammelburg Beerfest with young Hilda in tow. Next morning I was off again with my green mate Gumby perched on the window and the promiuse of Ontario in the wind. But it was still a way off so I stopped at St Sault Marie (Soo), near the edge of those big bits of water which straddle Canada and Yankeedogland I had a sore foot again and needed to rest up for a couple of days. The area is pretty much a winter tourist place but while I was tehre I went on a boat trip around the Sault locks which link a couple of the aforersaid big bits of water (Lake Superior being one of them). It was impressive enough and kept me off my sore foot for half a day. The youth hostel inlcuded a small library where I swapped books, I was going through them at a great rate on the long bus trips. I left behind a Heinlein and a Kerouac and took on board Micheners' "The Drifters", a rollicking tale of ratsackers in Europe in the late 60's. Hmmm, been there, done that.
In Soo I was down at the shops getting some tucker when a bloke from Bankstwon (south-west Sydney) heard my accent and introduced himself. He was a Canterbury Bulldogs supporter and to celebrate we held an impromptu meeting of The Bulldogs Overseas Supporters Squad at the first bar we came across. This lasted most of the night and Dave and I were in fine form as we attempted top paint the town blue and white. I remember getting rejected twice, slapped once and developing a tsate for Canadian Club (not the one used for hitting seals). I must have developed a few other things because next morning I was feeling pretty rancid. Those Hangover Gorillas had struck again with vengeance. I put off continuing my bus trip and stayed another day in Soo, looking at the water, looking at the sky and wishing to fuck that I hadn't met Dave. Dave by the way had somehow insinuated himself into the arms of a local dress shop worker and it was mid afternoon before I saw him again. I congratulated him on his success and wished him all the best for his trip over to Vancouver. The late afternoon saw me at a local museum checking out the artifacts (indigenous, historical and lake type stuff) and felt like a refreshing beverage to steer me through the evening. As with all good museums there was a pub nearby, so lickety-split to the Victoria Inn. Cold beer, a good steak dinner and another beer lifted my spirits considerably and I started chatting to a few people watching a baseball game. There were two girls and a guy so I my thinking was that I could even up the odds a bit. Then I noticed the damned wedding rings on all of them. Still, we sat around and talked and drank and were joined by another two of their friends. I started putting in some spade work on one of the new girls, Katie. I also made sure she wasn't going to get thirsty in a hurry. The evening was great, the Canadians were fine party company and Katie became the most beautiful girl in the world, so I told her that.
By jingies, it worked! We did all that cute holding of hands and sly frotting stuff before I discretely asked her if she'd ever seen the Soo submarine races. So we went off to see them.
When I woke up at around 7.00 refreshed and pumped I didn't know where the hell I was but Katie soon let me know. Should I stay or should I go? Well, faint heart and all that and Katie was keen so I delayed my departure for half an hour to take care of business. We went to a cafe near her place for breakfast and she gave me a lift back to the hostel. She even waited while I packed my gear and then gave me a quick tour around town before dropping me off at the greyhound terminal. I don't know what Katie Did Next but I'm sure she did it with style and generosity. Thanks K!
The 12.15 took me to Sudbury, within spitting distance of Toronto. I stayed at Sudbury overnight wondering why I'd left such a find as Katie in my wake. Wasn't the first time, probably not the last either but it did make me think a bit about such quick liaisons. The bus journey was made more tedious by these unbidden ponderances on the emotional life of a traveller. Fuck it, time to get sorted. In Sudbury it was shitfight from the Greyhound depot to the hostel where I sat watching the Copmmonwealth Games and cheering for Oz, Canada and even the Kiwis ( I was eyeing off a lass from Christchurch seated at the same table). Thehostel manager didn't agree with my thinking that drinking was okay in thehostel common room. Something about kids being present. Must have been worried that they'd nick my beer. Our tabel left to pursue our alcoholic needs outside, but it was a poor substitute for a comfy room and TV sport. sudbury sucked, so it was with great joy that I left the prison the next morning and soon after midday was on board a Greyhound, destination Toronto. I wondered if Doug had received my letters and postcards but then I'd already booked a hostel bed in case he'd suddenly developed common sense and put me on the unwated list.
So it was late afternoon when I phoned Doug from the hostel in downtown Toronto and an hour later he walked in grinning his grin and howling with laughter at Gumby, perched half out of my pack, waving his tiny green arm.
We spent the night boozing it up with Doug's room mates. He and a couple of other blokes (Yug and Rob),were buying a house in one of the traditional working suburbs and it was their home. Three young blokes sharing a house. It was known bythe rest of their crew as The Clubhouse. The reunion with Doug was a blast. We laughed at some of our antics in Europe and I pretty much eased into this circle of young Torontonians. The second day we went to The Beaches, hung in a couple of bars and the guys showed me around Toronto. The next week pretty much blends into a blur of parties, pubs and sightseeing. I also met up with Phil, an acquaintance from Sydney who'd worked in teh same governemnt department as me. I'd met him once during a weekly Squash tournament a few other colleagues and I indulged in. I liked the game because it was a balance to soccer training and was a good mid-week muscle stretcher and thirst builder. Phil was married to a Torontonian and we were due to hook up with Jerry. Jerry was one of the blokes who missed a rendezvous in Basel which led to my meeting up with Doug 'n Dave with whom I launched into some amusing adventures in Europe. So a couple of years later and we'd finally get our shit together, this time in Canada. Jerry was living in London on a 2 year break from Oz, working in a hotel frequented by B list celebrities. He was due in Toronto at the end of my first week there.
