And he named it THE Outback Story ...

Ok, finally, it's time to make a hoohaa and a song and dance because Peter Rake's debut novel is now fully listed on Amazon as being available as an eBook and in paperback. What delight, what joy, for a newly published author to hold a physical copy their novel in their own hands. Even though in reality it will sell more in eBook format, I know that Old Pete, as he quite likes to be called, is in love with the idea of seeing his novel in print ... with ink on paper.

Well, you've done it. It's out. Congratulations. And guess what everyone? While I was busy editing and formatting and publishing 'The Outback Story - The Loves and Adventures of 'Tiger' Williams', Pete has written about one and a half other novels!

Grab a copy now of this wonderful Australian tale. There's nothing like it on Amazon. This is romance, adventure, grit, wit and a unique Australian voice that derives the detail from first hand experience and the plot from a vibrant imagination. Enjoy ...

Fiona Gatt, Pete's editor/published (www.metaplume.com)

Tats

Me, being a bit older than most that are a lot younger than me, I sometimes wonder about things. Ya' see in the Outback, when the mind had no stimulation, one would read the labels on cans, but you could only take in so much and eventually the can would be boring and discarded.

This leads my wondering to women of today. What would I do if I met up with one of those women that think it is good to get their skin impregnated with a lot of colored ink?

I wonder if, after I have 'read' them a few times would I treat them like a tin of jam?

What I am saying girls, in my opinion, is that woman is the most beautiful creature ever created. Please do not present yourselves as a tin of jam.

Battlers Meat Market

'Orrite, you lot, I reckon that it is about time that I take a serious look at the things that trouble us, or you, or will trouble you if you keep reading this.

I am a meat eater, I am on about the second or third level of the food chain, but I do like to eat meat. It is my preference to have this meat cooked, and cooked to almost perfection, as was possible in time long gone when perfect was attainable and I was lucky enough to become saturated in that commodity.

I also like vegies, all sorts of vegetation has passed my lips, and been ingested into my lungs, some for the food value, others for some stupid reason or other, but I only put this information out to you so that you can see that I am anti-ambidextrous as far as eating is concerned, meaning that I can eat what is right, but often do not appreciate what is left, or summit, ifn' ya know what I mean.

My latest vendetta is against the large display of blood soaked flesh, the twisted and turned conglomerate of animal tissue, either in the whole, or bagged in the intestines of other beasts, and called sausages, that one will encounter in the suburban Supermarkets of the Wealthy Moguls that say, as did Josephine, “Let them eat cake”. Of course, Jo wasn't offering a nice strawberry sponge, as her interpretation of 'cake' was worse than stale bread, as is the interpretation of meat in the supermarket-mogul-dictionary of “cake eating for the battlers”.

But, us battlers, or as I should say, we battlers, which puts us into a brotherhood of some sort, are in a situation where you have to make the best of what your massive pension will allow you to buy, after the money for the Lotto, the pokies and the Bingo nights are taken out as essential living costs, Right? With any luck at the pokies, you may even have some left over for a beer.

So, Come shopping day, food shopping that is, after filling the trolleys with Crisp chips, big bottles of the essential coke, and then the mundane things like breakfast cereal, Cocoa Pops, or Yum Yum Yummy crackled in ya' ear, stuff, which I believe can be washed down by the Coke instead of milk, as the kids suffer from that thing that kids get from milk, like calcium and other scrungy stuff, and as Coke does not have any side effects, that is noticed in the family, as all the family are on the same diet, it is only reasonable to go that road.

Don't be offended, I am amongst the battlers as far as the Supermarket trade is concerned. I push and shove, bang my trolley up the heels of the slow movers, complain about the kids that scream and place themselves in a position of peril should an intolerant old bloke should appear around the aisles.

Once I get out from amongst the slow and undecided battlers, the ones that just don't know what will go with their fillet' stake bathed in Diane sauce from the shelves of the French cuisine, that night, or should they buy pink or orange candles to decorate the table, I can make a few selections from the shelves in the cheap and nasty section, and thus saving myself, almost nothing, I have never sat down and compared the savings, but that is my problem as I am sure the battlers consider every cent they have saved against the price of a packet of fags. I do not enjoy that situation of being able to complain about the costs of fags.

Arriving at the meat selection's array of dead animals that would have broken all age records if left in the paddock for another week or so, I ponder the meanings of Export quality, man if it was export quality they would have bloody well exported it to get the big money.

