January 1st

January 1st

Joyous joys, it's New Years Day!

Another dreary year has ebbed away.

There was a flood, a fire, a famine, a war,

A new disease the Docs ain't heard of before.

Still last night we drank the beers and supped the wine,

We laughed and danced and sang Auld Lang Syne.

But amidst all that false mirth and cheer,

Lies the sad fact of knowing,

That it all begins again,

With a Happy, New, Year...

Ticket To Ride

I live pretty close to my new job and when travelling into work I have several options- I can walk, it takes about 40 minutes each way and is free; I can catch the ferry or bus, it takes about 30 minutes and costs $6.60 round trip; or I can drive which can take anywhere between 8 and 40 minutes(depending on traffic flow) and costs $3.00 to park all day. I enjoy the ferry and walking but as the weather is heating up, I am choosing the convenience of driving more and more.

When driving, there are two options for paying for parking. You are probably familiar with the options, cash or card. When I first started the job (I've now been there a touch over six months), I would count out $3 in coins out of my change basket, to deposit into the automated machine to enable me to park all day, without fear of receiving a fine. After about a week of this, I decided I'd had enough of my boyish fumblings with small change. I'd step up, try inserting my big boy credit card in the ticketing machine, and finally make a man of myself. I felt I was ready, I'd heard of my friends and work colleagues doing it, I had plenty of experience with the coins and I'd tentatively used my credit card for a few other transactions around the workplace.

I awoke early, had a cup of coffee, shaved(I had shaved for the initial job interview and was still in my 'cleen cut' phase of employment), showered, combed my hair and brushed my teeth. I made sure I was on time and got in to pick my park, not too close (I didn't want to seem too keen), but not too far away(I still wanted to show I was interested). I nervously stepped out, waited until the ticketing machine was alone and made my approach. My mouth was dry and my knees were a little weak. Whilst my shaky hand and sweating palms made it difficult to get my card out, after some fumbling I still managed it. Now the challenge of sliding my card into the slot, the machine was in no state to guide me in, I had to do it on my own. Slow and steady wins the race, this being my first time, I adhered to this old adage and eased my card into the slot. I peered nervously at the read out, watched in anticipation as the text changed from 'ready' to 'reading card'. In no time at all I was being asked to remove my card, no sooner had I done this then it told me to insert it again!

Thinking that this isn't how I heard it was supposed to go, but not wishing to disappoint, I re-inserted the card, looking for some sort of positive feedback, only to be asked to remove the card once more. This continued for what felt like hours, but I suspect was only about half a minute; in, out, in, out, feeling more and more flustered as other customers started arrive behind me, waiting to seek the services of the machine. Then finally to my dismay, after being asked one last time to remove my card I was told that it was unreadable, the transaction was never completed.

I swear it'd worked before, I had sufficient funds, I'd used it for personal transactions over the internet all the time and I was totally into buying parking tickets. However, even with the lady waiting behind reassuring me that this sort of thing happens to people all the time, I still felt the flushing shame rising over my face. I put my limp and useless card away into my wallet, mumbled my excuses to the crowd waiting behind me and wandered back to my car to scrounge some change.

Perhaps one day I'd be ready to step up into manhood, full of it's credit cards, cellular telephones, discotheques and electricity bills, but this was not that day.

The Water

The Water

The water, the water,

the water it calls.

With its morning breezes,

and evening squalls;

with its ebbs, its flows,

and eddying stalls;

with its tides, its moods,

and undercurrent pitfalls.

To swim it, to swim it,

to swim it I must.

To soak my nooks and crannies,

and rinse them of their dust;

to cleanse my spirit and soul,

and strip all the rust;

to wash my flesh from its sin,

and my eyes from their lust.

I'm naked, I'm naked,

naked as the day I was born.

With dreams to chase,

dreams unshattered, untorn;

with hope that is lifting,

hope unscattered, unforlorn;

with a heart that is pure,

unfilled with hatred and scorn.

The water, the water,

the water it calls.

Come reclaim yourself,

before what's left of you falls.

Unpredictive Text

I've had the same phone for about 18 months now, I believe it falls into the 'smart phone' category. It is a neat little model, no major problems with it, except every now and then, when I take my phone out I notice that it has tried sending people text messages. They were always gibberish, disjointed non-sentences, riddled with grammatical and spelling errors. However, in the last 6 months or so, I have noticed a change occurring in the pattern. Now when I look at the phone, not only has it tried sending text messages, but it has also changed the predictive language. The first few times this happened, I changed the language back, apologised to whomever I accidentally texted, and carried about my business. But's it has been happening with such an increasing regularity, I'm now starting to wonder if the phone is doing it on purpose, having realised it doesn't speak (or type, whatever) English, it is now working its way through the available languages in search of a tongue it can understand. So far I can tell you it doesn't speak- English, Spanish, Italian, Czech, Polish or Russian. I hope it finds its language* soon, so it can teach it to me.





