Oh, Weave a Circle ‘Round Me Thrice

I’m not so sure about this one, trusted and kindly reader, but it swam into my ken and so here ‘tis (to quote novelty lavatory indicator).

We got free milk when I was at primary school.

Not because we were poor. At least not as far as I know. I am pretty sure everyone got it. I mean to say, if we were getting free milk because of poverty, surely we would have got lots of other great poverty type of stuff too, like blankets and maybe flour and tea. But we didn’t. No canned goods, secondhand clothing or expired medicine either.

No, I am pretty sure that all primary school students here used to get a small bottle of milk each day. I don’t think it happens any more.

As I recall there was usually an assembly after morning recess. A couple of the lucky grade 7’s from the two unit would get to play a march of some sort on a couple of drums and we would all gather in forms on the asphalt part of the schoolyard.

The headmaster would take the microphone and after the usual carry on with feedback and the cord getting caught ‘round his ankle, he would make announcements. You know the sort of thing;

“Owing to an outbreak of chiggers, the top oval and the area behind the bike sheds will be out of bounds until further notice.”

It didn’t really matter what was said ‘cos you couldn’t hear him anyway but he would rabbit on for a few minutes while we all pushed each other or threw uneaten fruit around.

After the Headmaster had finished, we got the milk. It could be a mixed bag.

You see, it was delivered at some point during the morning, and left stacked in wire crates against a tall red brick wall on the asphalt. From there it was distributed to the milk monitors from each class who went up and collected it then brought it back to us to drink.

Winter was fine but outdoors, on asphalt and next to a wall was not a good place to keep small containers of milk during an Australian summer. Not all of it survived the experience intact.

I should add that this was a gentler time. The primary school children of that era were not haunted by global warming. No lingering and uncomfortably warm deaths for us, just the relatively quick vaporisation of the Hydrogen Bomb or at worst a couple of weeks of radiation sickness followed by some festering sores, some coughing and a quiet demise.

So we didn’t dwell on rising sea levels during those blistering summer mornings, we just wondered what would await us when we prised off the foil cap and peered in.

Sometimes it was just a small bottle of tepid milk, sometimes a little cream on top if the Homogenisation had started to break down.

Sometimes you got a solid plug of greenish curd floating on watery whey. You had to push it in with your finger to unclog the mouth of the bottle.

For some reason that I cannot now fathom, you still had to drink it.

It would, however, be fair to say that not all of it was drunk.

I can remember that someone discovered that if you make a tiny hole in the lid with a compass (an item of stationery used for everything except drawing circles) you could sort of blow into the hole then lift the bottle up at arm’s length and direct an extremely thin stream of milk into your mouth like someone drinking from a tiny wineskin.

Of course, a lot of milk would go all over your uniform and many a silver fleece was never quite the same again, but by gum it was diverting and diversion was what we needed.

I never made it to the heady heights of Milk Monitor.

Sure, I got to play the assembly drums once and was occasionally allowed to tend the school incinerator. Naturally I, like any of the others, was happy to clean the blackboard or brandish the “Stop” sign at the school crossing, but of all the thinly disguised child labour that was part of school life back then, the lugging ‘round of those wire crates and deciding who got the cooler milk in the middle of the rack was a joy I was never to know.

A pity, I am sure that that would have been a power I would have enjoyed abusing.

Imagine Nation

I have never made a secret of the fact that I am different. I stand out from the crowd. I am, it is true, a rugged individualist. Not that you could tell this from my actions or lifestyle. I don’t have a lice ridden beard and a leather waistcoat, nor do I ride a large American twin cylinder motorcycle or make amphetamines in the shed.

No, what makes me different and fascinating is that I am not fond of John Lennon’s post “The Beatles” work. In particular, I dislike his song “Imagine”.

So there you go. For some reason you are quite free to make your own mind up about most things. Generally where there is a disagreement about the merits of a song or a film you can defend your choice but at the end of the day you can’t expect everyone to agree with your choice.

For some reason, this does not apply to “Imagine”. If you don’t like it you are thought to be wrong. Any time that there is a poll for “greatest song ever written”, “Imagine” wins it. Easily.

I just don’t understand. How can that be so in a world that has “Mmm Bop” by Hanson, to name just one infinitely greater song?

“Imagine” is not a musical masterwork. It isn’t peppy and doesn’t get you on your feet.

Lyrically it is smug and a bit embarrassing. The worst part of it is that Lennon seems to think that this odious doggerel will somehow change the world. It didn’t and it won’t.

There is no way that this can be the greatest song ever. It isn’t even the greatest song by a tired, washed up former member of a mega band.

Not when we have “Je Suis un Rockstar” by Bill Wyman. Again, the music isn’t much, but Ah!, the lyric. I give you this;

“She took off ‘er ‘at
And she ‘ad lovely ‘air
Said she smoked marihuana
At the Copacobana.”

I mean to say, who wants to go to the sweat and hard work of imagining, for example, all the people living for today? What good is that going to do? Imagining her lovely hair, on the other hand, is going to be a rewarding and enjoyable experience. Plus you get to imagine her hat. For mine it is a bit raffia one with a bit of a droopy brim such as might be seen at the beach, but equally it could be one with mouse ears or even a bobby’s helmet.

I mean to say, she was sitting in a fountain in Trafalgar Square or something, wasn’t she?

So there you go. There is no doubt in my mind what I would prefer to imagine. I hasten to add that the imagining might have to stop when you get to the part of the song in which Wyman, somewhat ill advisedly given his history, suggests to the girl in question:

“We could go on the hovercraft
Across the water
They’ll think I’m your dad
And you’re my daughter.”