We also have Market Quality. Now do they tell you which market? No, of course not, as most battlers would bypass this one if they knew that the Market that accepts this quality are companies like Pal, or the Victorian meat pie market in the footy season. I kid you not.

I had a very, hard pressed manager say to me one day, “There is nothing wrong with our meat, it is the best, I eat it all the time.” Curious comment you would agree. If he ate it all the time, what did he compare it to to state it was the best.

One should not complain, as every cloud has a silver lining, just as Supermarket meat has a blood soaker attached.

Some Rump Steak that I purchased some months ago is still wearing well. I could not eat it so I made a pair of thongs from the stuff, and, mate, talk about hard wearing, they are going to outlast the rubber/vinyl ones I used to wear to the beach, but, of course, I have to keep an eye on the dogs.

Bye the way, Thongs in Aussie land are what you wear on your feet, not what the girls get stuck up their what's -ya' -call it after a hard day horse riding, ifn' ya' know what I mean.

So, the upshot of all this is, we battlers must revolt, it is our right to be revolting, what right do the ferals and the rent a mob cult have at being the only ones that reek revulsion.

We must join forces, lets not buy meat from the Supermarkets, let's patronise the local butcher, and then when you pay more money than you can afford, only to find out he gets his meat is from the same slaughter yard as the Supermarkets, go back and get some mince from the Supermarket.

Before I leave you to start your financial contributions to my cause, if you do get a really tough bit of meat, and you will, rest assured you will, this is the recipe:

Place meat in pot with water covering the lump, add a smooth stone about half the size of the meat. Boil vigorously until the stone is soft, toss meat to the dogs, if they have jaws like hyenas, and then add veggies to the broth and eat the stone.

VERY SERIOUS NOTE:

Although I wrote this piece in satiric humour there is a serious side that I have just been informed of, and that I have had first hand experience with, not knowing what I was seeing, but taking the precaution of not eating.  Some meat is appearing on the Supermarket shelves that have cycts or tumors  in the flesh.  Should you encounter such meat you should take that meat to your local Health Department, and under no circumstances should you eat any part of this contamination, or any of the surrounding meat.

I can only  assume that meat is not being inspected under stringent health rules or requirements.

Fingers in Idle, Imagination in top gear.

 There I was, sitting at the 'pute.  I had my teenager story out called Bogan's Heroes  and my fingers were playing with my imagination....Then Wham! you wouldn't beleive what happened next, but I can tell you that  Bogan's Heroes have turned in a dramatic direction.

The Shock to Wally Bogan, the main Character, was something of a shock, not a shock of the electrical shock kind but a shock none-the-less.  He, and I must admit,

I myself, did not expect this unexpected turn of events.  That is what

happens when you let your fingers just stand in idle, the next thing you

know they are off with a burst of reverberation colliding with whatever

comes  into their path, until they get some message from the department

of Imagination and Unexpectedness. 

It might give you an idea of why I like writing fiction. Sometimes flashes of storyline just appear, eespecially if I am really into what story I am telling.

There were times, when I was a teenager in Queensland, and there was not much intellectual

stimulus around, and  one would read the square cuts of newspaper on the nail in the drop-dunny, or when doing a bit of boundry riding, all the writing  on a Golden Syrup or jam can.  When all that vital reading material ran out,  one would contemplate the navel and  things of the mind,  the imagination, the truth of life with more imagination. So, I have had plenty of exercise at toying with my mind and, funnily enough, we get on reasonably well together.

We are at the exciting stage of about to release my early novel, now named The Outback Story - The Loves and adventures of 'Tiger' Williams, then Shark Butcher, a bad, bad storyof corruption, gratuitious sex, murder and intrigue, and then  Bogan's Heroes.  Keep an eye out.

The Struggle to Survive.

In the early days of settlement of the Australian colonies, it is a wonder that the land survived.  One would have thought that with the vast expertise of the English Yoemen (Farmers) there would have been enough knowledge on how to care for the 'hand that fed them'.

With the discoveries of pasture, it was immediately taken up by squatters and men with money that could manipulate the land grant system.

With the Gold finds, came those that felt that this land was their gold mine, and pushed their landholdings to the limit by overstocking and firing good forest land that had taken thousands of years to provide compost and mulch for the pastures as the rains fell and washed this nutriment down the slopes.

With the fires and the devastation of tree felling the forests soon stopped providing and only gave heartache in errosions of gullys and land slips.  To compensate thmeselves for the loss of this regenerating of the pastures, the settlers over stocked, and the cloven feet of sheep and cattle packed the ravaged soil to a concrete like clay pan.

