Hiya folks, back in 2006 I did a comment article over at the Bulldogs Debate Page about the Warriors getting sanctioned over salary cap indescretions in the National Rugby League. Below is the rejigged article bringing it up to date. The italics are the major additions to the original.
In 2002 the Bulldogs were investigated for serious breaches of the NRL salary cap. After being found guilty they suffered a significant monetary fine and the loss of all of the competition points they had amassed that season (37). This killed them off for 2002; drove sponsors away and the drama fed the electronic and print media for months. This all was spurred on by a ‘dob-in’. The Bulldogs had previously been cleared after an audit of their salary cap expenditure by the NRL auditor.
In 2006 the NZ Warriors were investigated for serious breaches of the salary cap. They were found guilty and suffered a significant monetary fine and the loss of four competition points. This affected their Final 8 chances as they missed out by 4 points on reaching the mark. They would have slipped in on a better for and against point’s record ahead of Parramatta. They may have possibly won the Premiership; not likely but they were still a chance. Media interest was very light in this case over which none of the hungry scribblers of 2002 raised a smidgin of blotted sweat. This case was spurred on by the executives of the Warriors notifying the NRL that something was awry in the Warriors handling of their Salary Cap. It is speculation to suggest this was the result of a ‘tip off’ but it certainly wasn’t the result of some great sleuthing by the Salary Cap Auditor, Ian Schubert.
In 2010 the Melbourne Storm were found to have systematically rorted the salary cap over a five year period. Their penalty was to be stripped of two NRL Premierships, 3 Minor Premierships, 8 competition points, the possibility of gaining competition points in 2010, a fine of $500,000 and being forced to repay $1.1 million dollars in prize money.
There is a large disparity between the ‘crimes’ committed and the sanctions imposed. A 33 point disparity may seem too large. Fans will dispute the severity or otherwise of each club’s penalties and this will go on for years. A more reasonable penalty for the Warriors would have been 10 competition points which would allow the Warriors to avoid the wooden spoon and all but rule them out of Finals contention. Allowing them the chance (however unlikely) to win the competition after being found guilty just didn’t gel with some people. Also what doesn’t gel with Melbourne Storm's penalty is the farcical nature of teams having to compete against a team made up of players receiving illegal payments. Common thinking is that they should have been told to become immediately compliant under the salary cap taking whatever measures were necessary, lose the points accumulated up to the point they do become compliant and then be able to compete for competition points. The severity of the penalties will be a constant source of debate and will use up a lot of newsprint for the remainder of the NRL season.
In the wash up of the Warriors’ case another club was accused by one of its ex players of behaviour similar to that which led to the Warriors being penalised; offering post-retirement sinecures. Was that club investigated? Given its wealth of representative players were there any post – retirement deals made with any of its stars to circumvent the salary cap? Did Sergeant Schubert know? Not bloody likely, but that is a debatable point.
What isn’t in dispute however is that all three major breaches were not detected by the salary cap auditor, Ian Schubert.
Here I will use the comparison with Sergeant Schultz in Hogan’s Heroes who needs to be vigorously shaken by a prisoner and often prodded with his own rifle before waking up to the likes of Lebeau or Carter demanding his attention. The offer of strudel always wins him over. What he fears most is a transfer to the Russian Front. Whilst I really like Schultz, the manifestation of his incompetence in real life makes me shudder.
Who’s to know how many tunnels have been dug by the wily Hogan under the sleepy eyes of Sergeant Schultz. How many supply trains have been blown up and how many bombs dropped on that ball bearing plant conveniently located just outside of Hammelburg and within striking distance of Stalag 13? How many nice German motor vehicles have been appropriated from the motor pool? Does Sergeant Schultz know? Ask him and see what he says. You remember his catch phrase. Shout it out loud and strong and within earshot of any NRL fan.
So here we have three very serious salary cap breaches and another alleged breach not uncovered by the auditor. So what purpose does this bloke serve? Sorry, it’s a rhetorical question so I won’t accept any nasty swearing in response. Schubert has to go. As does Gallop. While we’re at it lets clean out News Ltd from any management or executive roles within the NRL. They've screwed up NRL TV deals, are incapabl;e of managing a football code and should stick to "man bites dog" stories and taking photos of celebrity breasts. In the words of Havock, cap the fkn muppets!
Kinch, get on the radio to HQ and tell them Goldilocks has a plan.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Dog Shit Killers Breakfast Club
Kerryn James softly cursed as she saw her boyfriend's phone vibrate with a low thrum, bouncing ever so slightly on the table on the opposite side of her bed. A lot less slightly in fact than the two of them had been bouncing earlier. Ian Reep groaned, having almost drifted to sleep after a heavy session of post dinner bedroom gymnastics. He winced as he looked at the caller i.d. on his phone, noting the time as 10.00. It was one of those fucking private numbers which meant anything from a call centre in India offering hot new deals on jam tin phone plans, a call from one of his drunk mates (red hot fave, ten bucks on the nose thanks), or a wrong number (hope and pray, like Beckham from the spot in a World Cup shoot-out). He grabbed the vibrating Nokia and hit the green button; "Hello. Reep." his voice was a bad croak.
"Reepy!" An excited voice blared, "Its Jacko."
"Fuck off Max! What the fuck do you want?" Reep turned over, cradling the phone, trying to protect Kerryn from Jacko's idiocy.
"I'm down at Central lock-up. Two hundred bucks bail until Monday. Any chance of a hand? I tried Sniper but his phone's not working. Sorry mate, I know its fucked but I'm stuck."
Reep shook his head and cleared his throat while doing mental checks of his blood alcohol reading and bank balance.
"I'll be there in twenty. Stay cool."
"Thanks mate. That's a gold medal effort."
"See ya", then Reep hit the red button. By this stage Kerryn was all inquisitive as well as being annoyed so Reep turned around and answered her arched eyebrows.
"Its Jacko. He needs bailing out down at Central. Wanna come?"