*Being that it's a Samsung, I'm guessing it will be Korean.

One Man's Quest To Gain A Fan

So, nigh on two weeks ago, it was really quite hot, and having already tried and failed to purchase a fan, I decided enough was enough! This time I wasn't coming home without a fan. So I hitched my pants and with a determined stride I ventured into an almost indescribable place of bustling wonderment, a place people call 'A Shopping Mall.' Shrugging off the initial shock of the noise, lights and seething human crush, I set about my task.

My first obstacle was navigating my way past the book shop. An old nemesis, many a promising shopping trip has been bought undone with a waylaid misadventure into that particular bibliothecal abyss. I put the blinkers on and soldiered past, into the omnistore called K-Mart. The expedition was encouraging, fans were sighted, but they were of an inferior size and quality to suit my particular needs for the impending Queensland summer. I made note of them should true desperation arise, but remained upbeat.

After all, I had an ace in the hole. A happy hunting ground referred to me by my brother. A place that had proved fruitful for his endeavours in the past. A place where just about anything is available, if you are willing to pay the price. A land of true extravagance, 'Myer!'

After entering the strangely lit grotto, I quickly located the whereabouts of the fans, and was flat-out thunderstruck at the range of choices open to me. I was like a kid in a candy store, if that kid was 27 and realised that if he wanted to buy food for dinner (not really dinner, more accurately, if he wanted to buy beers...nice beers) he couldn't afford most the the candies on offer. Having assessed the wares on display and weighing up how many gold I was carrying I made my selection. I also afforded myself a new selection of handkerchiefs as my current supply seemed to be following my socks out of the wash somehow. Having made my purchases I proudly marched out of the 'Shopping Mall'.....but not without first buying two music albums and a sandwich.

After arriving home and completing the required assembly, I can say that I would recommend this fan. Cranked straight onto 'High' setting, it resembles an ultra light accelerating down a runway. All in all, a most productive outing.

Beers, 'Buca, Boards and Boris

An excerpt from last night (Saturday Night Shenanigans) -

With the wheels of my skateboard at the point of sliding out of control, I careened around the corner. Only to discover that this was a very shallow dead end. At this point I felt I only had two options and time was running short for me to decide. I could just absorb the energy with my body, brace for impact and bail out in a 'drop and roll' style, OR, I could carry on and be propelled unwillingly through the front window of the house I was travelling towards at a rate of knots. I decided that I'd rather pay the cost in bodily pain rather than through financial costs for fixing the house up (my bank account cannot afford such things and I'll heal, probably).

After coming to a crumpled halt, I got up and dusted myself off only to realise that I don't know this part of town too well. Maybe it was shock, maybe it was those beers I'd had earlier, or maybe it was those shots of Sambuca, (I don't know, I'm no expert) but I was hopelessly lost. Naturally before I went out skateboarding I made sure that I put my phone and wallet into my car so as not to lose and/or break them, no hope of calling a cab/mates/GPS to get me back. I tried re-tracing my steps but that was all uphill and with an unfit belly full of booze, that course was incredibly unappealing.

My mind has defensively blacked out the next part of the night but I believe it revolved around me limping my way around the hilly suburb of Wavell Heights, desperately hoping to find a familiar landmark. I may have called out for help, I may have been beeped at by cars and I may have cried a little in despair. Then the most sublime moment occurred. I turned the corner and saw off in the distance, my little Vitara. The joy I experienced at that sight was a crowning glory that is beyond description. To save my sore, battered, and tired body the journey, I risked one last roll down the road on my skateboard. Getting to my car and finding all my things- wallet, house keys, phone, sun glasses, and shoes, was so relieving I promptly crawled into the passenger seat and fell asleep.

This morning I awoke to discover that Suzuki Vitaras aren't big enough for me to sleep comfortably in. Also I might call into a GP during the week and just make sure that my left foot, which copped a pounding in the crash and is struggling to take any weight, isn't broken.

Hidden Away

This was some free writing (or typing, whatever) I did a while ago and then forgot about until I found it just now.

Hidden Away

Self imposed prison, with no view into the outside world other than a media sized hole. 

With an eye pressed up to it to gaze out as the savage storm ravages the citizens. 

How ugly is the vision. 

Why is this so? 

Why are these the images the our times? 

Wheels crying out for grease but the only squeaking being heard is the bleating from their own mouths. 

A cacophony so loud genuine cries of distress are drowned in this boisterous ocean. 

Gleaming cyborgs, churned out generically to be idolised, adored and admired. 

