HONG KONG TATTO ©

     The first stopover, on my flight to England, was in Sydney. I stayed at a hotel in Kings Cross which was paid for by Air New Zealand.  I spent most of the evening saying 'no' to the endless parade of prostitutes that walked the streets. When I was sick of walking around, I went into The Paradise Club to listen to some live music. The club stayed open until 3:30 after which I had a meal and then walk back towards Kings Cross Fountain and my hotel, which was just around the corner.

     The next day, the complimentary taxi picked me up and drove me back to Kingston-Smith airport. I boarded the plane and we took off to the next destination which was to be Hong Kong. When we landed in Hong Kong, I was driven to the Miramar Hotel where I was to stay for 48 hours.

     As we drove through the streets in my private taxi at 2 in the morning, it looked like 2 in the afternoon. The streets were packed with people who seemed to be totally lost, as they wandered along through the bright, gaudy neon lights of the city. The taxi stopped outside the Hotel front entrance. A bell hop grabbed hold of my suitcase before I knew what had hit me!
"Yes, Yes.", he said. "You please to come this way sir."

     I knew that he was talking to my money but it was too late now. I'd have had to kill him before he would let go of my case. I thought,
'What the hell! I'm on holidays!'

     After I checked in, the small bell hop carried my big case over to the lift and up we went. He wore a permanent smile from the ground floor to the top. As we rode up in the lift, the only time I saw his smile disappear was when I thanked him very much for carrying the suitcase and then asked him to leave. He looked at me and then his empty hand. After 3 times of this little act, I gave him 2 dollars, the smile came back quickly.
"Just testing mate.", I said in broad Occa.
"I am begging your pardon?"
"Nothing sport. See ya later."

     The room was 5-Star. I dived on the double bed to test it out. No complaints. All paid for by Air New Zealand, after I'd paid them a thousand dollars for the trip!  As I laid on the bed, staring up at the light fixture, I decided to have a good hot shower and then go downstairs to ask where the action was. Showered and dressed, I made mi way way downstairs.

     Once I reached the lobby, I asked the desk clerk if he knew of any good bars where it was safe for one man to go to alone.
"The Jolly Swagman.", he said with a smile. "Take a taxi outside and only pay what's on the meter."

"Meter price to the Jolly Swagman mate.", I said to the taxi driver as he opened the door.
"No no

THE GUN SHEARER ~ REDPATH ©

     I was introduced to a gun shearer, Ian Redpath. He was a tall bloke who always wore a pork-pie, punters hat when he wasn't shearing.  He was mostly bald at the front of his head which made his appearance seem older than his years. A heavy drinking problem did nothing to correct it either.
     Redpath was a quiet bloke until he had too much grog and then he could become very argumentative or he'd simply go to sleep on the bar stool with his head on the counter until the Publican decided he'd had enough rest then he'd wake him up. Upon waking, the first words out of Redpaths' mouth were,
"Give us another middy mate."

     In town, Redpath was a hopeless drunk but when he got back in the sheds, after a couple of slow days he would be ringing the shed again. I became very fond of Redpath, despite his drinking habit. When he told me he was leaving the Lake to drive over to Western Australia, I asked him if I could go with him.

"No worries mate. Sling ya swag in the back of mi Ute. I'll be leaving tonight after Giltraps closes."

      It didn't take me very long to pack up mi case and as soon as Giltraps did close, Redpath very casually sauntered out, carrying a dozen cans under his arm for the ride to Hilston where he was based.
     We arrived in Hilston well after midnight. Instead of going to his room, which he rented at at a mates house, he made his way to the back door of the Hilston Hotel. Once inside, we stayed there for at least 3 hours until the Publican refused to serve anymore beer.

     The following day, Redpath got up at 1pm and headed towards the bar again. He kept this activity up for at least 3 days until I finally said to him,
"I'm going back to the Lake mate. I didn't come with you to watch ya drink ya self to death. I'll be leaving as soon as I find a ride back."

     This statement of mine must have given him a bit of a shock because he finished his beer, bought another dozen and said, "Alright, come on mate, let's hit the road!"

     Pretty soon we were on our way with my self behind the wheel of his brand new Ute. I knew he really liked me, otherwise he would have stayed at the bar drinking until he was broke. Also, he liked me to drive. No one lets a bloke drive his new Ute unless he enjoys his company.

     We must have been on the road for around 6 hours. We'd changed seats and Redpath was now driving. Drunk or sober, he drove the Ute at around 80 miles an hour. Just as I was settling in for the long haul a big, semi passed us on the dirt road. The next thing I heard was a loud 'BANG' as a stone shattered the windscreen to pieces. Immediately, Redpath applied the brakes and at the same time he pushed out a big enough hole in the windscreen, which enabled him to see where we were heading. As soon as the vehicle ground to a halt, we pushed out the whole windscreen. There was shattered glass all over the place.

"What a bastard!", said Redpath. "This calls for another beer!"

      I cleaned up as much of the small pieces of glass as I could without a small dust pan and broom. When it looked all right to Redpath he said, "Fuck it Yorky, that'll do sport. Open ya self a beer mate and well get moving again."

     It's amazing how uncomfortable one can be in a Ute with no windscreen, especially traveling on a dirt road. Every car that drives past kicks up a huge amount of dry red dust.
     When we finally reached a town called Wilcania, we were covered in a thick layer of dust from head to toe. Once we found the largest garage in town, the owner said he'd have to order a windscreen because it was a new Ute and he didn't carry spares for new vehicles. He also said that it would take at least 4 days before it arrived. Redpath ordered it and then drove straight to the Hotel to contemplate what to do, over a few cold middys.

     That evening, as we made friends with a few of the local shearer, Redpath, who was known all over the Outback of NSW, managed to pick up some shearing and crutching for us. At least we'd make a few dollars while we waited in Wilcania.

     That evening, we drove out to a station called Mount Pleasant. It was anything but. There was only a few sheep to shear. so the rest of our time was spent crutching, daggy-arse sheep.

     Crutching consists of dragging out sheep, shearing the wool off of their rear-end in a fan-like shape. Under normal conditions, one can make a lot of money out of crutching.  Unfortunately, we were not crutching in ideal conditions.
     Once sheep have been let into a paddock that has plenty of green feed they tend to get the scours. They shit all over the wool around their arse. Over a period of time, the blow-flys, who see sheep shit as a five star meal, land all over the sheeps' arse. In the process, the blow-flys lay their eggs on the shit. After some time, the eggs hatch out as maggots. Maggots, being what they are, will look for food. Once they are firmly on the skin, they will start eating the sheep alive! They bore holes deep down into the sheeps' rear end. If not caught in time, they will kill the sheep.
     Any shearer knows a fly-blown sheep. He can smell it. The antidote for this little trauma is to shear off all the wool where the maggots have been. After he's done this, he yells out "TAR BOY!" A roustabout runs down the board to the shearer with a can of liquid, which he daubs all over where the blow-flys have been, which stops them getting re-infected.
     The other operation that one encounters while crutching, is when the shit on the rear end of the sheep has dried hard as a rock. The only way to get this off is to chip away with the hand-piece until it's all gone. That was how we spent our time at Mt. Pleasant.

     After we finished our few days, he luckily found another 2 weeks shearing for us. It was decided that we'd forget about driving a few thousand miles across the Nullabar Plain and remain in Wilcania for as long as the work held out.

     The following Friday evening Redpath and me drove back into town from a weeks hard work in rough old wethers. We decided to try out one of the other bars, just for a change in scenery. We already knew quite a few shearers now which made the stay a bit more enjoyable.

     At around 9:30 I decided to go for a walk down the street for some fresh air. I was not interested in getting blind drunk with Redpath that night. Once I got outside a couple of Aborigine girls smiled a big smile at me and asked me my name and where I came from. Once I said, Lake Cargelligo they asked me if knew all of their relations who lived out at the mission. After 10 minutes of talking they suggested that after the bar closed down, if I bought some beer and wine we could all go for a bit of a party out at the place they were living. I agreed to meet them later.

     After I had a feed at the local Dago shop, I went back up to the bar to see how old Redpath was faring. By this time, he was firing on all 8 cylinders and was already quite argumentative when the Publican called 'Time' at 11. I told Redpath about the the 2 Abbo sheilas I'd met earlier. He seemed to like the idea cause he said,
"At least it's somewhere to go where we can hang around and drink some more grog."
     When we went around the back of the Hotel where Redpath had parked his Ute, the girls were waiting for us.
"G'day", they said as we approached. "Ya got some grog?"
"Of course I've got some fucking grog.", said Redpath. "Have ya ever known me not to have any?"
     One of the girls said, with a smile,
"How would we know? We've only just met ya mate."
"Then fucking go and ask anybody that knows me, they'll all tell ya the same thing. Ya might see old Redpath without food on many occasion but grog, you'll never see him without."
"Alright mate.", said the older one. "Keep ya fucking hat on. We only asked."
"Where the hell are ya taking us anyway?", asked Redpath.
"Few miles out of town. Got a humpy out there. We can have a party without being disturbed.", said on of 'em.

     Once we were all squashed in the front seat of the Ute, he started it up and drove out of the car park and then up the main road. For some reason, he was driving very slow tonight which was totally out of character for him. He was driving so slow in fact,  one of the girls said,
"Can't this Ute go any fucking faster?"
"Course it fucking can. It's a brand new Ute.", he said. "What d'ya wanna go faster for?
"Well mate, some one might see us with 2 white fellas."
"So fucking what?", said Redpath, who had now opened a new can.
"Don't worry me mate, but if the local cops see us with ya, you'll git into big trouble.", said one of the girls.
"Fuck the cops. I've been in jail overnight more times than I can remember so once more won't make any difference to me.", said Redpath.

     At long last, we arrived at an old rusty, broken down tin shack at the end of a dirt track on the outskirts of town. When we went inside, I got quite a shock as I looked around me. It was a one-room place with a dirt floor. The inside walls were just as rusty as the outside. The only furniture in the room was 2 single beds, one at each side of the room. On the actual bed part there were no mattresses, only a sagging chain-link spring affair which was supposed to hold at least a flock mattress. Instead, all that covered them were an old wool blanket. The only other furniture I could see was an old wooden chair which only had 3 legs.

     Redpath walked over to one of the beds and sat down on the edge of the frame with the booze at the side of him.
"Alright mate, give us a drink.", said one of the girls to him.
"I don't know whether or not I should waste mi good beer on you Abbo sheilas. Here, ya can open up this bottle of Plonk, if ya like.
"Is this where you live?". I asked.
"Sure is mate. What else do we need?"
"Where d'ya cook?", I asked, cause there was no electricity or running water.
"Outside mate. We make a fire when we wanna cook up something."
"Where d'ya put ya clothes?", I asked.
"On mi body. Where else would I put 'em?"
"No, ya spare clothes.", I said.
"What spare clothes is he talking about?", said the other girl.
"Fucked if I know." said the other one. "He must know something we don't."
"Are these thin cotton dresses the only clothes ya have?
"Course they are. What do I need anymore for. I can only wear one dress at a time."
"What d'ya do when ya have to wash 'em?"
"I wash it in the river and hang it over a bush till it dries. What else."