Kerryn rolled back over, pondering the incongruity of having hooked up with a decent man who lead a normal life but was bedevilled by a couple of drunken gambling friends who frequently dragged him off on misadventures. Maybe not so much since she'd fallen for him, distracting him with coupledom but the potential was always there, lingering like one of those cartoon devils camped on Fred Flinstone's shoulder offering all sorts of nasty advice. Still, they were funny bastards and meant well. It would also be something to write about in her "Creative Writing" class. The instructor was always looking for some grit; well here be a pile of the stuff ready for sifting.
"Yep. Its only one-thirty. May as well go and save the idiot. Did he say why he's in gaol?"
She watched as Reep climbed into his jeans and threw on his crumpled "NSW Blues" t-shirt. He still had a tight body, the memory of its intertwined with hers bringing a happy smile to her face.
"No. Have to be some pissed idiot antic though. Hey, you coming half naked. I'm sure the dykes on bikes will love that." As he slid on his sandals he took in the sight of her curves again. Kerryn flicked back a smile and she padded out to the bathroom. A few minutes later she was back. She grabbed her green dress from a clothes rack and drew it over her well proportioned body. Reep made a silent prayer, blessing his cotton socks (not currently being worn) that he'd fallen in with such a girl.
Central Police was just down the road from the railway station and a good two shot navigation to the pin known as the Chamberlain Hotel, outside which Reep parked his Lancer coupe. The pub happened to be open so he went inside and found the bar manager, Shaun serving a few of the crew from the latest musical being staged at The Capitol Theatre twenty metres down the road.
"When are you closing up, Shaun?"
"Prob'ly late. The crew's thirsty and we're doing good tonight. Mark told me to keep it going as long as it was humming. You want a beer?" then he noticed Kerryn in the doorway and smiled in a leery sort of way, arched eyebrows, the works.
"Hi Kez." he said in a singsong voice,
Reepo decided to put some direction to unfolding events,
"No, just going over to the cop shop to bail out Jacko. Don't ask 'cos I don't know. We'll be back in shortly."
With that the couple exited the Chambo and walked across the parking lot, then Belmore Park, skipping across Eddy Avenue to the police station. As they entered they saw a couple of detective types exit, leaving a clear path to the desk. They fronted up,
"We're here to bail out Max Jackson."
The desk sergeant nodded, handing some forms to Reep while checking out Kerryn's figure. She smiled, flicking her hair slightly as she looked over Reep's shoulder. The cop explained the procedure then picked up his phone, punching in a number.
"Get Prisoner Jackson out here. He's got bail."
As Reep filled out the forms Kerryn smiled at the sergeant.
"Busy tonight? Many drunk idiots causing strife?" The sergeant shook his head.
"Not really. Your mate's only the third and his wasn't a big deal.Plenty on over at Newtown though." As he spoke a junior constable escorted a cuffed Jacko to near the access door to freedom. Reep handed over the completed forms to the sergeant along with four fifty dollar notes. The sergeant took the forms and the cash and then explained Jacko's responsibilities in terms of fronting up to the court and the range of penalties a no-show would trigger. In spite of his situation Jacko didn't appear too ruffled. He held up his hands for the cop to unlock the cuffs and then he signed the forms. The constable opened the "freedom" door and Jacko exited. The desk sergeant handed him back a receipt, a copy of the bail papers and a bag of possessions from which Jacko promptly extracted his wallet. It was stuffed with fifty and hundred dollar notes. He slipped the wallet into his front pocket, nodded to the two police officers and said;
"Thanks boys. Sorry about the hassle tonight but I'll sort it out. I'll let yez know how it goes. Oh yeah, remember that trotter's name too. Probably run on Wednesday night in Brisbane. Felton Mully."
The young cop laughed,
"Okay mate, just don't let us see you here again in handcuffs. Good luck."
The three friends walked out of the police station and headed across the park. Jacko looked at Kerryn,
"By Jeez you're looking decidedly shagworthy tonight. Surprised to see you come out after eight but I'm glad you made the effort." he then looked at Reep,
"Thanks poof. I'll settle with you in the car." He then noticed the Chambo had its lights on and doors open.
"Fuck that, I'll settle up in the pub and tell you a tale. I could murder a beer!"
They walked into the Chamberlain Hotel a few minutes later. Jacko went straight up to Margie, the red headed barmaid,
"Three thanks Margaret. Got any sangers left over from the roasts?"
Margie shook her head,
"No but we've got some pies still going. Beef or chicken?"
"Beef thanks."
He handed over a twenty dollar note, carrying the beers over to the bemused couple. He went back to the bar, collected his change, his pie on a plate plus a squeeze bottle of tomato sauce.
"Duck me fed I need this!" With that he downed half of his beer then guped down a huge bite of the meat pie. The others stared at him, their eyes drilling into his, demanding answers.
"Okay, here's the story." He then explained how he'd spent the previous morning breakfasting at Gayle's place after a night of passion. At this Kerryn interrupted,
"A full-blown item now, you and Gayle?"
"S'pose so, but that's not the point." he quickly changed the subject not wanting to turn the story into a romantic comedy. "I left her place and went and caught the bus over to Leichhardt." Jacko then explained how he'd stopped at his local pub and started putting a few bets on the races in Melbourne.
He managed to get a few wins, then lost most it chasing the big punt. He ended up putting fifty each way on a 12-1 shot, Tina's Joy, which took an outside run on the home straight and bolted in by half a length over the favourite. He then backed in a few favourites with hundred dollar bets and followed up with some greyhound wins, scattered amongst a series of losses.
"So I end up two grand in front and start celebrating. Gayle's off at her sister's place preparing some family gig and Sniper's gone missing so I'm on my own, with you two doing your Ikea thing or whatever the fuck gayness it was..three more thanks Margie...so I headed up to Newtown, to the Sandringham to see who was playing." Jacko walked over to the bar and grabbed the three fresh beers. Then he remembered they were meant to be driving.