With their PC force-fed lines, until they malfunction at which point they are tossed out onto the scrapheap and left to rust. 

A whole chessboard of heroes and villains. 

Each one carefully, almost lovingly, carved from articles that are spawned from one end of the Earth to the other.

From this self imposed prison I gaze out on the world through a media sized hole. 

One may be forgiven to think this hellish reality is no place for the likes of me.

The Turning Of The Page

My tribute to Nick Cave and J R Cash. So if you don't like verse about heartbreak, betrayal and retribution through death, probably don't read on...

The Turning Of The Page

There was joy and celebration.

A passionate honeymoon,

but when it was over,

it was over far too soon.

The promises he made,

sacred vows he'd spoken,

in a moment of lust,

became twisted and broken.

And the sweat dripped down,

as the pages were turned,

the lights were all out,

but the fires raged and burned.

In the midst of the passion,

she walked right in.

Seeing what she saw,

the room began to spin.

She had given him her hand,

she had given him her life,

she had given him her body,

she had been his loyal, loving wife.

The betrayal laid bare,

for all to see, complete.

Two adulterous lovers,

lying naked on the sheets.

It was written on the wall,

it was blazed across the sky.

With a knife in her hand,

pure hatred in her eyes.

And the blood ran down,

as the pages were turned,

now the truth was out,

for her vengeance she yearned.

She hacked and slashed,

until the morn had come,

and the dawning light,

revealed the thing she'd done.

Then the law walked in,

to them not a word was said.

She was led away in shackles,

the bloodied pair lay dead.

And the tears ran down,

as the pages were turned,

the gavel rang out,

for the life that she'd earned.

Who Wants To Wait 15 Minutes For The Next One Anyway

Have you ever turned up at the train station, looked up on the board and beside the train you intend to travel on, it says departing in 0 minutes? You know, and you can hear your train on the platform below, brakes screeching to a halt. You panic a little as you fumble to produce your Go Card,* push it against the reader, and wonder if it always takes this long to scan. The turnstile yields as your card finally registers, you set off in a mad dash for the top of the stairs. Now is the tricky bit, because it is a Friday and you've been drinking, the stairs are coming at you faster than you feel comfortable with. The fact that you can now hear the the train has stopped and the carriage doors are opening only serves to exacerbate the problem. You can no longer spot your footwork as the stairs merge into one indistinguishable blur. Inevitably, first one foot slips, then the other. You are no longer in control of your descent down the stairs. You are now in what some may refer to as 'a free-fall.' This is, however, short lived as you come to a sudden, bone jarring halt on the filthy tiled floor....You now realise why they call that flat spot halfway down a staircase 'the landing.'**

Author's Note: The guard must have heard me descending the stairs, because he waited for me to limp my way down the second flight of stairs, across the platform and onto train before blowing his whistle for the train to depart. Which was damn decent of him. Good form that man.


*A pay-as-you-go, touch-on-touch-off, e-ticket. Brisbane's equivalent of the London Oyster Card (I don't know what they're called in any other parts of the world).

**I didn't nail the landing.

The Idiot Box

I have a theory- 'Reality' television, as a genre, is approaching a point where it is beyond ridicule through either parody or satire. Every time I see a new 'reality' show advertised it is another step closer. Just these last few days I've seen ads for a coming new show entitled "Iceberg Hunters." From what I can gather from the ads, the show is about a shipload of men who sail around off the coast of Newfoundland and literally hunt icebergs. Like, with a rifle. They shoot icebergs and then go and retrieve the bits that fall off. This is a television program. First time I saw the ad, I honestly thought it was a piss take. Second time I saw it I realised it was genuine. Perhaps then the time has arisen, where the concepts actually being filmed, are more ridiculous than any ironic farcical lampoonist could hope to dream of. The worst part is, if a comedian did come up with some witty spoof of the genre, I can only imagine some TV exec watching and thinking, "This is fucking brilliant. I need to get Brian on the phone, we've got a series to shoot." If it hasn't already gotten to this point, then soon reality TV will be beyond mocking ridicule because they'll already be (unintentionally?) doing the best possible job of that themselves.

All In A Day's Work

I first heard it in a Terry Pratchett book, "A lie can run around the world before the truth has got his boots on." Knowing the author's work, I figured that there was an even chance that this was a famous quote that he'd given the Pratchett twist. So I Googled it to find out more. There seemed to be debate about who coined the original phrase ('A lie can run around the world six times while the truth is still trying to put on its pants') with some attributing it to Mark Twain and some to James Watt. I guess it's kind of ironic that I can't be bothered to dig deeper and try and find out the truth about who actually said it first. Anyhow, the fact that Pratchett re-worked is good enough for me.

All In A Day's Work

There's a prowler in the streets,

with one piercing, beautiful eye.