It took many years before the farmers came to their senses, aided by laws from a government that had let them run a course suited to the Peerage, the snobs of England and the Australian settler that wanted a better or a good life at the expense of the land itself.

More than these actions put stress on the people and live stock of the time.  There were 200 species of insects that came with the convict, and immigration ships.  The normal predators of the harmful bugs were left behind, proven by the fact that the suviving insects would have been attacked by their eneimes on the six months voyages across the sea.

One such insect introduced from Africa on ships of trade, a species of blow fly, Lucilia Cuprena deposited eggs in the fleece of sheep, the lavae burrowed into the  tissue of the sheep causing severe lesions and an agonising death if not treated.  This fly has caused more damage and cost more money to control than almost any of the insects introduced.  The blow fly continues to be a pest of great resilience and harm causing to the sheep farmers on Australia.

Black and brown rats scampered from ships and their fleas caused an epidemic of Bubonic Plague in Sydney in 1900.

Probably the classic stupidity was brought about by James Austin when  he consigned twenty-four grey rabbits from Glastonbourogh,  in Sommerset to his brother Thomas, at Barwin Park near Winchelsea in Victoria in 1859.

By 1887 25 million rabbits scalps were presented for bounty payments in NSW. At Teryawyena Stations in Western NSW 80,000 rabbits were killed, in 1885 470,000 and 1886 and 685,000 in 1887.

Then came the purpously bred 'Rabbit Cats', cats that were so big that they would often attack a new born lamb.  Their species still roam the country side in our day.

About the only introduced species that entered Australia from England for the poor old Englishman so that he didn't feel home sick, were fish. (The carp came from Europe)  One enterprising Englishman managed to keep trout eggs cool enough for the six monts voyage and sucessfully released some into the rivers of Victoria and into Tasmanian waters.

It has taken too  long in Australian history to come to our senses in regards land care, but it is happening, much to the detriment of the honest, struggling farmer of our times.

If I am allowed to have an opinion, Australia needs to expand on stored water, the artesian basin is drying up, and that takes raindfall on the east of the ranges, one hundred years to reach the underwater caverns.  We have already put the inland water supplies at crisis level.

The  alluvial soil of the outback, the red soil and the black soil plains can grow all types of vegitation  with the right amount of nurturing and with the right amount of water.

I do not think the bulldozer clearing of the scrub is going to provide any long term benefit, at all.  Nature is not that kind that it will give the rains on demand, and the wind has no restrictions on when it can blow the disturbed top soil away.

The Book

I even get excited about the book, THE BOOK.  This is a novel that I started writing in 1988. After a few chapters I realised the the first person narrative did not suit the story - too many verticle pronouns. So, I went to another method, third person narrative and this seemed to suit my needs. I could then say things about what the characters were thinking, and things that they intended to do, without it seeming that I could see into the future.

Here we are 25 years down the track, and THE BOOK is about to be released. I had almost given up on having it published, mainly because I did not want to edit the story too much, and this is against the rules for writers. One must follow Mark Twain's suggestion and follow the three rules for writers: edit, edit and edit.

The story was put away at times, and after months, and in some cases, years, I would bring it out and edit a bit more.

It was not until the very loveable person known to me as Fiona Gatt, the publisher for MetaPlume, took the story on and showed me more confidence than I had myself in publishing this Adventurious Love story.

Fiona will give it a write up in her memorable style, so please keep your eye out so that I may be inspired to give out more of life in Australia, taken from the 75 years that I have been here.

Downhill Dashing

Looking back, those many years ago, when my youth was upon me and I revelled in living in the Eastern Sydney suburb of Bondi Beach, I now reflect on my attempts to try 'dead' as a way of life, ifn' ya' know what I mean. Although I was not attempting suicide, I was extending my lust for excitement, danger, life threatening experiences, and down right stupidity.

Anyone that has been to Bondi Beach will know of the very steep Bondi Road, where, I believe buses still make the decent and climb at a very steady speed. Not so I and mates, as we only knew Bondi Road as a road with one speed, and in the Australian vernacular, is 'Flat Out' or even faster if possible, and I really think that we broke the Flat Out record by several MPH.

The moment of launch of your latest billy-cart, with the traditional ball bearing wheels, wheels that would send showers of sparks as they attempted to gain traction of the road surface on the big curve at the bottom of Bondi Road, which, in my time no one ever negotiated to enter Campbell Parade, and that was only a good thing, as the trams used to rattle out of the cutting with little concern for billy-carts with dare-devil kids aboard.