"You wanna put your car in the car park? This may take some drinking, this tale of mine." Ian nodded,
"Best idea ever. We'll cab it home eh Kez?" Kez agreed, fascintaed where this was leading and determined to turn it into a story for her next class assigment. Reep walked out to his car, got in and drove it across to the car park, then handed over the ten dollar flat fee to the attendant. While he was gone Kerryn pressed Jacko on how he was going with Gayle;
"Well Kerryn, she's good. She makes me laugh a lot and we got on well in bed. Taking it easy at the moment but its going along nicely." he took a long pull on his beer, " What the fuck did you expect me to say anyway? That she's a raving case and into bat blood? I know about her ex, her exploits and all that shite but all it means to me is that she's lived a bit more than some and a bit less than others. God knows I couldn't go pointing any fingers in that direction." Kerryn arched her brows, inviting an explanation which wasn't coming. Not coming yet anyway, it was still at the domestic terminal waiting for a standby to get on the next flight. She knew Jacko had lived fast and loose with the usual rules of engagement but hadn't heard all the stories. Ian was letting them out on a slow trickle feed and she couldn't get near the tap to increase the flow rate. All it needed was patience and beer and she'd be able to tap the well. She made a mental note to quiz Gayle the next day.
"So Gayle's at her family's place tonight? Poor old lonely Jacko. Desparate, lonely Jacko."
"Fuck yeah, that's right. You don't feel like a proper shag I s'pose?"
"Reepo does me well thanks. You should get some tips from him. Speaking of whom..."
Ian Reep walked back into the pub and grabbed his beer,
"Thirsty work indeed. Now what are you two up to? Did we get to the crime scene yet?"
Jacko smiled and continued to relate the evening's events. After going to Newtown, flush with his gambling wins he walked into the Sandringham to check out who was playing. Unfortunately for him he recognised one of the bouncers from the night he and Sniper had killed Dog Shit Machine (deusexmachina or some such shite). The bouncer didn't quite recognise him but neither did he like the cut of Max's jib and promptly bounced him out of the pub. Cursing, Jacko bounced back up ready to shape up in a drunken act of bravado but the sudden appearance of two more monstrous Maori bouncers settled the issue so he turned tail and strolled off. He cut down to Enmore Road and wandered up to the RSL club. After signing in he wandered into the main lounge area and noticed another ghost from the past, the lead guitarist from Dog Shit Machine. He was in company with a sleazy looking manager type and another guy who looked like the keyboard player from Flange Gasket. Smelling something afoot in the world of indie rock he went and ordered a beer from the bar and took up an obesrvational position close to the DSM guitarist's coterie of ill-met friends. Jacko overhead snippets of conversation as he kept an eye on the TAB monitors in the adjacent bar. It was mainly about studios, rights, "advance earns" and recording albums. He went and placed a bet on "Rex Retlub" in Cannington and resumed his seat. Rex Retlub came in as favourite, paying a buck-fifty which meant that the hunnert he'd put on gave Jacko a fiddy buck profit. He was happy with that and decided to leave. On the way out he also decided to leave his mark behind. As he got up he leaned over to the DSM guitarist and said,
"Saw your crap band Dog Shit Machine at the Sando a while back. Remember how you lost your worse-than-shite sound? Deusexmachine? Fuckin' Dog Shit Machine!"
As his tirade went on Marty buried his head in his hands, remembering the night at The Annandale Hotel when the Gasket had applauded Jacko's efforts. The DSM guitarist didn't know what to do. His sense of artistic integrity was mixed with a full-blooded Melbournish feeling of 'Sydney done us wrong again'.
He got up and promptly swung a slow looping right at Jacko's beer-infused face. Jacko was anticipating this and backed away, laughing. The follow up left was not anticipated that well by the drunk punter and he only managed to bow his head, copping the blow on the top of his skull. In his effort to over hit the guitarist slipped over his chair and fell to the ground and that's what the bouncers saw. They looked at Jacko, grabbed him and frogmarched him to the foyer, followed by the angry guitarist who insisted on laying assault charges. Jacko's response was,
"Blow it out your arse ya big poof."
"So that's how I ended up in the clink. Newtown cop shop was full so they had to bring me here. The cops got statements from the bouncers and the guitarist but that bloke from Gasket and the manager guy apparently saw nothing. So its basically a 'he-said, he-said' case. The bouncers didn't see that dickhead throw a punch but they're going to get the security footage on Monday. I rest my case."
Kerryn and Ian shook their heads, laughing.
Reepo asked,
"So what's with you and Sniper's band. My bass is ready, got a drummer?"
"Senior's organising a Junior from his drum classes. We've got rehearsal time next Wednesday arvo at five in Surry Hills. Kerryn, are you keen on adding some vocals?"
Kerryn thought back to her own high school days of singing at school dances in front of a band doing Cheryl Crowe, Blondie and Madonna covers.
"As long as its just once or twice I'll do it. Have you got any songs?"
"We've written four and been practicing the guitar bits of a heap of covers. Pogues, Gurus, Oils, Nirvana, spiderbait, even some Beatles, Stones, Who and Easybeats. I reckon we'll end up being able to last two hours. Sniper's done well with his guitar work. Never picked him for a muso but he's picked it up okay for a retarded peddo."
Kerryn cocked her head, "Pogues, eh?" then she started singing part of their Christmas song;
'You're a bum, you're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip on that bed
You scumbag, you maggott
You cheap lousy faggott
Happy Christmas your arse
I hope its our last
The boys of NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay,
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas Day'
(The Pogues - "Fairytale of New York)
Jacko looked at her in disbelief. Sniper would love it. Her voice was strong and true and that was exactly the sort of song he wanted to include in a set. He said "again", but this time he sang the bloke's parts. Reepo did a polite 'golf clap' and winked at Kerryn explaining,
"She's got that album. Sings to it quite often." Kerryn tilted her head, looking at Max,
"Okay, I'll sit in for a couple of tunes as long as you get us another drink."
Jacko complied and went to the bar.