A day later Doug took me to a home game of his baseball team. He was the captain and seemed pretty serious about it to me, especially when I offered to bat clean up. His team mates were mostly from where he worked so it was good for company morale that Doug led them to a good victory without my help. We ended up at The Unicorn, an English style pub, drinking Blue and mucnhing on ribs 'n wings. We organised to get to a Blue Jays game at some stage. The following day I went to Phil's place and met up with Jerry. The silly bugger actually made it! Phile and Adele supplied a splendid dinner and I supplied wine and beer
Jerry and I reviewed our plans, thinking that NYC and places south would be good. Doug resuced me from sensible talk by coming around and picking me up then driving me back to the clubhouse where I rooled up some hash I'd procured. The deal had been that I'd meet this guy, lined up by one of Doug's friends in a bar a mile or so away from Doug's place. We didn't know each other so to put a stop to any confusion and mystery I simpl wore an Australia t shirt. Took about ten minutes, thirty bucks and a beer. Easy. Back at Dougs we launched into the hash, a few beers and laughed uproariously at Letterman.
The following day Phil, Adele, Jerry and I ended up in Centre Isle where we rode bicycles (anything to build up a thirst) and then went to Harbourfront for a few beers. Back at Doug's the boys had a bbq parrty lined up so I went and bought some more Labbatts Blue and a bottle of Jack. Then we cooked burgers and dogs, drank Labbatts, smoked hash and I attempted to talk to a few of the girls. I had no hope. They'd been told all sorts of bad things and didn't want to know. All I did notice was Doug and the boys laughing uproariously whenever I received the cold shoulder. Nothing elese to do but join the dance and party on!
The next day I cooked up the breakfast and in the afternoon ws taken to Chick'N' deli for beers, wings and a blues band. I was reeally enjoying Toronto but eventually you have to do something so Jerry and I hit the road the following day. This time it was on the train and we went to Niagara to see what all the fuss was about and to see if any of the honeymooning brides needed help. The Falls were spectacular, The Maid of the Mist tour was okay and near the youth hostel we found a cheap bar which was showing a Blue Jays game live, all in all, an excellent. The return to Toronto was filled with discussion about where to go next. We decided on Quebec, Montreal, P.E.I. and whatever else we found on the way then Boston and New York. Back in Toronto it was time for another bbq party at the Clubhouse on a Saturday night. Sweet.
It was a major blow out with beers, Jack, hash, burgers, dogs and even more bullshit than last time. at least the girls didn't freeze me out totally this time as my natural charm and manly attraction started to impose themselves. Okay, so it was the booze, but at least I was dancing with them and getting hints of future action. Thaty action would have to wait a while becasue the next day we went with phil and Adele to Ontario Place and then back to their place for dinner. I even celebrated the final night in Toronto by taking along a dozen Carlbergs. It must have been imporessive because I wrote it in my journal. Doug popped around to say bye-bye and help us demolish the beers. He tried to get Phil and Adele to adopt Rob's cat but they wouldn't be in it. He even said the cat would die if it wasn't adopted. They thought he was kidding but I wasn't sure so I told them he was most likely serious. Luckily that was the lsat night I was with Phil and Adele, they weren't impressed with the thought of a cat being euthanased. Its okay though folks, the cat was fine last time I saw it. But all this meant that I was going to have another hungover departure for the next morning we were heading to Montreal. On a train.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Winnipeg and Cricket
Just a reminder that a post ago I asked for slanderous, abusive and amusing team names for pub trivia nights. Yez can tack them on here if you like.
Point no. two is I'm working up another Dog Shit Killers piece which will appear in the next week or so. When I say, working up , what I mean is that I'm occasionally thinking of how it will pan out. I reckon a plane crashh at the end would be tops but the Molloy Boys ruined that one with their Boytown fillum. Now, back to the Greyhound bus where last time I think I'd left busted-arse Brandon for points East.
I got out at Winnipeg after another long night, patchy sleep, arse-numbing Greyhound haul. At 5.30 in the morningthere was fuck all to do except grab a breakfast, and finish off the dregs of my Jackie Dee. After that I shlept over to the local hostel, grabbed a bunk and napped for a couple of hours, before getting hosed out of the joint at 9.00. I hitched up my daypack and went to the parklands where there was a zoo and plenty of sunny spots ideal for idleness. The zoo was out because I had a really fucking sore foot. I never figured out what it was but it lasted all day. After limping around the grounds for a while I grabbed some bread, cheese and cold cuts and found a spot to have a picnic. Oh yeah, I also grabbed a six pack of my new best friend, Labbats Blue. What I found was several adjoining sports fields upon which some blokes were playing cricket. I found some shade, sat back against a tree and picnicked and drank an LB while watching the local Indian community toil under the hot Canadian sun. After another beer I felt a bit more chirpy and yelled out an SCG favourite "Avagoyamug!. Two cricket teams, their friends and a couple of umpires looked in my direction so I waved back at them. Didn't take long for the bloke fielding at Deep Mid Wicket to trot over and suss me out. A quick chat evinced the fact that this was their local A-grade comp which in the past had provided Canada with a national rep player. The standard wasn't too bad. I'd seen a lot worse in local association comps in Sydney. Aftter a few more overs a couple of the batting side walked around, obviously having been worded up that an Aussie yobbo was in their midst. They asked me if I played and I admitted that I had played a couple of seasons in z grade as a fill in when my mate's team was short. I was more of a beach man when hungover and didn't really fancy spending Saturday afternoons fielding at Deep Long Forget About Ya with the hangover gorillas still running around my head in 40 degree heat. I did however play a bit of social cricket where it was more about the beer and having a dip than taking anything seriously. Nevertheless I did know the basics of batting, bowling medium fast and bowling wrist spin. Didn't do it any of them with great skill but didn't make an arse of myself either. All this was leading to the fact that the bowling team was short a couple of players and they'd bend the rules a bit to let me play if I was interested. I had to beg off due to a) a sore foot, b) I still had three beers left and c) I didn't have any kit. They then said they'd be here tomorrow for the second and final day if I felt like playing. Interesting. After another hour or so I limped away and found a bus to take me back to the hostel. I dumped my day pack (with 1 LB left) and lurched into a nearby sports bar where baseball was being shown and beer was being sold and complimentary mini burgers were being dished out. Nice. After a couple of preliminaries and sorting out that the Cubs weren't playing the Blue Jays I settled in for a couple of hours, quickly being wrapped in the warmth of sportsbarness found the world over. So what diod I learn of Winnipeg? Not a lot because there's ten parts of fuck all there.