The best we could do, at high speed, was to pull down on the wooden, skid on the billy-cart's breaking system, so called because it always used to break a the most inconvenient moment, like when you wished to slow down or stop, even.

The eventual trajectory would be to cross to the wrong side of the road at the bottom of the steepest part of Bondi Road, take evasive action as we went under the white fence rail on McKenzie's Park and fall onto the grass before the billy-cart went over the edge on to the rocks below, splashed by the blue Pacific Ocean.

Let me tell you, that was exciting, and it didn't matter too much about the Billy-cart, as it was time to go home for dinner by then.

I think the motorists of the time really enjoyed our boyhood race meets, as one could hear the vehicle horns hooting in encouragement as we often sped past them, and in front of them in their downward path.

However, before I left Bondi for the great Outback of Queensland, I did give up the reckless down hill suicide run on a billy-card with ball bearing wheels, and took on the more exciting race downhill on my precious Malvern Starr Bike trying to beat a tram before it came out of the cutting near Francis Street.

Oh! what fun, Oh! What a stupid thing to do, but if you are indestructible you can do anything, however I proved that I was not indestructible, or at least my right leg wasn't, as it snapped as the front wheel of the bike got 'rutted' in the tram track, and I did a ten-point swan dive onto the pavement, far enough ahead of the tram for it to do an emergency stop.

I settled down a lot from those days when I went West and only rode a couple of bulls in a country rodeo, easy stuff, as you would appreciate.

Now, of course, after youth has gone, along with the spirit of adventure, and the ability to remember what adventure really is, I have tried to test what ever adrenalin reserves that may be left in my body. Only last week I asked a lady to go out with me, now that was exciting, it caused vast memory searching as to what you do when you take a lady out. Luckily, she refused, but it left me the excitement of what I, and she may have gotten up to, and I had a little bet with myself it would not be a billy-cart ride down Bondi Road.

Jist Me or if you prefer Just me

JIST ME

Who are ya' he sez, I mean who do you think you are?

I is me, sez I, I mean I is wot I is, wot ever that is.

Gimme' a bit more, he sez, explain, Ifn' ya know 'ow.

I know 'ow, I just don't know why you would even care.

Try me, sez he, a persistent sort of bloke he is, is he.

So I pull up a stump, have a sip from me' pannikin of brew

And I start to think on the question, Of who I is, or wot.

I know wot I want, to write real proper, ya' see, that's me.

I use me' imagination bone as much as me ' mind will let,

And the folk wot bounce around me' 'ead are me mates, like.

I get to know their names, and wot they look like in the face

I get to talk to 'em, and that is how I am, and often like to get.

But ya' won't get no genius, nor a great mind full of edification,

Ya' wont get a fancy pants wot dresses like a rooster in season

And you wont get someone wot tells ya' wot ya' wanna 'ere

Cause that is not 'me , ya' see, I got no social sophistication.

So, wot I am, I am, and that can be almost anyone, it seems.

I try to be 'onest, I try to be kind, I try lots of things, ya' see.

But most of all, and this is the fair Dinkum truth of it.

I am always the best darn bloke in me' night time dreams.

And that's all that matters.

Pete's Publishing News - Grab yourself a bargain

To celebrate the immenant launch of Peter Rake's debut novel, 'The Outback Story - The Adventures and Loves of 'Tiger' Williams', the price of Peter Rake's five short stories have been reduced to $0.99 apiece and the collection of six short stories and two poems to $2.99.

This is the perfect opportunity to sample Peter's work for less than the cost of a cup of coffee.

Choose from 'The Pup' - a comical tale set in droving country; 'Notty' - a suspense comedy full of wit and Aussie slang; 'On Swallow's Wings' - an urban tale of love and loss; 'The Awakening' - a coming of age story; and 'The Coachman' - to get swept into the past. All these fabulous short stories are now $0.99 each.

'Fair Dinkum Yarns From the Australian View' on the other hand is the complete collection, plus the comical but moving yarn about 'Arthur', the drunk sheep station hand who finds that it's harder to end it all than he first thought. The collection is now available for $2.99.

Find them all here.

Island

Do you remember, when at school, you were told that Australia is the smallest continent and the largest Island?

Well, it ain't. Greenland's mass of 840,000 square miles makes it the winner.

Australia is an island, and is big enough to be considered its own (well it once was) continent.