Wayne Blake looked at his phone and noticed a couple of messages were waiting demanding attention. Sitting in the driver's seat of the welfare department's fleet car was one of their property projects staff, Scott Booth. Both men were glad that their shift had presented no problems. The fitout work at the department's Darlinghurst office was ahead of schedule and the first stage of the public contact area refit would now be finished by midday Sunday, allowing the office staff to prep the area for opening time on Monday morning. Blake had been seconded to the project after being onvolved in a committee to redeisgn part of the Area Office in Pitt Street, adjacent to Belmore Park. He didn't know it but the Property Manager had been impressed with his input and ability to get staff on side. He also got on well the Property Team blokes and seemed a likely recruit for an upcoming vacancy. Booth had been briefed to observe how Blake handled the pressure and had been please with Sniper's performance so far. He mused on this as he drove. He turned left from Goulburn Street into Pitt and as they approached Campbell St Blake noticed that the Chamberlain Hotel was open. He looked at Scott Booth and asked,
"Feel like a beer Scotty?"
"No mate, I want to get home. The missus is expecting me to be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow. Gotta finish off that cubby house. By Christ that's been a nightmare project. Worse than that fucking Darlo fitout anyway." He pulled the car over to the kerb, adding,
"Get a skinful mate, you've earned it. That was a good effort today. I'll catch up with you on Monday when we debrief the boss on site."
"Cheers Scotty." with that he waved at Booth as the "Z car" moved off, heading south.
Bake walked into the festive pub atmosphere and as he did he heard the end of Kerryn's singing and stood back, unnoticed by his friends. He saw Jacko walk to the bar then decided to announce his presence by yelling out,
"And another one you rancid poof!"
Jacko turned around, shook his head, calling out,
"Fuck off and get your own. What the fuck have you been up to anyway?"
"Working. Got that overtime gig working with the Property blokes on that fitout of your manky workplace. Built you a new dunny and everything." Blake walked over to help his friend carry the drinks.
"A long day, I need this." Blake then swallowed a third of the schooner in one long draught.
Jackson said, "Ohh mate, you haven't heard the best of it."
After swapping their stories Blake fetched a final round of drinks. They conferred on their next movements with Jackson insisting they go back to his "palace" in Leichhardt and carry on the party.
Kerryn nudged Ian awake at around ten thirty in the morning. He looked a mess, just like she felt. Fuck! They had to go back to the car park and get his car. They'd still be well over the limit for driving. Shit! Oh well, they'd sort that shit out later. She scrabbled at Reep's hair as his eyes slowly opened. His voice was a poor croak of its usual self,
"Thank Christ that was you and not Sniper or Jacko. I'm busting. I need a snakes'." He got up and staggered into the bathroom from where his ablution noises were loud and strong. Then he started singing,
"I like to go swimming with bow legged women and swim between their legs." to drown out the splashing noises.
From the kitchen Kerryn heard Jackson talking to someone. She got up, putting on her dress to stop Max getting an eyeful and walked into the kitchen. Jackson continued his conversation,
"Kezza's here now. Want a word?"
He then whispered to Kerryn, "Its the blond prossie looking for some HLA". Kerryn snatched the phone and spoke into it,
"Hiya darling! How was the family gig?" she smiled into the phone as Jackson grabbed a steaming mug from the counter and handed it to Kerryn. He then grabbed a half-full coffee pot and poured himself a mug and headed out to the lounge room. On one side Blake was fast asleep on a foam mattress. The lounge was still folded out in its service as emergency kip spot for Reep and Kerryn. There were three guitars lying on the floor in the dining area but he noticed that the amps had been turned off. As he did, Reepo exited the bathroom and walked into the lounge.
"Feel like a cuppa? I'll make a pot of tea."
Jacko shook his head, pointing out the coffee pot in the kitchen, so Reep went and poured a cup. Kerryn hit the red button on Jacko's phone and walked over, handing it back to him.
"Gayle's going to pick up the car. I told her the keys are behind the bar. Better ring Mark and make sure of that." Reep pulled out his own phone and called the Chamberlain and confirmed that his keys were n fact there.
"Sweet. That's nice of Gayle. Don't know what she sees in a hopeless prick like you Jackson, she needs to wake up to herself." Jacko's only response was that "All chicks dig me."
Noticing the recumbent Blake, Kerryn shuffled over and started to flick her hair into his face, triggering a fly swat response from the Dog Shit Killer guitarist. She repeated this a few times before Reep and Jacko got into the act, eventually rough housing him awake. He growled himself awake, took his turn in the bathroom, then grabbed a coffee from the nearly empty pot after rummaging through Jacko's fridge. Looking around the busily messy flat he addressed his friends,
"Ladies and Gentleman, good morning and welcome to the Dog Shit Killers Breakfast Club. I'm proud to announce that in his fridge Max has stashed a truckload of bacon and a carton of eggs which are about to become breakfast. If someone would kindly ring our press agent and let them know, I'd hate to miss out on a photo op of Jacko's apparent turn to domesticity."
Kerryn chuckled, "And he's got a multi roll pack of toilet paper in the bathroom plus a pot plant in there."
She reaised her coffee cup, toasting her friend Gayle,
"Here's to Gayle, taming a new frontier."
As she did she noticed Jacko, stretched back on a lounge chair taking an unhealthy slurp from a large glass full of coke. Then she noticed the nearly depleted Jim Beam bottle at his side and "tsked" at him.
Jacko swivelled his head in her direction, bloodshot eyes beaming out his own truth in stereoscope. Noticing the nearly empty bourbon bottle Blake swiftly stepped over and opened it, smelled it and then tilted the bottle to his mouth, commenting,
"By fuck ya gotta be quick around here. He'd almost finished that off without even offering any around. The prick."
After taking another swig from his glass Jacko summed up his true feelings, belching, then asking,
"Did someone mention bacon? I could murder a feed."
"Reepy!" An excited voice blared, "Its Jacko."
"Fuck off Max! What the fuck do you want?" Reep turned over, cradling the phone, trying to protect Kerryn from Jacko's idiocy.
"I'm down at Central lock-up. Two hundred bucks bail until Monday. Any chance of a hand? I tried Sniper but his phone's not working. Sorry mate, I know its fucked but I'm stuck."