Anyway, there you go.

In some quarters my dislike for “Imagine” prompts people to think that I am a big fan of Paul McCartney’s, which is not quite so. I do like “Live and Let Die” and a couple of others, but would rather have my fingernails pulled out and the sensitive tips of my fingers bathed in rocket fuel than listen to “The Girl is Mine” or “Silly Love Songs”.

My favourite of “The Beatles” was actually George. The only other solo album I bought was “Ringo’s Rotogravure”.

The less said about that, the better.

Roll, Baby, Roll!

In August we noted the passing, thirty years ago, of Elvis Aaron Presley.

As much as I wish that he were still with us, I have regretfully given up hope that he is. But there are plenty of others who cling to the belief and have done so for some time. The fever has died down a bit since his 70th birthday but there are still plenty of people who refuse to accept that on that fateful August day in 1977 Elvis’ mighty heart gave out while he was sitting on the crapper in a big nappy (although that seems to be a contradiction) with a deep fried squirrel or something sticking out of his mouth. People seem to want something more.

Why Elvis? Why not his stillborn identical twin, Jesse Garon Presley? There is nothing much wrong with him. He even sort of rhymes. But no one seems to be insisting that Jesse slipped quietly off to enjoy an anonymous existence blackening catfish and making hominy grits.

No, it is Elvis who is constantly being spotted sniffing around for jobs changing tyres or mopping floors in supermarkets everywhere from John O’Groats to Perth Western Australia (assuming you go through America rather than across Europe and Asia, though I imagine there are sightings in Germany too).

As far as I can tell the only other persons in respect of whom there has been such an enduring myth of a falsified death are Hitler and Mr. Olivia Newton-John, so I assume that it is not a reflection of a widespread and abiding love of the object. It must be something to do with fame. Just what it is I do not know and possibly one of the readerboat might have a suggestion. Actually, didn’t one of Alby Mangels’ mates try it on too?

But that is not where we are going.

I was thinking about Elvis’ unlikely comeback a few years ago, courtesy of some old footage and some recordings that had not previously been released (or if they were, they weren’t popular). In a macabre vision of the other side of the veil, we were treated to Elvis jigging around as though he were still with us. Thus he got a couple more hits under his belt – from beyond the grave. It was a bit spooky but we all knew where we stood.

Contrast the Beatles. Their disintegration was at least as drawn out as was Elvis’, if not significantly more so. They retreated to the studio well before they called it quits, and slowly drifted apart until it all ended seemingly over a period of months during which they didn’t speak to each other, unless it was to ask Ringo to make another cup of tea.

The final rupture was odd and unsatisfying. The public were yearning for more. History tells us that they didn’t get it. Sure, there were the annual “Long Lost Beatles Tapes Found!” type headlines and we even got “Free as a Bird” (I think it was), a release that amply showed us why these tapes had been shoved behind the sofa or given to the cleaning lady for her baby to play with.

For a long time after they had disbanded, there were rumours that they were going to re-form and were planning a new album or a concert tour. There were also regular suggestions that the possibility of a contribution to the greater good might overcome John and Paul’s mutual loathing and that they would perform at a charity concert or something.

More interesting were the constant rumours that the Fab Four had actually already reformed and had either released a new album or performed unannounced at the Coober Pedy Town Hall or somewhere.

Rumours like these seemed to surface every few months during the early and mid seventies. They would go ‘round like wildfire because people wanted to think that the magic was not over.

Of all of them, my favourite was the Klaatu one.

Klaatu released an album in the mid seventies which for some reason was widely thought to be the Beatles. This meant that it got far more attention than it might otherwise have attracted.

I can’t remember what happened to quash the rumour. Possibly the revelation that the band was a Canadian three piece “art/pop” outfit (ie hat wearing beardy-weirdies from Calgary or somewhere) was enough to dissuade the most enthusiastic believers.

Klaatu did have one big song, “Calling Occupants (of Interplanetary Craft)” although in a development that must have been awfully embarrassing, the Carpenters did a cover version which was much more successful.

They broke up after a while and in another odd Beatles like development, have been haunted by rumours that they are planning a comeback. In their case the rumours of a planned reuinion are true.  They do want to get back together.   In their case the actual comeback seems to be prevented by lack of discernable interest from anyone else.

Anyway, if that was the best of those rumours, I think the worst was to come a few years later. Those of you who had a lot of time on their hands during the Eighties might remember Doctor and the Medics who did a cover of someone or other’s hit, “Spirit in the Sky”.

I believe that the rumour surrounding that group may not have been worldwide like the Klaatu one. In fact I would not be surprised if it was restricted to one or two adjoining Adelaide suburbs.

The rumour was that Doctor and the Medics were in fact none other than The Bay City Rollers.  

Yep, you got it.  Derek and Eric and Woody and Alan and Les. 

This was a great rumour.  Doctor and the Medics were a glam band with all makeup on them doing a cover of an old song.  Just between ourselves, it was OK and had the sort of beat that the kids could dance to.

The Bay City Rollers were a different proposition.  What they lacked in makeup they more than made up for in tartan and as far as I can recall sang songs that sounded as though they just found them somewhere.  Like in a skip or somewhere.  

They were a big hit with girls of about 10 to 14 years of age who would get around in “Roller Strollers” -baggy jeans cut off midway down the shin and with a sort of broad tartan stripe down the leg.  Classy.