     As we sat and talked, I asked them many questions about their lives. Most of the time, they thought I was pretty weird. Eventually Redpath started to talk politics to the girl who was now sitting next to him. He asked her for an opinion on the war in Vietnam.
"What you mean, 'Vietnam?' What war? Where abouts in New South Wales is Vietnam? I haven't never heard of it mate."
"What about all those young white kids that are dying  over there so that you bastards can be 'free'?" said Redpath, who was now pretty drunk.
"What bullshit you fucking talking white fella?", she said. "Maybe you had too much grog. Black fellas never have war. No white fella ever die for black fellas but plenty black fellas die at the hand of white fellas. If ya so worried about this Bush town, Vietnam, why don't you go to war instead of gittin' on the grog?"
"Ya stupid, bloody Giin.", said Redpath, as he took another big swig out of his can. "Vietnam ain't in the Bush. It's another bloody country all together. Didn't ya learn anything at school?"
     The girl who was now sat next to me said to him,
"She never went to no white fellas school mate. She learn from tribal family everything about ancestors. Same as me mate. White fellas learning no good to black fellas. Only good thing white fellas have is plonk and Marlboroughs.
"Yeah that 's the bloody problem with you black bastards.", said Redpath. "Ya never work or look after the land."

     The girl who was sitting next to him took another swig out of the wine bottle and said,
"What d'ya mean, black fellas not work or look after the land. Just look at you white fellas. You come to our land and in a few years it's almost dead! Ya put those chemical things on the land and then ya put up fences and tell us it's yours and if we walk on it, we're trespassing. Then ya go and call the white fella sergeant on us."
"Ya can have ya land back for all I care.", said Redpath, who was by now really drunk.

     The Abbo girl, who was now herself a bit drunk said to him,
"We don't want it back now. You white fellas fucked it up  so ya can have it. It's no good to us black fellas anymore."

     As they were arguing back and forth, the girl who was sat with me said,
"Come on mate, I wanna show ya something. Come outside."
     When we got outside, she closed the door and then grabbed hold of my hand and took off at a fast pace into the Bush. After about 10 minutes of walking we came to a big clearing in the Malley. The full moon was directly up above now and filled the clearing with a warm glow.
"Pretty place eh?", she said as she looked around.
"Yeah,", I said. "It's really peaceful out here."
"I wanna give you some thing very special.", she said as she pulled off her dress. "You are a very special white fella. You are a very good man. Come on.", she said as she laid down in the thick red dust. "Take off ya clothes and put it in here. I've got a gift for you."
     We laid down in the Bush for at least 3 hours. When we were finished, I looked more like a black fella than a white one 'cause I was covered all over in layers of red earth.
"Let's go back now.", she said. "The Sun will be comin' up soon. It's not good for you if white fellas see you with a black Gin."

     When we got back to the tin humpy, Redpath was fast asleep in the front of his Ute. The other Abbo girl was asleep on one of the rickety beds.
"You'd better wake him up and go now before some of my family show up."

     It took me ages to wake up Redpath. When he eventually came too, he said,
"Gives us a middy mate!"

     Come Sunday evening Redpath and me drove back out into the Bush for another weeks hard work shearing Wethers.
     The cooks name was Paddy Slaven. He was an old Irish immigrant with a bald head, fat round face and a chronic drinking problem.

     People who live in the Bush that have bad drinking problems are not called 'alcoholics' as long as they can get up and go to work everyday but once the grog has really gotten hold of 'em and they can no longer work, then and only then are they branded as close to being an 'alchy'.

     Old Paddy was as close to being an 'alchy' as possible, without actually being labeled one. He drank from 5 in the morning until 11 at night, when he eventually ran out of grog. If he couldn't borrow a half-gallon of plonk, he would start on the Vanilla Essence. Many a contractor thought that Paddy would be baking a lot of cakes by the amount of Vanilla Essence he ordered for the stores but I can't remember ever eating one of Paddys' cakes.

     When we finished that shed, we drove back into Wilcania for the weekend. On Saturday morning old Paddy was propped up at the bar drinking with one of his mates he'd met in town. By the time the afternoon arrived, he was broke down to the bones of his arse. When I walked into the bar, he made a bee-line for me. He gave me a sob story about having no money left for food.
     I was still pretty naive in those days. It only took old Paddy a few minutes to relieve me of a 10 dollar note, after promising to go to the Dagos' shop and buy himself a good feed. When he walked away from me with the 10 bucks, I decided to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't forget the purpose of the loan.
     As I watched him closely, he slid the 10 dollar bill over the counter for the Publican to change. When he got it back in two fives he gave his drinkin' mate $5 and ordered another round of booze out of his 5. Once I saw that, I was really pissed! I walked over to where he was sittin' and said,
"Hey Paddy, ya told me ya wanted to buy ya self some food cause ya hadn't eaten for 24 hours!"
"Yeah, Yeah Yorky. Ya know how it is mate."
"No I fucking don't Paddy. All I know is that you're a fucking liar! If I had known you were gonna blow it on booze, I'd have never given it to ya!"
"You'll git ya fucking money back mate. Why are ya so angry?"
"Cause you're a real fucking con-man Paddy and on top of that you're a chronic fucking alcoholic!"
"Don't ya fucking dare speak to me like that ya pommy bastard!"
"Why Paddy, what ya gonna do about it. You'll never be sober enough to remember what I called ya."
"I'll knock ya arse over head in a minute."
"You and who else Paddy, ya drunken alchy mate? I could beat the shit out of both of ya with one fucking arm. Anyway, I'll tell ya one thing for sure, ya fucking lush. If I ever saw ya starving in the gutter, I wouldn't piss on ya if ya were on fire. You're better off dead! As far as the 10 bucks go, ya can keep it Sport. From now on I'll warn everybody I know about ya, ya fucking con-man!"

     With that, I left him to his misery and went to the cafe, miself, for a good breakfast. I didn't very often get angry with people but that morning, if old Paddy had have pushed the issue too far I would have put him out of his fuckin' misery.

     I spent most of the afternoon playing pool and having a few beers with some of the shearers I'd met. As I was scanning the local paper, I read a small article about 3 blokes who'd killed themselves in a car crash on the outskirts of town.  The article said that they were all blind drunk and had hit a Semi-trailer head on. The articles' headline read, TWO MEN AND A SHEARER KILLED! That headline was the usual local attitude toward shearers or anyone who worked in the sheds.

     Later on that evening, I saw the Aborigine girl I'd met the week before.  I took off into the Bush with her again before the long night was over. The following morning, as I was having a beer with Redpath, who was in a pretty bad state, the local Wilcania Sargeant appeared at the front door of the pub. I know, because I could see him in the large mirror behind the bar.
"Oye! You, ya bastard. Come out here."
     Every one in the bar turned around, except me.
"Oye!", he said again. "If I have to come in there and git ya, you'll be in deep shit mate!"
     Slowly, I turned around on my stool and faced the front door.
"Yeh, you ya bastard."
"Come out here, I wanna a fucking word with you!"
"G'day sport.", he said in a nasty tone of voice.
"G'day, Sergeant what can I do for ya?", I said.
"Ya can't do a thing for me cobber but I've got a message for you!"

     I had no idea whatsoever what the big, ugly Sergeant was talking about so I just kept quiet and waited.

"I understand from my source that ya fucking one of our local Gins."
     His nasty tone and bluntness took me by surprise, but only for a second. I said to him,
"Your understanding from your source is wrong, Sargeant."
"I don't think so cobber, so listen to me and listen real good sport. If ya still in Wilcania by 1 O'clock this afternoon, I'll fucking lock ya up!"
"Why would ya do that? I haven't broken any of ya laws?"
"We've got a law in this town called 'Consorting'. If I was you sport I'd get the fuck out-a this town and don't fucking come back!"
     With that, he walked off down the street to where he'd parked the local blue Bull-Wagon.

     When I walked back into the bar, Redpath, seedy as he was from his Saturday night binge said to me,
"What did that big ugly bastard want?"
"He told me if I was still in town by 1 O'clock today, he was going to jail me for consorting."
"Fuckin' streuth!", said Redpath, who was now wide awake. "Let's grab a couple dozen bottles and git out of here before the ugly bastard comes back."
"Why, what does 'consorting' mean?"
"It means, ya not even allowed to talk to those black sheilas. If he finds out for sure that ya fucked one of 'em, he'll fuckin' lock both of us up and throw away the fuckin' key!"
     Redpath downed his middy in one large swallow. He paid the Publican for 2 dozen large bottles of Pilsner, then said to me,
"Let's git our gear from the hotel and git out a' here. I'm sick of this scungy, fucking town anyway!"

     Once our swags were packed and put in the back of the Ute, we were once more on our way. We left Wilcania behind in a cloud of red dust.

     Redpath only drove a few miles before he said to me,
"I'll pull over to the side of the road and you can drive, if ya like. This driving caper is interfering with a mans' drinkin'."
     When the Ute stopped, we exchanged seats. I pushed mi foot down on the accelerator and I said to Redpath,
"Where to now mate?"
"I think we'll head off South, Yorky. We'll see if we can pick up a pen in those big, fat Corradale sheep. I'm a bit sick of shearing rough Whethers. Besides, that Victorian Bitter is not too bad a drop of grog. I haven't had any since last year. We'll head down to a place called Hamilton. I'll git the road map out and once we know where we're heading, I can relax and have a few beers while you drive."

     On the way down to Hamilton, we stopped at a place called Horsham.  Redpath ran into a contractor that he'd worked for a few years before.
     His name was Ron McClure. McClure was looking for one shearer. He had about six weeks worth of work so Redpath took the pen.
     As we sat in the bar, I was starting to worry a bit because I had no work and no way of traveling without Redpath. At the end of the evening Redpath said,
"We're gonna stay at McClures' place tonight and tomorrow I'm gonna drive ya down to Hamilton. McClure says you're sure to pick up a pen shearing at this time of year. They're in full swing down there."

     The following day, we took off early cause Redpath had to get back to Horsham. He dropped me off at the local shearers' pub. After I booked in, we had a couple of beers together.
 
      For all his problems, old Redpath had a big heart. Anyone else would have left me stuck in Horsham, but not old Redpath. After we said our goodbyes, he took off and I ordered another beer. I remember it was somewhere around 3 O'clock in the afternoon. I had another 3 hours to wait until the local shearers started to roll in.

     One thing about a shearers' pub is it doesn't take very long before one gets to know the local crowd. By 10 that evening,  I'd met who a bloke who arranged a pen for me, starting in a few days.

    A couple of days later as we drove onto the cockys' place, I noticed the size of the sheep. A Merino sheep is usually pretty light unless they've been on real good tucker. These sheep I was now looking at were huge, wooly Coradales', probably weighing around the 150 pound mark.