The following day my foot was pretty much okay so I went to the zoo to see if I could find any primates upon which to inflict revenge for the Hangover Gorilla attack I was suffering. A pancake breakfast at a noshery near the zoo helped me out and I explored the thing. It even had a few kangaroos, obviously it wasn't culling season in Winnipeg. They looked tempting though with their dopey ears and tardo hopping and that stupid scratching they do on their ribs. Just asking for a clean shot from a .243 and a quick sear on the bbq grill. The rest of the zoo was pretty much what you'd expect with growly lions, shittimg bears, a couple of tired looking zebras in amongst the inmates. Oh yeah, there wuz chimps. Good enough for me. Fuckin' hangover monkeys got an earful (when no-one else was around) and at one stage I was almost going to cup a crap and hurl it at them but I just couldn't do it.
Upon exiting the zoo I wandered around the park and fouynd myself back at the cricdket fields. I wandered up to the short team who were now batting and asked how they were doing. Not well. Five down for sixty chasing one-eighty odd. Did I feel like havingf a hit? Okey doke, I was in. I was wearing pale grey shorts, a mainly white t-shirt, runners and footy socks. Very much the Oz yob gear for social cricket. One of them handed me a Molsen and said I was batting after the next two wickets dropped. this took about half an hour for the addition of around twenty runs and there I was, putting on the pads, slipping in a box and strapping on a thigh pad. I put on the gloves and selected a Grey Nicholls from the kit. GN was my preferred weapon of choice and this one reminded me of my own back at home.
Strolling out to the wicket was weird. Here I was in Canada, playing for and against some Indian blokes and hadn't even asked them about the bowling or the pitch conditions. I soon asked the standing batsman all about it and he said the ball was seaming around a bit and I should play on the front foot. Shit! My strengths were the pull, hook and cut shots. I played and missed the first couple of balls, luckily not getting an edge. The next couple of overs saw us develop a partnership of sorts. I was there for a good time and after playing a couple of drives from the front foot got cocky. Molsen does that to you. Sanjay at the other end was getting cocky as well and slog sweeped the oppositions spinner down mid wicket's throat. Nice shot but didn't quite middle it. His departing advice was;
"Try and stay in Greg."
Greg? As in Chappell? That was a compliment!
Yeah, right. Our next batsman walked in looking nervous and asked me about the bowling.
"Dead easy mate. Just smack 'em like Hookesy".
He survived the over by playiong straight against slow bowling which wasn't showing any signs of spin at all. I really wanted to get amongst those donkey drops but had to face the seamer first. I tried a couple of lusty hoicks over cover but only managed to sky one oput of the rach of 3rd man. Didn't even make the boundary but I got 3. Next over I was facing the non-spinning run giver. I played the first and I was right. Doing nothing. The next one I was bale to get hold of over mid on. Not quite 6 but a boundary was nice. Next ball was wide and the one after that I directed way over cover. A nice hit if I'd middled it but long off trotted around, pouched it and that was it for me. Oh well, death or glory ended up being death. At least I'd made double figures. When I was taking off the pads one of the team said;
"Bad luck, Greg."
I replied "Greg Chappell? Thanks mate, but not really."
He laughed and said,
"Not Greg Chappell. You like Greg Ritchie."
Fucker. Greg Ritchie was a portly Queensland and Australian Test batsman who was good at thumping the ball but not running very quickly due to his girth. His nickname was Fat Cat. Sure, I carry a few extra pounds but Greg Ritchie? He's a fucking Queenslander for fuck's sake! Fuck off! I preferred to be thought of more as a Gary Gilmour type.
The players were good about me not getting a century, saying it didn't matter because any runs I made were a bonus anyway. Thanks guys. The rest of the innings brought us another twenty-odd runs and we ended up losing. It was fun, no-one seemed that worried about the result, more about how they'd gone about things and in my mind they'd done it properly because there was a bloody big beer chiller full of Molsen and LB sitting invitingly near the kit bags. Winsome young thing it were with "come to me" eyes and a full body.