Reep shook his head and cleared his throat while doing mental checks of his blood alcohol reading and bank balance.
"I'll be there in twenty. Stay cool."
"Thanks mate. That's a gold medal effort."
"See ya", then Reep hit the red button. By this stage Kerryn was all inquisitive as well as being annoyed so Reep turned around and answered her arched eyebrows.
"Its Jacko. He needs bailing out down at Central. Wanna come?"
Kerryn rolled back over, pondering the incongruity of having hooked up with a decent man who lead a normal life but was bedevilled by a couple of drunken gambling friends who frequently dragged him off on misadventures. Maybe not so much since she'd fallen for him, distracting him with coupledom but the potential was always there, lingering like one of those cartoon devils camped on Fred Flinstone's shoulder offering all sorts of nasty advice. Still, they were funny bastards and meant well. It would also be something to write about in her "Creative Writing" class. The instructor was always looking for some grit; well here be a pile of the stuff ready for sifting.
"Yep. Its only one-thirty. May as well go and save the idiot. Did he say why he's in gaol?"
She watched as Reep climbed into his jeans and threw on his crumpled "NSW Blues" t-shirt. He still had a tight body, the memory of its intertwined with hers bringing a happy smile to her face.
"No. Have to be some pissed idiot antic though. Hey, you coming half naked. I'm sure the dykes on bikes will love that." As he slid on his sandals he took in the sight of her curves again. Kerryn flicked back a smile and she padded out to the bathroom. A few minutes later she was back. She grabbed her green dress from a clothes rack and drew it over her well proportioned body. Reep made a silent prayer, blessing his cotton socks (not currently being worn) that he'd fallen in with such a girl.
Central Police was just down the road from the railway station and a good two shot navigation to the pin known as the Chamberlain Hotel, outside which Reep parked his Lancer coupe. The pub happened to be open so he went inside and found the bar manager, Shaun serving a few of the crew from the latest musical being staged at The Capitol Theatre twenty metres down the road.
"When are you closing up, Shaun?"
"Prob'ly late. The crew's thirsty and we're doing good tonight. Mark told me to keep it going as long as it was humming. You want a beer?" then he noticed Kerryn in the doorway and smiled in a leery sort of way, arched eyebrows, the works.
"Hi Kez." he said in a singsong voice,
Reepo decided to put some direction to unfolding events,
"No, just going over to the cop shop to bail out Jacko. Don't ask 'cos I don't know. We'll be back in shortly."
With that the couple exited the Chambo and walked across the parking lot, then Belmore Park, skipping across Eddy Avenue to the police station. As they entered they saw a couple of detective types exit, leaving a clear path to the desk. They fronted up,
"We're here to bail out Max Jackson."
The desk sergeant nodded, handing some forms to Reep while checking out Kerryn's figure. She smiled, flicking her hair slightly as she looked over Reep's shoulder. The cop explained the procedure then picked up his phone, punching in a number.
"Get Prisoner Jackson out here. He's got bail."
As Reep filled out the forms Kerryn smiled at the sergeant.
"Busy tonight? Many drunk idiots causing strife?" The sergeant shook his head.
"Not really. Your mate's only the third and his wasn't a big deal.Plenty on over at Newtown though." As he spoke a junior constable escorted a cuffed Jacko to near the access door to freedom. Reep handed over the completed forms to the sergeant along with four fifty dollar notes. The sergeant took the forms and the cash and then explained Jacko's responsibilities in terms of fronting up to the court and the range of penalties a no-show would trigger. In spite of his situation Jacko didn't appear too ruffled. He held up his hands for the cop to unlock the cuffs and then he signed the forms. The constable opened the "freedom" door and Jacko exited. The desk sergeant handed him back a receipt, a copy of the bail papers and a bag of possessions from which Jacko promptly extracted his wallet. It was stuffed with fifty and hundred dollar notes. He slipped the wallet into his front pocket, nodded to the two police officers and said;
"Thanks boys. Sorry about the hassle tonight but I'll sort it out. I'll let yez know how it goes. Oh yeah, remember that trotter's name too. Probably run on Wednesday night in Brisbane. Felton Mully."
The young cop laughed,
"Okay mate, just don't let us see you here again in handcuffs. Good luck."
The three friends walked out of the police station and headed across the park. Jacko looked at Kerryn,
"By Jeez you're looking decidedly shagworthy tonight. Surprised to see you come out after eight but I'm glad you made the effort." he then looked at Reep,
"Thanks poof. I'll settle with you in the car." He then noticed the Chambo had its lights on and doors open.
"Fuck that, I'll settle up in the pub and tell you a tale. I could murder a beer!"
They walked into the Chamberlain Hotel a few minutes later. Jacko went straight up to Margie, the red headed barmaid,
"Three thanks Margaret. Got any sangers left over from the roasts?"
Margie shook her head,
"No but we've got some pies still going. Beef or chicken?"
"Beef thanks."
He handed over a twenty dollar note, carrying the beers over to the bemused couple. He went back to the bar, collected his change, his pie on a plate plus a squeeze bottle of tomato sauce.
"Duck me fed I need this!" With that he downed half of his beer then guped down a huge bite of the meat pie. The others stared at him, their eyes drilling into his, demanding answers.
"Okay, here's the story." He then explained how he'd spent the previous morning breakfasting at Gayle's place after a night of passion. At this Kerryn interrupted,
"A full-blown item now, you and Gayle?"
"S'pose so, but that's not the point." he quickly changed the subject not wanting to turn the story into a romantic comedy. "I left her place and went and caught the bus over to Leichhardt." Jacko then explained how he'd stopped at his local pub and started putting a few bets on the races in Melbourne.
He managed to get a few wins, then lost most it chasing the big punt. He ended up putting fifty each way on a 12-1 shot, Tina's Joy, which took an outside run on the home straight and bolted in by half a length over the favourite. He then backed in a few favourites with hundred dollar bets and followed up with some greyhound wins, scattered amongst a series of losses.