Doing the devil's work,

shrouded in a hood of lies.

Weaving a wicked web,

with a slick and silver tongue,

appearing everywhere at once,

leaving behind the siren songs he'd sung.

When he's finished working

left all without doubt,

debate must begin,

time for The Truth to come out.

Truth straps on his boots,

laces them up tight.

It's going to be a long day,

trying to make wrongs right.

He's used to being left out in the cold,

having doors slammed in his face.

People afraid that he might shake,

the foundations on which their faith is based.

But he's not here to take sides,

or tell you what to do.

Just give cold hard facts,

then leave the rest up to you.

Ignore him at your peril,

doing as you will,

but beware of false idols,

they charge a hefty bill...

Dancing Drunk

I have heard many people talking about different levels of drinking. I think one of the most relate-able is the level where you get really good at pool. Enough to calm your nerves but not so much that you can't see the ball. Jimeoin had a bit about it(normally I'd post a link to YouTube at this point but I can't find it, if you're keen to watch it, it was off The Jimeoin - All Over The Shop), but in it he only had four levels and while most of those are relevant for me, he leaves out one that I find very important. I call it the Dancing Drunk level. It is a medium to high level and usually requires a few drinks to reach that magical place, but when I get there it is glorious. The next day when I'm stung up and people ask me how drunk I was, I just answer "Dancing Drunk."

On The Level

Through my boozy mist,

I get to boogieing down.

I begin with the twist,

and then start to twirl around.

There follows a swaying of the hips,

a slight wobbling at the knees.

Sweat begins to drip,

I let my spirit free.

I'm almost unaware,

certainly without inhibition.

I really do not care,

I'm putting on an exhibition.

Pure unbridled joy,

stripping to be a tease.

Not even trying to be coy,

I am completely at ease.

Then the evening ends,

and much fun was had.

Even if I have to pretend,

that the dancing wasn't bad.

There's Plenty Of Fish In The Sea

Well Saint Valentines Day is rolling around again. If I had a significant other in my life I might have written something for her. But I don't. So I wrote this for myself, and for anyone else who is yet to find the one, as a reminder not to give up hope.

Cast Your Rod

Cast your rod into the water,

don't leave it unused on the shore.

Cast your rod into the water,

even if you've caught nowt before.

You might pull up a boot.

You might pull up a sack.

You might pull up a tree root.

You might pull up something,

that you'd rather throw back.

Cast your rod into the water,

throw your line into the sea.

Cast your road into the water,

catch the one that's right for thee.

You might be teased.

You might be sharked.

You might be displeased.

You might be left casting, 

until well after dark.

Cast your rod into the water,

all loaded up with bait.

Cast your rod into the water,

get in now, don't make them wait.

You might have been snagged.

You might have been beached.

You might have been bagged.

You might have found those beauties,
just out of reach.

Cast your rod into the water,

throw it out a little deeper.

Cast your rod into the water,

land yourself that one true keeper.

Woman of Negotiable Affection

I'm sure Kanye West didn't coin the term, but it was the title of one of his well known songs that originally got the ball rolling on this one. I went a different way with it ended up probably a closer resemblance to AC/DC (had to resist the urge to re-use the money-honey rhyme). Which is much more to my personal taste.

Gilt Mole

You've been waiting all week,

for this day to get paid.

You've been waiting all week,

for this day, you need to get laid.

You know who you want.

She's pure sex on legs,

but such a bitch, even with the cash,

she'll probably still make you beg.

You head off to the bar,

ready to stake your claim.

Make your way inside,

to find your short term dame

She stands surveying the room.

With a practiced eye.

She thinks she's struck it rich,

passes you right by.

But it's just gold for fools,

all sparkly and fake.

No sugar daddy here,

she leaves him in her wake.

Now she's panning the dance floor.

Finds a smattering of dust.

Not enough for her desires,

she stomps off in disgust.

Now she's standing at the bar,

pick slung over her shoulder.

You have another drink,

feel yourself growing bolder.

The whiskey kicking in,

you seize upon the lull.

Toting all your glittering gold,

hoping not to be seen as dull.

You wander up slowly,

she gives you a sneer.

You know she's thinking,

"Why the fuck is he here?"

You produce your wad,

now she's struck it rich,

and for an hour at least,

she's your sexy bitch.

Improper Serenade

I'd forgotten all about this little bit, found it in my pad the other day. Some years ago at a party, I heard someone entering the room I was in. Assuming it was one of my mates, I drunkenly proceeded to sing a rather vulgar song, thinking they'd join in. Turns out it was a rather lovely girl, who I was unacquainted with. All things considered, she took it pretty well.  But not that well. First impressions do count and after subsequent meetings, I was left to ponder what might have been.