The skipper asked
" Would I like a beer? " The fools. We sat around for a couple of hours talking cricket shit. They felt bad about Australia's lowly position in world cricket at the time (this was '86) and I just told them we'd come good soon enough, no worries, because that's what I always thought about any of our sports team. After we'd crapped on about Sunil Gavaskar, Greg Chappell, Dennis Lillee, Alan Border and Bradman it was time to pull up stumps and head off.
"Bye Greg!"
"Fuck off, Bishan!"
Time for an early night before hitting the Greyhound trail again, ever closing in on Toronto.
Next time I'll take you through Sault St Marie and into Toronto.
Point no. two is I'm working up another Dog Shit Killers piece which will appear in the next week or so. When I say, working up , what I mean is that I'm occasionally thinking of how it will pan out. I reckon a plane crashh at the end would be tops but the Molloy Boys ruined that one with their Boytown fillum. Now, back to the Greyhound bus where last time I think I'd left busted-arse Brandon for points East.
I got out at Winnipeg after another long night, patchy sleep, arse-numbing Greyhound haul. At 5.30 in the morningthere was fuck all to do except grab a breakfast, and finish off the dregs of my Jackie Dee. After that I shlept over to the local hostel, grabbed a bunk and napped for a couple of hours, before getting hosed out of the joint at 9.00. I hitched up my daypack and went to the parklands where there was a zoo and plenty of sunny spots ideal for idleness. The zoo was out because I had a really fucking sore foot. I never figured out what it was but it lasted all day. After limping around the grounds for a while I grabbed some bread, cheese and cold cuts and found a spot to have a picnic. Oh yeah, I also grabbed a six pack of my new best friend, Labbats Blue. What I found was several adjoining sports fields upon which some blokes were playing cricket. I found some shade, sat back against a tree and picnicked and drank an LB while watching the local Indian community toil under the hot Canadian sun. After another beer I felt a bit more chirpy and yelled out an SCG favourite "Avagoyamug!. Two cricket teams, their friends and a couple of umpires looked in my direction so I waved back at them. Didn't take long for the bloke fielding at Deep Mid Wicket to trot over and suss me out. A quick chat evinced the fact that this was their local A-grade comp which in the past had provided Canada with a national rep player. The standard wasn't too bad. I'd seen a lot worse in local association comps in Sydney. Aftter a few more overs a couple of the batting side walked around, obviously having been worded up that an Aussie yobbo was in their midst. They asked me if I played and I admitted that I had played a couple of seasons in z grade as a fill in when my mate's team was short. I was more of a beach man when hungover and didn't really fancy spending Saturday afternoons fielding at Deep Long Forget About Ya with the hangover gorillas still running around my head in 40 degree heat. I did however play a bit of social cricket where it was more about the beer and having a dip than taking anything seriously. Nevertheless I did know the basics of batting, bowling medium fast and bowling wrist spin. Didn't do it any of them with great skill but didn't make an arse of myself either. All this was leading to the fact that the bowling team was short a couple of players and they'd bend the rules a bit to let me play if I was interested. I had to beg off due to a) a sore foot, b) I still had three beers left and c) I didn't have any kit. They then said they'd be here tomorrow for the second and final day if I felt like playing. Interesting. After another hour or so I limped away and found a bus to take me back to the hostel. I dumped my day pack (with 1 LB left) and lurched into a nearby sports bar where baseball was being shown and beer was being sold and complimentary mini burgers were being dished out. Nice. After a couple of preliminaries and sorting out that the Cubs weren't playing the Blue Jays I settled in for a couple of hours, quickly being wrapped in the warmth of sportsbarness found the world over. So what diod I learn of Winnipeg? Not a lot because there's ten parts of fuck all there.
The following day my foot was pretty much okay so I went to the zoo to see if I could find any primates upon which to inflict revenge for the Hangover Gorilla attack I was suffering. A pancake breakfast at a noshery near the zoo helped me out and I explored the thing. It even had a few kangaroos, obviously it wasn't culling season in Winnipeg. They looked tempting though with their dopey ears and tardo hopping and that stupid scratching they do on their ribs. Just asking for a clean shot from a .243 and a quick sear on the bbq grill. The rest of the zoo was pretty much what you'd expect with growly lions, shittimg bears, a couple of tired looking zebras in amongst the inmates. Oh yeah, there wuz chimps. Good enough for me. Fuckin' hangover monkeys got an earful (when no-one else was around) and at one stage I was almost going to cup a crap and hurl it at them but I just couldn't do it.
Upon exiting the zoo I wandered around the park and fouynd myself back at the cricdket fields. I wandered up to the short team who were now batting and asked how they were doing. Not well. Five down for sixty chasing one-eighty odd. Did I feel like havingf a hit? Okey doke, I was in. I was wearing pale grey shorts, a mainly white t-shirt, runners and footy socks. Very much the Oz yob gear for social cricket. One of them handed me a Molsen and said I was batting after the next two wickets dropped. this took about half an hour for the addition of around twenty runs and there I was, putting on the pads, slipping in a box and strapping on a thigh pad. I put on the gloves and selected a Grey Nicholls from the kit. GN was my preferred weapon of choice and this one reminded me of my own back at home.
Strolling out to the wicket was weird. Here I was in Canada, playing for and against some Indian blokes and hadn't even asked them about the bowling or the pitch conditions. I soon asked the standing batsman all about it and he said the ball was seaming around a bit and I should play on the front foot. Shit! My strengths were the pull, hook and cut shots. I played and missed the first couple of balls, luckily not getting an edge. The next couple of overs saw us develop a partnership of sorts. I was there for a good time and after playing a couple of drives from the front foot got cocky. Molsen does that to you. Sanjay at the other end was getting cocky as well and slog sweeped the oppositions spinner down mid wicket's throat. Nice shot but didn't quite middle it. His departing advice was;
"Try and stay in Greg."