Still, the rumour arose and lasted ages.  I think it was because it could easily have been Derek or Alan under that makeup.  Or Les.  Or Woody or Eric.

But it wasn’t.

It would be remiss of me to leave any discussion of the Rollers without recalling that Peter Nicholls’ sister was supposed to have been found climbing up the drainpipe of the Royal Coach Motor Inn when they were in town.  It seems that she was hoping to get into their room for some reason.

It seems unlikely that a big act would have stayed there, particularly in the same room, but who am I to argue with rumour? 

Sweet Redeemer

Just a short one, impressive and delicious reader.

I was leafing idly through the sporting pages the other day when I came across the “profile” of an emerging young Australian Rules footballer.  You know the sort of thing.  They list his favourite colour, most influential role model, favourite Romantic Poet and 3 tips for averting climate change. 

 Immediately after “Favourite meal: spaghetti Bolognese” came  “Favourite film: The Shawshank Redemption.”  There was something in this that gave me cause for pause.

Not the spag bol.  That is quite understandable.  These young fellows are wrenched from mum’s cooking at a fairly early age and thrust into share households with other young men who spend hours every day working up an appetite. Spag bol is the only thing that they can cook that will fill that hole.

No, what struck me was the good old Shawshank Redemption. 

I have read a few of these player profiles over the years and it occurs to me that ever since “The Shawshank Redemption” came out, any professional AFL footballer who has been asked has given it as his favourite film.

At first I doubted that this could be correct, but I checked it out by going through back issues of the newspaper on microfiche at the local library and I think I can say it is official.  Not a single player has given any other film as his favourite.  Not one.

In the interests of science I should have gone back further to see if there was another film that was favoured before the release of  “Shawshank”, but the microfiche zooming all over the place had given me one of those headaches that older readers may remember, so I stopped.

What I would like to know is, what is it about this film that makes it appeal to professional AFL footballers?  Some of them are nearly as old as the film itself, but that doesn’t seem to make any difference.

As always, I turned to reason and logical thinking for an answer, and was rewarded with 2 possible explanations.

The first is that there is something about being a skilled AFL player that makes you like the film. 

The second possible explanation is that there is something about watching this film that makes you into a better AFL player.

I don’t know which of these is true, but the science is rock solid.  I have a control.

In the best scientific tradition, I applied my theory to myself.  This is what my researches revealed.

I don’t really like “The Shawshank Redemption” much.

I WAS A TERRIBLE FOOTBALLER.

Yes, the proof of this particular pudding is in the eating and I ate up nearly one hundred games of amateur football in which I amply demonstrated that I should have stayed home and learned how to knit or something.

This leaves the burning question, could I have helped myself by forcing myself to sit through “The Shawshank Redemption”?

Perhaps I could have.  I should say that it is not likely as I stopped playing long before the film was released.  But might this work for other inept and ill co-ordinated youngsters who long to carve out a career in sport?  Imagine row upon row of them forced to watch it on a continuous loop until they could do a lace out stab pass on the run or whatever they are called.

Alternatively, they could be shown “The Shawshank Redemption” and if they don’t like it, could pursue a different career.  Possibly in film criticism.  Or advanced cookery.

Another thing that occurs to me is that AFL is a game with an unusual set of skills.  Possibly professionals in other codes show a preference for other films.  Perhaps Union footballers like “The Great Escape”, League footballers enjoy “The Magnificent Seven” and Association footballers relax in front of, for example, “Deliverance”. 

There is also the question of other professional athletes and indeed other trades, callings and professions.

Do plumbers all like “To Kill a Mockingbird”.  Do teachers relax in front of “Citizen Kane”?  Is there something about watching “La Cage Au Folles” that enables you to make better shoes?

I don’t know.  The research that I have conducted to this point have all but exhausted me and I pass the baton to my readerboat.

It seems to me that there is a rich vein to be tapped here.  Again, without any thought of a Nobel Prize, allow me to offer myself as a control.

I like “Being John Malkovich” and “Cool Hand Luke”.  If anyone knows what that says about me, I would be pleased to know.

A Poor Showing

I apologise for my recent absence, gorgeous and resourceful reader. My health took a turn for the worse and I have been sequestered in the emergency wing of the Harry Kewell Gout Facility where I have enjoyed the benefit of the most advanced treatments available for this pernicious condition.

Last time I was in there they strapped me into a chair and drilled my teeth. It hurt, but not as much as the gout. I suppose they thought it was a counter irritant.

This time I have mainly been strapped into a chair (a craze of theirs it seems) with big sort of tweezer things holding my eyelids open, enabling me to watch disturbing video clips while Ludwig Van blasts out from speakers on all sides.

I am pleased to say that a few weeks of this has left me refreshed although I do yearn for a white singlet and a bowler hat. I will let you know how I go with that. Some eye makeup might be nice, too.

Anyway, the great toe of my left foot has now largely recovered and can take the weight of the bedclothes resting on it, which is pleasing because the Amity Society is due to start its new pipe of port, and one can never really enjoy port when one’s toe is twingeing away.

In other matters, residents of Adelaide are currently revelling in the pleasures that come once a year in the form of the Royal Agricultural and Horticultural Society of South Australia’s annual show.

The Show, as it is known, started out as an opportunity for country types to wander in to town leading their fattest pig or most veiny-uddered milking cow on a string. The country type would shove the beast into some sort of contest and then take the opportunity to totter off to one of the busier thoroughfares where he would bump into groups of other country types that he had not seen since last year and they would all stand around in big groups talking about rainfall and generally hindering traffic.