     The cocky was and old German called Shultz. Him and his son, who was about 22, ran the place. The shearers quarters were an old run-down house which had no electricity or fly screens on the windows. Because the grass around that area was long and green, mosquitos were a constant plague.

     In the morning, I got into mi shearing gear and made mi way over to the main house for a bit of breakfast before I started. Shultz was also the cook. He told me his old lady had died a few years back and he was left to raise the boy on his own.

     At 7:30 I was loaded up and ready to start shearing. The shed was a small 2-stander and just after 7:30 another shearer turned up from town. He walked into the shed with his tucker box and a comb and cutter tin. As soon as he looked over the wall into his pen, he said to me,
"Jesus Christ mate, these fucking sheep look like baby elephants! I'll be flatstrap shearing a fucking 100 a day in these bastards!"

     It took me all my my strength to drag the big, wooly Coradale Ewes out of the holding pen, not to mention shearing them. I'd only been shearing for about a year but not consistently so my lack of experience did not enhance my ability to shear a good tally.

     Normally, if I worked mi guts out all day I could shear anywhere between 80 to 100 Merinos. After 2 hard hours of shearing old Shultzs' Coradales, I had only managed to poke out 15! The wool was really long and hard-cutting which meant I had to change the combs and cutters a lot. Because the sheep were so fat they did not like being sat up or rolled on their backs. To show their disapproval, they kicked like hell. The bloke next to me cursed and swore as he sweated over the huge Coradales.
     By lunch time he had shorn 45. Once old Shultz was out of earshot, he said to me,
"I'll be looking for another pen tonight when I git back to town. The bloke who told me about this place said they were not bad shearing. Wait till I see that lying bastard again!"
"How long ya been shearing?", I asked him.
"15 years mate. How about you?"
"About a year, but not every week."
"You've only been shearing a year mate? Jesus sport, you're going real well in these mongrel bastards!"
"Not really. I'll be flat out getting 60 today."
"But that's pretty good for a learner Yorky. Look at me, I've only done 45. The last place I was at, I was shearing 150 a day."
"So ya think I'm going alright?"
"Listen mate, I'm one of the fastest shearers in Hamilton. Any bastard will tell ya that. As far as I'm concerned, if you can shear 60 for the day in these bastards, you're alright in my book sport."

     At first, I was feeling really down cause I expected to shear at least 80 a day but this bloke on the stand next to me helped me feel a lot better about miself. He was a real supportive bloke.

     He stayed at the shed about a week before he  pulled the pin on the old cocky. Over the next few days he stopped several times to give me some good pointers on how to make the job easier for miself.

     On Friday night, I drove into Hamilton with him and booked into the Hotel. Over the weekend I met quite a few shearers in the barroom. Some of 'em were good blokes and some of 'em were real bastards. One bloke asked me how many a day I was shearing. When I told him 60, he started to laugh and take the piss out of  me. As he was doing this, the shearer who had been working with me all week came into the bar. He was a well-known bloke around Hamilton. People greeted him as he waked in. When he saw me at the bar, he came over and said,
"Drink up Yorky, I'll buy ya a beer mate."
"Good on ya.", I said. "Good to see ya again,"
     The shearer who had been taking the piss out of me knew the gun shearer who had just bought me a beer. He said to him,
"Where ya been shearing at mate?"
"I've been shearing with Yorky all week out at Shultzs' place."
"How many ya doing a day there?", he asked him.
"90 was mi best day,"
"Fucking hell sport, they must be real tough going for you to only shear 90 in 'em?"
"They fucking are.", he said. "Old Yorky here was doing as well as me for the length of time he's been shearing."
"Jesus Christ.", said the piss taker. "I'm sorry for taking the piss out of ya mate. I didn't realize how touch a-goin' the sheep were."

     The bloke I worked all week with said, "They been taking the piss out of ya Yorky, have they mate? Well don't let it worry ya sport cause these lazy bastards wouldn't shear 50 a day in those sheep. I'll put mi money on you any day of the fucking week mate. Drink up Yorky, I'll buy ya another beer."
     From that point on, no one else took the piss out of me. In fact, I had a pretty good time in Hamilton the 6 weekends I spent there."

     After the bar closed down at 10:30, I made mi way out to the lounge. The lounge was open at least another 3 hours for residents and their guests. I met a shearer called Brian Cullen. Brian was a pretty big, strong bloke who came from Cunnamula. We hit it off right from the beginning. That made mi stay there a lot more comfortable.

     Once that shed was finished, I left a message for Redpath at McClures' place. He returned my message saying,  'Hitchhike up to Horsham. I've got a pen for ya, shearing with me.' The message made me feel really good. I packed up mi case, paid mi bill at the bar and made mi way up to the Hotel in Horsham where I found Redpath, full as a boot, propping the bar up.

     Redpath was very supportive of my shearing efforts. The following day we drove out to the Bush to start another shed.  One weekend, whilst hanging out in the bar, I met a bloke, Clay O'malley. He was a handsome-looking bloke with wide shoulders and a reputation to match. He was very popular with the sheilas and the contractors for his respective talents.

     Redpath and me were sat quietly at the bar drinking a cold beer when he made his grand entrance. Modesty was not one of O'malleys' better qualities. Before long, he was bragging about the amount of sheep he could shear, the amount of sheilas he'd had and the amount of grog he could hold.
     During his bragging session, the subject somehow got on to snakes. As expected, O'malley was also an authority on poisonous snakes. To prove it, he said he'd head out into the bush and catch one. The Publican told him no to be so stupid because he had too much grog in him. True to form, O'malley would not have a bar of it. He downed his beer in one mouthful, picked up his change, then made his exit from the bar.
     Whilst he was gone, no one gave it another thought because most people were used to his ways. It wasn't until he made his grand entrance again, carrying a small sugar bag that anyone took him seriously.
"Give us another middy.", he said to the publican as he sat down on the bar stool and put the sugar bag on top of the bar.
"What's in the bag Clay?", said Redpath, who was not at all keen on snakes.
"It's a copper-head mate?"
"Oh Bullshit!", said Redpath, who was now sliding his stool a couple more feet to the right of the bag.
"I tell ya, it's a copper head mate. As soon as I've finished this beer, I'll get it out and show you.

     O'malley didn't wait to finish his beer, instead he slid his bar stool back from the counter and started to undo the string which held the top of the sugar bag securely tied. Once the string had been loosened he held it closed with his left hand.
"Now I'll show you bastards what's in the bag!", he said as he felt around the outside of it. "Ah, here we go!" he said as he held onto something from the outside.
"I've got hold of his head now. I'm gonna put mi hand inside the bag and pull him out!"

     Everyone, including myself, stepped back at least another 3 feet as he let go of the bag opening. O'malley pushed his hand, very carefully, into the bag as we all looked on. Just then he pulled his hand back out at great speed and said,
"Shit! Bastard! He fucking got me!"
"What d'ya mean, 'he got me'?", said Redpath.
"I thought I had hold of his head securely but he wriggled free and bit me thumb!", he said as he closed the bag tightly.
"Hurry up!", he said in a panicked voice. "You've gotta get me to a hospital!"
     Redpath, drunk as he was, sprang into action!
"Alright, hurry up mate. My Ute's outside. I'll take ya!

     The publican told us where the closest hospital was. Before we went any further, O'malley cut his thumb and tied a piece of string around it as fast as he could. In no time at all, we were doing 90 miles an hour up the wide bitchuman highway towards the hospital. On the way, O'malley kept saying to me, "Undo the tourniquet and move it up a bit and then pull it as tight as ya can." Once this was done, he said, "Well, it looks like I'm really fucked now. I'll never make it cause once the tourniquet's up to the top of mi arm, there's no where else to tie it!"

     Redpath drove like a first-class racing car driver as he steered the Ute around the wide corners with the needle bouncing on 105, most of the time. Before long, I had made the last tie, just below the shoulder muscle in O'malleys' left arm.
"That's it. We can't move it again. I'm out of time mate! I always wondered how I was gonna die. Now I don't have to wonder anymore."
"You'll be alright mate.", I said. "Don't worry, there's not too far to go now!"
"How far to go, Redpath?", asked O'malley.
"Twenty miles mate but at this speed it won't take long."
"I'm fucked! Now I'm really fucked! Tell mi old lady what happened will ya and do what ya can for mi kids."
     O'malley was now starting to get groggy. His eyes started to close and his breathing became shallow and slower.
"Don't let me go to sleep." he said in a whisper. "Keep me awake."
     The only thing I could think to do was to slap his face and shake him.
"Tell me how many sheep ya shore last week mate?", I said
"I was the fastest in the shed.", he said softly.
"Just as fucking well for you that I wasn't shearing next to you, ya gutless bastard. I'd have run rings around ya!", I said.
    This statement brought him back a bit, so I pursued it further.
"The only problem with you fucking Aussies is ya full of shit and ya got no balls. A fucking good pommy could blow ya arse off, in a shed!". I said, as his head lolled from side to side.
"Wake up, ya gutless bastard!". I screamed at him as I slapped his face from side to side.
"That fucking hurts.", he said in a soft whisper.
"That's because you've got no fucking guts O'malley. You're all fucking talk and no action!, I yelled in his face.
"I could work you into the ground, ya fucking pommy bastard." he said as his head lolled forwards.
"You haven't got the fucking balls O'malley!", I screamed at him.
     I pulled his head up and I slapped his face around a bit more.
"Hospital's coming up on the left", said Redpath. "Smack him around a bit more mate. Don't let him drift off!"

     As we pulled up outside the Emergency entrance, a couple of doctors were waiting with a wheel chair. The publican had called ahead and everyone was fully prepared for him. It only took seconds before he was out of the Ute and into the wheelchair heading for the front door.

     Redpath and me parked the Ute and then went into the Emergency waiting room to wait for some information. After about an hour, a doctor came out and said,
"He's gonna be alright now. We gave him a shot of anti-venom and he's sleeping peacefully. It's a good job you kept him conscious, cause if not, he'd be dead by now."
"How long will he be kept in?" asked Redpath.
"At least 5 hours or so. We want to make sure he's alright before we let him go."

     We decided there was no more we could do. We filled up the Ute with petrol and drove back to the hotel, only this time the speedo needle never got above 60.
"You're not a bad driver.", I jokingly said to Redpath.
"You're not a bad psychologist. Ya really got his attention when ya called him a gutless bastard and told him ya were gonna run rings around him if ever you were in the same shed together."
"Yeah mate, but I wouldn't dare tell him that, had he been alright."
"Fucking hell no. He's knocked some real big men arse over head for just looking sideways at him."
"Oh shit. I hope he doesn't remember!"

     Late that afternoon, O'malley made another grand entrance into the barroom. This time his thumb was bandaged and his ego was a bit bruised.
"Are ya alright mate?", I asked him.
"Course I'm fucking alright. I'm an Aussie. If it had been a pommy bastard that'd gotten bit, he'd have been dead by now."
     Redpath piped up, in a drunken slur, and said,
"If it wasn't for this pommy, you'd have been one big, dead, fucking Aussie. I think you owe us, at least, a round of beer so quit your skiting and put ya fucking money where ya mouth is!"
"We'll have 2 more middys' publican." said O'malley.