Greg? As in Chappell? That was a compliment!
Yeah, right. Our next batsman walked in looking nervous and asked me about the bowling.
"Dead easy mate. Just smack 'em like Hookesy".
He survived the over by playiong straight against slow bowling which wasn't showing any signs of spin at all. I really wanted to get amongst those donkey drops but had to face the seamer first. I tried a couple of lusty hoicks over cover but only managed to sky one oput of the rach of 3rd man. Didn't even make the boundary but I got 3. Next over I was facing the non-spinning run giver. I played the first and I was right. Doing nothing. The next one I was bale to get hold of over mid on. Not quite 6 but a boundary was nice. Next ball was wide and the one after that I directed way over cover. A nice hit if I'd middled it but long off trotted around, pouched it and that was it for me. Oh well, death or glory ended up being death. At least I'd made double figures. When I was taking off the pads one of the team said;
"Bad luck, Greg."
I replied "Greg Chappell? Thanks mate, but not really."
He laughed and said,
"Not Greg Chappell. You like Greg Ritchie."
Fucker. Greg Ritchie was a portly Queensland and Australian Test batsman who was good at thumping the ball but not running very quickly due to his girth. His nickname was Fat Cat. Sure, I carry a few extra pounds but Greg Ritchie? He's a fucking Queenslander for fuck's sake! Fuck off! I preferred to be thought of more as a Gary Gilmour type.
The players were good about me not getting a century, saying it didn't matter because any runs I made were a bonus anyway. Thanks guys. The rest of the innings brought us another twenty-odd runs and we ended up losing. It was fun, no-one seemed that worried about the result, more about how they'd gone about things and in my mind they'd done it properly because there was a bloody big beer chiller full of Molsen and LB sitting invitingly near the kit bags. Winsome young thing it were with "come to me" eyes and a full body.
The skipper asked
" Would I like a beer? " The fools. We sat around for a couple of hours talking cricket shit. They felt bad about Australia's lowly position in world cricket at the time (this was '86) and I just told them we'd come good soon enough, no worries, because that's what I always thought about any of our sports team. After we'd crapped on about Sunil Gavaskar, Greg Chappell, Dennis Lillee, Alan Border and Bradman it was time to pull up stumps and head off.
"Bye Greg!"
"Fuck off, Bishan!"
Time for an early night before hitting the Greyhound trail again, ever closing in on Toronto.
Next time I'll take you through Sault St Marie and into Toronto.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Games and Names
No travel tales this time but they will continue in the next post. First up a tiip of the Tooheys Extra Dry cap to Dr Yobbo who has part one of a hangover tale going on over at his place As usual its well worth a read. Do it now before the bugger starts publishing for money and we have to actually fork over bags of cash to read his gear. Money which can be spent on other things. Like Uncle Teds or Boags Premium. And live sport of course.
Speaking of sport I watched NSW limp in against the FKN Cane Toads the other night in a Ford Fucked Gearbox and Leaky Sump Cup 50 over match, largely due to Phil Jaques finding form, batting through the innings and scoring over 170 not out off just over 130 balls. Now that was awesomeness in the flesh. A pity the bowling brigade (under 19's except for Bracken) couldn't maintain the pressure and force a drubbing on the Fourex suckers. Oh well, a win is a win and we like those here in NSW when most of the team is either injured or on duty with the Australian squad. Hang on, 'twas only last night. Fuck, I need a drink. We were watching the game while attempting to answer trivia questions at the Edinburgh Castle, the scene of my fight with Nautilus' Green Frog of Awesomeness. That's my fist you see shaping up to GF and the pic above is a beer tableau enjoyed by Naut and myself.
In the trivia last night we bolted to the lead only to be beaten by a bunch of googlers who aced the 2nd and 3rd rounds thanks to Steve Jobs and his i-Phone. In theory they're banned but ... The hostess realised this and spotted us an extra voucher to go on top of the 40 buck bar tab we got for coming 2nd. Three jugs of Carlton later we didn't give a flying fuck about googlers and were looking to see if Johnny Iwank had any runners in the Perth Greyhounds. Our team name for the evening was "The Ball Sucking Pakis". Usually most teams will stick with the same name each week. We reckon that's boring so we pick on something topical and try and twist it. "Ball Sucking Pakis" was tops because it roped together racism and homophobia in one hit. Previous team names have included;
"It won't suck itself"
"I sucked off my neighbour's alsation"
"John Howard is a cunt" - always a good stand-by if we were struggling for ideas.
Generally the idea is to abuse someone famous who has just passed away or has been in the headlines recently. Something like "xxxxx is a paedophile" generally doesn't get read out by the trivia host(ess), but something like "Malcolm Turnbull's noxious arse emission" will get through, unlike emissions trading legislation in the Senate.