Improper Serenade

The first words I spoke to you,

were meant for other ears.

Your kind disposition, and

unrelenting patience,

have shone through during the years.

Your hair of gold,

eyes of blue,

your quick and stunning smile.

Nothing to do without you,

but sit and wait a while.

Talking The Talk

I was staying at a hostel a few months back, there were a couple of Irish lasses in the dorm. I don't think they were too interested in me but we had a couple of beers and something about the way they spoke moved me-

Could You Say That Again...?

I go soft in the head,

whenever you begin to speak.

Something about how you talk,

makes my knees a little weak.

The story that you're telling,

is a landscape being painted.

The way your words fall on my ears,

feels like I'm being sainted.

My slightly bemused look

appears to cause you some hesitation.

There's no misunderstanding,

nor struggle with interpretation.

You certainly didn't stutter,

your words were perfectly formed.

It's just the sound of your lilting brogue,

can't help but leave my heart warmed.

So carry on and continue

with your lyrical waxing,

even with my untrained ear,

I don't find it taxing.

But please don't think me rude,

or unnecessary pain,

if I turn to you and ask,

"Could you say that again?"

Exercising Demons

The way I figure it, I'll always have my demons. All I can do is learn to live with them. Let them out when its appropriate (I don't always get the timing right). I originally wanted to try and turn this into a song then I decided maybe it wouldn't work. Because of that it could probably do with a re-write but I did some pretty heavy exercising last night band so I can't be arsed.

Exercising My Demons

I'm gonna exercise my demons today,

I'm gonna make em run around.

And it'll blow all my blues away,

I'm gonna drive right em into the ground.

I'm on the hook and they're off the chain,

It'll probably cause some short term pain,

Letting em writhe round in my brain.

But I'm gonna exercise my demons today,

I'm letting em on the loose,

While I chase all my blues away,

I'll be my own cooked goose.

So don't fetch your holy bible,

Nobody else will be liable,

Just me and my self made rival.

Exercising my demons today

I'll be hitting em with the crop

Riding all my blues away

I won't stop till they drop.

Driving straight to my personal hell,

Located in a padded cell,

Won't be out till the final bell.

Exercising my demons today,

I'm Sending them out uptown.

And blow all my blues away,

While I drink my whisky down.

I don't need no exorcism,

It'll be alright,

Cos when this is all over,

Boy I'll sleep well tonight!

After I exercise my demons today

Gonna send em round the track,

And blow all my blues away

they'll be too tired to make it back.

It might raise a racket

But put away your straight jacket

Cos I'll be able to hack it

Exercising my demons today

Making em run around,

And blowing all my blues away,

While I drink my whisky down.

Pickled Egg

I'm too drunk to even give this a title-

He who laughs last,

Laughs loudest.

But what happened to the first?

His giggles have subsided,

Replaced with

Unquenchable thirst.

Lying in a barrel

Bruised and roundly battered

His false existence of a dream

has publicly been shattered.

He wanders round now aimlessly

Confused and slowly spurned

The fault he finds it blamelessly

Having lost all respect he'd earned.

Bitter rises with the bile,

He finds now in his throat.

The failure it does linger a while,

As he sheds this Earthly coat.

Nightmares

From those lonely moments when I wonder what the actual fuck I'm doing with my life...

Nightmares

The whole world was at my feet, 

but I had forgotten how to dance.

I knew I would move in rhythm,

if I could only re-live that chance.

All the people were singing,

but I didn't know the song.

I mouthed onward aimlessly

and tried to mime along.

I saw a young child crying.

I stopped and asked him why?

He just turned away sadly

and gave a remorseful sigh.

I went to see the women.

All gathered at the well,

but they had set themselves all scurrying,

to the tune of wedding bells.

The men had all set sail,

their ships had all come in.

So I headed to a bar,

to drink in all its sin.

When the bar had shut,

I set my course for home.

On the way got lost,

ending up all alone.

With nothing but my thoughts,

I sat a while to ponder,

and in my lonely introspection,

my mind began to wander.

A dark dawn realisation set in,

Like a slow descending mist.

I sat and screamed in the silence,

of a mouth stuffed with a fist.

There was an overwhelming emptiness,

to my solitary existence.

Truly without meaning,

not even a false pretense.

Not knowing where to turn

I struggled now to breathe,

my mind raced with panic,

calmness a broken sheath.

Inwardly I was falling.

A deep free flowing spiral.

The feeling of inadequacy.

in my mind had gone viral.

All time stopped,

mind fading white to black.

Memories drove me deeper,

Memories of what I lack.

Before it became nothingness,

my mind began to wake.

Another of my nightmares.

Another I won't be able to shake.