     Not long after that Redpath and me did a couple of sheds in South Australia at a place called Narrow Court. We both lost a good few bucks on a horse called Tobin Bronze. According to Redpath, he could not lose! After that, we drove to a place called White Cliffs where they mine for Opal.
    There was not much work around by now. Redpath told me to go to Broken Hill cause he was gonna get on the grog for at least a week. He said he'd had it with shearing for a while.

     I said goodbye to Redpath the following day and got a ride with the mail truck to Broken Hill. I never saw Redpath again after that. I firmly believe that if he's still alive, he can be found propping up the bar at the Hilston Hotel in New South Wales!

LEAVING BURTS PLACE ~Part 9 ~ CHAPTER 3 ©

     I'd been working on Burts' property for quite a while now and things had not improved one bit. One evening, Peter Smith unexpectedly drove into Burts' yard and stopped his Ute, in a cloud of dust, outside my tin shed doorway.
"G'day ya bastard.", he said with a huge grin on his face.
"G'day Peter. How are ya mate?"
     My use of the Aussie accent and lingo was now improving, somewhat.
"I'm good sport, and I'm good because I've got some good news for ya Yorky!"
"Ya got me a new job Peter?"
"Sure have mate. It took me awhile but I eventually found one for ya."
"What's it doing? Who will I be working for?"
"Well mate, you'll be starting a new career in contract fencing with a real good bloke called Jim Smith."
"Is he any relation to you Peter?"
"Na mate, no relation at all but he's a beaut  bloke. Ya can start with him in a fortnight from today."
"That's really great, but why can't I start tomorrow mate?"
" Cause first you've got to give old Burt a couple of weeks notice."
"Why should I do that Peter? Why not just leave the old bastard in the shit where he belongs?"
"Can't do that. For one thing, it's not the done thing in the Bush and for another you've probably got almost half a years holiday pay comin' to ya. It would be stupid to forfeit that so old Burt could keep it. Besides mate, we'll have a hell of a battle getting it out of him as it is!"
"Alright Peter, whatever you say. When should I break the good news to him?"
"Tell him first thing tomorrow morning. If he gives ya a hard time, tell him to call  me. I don't particularly want to get on the wrong side of Burt but it's my job to look after ya, if ya need any help. I was a bit luckier that you when I first came out here. They sent me to Fred Harzeys' place and he's not too bad a bloke. Mind you, he can be a bit of a bastard when he wants to be but he know he can't find a better worker than me. Most of the time we see eye to eye on things. Anyways Yorky, give us a call as soon as ya 14 days are up and I'll come and pick ya up and take ya over to Jims' place. I think you'll like him, he's a real kind-hearted sort of bloke."
"I don't know how to thank ya mate."
No need mate. I told you once already, I'd do the same for a white fella' anyday!"

     This statement eased the situation and made us both laugh out loud.
"Alright mate, gotta run. See ya later and don't forget, give us a ring if ya need me."
     I expressed my gratefulness once again. Peter turned the key of his Ute, put it in first and spun the wheels in the red dust as he tore off down the Paddock track, over the ramp and right, towards Lake Cargelligo.

     That evening, I found it hard to rest because of all the unknown factors that were about to come into play in my young life. The main source of excitement came from the fact of knowing I was about to pull the pin on old Burtie!

     The following morning I was up earlier than usual. The cows were brought in and milked with time to spare. I decided to go back to mi room to wait for breakfast. I left mi door open, as I lay on top of mi bed with mi boots resting on the bottom rail. I'd just rolled a home-made Drum cigarette  when old Burt came striding across the yard. I'd left mi door open so I could see him or anyone else, who was up and around.

"Come on!, he called to me in an un unusually rough manner. "What are you doing still in bed, laid there smoking? We've got work to do! Go and get the cows in. I'm runnin' a bit late this morning!"
"They're in! Milked and back out in the paddock already."
"What d'ya mean. It's only 6 O'clock?"
"I couldn't rest so I started a bit earlier this morning."
"Alright then, ya can go and weed the wifes' veggie garden before breakfast!"

     Old Kay had a good veggie garden that she was real proud of. She was always skyting about how clean she kept it but it was me who always had to pull out the hard chickweed and skeleton weed so I said to Burt, 'NO'!
"What d'ya mean NO? Get up off ya lazy pommy back and do as ya told, ya bastard!"
"FUCK YOUR BURT!  I didn't start at 4:30 this morning to end up pulling lousy weeds out of your wifes' garden!"
     Burts' face was not turning a dark crimson color by the second.
"I'll knock ya arse over head if ya talk to me like that, and further more, I'll call the BBM and have ya deported, ya ungrateful pommy bstard!"
"Hey Burt, You've been cursing at me for quite a while now and I did not leave home and come 12,800 miles to live with someone worse than mi stepfather and furthermore I came out here to learn a trade of some sort. So far, all I've done is to swing a bloody axe, shovel hot coals, pick up bloody stumps and weed your wifes' veggie garden. She's so proud of that veggie patch, she can weed it herself!"
     Burt was so cranky now, he was starting to stutter.
"I'll-I'll I'll- knock ya arse over head ya bastard and then I'll fire ya, ya pommy bastard!", he roared.
"You'll do nothing of the sort Burt.", I said in a cool manner. "Cause I'm pulling the pin. I'm giving ya 14 days notice, from this morning and when I leave I'll expect some holiday pay as well as mi monthly 12 quid!"
"What did you say, ya cheeky bastard?"
"You heard Burt! I'm pullin' the pin on ya mate."
"Ya can't pull the pin on me mate!", he roared. I'm gonna call Sydney now and have a word with Mansell about you!"
"Call whoever ya like Burt, Mansell knows I'm leaving here. Peter Smith already called him and Mansell says he'll not send anymore pommys to this place if ya don't give me my holiday pay at the end of 14 days and furthermore Burt, for every day you make me wait over the 14 days, you'll be charged a penalty! How d'ya like that Burt?"
'You'll git no holiday pay out a' me, ya lazy mongrel bastard! I'll see you in hell first!"
"I'll be waiting for ya when ya get there Burt!, I said, then laid back on mi bed and finished mi smoke.

     Old Burt strode off across the dirt yard at double his normal speed now. The garden gates slammed shut and the back fly-screen door bounced on its hinges more than its usual twice.
     Mi heart was now beating 10 to the dozen and mi hands had a slight shake to them as the life-force banged out a kettle drum beat in mi navel.

'At long last,' I thought, all these long months of putting up with that miserable, tight arsed old bastards abuse. Months of living in fear of him deporting me, but today is Yorkys' day! Let that be a lesson to you Yorky mate, said my inner heart, Once ya buy into fear ya rooted! You'd may as well lie down and die!'

     Twenty minutes later old Kay rang the cow bell for breakfast. I walked slowly over to the house, not knowing what was going to happen. When I got inside, Burt was chomping down on a small  mutton chop bone. His hands were still shaking as he picked up his cup of tea. When I sat down, Kay said to me,  "Burt tells me you're leaving us Richard. Aren't you happy here anymore?"
"It's nothing to do with you, Mrs. Booth, but I've never been happy since they sent me hear from Cabrammatta."
"Oh, I had no idea ya felt like that. Why aren't you happy here?"
"Ask Burt, he'll tell ya."
"It's no good asking me.", said Burt. "Far as I'm concerned you've been treated well."
"Yeh, I thought we'd been very good to you Richard.", said Kay.
"Oh really, d'ya think it's good being abused all day and getting chased through the bush by an axe-wielding madman?"
"l've got no idea what you're talking about Richard.", said Kay.
"Then Burt, obviously, doesn't tell you much Mrs. Booth. Anyway, it's nearly all over now and there's nothing you can say will change mi mind. I've pulled the pin now and I'll be off in 14 days. I'm not very hungry this morning Mrs. Booth. I'll wait for ya outside Burt.", I said, as I pushed mi chair back and walked out of the kitchen.

     Over the next 14 days, Burt carried on as normal. I thought he might loosen up a bit but he never  changed, right up until the morning Peter Smith drove up the track to pick me up.
"Ya got ya gear all packed up mate?", he asked as he leaned out the window of the Ute.
"I never unpacked it. I knew from the first day, I wouldn't be retiring here."
     Peter had a chuckle and then said, "Put ya gear in the back, mate. I'll let old Burt know where to send ya holiday money to."
     Just then Burt called to me from the back veranda,"You better come and git ya money before ya go mate."
"I'll be there in a minute.", I said.
"Go and pick up ya pay said Peter."
"Alright.", I said and than walked over to Burts' house for the last time.
"Ya gotta months pay coming.", he said, as I entered the kitchen.
"A months' pay and 5 1/2 months holiday pay,", I said to him.
"You'll git no holiday pay from me mate!", he said, as he wrote out a check for 12 pounds and 2 shillings.
"The Award Sheet says I'm due for holiday pay, Burt."
"I don't give a rats' arse what the Award Sheet says, you'll git no holiday pay from me mate!"
"Ya don't mind working off the Award Sheet when it comes to paying wages and taking board and tucker though eh Burt?"
     He didn't bother to answer me, he just said, "Here, sign here if ya want ya wages. I got work to do today!"

"Did he give you ya holiday pay Yorky?", said Peter, when I got back to the Ute.
"No mate, he said he won't pay it."
"Alright mate, wait here for me. I'll go and have a word with him."

"No luck mate.", he said, as he returned.  "He's determined not to pay it, so we'll have to call Mansell in Sydney.  If anyone can get it, he will.", said Peter. "Hop in the Ute Yorky, Let's git out of here. Jim Smith is waiting for us at Burts' far boundary fence."

MARKING LAMBS

     On Monday morning at 10 to 6, I was sitting on Gilltraps' steps waiting for Kevin Skippy to pick me up for a couple of days work, marking lambs.
"G'day, ya pommy fucking' bastard.", he yelled out the window as he pulled into the curb. "Chuck ya tucker box in the back and hop in mate."
"How are ya, ya Aussie fuckin' bastard?", I asked as we shook hands.
"Jesus!", said Kevin, as he spun the wheels and left a small dust cloud behind us. "Ya really gettin' our Aussie lingo down Yorky mate."
"Yeah, I've been gettin' a bit sick of people mimicking my Yorkshire accent and taking the piss out of me."
"Oh, don't worry about that sport. We've been extracting the urine out a' pommys since they've been coming out here. Ask Stan Granthem, he speaks good Occa lingo now and we still take the piss! So what have ya been up to Yorky? Ya got yourself a good root since ya been livin' in town?"
"No mate. No such luck in that department."
"What about some of those young Mission sheilas' that hang out around Gilltarps?"
"No mate, no luck there either."
"Ya still haven't had a root yet Yorky mate?"
"In one word Skippy, No!"
"I've got a pretty good-looking sheep in the backyard at our place.  I could put a good word in there for ya, if ya like."
"Fuck you Skippy. I'm desperate but not that desperate."
"I don't blame ya.", he said as he laughed out loud. "Anyway it's too hard to pull their head around to kiss 'em!"