So here's a busted arse challenge for anyone who'd like to contribute to our winningness. Come up with a team name. Keep in mind it has to be embarrassing for the trivia goon to read out and cause anguish, revulsion and/or embarrassment to at least one group of people. For example, I heard that Matthew Stokes, a Geelong AFL player was busted for dealing cocaine. What first comes to mind is something like;
"Matthew Stokes is the victim of a snow job" or "Stokes Coke joke blows" or "Mathew Stokes possessions stats - two kilos" or "Matthew Stokes and his Geelong snow dome" or "Matthew Stokes wins the Winter Olympics snow jump". They're a bit lame but you get the general idea. The person with the best suggestion/s gets some sort of lame prize from the Therbs Lame Prize Cupboard sent to them by post or courier, depending on what I can wrangle at the time and depending on what the prize actually is. And that's if I can be arsed actually doing it, because I am a lazy cunt after all. Now its time for a drink. Cheers.
Speaking of sport I watched NSW limp in against the FKN Cane Toads the other night in a Ford Fucked Gearbox and Leaky Sump Cup 50 over match, largely due to Phil Jaques finding form, batting through the innings and scoring over 170 not out off just over 130 balls. Now that was awesomeness in the flesh. A pity the bowling brigade (under 19's except for Bracken) couldn't maintain the pressure and force a drubbing on the Fourex suckers. Oh well, a win is a win and we like those here in NSW when most of the team is either injured or on duty with the Australian squad. Hang on, 'twas only last night. Fuck, I need a drink. We were watching the game while attempting to answer trivia questions at the Edinburgh Castle, the scene of my fight with Nautilus' Green Frog of Awesomeness. That's my fist you see shaping up to GF and the pic above is a beer tableau enjoyed by Naut and myself.
In the trivia last night we bolted to the lead only to be beaten by a bunch of googlers who aced the 2nd and 3rd rounds thanks to Steve Jobs and his i-Phone. In theory they're banned but ... The hostess realised this and spotted us an extra voucher to go on top of the 40 buck bar tab we got for coming 2nd. Three jugs of Carlton later we didn't give a flying fuck about googlers and were looking to see if Johnny Iwank had any runners in the Perth Greyhounds. Our team name for the evening was "The Ball Sucking Pakis". Usually most teams will stick with the same name each week. We reckon that's boring so we pick on something topical and try and twist it. "Ball Sucking Pakis" was tops because it roped together racism and homophobia in one hit. Previous team names have included;
"It won't suck itself"
"I sucked off my neighbour's alsation"
"John Howard is a cunt" - always a good stand-by if we were struggling for ideas.
Generally the idea is to abuse someone famous who has just passed away or has been in the headlines recently. Something like "xxxxx is a paedophile" generally doesn't get read out by the trivia host(ess), but something like "Malcolm Turnbull's noxious arse emission" will get through, unlike emissions trading legislation in the Senate.
So here's a busted arse challenge for anyone who'd like to contribute to our winningness. Come up with a team name. Keep in mind it has to be embarrassing for the trivia goon to read out and cause anguish, revulsion and/or embarrassment to at least one group of people. For example, I heard that Matthew Stokes, a Geelong AFL player was busted for dealing cocaine. What first comes to mind is something like;
"Matthew Stokes is the victim of a snow job" or "Stokes Coke joke blows" or "Mathew Stokes possessions stats - two kilos" or "Matthew Stokes and his Geelong snow dome" or "Matthew Stokes wins the Winter Olympics snow jump". They're a bit lame but you get the general idea. The person with the best suggestion/s gets some sort of lame prize from the Therbs Lame Prize Cupboard sent to them by post or courier, depending on what I can wrangle at the time and depending on what the prize actually is. And that's if I can be arsed actually doing it, because I am a lazy cunt after all. Now its time for a drink. Cheers.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Calgary, Then East
Well folks, thanks for sticking in. After the nauseating Straya Day flag thumping down at the beach yesterday I need to get back to another land and Calgary is good enough for the task. Also please excuse spelling mistakes. I can't be arsed with spellcheck. Not that your not worthy of it, I'm just really fucking lazy.
Kel's beer batter pancakes were a marvellous way of breaking a hungover fast. To make me feel welcome he put on a Bushwackers album. Now I've never been a big fan of bush music, thinking it a bit twee, but I did go to Redgum gigs back in the day and I knew a couple of the Bushwacker tunes, "Ryebuck Shearer" being one of them. I was taken aback that a bloke from Calgary would have heard of the Bushwackers then stumped up cash to buy one of their albums. Turned out that good 'ole Kel was a fan of things Australian. I ransacked my pack for trinkets and came up with a silver chain with a kangaroo on it (thanks to Marie at QANTAS), a coaster form the Occidental Hotel in Sydney and a Hood Gurus t-shirt. I also had a five dollar note, so it allbecame Kelly's. He was rapt and to celebrate went and grabbed a Blue (Labbatts) from the fridge. I was impressed. His attitude was definitely Antipodean.
We were a happy bunch when we went a caught a train into the fair grounds. A native village had been recreated alongside a frontier town. In amongst this we witnessed pig races. There was a casino where I lost ten bucks, decided to double up and came out out even. In the fronitier village we noticed a crowd building up. We moseyed on up and saw the beginnings of some trouble. Some bloke dressed in wild west attire was standing outside the fake saloon calling out for Luke. The gunlsinger looked mean so a few of us yelled out to Luke to stay inside. Silly bloody Luke didn't listen but came out guns blazing. He winged the gunman but was cut down in spectacular style, doing a front somersault with death roll from the verandah, over a trough and onto the dead, dusty earth. One of the crowd reminded Luke that he he should have listened to us. This was thirsty work so we hitched our gunbelts, tilted our hats and ambled back to our own saloon. On the way back we grabbed vids, pizza and beer before settlin' in at the ranch.