We, the polished boulevardiers of the town, would tolerate these rustic meanderings on the basis that it only happened once a year. The pigs and cattle would be sorted, awards presented and everything would go back to normal.

So in theory, that was the point of the show. In fact for children the point was quite different. There were the sideshows with shooting galleries, ghost trains, laughing clowns and medical curiosities such as the Headless Boy or the Half Man Half Woman. Then there were the rides like the Big Dipper and the Gravitron which were calculated to cause you to lose the quantities of fairy floss, ice cream, chips, donuts and battered saveloys that you had inadvisedly ingested immediately before getting on board.

In short, the show became mainly a dirty, cheap, noisy travesty populated by petty criminals and carney folk. The attraction for a child was almost unbearable.

Dotted around the sideshow alleys there were also stalls for various local business which demonstrated their wares and sold bags of product, usually various types of confectionery and sweet drinks.

You can no doubt see why this combination of disreputable entertainments, junk food and dangerous rides is irresistible to children. This has been the case ever since my own youth.

Unfortunately my parents took the view that it was not a desirable environment for me and so usually when my friends trooped off chattering excitedly, I was doing homework or something. In the evening when the fireworks were visible for miles, mine was the pale face pressed against the glass looking out to the festivities.

Even you, robust and worldly reader, would have been moved to tears at the pitiful spectacle.

When my friends returned, they would each have four or five paper bags all full of chocolates, smarties, bertie beetles, those chocolate racing cars with sultanas in them and whiz fizz in a waxed paper envelope with a plastic spoon that had a ring on the end of it that you could detach and wear around if you were sufficiently dainty of finger. Which I wasn’t.

Anyway, I remember vividly that I was once taken to the show with a friend by that friend’s parents. Despite being Amish or something they seemed to be much more liberal than my parents as regards what a child should be allowed to do.

The show was every bit as good as I had imagined it could be with a few startling and unexpected additions such as day old chickens that had been dyed bright colours for some reason. And a chair lift (or possibly chair-o-plane) in which one might, should one so desire, get a birds eye view of a couple of hundred yards of grimy sideshows. It was fantastic.

I think we were allowed 2 rides and one showbag. I don’t remember what rides I went on, though I think the chair-o-plane may have been one. The other one was probably a ghost train but I am not sure.

What I do remember is the showbag.

The other children undertook extensive investigations to ensure that they got bags with maximum sugar and minimum educational value. If you wanted a game where you rolled a couple of ball bearings around until they lodged in the indented eyeholes of a cartoon character, or one with a sort of grid of moveable letters which one was expected to manipulate to spell a word, you could always trawl through last year’s Christmas stocking but the chance to smother yourself with lollies may not come your way again. The knowledgeable child made sure that there were no games, colouring-in books or other junk like coloured chalk to dilute the sugar rush that was coming to them.

This was where my lack of experience showed. It showed in two ways.

The first is that I had trouble making a decision at all. I wavered between the Hoadley’s bag and the MacRobertsons, the Menz and the Cadbury’s. Ditters looked good but Allens’ clearly had more product, plus a fairly disreputable looking comic book which might have been worth a look.

With all of this vacillating I started to run out of time. We had to go and I had not selected a showbag. We were being dragged away and I was still empty handed and so there was the second manifestation of my lack of experience. I just panicked. Instead of allowing myself to be guided by one of the others, I lunged at the next bag I saw and flung a few sweaty coins to the vendor.

My heart was thumping. I could barely contain myself. There was something sticking out of the top of the bag. Nervously I checked it. A kite. Hmmm. Well, not too bad but not really what I was after. I checked the company on the bag, but didn’t recognise their name.

It wasn’t until I got into the car that I had the chance to examine my purchase properly.

It was from a hardware firm.

The worst showbag ever.

There were some bits of dowelling, some contact cement, a small box of white chalks, some assorted nails and one of those flat carpenters’ pencils. Possibly there was a small tape measure and a couple of other bits and pieces like string for the kite, but I was too dispirited to go through it once I was sure there were no lollies. I made a half hearted effort to trade the chalks for a poly-waffle, but not only did the trade not come off but the other kids saw what I had in my bag and heaped scorn on me.

The car was a sea of wrappers and packets. I think I was grudgingly given a snake and a couple of jelly beans, but the bitter envy I felt was not greatly eased.

I didn’t really go to the show again after that. For some reason the glamour had worn off.

Percolated Karma

I was recently enticed into a cinema for the first time in a while, tolerant and forgiving reader, to see a French film depicting the life of the late Edith Piaf.

Coo, if I might make so bold, what a life.

I had rather expected a happy-go-lucky childhood in the French countryside, a gradual rise to fame during the pre war years, some time as the French equivalent to Vera Lynn or Betty Grable followed by a gentle decline surrounded by adoring fans. You know the sort of thing. A bit like Sir Donald Bradman or Janice Joplin (probably).

But no. Far from an idyllic French childhood spent crouched in the cheese shed gnawing a clove of garlic, it seems that she was plunged pretty much straight into the harsh realities of life and pre-war French plumbing.

Without wishing to be accused of what my nephew could call “soiling” the plot of the film, I should say that with the tension of wondering whether she would emerge from the mire before she had suffered long term damage combined with the uneasy feeling that Gerard Depardieu must not be far away, I could hardly concentrate on my choc-top.

And a choc-top is an item that demands your concentration. My pants got all chocolate and ice-cream on them.