     This little joke gave me a really good laugh as I said,
"Oh mate, what a fuckin' great joke. I'm gonna' remember that one."
"Good on ya Yorky mate. She's a pretty tough life out here in the Bush sport and a good joke never goes astray. They tell me ya gittin' a few middys into ya self since you've been living at Traps."
"Yeah, there's not much else to do in the Lake, if ya single."
"Ya not gonna' end up like some of those old Alchis' are ya?"
"Course I'm fuckin' not. Just because I'm a pommy doesn't mean I'm stupid."
"You'll have to give me a few minutes to think about that one mate!
"Fuck you Skippy.", I said with a smile. "What we doing today anyway?"
"Marking lambs mate, before we fatten 'em up for the auction."
"I've never done it before, ya know."
"No worries mate, you'll be catching 'em, Digger's gonna' mark 'em and I'm gonna' draft 'em off and shift 'em back into the paddocks."

     Pretty soon we were driving over the ramp at Skippys' property. I could already see a large mob of Ewes and lambs in and around the sheep-yards. We parked the ute under a shady tree and walked towards the yards. Digger was filling up a back-pack of drench. As soon as he saw me, he said,
"Yorky, ya pommy bastard. How are ya cobber?"
"Good mate.", I said as we shook hands.
"Ya like living in town mate?"
"It's not bad mate. There's still not much to do though."
"I don't know about that Yorky. A little bird told me that ya rootin' one of those pretty little half-cast ginns from out at the Mission."
"Bullshit Digger.", I said. "Ya little bird's full a' shit!"
"That's not what I heard Yorky. I don't wanna' see ya sittin' on Shamens' corner with a couple a' pic-a-ninis' on ya knee next time I'm in town."
"Fuck you Digger, you're such a bullshiter mate."
"Yeah, I know, but it's good fun Yorky. You're always good for a laugh mate."

"G'day Yorky.", said Dick as he walked over to where we were laughing and joking. "Didn't ya' bring that pretty little half-cast sheila I saw ya with on Saturday night?"
"Fuckin' hell Dick, you're just as bad as ya sons."
"Right, first time Yorky. Where d'ya think they git it from? Hey Kevin, bring that mob a' ewes and lambs in from the back boundary paddock, near Diggers' place. We'll git started on this mob. I'll draft 'em off while we're waitin' for ya."
"So, what d'ya want me to do Dick?", I asked.
"Digger will show ya mate. He's the expert."
"Bullshit Dad, I'm the mug that ends up with the shitty end of the stick!"

"Come on Yorky mate. Let's git started.", said Digger. "Sooner we start, the sooner we finish."
     Digger and me walked over to a part of the sheep-yard fence that had a 2 foot long, 1 foot wide plank that was screwed onto the top rail.
"Right mate, you catch the lambs after they're drafted off from the ewes and carry them over here. I'll go grab one and show ya how to hold 'em."
     Digger grabbed hold of a lamb and carried it over to the fence.
"Alright, ya hold it like this mate, with his front and back leg together on each side. Ya sit his arse on the plank and push down a bit. Ya got it mate?"
"Looks easy enough to me Digger."
"It's easy at the beginning of the day Yorky, but by Sundown tonight ya hands will have cramp in 'em from the little bastards' struggling. Grab hold of this one mate while I get on the other side of the fence."

     As soon as Digger was ready he said,
"Now hang on to her mate!"
     First up, he grabbed a pair of ear-marking pliers. He took half of the lambs' ear and clipped a piece out of it which left their brand hole in it. The hole filled up with a small amount of blood.
"This is a ewe mate, so ear-mark and tail is all we do on this one."
     Then he picked up a small, sharp-bladed knife which had 2 spring-like jaws for a handle. The spring jaws had serrated teeth on each side.
"Ya see this bit of bare skin under her tail, here right before the wool starts growin'?"
"Yeah, what about it?"
"SWISH! Ya cut the tail off right there." The tail came off quite easily as the knife was really sharp. "If ya cut it too short mate, the blow-flys will get on its arse-hole and chances are they'll blow it"
"What happens then mate?"
"Maggots, mate. They'll start boring holes into and around its tucker-shute.  How d'y like maggots boring into ya tucker shoot Yorky?"
"Not fucking likely!", I said as Digger had a good laugh.
     Digger dabbed a bit of tar on the lambs tail and then said,
"Let her go mate!"
     Once the lambs' feet were on the ground again, she ran around a bit, twitching her tail and ear, bleating for her mother. The next lamb I caught turned out to be a male.
"Jesus mate, ya got a whether, or soon to be. Hold him steady mate." said Digger as he marked the opposite ear.

     This time he cut the top of the lambs ball-sack. Then he pushed back the ball-sack with his fingers and two small pink testicles popped out.
     What he did next, fuckin' shocked me! Digger put his head between the lambs back legs, grabbed one of the balls between his teeth and then pulled his head back. He now had a pink testicle in his mouth which had a small tube hanging off of it. Then he spit the testicle onto the dusty ground.      Almost immediately one of the red Kelpies ran in, grabbed it and swallowed it in one gulp. Repeating the process, the lamb was now short his 2 small balls. After he cut off the tail, he chucked it on the ground, dabbed the stump and empty ball-sack with tar and said,
"Let it go Yorky mate. He's done!"

     The front of mi singlet had now acquired blood streaks, which came from cutting the tail off, all down the front. Each time a tail was cut, the hairline veins spurted out a thin stream of blood. I now had it on mi face as well as mi arms. It wasn't long before the bush flies arrived, which by days-end was torturous.

"Don't some cockys put rubber rings on their balls and tail Digger?"
"Yeah mate, but that hurts 'em a hell of a lot more than this way."
"How d'ya know that mate?"
"Well mate, once ya let 'em up doing it this way, they run around and jump up and down a bit, right?Now when ya put a ring on their ball sack and tail, they run and jump a little bit and then they lay down on the ground for quite a while."
"Why's that Digger?"
"Why d'ya think mate."
" 'Cause you've cut the blood supply off?"
"Right first time mate. It also takes a good few days for the nuts and tail to rot off."
"Fuck that for a game of tin soldiers Digger! I'm fuckin' glad I'm not a sheep!"

     Just then, old Dick came over and said to me,
"I think when we've marked all these lambs Yorky, we'd better do you mate! It'll save ya havin' a swag of pic-a-ninis to look after. What d'ya reckon mate?"
"Fuck you Dick! My balls are staying right where they are, even though I haven't needed 'em yet!"
     We all had a good laugh over that one till Digger said,
"Alright Yorky mate, it's your turn. I'll go catch one for ya."

FERAL GOATS & SAMMY THE DAGO Part 1 ©

     My two favorite haunts in Lake Cargelligo were Gilltraps and the Dagos' shop. Gilltraps provided me with work as that is where laboring and shearing were to be found. The Dagos' shop is where I could get a feed and the most amount of socializing, taking into account that Lake Carigelligo was a small Bush town.

     On this particular occasion, I was sat in the Dagos' shop with a good-size T-bone steak sat in front of me. A couple of eggs and extra chips turned the meal into a good Bush feed.

     Jimmy Xmas's latest addition to his staff was a Dago called Sammy, who had been working there for a couple of months. Sammy was not your everyday, garden variety Dago, who spoke with a thick greek accent. He had been educated in the Aussie school system since he was 7 years old. He was 25 now. He had the standard black hair and permanent 5 O'clock shadow. His wife was 22. She was quite short with dyed blonde hair which looked really strange, owing to her black eyebrows, plus the fact that she was 7 months pregnant. The icing on the cake was a 3 year old son who could be described, in no other way than a spoiled, tantrum-throwing brat!

"G'day Yorky.", he said as he sat himself down at my booth. "How are ya mate?"
"Not too bad Sammy. How are you?"
"How's the feed?"
"Pretty good mate."
"Good. I cooked it 'specially for you."
"Well, good on you Sammy. I appreciate that mate."
"Hey Yorky, are you into hunting mate?"
"It depends what you're going after sport."
"Goats, mate. A cocky mate of mine, who comes in the cafe a lot, wants to clear out a herd of wild goats from his property."
"What are ya gonna' shoot 'em with?"
"I got a 308 and a 30.30 Winchester. They'll be big enough, for sure."
"Sounds good to me Sammy. I've only got a Pea rifle and that's nowhere big enough for wild goats. So when do ya wanna' go?"
"What about tomorrow morning, early? We could be at the cockys' place at sun up. That's a good time to catch 'em."
"How far out a' town is the property?"
"About 30 miles out on the Rankin Springs road."
"Sounds good to me mate. Ya got plenty of Ammo?"
"Yeah, but I'll pick up a couple more boxes from Ray Orrs' place later this arvo."
"What time d'ya wanna' pick me up?"
"How's 5 O'clock sound?"
"Sounds good to me mate. I'll be outside Gilltraps at 5." I've always wanted a goat skin for the floor at the side of mi bed when the cold weather's on."
"Those wild goats fuckin' stink mate and how ya gonna' skin it?"
"Bring one of ya butchers knives with ya from the kitchen. That ought to do it."
"Ya know how to skin a goat Yorky?"
"Course I fuckin' do. I can skin anything mate, Roos, rabbits, sheep, Dagos!"
"Hey, Hey, careful with the Dago jokes mate. I'm an Aussie citizen, are you?"
"Not yet mate. I'm still a pommy bastard and to be precise, I'm a pommy fuckin' bastard, according to Bush law!"

     Just then, the cafe door opened and a pretty, good-looking sort walked up to the counter.
"Jesus.", said Sammy, as he got up from the table, in such a hurry, that he knocked over the dregs of mi cuppachino. "Sorry about that Yorky mate. I'll get ya another in a minute."

     Although Sammy was an Aussie citizen, he still had the greasy ways of a Dago which was on full display now, as he slid behind the counter, wearing his best Dago smile.
"Nancy, how are ya love? What can I git for ya today?"
"Give us a pack of Styvesants and a box of Redheads."
"No worries love. How's the nursing job going?"
"Pretty good."
"Ya still like nursing eh?", said Sammy.
"I love the nursing part but the hours can be a bit of a drag at times."
     After a bit more bullshittin' conversation from Sammys' pie-hole, she gave him a decent smile and made her exit.

"Who's that?", I asked Sammy as he brought me over another cuppachino.
"Nurse Nancy.", he said as he sat down and lit up a Pall Mall.
"Where d'ya know her from mate?"
"She come in here a lot for smokes and milkshakes. Pretty good-looking Sheila, eh mate?"

     Nurse Nancy was quite pretty. She had a decent size rack, slim waist, good-lookin' legs and a well-rounded arse that was not too big. I had no problem agreeing with Sammy about her looks. She was, indeed, a good-looking Sheila.

