Saturday night.
Vince and Neddie wanted a night out on the town. Would I babysit Wozza and Mikey?
From eight o'clock we sat on the front verandah and watched George St., LIVE. Neighbours stopped by for a yarn, kids yahooed in the playground alongside, dogs barked at each other and the guests arrived for the party opposite.
Talk about a laugh! Snakes, sharks, calves maybe even cane toads wafted by. They make clothes out of anything these days. And these fairies were the genuine, yuppie, leather and bondage mob from Paddo. Dead set.
One turkey had on the shortest, tightest shorts you've ever seen. Maybe from a baby bandicoot. One was all white. Webbed vests, jackets, belts. A whole forest and ocean of furry little animals and swimmers pattered and wriggled their way through the side gate and up the back passage.
Of course being tolerant souls we kept our comments to ourselves. Not even the deadly, toneless thump, thump, thump monotony of the heavily accentuated base of their loud speakers moved us. Mind you, you could hear it up past Lambert St. and the passing parade often went by with hands over ears, muttering about noise pollution.
Star turn of the night was the young teenager from next door to the shindig. He did wheelies and twisties, front wheel stands and more. CLASS. His finale was to scream down the hill on his bike, one foot on the saddle, the other on the handlebars, standing, STANDING with arms flung wide like a falcon in hovering flight. He was flat chat.
And behind him, right on his hammer, came a car with its headlights lighting him like twin spots. He swept past and we cheered, and all the time he never said a word. Circus Oz and Moscow ditto - move over. The party boys watched occasionally from over the road. Neddie reckoned they were the Village People but I didn't see any Injuns or Blackfellers.
About midnight, kids bedded down, their parents took off for a feed and a gig. Other neighbours dropped by, sat on the lawn awhile, talked about the meaning of life and other ponderous matters.
In bed at two o'clock, the kids wake up as the noise over the road seemed to increase in volume. Margaret, stricken by a four day dental infection couldn't sleep either. Neither could her visiting Mum in the front room. And DOG barked back. A few yells for a bit of sociability achieved nothing. So I went down their passageway where about thirty or so leather lovers were gathered. My appeals met with a nothing response. So I grabbed a push bike hung on the wall, told the assembly I'd keep it as a deposit, returnable when the base amp was turned down.
Nearing the gate I was grabbed from behind. Three youngish invaders from spaces beyond Erskineville, their animal skins shining like righteous defenders of the faith, were doing the grabbing. As I turned to face them, one began throwing punches.
Now I've had more fights than other things in my time and lost almost every one (fights). Somehow in the flurry of arms and elbows my main aggressor retired wounded. I retired back to my foco and sat on the verandah, waiting. Eventually the volume was reduced a notch or two, not that it made much difference. They were still going at 4.30 in the morning.
A bleary-eyed house woke to familiar knocks about eleven. Two nice young rookies from Newtown cop shop asked if they could come in for a talk. No searchie but I let them in anyway. Their Minister for THEM glared balefully at the young copper who seemed mesmerised. You know the one. The poster with Pickering's forehead dead centred with a gun sight. And his 'UPTIGHT-EDGY' statement he made when his TRG hoons murdered David Gundy.
His mate did all the talking and carefully (sic) wrote things down. I know what you're thinking. Never talk to policemen. Quite right too.
But being a truthful person I told him all I wanted him to know.
Then I asked him if he expected me to sign his writings. "Of course." He got a bit snotty when told no dice. So he asked Lo Lo who gave him his full on tongue twister moniker. Lo Lo can be a dead ringer for Manuel, the bane of Basil Faulty's life. Rudolpho Madaringo does his no-speak-the -English-too-good caper and the rookie is stuffed.
No hard feelings I offer a (rejected) cup of tea and refrain from asking where my bike was that was pinched two years ago in Newtown and was on their records. Admirable restraint I thought.
Life is compromise. I was busting to tell him that an old blackfeller mate in Jabiru reckoned that a Multi Function Polis was a copper who could piss and talk at the same time.
Despite this circumspection you wouldn't want to know. Five minutes after they leave my interrogater rings from the Station. On his way out he had said it was up to the bloke with the broken glasses and cut eye to prefer charges. To which I replied that in that event I would lay charges on the three turkeys who started the violence. Huh! Then he said it was up to his boss as well.
Now he's ringing, somewhat gleefully I thought, to say that they've got two blueys for me. How much? About $130. What for? One for passengers not wearing seat belts at Seal Rocks in 1985. The moke's a bit hard up for seat belts. The other for a bit of an altercation about parking I'd had with one of his mates on Palm Sunday Peace March about 1987. Criminality.
He suggested I had a week to fix them up or some action would ensue. I told him I was ready whenever he was to pick me up and whip me out the Bay to cut it out. And hung up on him.
Come to think of it, a week's free tucker and with the Gulf war hotting up it might just be the place to be. Maybe I could get the old slot in Five Wing back.
And I wouldn't have to listen to that merciless torture parading as music across the road.
(The above has no resemblance to any person, living or dead. Or to anything that actually happened. Let sleeping dogs lie or lying dogs sleep, I reckon).
As this matter now lies subjudice with the dog this is not for publication, should not be spoken about and if any pirate copy falls into your hands you are urged to eat it.