In these dreams the reflection,

of what I fear the most,

That I'll end up walking the Earth

as a lonely forgotten ghost.

The Storyteller

Well it's Friday in my world and for most of you I guess that might mean guilt free beers tonight. Unfortunately that means that you won't have the pleasure of fronting up to work tomorrow. In running with this bittersweet feeling that Friday can invoke in a person, I give you this-

The Storyteller

He's old and geriatric,

Can hardly see six feet,

Silhouetted by the fire,

He makes the scene complete.

Waldorf or Statler,

It doesn't really matter.

He's either one or both,

And mad as a hatter.

As the years pass,

his feats get more outrageous.

His infectious enthusiasm,

Grows ever more contagious.

We know it's mostly bullshit

And we've heard 'em all before,

No-one ever calls him out

His word is the 'lore.

It's always entertaining,

A night with him by the fire.

Every fabricated escape,

Runs right down to the wire.

He kidnapped Harold Holt,

And did away with Elvis,

Says he could never stand

The sight of his gyrating pelvis

One time he and Albert,

Spent all night getting beery.

When the dawn-time came,

'Bertie had a brand new theory.

He was linked to Audrey, Greta,

Marilyn and even Mae.

Yes he was quite the pantsman,

In his younger days.

Sent behind the Iron Curtain

Single-handed won the Cold War.

Breezed through checkpoint Charlie,

And pulled down half the wall.

Was he really in Korea?

Was he really in 'Nam?

We know he probably wasn't,

But we don't give a damn.

We just give him his Scotch,

Watch as his eyes begin to glisten.

Find ourselves a comfy seat,

Settle on down to listen.

He's never happier than this,

With a sparkle in his eye.

It's our last cherished moments together,

Before the last goodbye.

Enjoy your weekend, catch you next week.

Heart Attack Monitor

Heart Attack Monitor

You little mite,

You stinking shite,

That jumped out gave me such a fright,

Now you stand and strike a pose,

Like a honey bee on a ruby rose,

Then away you slink, your tail flip flopped,

While I keel over, my poor heart has stopped.

This quality photo provided by my old Nokia mobile

Lace Monitor - One of many spied that day

Some time ago I decided to go out for a hike. In my mind the track I intended to take was no more than 14 km through sub-tropical forest. I packed accordingly and set off. Upon arrival I discovered that rain the previous week had closed the track for maintenance, I decided that I knew better and continued on my merry way. A few kilometres into the hike I found the sign for my intended trail, 24 km return. Despite it being summer, my exercise routine best described as infrequent and inadequate water supply, I still wanted to give it a crack. The combination of the rain and track closure had left the trail a little overgrown and lack of human presence meant an increase in animals. Several times I nearly stepped on tree snakes hidden on the cluttered track. I also encountered several lizards, lace monitors, exploding off into the undergrowth. Initially the path winds down the side of a gorge where it traces a creek for several kilometres. Until about 9 km into the track it climbs steeply to a lookout, then tapers down to a dam, the turning point. Not knowing the length of the track, it's obvious I didn't know the layout of the entire track prior to walking it. Once the track leveled out on the gorge floor I found the going easy, undeterred by the steamy forest walls. Overconfident I upped pace, even once the track started climbing, unaware of how steep or far the track climbed. Needless to say my poor conditioning caught up with me about halfway up the climb. I was hitting a wall. I finished the climb and struggled to the lookout. I was 2 km shy of the halfway point and fast running out of water. After a rest I decided to pull the pin and head back. It was the middle a warm summer's day and along the humid gorge floor I was sweating profusely. With about 4 km to go I ran out of water, I was battling and still had the final ascent up the gorge wall then another kilometre or so back to my car. I was parched but it's not REALLY all that far, so I steeled myself and pushed on. The relief as I managed to reach the top of the climb, I was so close. Then it happened. This fucking lizard jumps out on the track right in front of me. Dehydrated, exhausted, the start it gave me nearly stopped my heart. It just sat there looking at me, I had to piff rocks at it to get it to piss off. Eventually it did, I got back to my car, got stuck into some water I'd left in there, I wrongly assumed that it would just be dead weight for the length off hike I was doing. Needless to say that ever since I plan hikes thoroughly, making sure to include excessive water. I chalk the experience up as another of life's lessons I learned the hard way, look before you leap. Just so you know, I have been back and conquered the trail. Didn't run into one lizard.

Dirty, Bent and Stolen...