     After I had finished mi feed, I took off back, up the street, to Gilltraps. As I got closer to Traps, I saw Freddy, who was sat on the steps, finishing off a middy.
"How are ya Yorky mate?"
"Not bad Freddy, how are you?"
"Bored fucking shitless sport. There's fuck all to do in the Lake when ya not workin'."
"Ya not wrong there Freddy. Come and have a beer with me mate. I hate drinkin' on mi own."
"I just had a big feed mate. Where's War Dog? He's always up for a beer."
"Oh he's up at Keith Charmers' place fuckin' around with an old Brigs and Stratten motor that he's doin' up for sale. Come on mate, just one round."

     Once we were seated at the bar and our middys' had been pulled, Freddy cheered up a bit. I told him about going goat shooting with Sammy, the Dago.
"Ya wanna' come with us mate? I'm sure Sammy won't mind. More the merrier when it comes to clearing out wild goats!"
"No, fuck that for a game of tin soldiers Yorky. I'm not really keen on hunting. Besides that, I'm a lousy fuckin' shot."
"Alright, just thought I'd ask ya. Hey Freddy, When I was at the Dagos' shop, this really good-lookin' sheila came in for some smokes. Ya should have seen her mate. She's the best lookin' sheila I've seen in the Lake for a while!"
"Did ya talk to her?
"No mate, I never got the chance but I'm gonna' keep an eye out for her. Ya never know."
"Does she work?"
"Sammy told me she's a nurse up at the hospital."
"Jesus Yorky, that sounds good mate. They tell me that those nurses are real go-ers."
"Yeah, I heard the same thing miself Freddy. I think I might be spendin' a bit more time at the Dagos' shop. Sammy says she comes in regular."

     The next morning, I was sat on Gilltraps steps waiting for Sammy the Dago, who was now 15 minutes late. I was just about to say 'fuck it' and go back to bed when I saw his station wagon cruising up the main street. Double parking in the empty street, he pushed open the passenger side door and said,
"Git in mate, we're late."
"What d'ya mean 'we' ya Dago bastard? Don't ya mean 'you'?"
"Yeah, yeah, me mate."
"What happened?"
"Ah, I've been up most of the night with the kid. He's got something wrong with him. He was crying all bloody night!"
"We don't have to go if ya don't wanna'?"
"Fuck that!", he said as he shoved the stick into first gear. "This married life is driving me fucking nuts. If it's not the kid, it's the misuss."
"Yeah mate, and it's about to git worse. She's due to drop another one any day by the looks of her."
"Nah, she's got another 8 weeks to go so I've still got a bit of fucking-around time left up mi sleeve!"
"Fuckin' around doin' what? Drinkin' and partying?"
"Drinking, partying and rootin' Yorky mate!"
"How's ya missus handle the rootin' at 7 months?"
"I'm not rootin' the missus mate. I've been rooting that nurse ya saw in the shop yesterday. "
"Ya mean Nancy?"
"Yeah mate, right first time."
"Bullshit sport, no offense but I can't see any sheila in Lake Cargelligo rootin' a Dago."
"Well, she's not rooting a Pommy bastard is she mate?"
"Ya know what Sammy, you're such a bullshittin' Dago bastard. There's no fuckin' way you're rootin' her!"
"Please yourself whether you believe me or not mate but I rooted her, in the back of this station wagon, last night out at the Common."
"Alright Sammy, I'm not gonna' argue with you. Did you remember the rifles and ammo?"
"Course I did mate. I'm not a fucking Pommy, ya know."

     I decided not to bat that ball back. I was more interested in thinking about this new information I'd just got from Sammy. We drove the rest of the way to the cockys' place in silence, which suited me fine. 'How could she root a greazy, fucking Dago of all people'? And here's me thinkin' she's a great sheila'!

"Grab the gate mate.", said Sammy as we drove up to the cockys' boundary fence.
"No worries sport.", I said as I hopped out and swung the big, old steel gate wide open.

     Once we had driven as far as we could in the rough, rocky paddock the decision was made to walk the rest of the way. I had decided not to pursue any more conversation about Nurse Nancy as it would only cause tension which would lead to a strained relationship between miself and Sammy, who was now beginning to look more like a greasy dago than a naturalized Aussie. I even imagined his speech had changed and the distinctive Dago accent had grown much stronger.

"There's a mob.", I said as we climbed to the top of a rocky hill. Very slowly, we made our way, as close as possible, to the mob so as not to scare them off.
"Take a shot at that big Billy.", I said to Sammy, who had a good size scope on the new 308 he was carrying.
"Let's git a bit closer mate, then I can get a good head shot."
"If ya try to get any closer, you'll scare 'em off. That big old Billy can already sense something's up.", I said. "Take the shot now mate!"

     Sammy lined up the shot against a thin bush tree. A couple of seconds later, 'BOOM"! The 308 spat out a high-grained bullet which missed the Billy completely and snapped off a tree limb just about his head.
"Jesus Sammy, ya fuckin' missed him mate. How the fuck could ya miss the bastard from this distance?"
"It's the new scope mate! I haven't got it sighted in right."
"So why didn't ya go out the Common somewhere, to set up the scope?"
"I never had time mate. I've been to busy in the cafe."

     The mob of goats had now taken off around the hill and disappeared from sight. Surprisingly, the goats did not take off at a fast pace as they were  not 'gun-shy', which meant they had not been shot at before. After about 10 minutes or so, we came across another mob of about 10 Nannys' and a Billy. Once we were close enough, I let rip with Sammys' 30-30. BOOM! The 30-30 echoed, slightly, around the hillside as Sammy said,
"Ya missed, ya pommy bastard!"
"Bullshit! I got him in the heart area."
     Seconds later, the Big old Billy took a few steps and then fell over on his side.
"Missed him did I mate? I told ya I got him."
"Why didn't ya go for a head shot?"
"I didn't have a clear enough shot and besides, I'm using open sights."

     The Nannys had taken off further around the hill. The old Billy was still kicking his last as I put 2 more bullets in his head.
"They're really tough bastards, these old Billys.", said Sammy, who pushed the goat around with his foot."
"Yeah. Look at the balls on him Sammy. I'll bet ya wish you had a pair like that?"
"I'd be on the losing end if I did mate. Mine are already bigger than that!"
"Jesus Sammy, you're such a fuckin' bullshit artist!"
"It's true mate. That's why all the Aussie sheilas like me."
"They like ya till they find out ya full- a'-shit Sammy, then they dump ya mate!"

     Undercurrents of anger were starting to creep into my voice, so I said,
"Let's leave this old bastard here and come back for him after we've cleared out a few more for the cocky."

     After we'd shot a few more ferals, we decided to go back to where I'd shot the old Bully.
"So ya really gonna' skin him?", said Sammy, as he handed me the butchers knife.
"Sure am mate. I'll  have it tanned. It'll make a good bedside rug."
"Jesus, they fuckin' stink like hell!", said Sammy, as he backed away from the goat who's skin was just about off.
"They stink Sammy because they roll over on their back and piss all over themselves."
"Bullshit!",  said Sammy with a disgusted look on his face. "Why would they do that?"
"Because it makes them more attractive to the females. You should try it Sammy. You'll have all the Mission ginns chasing ya around town mate!"
"Fuck you ya pommy bastard. I rely on my good looks to get the sheilas chasin' me mate."
"I don't see too many sheilas chasing ya around sport. I think it's all in ya mind mate.", I said.
"Nurse Nancy wasn't mate. She was in the back of mi station wagon. Ask her if ya don't believe me."
"I fuckin' will do, next time I see her."

     The sun was starting to warm up the early morning and the goat skin was really starting to stink now.
"Ya not putting that stinking, fucking goat skin in mi new station wagon?", said Sammy, as we neared where we'd parked it.
"I'm not fuckin' leaving it out here after all I went through skinnin' the bastard! Haven't ya got a plastic bag in the back of ya car?"
"Yeah, but its got cafe supplies in it."
"Just put 'em in the back somewhere. You're gonna' take 'em into the cafe anyway."

     Sammy was not too keen on having the skin in his new car. Had he not rooted my potential new girlfriend, I wouldn't have blamed him. Halfway back to town, the stink of the goat skin was starting to fill up the station wagon.
"Are ya sure ya tied up that plastic bag properly mate? I'll never get that stink out of mi car. Mi missus will go fucking nuts when she has to drive it somewhere."
"Ah, don't worry about it Sammy. Just tell her ya dropped one of the garlic farts you're famous for!"
"Fuck you mate! I'll have to tell her I had a pommy bastard in the car. Everybody knows you pommys only take a shower once a week."

     Once we'd pulled up, out the back of the Dago shop, I asked Sammy if I could salt down the skin and nail it to one of the old wooden storage sheds.
"No fucking way mate! That thing stinks so fucking bad, it'll drive all mi customers away and Jimmy Xmas will hit the fucking roof."

     There was now no other option left but to chuck the skin away. If I tried to stake it out at the back of  Gilltraps, Cath Gilltap would have chased me off the premises. Back in mi room at Traps, I got out of mi old clothes and tied them up firmly in mi plastic dirty clothes bag. The room was already starting to smell like stale goat piss! It took me twice as long to shower as the goat piss smell seemed to have permeated the pores of mi pommy skin.

    Laid on mi bed with fresh clean clothes on, I rolled a smoke and started to think about Nurse Nancy and what my next course of action would be.

MAKIN' A PISTOL AND GOIN' EMU SHOOTING ©

     One Saturday morning, I rode out to Skippys' place for somethin' to do. Kevin was workin' on a piece of machinery when I arrived. As I pulled up in his yard, skidding the back wheel side-ways, he gave me his usual greeting,
"G'day Yorky, ya bastard! How ya goin' mate?"
"G'day Skippy. What ya up to?"
"Just fixin' up this bastard water pump mate. What you doin' out here?"
"Not much. I just rode out to see ya for somethin' to do."

     I noticed an old single-shot  22 rifle lying on a work bench over in the corner.
"Who does that dusty 22 lying on the bench?"
"Fucked if I know. I think someone left it here, years ago."
"Can I have it?"
"What the hell would ya want that old thing for?
"I can make a pistol out of it. That way, I can carry it on mi bike and shoot one-handed."
"You'll end up shootin' ya bloody foot off mate!"
"No, I won't Skippy. Can I have it or not?"
"Yeh, I suppose so, but if ya blow a hole in ya foot it's not my fault, alright?"
"Good on ya mate. Can I borrow ya pipe-cutters?"
"Jesus Christ.", he said with a smile. "I suppose you'll be wantin' a box of 22s' to go with it?"
"No thanks mate but a saw would come in real handy."
"Have a look under that work-bench. All the tools are there."
   
     Once I had the right tools, I took the stock off the old 22. I sawed off the stock just in front of the screw-hole that fastened the stock to the barrel. With a piece of sandpaper, I shaped the wood till it looked like an old flintlock pistols' butt. When this was done, I put the rifle barrel into the vice and marked it at 8 inches. Then I took the pipe-cutter and carefully twisted it around the steel barrel, tightening it as I went. When the barrel was cut all the way through, I took a file and knocked off the bit of burr around the bore. After screwing the stock back into place, the pistol was complete. It was not the fanciest pistol that was ever made but it would ride in mi belt, no problem at all.