Anyway, I consoled myself with the reflection that these so called “biopics” are not always as icily accurate as they might be. For example, “The Jolson Story” was pretty much complete bunkum. I think Jolson may still have been around when it was made so they did not want to offend the megalomaniacal psychopath, but the film did not contain a single shred of truth.

Similarly the various depictions of the lives of Eddie Cantor, Red Nicholls, Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman all lacked any depiction of the gritty drudgery that suggests real life.

In this case, perhaps Piaf’s life was not as bad as depicted in the film. For example, it was strangely silent about her time in Paris during the Second World War. Presumably she led a determined resistance to the German occupation, which must have been fun and rewarding. I am sure that all those stories about collaboration were made up at the time by the British to ensure her safety.

But the really odd thing about the film was that I left the cinema with a yearning for instant coffee, a beverage I generally avoid if possible. “Why,” I wondered, “this odd desire seemingly from nowhere and after all this time?”

It took much further thought before the answer came to me.

One of the great hits of Piaf’s later career was “No Regrets”. It was not much emphasised in the film but it was pretty big and you probably know it. She sings about how tough things had been for her and what a lot she had been through and how crummy her life had been and what a poor hand she had been dealt but how she’s not complaining.

You may think that you don’t know it, but I’ll wager that you do. It was used in an ad for instant coffee some years ago. You remember the one, it had all Parisian street scenes and the tune was played on an accordion (or what my anglophile uncle was given to calling a “discordion” but there I digress).

There were two policemen wandering across one of those distinctive bridges, a mother and daughter stopping at a café for a long loaf of bread, some blokes sweeping the road with witches brooms. Stuff like that. It was all very atmospheric and I think was linked to a contest along the lines of “if you buy sufficient quantities of our vile coffee dust we might send you on a trip to the cafés of France to show you just how wrong you were in so doing” or something like that.

Just thinking about that ad took me right back and I am not ashamed to say that a manly tear rolled down my ruddy cheek. I say “ruddy” as in “red” not as some sort of mild swearword.

Then, perhaps as a combination of the smell of coffee from the snack bar, the wave of nostalgia and the adoring gaze of my beautiful companion, I remembered another campaign for the same company.

Perhaps you do too, sentimental and compassionate reader. Allow me to try to paint an word picture.

I can’t really remember how it starts, but am pretty sure there were some pan pipes playing a lilting and uplifting bar or two. A rural scene. Possibly a moving van or something. Cut to a sweet little cottage. An attractive woman, early thirties. A girl’s voice over saying something about how, as a result of the failure of her parents’ marriage (or possibly of her father’s death or something) she and her mother were seeking a change of scene in the country.

I don’t really remember how it went from there save that there was the inevitable appearance of a tall dark and handsome neighbour or local vet or something and that over a series of these ads, each culminating in a cup of instant coffee, a relationship warmer than that of mere neighbours ( or vet and client) grew.

I am sure that you, the readerboat, can provide further detail because it was a reasonably popular series. It seems that the same storyline had been filmed in many different countries. Presumably in, for example, the South American version it was a neighbouring Gaucho with big chaps on his jeans and in New Guinea it might have been a local headhunter with a friendly twinkle in the eye of his giant mud head.

Anyway, the relationship developed slowly over a series of ponderous ads. I remember reading that the English version culminated in a wedding or something which was one of the most watched television events of its day.

All I can say is that the English version must have been made with a bit more punch than the Australian one. I can’t even remember if they bothered finishing ours off. If they did, I could not tell you what happened. Presumably there was a country wedding complete with yodeling and rope tricks but it passed me by entirely.

Perhaps coincidently, I date my abandonment of instant coffee from about that time. I would not say that I have not had a cup since but generally the only time I do is when I awake in an hotel room with a cracking hangover and no proper coffee available. If you dump two or three sachets of the dust into a cup you can nearly get a whisper of what a coffee is like. If you close your eyes and imagine. It will sustain you until you can get out of your room, at least.

What I would like to know is, does anyone remember the series? How it ended? Or was it just a beautiful dream?

Topic of Crapricorn

It is this forum’s preparedness to deal with subjects that are not for the squeamish that lends it its robust authority, judicious and estimable reader. In the interests of promoting the general reputation and value of the forum, I have decided to again present you with a tale from my dark past. The usual warning applies: if you are prone to nightmares or distress, you should read no further.

Those who know me have heard about my time in the tropical north of this country- specifically in Darwin, capital of Australia’s Northern Territory.

This was a few years ago and Darwin was not the polished modern city that it is today. It had a sort of “frontier” feel to it and the largely male population felt no compunction about walking around in big hats, talking about cattle and generally behaving in a manner unfamiliar to the polished urbanite such as me.

I had been entertaining some visitors from “down south” (as any other part of the country was referred to) and I do not shrink from telling you that we had consumed more red wine than was advisable. This was actually a remarkable achievement because it is generally too hot, humid and sunny to drink any red wine at all in the tropics. One usually gropes for a cold lager or a crisp white wine, a gin and tonic or rum.

We had closed the blinds and turned the air conditioning up then started sloshing claret into the expensive and capacious glassware. The lunch was long and riotous resulting in, amongst other things, a nasty mess on the floor of the women’s lavatory. At some point during the afternoon, we all agreed to go to a party in Berrimah, an outer suburb of Darwin.

At the time, Berrimah was largely open land comprised of market gardens with an occasional, isolated house. There were also the organisational headquarters for a couple of groups of motorcycle enthusiasts who, when not piloting their large machines noisily around town, distracted themselves with horticulture and other light industry. These compounds were invariably well guarded and aggressive dogs were the rule rather than the exception.