A belated breakfast at 10.00 saw us eager for some action. So we went to the local sports park, had a hit of tennis and then a game of slow pitch baseball. I was playing with Gary and Kel's wprk team against one of their other workplaces. Labbatts Blue goes well with baseball and it certainly inspired me to smacka couple of homers and snaffle an RBI. All in all a fun afternoon and I was happy that I didn't let the Oz sporting spirit down. We went to a restaurant called Denny Andrews, part of a chain of feed places which combined the ambience of a steakhouse with a pub. The steak was good and we sat around cracking jokes about Newfies (Newfoundland people) and figuring out whioh shooters were best. It must havebeen about three in the morning when I rolled myself into bed.
A painful birth into the next morning saw a repeat of the beer pancakes yet very little activity. All of us were pretty much shot birds. All we could manage was a pizza dinner and videos. Then out came the Grand Marnier and the rum. Oh yeah, that;s right it was my last night in Calgary and they were celebrating my departure. I remember hoisting a Molson in a round of cheers and thanks before being handed a glass of Jamaican rum punch, then another, then I can't remember. Surprisingly the next morning I didn't feel too bad. I went for a long walk around town to use up energy as I knew I had some long haul bus riding ahead of me. Kelly and I went for pints before heading off to his and Gary's workplace. They were activity directors for handicapped kids and they introduced me to a group of them. So I did some kangaroo hops, threw some balls around and tried to explain rugby league and Aussie Rules to them. Eventually it was time to leave and gary and Kelly drove me down to the Greyhound station. We said our goodbyes and I went and claimed my seat on the bus.
The all night ride finsihed for me at 7.00 a.m. the next morning. There was this joke about Saskatchewan about how boring the landscape is. One guy sees a tree and says "Told you there was something to see."
It summed up that province pretty well. I got off at Regina and walked around. I found a youth hostel, checked it out and got a bunk for the night. The hostel manager was intrigued by my Australianness and asked if I had any Oz money. I pulled out a ten buck note and he swapped me with a Canadian tenner. he was a currency buff so I got out before he had a chance to put corns on my ears. Regina had a museum, which was nice, a park which was nice and where I got involved in a chat with a couple of the local girls. They were nice. It was a nice town. After a burger for dinner I went to a bar and was sipping on my beer when the two young lasses walked in. I waved a beery hello to Christina and Judy and they took my bait. The fools. I plied them with beer, wine, spirits and we talked about the wonders of Saskatchewan, Expo '86 in Vancouver and I told them how Regina reminded me of Paris. Must have been the romantic atmosphere. On the pretext of me needing some fresh air and to stretch my legs after months of bus travel we went for a walk in the park. I positioned myself between them and did the arms over the shoulder drape thing. I kissed Judy, then Chris and then put my arms around their waists. They giggled in a girlish fashion and kissed me back and I started to get evil ideas. There was one question starting to form itself, there in the background, something important. As I kissed Chris again and she giggled girlishly again the question started a thumping at the door. It was very insistent so I went and opened it. The question said to my conscience,
"Age of consent in Canada. Angry fathers with guns. Police. Do these things mean anything?"
Hmmm. Do they? I mean these girls had been served drinks in a bar. Well, not much of an argument there I s'pose. Nothing for it but to work my around to the subject and be sharpish about it.
"Hey Judy, Chrissie. Are you two girls still at school?"
A chorus of giggles was the response. 'Nuff said. I kissed them both again, patted them on their cute little rumps and took them back to the bar. I slammed down a double Jack while the girls visited the bathroom. When they rejoined me it was to kiss me goodnight. Must have been past curfew time. 10.00 was pretty late for a couple of young'uns to be out in the wilds of Regina. Funny place.
I had a dream that night. Well, more of a nightmare really which I'll turm into a really short story.
"You don't know how to deal with a drunken, girl-chasing, goddam Australian sonofabitch until one gets after your daughter." This was what the local Ford dealer told the homicide detective as he tearfully handed over the Colt '45, the one his granpappy had given him back in 1955 and which could be traced back to 1886.
After walking around town the next mroning I caught the midday bus heading east. Another long haul got me to Brandon. I split a few beers with a hippy down at the bus terminal, walked around and decided this was not a place to stay in overnight. I needed a meal so I hit a cafe and had their steak special, washed down with a Blue. After that I noticed the hippy again and we sat around talking about hippy shit. Actually it wasn't hippy shit. This bloke had spent a couple of years hitching and bussing around Central America as well as the U.S., Canada and Europe. We shared a couple of hash joints before another bus came and waltzed me away to Winnipeg. The beat goes on.
Kel's beer batter pancakes were a marvellous way of breaking a hungover fast. To make me feel welcome he put on a Bushwackers album. Now I've never been a big fan of bush music, thinking it a bit twee, but I did go to Redgum gigs back in the day and I knew a couple of the Bushwacker tunes, "Ryebuck Shearer" being one of them. I was taken aback that a bloke from Calgary would have heard of the Bushwackers then stumped up cash to buy one of their albums. Turned out that good 'ole Kel was a fan of things Australian. I ransacked my pack for trinkets and came up with a silver chain with a kangaroo on it (thanks to Marie at QANTAS), a coaster form the Occidental Hotel in Sydney and a Hood Gurus t-shirt. I also had a five dollar note, so it allbecame Kelly's. He was rapt and to celebrate went and grabbed a Blue (Labbatts) from the fridge. I was impressed. His attitude was definitely Antipodean.