     Once it was finished, I said to Skippy,
"How d'ya like it mate?"
"Streuth! That's not bad Yorky. Don't let Sarg Montgomery catch ya with it or you'll be behind bars with those local abbos! There's a box of bullets in the glove box of that ute. Go grab 'em and we'll try it out."
     The pistol was a bolt-action single shot. I set up a couple of tin cans, 30 feet away and Kevin loaded the pistol.
"Look out Yorky!", he said and let fly with the pistol.
     CRACK! He missed the can by 10 feet.
"Bring the can closer Yorky 'cause it's not too accurate at that distance."
     We messed around with the pistol for about half an hour before we found the most accurate range which was about 15 feet.
"Jesus! 15 feet's not much. If ya git that close to a roo, you'll be able to hit it on the head with the gun butt! You'll probably git more roos that way!"

     After lunch, I left Skippys' place and rode back into the Lake. Gary Breaneys' house was on the left-hand side, so I swung into his driveway. He was on the back veranda when I pulled in, sat in a sun chair. His mother had just brought him out a cold drink.
"G'day Yorky.", he said. "How're ya goin' mate?"
"Not bad Gary. What ya' doin'?"
"Not too much mate. The Lake's a dead place on Saturday afternoons."

"D'ya want a cold drink Richard?, Garys' mother said to me.
"If ya don't mind, Mrs' Breaney."
     She poured me a drink from the large jug that was packed with ice-cubes. Then she disappeared back inside the house.

"Are ya up for a bit a fun?", I asked him.
"Doin' what? There's bugger-all to do on Saturdays except play Aussie rules and it's too warm for that today."
"Let's go for a ride on the bike."
"Where to?"
"Just along the Condo road. We can try out mi new gun!"
"What gun? I don't see no rifle."
"It's under mi shirt."
"What d'ya mean?", he said, looking somewhat confused.
"It's here!", I said as I lifted the front of mi shirt.
     When he saw the pistol butt, it brought him back to life!
"Where did ya git that from Yorky?"
"I just made it."
"Give us a look at it."
"Not here mate. If ya mother sees it, she won't be too happy about it."
"Alright mate, let's go!"
"Back soon!", he called out to his mother as I started the bike.
"Jump on mate. We're out-a here!"

     Out of his driveway and left up the main street we rode. Off the bitumen and onto the main Condo dirt road, we flew in a cloud of red dust.
    "There's a cockys' paddock up ahead.", screamed Gary, over my shoulder. "I know him. He won't mind us goin' in for a shot."
     Once the large steel gate was opened and closed, I gave Gary the pistol.
"Shit Yorky! This is a real beauty. Ya did a pretty good job of cuttin' it down. Ya got any bullets?"
"Yeah, here. I bought a box off Skippy this morning?"

     The Cockys' paddock was not too densely covered with mali. We would have to be careful 'cause there were lots' of dead trees, low hanging branches and sharp pointy stumps.
     "Alright mate.", I said. "Load her up but don't cock it till we see something. Pull the pin back and hold the gun up in the air. That way, we won't have an accident."
     I put mi Honda into first gear and we pulled away slowly from the gate.
"There should be a few roos out in the middle where those shade trees are!", I called to him. "We'll head out that way!"

     The paddock was rougher than it looked so I had to be careful not to get a stick caught in the spokes or puncture a tire. We's been riding around for about 45 minutes when Gary called out,
"There's a mob of Emus' over near the fence."
"I can see 'em.", I said. "We'll ride across the paddock and down the fence. That way they'll run down parallel with it. If we chase 'em from here, they'll stick their heads down and crash through the fence."
"Let's go!", said Gary. "They've heard us talking."

     Once we got level with the fence again, I called out to him,
"Hang on tight mate! Here we go!!"

     I revved the Honda 90 through the gears into third. The speedo was touching 40 now. 'CLUNK', down into fourth it went and I opened the throttle full up. The fenceposts were whizzing past now as we rode like hell along the one-lane bush track. There were some large sharp rocks sticking out in places so I had to keep a good eye out. The Emus were now going flat out down the fence line as I expected. They were running, one after each other. Their massive strong legs pounded the dirt track as their huge scaly feet kicked up small stones behind them.
"We're gaining on 'em!", screamed Gary over my shoulder.

"Put your right arm over my shoulder mate.", I yelled, with mi head half-turned. "Keep the pistol well in front of me 'cause I don't want deafening!"
     The old Honda was now flat as a strap and the needle was bouncing between 50 and 55.
"Don't shoot till I tell ya mate! Wait till they're off to the side!"
     We were now only 50 feet behind them and gaining on them fast!
"All right mate.",  I yelled, "Let 'em have it!"
     'BOOM!!!', Gary let fly with the pistol. A flame about 12 inches long, shot out of the barrel.
     'BOOM!!!', He'd reloaded from the bullets he was carrying in his mouth. The Emus pulled out all stops now.
     A few seconds later and we were right up the arse of a big, cranky Emu.
"Not yet mate!", I yelled. "He's too close! If he falls over, we'll go right over the top of him!"

     'BOOM!!!', Gary didn't listen to me. He hit the grizzly old Emu with the next shot. The Emu fell arse over head in front of us. There was no time to vere off so I slammed on the brakes in a cloud of dust. The next thing I knew, we were both flying over the handlebars!

"OHHH SHIT!!!!, I roared as we landed on top of the pissed-off Emu! All I remember was feathers and dust as we tried to scramble away from the Emu. One good kick from him and we would have been dead! The Emu had somewhat regained his feet. His head and neck were through the fence as he kicked like hell to get his huge, strong body on the other side.
     Mi good bike was over on its' side and the motor was revving like hell. Gary was trying to regain his feet as I saw the Emus' legs kicking  towards mi bike now!
"Get the bike out the way!", I screamed.  "Or he'll kick the shit out of it!"
     We scrambled over to the bike and pulled it out of range of his massive kicks, before he smashed it to pieces.
"Where's the pistol?", I yelled, as I limped back out of range miself.
"I dunno. It flew out of mi hand when we hit him."
"He's getting away!", I said, as the big, old Emu scrambled through the fence.

HARD WORK TRACTOR DRIVIN' ©

     The day after I quite Jimmy Xmas' Cafe, I went tractor driving for a cocky, Roger Thom. He was a tall, droll sort of bloke who had his own place a few miles out of the lake. Roger was as blind as a bat without his glasses. He was a real good Aussie Rules player. Every time he picked up the ball,  the opposition, or the opposition supporters would yell,
"His fuckin' specs are off! That'll slow him down a bit!"

     Many's the time Roger had to go looking all over the field for his specs, even though he'd got them tied on with a piece of elastic.

     I stayed out at Rogers' property so there was no problem as regards sleeping arrangements 'cause he had a small hut, not far from the main house.

     Sowing wheat was quite a hard job. A flat-top truck was loaded up with seed wheat and super phosphate. It was usually parked in one of the corners of the paddock. On most occasions, a couple of 44 gallon drums of distillate were also carried on the flatbed. The combine that was being pulled had 4 long boxes on the back. These boxes had to be loaded up with seed wheat at the front and superphosphate at the back.

     My job was to drive round and round the paddock until the boxes were almost empty. Then I'd have to get off the tractor and refill them. The job of refilling was not as easy as it sounds for a young bloke, just over 16 and weighing 120 pounds. The wheat bags could weigh between 160 and 180 pounds. I had to take them on mi back, off of the flatbed and walk a few yards to where the back of the combine stood. The superphosphate bags could be sorta' humped up onto the box but sometimes I'd have to walk up the back step to get the wheat bag in place. Once the boxes were full, I'd start makin' a round until they needed filling again.

     Usually, a cocky would divide his paddock up into 500 acre blocks. I enjoyed drivin' around on the tractor all day 'cause I was completely alone. Most times, I'd drive 24 hour shifts before I got off the tractor, then I'd have a feed at Rogers' place, take around 5 or 6 hours sleep, then drive back up the paddock to take over from Roger.

     Tractor driving was good money for me, in those days. Most cockys were paying 80 cents an hour, so in a 24-hour shift, I could clock up almost $20. Twenty dollars every 24 hours was a huge raise for me, in comparison to Showground wages.

     Although night-times could be really cold, I enjoyed them the best of all. I would stuff sheets of newspaper inside mi King Gee overalls to keep the cold out. An ex-army balaclava kept mi earlobes from snappin' off. Sometimes it was pitch-dark, except for the 2 small tractor headlights.

     The only part I didn't enjoy, although it was exciting, was when I'd have to walk across the paddock in the dark, on mi own, to get the flat-top truck which had to be driven up the headland.
    Most times, I was miles from anywhere and all alone. Some times mi mind used to try and play tricks on me. The Mali trees would appear to move and a large mali stump would turn into a big monster. I used to check behind me, every minute or so, for the mad, chain-saw killer that I knew was sneakin' up on me, but he was always to fast! As soon as I spun around, he would disappear back into the darkness and I would run like hell, towards the tractor. Once in the seat, I would jam mi foot on the clutch, stick it into second gear and pull the throttle-stick back to 1600 revs. Away I would go on another couple of rounds before repeating the whole process again, monsters and all.

     I was really pleased to see the daylight as it slowly appeared. It always made the Mali trees appear like large skeletons just before the rim of the large, flaming sun greeted me. An hour before sunrise was always the coldest part of the morning, not to mention the wet dew which would dry out as the glorious sun rose.
  Sometimes the red dust almost choked me as I drove around those paddocks. At times, when I spat, a large, dirty red pile of mucus would fly out.
     Tractors, in those days, rarely had a cab over the seat. The eyes, nose and ears would get chock-a-block full of the red dust.

     One evening, as I was driving around, there came a point when I felt really tired. My eyes started to droop so I shook mi head a few time. This little trick worked for a while but soon the eyes drooped again. The loud roar of the tractors' exhaust pipe, along with the diesel fumes didn't help matters either. Then, I'd try singin' out loud at the top of mi voice. This soon gave way to the droopy eye syndrome again. The next trick I tried was somewhat more drastic. I'd slap mi face and yell,
"Wake up ya lazy pommy bastard wake up!" After that failed, I woke up with a hell a of fright, hundreds of yards off the line, heading towards the thick Mali trees.

"Bastard! Shit! Fuck!", I'd scream, in anger, as I turned the tractor and combine around to trace mi way beack to where I'd gone off the line.

     One morning, Roger noticed a long plough-line that ran acaross the paddock, at a strange angle. The end of the line looped around and headed back towards the sown-down land.
"Hey Yorky.", he said in a droll voice.
"What d'ya want Roger?", I said, over the sound of the exhaust.
"Did ya' go on a bit of a mystery tour last night?"