"So I end up two grand in front and start celebrating. Gayle's off at her sister's place preparing some family gig and Sniper's gone missing so I'm on my own, with you two doing your Ikea thing or whatever the fuck gayness it was..three more thanks Margie...so I headed up to Newtown, to the Sandringham to see who was playing." Jacko walked over to the bar and grabbed the three fresh beers. Then he remembered they were meant to be driving.
"You wanna put your car in the car park? This may take some drinking, this tale of mine." Ian nodded,
"Best idea ever. We'll cab it home eh Kez?" Kez agreed, fascintaed where this was leading and determined to turn it into a story for her next class assigment. Reep walked out to his car, got in and drove it across to the car park, then handed over the ten dollar flat fee to the attendant. While he was gone Kerryn pressed Jacko on how he was going with Gayle;
"Well Kerryn, she's good. She makes me laugh a lot and we got on well in bed. Taking it easy at the moment but its going along nicely." he took a long pull on his beer, " What the fuck did you expect me to say anyway? That she's a raving case and into bat blood? I know about her ex, her exploits and all that shite but all it means to me is that she's lived a bit more than some and a bit less than others. God knows I couldn't go pointing any fingers in that direction." Kerryn arched her brows, inviting an explanation which wasn't coming. Not coming yet anyway, it was still at the domestic terminal waiting for a standby to get on the next flight. She knew Jacko had lived fast and loose with the usual rules of engagement but hadn't heard all the stories. Ian was letting them out on a slow trickle feed and she couldn't get near the tap to increase the flow rate. All it needed was patience and beer and she'd be able to tap the well. She made a mental note to quiz Gayle the next day.
"So Gayle's at her family's place tonight? Poor old lonely Jacko. Desparate, lonely Jacko."
"Fuck yeah, that's right. You don't feel like a proper shag I s'pose?"
"Reepo does me well thanks. You should get some tips from him. Speaking of whom..."
Ian Reep walked back into the pub and grabbed his beer,
"Thirsty work indeed. Now what are you two up to? Did we get to the crime scene yet?"
Jacko smiled and continued to relate the evening's events. After going to Newtown, flush with his gambling wins he walked into the Sandringham to check out who was playing. Unfortunately for him he recognised one of the bouncers from the night he and Sniper had killed Dog Shit Machine (deusexmachina or some such shite). The bouncer didn't quite recognise him but neither did he like the cut of Max's jib and promptly bounced him out of the pub. Cursing, Jacko bounced back up ready to shape up in a drunken act of bravado but the sudden appearance of two more monstrous Maori bouncers settled the issue so he turned tail and strolled off. He cut down to Enmore Road and wandered up to the RSL club. After signing in he wandered into the main lounge area and noticed another ghost from the past, the lead guitarist from Dog Shit Machine. He was in company with a sleazy looking manager type and another guy who looked like the keyboard player from Flange Gasket. Smelling something afoot in the world of indie rock he went and ordered a beer from the bar and took up an obesrvational position close to the DSM guitarist's coterie of ill-met friends. Jacko overhead snippets of conversation as he kept an eye on the TAB monitors in the adjacent bar. It was mainly about studios, rights, "advance earns" and recording albums. He went and placed a bet on "Rex Retlub" in Cannington and resumed his seat. Rex Retlub came in as favourite, paying a buck-fifty which meant that the hunnert he'd put on gave Jacko a fiddy buck profit. He was happy with that and decided to leave. On the way out he also decided to leave his mark behind. As he got up he leaned over to the DSM guitarist and said,
"Saw your crap band Dog Shit Machine at the Sando a while back. Remember how you lost your worse-than-shite sound? Deusexmachine? Fuckin' Dog Shit Machine!"
As his tirade went on Marty buried his head in his hands, remembering the night at The Annandale Hotel when the Gasket had applauded Jacko's efforts. The DSM guitarist didn't know what to do. His sense of artistic integrity was mixed with a full-blooded Melbournish feeling of 'Sydney done us wrong again'.
He got up and promptly swung a slow looping right at Jacko's beer-infused face. Jacko was anticipating this and backed away, laughing. The follow up left was not anticipated that well by the drunk punter and he only managed to bow his head, copping the blow on the top of his skull. In his effort to over hit the guitarist slipped over his chair and fell to the ground and that's what the bouncers saw. They looked at Jacko, grabbed him and frogmarched him to the foyer, followed by the angry guitarist who insisted on laying assault charges. Jacko's response was,
"Blow it out your arse ya big poof."
"So that's how I ended up in the clink. Newtown cop shop was full so they had to bring me here. The cops got statements from the bouncers and the guitarist but that bloke from Gasket and the manager guy apparently saw nothing. So its basically a 'he-said, he-said' case. The bouncers didn't see that dickhead throw a punch but they're going to get the security footage on Monday. I rest my case."
Kerryn and Ian shook their heads, laughing.
Reepo asked,
"So what's with you and Sniper's band. My bass is ready, got a drummer?"
"Senior's organising a Junior from his drum classes. We've got rehearsal time next Wednesday arvo at five in Surry Hills. Kerryn, are you keen on adding some vocals?"
Kerryn thought back to her own high school days of singing at school dances in front of a band doing Cheryl Crowe, Blondie and Madonna covers.
"As long as its just once or twice I'll do it. Have you got any songs?"
"We've written four and been practicing the guitar bits of a heap of covers. Pogues, Gurus, Oils, Nirvana, spiderbait, even some Beatles, Stones, Who and Easybeats. I reckon we'll end up being able to last two hours. Sniper's done well with his guitar work. Never picked him for a muso but he's picked it up okay for a retarded peddo."