It was during a fourteen hour day of solo driving, the fourth such trip of that fortnight. My wandering mind suddenly spat an image of a bent old man on a bent old hill. This preceded an old and dusty memory, striving to be heard. A childhood rhyme about a crooked man, but try as I might I couldn't recall the words beyond just about everything in the rhyme being crooked. I shelved the crooked man deciding to investigate the rhyme properly once I had reached my destination. In the meantime to keep myself entertained I decided that I would compose my own version, incorporating my original thought of the bent old man. It was mostly a nonsense but it kept me sufficiently occupied to prevent me from nodding off and straying from my course into a tree, oncoming car or any other potentially fatal obstacles. Upon arriving I recorded my version and you can read it as follows-

Bent Old Man

There lived a bent old man,

upon a bent old hill,

and when he'd et his meal,

he liked to bend his fill.

How he loved to bend,

he'd bend for weeks on end.

When he'd finished bending,

he'd just bend over again.

His poor twisted liver,

so swollen up and bent.

One day the liquor was coming,

but his liver went.

So they bent him out a grave,

and bent him in the hole.

The marker for the spot,

an old and bent up pole.

He bent his way to heaven,

Bent the angels round the bend.

They all decided,

that he was no Godsend.

On his way they bent him,

right on down to hell.

The man bent all the demons

and they began to yell.

The Devil himself was deciding

with the man just what could they do

but before The Devil knew it

the man had bent him too.

It was back to his home they bent him,

Back to his bent old hill.

And if you should pass by his old bent pole,

you'll see him bending still.

Afterwards to satisfy my curiosity I looked into the original. It is an old traditional British rhyme usually included in Mother Goose collections. It appears to be written about the reign of King Charles I (1600-1649). The most common version is as follows-

There Was A Crooked Man

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,

He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

I didn't do too much reading on it but the crooked man is apparently a Scotsman by the name of Alexander Leslie (1582-1661), the stile is said to be the border between England and Scotland and the house makes reference to an agreement between the two countries, the more you know. This brings about the close of my musings on men with possible physical disfigurement and/or questionable character.

Any Port In A Storm

I'm single and an alcoholic. Nuff said-

Any Port In A Storm

The driving rain was blinding,

 A heavy fog hung in the air.

 I was getting desperate,

 I was starting to despair.

Whilst rollicking across the floor,

 I glimpsed a beckoning beacon,

 Then tacked a new recourse,

 Before my knees could weaken.

A distinct lack of options,

 Left my mind decided,

 To wait for blissful calm,

 Whilst the raging tempest subsided.

The open headland was wide,

 Not offering much protection,

 For me and my small tug.

 I might struggle for detection.

The water it was dirty,

 And nothing good for drinking.

 How'd I end up here?

 What on Earth was I thinking?

But desperate times, Bring desperate measures.

 And my lonely sea-salt thirst,

 has a yearning for desperate pleasures,

 This couldn't be my worst?

So I set my rudder straight,

 And peering through the smog,

 Made bearing for the Unprincess,

 With my warty frog.

All was going well,

 As I anchored to the groyne,

 Full ready for some in R + R,

 Eased into this consensual join.

Suddenly a rogue wave,

 O'er my poop deck crashed,

 But I battened down the hatches.

 Watched as her lighthouses flashed.

The boat she gently rocked,

 As much as I could endure,

 But well held up in the port,

 I was thinking thoughts unpure.

Time stood still, all was calm,

 Held in the lull of the eye.

 Then out of the pan and into the fire,

 It was time for this fish to fry.

The whistle blew, the storm was spent,

 It was at the break of day.

 With the French letters I had sent,

 It was time I was on my way.

The port had been accommodating,

 For my lonely cause,

 Then I go and set my sails,

 Seeking more attractive shores.

We Don't Like Cricket...Australia

I'm going to say it. It might not be popular, but I'm going to say it anyway. I like the way Mickey Arthur and Cricket Australia are building a pool of fast bowlers. Despite all the negativity I've read on sports articles, despite all the opposition from former players on the radio, TV and web forums, I LIKE the rotation policy. I've heard commentators (most of them former players) say that they agree with building a strong squad and exposing young players to international cricket, yet at the same time they disagree with the rotation policy. How can you build a large squad without rotating players? Their answers appear to be to wait until one of three things happened. Either there was a consistent drop in form by a player, an injury or a retirement. Unless you've got a poorly performing, injury prone and ageing attack, I don't see how this approach allows regular opportunities for new talent. To be fair Australian Cricket seems to be experiencing a spate of injuries to fast bowlers so this approach has some warrant, even if it is highly negative. To just continue to bowl bowlers until they can't bowl anymore, what a caring lot. Put the best XI available on the pitch is the catch cry. Sound theory but my best XI might not be your best XI, who might not be the selector's best XI, so the discontent continues.