We were driven through the back blocks of this slightly threatening area, the car was parked and we staggered across a ploughed field to the party, which was in the yard of one of the isolated houses to which I referred earlier.

Now, by this stage it was quite clear that none of us was in any state to contribute to the festive atmosphere and indeed we would have done better not to have come at all, but it was too late so we did the best we could and had a few more drinks.

Before long I looked around and saw that the members of my group had all dissipated and I was alone. I was not much concerned about this, most of them were perfectly capable of getting taxis for themselves and going back to their hotels. One, however, had been a little worse off than that and was on his first trip to Darwin. I was concerned that he may not have made it, so I went looking for him.

I did not have far to go. There was a big, damp haystack just near the shed and he was reclined on that, sleeping peacefully. I was pleased that he was safe and was wondering whether I could leave him there and go home or if I should wait.

As I idly turned this over in my mind, I became aware of a telltale tension in my bowels. Being away from the throng and in the open air, well I am not proud but am obliged to admit that I thought nothing of easing myself by indulging in unfettered crepitus.

I elected to break wind.

Not only did I do so, but I actually facilitated the beastly action by leaning forward at the waist and pointing my right toe.

“The best laid schemes”, said the poet, Burns “o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.”

Just what he meant by that, no one quite knows. It is widely suspected that he had been tippling, which may be so. After all, he was talking to a mouse.

In any event, my scheme did gang disastrously agley. I will not dwell on this distasteful incident but will put it as frankly and manfully as I can.

I followed through. I copped a pantload. I pappered my trolleys. I soiled my drawers. It was disgusting.

Panic set in. Although I was relatively isolated, I needed to get away. I could not go to the house, that was simply out of the question.

I could not go far because the mechanical effect of walking on my unwanted cargo would render a cleanup impossible without a fire hose. I cast a fevered glance around me and saw, about two hundred metres away, a lone tree.

Using little dolly steps, I made my way over to it. A mere sapling, it was not really up to the task of hiding my great bulk, but it was all there was. I removed my trousers. That was easy. They dropped to my feet and I kicked them away rather gracefully.

Next came the underpants (“pants” in some parts of the world although I am not sure if these, being the brief style, qualify). These were more problematic. After some manipulation it became clear that they were beyond saving, so to make their removal as clean as possible, I tore them at each side and was able to throw them away.

I then cleaned myself as best I could, using whatever was to hand. The tree had shed some leaves that were each about the size of two squares of lavatory paper. These were handy but not ideal as they were dry and not very pliant.

In any event, having done the best I could I re-assessed. I was as clean as I was going to get, but that did not mean I was clean. Far from it. I smelled very bad and looked little better.

There was no question of rejoining the party. I had no idea of the address, so could not call a cab. There was only one thing for it, I would have to walk.

Despite my inebriation I was reasonably sure that I knew the way to the highway, so I set off along the web of unlit, unpaved rural roads to try to find it.

Anyone who has not lived in the tropics during the “build up” will not appreciate what a trial that was. During this time of year, both the temperature and the humidity increase to make the climate most unpleasant with little by way of rain to ease things.

Although it was quite dark, and had been for some hours, it was still awfully hot and humid. I was already uncomfortable with the personal hygiene and the addition of copious sweating, particularly around the un-underpanted nether regions, made things worse.

Further to that, it was not long before I had to admit that I had no idea where I was. I had made a couple of turns and the landscape seemed to have changed. Rather than the empty, ploughed paddocks there were vast areas of low scrub with barbed wire fences around them.

There was practically no light and no sign of human habitation. From time to time I would squat and try to wash my soiled hands in water that had collected in wheel ruts in the road, but moistening the filth only seemed to freshen its stench and make a bad situation worse.

Although there was a lot of water around, it was not drinkable and the effect of the alcohol I had consumed together with the exertion of staggering around the hot and hostile environment were making me awfully thirsty.

Perhaps worse than that, there was a large blister forming on my right foot. I had used my right sock to try to clean myself under the tree at the beginning. It had been so ineffective that I elected to keep my left sock on my foot rather than waste that too, but that meant that my left foot was in cushiony comfort while my right was in great pain.

Suddenly I heard a car. I looked around and saw the glow of headlights coming from behind me. The relief was immense. I straightened myself up and waited by the side of the road, facing the oncoming car and smiling broadly. As it neared I took one step onto the road surface and waved.

The car swerved slightly and sped past, splashing me with muddy water and tooting its horn as it did so. I was devastated.

It was clear to me that I was not going to be able to find my way home that night, so I went a couple of paces off the road and lay down in the dead grass to get some sleep.

The tropics are famous for many things. One of these is the abundance of insect life.

Within about twenty seconds of lying down, I could feel dozens of tiny bites and stings all over my body. I felt like Gulliver being shot with Lilliputian arrows.

So, there I lay. I was drunk. I was lost. I was far from home. I was hot. I was exhausted. I was thirsty. I had a big blister. I was hungry. I was sweating. I lacked underpants. I was dirty. I was infested. I stank.

I wept.

It was, dear reader, the lowest point of my life (to date). I decided that I did not blame the motorist who had refused to pick me up. I would not have done so in his place.

After twenty minutes or so when the insect bites became intolerable I realised that I was not going to be able to sleep there.

With my filthy paw I wiped the tears from my face, set my jaw and staggered to my feet. I was not going to let this get me down. There were some houses around here. I could get an address and a cab. By darn, if they were not happy to help me I could cry. Who could resist that?