Kerryn cocked her head, "Pogues, eh?" then she started singing part of their Christmas song;
'You're a bum, you're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip on that bed
You scumbag, you maggott
You cheap lousy faggott
Happy Christmas your arse
I hope its our last
The boys of NYPD Choir were singing Galway Bay,
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas Day'
(The Pogues - "Fairytale of New York)
Jacko looked at her in disbelief. Sniper would love it. Her voice was strong and true and that was exactly the sort of song he wanted to include in a set. He said "again", but this time he sang the bloke's parts. Reepo did a polite 'golf clap' and winked at Kerryn explaining,
"She's got that album. Sings to it quite often." Kerryn tilted her head, looking at Max,
"Okay, I'll sit in for a couple of tunes as long as you get us another drink."
Jacko complied and went to the bar.
Wayne Blake looked at his phone and noticed a couple of messages were waiting demanding attention. Sitting in the driver's seat of the welfare department's fleet car was one of their property projects staff, Scott Booth. Both men were glad that their shift had presented no problems. The fitout work at the department's Darlinghurst office was ahead of schedule and the first stage of the public contact area refit would now be finished by midday Sunday, allowing the office staff to prep the area for opening time on Monday morning. Blake had been seconded to the project after being onvolved in a committee to redeisgn part of the Area Office in Pitt Street, adjacent to Belmore Park. He didn't know it but the Property Manager had been impressed with his input and ability to get staff on side. He also got on well the Property Team blokes and seemed a likely recruit for an upcoming vacancy. Booth had been briefed to observe how Blake handled the pressure and had been please with Sniper's performance so far. He mused on this as he drove. He turned left from Goulburn Street into Pitt and as they approached Campbell St Blake noticed that the Chamberlain Hotel was open. He looked at Scott Booth and asked,
"Feel like a beer Scotty?"
"No mate, I want to get home. The missus is expecting me to be bright eyed and bushy tailed tomorrow. Gotta finish off that cubby house. By Christ that's been a nightmare project. Worse than that fucking Darlo fitout anyway." He pulled the car over to the kerb, adding,
"Get a skinful mate, you've earned it. That was a good effort today. I'll catch up with you on Monday when we debrief the boss on site."
"Cheers Scotty." with that he waved at Booth as the "Z car" moved off, heading south.
Bake walked into the festive pub atmosphere and as he did he heard the end of Kerryn's singing and stood back, unnoticed by his friends. He saw Jacko walk to the bar then decided to announce his presence by yelling out,
"And another one you rancid poof!"
Jacko turned around, shook his head, calling out,
"Fuck off and get your own. What the fuck have you been up to anyway?"
"Working. Got that overtime gig working with the Property blokes on that fitout of your manky workplace. Built you a new dunny and everything." Blake walked over to help his friend carry the drinks.
"A long day, I need this." Blake then swallowed a third of the schooner in one long draught.
Jackson said, "Ohh mate, you haven't heard the best of it."
After swapping their stories Blake fetched a final round of drinks. They conferred on their next movements with Jackson insisting they go back to his "palace" in Leichhardt and carry on the party.
Kerryn nudged Ian awake at around ten thirty in the morning. He looked a mess, just like she felt. Fuck! They had to go back to the car park and get his car. They'd still be well over the limit for driving. Shit! Oh well, they'd sort that shit out later. She scrabbled at Reep's hair as his eyes slowly opened. His voice was a poor croak of its usual self,
"Thank Christ that was you and not Sniper or Jacko. I'm busting. I need a snakes'." He got up and staggered into the bathroom from where his ablution noises were loud and strong. Then he started singing,
"I like to go swimming with bow legged women and swim between their legs." to drown out the splashing noises.
From the kitchen Kerryn heard Jackson talking to someone. She got up, putting on her dress to stop Max getting an eyeful and walked into the kitchen. Jackson continued his conversation,
"Kezza's here now. Want a word?"
He then whispered to Kerryn, "Its the blond prossie looking for some HLA". Kerryn snatched the phone and spoke into it,
"Hiya darling! How was the family gig?" she smiled into the phone as Jackson grabbed a steaming mug from the counter and handed it to Kerryn. He then grabbed a half-full coffee pot and poured himself a mug and headed out to the lounge room. On one side Blake was fast asleep on a foam mattress. The lounge was still folded out in its service as emergency kip spot for Reep and Kerryn. There were three guitars lying on the floor in the dining area but he noticed that the amps had been turned off. As he did, Reepo exited the bathroom and walked into the lounge.
"Feel like a cuppa? I'll make a pot of tea."
Jacko shook his head, pointing out the coffee pot in the kitchen, so Reep went and poured a cup. Kerryn hit the red button on Jacko's phone and walked over, handing it back to him.
"Gayle's going to pick up the car. I told her the keys are behind the bar. Better ring Mark and make sure of that." Reep pulled out his own phone and called the Chamberlain and confirmed that his keys were n fact there.
"Sweet. That's nice of Gayle. Don't know what she sees in a hopeless prick like you Jackson, she needs to wake up to herself." Jacko's only response was that "All chicks dig me."
Noticing the recumbent Blake, Kerryn shuffled over and started to flick her hair into his face, triggering a fly swat response from the Dog Shit Killer guitarist. She repeated this a few times before Reep and Jacko got into the act, eventually rough housing him awake. He growled himself awake, took his turn in the bathroom, then grabbed a coffee from the nearly empty pot after rummaging through Jacko's fridge. Looking around the busily messy flat he addressed his friends,
"Ladies and Gentleman, good morning and welcome to the Dog Shit Killers Breakfast Club. I'm proud to announce that in his fridge Max has stashed a truckload of bacon and a carton of eggs which are about to become breakfast. If someone would kindly ring our press agent and let them know, I'd hate to miss out on a photo op of Jacko's apparent turn to domesticity."
Kerryn chuckled, "And he's got a multi roll pack of toilet paper in the bathroom plus a pot plant in there."
She reaised her coffee cup, toasting her friend Gayle,
"Here's to Gayle, taming a new frontier."
As she did she noticed Jacko, stretched back on a lounge chair taking an unhealthy slurp from a large glass full of coke. Then she noticed the nearly depleted Jim Beam bottle at his side and "tsked" at him.