     I never had to say anything 'cause mi sleep ride was sown into the land for anyone to see.
"I've done that miself.", he said "But be careful mate, don't ruin mi good tractor up a tree."
"Don't worry.", I said. "It won't happen again. Next time, I'll stop for an hour or so sleep."
"Good on ya Yorky. I'm not complaining. I don't know how ya do it mate. 5 or 6 hours on that fuckin', bone-jarrin' tractor and I'm ready for a good sleep!"

     Once all of Rogers' crop was sown down, I'd worked miself out of another job.

     Back to Lake Cargelligo I went. This time, I had to find a place to live so I went over to Twitcheys' Hotel to enquire how much a room would cost. Twitcheys' wife, Annette, was a tall, good-lookin' Mediterranean type. She was always well-dressed. To my knowledge, she never messed around on old Twitchey.
     Annette rented me a basic, dry and clean room for a very nominal price. I booked in on a residential basis which also made it cheaper. I was now in a position to hang around the bars. It wasn't that I liked hangin' around drunks but if I wanted to find casual work, all business was conducted from a bar stool in any one of the Lakes' three hotels.

     I had a few bucks tucked away now from all the long hours of tractor drivin', plus I'd finished up the payments on mi Honda 90, so I was well in front.

CIRCUS & THE MAGGOT BOXES © JIMMY XMAS CAFE STORY

     I was sat at at the staff table which was situated at the back of the cafe, next to the serving hatch. Mindlessly sipping away on a hot cuppachino and puffin' away at a Pall Mall fag, I happened to look up towards the glass front door.  Part of mi job, even when I was on a break, was to keep an eye on the door for customers, so as not to keep them waiting.

The Dagos' glass shop door was a standard size and nothing special. Under normal circumstances, when a customer came in, there was plenty of light on each side of his body, as he entered the cafe. Tonight, however, was not of normal circumstances. The Circus had come to town! When he stood in the doorway, he blocked out all of the available light. Circus was a massive bloke who weighed, to my reckoning, 25 stone at least, which was roughly 350 pounds! One could not say he 'walked into the cafe', it was more like a 'side to side waddle'. Next to enter was his mother, who made her grand entrance sideways, owing to the fact that she was at least a hundred pounds heavier than Circus. Last to enter was Circuses 15 year old sister who was, bare minimum, 230 pounds.

     It was a sight to behold as I watched all three waddle down the room towards the back of the cafe, where I was sitting. As he got closer to me he said,
"Ya mind if I make room by shifting the tables?"
"No worries Circus. Help ya self mate."
     He asked me out of politeness, which was good, because if I did mind, what was I going to say, 'fuck you'? At the time, I weighed 10 stone (140 pounds) wet through and fully clothed. Circus moved three tables wide apart, away from the rest of the tables. He left a chair each at two of the tables and at the third table he dragged over a long bench seat which was obviously for his mother. After his sister was seated, he fussed around his mother making sure she was as comfortable as possible.

     As soon as I saw that he had seated himself with as little fuss as possible, I walked over to his table with a menu and a waiters' smile.
"Circus, how the fuck are ya mate? Ya need a menu?"
"No thanks Yorky, I'm just gonna' jave a couple of meat pies. Mi mother and sister will have a couple apiece as well. How long have ya been back from the Showground mate?"
"Couple a' days Circus. I got a temporary job here 'cause I'm broke."
"Well I'm happy to see ya back safe and sound mate. I was a bit worried about ya on those Showgrounds. They're not the safest of places."
"Thank you Circus, I was a bit worried about miself at times."

     Circus, as I said, was a huge bloke with a massive gut. He didn't really have a neck, so to speak. He looked like his head had been stuck on his body as an after-thought. He wore the standard Chesty Bond Singlet XXXX, large stubby shorts, boots and socks. His chest and upper arms stretched the singlet to breaking point and the calves of his legs were almost as big as my body. His eyes wouldn't open the whole way due to the size of his cheeks and his ears were flat against the sides of his head. All in all, he was not a very  handsome bloke.

     In those early days, I had a problem with fat, ugly people especially the ones who were kind-hearted and liked me. 'How is it possible for them to be so fat and fuckin' ugly, yet at the same time be so sweet?' It wasn't until I had met enough thin, handsome, mean-spirited mongrel-bred bastards that the books balanced themselves and I moved beyond the illusion of the body.

"6 hot meat pies Jimmy!", I said as I walked into the kitchen.
"Not-a the problem mate. Is for one man?"
"Nah mate, it's for Circus and his family."
"That-a greedy, the fat bastard. He must-a like-a my pies 'cause he brings the family to eat at my cafe."
"He's a big bloke Jimmy Xmas. It takes a lot to fill him up."
"He's-a greedy, the fucking pig. One-a day he order 6-a the pies and he eat-a the fucking lot in six-a mouthfulls."
"Maybe he was extra hungry mate. He might have been workin' hard. He's a good worker ya know."
"He not-a work in the Iron-a Lung! Now me, Jimmy the Xmas, I am-a the good worker. I start-a the 5:30 morning, I finish-a the 12 O'clock-a. 18 the hours a day. That's-a work mate!"

"Here ya go Circus.", I said as I put the meat pies in front of him and his family. Before I'd finished serving his mum and sister, Circus was starting his second pie.
"How ya doin' with pies Circus. Are they alright?"
"Too bloody right Yorky mate. These are the best meat pies this side a' the Black Stump!"
"Would ya like a couple more mate?"
"Yeah, keep 'em comin' wil ya?"
"No worries Circus, 2 meat pies comin' up!"
"Two more meat pies Jimmy."
"Don't-a tell me. The same-a fat fuck?"
"Yeah, Circus mate. He said he's hungry."
"I put-a 4 more in the oven, just in case."
"Two more meat pies Circus. Anything else mate?:
"Yeah, give us a large Spider to wash 'em down with."
     A large 'Spider' was a metal milkshake container consisting of Coca Cola and 2 scoops of ice cream.
"There ya go mate. That do ya for now?"
"Better bring me 2 more pies Yorky. Save ya gettin' up and down mate."
"2 more pies Jimmy."
"That-a make-a the six! How many more the fat bastard eat?"
     Jimmy Xmas took 2 more ies out of the oven and said to me,
"I serve-a the fat bastard myself this-a time. I like-a to see where my good-a meat pies go."
     Plonking 2 more meat pies in front of Circus, Jimmy said,
"You like-a my pies eh, you fat-a the bastard?"
"Yeah Jimmy.", said Circus, in a mock greek accent. "These-a are the best-a Dago meat pies this side-a the Athens!"
"Very the fucking funny Circus!"
"How many the more you eat-a tonight?"
"How many ya got left mate?"
"I got 2 more hot-a ones in the oven."
"So what ya standing here for Jimmy? Bring 'em out."
"I don't-a believe it! You eat-a 8 meat pies tonight!"
"Why? Is that all ya got left mate?"
"Not-a the bloody likely! I make-a plenty the meat pies before I open. I tell-a ya what I do with you Mr. Circus. You pay me for the six-a meat pies you already eat and every meat-a pies you eat after that I give-a ya for free."
"Are you joking nate?"
"Jimmy the Xmas not-a joke. Jimmy the Xmas, man of the word!"
"You're on Jimmy! Keep 'em coming."
     Back in the kitchen, Jimmy Xmas loaded up the oven with a tray of meat pies.
"How many ya think-a the fat Aufstralian bastard he eat?"
"I don't know Jimmy. He's eaten 6 already and he washed 'em down with a Spider.", I said.
"He not-a share the pies with his fat-a mother and sister?"
"No mate, he ate 'em all himself. The first one went down in 2 mouth-fulls!"
"Jesus the Christ-a, I never see such a greedy fucking the pig in all my life. This will make-a the good story to tell my family back in the Greece."
     The next 2 hot pies, which made 8,  Jimmy Xmas served up to Circus himself, again. He put the pies down in front of Circus, then pulled up a chair, crossed his arms and stared at Circus.
"Can I help ya mate?", said Circus.
"No, I not-a need the help. I sit-a here to make-a sure you eat-a the lot!"
"Don't you worry about me Jimmy. I'll tell ya when I'm full."
     As Circus was devouring the 7th meat pie an old, drunk Abbo, dressed in dirty clothes stumbled through the door. He  made his way to one of the booths and sat down on the bench seat, leaning his back into the corner. A moment later, he picked up a full hot sauce bottle, screwed off the top and drank it down in one go. Jimmy Xmas, who had been staring at Circus, just happened to look up as the last of the hot sauce left the bottle.
"Hey Hey, you fucking the black bastard! What-a you think-a you do?"
     He ran into the kitchen and grabbed the floor mop and then took off to the front of the cafe. The old Abbo, drunk as he was, was doing his best to get out of the booth while Jimmy Xmas was yelling,
"You fucking the black bastard, you get out of my Cafe and don't-a fucking come back! What-a you think-a this is? This-a the Jimmy the Xmas cafe!" This-a not-a the fucking Twitchey Hotel!"
     As the abbo got close to the door, Jimmy Xmas opened it and pushed him out onto the pavement with the mop.
"You fuck-a the off and don't-a comne back. You think-a I buy the hot-a sauce for you to drink? Jimmy the Xmas not-a the charity! Jimmy the Xmas is-a the business man!"
     When Jimmy Xmas was seated at Circuses table again, Circus, who had a great sense of humor, said to him,
"2 more pies mate and could you bring me some hot sauce? This bottle's nearly empty."
"Very the fucking funny Circus! Ya think-a that's a good-a the joke?"
     2 more meat pies were put in front of Circus. Jimmy Xmas' face showed a bit of surprise now as the 10th pie disappeared!
"How many the more you eat-a you fat-a bastard?"
"A couple more for sure.", said Circus, with a mischievous grin.
     Circus was now slowing down a bit as he pushed the 14th pie in his face. Once it was gone, he leaned back in his chair and said,
"This is the best little snack I've had for ages mate. Is that it or is there any more?"
     A look of horror now showed on Jimmys' face as he jumped out of his chair and said,
"More! You fucking the joking! That's-a the last-a meat pies you get for free! You fat-a  the bastard, I'm call-a off the bet. I don't like-a this game anymore! You send-a me fucking broke! You make-a sure you pay for the six-a meat pies, the 4 for your-a mother and sister and a one-a the large Spider!"
     As Jimmy Xmas turned around to go back to the kitchen, I heard him say,
"14 the meat pies! I don't-a believe my eyes! I never see the greedy bastard like that-a in-a my life!"

"Can I get ya anything else Circus?"
"No Yorky mate, I think I'm pretty full now."
"Jesus, that was so funny Circus. Did you Jimmys' face when you asked him for more?"
"I know mate. It was a sight to see. I love fucking with him."
"Don't ya mind him calling ya a fat fucking bastard?"
"Nah mate, what can I say, I am a fat bastard!"
     Circus turned to his mother and sister who had sat there the whole time with straight faces and said,
"Ya ready to go home? I'm done eating."