With my resolve stiffened I set off again and, after a couple of run ins with vicious guard dogs, was shuffling towards yet another rural abode when I saw, only a few kilometres away, some street lights! The highway!

I covered the distance on winged heels and the first car I saw was a cab. To flag it down was the work of an instant and I even had sufficient wits about me to get into the back rather than the front, reasoning that by the time the cabbie smelled me it would be too late and he might as well get his fare as boot me out again on the highway.

Thus ended one of the lowest points of my life. What did I draw from it? Well, I learned the benefits of perseverance, that tears without an audience are pointless and that there is no depth to which you cannot drag a Darwin cabbie if you really set your mind to it.

All of this I learned but most importantly, it was a full week before I got that drunk again.

I give you this that you may learn from my mistakes.

In Danger of Clogging

There has been a footwear theme in the commentary of late, loyal and patient reader, which has prompted me to consider a couple of things that have vexed me in the past from time to time.

The other day I was wondering what became of the actors who played the children Buffy and Jodie in the American situation “comedy” “Family Affair” in the sixties or whenever it was.

Naturally, whenever one thinks of former child actors one assumes that they developed a drug habit and were arrested at the age of 23 holding up a convenience store with a screwdriver. That is pretty much invariably the case, but it is nice to know for sure.

Anyway, I cannot think of “Family Affair” without thinking of Mr. French, the family manservant. You will recall, or if you do not I hope you will take my word for it, that this august and generous factotum was played by Sebastian Cabot. Whenever I hear that name, I cannot help interchanging the first letters and ending up with the surname “Sabot”.

Sabots are a type of wooden footwear used in parts of France.

Mr. French.

France.

It is so unlikely a co-incidence that I am sure that when we find out what is behind it we will know what was going on at the grassy knoll.

When I start thinking about sabots, I am reminded of an interesting piece of information passed on to me by a student teacher when I was in about the third year of my primary schooling.

It seems that in the early days of the industrial age, workers who felt that their needs were being ignored were given to putting their sabots into the machinery, thus bringing work to a halt and giving themselves the opportunity for some much needed folding of the hands in quiet contemplation. This, as is well known, gave rise to the expression “Sabotage”, meaning the deliberate damaging of machinery or equipment to gain an industrial or military advantage.

There are those naysayers who insist that my teacher was wrong. These people suggest that it would be unusual to put your shoes into the machinery when a rock would work just as well. They think that the miscreant would be easily detected by the bareness of his feet. Why, they ask, would you deprive yourself of footwear and expose yourself to detection for no reason?

In their dreary way they point to the fact that there is not one single reported instance of machinery ever having been damaged by the insertion of wooden footwear and suggest that the provenance of the expression is more comfortably associated with the fact that “sabot” is the name given to a type of railway tie that, if removed, will result in the derailing of a train. They say that this was a method used by military saboteurs and that the word first came into use at the time that this practice started.

What claptrap. My teacher told me in grade 3 that European workers were smashing up the looms and trudging home through the snow in stockinged feet. It may not make sense, but why does it have to? Knitting doesn’t make sense, but who would deny knitting?

The information provided by my teacher is good enough for me and I am sure it is good enough for the rest of you. This was a student teacher after all and not some appalling ignoramus who could barely get through high school and thought nothing of imposing their own lack of the spirit of enquiry on the developing minds of the young.

Having dealt with that there is one further challenge that I would like to address. Thick bootlaces or thin ones?

I have been grappling with this for some time.

For starters, most boots don’t have laces at all except army boots and Doc Martens. Oh, football boots too.

It is my understanding, possibly from the same grade 3 student teacher, that originally pretty much all types of footwear were called “boots”. I don’t know whether that is because everyone wore what we would now call boots or because the name was used to cover what we would now call shoes.

Assuming the latter to be the case, it is understandable that “shoes” entered the language to cover the fancier, neater footwear and “boots” was retained to cover the heavier items that cover the ankle.

One might easily imagine that the expression “bootlaces” could have survived even though the said laces were more generally used in shoes. I do not deny that the expression “shoelaces” is sometimes used, but I certainly do blame the French for that.

There are so many factors in the thick v thin bootlace issue. Eyelet size, extent of fraying of broken lace, required length of lace, whether you need them yellow ones like with some Docs, synthetic or natural fibre and black or tan are just some considerations. I have taken them all into account and weighed them carefully. It is pleasing that I am able to say that the answer is thin. Preferably waxed, but certainly thin.

Dancing ‘Round the May-Not Pole

Recently, admired and august reader, I was reviewing some ponderings from the old manila folder. The one that contains those letters that one has written in a white hot passion but has elected to retain rather than to post in anger. Now that the following, regarding one of the 20th century’s most prominent Polish persons, has become somewhat cool, I elect to put it up for your consideration. I am not sure that I maintain the views exprsessed here, but wonder what you might think. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of it is that there is no mention of his beingcalled Carol by his friends. In the hurley burley of my own friendships, this would not escape comment.

In any event, from a year or two ago I give you this;

I have naturally been following the outpouring engendered by the recent death of His Holiness, Pope John Paul II. You may not have seen today’s paper, but I think that they have covered every breath he ever took.

This type of event always creates a delightful flurry of letters to the editor, and my heart soared as the eagle when I saw a letter from a prominent atheist of some sort.

After a promising start in which the late leader of the Catholic Church is denounced as, essentially, an evildoer who promoted one of a selection of 6,000 year old myths for personal gain, the letter descends into a tedious assertion that free use of condoms would save the world from every one of its current ills and that the Pope is a person of enormous influence in those places that these precautions are most needed.