Personally I see no problem with having depth in the national side. I don't see what is wrong with testing players at international level and seeing how they perform before there is an injury or retirement. When Shane Warne, Glenn McGrath and co. retired, Cricket Australia seemed to cop a whole lot of shit because they hadn't developed the next generation bowling attack. They had relied too heavily on Warne and McGrath and it was all CA's fault that Australia had no immediate replacements ready, waiting in the wings. Now they're getting sprayed because they are developing too many players. Damned if they do and damned if they don't. Lastly, I've heard some of these same commentators lamenting the fact that international cricketers don't play enough shield cricket. If Australia has 10(or more) fast bowlers, who have all proven themselves at Test level, vying for 3 spots in the Test team, where do the other unused bowlers go? I assume that one will stay in the squad as 12th man but the the other half dozen or so will go back to shield cricket. They will take their international experience, and hopefully intensity, back to their state sides. Ideally developing talent has a knock-on effect by playing state cricketers against Test players more regularly.

I'm no expert. Not a former international, not a sports scientist, just a bloke standing outside looking in. I'm also not suggesting it's perfect, and I'm not saying I agree with every decision the selectors make. I don't think any decision the selectors make is going to please everybody. I like to think that I'm not alone in saying that if I stopped watching cricket because I didn't agree 100% with the selectors, I probably wouldn't have watched a match in at least the last five years. Call it rotation, call it player management or call it whatever you like, I do like the idea of depth, not relying on the same two blokes to get the job done every time.

End rant.

Eternal Screw-ups Of Colonel B.

A jolly rollicking rhyme to get the poetry ball rolling. I can never seem to figure out where the influence for this came from but I can't shake the nagging feeling that I've borrowed heavily from something in the creation of this. One of the first I wrote; it's just a bit of fun so enjoy.

The Eternal Screw-ups Of Colonel B.*

He's a daft and docile bugger,

that one and only Colonel B.

His senior's used to talk about,

the officer he could've been.

But somewhere along the line they say,

it all was a bit too much.

The Colonel lost his mind in a way,

and drifted out of touch.

His first command was foreign,

He led with bravery in his heart,

but alas his poor confused soul,

was doomed right from the start.

He sent them East,

Was supposed to be West.

Some of the men got scurvy,

Dysentery for the rest.

He marched them up that hill,

then right back down again.

Signed up 500 conscripts,

with no ink in his only pen.

They wandered lost and forgotten,

for forty days and forty nights,

took a left and ended up in Paris,

great big city of lights.

They tried to go AWOL,

but didn't know what it meant.

So they went into a blue movie,

and practiced pitching tents.

Afterwards their esteemed leader led the charge,

on the biggest whore house in town.

After the full frontal assault

Colonel B was adorned with a paper crown.

They left their new-found short-stay barracks,

they'd dubbed the shooting range,

All but one with syphilis,

that lone soul had mange.

Then to the zoo,

for to practice real Gorilla warfare,

They found their spot between emus,

and nestled by the bears.

They guzzled down bananas,

Swinging through the trees,

Colonel B and his troops,

passed that test with ease.

Their fighting ability

by now it was deluded

despite all the 'expert training'

all combat having been eluded.

They carry on regardless

going through complex maneouvres

Mostly this involves

escaping through an angry husbands louvres.

The self regulated medal ceremonies,

only a matter for the course,

of these slick and wily veterans,

a well trained, elite 'fighting' force.

What does the future hold,

for his loyal men and he?

You'll just have to wait,

and for the latest chapter see,

The eternal screw-ups of,

the unflappable Colonel B!

*No relation

On The Subject Of Pool Cues

Yesterday evening I was in the local bar with my younger brother(I don't like to refer to him as my little brother because although I may be his senior in years, he is, in actual fact, my superior in height). As we were enjoying a few refreshing lagers, I enquired of my brother weather he would enjoy a game of 8 ball. He replied in the positive and shortly we were engaged thus. The evening wore on and we made our way through several more games and several more lagers. Presently the barman appeared brandishing some fresh equipment in the form of unspoiled chalk and brand new pool cues(they were still encased in their plastic wrapping). Upon receiving my brand new cue I felt that for once I would be able to play a game of pool with a house cue that was straight as a die. In an effort to satisfy the feeling, I performed the shaft distortion test. It is a simple procedure, lay the cue prostrate upon the playing surface then proceed to roll the cue while watching the tip. If the tip traces circles through the air, the cue is surely bowed. I was full confident of tracing the straight line that my cue tip would render across the air. Imagine then my dismay to witness its curving, almost acrobatic tumbling path, as it traversed over the felt. My faith in a cheap, readily available pool cue has been shattered. However, I feel that the experience has been positive and can only serve to strengthen my game. It occurs to me that planning on finding a straight house cue is a fruitless endeavour, hence my game must adjust to allow for this fact. Accepting this I could free my mind and play a with an unprecedented confidence and timing. Shortly thereafter our transport arrived and the evening, just like this anecdote, ended.