We were a happy bunch when we went a caught a train into the fair grounds. A native village had been recreated alongside a frontier town. In amongst this we witnessed pig races. There was a casino where I lost ten bucks, decided to double up and came out out even. In the fronitier village we noticed a crowd building up. We moseyed on up and saw the beginnings of some trouble. Some bloke dressed in wild west attire was standing outside the fake saloon calling out for Luke. The gunlsinger looked mean so a few of us yelled out to Luke to stay inside. Silly bloody Luke didn't listen but came out guns blazing. He winged the gunman but was cut down in spectacular style, doing a front somersault with death roll from the verandah, over a trough and onto the dead, dusty earth. One of the crowd reminded Luke that he he should have listened to us. This was thirsty work so we hitched our gunbelts, tilted our hats and ambled back to our own saloon. On the way back we grabbed vids, pizza and beer before settlin' in at the ranch.
A belated breakfast at 10.00 saw us eager for some action. So we went to the local sports park, had a hit of tennis and then a game of slow pitch baseball. I was playing with Gary and Kel's wprk team against one of their other workplaces. Labbatts Blue goes well with baseball and it certainly inspired me to smacka couple of homers and snaffle an RBI. All in all a fun afternoon and I was happy that I didn't let the Oz sporting spirit down. We went to a restaurant called Denny Andrews, part of a chain of feed places which combined the ambience of a steakhouse with a pub. The steak was good and we sat around cracking jokes about Newfies (Newfoundland people) and figuring out whioh shooters were best. It must havebeen about three in the morning when I rolled myself into bed.
A painful birth into the next morning saw a repeat of the beer pancakes yet very little activity. All of us were pretty much shot birds. All we could manage was a pizza dinner and videos. Then out came the Grand Marnier and the rum. Oh yeah, that;s right it was my last night in Calgary and they were celebrating my departure. I remember hoisting a Molson in a round of cheers and thanks before being handed a glass of Jamaican rum punch, then another, then I can't remember. Surprisingly the next morning I didn't feel too bad. I went for a long walk around town to use up energy as I knew I had some long haul bus riding ahead of me. Kelly and I went for pints before heading off to his and Gary's workplace. They were activity directors for handicapped kids and they introduced me to a group of them. So I did some kangaroo hops, threw some balls around and tried to explain rugby league and Aussie Rules to them. Eventually it was time to leave and gary and Kelly drove me down to the Greyhound station. We said our goodbyes and I went and claimed my seat on the bus.
The all night ride finsihed for me at 7.00 a.m. the next morning. There was this joke about Saskatchewan about how boring the landscape is. One guy sees a tree and says "Told you there was something to see."
It summed up that province pretty well. I got off at Regina and walked around. I found a youth hostel, checked it out and got a bunk for the night. The hostel manager was intrigued by my Australianness and asked if I had any Oz money. I pulled out a ten buck note and he swapped me with a Canadian tenner. he was a currency buff so I got out before he had a chance to put corns on my ears. Regina had a museum, which was nice, a park which was nice and where I got involved in a chat with a couple of the local girls. They were nice. It was a nice town. After a burger for dinner I went to a bar and was sipping on my beer when the two young lasses walked in. I waved a beery hello to Christina and Judy and they took my bait. The fools. I plied them with beer, wine, spirits and we talked about the wonders of Saskatchewan, Expo '86 in Vancouver and I told them how Regina reminded me of Paris. Must have been the romantic atmosphere. On the pretext of me needing some fresh air and to stretch my legs after months of bus travel we went for a walk in the park. I positioned myself between them and did the arms over the shoulder drape thing. I kissed Judy, then Chris and then put my arms around their waists. They giggled in a girlish fashion and kissed me back and I started to get evil ideas. There was one question starting to form itself, there in the background, something important. As I kissed Chris again and she giggled girlishly again the question started a thumping at the door. It was very insistent so I went and opened it. The question said to my conscience,
"Age of consent in Canada. Angry fathers with guns. Police. Do these things mean anything?"
Hmmm. Do they? I mean these girls had been served drinks in a bar. Well, not much of an argument there I s'pose. Nothing for it but to work my around to the subject and be sharpish about it.
"Hey Judy, Chrissie. Are you two girls still at school?"
A chorus of giggles was the response. 'Nuff said. I kissed them both again, patted them on their cute little rumps and took them back to the bar. I slammed down a double Jack while the girls visited the bathroom. When they rejoined me it was to kiss me goodnight. Must have been past curfew time. 10.00 was pretty late for a couple of young'uns to be out in the wilds of Regina. Funny place.
I had a dream that night. Well, more of a nightmare really which I'll turm into a really short story.
"You don't know how to deal with a drunken, girl-chasing, goddam Australian sonofabitch until one gets after your daughter." This was what the local Ford dealer told the homicide detective as he tearfully handed over the Colt '45, the one his granpappy had given him back in 1955 and which could be traced back to 1886.
After walking around town the next mroning I caught the midday bus heading east. Another long haul got me to Brandon. I split a few beers with a hippy down at the bus terminal, walked around and decided this was not a place to stay in overnight. I needed a meal so I hit a cafe and had their steak special, washed down with a Blue. After that I noticed the hippy again and we sat around talking about hippy shit. Actually it wasn't hippy shit. This bloke had spent a couple of years hitching and bussing around Central America as well as the U.S., Canada and Europe. We shared a couple of hash joints before another bus came and waltzed me away to Winnipeg. The beat goes on.
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