I should state at this point that I consider the prohibition of contraception as a ludicrously hidebound and short sighted view. I don’t agree with it myself.

These, however, are issues of individual social choice and not amenable to a wide ranging discussion on non partisan lines.

What did interest me was the fascinating description of his holiness, the late Pope as “anti-pro-choice”.

Clearly the “anti” and the “pro” cancel each other out. Presumably this means that the writer was suggesting that the Pope is choice. Hmmmmm. Choice.

The only time I have ever heard anything described as “choice” it was a term of frank approval (although I concede I have not heard it for some time). The general context of the letter did not suggest that the author was a papist, but the only interpretation I can reasonably place upon it is that he was a fan. Possibly the letter was the work of a Jesuit or one of those people from “The Da Vinci Code” who feel the need to disguise their meanings in this sort of way.

In the happy days when butchers’ windows were frequently painted with garish advertisements for their meats, ‘choice quality’ was, I think, one of the promises frequently made. I think I may, in my younger – perhaps school -days, have used ‘choice’ as a way of describing a young lady who in today’s terms might be described as ‘hot’.

In that event, of course, “choice quality” is something of a tautology. An oxymoron, as our American cousins would have it. While not the same thing, it puts me in mind of some of the retail merchants who are obliged, by reason of economy or the desire to dissociate themselves with the educated classes, to describe themselves as providing goods and services for sale at “cheaper prices”.

The least examination of such a claim will reveal that the prices are lower, but how can they possibly be cheaper? It is the goods, not the prices that are for sale. The goods are cheaper. The prices lower.

I would rather wash a corpse than avail myself of this sort of alleged bargain.

The late Pope was fluent in many languages and I wonder whether he would have had a view on this vexed issue. Possibly he could have called on his old friend Bob Dylan (who has mysteriously escaped recent consideration of terrible song lyrics, despite being a recidivist in this matter) to whine about it while accompanying himself on a 12 string.

We will never know and I don’t suppose it benefits us to ponder further. Or does it?

Unkindly Refrain

I recently read somewhere, most excellent and genteel reader, about a contest in England to choose the worst lyrics to a song ever.

I don’t really know about this sort of thing. It is a fairly obvious effort to cash in on a less appealing aspect of human nature, the propensity to sneer.

Having said that, the winner did seem worthy, being from a song called “Life” by Des’ree.

For those who did not hear, the offending lines were:

“I don’t want to see a ghost,
It’s the sight that I fear most
I’d rather have a piece of toast
Watch the evening news.”

Now I don’t want to sound negative, but really could anyone come up with the above then put down his or her pen and think “that’s a good day’s work”? Surely not.

I understand that it has become something of a joke and generally gets mentioned in “Worst Lyrics Ever” discussions, so I suppose that is some sort of comfort for the writer.

Another one that I have trouble with is John Schumann’s song “I Was Only 19”.

Most Australians are familiar with this very popular song and it would take a stronger man than me to listen to it without being moved by the plight of the Vietnam veterans to whom it is a tribute.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that the song itself shouldn’t be held up to artistic scrutiny.

I ask you to scrute the following lines:

“Frankie kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon,
God help me. He was going home in June.”

Presumably Schumann is suggesting that it was a bitter irony that Frankie should have been seriously injured, probably killed – it is not made clear, at a time that his departure was imminent.

Unfortunately that doesn’t quite work.

Man landed on the moon on 16 July 1969. I can still remember getting the day off school. Mum bought me a chocolate doughnut for lunch.

That being the case, Frankie had almost a whole year to wait before he was going home. The tour of Vietnam was one year. In other works, Frankie had practically all of his tour to wait before he got home.

That is not really what troubles me. What troubles me is that Schumann has used artistic licence to strain history and good taste in order to rhyme “moon” with “June”. Again, one cannot imagine a feeling of achievement flooding through him after that effort.

That pitiful rhyme has long been the most tedious cliché in verse. In this case “soon” would surely have been a far preferable rhyme.

Finally, I draw your attention to the perennially problematic “Macarthur Park”. There is practically no line in the song that could not be held up to ridicule by anyone who wished so to do. I don’t really need to do that here.

I was listening to it recently during a quieter moment. I blush slightly to confess that it was not the deliciously cracked Richard Harris version, but the slightly spicier one by Donna Summer. When pain and anguish rack the brow, I find that electric drums do a lot to ease the pain.

Anyway, the song had just started and I knew that the pinging of the electric drums would be with me soon. I was half dreaming but for some reason the following lines from the first verse penetrated my consciousness:

“..Between the parted pages and were pressed
In love’s hot fevered iron
Like a striped pair of pants”

I won’t dwell on what this means, I don’t have the slightest idea. I don’t understand how being between the parted pages would work, I have no experience of being pressed by love’s iron and although I can accept that such an appliance might be hot, I don’t see how it can have a fever.

What really struck me, though, is that I thought Donna was singing “..a stripy pair of pants”. That would have been ludicrous enough, but it turns out that the word is “striped”. To make the song scan you have to give it 2 syllables by giving full value to the “e”. Stripe-ed.

What bunkum. Surely when the lyrics don’t make any sense at all, you should at least be able to pronounce them naturally?

There is not really any point in suggesting an alternative. The song is too well established and is already surrounded in sufficient controversy. All I ask is that in future a little more care is taken. A little more care and a lot less chemical stimulation.