Jacko swivelled his head in her direction, bloodshot eyes beaming out his own truth in stereoscope. Noticing the nearly empty bourbon bottle Blake swiftly stepped over and opened it, smelled it and then tilted the bottle to his mouth, commenting,
"By fuck ya gotta be quick around here. He'd almost finished that off without even offering any around. The prick."
After taking another swig from his glass Jacko summed up his true feelings, belching, then asking,
"Did someone mention bacon? I could murder a feed."
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Facing Up
Seems like a long time, a life time you could say since I wrote here. I went to Hobart, like I said in my last post and wetted a baby's head. To a typically extreme extent but it was a blast. Damn! Missed the Lark distillery. That leaves me with an excuse to revisit the city later this year.
I was back at work for a week when slam, the following Saturday morning I got one of those horrible phone calls telling me my mum had just had a bad fall. Wrong info. Short version is she died and it wasn't a fall. The aorta crapped out down in her abdomen. One of those nasty aneurisms which an 86 year old is unlikely to survive.
So I'm working through this and all of the subsequent crap which is to come but by jingies we gave her a damn fine send off. A nice sunny day, crematorium, church then wake. We kicked it big time amongst a fine gathering of family and friends. Makes me proud of the rest of the clan, they're a fine mob. For once my drinkingness came into its own and by fuck there was some laughter amongst the tears. More laughter and it keeps us going above the bad stuff below.
Sorry that this is not the most uplifting of posts but I needed to share. I've yet to complete that Canadian/American trip and there's another Dog Shit Killers episode sitting ready to go.
I must ask what the fuck is David Gallop doing? That bloke needs to go and fuck something else up. Why can't he go and sort out the Greek accountants and leave football alone the silly fucker. Or plug that volcano over in Iceland with his big fat head. He definitely shits me no end the little turd. To paraphrase General Havock, the muppet needs cappin'.
Oh yeah, reminds me of a post I did somewhere comparing the NRL salary cap auditor with Sergeant Schultz. I might find it, update it and post it again.
Anyways, I'm off to Bedes' place and see how the footy tips are going.
I was back at work for a week when slam, the following Saturday morning I got one of those horrible phone calls telling me my mum had just had a bad fall. Wrong info. Short version is she died and it wasn't a fall. The aorta crapped out down in her abdomen. One of those nasty aneurisms which an 86 year old is unlikely to survive.
So I'm working through this and all of the subsequent crap which is to come but by jingies we gave her a damn fine send off. A nice sunny day, crematorium, church then wake. We kicked it big time amongst a fine gathering of family and friends. Makes me proud of the rest of the clan, they're a fine mob. For once my drinkingness came into its own and by fuck there was some laughter amongst the tears. More laughter and it keeps us going above the bad stuff below.
Sorry that this is not the most uplifting of posts but I needed to share. I've yet to complete that Canadian/American trip and there's another Dog Shit Killers episode sitting ready to go.
I must ask what the fuck is David Gallop doing? That bloke needs to go and fuck something else up. Why can't he go and sort out the Greek accountants and leave football alone the silly fucker. Or plug that volcano over in Iceland with his big fat head. He definitely shits me no end the little turd. To paraphrase General Havock, the muppet needs cappin'.
Oh yeah, reminds me of a post I did somewhere comparing the NRL salary cap auditor with Sergeant Schultz. I might find it, update it and post it again.
Anyways, I'm off to Bedes' place and see how the footy tips are going.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Getting Wet
I'll be off to Hobart in a coupla days to indulge in wetting a baby's head and catching up with old friends (the ones with the new bub). I know I've been slack on this blogging front having stalled myself in the travel thing at the U.S. border. I'll finish that travel tale when I get back. I've drafted another Dogshit Killers instalment, in fact its probably a bit long so I'll break it up and turn it into two. I figured out the end bit but getting there is taking a while. I always seem to set a lot of the scenes in the pub. In fact its really fucking hard dragging me away from the place, I half expect a bouncer muse to come along and heave me out onto the street. I might even edit it before publishing so that it reads a bit better than usual. But that takes effort and if you haven't noticed it written in fourty foot high sparkly neon letters, I am a lazy bugger.
One of the things to do in Hobart is go to the distillery and indulge in their tasting platter. This has to be one of the best concepts since free beers at the Tuborg and Carlsberg breweries, which I did in one day. Shit yeah! For those who don't know anything about Tasmania its sort of like New Zealand except it doesn't have boiling mud or truncated vowels. Its cricket team is also better than the Kiwis having given birth to the current Australian captain and the immortal David Boon (52 cans), the International Drinking Man of Cricket. Boonie is known for setting the record for the most beers downed on a flight between Australia and the UK. He took the record off another cricket legend, Rod Marsh (45 cans) who set the record after failing in his attempt several years earlier when that other legend, Doug Walters set the 44 can record.
One of the things to do in Hobart is go to the distillery and indulge in their tasting platter. This has to be one of the best concepts since free beers at the Tuborg and Carlsberg breweries, which I did in one day. Shit yeah! For those who don't know anything about Tasmania its sort of like New Zealand except it doesn't have boiling mud or truncated vowels. Its cricket team is also better than the Kiwis having given birth to the current Australian captain and the immortal David Boon (52 cans), the International Drinking Man of Cricket. Boonie is known for setting the record for the most beers downed on a flight between Australia and the UK. He took the record off another cricket legend, Rod Marsh (45 cans) who set the record after failing in his attempt several years earlier when that other legend, Doug Walters set the 44 can record.
Boonie signing a beer coaster before doing the "Boon Walk"
Rod Marsh looking thirsty
Doug Walters - fkn legend
Marsh and Boonie hit the turps - top shot!
So that's it. Once again what was meant to be a minor update turned out to be beer talk. I guess that's what this interweb stuff is mainly about, for me anyway. And Doc if you're still out there, the Dogs are gonna eat your mangy Wabbits. Here's a song you can sing when they go down.
Dogs love to eat dem Bunnies
Bunnies great to eat
Bite their floppy ears off
Chew their bunny feet.
Time to stop talking about beer and go and enjoy some. Have great Easters!
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Toronto - Eastern Provinces.
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)