Blow Flies

Australia is renowned for the "Aussie Salute', chasing flies from the face,  or the meat pie that has captured a couple of flies in the tomato sauce, and I  guess the  corks hanging from a hat is another indication of these pests.  Ya' know, I have never seen anyone wearing a hat with corks hanging from the brim, but then again, I ain't seen everthing, yet.

I have seen the masses of blue blow fly, and I have been repulsed at the distruction it causes in the sheep industry.  The agony that the poor, long suffering Merino will go through before the agony, the pain that causes a lack of hunger unitl death takes the poor animal out of its terror.

One blow fly will produce about 300 eggs at one laying, and at 21 days after that another adult fly will be developed and produce another 300 eggs  that is 5214.285714286 new blowies per two blowies in an average year, give or take a 'swat' or two.

I am no Albert Shoeshine, but I reckon that is a lot of blowies, unless me' calc' is runing up the wrong figures. But you gotta remember that is if we start with just two blowies in the first place, and all you have to do is hang a dead fish on your verandah and you will see that there is more than two around.

So, what am I on about? I'll tell ya'.  I live in suburbia, which is in the suburbs of a city that has areas known as suburbia.  I used to live in the hinter land, but most Hinter Councils don't care what blowies do, So I decided to move to the suburbs of some city that has an even less concern for blowies,  hoping that if I practice the same attitude of the local council - not caring, or ignoring- then the blowies will not exist, if'n ya' know what I mean.

I  did live in the Outback, but if you complained about the blowie out there you would be told, "Mate, this is the Outback, what do you expect?", So being a fairly sensible bloke, I didn't compain, well not too much, at any rate. The other trouble you had with complaining, you had to open your mouth to do so.  A blow fly, at full speed hitting your tonsils  is not a pleasant thing...Am I wrong?

Back to suburbia, and the reason why I started this chat in the first place.  I went out to Bunnings, which will one day become as much an expression as bogan, or Yobbo or Bloody Boaties, and I bought one of them fly catchers where you put some smelly stuff in, and hang on the back verandah.

I tell ya' the first week, I emptied the container twice, and guessing on the amount of blowies, and that is all that went  in, I reckoned I had assainated about 500 to a 1000 or so,  plus their pups, or whatever they are called, of the amount that we had calculated for the Albert Boganstein exercise...Am I wrong?

All right, blowflies do reduce a carcase in a rapid time, but come on, do we need the amount of blowies that are arguing  over a scrap of meat on your sandwich, or kicking tomato sauce in your face, or the most disgusting thing of all, landing in your schooner of cold beer just as you take a big gulp?

The blowie is the beaurachy of the insect world, there is more public servants than there is work for them to do, so how about we concentrate on killing a few off...Blowies, I mean.  Public Servants just die of boredom, so I am told.

Now being worked on by my wacky mind

The lucky ones that have read 'Notty: Targaroo's Disgrace Bar-fly, bludger and sneak-thief turned unlikely hero' will know who George is. They will not know that soon after those events he became ensconsed in a forest on the NSW coast.

What mischief did he get up to? The book "SHARK BUTCHER", now being worked on by my wacky mind, will reveal all.

We have crime, two transvestite KGB agents, heaps of gratuitous sex, vicious murders, and one murder that you will all cheer about. And hopefully you will get some laughs through the story.

Keep your eyes peeled!

Here is just a littel bit:

In the two years that George had been gone from Targaroo, he had spent eighteen months in his new forest home. Like the Australian nomads of the past he camped light and left no, or very little, sign of his whereabouts.

George had befriended many of the forest creatures that would not scatter at his nearness, and who gave him more ability to roam unnoticed should any human happen to be in the area.

One such friend was a red-bellied black snake that George had found when it was a very small reptile, but now had grown considerably.

This snake he called Martha, and felt that no better name could be bestowed on a lowly creature of the forest.

Martha would travel with George on his wanderings, wrapped around George's neck and licking the air to take in different smells. George had come to 'read' the signs from Martha, and at times she had warned him of the presence of human activity.

George "Notty" Wormwood had become an accomplished bushman in the last year and a half. His need to seclude himself from humanity arose from the many rebuffs that he had in the last days at Targaroo. So called friends soon departed when they found out that Martha, his fat wife, controlled George's money, which forced him to revert to his old bar change stealing.

No thought of heroic deeds came to George's mind as he lay hidden near the clearing of 'torture'. Martha the snake, or other snake, as he often thought of her as, lay about his neck and licked the air as they watched humans at play.