Vince and Neddie wanted a night out on the town. Would I babysit Wozza and Mikey?
From eight o'clock we sat on the front verandah and watched George St., LIVE. Neighbours stopped by for a yarn, kids yahooed in the playground alongside, dogs barked at each other and the guests arrived for the party opposite.
Talk about a laugh! Snakes, sharks, calves maybe even cane toads wafted by. They make clothes out of anything these days. And these fairies were the genuine, yuppie, leather and bondage mob from Paddo. Dead set.
One turkey had on the shortest, tightest shorts you've ever seen. Maybe from a baby bandicoot. One was all white. Webbed vests, jackets, belts. A whole forest and ocean of furry little animals and swimmers pattered and wriggled their way through the side gate and up the back passage.
Of course being tolerant souls we kept our comments to ourselves. Not even the deadly, toneless thump, thump, thump monotony of the heavily accentuated base of their loud speakers moved us. Mind you, you could hear it up past Lambert St. and the passing parade often went by with hands over ears, muttering about noise pollution.
Star turn of the night was the young teenager from next door to the shindig. He did wheelies and twisties, front wheel stands and more. CLASS. His finale was to scream down the hill on his bike, one foot on the saddle, the other on the handlebars, standing, STANDING with arms flung wide like a falcon in hovering flight. He was flat chat.
And behind him, right on his hammer, came a car with its headlights lighting him like twin spots. He swept past and we cheered, and all the time he never said a word. Circus Oz and Moscow ditto - move over. The party boys watched occasionally from over the road. Neddie reckoned they were the Village People but I didn't see any Injuns or Blackfellers.
About midnight, kids bedded down, their parents took off for a feed and a gig. Other neighbours dropped by, sat on the lawn awhile, talked about the meaning of life and other ponderous matters.
In bed at two o'clock, the kids wake up as the noise over the road seemed to increase in volume. Margaret, stricken by a four day dental infection couldn't sleep either. Neither could her visiting Mum in the front room. And DOG barked back. A few yells for a bit of sociability achieved nothing. So I went down their passageway where about thirty or so leather lovers were gathered. My appeals met with a nothing response. So I grabbed a push bike hung on the wall, told the assembly I'd keep it as a deposit, returnable when the base amp was turned down.
Nearing the gate I was grabbed from behind. Three youngish invaders from spaces beyond Erskineville, their animal skins shining like righteous defenders of the faith, were doing the grabbing. As I turned to face them, one began throwing punches.
Now I've had more fights than other things in my time and lost almost every one (fights). Somehow in the flurry of arms and elbows my main aggressor retired wounded. I retired back to my foco and sat on the verandah, waiting. Eventually the volume was reduced a notch or two, not that it made much difference. They were still going at 4.30 in the morning.
A bleary-eyed house woke to familiar knocks about eleven. Two nice young rookies from Newtown cop shop asked if they could come in for a talk. No searchie but I let them in anyway. Their Minister for THEM glared balefully at the young copper who seemed mesmerised. You know the one. The poster with Pickering's forehead dead centred with a gun sight. And his 'UPTIGHT-EDGY' statement he made when his TRG hoons murdered David Gundy.
His mate did all the talking and carefully (sic) wrote things down. I know what you're thinking. Never talk to policemen. Quite right too.
But being a truthful person I told him all I wanted him to know.
Then I asked him if he expected me to sign his writings. "Of course." He got a bit snotty when told no dice. So he asked Lo Lo who gave him his full on tongue twister moniker. Lo Lo can be a dead ringer for Manuel, the bane of Basil Faulty's life. Rudolpho Madaringo does his no-speak-the -English-too-good caper and the rookie is stuffed.
No hard feelings I offer a (rejected) cup of tea and refrain from asking where my bike was that was pinched two years ago in Newtown and was on their records. Admirable restraint I thought.
Life is compromise. I was busting to tell him that an old blackfeller mate in Jabiru reckoned that a Multi Function Polis was a copper who could piss and talk at the same time.
Despite this circumspection you wouldn't want to know. Five minutes after they leave my interrogater rings from the Station. On his way out he had said it was up to the bloke with the broken glasses and cut eye to prefer charges. To which I replied that in that event I would lay charges on the three turkeys who started the violence. Huh! Then he said it was up to his boss as well.
Now he's ringing, somewhat gleefully I thought, to say that they've got two blueys for me. How much? About $130. What for? One for passengers not wearing seat belts at Seal Rocks in 1985. The moke's a bit hard up for seat belts. The other for a bit of an altercation about parking I'd had with one of his mates on Palm Sunday Peace March about 1987. Criminality.
He suggested I had a week to fix them up or some action would ensue. I told him I was ready whenever he was to pick me up and whip me out the Bay to cut it out. And hung up on him.
Come to think of it, a week's free tucker and with the Gulf war hotting up it might just be the place to be. Maybe I could get the old slot in Five Wing back.
And I wouldn't have to listen to that merciless torture parading as music across the road.
(The above has no resemblance to any person, living or dead. Or to anything that actually happened. Let sleeping dogs lie or lying dogs sleep, I reckon).
As this matter now lies subjudice with the dog this is not for publication, should not be spoken about and if any pirate copy falls into your hands you are urged to eat it.
